The troops, four abreast, passed the short road that led upward to the hill where the Old Dark House loomed. Its towers peered at them from above the trees, and the colonel very suddenly decided that they would go as far as possible before camping for the night. Strangely enough, there was no griping among the men, who seemed as eager as he was to put the Old Dark House behind them. He later learned many of them had heard stories from those at Netherfields, stories that explained very clearly why Justinian had thought it wise to leave his home.
Behind them, Alicia spent the daylight hours considering what she might do with this knowledge. If Mirami had known of it, she wouldn’t have asked the prior to send men to Netherfields, because Mirami owned the prior, the prior would soon become the abbot, the abbot would control the abbey, and Netherfields would soon be the property of the abbey! All this was part of Mirami’s plan. The question remained, why hadn’t the prior told them this? Was it possible he had not known? If the documents had been negotiated at the abbey some years ago, the current prior might not have been involved. Suppose he didn’t know?
Well, he should know. She, Alicia, would tell him. Tell him and tell her mother, both at the same time. She made her way to the bird lofts, humming under her breath. Surely there was something happening here she could use to her advantage. Pity about Jenger. She would have liked to talk it over with him.
Solo Winger received a message from the Old Dark House. He knew exactly which pigeons he had sent where, so he knew exactly where each one was coming from. When he took it from the message tube, he saw that it was sealed and the prior’s name was written on the outside. He smiled, unsealed it, read it, then danced a little jig around the loft. It was early evening. He would have to wait a while. The best time to reach either the librarian or the Tingy-away woman would be late evening. The prior usually retired to his own suite early in the evening, shortly after the dinner hour. He had the habit of drinking wine then. The servants said he was a long, loud sleeper, full of snores, snorts, and heaving about. The women who made his bed said he tore it apart in his sleep, every night. They wondered if he had bad dreams.
Solo Winger did not speculate about the dreams. He thought it likely the prior had no conscience that bothered him enough to have bad dreams. More likely he had dreams of glory. More likely his thrashing was his arms flung out demanding that this one or that one be beheaded. Ha.
When the last of the diners left the hall, when darkness fell, when peace descended on the abbey, he went to the library and gave the note to Wordswell. Though unsigned, it was obviously from the Duchess of Altamont.
“I am told by Colonel Sallis that Netherfields becomes the property of the abbey on the death of Justinian. Since you can be the abbot very soon, perhaps it is time to ensure your election. Send now the material I have previously asked for.”
“What does she mean ‘material’?” Wordswell asked.
“That woman, the Tingy-away woman . . .”
“The Tingawan woman, Precious Wind.”
“Her. Yeah. We need her to tell us.”
Wordswell and his crony crept through silent corridors, stepping into dark doorways when necessary, finally knocking on Precious Wind’s door. Nettie Lean had moved into Oldwife Gancer’s room, to care for her, and Precious Wind had a room to herself.
“What does she mean by ‘material’?” Wordswell asked when she had read Alicia’s message.
She nodded. This was verification of the long supposed. “She means something taken from the abbot’s body. Fingernail clippings. Hair pulled by the roots. A vial of spit. Even, I think, something from his seat of comfort.”
Wordswell’s face showed his disgust. “She can use this to . . . what?”
“Kill him,” she replied. “Oh, don’t make a face, old bookworm. You’ve read of such things, I’m sure of it.”
“In the olden days. In the Before Time . . .”
“ ’At’s where the she-devil’s from, some old afore time,” grunted the loft keeper.
“Well, she can do it now, if she has the machines to do it with. Which she has.”
“What are we to do?” asked the librarian
“Who barbers the prior? Who shaves him?”
“His manservant.”
“And when his manservant is . . . ill?”
“He would use the abbot’s manservant. At least, he has in the past. So do I. The abbot has shared a servant with me for many years. He thinks it foolish to have a man sit idle just in case the abbot should want a cup of tea.”
“Ah.” That was no help. “I doubt the prior would use someone else to go sneaking about in the abbot’s quarters. He would want to do it himself.”
Solo Winger snorted. “Prob’ly. Likes to keep ’is ’and in, does prior.”
“Then we must let him. How reliable is the servant you share with the abbot?”
“We trust him with a blade at our throats every day.”
“Do you trust him to keep a secret?”
“I have heard that a secret can be kept between two people only when one of them is dead.”
“That has always been my strongly held conviction.” Precious Wind stared into the distance. Still no help. “Well, are the abbot’s quarters locked when he is not there?”
“None of us have locked doors.”
“So much for that, then. Could you find some reason that the abbot’s quarters should be cleaned? I mean cleaned of every hair, every particle of dust,
