Paul Doherty - Song of a Dark Angel

'And the other graves?' Corbett asked.

The priest took Corbett round, pointing out the disturbed graves. Corbett quietly realized there was a pattern to the desecration. All but two of the pillaged graves were of persons unknown – the exceptions were both old ladies. And they were all of old people who had died between the years 1216 and 1256.

'And you have no idea who is the perpetrator?'

'None whatsoever,' Father Augustine sighed. 'I have set guard, as did Robert the reeve and members of the parish council. It's always the same.'

'When is it done,' Corbett asked. 'At night?'

The priest nodded. 'Though on one occasion the desecration occurred late in the afternoon. Only the good Lord knows what they were after.'

'Amelia Fourbour, the baker's wife,' Corbett asked abruptly, 'she visited you?'

The priest shrugged. 'Yes, she did. A very unhappy woman. Amelia complained about the villagers, but there was little I could do.' Father Augustine looked up at the overcast sky. 'I cannot explain her death and was unable, God forgive me, to assist her when she was alive. You've met my parishioners, Sir Hugh, they are as hard as the earth they till!'

Corbett agreed and thanked him. He went back to the lychgate, mounted his horse and rode through the dusk towards the Holy Cross convent. He followed the cliff path, now and again stopping to stare out at the grey angry sea. At last the convent came into sight. As soon as he entered the gates, Corbett sensed the wealth of the foundation. The doors were freshly painted, opening soundlessly on well-oiled hinges. The outhouses were tiled, the woodwork fresh and gleaming and the yard neatly cobbled. A groom took his horse and a lay sister led him into the convent. Here again the wealth of the sisters was apparent. The walls were panelled, the furniture well polished and beautifully carved statues stood in recesses. At the end of the passageway, above an arched door, was a superb triptych. The air smelt sweetly of wood, resin and incense.

'You admire our convent?' the lay sister asked, pausing as Corbett stopped to gaze at a large cross carved and painted in the Byzantine style.

'It is quite beautiful,' Corbett replied.

'Only the high-born are admitted here, the daughters or widows of nobles,' the lay sister explained. 'They bring rich dowries – and, of course, there's always the profit from the sheep.'

Corbett remembered the flocks he had seen on the moors.

'The convent exports wool?' he asked.

'Oh, yes, it goes by the cartload to Whitstable, Boston, Bishop's Lynn and Hull.' The lay sister straightened up. 'It is high-quality wool, much in demand by Flemish weavers.'

Corbett took one last, lingering look at the crucifix and followed his guide along beautifully furnished passageways to Dame Cecily's chamber. The prioress appeared pleased to see him. She ordered wine and sweetmeats and escorted Corbett to a large throne-like chair before a roaring fire. Corbett sat down and stared around. Even the queen's chamber at Westminster couldn't rival such riches – woollen rugs, golden tapestries, silver oil-lamps, precious candelabra, paintings and silver ewers, cups and dishes adorned the room.

'Before you ask, Sir Hugh,' said Dame Cecily, placing a goblet of wine beside him. 'We sisters of the Holy Cross do not take a vow of poverty. We are a foundation dedicated to good works and prayer and to providing a refuge for women of good standing in what can only be termed a violent world.'

Corbett murmured his thanks and stared at the fire. Such foundations were common, he reflected, built on generous endowments and constantly financed by a regular source of income.

'How long has the convent been here?' he asked.

'Sir Simon's great-grandfather issued the first charter. The building was completed in 1220.1 am the fifth prioress and our community is sixty strong.'

'So you have no objection to the Pastoureaux. You don't see them as rivals?' Corbett said, half-teasingly, as the prioress lowered herself gracefully into a large, quilted chair.

Dame Cecily shook her head.

'Of course not. We give the Pastoureaux every help we can. We are only too pleased to accept their labour in our stables, farms and orchards. They cause us no problems.'

'You have heard of the murder?' Corbett abruptly asked. 'The girl Marina?'

Dame Cecily nodded. 'Of course, poor girl. She did apply to this convent, wishing to come to us as a lay sister, but…' Dame Cecily shrugged elegantly plump shoulders, with such a look of contrived sorrow on her face that, in any other circumstances, Corbett would have laughed.

'Has Master Monck been here?'

'Yes, this morning.' 'Why?'

'He came about his servant, Cerdic Lickspittle, the one who was found murdered on the beach.' 'And?' Corbett asked testily.

Dame Cecily became flustered. 'Well, specifically, he wanted to know if Lickspittle visited here the day he died. I said yes.' Dame Cecily played with the pleats of her woollen gown. 'But his visit was very short. He was a nuisance – our sisters were for ever seeing him riding out along the headland and staring out to sea. Master Monck is no better.'

'Perhaps they were concerned?' Corbett suggested.

'About what?'

'About one of your order, Dame Agnes, who fell from the cliff top.'

Dame Cecily became visibly agitated. 'That was an accident!' she snapped.

'But Dame Cecily,' Corbett persisted, 'what on earth was one of your sisters doing out on the headland at the dead of night?'

'I don't know. We are a foundation for noble ladies, not a prison. We guard against intruders, but do not prevent our sisters from leaving as they wish. I can only suppose that Sister Agnes wished to go for a walk.'

'On a stormy cliff top,' Corbett said disbelievingly. 'In the dead of night?'

Dame Cecily spread her plump little fingers.

'Sister Agnes was a hardy soul.'

'What position did she hold?'

'She was our treasurer.'

'Did you investigate her death?'

'Yes. Sir Simon came, as did Master Monck. They examined the headland, but found no marks to suggest anything but that Agnes slipped and fell.'

'So there was nothing suspicious about her death?' Corbett asked.

'Nothing whatsoever. We found her corpse on the rocks below and she now lies buried in our graveyard, God rest her!'

'And Cerdic?'

'Oh, he came one morning. He stayed for Mass, saw round our church then left.' 'Is that all?' 'Of course.'

'And the baker's wife,' Corbett asked. 'Amelia Fourbour?'

'Poor woman, she would often ride past our gates.' Dame Cecily played with the gold bracelet around her plump wrist. 'But we knew nothing about her.'

Corbett sensed he would get no further. He finished his wine and placed the goblet gently on the table beside him.

'Dame Cecily, I ride to Walsingham. His Grace the King will be pleased at the hospitality you have offered me.'

Dame Cecily's lips smiled, but her eyes were puzzled.

'I would like to stay here,' Corbett explained, 'in your guest house.'

The prioress clapped her hands girlishly. 'Of course, you will be our welcome guest.'

Corbett thanked her, withdrew and went back to the stables. He told the groom that he would be back in the hour -he needed to ride, relax and marshal his thoughts. Once outside the convent he turned his horse's head in the direction of the headland, determined to make use of the dying day's light. First he found the long, winding path leading down to the beach. He hobbled his horse and went downwards. However, the mist was growing thicker and the tide was racing in, beating against the rocks at the foot of the cliffs. He went back and led his horse along the cliff edge, turning his head sideways against the buffeting wind. He walked carefully because the ground was treacherous. He passed the convent where it nestled in a small hollow, a sprawling collection of buildings behind its curtain wall. He continued along the headland and gazed out over the sea. The wind was even stronger here. His horse became nervous, so he left it to crop the grass, and went back to the spot where Sister Agnes must have stood. Darkness was falling. He was glad that he had a warm bed to go to – the night would be black, without stars or moon, and the wind, which snatched at his hair and stung his eyes, would grow stronger.