Cathedral of Bones

by J G Lewis

  “Me?” He took a step backward. “Why would I kill my own wife? Do you think I want to prepare my own meals and sweep out my own hearth? Do you think I want to take all these cows to the dairy in the dark every morning? Do you?” Anger rang in his voice.

  “If she made you a cuckold, you might do it in anger.” Ela found herself growing uncomfortable at the distasteful scenario unraveling in her brain. She told herself to buck up. For all her sheltered life of privilege and luxury she’d had an earful of scandal and debauchery. She just wasn’t used to hearing of it among the common folk.

  “I didn’t kill my wife. I suspected her of sneaking out on me. Like I said, when she took off, I weren’t surprised. But I didn’t kill her.”

  Beads of sweat shone on his forehead despite the cold morning air. Evidence of guilt or just of shock?

  “You don’t seem too distressed to hear of her death.” Ela recoiled from the coldness in her own voice. She was starting to realize that the role of sheriff was inimical to the warmth and compassion expected of a woman and a mother.

  “I am. Truly I am.” He was starting to stammer. “I’m clobbered by it, to be honest. I were angry at her, very angry, but I never wished her dead.” He scrunched up his crude features. “She’s really dead?”

  “For some weeks now.” Ela modulated her voice. “We’re preparing to bury her. Did you have a particular plot in mind?”

  He blinked, clearly confused. “Well, my mother and father are buried in the churchyard at St. Peters. I always figured she and I would end up there as well.”

  Ela hesitated. Should she offer to bring the body here, as tradition would dictate, or would she be delivering the poor girl’s corpse into the hands of her murderer? Alan Morse clearly didn’t love her, one way or the other.

  “I’ve made arrangements for her to be buried in the cathedral grounds in Salisbury, if that suits you better.”

  “The cathedral grounds…” He looked perplexed. “The new cathedral?”

  “I spoke to the bishop, and he agreed to find space.”

  “I’m not a rich man, my lady.”

  Ela wondered if he would even pay for his cheating wife to have a decent burial. Maybe he’d get final revenge by tipping her back into the Avon or digging a shallow grave in his hayfield.

  If Katherine Morse even was an adulteress. They had nothing but his word to go on.

  “I’ve made arrangements for payment. If you’re satisfied with the cathedral, then she shall be buried there.”

  “Yes, my lady. Thank you for your kindness.”

  Ela had preferred to say goodbye to seven pounds and sleep quietly in her bed knowing that the poor girl’s body and soul could rest in the sanctity of hallowed ground. But that was before Katherine Morse was accused of adultery. Though Bishop Poore might refuse the body outright if she were found to have broken her marriage vows.

  Ela shifted in her saddle, which now felt rock-hard. She’d come here expecting to take him into custody and have the leisure of questioning him at length back at the castle, but suddenly she found herself doubting everything she’d assumed.

  She could hardly arrest Alan Morse now without investigating whether his claims were true. Was he truly unable to get his wife pregnant? And if Katherine Morse had lain with another man, who was her lover?

  A light drizzle accompanied her grim realization that they would have to visit the neighbors, one by one, and seek the truth—while considering each one of them a potential suspect.

  “Do any of you have questions for Master Morse?” She turned to Haughton and the jurors.

  “How did your brother die?” asked Haughton, pinning Morse with a hard stare.

  “Broke his insides falling off the roof,” said Morse, without a hitch. “That were nigh on thirty year ago now. What does that have to do with my Katie?”

  “Likely nothing.” Haughton rode forward a couple of steps. “Did you ever beat your wife?”

  Morse shrugged. “No more than any man.”

  Ela shivered under her cloak. Her William would never lay a hand on a woman. She couldn’t even remember him uttering a scolding word. Fresh sadness roamed through her and made her hate this brute for being alive when her beloved husband was dead.

  But was he a murderer?

  “You are not to leave Wiltshire,” she commanded. “Until this crime is fully investigated.”

