Michael JECKS - Belladonna at Belstone

He turned his attention elsewhere. The church had one shallowly pitched roof, and from the door he could see that the peak was only a short climb. Swallowing his desire to return to solid, safe ground, he gingerly stepped up and peered over the other side. There was nothing lying around that looked as though it might have been used to kill, nothing lying in plain view. Gloomily, Simon returned to the door. He had to accept that he had failed. There was no sign of someone having been attacked, and no sign of blood on the stairs.

Walking through to the top of the stairs, he turned to pull the tower door shut behind him when he noticed the smear on the door itself, and if the sight hadn’t been so sombre and doleful, he would have given a whoop of joy.

Hugh sucked, but no matter what he did the small sliver of meat wouldn’t budge from between his teeth. He looked around to make sure no one was watching and drew his knife. Lips pursed in a low, innocent whistle, he dragged the blade along the edge of the table to peel a long, thin splinter from it. It was the perfect size.

Sir Baldwin lay still. Godfrey had bustled about collecting a bowl and knife, and asked Hugh whether he would help bleed the knight, but Hugh refused to let him go near Baldwin with a blade until the bailiff returned and gave his permission. It wasn’t that Hugh had any objection to bleeding: he was bled at least twice a year, because everyone knew it was the best way to cleanse the blood of impurities, but Hugh wasn’t taking responsibility for Sir Baldwin’s health – especially with the man whom Hugh suspected could have had a part in the first novice’s death, and especially since Hugh couldn’t know whether Godfrey could have his own reasons for killing, say, an over-inquisitive Keeper of the King’s Peace.

In the end the canon had huffily stalked out; Hugh knew he had offended the man, but he wasn’t sorry to be left alone with his thoughts, and he would not apologise for taking a sensible precaution, either. At least Sir Baldwin’s long slash had been seen to, and the wound had been left open so that any corrupt matter within it wouldn’t be forced inwards to poison the body. Even Hugh, who had never had any training in medicine, knew that. Godfrey had bound Baldwin’s head with a long bandage which covered a thick poultice – designed to cultivate the pus which would hopefully cleanse the wound.

Baldwin was very pale, and with his dark beard, the contrast to his marble-white features was still more striking. His breath was shallow, as if he was in a deep sleep, but there was a rasping quality to it, as if he was in pain as well.

Hugh hitched up his tunic and rested his backside on the table at Baldwin’s side, eyeing the knight contemplatively while he picked his teeth.

“Is he very bad?”

Leaping from the table, Hugh turned to find himself being studied by a short woman with shrewd green eyes set in a plain round face. Her skin had a thin, parchment-like look to it, but that was common with slightly older women, as Hugh knew. At least her wrinkled face was kindly. “No. I mean, well, I don’t know.”

Her eyes creased in amusement as she walked past him. “Let me take a look. This man is a knight, I hear?”

“Yes… um…”

“You may call me Lady Elizabeth, young fellow. Are you trained in leechcraft?”

When he shook his head, she glanced back down at Baldwin. “Where is Godfrey?”

“He asked me if he could open the knight’s arm, and I said ”No“. Since then, I don’t know where he’s gone.”

“God rot his teeth! The damned fool; getting petulant because he’s not allowed to practise his blasted surgery, I suppose,” Lady Elizabeth spat, making Hugh’s eyes widen to circles. “Right, young man, I suppose we’d better get this knight of yours to a place where he can be properly nursed – and that in safety.”

The staircase from the roof took Simon back to the nave of the canons’ cloister, and all the way down, he kept his eyes fixed upon the steps and the wall, seeking any other smudges of blood. At several points he found them, and with each his conviction grew.

It was apparent that the girl had been struck and carried up the stairs. The blow had crushed her skull. Perhaps to prevent drips, a cloth had been wrapped around her head, but the blood had seeped into it, and where it touched the wall, it had smeared. That fact convinced Simon that the girl was probably already dead. If she had been hit so hard that she bled that heavily, there was little chance of her being alive. Someone had killed her, then taken her upstairs to throw her from the roof.

Standing near the altar, Simon glanced at the door communicating with the nuns’ cloister. She must have come from there; she could have been discovered in the canons’ area and murdered there, but Simon doubted it. He also thought she was not likely to have been carried into the church. Surely someone would have seen that. No, more likely that she had walked in and was knocked down inside. A blasphemy in its own right.

On a sudden impulse, he went to the door and entered. There was little to distinguish the nuns’ side from the men’s side. The choir stalls were much the same, as was the altar. There were no stains on the clean floor. At the back of the room Simon saw Denise’s aumbry and opened it. Inside was a mess of brushes, rags and waxes.

Plainly the sacrist would have known where to find a cloth. And she’d have known how to clean blood from the floor of the church, too.

Safely back on terra firma, Simon saw Lady Elizabeth at the door to the frater. He knew instinctively who she was. The prioress had an aura of confidence about her, like many a great lady, and she also gave the impression of power. She nodded to him, and Simon recognised in that short beckoning movement the authority of one used to command.

“You are the bailiff brought here by that infernal fool Bertrand?” she asked calmly. “Your friend is going to make a perfectly good recovery – so long as his jaw doesn’t lock up, anyway. You never can tell with these things. But I do not think it is sensible to leave him in the frater. He will cause too much chatter in there. The church would be a good place to put him, but too cold; the calefactory would be warm, but too noisy. I think the best thing to do is remove him to the infirmary.”

“Here in the canons’ cloister?” Simon asked, and when she agreed, he shook his head. “I cannot agree. In my view Godfrey has to be a suspect in the murder of the first novice, and I have no idea whether he could have been involved in the second as well.“

She rounded on him hotly. “Godfrey would do no such thing! It’s ridiculous to suggest that he might have had a hand in this.”

“You may feel so, but I couldn’t leave Baldwin in his charge without guards.”

“Where else would you have the man put?”

Simon felt indecision torturing him. All he wanted at this moment was Baldwin’s servant to stand over the knight and guard him while he, Simon, went to discover who had tried to kill him, but Edgar was miles away in Cadbury. “Where is safe if someone is prepared to kill twice?”

“Twice? Do you mean Katerine was murdered?” the prioress demanded sharply.

“My Lady, I have no doubt. There was someone up on the church roof; he or she threw a slate down to strike Baldwin, then threw the novice over the parapet.”

“How can you possibly tell that?”

Simon explained about the stack of unused slates, the topmost of which was unmarked by snow, and then the other evidence.

Lady Elizabeth walked up and down, deep in thought. “Very well. We shall take your friend to the nuns’ infirmary.”

“Where the first girl was murdered?” Simon exclaimed. “I think not, Lady. I’d…”