Michael JECKS - Belladonna at Belstone

Her features radiated calmness and reverence. Baldwin found it hard to keep his voice steady as he absorbed her story. “So you would prefer to see Margherita in place?”

“Yes. I have looked after her since poor Bridget had to die, and God believes she would be the best woman for the convent. She would steer us out of the dreadful state we have got into.”

“Why did the novices have to die?”

“Those girls?” For an instant her face altered. An angry frown marred her serenity. “Moll was nasty. I heard her speaking most sharply to Margherita, very disrespectful. And she spread rumours.”

“How?”

“She came to me and told me that Margherita was stealing from the priory. Silly. God didn’t want her to tell lies. He had to silence her.”

“You killed her?”

“No. God did – to protect Margherita. Katerine was no better: a nasty child, I am afraid, keen to use information about other people to bend them to her will. She had heard about Constance and was going to tell the world about her with her man. Terrible! Think how that would reflect upon the convent.”

Baldwin nodded seriously. “And Agnes?”

“Ah, yes. Agnes,” Joan said primly. “Well, she was a demon in human guise. She seduced that poor priest and bedded him many times. In the convent’s precinct here, if you would credit it! Within the cloisters, often in that room where she died. Denise saw her only yesterday, out in the garden copulating like a wild beast! Disgusting!”

“And me?”

“I am sorry about the tile, but it was intended to kill you, not to cause a painful injury. I thought you saw me on the roof – and now God wouldn’t want you to continue with your investigations. News would spread and if you finished your enquiry, the convent might be closed. And that would be displeasing to Him.”

“So it is best that I should be silenced?” Baldwin asked. He gave a small smile when she nodded. “And then the bailiff? And after him the bishop?”

“Oh no. It’s only the secular folk whose mouths must be stilled. I only have to dispose of your friend the bailiff and his servant.” She stopped, her head on one side as if listening. “Oh yes, and Rose, of course. The prioress’s bastard, the whore from the vill. She must die for her sins.”

“What of the prioress herself? She gave birth to Rose, after all.”

“She confessed and was given absolution,” Joan pointed out in a surprised tone. “She has been pardoned by God.”

“Ah, I see.”

“I’m very sorry,” she repeated. As she spoke she reached into her robe and pulled forth a pair of small bottles. “Dwale from Constance’s stores,” she said, holding up one. “And a bottle of pure hemlock juice. Her dwale contains some, you know, but there is enough in here to kill.”

She emptied the dwale into his cup, and held it out to him.

Baldwin shook his head slowly. “I fear I cannot drink it, Sister. I choose not to submit to my murder.”

Joan sighed and set the pot back down on the table. Then, faster than Baldwin would have expected, she leaped on to him, straddling his chest. Picking up the cup again, she held it beneath his nose so that he could inhale the rich aroma of spiced wine. “Come along, Sir Baldwin. If you drink this, you’ll know nothing about the hemlock, I promise you. There’s enough poppy syrup in this to make you forget everything and sleep. Otherwise I’ll have to force you to drink the hemlock neat, and that wouldn’t be pleasant.”

Baldwin was surprised at his defencelessness. Joan could only weigh a few stones, and yet he was suddenly aware that with her seated on his chest, her knees pressing on his upper arms, in his weakened state he was almost incapable of protecting himself. She pressed the rim of the cup to his lips, trying to force him to open his mouth, pushing harder and harder, until he became anxious that she might break his teeth. He opened his mouth and took a long draught, but as she smiled down at him, he spat it full in her face.

While she gasped with disgust, wiping her cheek ineffectually with her sleeve, he lifted his legs and rolled to one side, using the leverage of his whole body. She was tipped a little off-balance, enough for him to be able to free an arm, and he shoved at her hard. With a short squawk she fell.

Quickly he stood, but almost immediately reeled. Rising after the burst of energy disorientated him, and he toppled backwards, raising a hand to his head. It felt as though someone had slammed a sledgehammer at the back of his skull, and he retched with a sudden sickness that seemed to come up from the soles of his feet while the room span about him.

He became aware that Joan was up again. She glowered at him as she might at a recalcitrant novice, one who was resolutely incompetent at repeating the dies irae. Muttering under her breath, she retrieved her little bottle, and approached again. “I’m sorry about this, it’s bitter, but the dwale has gone so you’ll have to take the hemlock neat.”

“I think I prefer not to,” Baldwin said. He was suddenly struck with the impression that this was a weird dream. It must surely end soon.

“It’s God’s will,” she said relentlessly. “Do you want to oppose Him?”

Baldwin retreated. He had no wish to fight with her; she had a wiry strength in her body, and in his present enfeebled state he wasn’t sure he could protect himself. “I only oppose you, Sister Joan. I think you have mistaken His will.”

He saw her shake her head in irritation, and then her eyes lit upon the table. On it was Godfrey’s toolbag. His blood-stained saw and razor lay near. Baldwin was about to try to jump forward and knock them from her when she pounced and snatched up the razor. Turning to him, she held it out. “See? God puts everything in my hands.”

Baldwin could think of nothing to say. His head was swimming, his legs felt like putty, and his vision was slipping out of focus even as the pain in his head appeared to grow. He tried to move back further, but stumbled, and felt himself going over backwards. He was close to the wall, and although he flung an arm behind him to break his fall, his head caught the wall before his hand touched the floor, and agony thundered in his head – a sickening, throbbing spasm that made his belly clench and vomit up all its contents.

Baldwin could make out Joan’s feet approaching him even as he felt himself slide away from consciousness and into a deep sleep.

“Joan?” Simon repeated. “You left him in her care?”

“She’s all right, isn’t she?”

“If I’d been wrong and someone else was the murderer, Joan’d hardly be strong enough to protect Baldwin, would she?” Simon pointed out.

“Have you caught the murderer, then?” Denise asked innocently.

“You,” Hugh said sternly. “We know you did it.”

Denise stopped dead in her tracks, her face a picture of shocked denial. “Me!“ she squeaked.

Simon said, “You were all alone on the night Moll died…”

“So were others!”

“And no one saw you when Katerine was killed.”

“I was in the frater.”

“And when Agnes was murdered, you were alone again.”

“I was in the buttery getting a drink!”

Simon looked her up and down, sceptically. “Conveniently alone yet again.”

“So was Margherita, and the prioress, and Joan…”

“Certainly,” said Simon grimly.

Hugh frowned. “You say you saw Joan last night?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In the cloisters. I saw her walking about in the moonlight before I went to the frater. She’s often there while the others sleep.”

Simon made his way at full speed to the gate, then along the wall, back to the cloisters. All the way he cursed his stupidity, his inane foolishness at following his gut feelings instead of staying with his friend.