  “How do you know she didn’t fall in the river and drown?” asked Morse, clearly growing cockier about his own appearance of innocence.

  “Because she was dead when she fell in the river,” retorted Haughton. “So someone killed her and dumped her.”

  Morse stood there, impassive as a graven image.

  Her guards looked as restless as their horses. They’d come here expecting to make an arrest and transport a prisoner back to the castle. She could arrest him, but that presented the problem of what to do with his herd. His precious cows made flight unlikely, and in the meantime he might incriminate himself in some way. It was prudent to wait.

  “We’ll return and you shall hear any news.” She gathered her reins. “God go with you.”

  “And with you, my lady,” he murmured, his face dark and his brow furrowed.

  “Follow me.” She commanded the men. She didn’t want any discussion until they were out of earshot. Since Morse was still a key suspect she didn’t want to inadvertently help him to point the finger of guilt at someone else.

  Instead of heading back the way they’d come, Ela led them on the well-trodden track to the dairy where Morse drove his cows every morning and evening for milking. It was only a short walk away, around a bend in the road, shaded by a cluster of great oaks. A broad stone barn with a thatched roof had a wide doorway that admitted cows to the milking parlor.

  Two young girls came out of the doorway as they approached. Their wide eyes suggested that they were not used to the sight of an armed party of officials in their dooryard.

  “Good morning.” Ela addressed them from horseback. “I am Ela of Salisbury. Are you milkmaids here?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The shorter one spoke up. She wore no veil, just a barbette and plain fillet, and her curly dark hair escaped from a bun at the nape of her neck. “I’m Annie Stokes and this is Mary Woods.”

  “Do you live here?”

  “Yes, ma’am. In in the loft above the milking stalls.” She gestured behind them. This must be where Katie had lived before she married Morse. A stench of dung and sour milk filled her nose even though no cows were visible right now. She couldn’t imagine this was a pleasant place to sleep.

  “Does Alan Morse bring his cows here for milking?”

  “Aye, morn and night, and our master takes the milk into town to sell and turns some into cheese and butter.”

  “Do you know his wife, Katherine?”

  “Oh aye. Katie used to bring the cows every morning and evening until a few weeks ago.”

  “Do you know why she stopped coming?” She was curious to hear the excuse Alan had made for her absence.

  “Sick, I think. At least that’s what he said at first. Not a talker, Alan Morse.” Her forehead crinkled with concern. “She’s not dead is she?”

  Ela hesitated. These could be dear friends of Katie’s who she’d known for years. “I’m afraid she is, may God rest her soul. We’re investigating her murder.”

  “Murder?” The other girl squealed. Red-gold wisps of hair framed her freckled face below her crudely knotted veil. “Katie?”

  “I’m afraid so. Her body was found in the Avon, and there were signs that a crime was committed against her.”

  Both girls had a look of panic on their faces. Did they know something? “Do you have any idea why someone would want to kill Katie?”

  They glanced at each other, then back at Ela. They did know something.

  “Girls, you must speak up if you know the truth,” called out Haughton imperiously. “Concealing a crime is against the law.”

  Ela bristled. Browbea
ting and threatening these girls was no way to get answers. “Were you aware that Katie was pregnant?”

  “Of course, how could you not be? She was getting so big.” The first girl’s face fell. “Oh, that poor baby.”

  “Yes, two lives were lost. We need your help to bring their killer to justice.” She looked from one to the other.

  Mary, the redhead, licked her lips like she wanted to say something. Annie glanced at her. What did they know? Pushing them too hard could scare them into silence.

  “Were you friends with Katie before she married?” They might have all lived together up in the loft and shared confidences.

  Annie shook her head. “I’ve only worked here a year, since Lucy Hardy left to marry. And Mary’s here less than six months.”

  “But you talked to Katie?”

  “About day-to-day things,” said Mary. “The weather, if one of the cows were out of sorts. Nothing—personal.”

  Annie frowned. “But I did hear some gossip.” She paused and looked past Ela.

