Paul Doherty: The Peacock's Cry

‘Yes, yes, I did.’ Ranulf rubbed his hands together. ‘I arrived here all important, I began my investigation. The lady abbess was neither friendly nor cooperative, Margaret Beaumont being dismissed as an empty-headed noddle-pate. The rest of the nunnery, her coven, her household,’ Ranulf sneered, ‘followed their abbess’s example, except for Elizabeth Buchan.’ His face softened. ‘Sir Hugh, she was truly beautiful, with the devil in her eyes, her wits honed sharp for mischief. She was friendly, very friendly. I admit I was flattered. I also used her to discover more about Margaret Beaumont.

‘Now, my arrival marked a significant change on this issue. I had been sent to Godstow because Beaumont’s kin had no knowledge of her whatsoever. The accepted story was that she hadn’t fled but disappeared. I was here for about a week before Elizabeth was murdered, and in that week she changed. She confided to me that she always thought her friend had eloped from Godstow to meet some secret admirer. Indeed, she informed me that Margaret might have been helped to escape by someone here.’

‘By someone in Godstow?’

‘So she claimed. However, after Margaret disappeared, she never once communicated with Elizabeth. The Beaumont faction were asking questions, and my arrival here simply precipitated matters.’

‘In what way?’

‘Elizabeth Buchan came to believe that Margaret Beaumont had not fled, eloped or escaped but had been murdered. I asked her why, and she said something about Margaret seeing or knowing something singular here at Godstow. I asked her what, but of course I was a relative stranger, and Elizabeth was reluctant to speak. She was fearful, apprehensive. On the one hand, I think she wanted to confide in me; perhaps she was preparing to do so when she was murdered.’

‘And the crossbow?’

‘I gave Elizabeth both the arbalest and a quiver of bolts; they certainly weren’t stolen.’

‘I thought as much. Why?’

‘She asked for protection. She said that if what she knew was true, it placed her in great danger. She also claimed that she was being watched. How one night the door to her bedchamber was opened and a figure stood there. She cried out and the apparition, or whatever it was, disappeared.’

‘Anything else?’

Ranulf shook his head. ‘I am sorry, master,’ he sighed. ‘Elizabeth Buchan was truly beautiful. I was attracted to her, but I was also trying to win her confidence …’

Ranulf’s voice faltered. He rose and walked across to the arrow-slit window as if to study the dust motes dancing in the ray of sunlight piercing it. Corbett went to speak, but paused at a knock on the door. Fulbert entered.

‘Sir Hugh, a message from the lady abbess. Rosamund’s twine is laid out. If you wish to enter the maze …’

A short while later, Corbett led Ranulf and Vicomte into the maze. Fulbert and Rainald went ahead of them, following the scarlet cord that lay twisted along the paths. Corbett had insisted that both men who had discovered Buchan’s corpse should accompany him. Despite the brilliant sunshine and the warm breeze perfumed by the rich garden plots, he felt a deep unease, as if they were being swallowed alive by that sinister labyrinth. A sombre place that dulled the soul yet agitated the mind with its constantly twisting sameness. No birdsong, no scurrying or rustling, just those walls of greenery rising either side of them. Corbett tried to curb his imagination, yet he sensed a malevolent, brooding presence. Sometimes he felt as if they were being followed, watched by something he was unable to detect. Fulbert noticed this and walked back.

‘A fearsome place, Sir Hugh.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Let me warn you, your eyes will play tricks, as happens in the marshlands where will-o’-the-wisps take on a life of their own.’

Corbett heeded the warning as he walked on, trying to ignore the suspicion that he had glimpsed someone, the swirl of the cloak or a fluttering shadow. Vicomte and Ranulf were equally agitated. Corbett forced himself to relax, to concentrate and reflect on what he had learnt, heard and seen since his arrival at Godstow. Certain suspicions were already forming. The mysteries that confronted them were confined to a certain space and time. Accordingly, the explanations might not be based on evidence or eyewitnesses but on reaching the only logical conclusion possible. He felt confident that the solution to these murderous mysteries must lie within Godstow itself, particularly this maze. If so, that must eventually lead to the unmasking of Elizabeth Buchan and Margaret Beaumont’s assassin. He was almost certain that the latter had been murdered by the same killer who had slaughtered her friend.

‘Sir Hugh?’ Corbett glanced up. Ranulf and Vicomte had stopped.

‘We are not far,’ the gardener called from ahead. ‘We must keep to the right.’ They turned and turned again, following the scarlet cord, and Corbett hid his surprise as they entered the oval centre of the maze. The ground was paved in coloured stone. On the right rose the Creeping Cross and a pieta – a huge, soaring black stone sculpture at the top of three steps. On each side of the Cross stood life-sized statues: the Virgin Mary cradling the dead body of her crucified son, and a mournful St John stooped in a gesture of deep grief. Across the pavement from this was a chapel-like building with a porch leading into a small nave, a bell hung in a bell-cote on the gable.

Corbett genuflected towards the pieta, crossed himself, then entered the chapel, pushing back the heavy oaken door. He stopped to inspect this, noticing how the inside of the door boasted a sturdy lock with bolts at top and bottom. Then he strolled into what must be Rosamund’s bower. It was a pleasant enough chamber: braziers stood prepared for firing, and rolled-up turkey rugs were stored in recesses at the bottom of the wall, ready to be spread out. There was an alcove for a bed to be laid, and good oaken furniture – stools, two chairs and a table. A small buttery and kitchen led off from the main chamber. Coloured cloths decorated the walls, most of them extolling the theme of pilgrimage. In all, a homely, comfortable place, the honey-coloured Cotswold stone filling the refuge with lightness and warmth.

‘They say,’ Vicomte spoke up, ‘how this bower was built for Rosamund to hide in when Eleanor loosed her assassins against her.’

‘And Elizabeth Buchan was found where?’ Corbett demanded.

‘Outside.’ Fulbert led him back through the porch and across to the steps of the pieta. ‘She was lying here.’ He gestured. ‘Arms and legs out, head to one side, robe and kirtle all pulled up. Such a beautiful young woman! So high-spirited.’ He laughed abruptly. ‘She and Margaret called our abbess the Gargoyle.’

Corbett crouched to study the steps and the paving stones beneath. He fished in his wallet and drew out a precious piece of thickened concave glass, a gift from a grateful London jeweller. He often used this to study faded manuscripts where the script was too difficult to read; it was also helpful for inspecting the inside of a beehive or the creatures themselves. Now he peered through it at the spot where Buchan’s corpse had been found.

‘Has this place been cleaned?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Rainald replied. ‘Only by spring showers, and they have been both rare and light.’

‘Buchan’s blood was dried.’

‘Thick, dark red, a congealed mess.’

‘So she had been dead for some time?’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘And possibly-’ Corbett cut himself short. For the time being he would keep his suspicions to himself. ‘Very well.’ He smiled at the two men. ‘I and my clerks will stay here for a while. Rosamund’s twine is still laid out?’

‘And will be until you leave.’