Candace Robb - The Riddle Of St Leonard's

Dame Beatrice made a face. ‘Outwardly, yes. But God forgive me, her soul is intractable.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Alisoun!’

Owen recognised the scowling brown eyes raised to the nun. The child forced a smile, but it faded when she glanced at Owen.

‘Captain Archer is here to see you. Come along.’ Dame Beatrice’s brusque tone was so unlike her usual manner it effectively discouraged argument. The child put down her sewing, rose and followed quietly. Dame Beatrice led them up the stairs to a small room next to the chapel, then left them alone.

Owen pulled the altar cloth from his pack. ‘Did you give this to Magda Digby?’

Alisoun sat with her feet twisted round the rungs of her chair, her hands gripping the seat on either side of her. She stared at the cloth in puzzlement, then lifted her eyes to glare at Owen. ‘It was mine to give.’

‘Don Cuthbert disagrees with you. He says it disappeared from St Leonard’s church.’

For a moment, the brown eyes revealed confusion. ‘He lies.’

Owen crossed his arms, leaned back against the wall, allowed a silence to make the child uncomfortable.

She began to fidget, clenching and unclenching the edge of the chair. ‘May I return to my lesson?’ she asked at last.

‘No.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I want to know where you found the cloth.’

‘In my mother’s things.’

‘Your mother stole the cloth?’

‘No! How could you say that?’

Owen leaned forward, hands on knees, brought his face close to the child’s. ‘Tell me about the man who stole your horse.’

‘What does he have to do with the cloth?’

‘I am the one asking the questions today.’

The child chewed on a fingernail. ‘Do you think the man who took my horse stole the altar cloth, too?’

‘Did he?’

‘How would I know?’ Her voice rose to an unpleasant pitch.

But though she was upset, Alisoun was becoming more rather than less stubborn, much like Gwenllian when pushed into a corner. Owen rose. ‘Forgive me for wasting your time. I had hoped to discover whether the man who stole your horse was the one who attacked the infirmarian of St Mary’s and stole his bag, which was later found within the hospital walls. But I see you know nothing.’ He took a few steps towards the door.

‘So he was here.’

Owen spun round. ‘You saw him?’

The brown eyes froze. ‘You are not as clever as you think.’

‘None of us is.’

Owen waited.

Alisoun fidgeted. Finally, ‘My mother learned to embroider here. She embroidered cloths for the village church.’

‘This one belonged to St Leonard’s.’

Silence.

Owen shook his head. ‘God go with you.’ He stepped out of the room.

Anneys was just coming up the stairs. ‘I shall see to her, Captain,’ she said, breathless from the climb. ‘Come, Alisoun.’

The child stood in the doorway, twisting a lock of hair that had escaped her kerchief and staring down at her shoes. Owen thought she might be more helpful the next time they met.

Geoffrey the bailiff unlocked the door to Walter de Hotter’s house. ‘What do you seek, Captain?’

‘Something that looks as if it should not be here,’ Owen said. ‘Where was Walter lying?’

Geoffrey indicated the spot by the overturned stool. ‘I tried to leave it as I found it, but I cannot say whether his apprentice shifted aught. He said nay, but he was shivering and babbling.’ Walter’s apprentice had discovered his master’s body the morning after the murder, when he had come for his breakfast.

Owen noted the bloodstained rushes. ‘Were the doors ajar?’

‘Not the street door. But that one. To the garden.’

Owen stepped out into the garden, an oblong of weed-choked herbs and flowers surrounding a pear tree. The tree would survive, but many of the plants had already died from lack of water and neglect. The sight saddened Owen.

‘Walter’s son is in Easingwold,’ Geoffrey said, as if to explain the untended patch.

‘I had heard.’ Owen stepped back into the house. ‘Pass me the lantern now.’

The bailiff opened the shutter, but held it beyond Owen’s grasp. ‘I would accompany you, Captain.’

‘You do not trust me?’

‘I would watch and learn from you.’

There were better ways to learn than to watch a man think, but Owen could see Geoffrey was sincere. ‘Come then. We will walk slowly through the house, noting all we see.’

It had been a comfortable household. Once brightly painted cushions, now faded, softened the benches by the table. On the walls, ochre stripes and dots danced against a yellow background. In the chest beside the table, two silver spoons nested among horn ones. Other costly articles included a pearl-handled knife, three pewter platters and a plain silver cup. Another chest in the bedchamber at the top of the ladder held several finely embroidered sheets, a heavy woollen blanket, and two down cushions, all carefully stored with sachets of sweet-smelling herbs. The walls and the bed curtain were painted with white flowers. On a hook by the bed hung a cloak lined with beaver and a good leather belt with a silver buckle.

‘A thief might have found something of interest here,’ Owen commented as they climbed back down to the main room. ‘And much of it easy to hide on his person.’

‘Aye, but his son’s wife missed naught.’

Owen returned to the garden to consider what he had seen. While he thought, he idly pulled at the invasive weeds. Perhaps not such an idle activity. With a bit of clearing, one patch towards the centre was noticeably bare, and the soil crumbly as if recently disturbed. He found a small spade in the shed, dug down into the centre of the patch. Nothing. He moved his attention to the edge, beneath an encroaching patch of chickweed, dug deep. At last the blade hit something hard. He probed, dug up something small, held it up to the fading light. ‘What have we here?’ he muttered as he brushed earth away. It was an ivory pawn dyed with ocre.

Excited by Owen’s find, Geoffrey knelt down beside him, picked up the spade and began to dig at the opposite edge of the patch. ‘I feel sommat!’ He unearthed a white rook.

The two men took turns digging, but found no more.

‘Why would Walter have buried these?’ Geoffrey wondered aloud.

Owen pushed himself up out of the dirt. ‘Not Walter. His murderer. Unless I am much mistaken.’

‘But why?’

Owen glanced round at the buildings bordering the garden. One had two shuttered windows overlooking the garden, another had one. ‘Come within.’ Inside, he settled down on a cushioned bench, set the two pieces on the table before him.

Geoffrey took a seat opposite him, tugged off his hat, scratched his head. ‘You thought we might be overheard?’

‘Risk is foolish in this game.’

Geoffrey picked up the pieces one at a time and looked at them closely. ‘A fine set, this was. I should like to see the whole set.’

‘With luck, you will.’

‘What are you thinking, then, Captain?’

‘That when there are too many coincidences, there are no coincidences.’

Geoffrey frowned. ‘Word games?’

‘Nay. Consider. Walter de Hotter had been two days at St Leonard’s with an injured knee. His house was empty. Suppose someone who had been robbing the hospital saw him there, knew his house would be empty, buried the chess pieces in Walter’s garden. He returned for them when he was ready to sell them or hide them elsewhere, but was surprised by poor Walter.’

‘The thief is someone who is often at the hospital, then?’

‘I think so.’

‘Had these chess pieces just gone missing about the time of his death?’

‘They were not missed until the master returned. But consider this. Walter was often at the hospital. The thief might have buried them during one of Walter’s earlier visits, then returned this time to remove them.’