  Ela resisted the urge to turn around and look behind her. “Gossip about what?”

  Annie glanced at the phalanx of males surrounding them, and Ela prayed they’d stay quiet and let her speak. “About Katie and her husband. That they couldn’t have children because he has something wrong with his…his…giblets. So people did talk when they saw she were with child.”

  “Who did you hear that from? The neighbors?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. We get customers coming from all over the valley to buy butter and cheese. Sometimes we go to market to tend the stall if the master has business in town. We talk to a lot of folk.”

  “And did any of the gossip tell you who the father of Katie’s baby might be?”

  They looked at each other, then spoke in unison. “No.”

  She wasn’t sure whether to believe them. “Who’s your master?”

  “Philip Nance.”

  Ela dimly recognized the name. He was a yeoman farmer who’d made a good living from his dairy these past few years and was on the list of local men who could be called as jurors. Was he a candidate as Katie’s lover? He had the advantage of proximity. She didn’t want to come right out and ask, though. It would sound too much like an accusation.

  “Is Master Nance a good man to work for?”

  “He’s not too bad,” said Annie. “I wouldn’t complain if he paid more or if we had beds inside the house. Or if we had more wood for our fire since we don’t have time during the day to gather any. But he pays on time and doesn’t interfere with us.” She said the last part as if she knew exactly what Ela was really asking.

  Ela nodded, grateful for her understanding. “A good master is a blessing.” No doubt these hardworking girls had reason to be here instead of home with their families. She prayed that they’d find good husbands and become mistress of their own homes in due time. A poor girl with no dowry might face a lifetime of loneliness and unrelenting labor. Once again, she counted her own blessings, even in her sorrow.

  But she was no closer to knowing who’d murdered Katie. Or fathered her baby. She wanted to ask if they knew more about Katie’s relationship with her husband, but, since they hadn’t volunteered any information beyond his impotence, that would be tantamount to starting gossip. “Who else lives in this neighborhood?”

  Annie looked at Mary, who spoke up. “Widow Nettles, down the lane there.” She pointed to a knot of woods. “She won’t know anything. Rarely leaves her house, she’s that old. We bring her leftover whey and sticks for her fire.”

  “Good for you. It’s important to help neighbors in need.” She resolved to visit the old lady to see if she was in need of alms, but not today. This morning she needed to stay focused on the investigation. “Who else?”

  “Pat Lesser owns the next farm over. He has twelve milk cows. He has a wife, Ada, and four children. On the other side of the road is Richard Dawson. His wife died two years ago, leaving him with two children, a girl of nine and a boy a little older.”

  All of these people were close enough to have had regular contact with Katie. Especially if they all brought their cows to the dairy morning and evening.

  Mary and Annie rattled off a few more neighbors, families, widows and widowers, and Ela tried to store the information in her mind. Hopefully, those with her were doing the same, as it was a lot to recall. “You’ve been very helpful.” She wanted to reach into her purse and give each girl some coin but worried that might appear inappropriate, as if she was paying them to say something—or not say something. “If you learn more information please come to me at the castle or send word.”

  They agreed. Ela led her group out of the farmyard and back onto the road. Once they were out of earshot of the farm she turned to the men. “Let’s visit Richard Dawson, the widower. A man alone might get lonely and be tempted by a young woman living nearby.”

  Of course, he was unlikely to come right out and admit it. She’d have to go on his facial expression or movements to determine his likely guilt or innocence.

  Chapter 6

  The drizzle had intensified to a persistent rain, and Ela felt her fur-lined cloak grow heavier by the minute. The road was already deep mud from so much bovine traffic to and from the dairy, and their horses could barely walk, let alone trot.

  For a moment Ela wished she was home in front of her fire with some embroidery in her hands and her children buzzing around her, not out here getting chilled and drenched on a potentially futile quest for justice.

  Possibly the men wished the same.

