Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

Corbett tapped on the door.

‘And beyond this there are the steps?’

Adam Warfield sighed in exasperation. ‘Yes, and they’re broken. Anyone who tried to force that door would soon be discovered. You did say you wished to meet the Sisters of St Martha?’

And, without waiting for an answer, the sacristan and Brother Richard led them out of the abbey and into the cloisters. A square, porticoed walk bounded the garth, a green island of lush grass with a fountain splashing in the centre around which birds sang and swooped. They went through a small doorway, down more passageways and into the Chapter Room.

Corbett heard the mumble of voices which stilled as soon as they crossed the threshold. He blinked as they entered. Although the windows were unshuttered, the room was dark and candles glowed in the shadowy recesses and along the oaken table where a group of women sat. Corbett sensed an atmosphere of sadness as they all stopped talking and looked towards him. At first they were indeterminate, indistinct in the poor light so he peered closer: all the women were dressed in dark blue head-dresses, fastened with pieces of gold braid. They were wearing dresses and smocks of different hues but these were covered in tabards which matched their head-dresses. He stared hard at the livery depicted on them and made out the figure of Christ with a woman kneeling beside him, presumably St Martha. He caught a glimpse of bare ankles beneath the table and realised these ladies, however high-born, were similar to many noble widows who followed a monastic rule in their spiritual lives. Self-conscious of his own boots thudding on the wood-panelled floor, Corbett led the rest of his group across the room though he noticed how both Cade and the monks hung back as if trying to hide themselves.

‘Do you think they always dress like this?’ Ranulf whispered.

‘I doubt it,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Just at meetings.’

‘Why are you whispering? What are you doing here?’ An old, white-haired lady at the top of the table stood cupping her hand to her ear. She challenged them again and a tall lady on her right repeated the question.

‘Gentlemen, this is a meeting of our Sisterhood. You did not knock or ask for entrance.’

‘My lady,’ Corbett answered. ‘We are here on the King’s orders.’

The rest of the seated group began to murmur amongst themselves but the old lady at the top of the table clapped her hands for silence whilst the tall woman on her right rose and swept down to meet them. Corbett glanced round quickly at her companions and counted seventeen in all.

‘I am the Lady Catherine Fitzwarren,’ the tall woman announced. ‘My superior, the Lady Imelda de Lacey, asked you a question. Who are you?’

Corbett studied her, noticing the grey hair escaping from beneath the coif yet the woman was not old; her face was smooth and clear without a wrinkle, high cheekbones emphasized eyes as grey as slate though her prim, pursed lips gave her a sour look. Corbett stood his ground; he was used to the domineering airs and graces of courtiers and the least said the better.

‘Well, I know who you are,’ Lady Fitzwarren’s eyes flickered her contempt at the monks. ‘And you,’ she pointed a long, bony finger at Cade, ‘are the under-sheriff who seems incapable of capturing the red-handed slayer of poor unfortunate girls!’

As she talked, Corbett stared at the lady seated at the top of the table. I have to be careful here, he thought. The de Lacey woman must be at least seventy summers old, the widow of one of Edward’s great mentors, whilst Fitzwarren’s husband had been one of the King’s most successful generals in Wales. Corbett drew in his breath and glanced warningly at Ranulf.

‘My Lady,’ he stepped forward. ‘I am Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal and Chief Clerk of the Chancery.’

Lady Catherine immediately extended a white, thin hand for Corbett to kiss, which the clerk did, choosing to ignore Ranulf’s muffled snigger.

‘The King himself has sent me here to investigate the deaths of Lady Somerville and,’ Corbett stammered, ‘the other unfortunates you mentioned.’

‘Well, Sir Hugh,’ she snapped, ‘you are welcome but do we really need the monks?’

Adam of Warfield and Brother Richard needed no second bidding but fled from the room like frightened rabbits.

‘Well?’ Lady Catherine turned with a prim smile on her face. ‘We need more chairs.’ She clapped her hands and serving women, seated in a darkened window recess, scurried to do her bidding. Corbett had to keep a straight face as the serving women, mumbling and muttering, dragged three high-backed chairs away from the wall to the near end of the long, oval table. Corbett ordered Cade and Ranulf to help. Lady Catherine swept back to her place whilst the three self-conscious men took their seats.

‘Perhaps it’s best,’ old de Lacey announced in a surprisingly clear voice, ‘if we tell the King’s Emissary,’ the words were tinged with sarcasm, ‘something about the Sisters of St Martha. We are a group of lay women,’ she continued heartily. ‘Widows who, following the counsels of St Paul, now devote ourselves to good works. We take a solemn vow of obedience to the Bishop of London and our work is amongst women who walk the streets and alleyways of London. Women,’ her gimlet eyes glared down at Corbett, ‘who have to sell their bodies to satisfy the filthy lusts of men.’ She paused and stared at Corbett as if he was personally responsible for every whore in London.

Corbett chewed the inside of his lip to avoid a smile. Ranulf lowered his head and received a kick from beneath the table.

‘Ranulf, if you laugh,’ Corbett hissed out of the corner of his mouth, ‘I’ll personally break your neck!’

‘What was that? What was that?’ de Lacey cupped her ear again.

‘Nothing, my Lady. I wanted to make sure my servant had stabled the horses correctly.’

The old woman rapped the top of the table with a small mallet.

‘You’ll bloody well listen when I address you!’

Corbett steepled his fingers before his face, his lower lip clenched firmly between his teeth as he recalled stories of de Lacey: how this woman had often campaigned with her husband and was not averse to using language which would make a hardened mercenary blush. He glanced quickly around the table. Surprisingly enough, except for Lady Catherine Fitzwarren, the rest of the group were now sitting, heads bowed; a few shoulders were shaking and Corbett was relieved that he was not the only one to see humour in the situation. He sat motionless as Lady Imelda finished her caustic description of the Order’s work.

‘At the end of this meeting and only when we have finished,’ Lady Imelda announced imperiously, ‘our sub-prioress, the Lady Catherine, will provide you with any further help. She and her companion the Lady Mary Neville.’ De Lacey clicked her fingers and pointed down the table at one of the women who now lifted her head and gazed straight at them.

Corbett and Ranulf looked at the petite, olive-skinned features of the Lady Mary. Ranulf took one glimpse of the dark blue eyes and gulped as his throat went dry and his heart beat faster. He had never seen anyone so beautiful and, although Ranulf had been with many women, he knew, sitting in this strange Chapter House, that for the first and possibly the last time in his life, he had fallen deeply in love. The woman smiled gently then looked away. Ranulf just gazed back hungrily and, for him, the rest of the meeting was a distant hum.

Corbett also watched the young widow turn away. It can’t be? he wondered. No, it couldn’t be! He felt shocked, his hands turning cold as ice. The Lady Mary bore the same Christian name, the same looks, the same demeanour of his own first wife, now years dead. Corbett couldn’t believe it, he was so shocked he lost his usual alertness and didn’t realise that the Lady Mary had had a similar effect on his manservant. Cade, however, glanced at both suspiciously and nudged Corbett gently with his elbow.