Iris Collier - Day of Wrath

‘That’s right, Father,’ the Prior said, his face lighting up with a smile of satisfaction, ‘off you go. Make sure they’re young and fresh, mind. None of your tough old leaves. He collects fresh sorrel and young nettles for me, my Lord, up in your woods.’

Nicholas stopped. ‘Do you go every day?’

‘No, my Lord, just sometimes. When the Prior says he needs fresh green leaves.’

‘They’re excellent, Lord Nicholas. Nothing like fresh nettles, simmered for just a few seconds in boiling water. Good for the bowels at this time of the year,’ the Prior said, patting his substantial belly.

‘Did you go up in the woods last week, Father Hubert?’ said Nicholas. ‘Let’s say, the Monday of last week, in the afternoon? I think I might have seen you there.’

‘You might have done, my Lord, but I can’t remember. I still feel a bit weak…’

‘I warned you. You’ll addle your brain with all that bleeding. I expect he was up there, Lord Nicholas. He goes up most days.’

So that was one mystery solved, thought Nicholas as he followed the Prior into his house. Just harmless old Father Hubert gathering plants to ease the Prior’s bowels. He’d look just like a patch of shade up under the trees. No wonder Merlin started. Nothing more sinister than that. He laughed with relief. How good it would be if everything could be solved as simply as that.

‘Come and see me when you get back, Father,’ said the Prior. ‘I shall want all the silver cleaned for the Commissioners’ inspection.’

Father Hubert stopped and looked at the Prior anxiously. ‘I’ll do my best. But I can’t get everything cleaned before they come. Will they really want to see everything?’

‘Everything. That’s why they’re coming. Now, my Lord, just tell me what I’m going to do with them. Bloody civil servants! I can’t abide them.’

* * *

Nicholas rode slowly home, deep in thought. Much as he liked the Prior, he deplored his light-hearted attitude towards the imminent arrival of Thomas Cromwell’s Commissioners. Didn’t he realise that they meant business? he thought as he trotted up the deserted street. No longer were there groups of villagers shouting out greetings and swapping news. It was as if the events of the last few days had cast a deep gloom over the place. The arrival of Thomas Cromwell’s men would unsettle everyone even more.

The Prior didn’t seem to know what these men were capable of, he thought. They would pry into every nook and cranny of the Priory’s affairs, study the account books, scrutinise the daily life of the monks, note down who attended services, who stayed away. They’d inspect the kitchens, raise eyebrows at the Prior’s well-stocked cellar, gloat over the number of horses the Prior kept in his stables, exclaim over the carriage which the Prior used when visiting neighbouring parishes over which he had jurisdiction. They’d note the amount of lead on the church roof, the number, weight and size of the bells, and the amount and value of the church furnishings.

And one thing was clear – the Commissioners would not take kindly to the harbouring of a suspected witch on the monastic premises. Maybe, he thought, as he turned in to his driveway, the Prior could pass her off as a holy anchoress. But the monks would object. No, time was running out for Agnes Myles, as it was running out for him. And that was just what Ultor was reckoning on. He’d framed Agnes, that was for sure. He wanted her disposed of; and he was setting about it very efficiently.

When he got back, Geoffrey was waiting for him with a message which had just arrived from the Sheriff. The messenger had left saying no answer was necessary.

‘Lord Nicholas,’ he read. ‘I’m holding on to Bovet and Perkins for the time being. I’m sure they know more than they let on. They do admit that they often go to the ale-house in your village, so it might be useful if you could talk to the ale-house keeper and see if he overheard anything significant last Saturday night. Our two suspects could’ve been paid to start the fire, of course. The ale-house keeper could’ve seen money changing hands. There’s still that burn mark on Perkins’s sleeve not accounted for. Send for me if there’s any more trouble. Landstock.’

Nicholas finished reading, and called for his horse again. He rode back down the street, arriving at the ale-house just as Josh Tomkins was getting ready for his afternoon nap. He was a big, florid-faced man, with sparse black hair, and a dirty apron tied round his enormous girth. Small, piggy eyes looked at Nicholas nervously as he ducked his head under the door lintel and went into the dim, smoked-filled interior.

‘To what do I owe the honour of this visit, my Lord?’ Tomkins said obsequiously. ‘You know my licence is in order. There’ve been no complaints about the quality of my ale, I hope? I only use the best malt.’

‘It’s not your ale I’m interested in,’ said Nicholas, pushing aside two mongrels who were snarling over the bits dropped on the floor by the customers. Biddy Tomkins was famous for her boiled bacon hocks, which went down well with the travellers along the main coast road. Tomkins wiped over a table top with a corner of his apron, and pushed a chair over to Nicholas, who shook his head.

‘A drink, my Lord?’

‘No thanks. I’m not staying. You get a good crowd in here, don’t you?’

‘Most days we’re full up.’

‘People come here from Marchester?’

‘Sometimes. Not often. They’ve got their own places to go to.’

‘Do you know two men called Tim Bovet and Will Perkins?’

Tomkins looked shifty. ‘Might do. They come here to give the monks a hand with the lambing. What’ve they been up to?’

‘Were they in here last Saturday night? The night before the fire in Agnes Myles’s shed?’

Again the cautious look. Careful now, thought Nicholas. Don’t frighten him off. ‘I can’t remember,’ said Tomkins, busily wiping down the tables. ‘There are always lots of people here on Saturday nights.’

‘Come on, man. It’s not all that long ago. Think hard.’

‘Well, I suppose they could’ve been. After all, they’re regulars when they come to work here.’

‘Did you hear them, or anyone else for that matter, talking about starting a fire?’

‘Oh no, my Lord,’ he said, polishing a table with unnecessary vigour. ‘I never heard nothing like that. And if I did,’ he said, standing up and looking at Nicholas indignantly, ‘I would’ve chucked them out. We don’t have such talk in here. Burning down other people’s property indeed!’

‘So you heard no talk of fire. And no one, in his cups, boasting about starting one?’

‘I certainly did not. Ah, here comes Biddy. Come over here a minute,’ he said as Biddy Tomkins, flushed and perspiring, came in to collect the empty tankards. ‘Lord Nicholas wants to know if we heard anyone talking about starting a fire up at old Agnes’s house last Saturday night?’

Biddy came over and dropped a curtsy to Nicholas. ‘I didn’t hear anyone talk about a fire. It started well after we’d closed and Josh and me were tucked up in bed. We only woke up when one of the servants came hammering on our door and calling out “fire”. We got up and went along to Agnes’s house, but we were too late to help, of course.’

Nicholas cursed his luck. They were too glib. They’d had time to get their act together.

‘You know Sheriff has Perkins and Bovet in custody?’

‘We’d heard the rumour. What’re they supposed to’ve done?’ said Tomkins, trying to look unconcerned.

‘They were reluctant to help put out a fire and they slandered Agnes Myles.’

‘Well, that’s only to be expected,’ said Biddy indignantly. ‘What right has a nasty old witch like her to expect people to help her put out a fire? It was only her shed, after all, that went up in smoke. Good riddance to it, I say. Put paid to all her spells for a bit. I can’t see why you bother yourself with all this, my Lord. She oughtn’t to be here. Best place for her is up on Marchester Heath.’