  As they rode along the narrow road between high hedgerows, Ela turned to Haughton and the jurors. “Your thoughts so far?”

  “I think those dairymaids know more than they’re letting on,” said Peter Howard, the baker. “They’re in a position to know a lot of people’s business.”

  Ela nodded. “Possibly, but they didn’t give the impression of being guilty or concealing something important. I want them to be our allies, so I didn’t like to accuse them of hiding information. They might hear something over the next week or two as word of the girl’s death spreads. We’ll visit them again.”

  “Her husband seemed a nasty piece of work,” said young Hugh Clifford. “I bet he was on the side of the upstart barons. Probably do anything for a piece of gold.”

  Ela kept her expression neutral. “He certainly doesn’t seem a loving husband and I still consider him a key suspect. But we need to learn more before we accuse him. If he is the killer, it would be frustrating to find ourselves without enough evidence to convict him.”

  “Agreed.” Haughton turned up his collar and pulled down his hat against the rain. “In a murder trial we need to find evidence strong enough to convince the traveling justice at the assizes. I’ve seen more than one guilty man slip the noose because he was able to sweet-talk his way into the justice’s favor.”

  Ela had as well. A smooth tongue and a fat purse could buy freedom. One of the many reasons she would need to content herself with finding justice for others instead of pointing the finger at her husband’s killer. At least for now.

  Dawson’s cottage was newish and in good repair, in stark contrast to Morse’s. A few scrawny chickens pecked at the bare ground outside. One of the guards called from outside to announce their arrival, and a grubby boy with a runny nose answered the door. He stared at the armored guards on their steaming horses and was stunned into openmouthed silence.

  “Is your father home?” called Ela. Through the half-open door she could see that the inside of the cottage was dark and not recently swept.

  “He went to town to sell a cow.”

  A little girl with tangled blonde hair appeared beside him. The sight of the guards frightened her and she shrank back inside, tugging on the boy’s ragged tunic.

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?” Ela tried to speak softly, despite having to call through the rain.

  “By sunset, he said.”

  There were numerous villages wi
thin a half day’s walk so he could be anywhere. They’d have to come back or summon him to the castle and issuing a verbal summons would only scare or confuse his children, who might not even pass on the message.

  “Who are you?” The boy asked, curiosity overcoming his anxiety.

  “I’m Ela of Salisbury,” she said gently, as if talking to one of her own children. “And these men are here with me to keep all of Salisbury and the surrounding lands safe from harm.”

  “Oh.” His nose ran faster than ever. “What harm?”

  She wanted to laugh at herself for putting it so obscurely. Of course he was curious. “Any and all harm, but there’s nothing threatening at present so don’t you worry. Take good care of your sister and mind your father.” She smiled at them, hoping this visit wouldn’t leave them terrified of unseen evils stalking their fields and woods.

  And there were evils. A young woman and her baby lay dead and their killer roamed at large.

  The boy closed the door, and they headed back to the deep mire of the road.

  “This rain is something, ain’t it?” asked Peter Howard. Ela glanced at him. He wasn’t a young man, and perhaps he was feeling the cold and damp in his bones.

  “Let’s head back,” she declared. “There’s no sense us all catching a chill. This is not such a long ride and we know the way now. We’ve already spoken to Alan Morse and resolved the question of where his wife will be buried, and that was the most pressing matter.” She needed to get the poor girl’s moldering body safely in the ground.

  Howard looked relieved. They turned their horses around and headed back up the lane toward the path across the fields. Clouds hung low over the hilltops, making stark silhouettes of the leafless trees.

  My dear William is dead. The thought crashed into her mind like thunder. Gone forever. He’d never again hold her close just before sleep. He’d never make her laugh in the midst of her anger. He’d never give her that cocky look that said, “I know, but you love me anyway.”

  Grief rolled over her in a ragged wave just as Freya stumbled in a rut. She caught herself before she could slip out of the saddle, and Freya righted herself. Stay focused. Don’t let yourself wallow in grief.