Michael JECKS - Belladonna at Belstone

Simon had heard one thing the previous night that had intrigued him: the wild allegation made by Luke to the effect that Margherita had been creaming off the income and profits from the priory. It was hard to credit that a nun would do such a thing, but looking at the state of the place it was all too easy to believe that someone had been fleecing it.

Margherita had always appeared coldly contemplative, a very genuine Christian, yet he realised that although the treasurer had denied any part in the murders, she had not denied the charge of embezzlement. If his reasoning was correct, and she wouldn’t swear before God to innocence of theft, clearly the fact that she was happy to do so regarding the murders meant she was telling the truth about them.

So he was no further forward, he thought with a heavy sigh.

Baldwin groaned, and Simon leaned forward. “How are you feeling?”

“As if someone’s trying to cut through my skull with a rusty saw,” Baldwin said with his eyes tight shut.

Simon chuckled and passed Baldwin the pot of wine, which the knight soon emptied.

“I doubt it’ll stay down,” the knight said, resettling himself on his side. “I feel like you do after a night drinking all my wine and ale.”

“At least the wound’s healing,” Simon said, his tone gentle.

“I can assure you that from my perspective it appears to be getting worse,” Baldwin said drily. “How does your enquiry progress?”

Simon gave him a doubtful look. “Constance said you should rest.”

“Don’t be a fool. I need something to take my mind off this!” Baldwin hissed painfully.

“All right. Well – there was another murder last night.”

“God’s teeth!”

Simon told all he had learned the previous day, finishing with the discovery of Agnes’s body. “The prioress has locked up Luke and Elias, thinking that a man who dares enter the convent against God’s laws would be capable of murder,” he said.

Baldwin snorted feebly. “By the same token she should arrest herself! She too must be suspect for she once had an affair and got pregnant. No, that is rubbish. And of course we can assume that Elias was innocent.”

Their voices had woken Hugh. “But he was found there!” the servant objected sleepily.

“Precisely Whoever killed the girl would have run. No one would have stood about waiting to be discovered. Luke is a different matter, of course.”

“Except,” Simon interrupted, “Luke had no dagger on him. Come to that, neither did Elias. So where was the murder weapon?“

“What of Margherita?” Baldwin enquired.

“She wasn’t searched,” Simon admitted shamefacedly.

“Wonderful!” Baldwin muttered. He remained staring up at the beams of the roof for a few minutes. “All this makes little sense, especially if we take my own wound into account. Three girls, all very different, and me as well. There must be some kind of pattern to all four attacks; something that ties us together.”

Simon gave his friend a smile of sympathy. “The last thing you need right now is to fret about something like this, and I need to get on as well.”

“Why? What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to ask Margherita what she saw last night.”

Simon left Hugh once more guarding Baldwin. Already, before Simon left the infirmary, Baldwin was sleeping again, and as the bailiff opened the door to the landing, Constance appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Sister, could you tell me where the treasurer is likely to be?” he asked, and she told him to look in the cloister.

Her eyes were red and raw from weeping, and even as he studied her, he saw her blink to keep the tears at bay.

It was this sign of her distress that made him touch her shoulder. She took a quick pace back on feeling his hand, and stared at him with alarm, but he smiled. “Sister, don’t fear. I am sure Agnes died quickly.”

“It wasn’t her I was thinking of,” Constance said. She sadly let her head drop forward, feeling ridiculously feeble. It was mere mawkishness to pine for him. “It was Elias… Oh, Bailiff – do you think he could have killed them?”

Simon gazed at her blankly. “Elias? No, not really. Why do you ask that?”

“I gave him dwale to keep the prioress’s dog silent when he came to visit me,” she said, colouring. “I thought he could have dropped some into Moll’s drink, and then he could have thrown Katerine from the roof, and last night… last night…”

Simon patted her shoulder as she began to sob. “The dwale didn’t kill Moll,” he said.

“But I’d already given her some! I gave it to Joan and Cecily as well so Elias and I wouldn’t be interrupted. If he gave them more, it could have poisoned them.”

“It didn’t, though, did it? The killer smothered Moll, then cut her, so my friend thinks, and I’ve never known him to be wrong. As for last night, I don’t think Elias is guilty – but you might be able to help me with some other thoughts.”

“Anything, if it will help you to discover who is doing all this!”

“Show me where Margherita would normally sleep.”

She turned and led the way to the dorter, stopping at a bed only a short way inside.

It was far from the hole in the roof, but close to the door. Simon pointed to the single bed between Margherita’s and the prioress’s chamber. “Who sleeps there?”

“That’s Joan’s.”

Beside the treasurer’s bed was a large chest, which Constance said was Margherita’s. It was of heavy wood and bound with iron. Simon idly tried to lift the lid. It was locked.

Seeing Simon’s questioning glance moving over the rest of the beds, Constance gave the names of the occupants. “At the far side, that is Denise’s, and that one, nearer the stairs, is Ela’s, the kitcheness’s.”

“So Ela could have risen last night without waking anyone.”

Constance pulled a face. Simon could see her nose wrinkling above her veil. “She wouldn’t have woken anyone anyway. Margherita often walks around late at night. Especially recently, with these murders and the pressure of the election. And Denise is usually downstairs with a pot of wine until very late. If Ela rose, I doubt anyone would have been here to stir.”

Godfrey’s anxious face appeared at the top of the stairs. “Constance? Oh, there you are. You have a patient who needs my help?”

Constance apologised to Simon and led the canon to the infirmary. They left the door wide open behind them, and Simon saw them march straight to Cecily’s bed. While he watched, he saw Godfrey begin to unwrap the dressing on the girl’s arm; the canon winced with distaste at the smell, while Cecily suddenly gave a great cry of agony.

Simon could stand most things, but not surgery. Such slicing of flesh and sawing of bone reminded him too forcibly of his own physical frailty. He turned and walked down the stairs while behind him Cecily’s voice rose to an insane shriek.

In the cloister he found Margherita sitting with Joan. Joan rose, giving Simon a deeply disapproving look. For her part, Margherita stared white-faced up at the infirmary’s window. In her left hand she gripped her string of prayer beads, which she paid out through her right.

Joan appeared enraged. “So, Master Bailiff, you consider that Margherita is a murderer?”

“I have said no such thing,” he replied. “But others have, and I must question her.”

“Ridiculous! A woman more dedicated to the priory you’ll never meet!” Joan looked at Margherita as if expecting a word from her, but the treasurer sat silently. After a moment Joan gave an exasperated “Oh!” and left them.

Margherita shivered as a fresh shriek came from the window. “How is she?”

“I don’t know. If Godfrey’s as good as some of you think, then Cecily may survive.” There was no need to stress the point: both knew even a young, healthy person could fade astonishingly quickly when gangrene set in. If the infected part was hacked off, the patient often died from shock. “May I have a few words with you?”