“Do we know what led to all these murders?” Bertrand asked. He stood nervously behind the bishop, reed and ink ready to note any details.
Stapledon glanced at him, considering, but when he faced Simon and Baldwin he nodded. “It should be recorded.”
Simon took his seat upon a stool. “The reasons why are quite straightforward: for reputations. It all started years ago with Sister Bridget, who ran away and became pregnant, giving birth to Margherita. Bridget returned to the convent, although whether she was caught or voluntarily returned…”
“She was caught,” said Lady Elizabeth, who entered at this moment. “But you never heard the beginning. Sir Rodney came here one day because he had fallen from his horse. Bridget was the infirmarer at the time, and the two fell in love while she nursed him. Shortly after he went home she ran away to follow him. I was a young novice at the time, but I remember it well. The bishop had her sought and returned to us, but she carried the proof of her unchaste behaviour: Margherita. Bridget was here for only a few weeks, and then disappeared again. Joan said that Bridget had been despondent and hinted that she had run off again. When she disappeared, we all thought that was what had happened.”
Baldwin spoke softly. “Even then Joan was unhinged. She murdered Bridget and buried her – she said in the floor of a shed near the gates – and then burned it to the ground.”
“I remember it!” Lady Elizabeth said. “We thought that the fire was started to distract us from her escape – that Bridget herself had started it.”
“The fire was designed to conceal her murder,” Baldwin said. He threw a look to Simon, who stirred.
“So we come to the more recent deaths. Joan heard that Moll thought Margherita had stolen from the priory’s funds.”
Again Lady Elizabeth was able to help. “Joan was the oldest nun. Many novices would tell her secrets they wouldn’t share with their closest friends.”
“That must have been it,” Simon agreed. “Moll saw what the treasurer was doing and didn’t know what to do with the information.”
“Usually she would speak to whoever was guilty of breaking the Rule in some way” said Lady Elizabeth. “But I think she was awed by the size of the crime and by Margherita’s position. Maybe she sought advice from Joan. Joan was old and Moll probably thought she would know how best to deal with such a thorny problem.”
Stapledon frowned. “How would a novice have learned such a thing?”
“Moll could read and add,” Simon said simply. “It was her misfortune. If she was like the other girls, she would have had no idea what was happening. Although I still don’t know how she realised that Margherita was taking the money.”
Bertrand looked up from his paper. “I can explain that,“ he said.
“I saw the discrepancy myself on the rolls when I looked at the figures given to the priory; I was present at one meeting when money was handed over, and so was Moll. Perhaps she saw the numbers put in the ledger and asked Margherita why they didn’t match.”
“And Joan,” said Simon, “was convinced that when Moll died, Margherita must have done it. Joan never realised Elias killed Moll to conceal his affair with Constance.”
Baldwin agreed. “Joan was intensely protective of Margherita. Perhaps even in her madness Joan felt her guilt of making Margherita an orphan.”
“Which leads us to the other two,” the bishop observed.
Simon took up the story again. “Katerine was sly; she sought out secrets and used them for her own advantage. I think Katerine had learned about Margherita’s theft. Anyway, for whatever reason, Joan decided that she had to be silenced. Joan must have tricked her into going with her to the church then she bludgeoned her skull. Perhaps with a candle-holder. Denise has mislaid one recently. Joan must have carried Katerine’s body up to the roof. There she saw Baldwin walking about the cloister and thought he must have recognised her.”
“I didn’t,” Baldwin said ruefully. “I had an eyeful of snow at the time.”
“Joan hurled a slate at him before tumbling Katerine’s body over the parapet.”
“Carried her to the roof, did you say?” Stapledon demanded. “A woman her age?”
Baldwin gave a faint smile. “She had been the priory’s cellarer for twenty or more years, Bishop. She could have picked you up and taken you up those stairs, I daresay!”
“Good God!”
“And lastly there was Agnes,” said Simon. “Agnes was carrying on an affair with the priest: Joan decided to end their fun. She knew where Luke and Agnes were to meet – Rose told Simon that Agnes and other nuns used that room on occasion – and she set a tripwire at the doorway, hoping to catch them like beasts in a trap. As soon as Agnes came in, she fell and Joan was on her. The novice didn’t stand a chance. If Luke had arrived first, he would probably be dead now, too.”
“Did no one see her about her murderous business?” Stapledon asked.
Simon said, “Nobody saw Katerine or Joan going to the church: everyone else was at work. As for Agnes, Joan managed to get downstairs while the convent slept. Agnes would have passed her empty bed, but probably thought Joan was still in the infirmary and didn’t realise the woman was to be her nemesis.”
“This is all very well, but I don’t see how she could have thought she could cover up so many deaths. You say she had the interests of the convent at heart, yet if news of these murders gets out, the place will be ruined.”
Baldwin winced as he cocked his head. “It is not easy to understand how a madwoman’s mind works, but I think that the convent and Margherita came together in Joan’s mind. She thought that she must protect the child whose mother she had killed, and that meant seeing Margherita taking Lady Elizabeth’s job; but she also wanted to see that the convent was safe for the future. The two became one in her mind: Margherita, she thought, needed help and Joan must set her in charge of the priory; the convent needed protection because of the way it was falling apart, and the prioress must be replaced because Joan blamed her. Margherita must lead the nuns back to piety.”
“And all Joan managed,” Lady Elizabeth said sadly, “was to wreck our future.”
“Not necessarily,” said Stapledon. He stood. “I shall remove your present vicar, my Lady. I am not sure how he arrived here in the first place, since I personally instructed Bertrand here to send him to a parish in the far west of Cornwall.“ Bertrand squirmed shiftily as the bishop continued, ”But I shall find out the reasons. For now, I propose to visit Sir Rodney and ask him to continue with his generous offer.“
Lady Elizabeth smiled sadly. “I fear he would prefer a monastery to be the recipient of his largesse.“
“Well, I shall have to try. He has responsibilities here. Such as his daughter.”
“That,” said Lady Elizabeth, “is the problem. Agnes is dead.”
“I meant Margherita. I shall point out to him his opportunity of seeing his soul honoured by those he has most wounded in his life,” Stapledon said with an unpleasant smile, “and if he doesn’t listen, I’ll put the fear of God into him!”
Luke was at the altar of the canonical church, praying, when the three came through the communicating door. Hearing them, he started and clambered to his feet. “My Lord Bishop, I am so happy to see you once more and…”
“I doubt it,” Stapledon said drily. “How did you get to come here?”
“To pray today?”
“No. Here in charge of the souls of a convent of nuns.”
“Your orders, Bishop.”
“My orders?”
Luke nodded disingenuously. “Of course, sir.”
Bertrand felt the eyes of the bishop light upon him. “I only obeyed your orders, Bishop. I wouldn’t have sent Luke here if you hadn’t told me to.”
“I think we shall find that my records show you are wrong,” Stapledon said smoothly. “No matter. Luke, prepare to leave this place. I have a pleasant new post for you.”
“You wish me to be vicar of a little parish?” Luke asked hopefully.
Stapledon looked at him. “I think I can do better than that.”
