Iris Collier - Day of Wrath

His voice faded, and Nicholas, with growing agitation, bent down to listen.

‘Which monk? Brother Wilfrid, try to remember.’

‘Which monk? Why the old one…’

And then he stopped. He tried to take another gasp of air, but the effort was too much. When Nicholas put his head to the old man’s chest, his heart had stopped.

On Sunday morning, Jane went to Mass as usual. She still ached all over and her head felt woozy, but she was determined to get back to normal as quickly as possible. After Mass was over and she’d managed to extract herself from the congregation, who were fussing and exclaiming over her, she went to see Agnes.

She had her own key to the cell, and after knocking, she let herself in. Agnes was up and dressed, her hair knotted neatly at the back of her head, and she’d washed her face and hands from the clean water in the pail by her bed. She beamed with pleasure when Jane went in.

‘I’m so glad you’re better, my dear. Brother Benedict, what a nice young man he is, told me about your accident. You really shouldn’t go climbing around in these old buildings, they’re very unstable.’

‘I’ll live. I’m just a bit stiff. But some of that oil of peppermint which you gave me to rub on my father’s legs will soon loosen me up. Are you being well looked after?’

‘Couldn’t be better. Brother Benedict’s been very kind. But I’d like to go home now, if you please. I ought to be out in the garden gathering up the herbs for next winter; this is the best time to pick them, as you know. And I must see to Ambrose.’

Jane’s heart sank. Agnes was still confused. Would her brain ever function normally? She knew that deep shock could wipe out the recent past. Of course, Agnes couldn’t go home; not yet, not until she was ready to face up to reality. And not until they’d caught Ultor.

‘You see, Jane,’ Agnes went on, ‘I don’t know if anyone has been feeding Ambrose properly. You’ve been laid up, and I can hardly ask Brother Benedict to feed a cat. Ambrose does so enjoy a good dinner, although no real harm can come to him as he’s a good mouse-catcher. But he’ll miss not coming up on my bed in the mornings, and he does so like taking a little nap on my lap before he goes out at night. It’s nice of you to give me this holiday, but it’s really time I went home.’

Jane stood the basket she was carrying on the table, and lifted the cloth which covered it. The smell of chicken and fresh bread and new cheese filled the room and Agnes exclaimed with pleasure. Jane took out an earthenware jug and poured out a beaker of milk, which she handed to Agnes.

‘Don’t talk about going home yet, Agnes. I’ll see to Ambrose and make sure he’s all right. Now come and eat some dinner and tell me something about yourself. We’ve not had a talk for ages, have we?’

‘I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such treatment,’ Agnes said, as she accepted a plateful of food. ‘I’ve had such a wonderful rest here. Listen, you can hear the monks chanting. I watched them say Mass this morning and I hear them chanting the night offices. It’s very soothing. I know most of the monks, you know. They used to come and visit me at Thyme Cottage and ask for advice when they had to treat difficult cases. I wish I could understand Latin so that I could follow the words of the singing.’

‘Then you might find this useful,’ said Jane, taking out a small leather-bound book from her pocket. It was a small, beautifully made Book of Hours, illustrated with some very fine hand-painted pictures. ‘My father gave me this on my sixteenth birthday. He bought it from a London bookseller and it’s got all the monks’ services in it, and some prayers and readings from the Bible.’

Agnes took the book and began to turn the pages. ‘What a treasure! I shall so much enjoy reading it and studying the pictures. I shall keep it safe until I go home. Thank you, my dear.’

‘You said you know most of the monks,’ said Jane conversationally as Agnes put the book under her pillow. ‘Which ones come to you frequently?’

‘Oh Father Hubert, of course. He always calls on me when he goes up to the woods to collect sorrel. He exchanges some of the sorrel for my parsley, which grows very easily in my garden but the monks for some reason or other find it difficult to cultivate. He often wants some of my foxglove tincture. It’s marvellous for the treatment of elderly hearts. There is an old man in the infirmary who was kept going for a long time with a daily dose of foxglove.’

‘Is he a frequent visitor?’

‘Oh yes. He’s getting on a bit, you see, not strong, and sometimes the walk up into the woods is more than he can cope with without a rest. He’s a nice man, very gentle. I like talking to him. Ambrose loves him.’

This wasn’t the image of a ruthless killer, thought Jane, as she arranged the rest of the food on one of the plates and put it on the table for Agnes’s next meal. ‘Do many people come from the village to see you?’ she asked.

‘Oh occasionally, when they wanted my services. Abigail Butcher came to see me when she was worried about the baby she was carrying. Poor little thing. I knew it wasn’t right when I felt him in her womb. But God wanted him for Himself. Then old Tomkins came to see me when his face was covered with that rash. The Prior often sent down for something when his stomach was troubling him. Sometimes the Bishop would send one of his servants to buy one of my special potions. And Brother Martin came for the opiate. Brother Michael used to send him when he was too busy to come himself.’

‘What would he want with an opiate?’

‘It’s the greatest medicine of all. Everyone wants my opiate; but it’s very precious and I can’t let just everyone have it. You see it eases the pain of the dying, and brings relief to the living. The monks use it in their infirmary, but they run out from time to time, and I always let them have some of mine. I keep it at the back of the shed, as you know, in some pottery jars with good stoppers set in wax. The monks always returned the jars and paid me for the opiate. It’s very expensive as you know.’

‘Does he come to see you very often?’

‘Oh no, my dear. Once or twice a year, when my stocks run low and I have to send a message to him by the carrier.’

Then Jane remembered. There was no sign of the jars when she went down to Agnes’s last Sunday, with Nicholas, to see what damage the fire had done. So someone had stolen them, but before, or after the fire?

Agnes had finished her meal, washed her fingers in the bowl of water and leaned back on her bed.

‘It’s strange,’ she said. ‘I feel quite tired. Perhaps I should stay here after all. Everything suddenly goes blurred, as if my brain was clouded over with fog. I think I’ll take a nap. You will look after Ambrose, won’t you?’

‘Of course I will. Don’t worry about anything.’

Jane covered her over with the rug and left her in peace. The monks had stopped chanting. They, too, were eating their midday meal. It was time to see to her father’s meal, too. She wanted to see Nicholas. But how was she to get there? She wasn’t yet ready to ride Melissa. Suddenly, she felt weary, and it was as much as she could do to walk back to her father’s house.

* * *

Late on Sunday evening, as the shadows lengthened, and the colony of rooks in the old elm trees which marked the boundary of the graveyard, began to settle down for the night, Edgar Pierrepoint, Churchwarden of the parish of Dean Peverell, made his rounds before saying goodnight to the Vicar and making sure that the church was locked up. It was what he did every Sunday evening, and sometimes the Vicar would produce a jug of ale, and they’d talk over the week’s events, and count up the Mass pence.