Paul Doherty - The Magician

The woman lifted her hand, but Corbett continued.

‘You knew your daughter was dead, forced out by those other wenches, cruelly treated and abused, so you waged war against them. You reasoned,’ he shifted in his chair, ‘that something must have happened to Phillipa. You would have liked her body found, but you had no doubts about her fate and that the people responsible had to be punished.’

‘Are you sure, King’s man?’

‘Oh I’m certain. You had the motive and you had the means, your husband’s arbalest.’

‘I am Mistress Feyner, not some soldier.’

‘True,’ Corbett agreed, ‘you are Mistress Feyner the laundrywoman; who would suspect you? You moved amongst those young women like a pike amongst carp, choosing your victim. You could listen to all the chatter, who was going where, what they had planned, where they would meet. You also have some status in this castle. You could lure a wench here or there to lonely spots, like midden heaps or outhouses.’

Mistress Feyner sat like a woman in a dead faint, head down, hands resting in her lap.

‘You have a covered cart inside the castle walls, full of dirty washing or baskets of clean linen for Master Reginald. You can move that cart around the castle on any pretext, such as collecting laundry or exercising the horses. Who gives Mistress Feyner a second glance? Who senses the murderous anger seething within you? Yes, Mistress Feyner?’ She did not look up. ‘I don’t know how you lured the other victims, but as for Rebecca, well, you heard about her plans to visit her friend’s grave in the cemetery of St Peter’s in the Wood. You offered both Rebecca and Alusia a ride in the cart. On that particular morning, a cold December day, with the light hardly broken, Rebecca came first and you were waiting for her with the arbalest loaded. She hadn’t even collected her cloak. She died in an instant, and you wrapped her corpse in a canvas cloth and lifted it easily into the cart where it would lie well hidden. I’m sure when we inspect the cart we will find traces of your murderous work. Alusia arrives, and of course Rebecca isn’t there. You become impatient and leave. No one stops you, no one thinks that Mistress Feyner is an assassin, whilst your horses really pull a death cart. You reach St Peter’s church, Alusia steps down and hurries off. You go to the tail of the cart, let down the flap, pull out the canvas-bound corpse, unroll it and leave it by the side of the trackway. Only for a few heartbeats are you vulnerable or exposed, then you are gone.’

‘I could have been seen.’ Mistress Feyner’s voice was gratingly harsh.

‘Seen? By whom? I’ve been along that trackway, it is too close for any of the outlaws to come. You can see back down the path and ahead, whilst the cemetery wall would hide you from Father Matthew locked away in his house behind the church. You have claimed one more victim but now you are wary. King’s men have arrived in Corfe. I take a vow, at the time rashly, to hunt the killer down. You may have decided to pause for a while until I was gone, but Alusia was dangerous. She may have seen or heard something as she went into the cemetery. Perhaps she may have wondered why neither of you saw the corpse on your way down to the church. You knew she would never leave the castle. However, because of the chatter, you knew of her friendship with Martin. Alusia was nervous, stretched like a bowstring. Did you give her some false message from Martin to meet him here or there, some lonely spot? If things went wrong, you could always allege you made a mistake or were misled. On that night you were waiting for her, perhaps in the usual lovers’ tryst, that ruined passageway leading down to the old dungeons. You killed Alusia, wrapped her body up and hid it. But you made one mistake.’

Corbett picked the wire brush from the sack beside him and held it under Mistress Feyner’s nose.

‘The dead don’t just stand and watch, woman; they sometimes help. You made a mistake, one of your brushes was found on Alusia’s corpse. Why should she have that? She never worked in the laundry room.’

Mistress Feyner lifted her head and smiled sweetly.

‘Sir, how clever you are.’ The smile faded. ‘How clever you are,’ she repeated. ‘I really don’t know what was wrong with my Phillipa. Sometimes I thought she was with child, but if she was,’ the woman chatted on, ‘she would have told me, wouldn’t she? Sharp as a pin she was, King’s man. Oh, she had her ways, her dreams and madcap tales. She listened too intently to Lady Constance’s stories about mysterious knights, yet she was as bright as a button, my Phillipa, sharp as a dagger. Like her father she was, yes, he fought with a crossbow but he was also a skilled carpenter; he could carve out of wood and make such shapely things. Father Matthew complimented her. She understood a little Latin and French and he was teaching her to read from the lectern in church, and that was the problem. Those harridans were jealous of her! Harassed her, bullied her.

‘On Harvest Sunday last, during Mass, I could see their spiteful glances, laughing behind their fingers. Phillipa, all pale, left the church, saying she felt sick. I never saw her again. Sir Edward was kind, a search was made, but I knew my Phillipa.’ Mistress Feyner tapped her breast. ‘Here, in the sanctuary of my heart, I knew something had happened. The weeks passed, Phillipa never returned, I accepted she was dead and grieved silently. I heard the tales, the gossip, about that skulker who calls himself a man-at-arms.’ Mistress Feyner was looking at a point above Corbett’s head, letting her heart gush out the hatred which curdled there. ‘That horde of bitches never grieved, not a tear fell over Phillipa, no one ever comforted me, no one ever grieved. I knew they were guilty. I held them responsible.’

She glanced at Corbett and blinked.

‘In the end it was so easy. My husband’s arbalest was clean and oiled. I had three quivers of quarrels; I vowed to use them well. I began with those who gossiped and sneered the most; they came like flies to the honey pot. So stupid, so easily trapped. Rebecca, sidling up beside the cart when it was in the outhouse as I was loading Master Reginald’s linen. All concerned she was about visiting her friend’s grave. False tears in her eyes, stupid mouth pulled down in grief. Grief?’ Mistress Feyner spat the word out, talking to Corbett as if he was a fellow conspirator. ‘Grief? She had never once asked about Phillipa, my daughter who had no grave. I killed her so easily in that darkened place.’ She paused, nodding to herself. ‘You’re right. The cart is high, it’s so easy to hide a corpse.’ She laughed sharply. ‘She wanted to visit her friend; I thought, well, why not join her? As for Alusia,’ she shrugged, ‘she may have seen something so I pretended Martin wished to see her near the ruined doorway. It’s a pity he didn’t come. I judged him guilty as well.’

‘You left her there?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh yes. The next morning, before dawn, I decided to exercise the horses. No one gave me a second glance, why should they bother about me? They didn’t even care to make a proper search for my daughter. It was a dark morning, the mist curling. I carted the corpse down to the marsh.’ She sighed. ‘I thought it would sink, but I don’t really care. Phillipa has been found, she’s back, and as for you, sir . . .’

Mistress Feyner got to her feet, stretching out her hands as if she expected them to be bound. Corbett, surprised, sat back in the chair and the laundrywoman moved as swiftly as a cat. She picked up the iron poker from the hearth, swinging it, aiming for Corbett’s head. He threw himself forward, head down, and the iron bar whirled above him. He moved to grab Mistress Feyner but she had already dropped her weapon and was running for the door.