Those Who Go by Night

by Andrew Gaddes

  By now, Agnes was gaping in open-mouthed horror.

  “But not I,” continued Justus. “No, you and I shall be great friends, and I believe I can protect you from such dangerous accusations. Would you like that?”

  She barely managed a nod.

  “Then the first thing I shall do is see you properly wed. You are still attractive, dear, and you have such lovely hair.”

  Justus reached forward and played his fingers through the loose locks spilling out of her cap.

  Actually, on closer inspection, the Dominican thought Agnes rather plain after all. Her face was far too broad, her nose a little too long, and her eyes a little too close together so that she seemed to wear a permanent squint. All of her features were at odds. There was no true harmony to her face at all, and a complete want of grace in her manner. Uncouth was the word that most sprung to mind. Drab was another. Justus had also noticed that his fingers caught repeatedly in knotted clumps of what turned out to be straggly and greasy hair. He felt the sudden need to gag and had to resist the urge to shrink away from her and wipe his hands on his habit.

  “Did you know that Agnes is an old Greek name meaning ‘chaste’?” he asked, not waiting for a response. “It would be a great shame for you to sully your grandmother’s lovely name by strutting wantonly about the village, tempting other women’s husbands. That would be most unseemly and would raise all sorts of unfortunate questions. Surely you do not want that, do you?”

  A vigorous shake of the head this time, accompanied by the most charming trembling of her lower lip and a fat tear that trickled slowly down her left cheek.

  “Excellent! Then the next time I speak with you, I hope to be congratulating you on your upcoming nuptials. We shall have you wedded, bedded, and your belly filled with a child in no time.”

  Justus settled back into his seat, for once rather enjoying the plump cushions and noting with satisfaction that Agnes was no longer sitting quite so erect.

  “Where were we? Ah yes, you were telling me how, when you found Father Oswin, you thought to yourself that he might have been poisoned. Do you remember that?”

  Agnes swallowed slowly, looked down, and nodded.

  “I need you to say it, dear. Now what was it you thought when you found him?”

  “I … I thought as how he might have been poisoned,” she replied in a hoarse whisper.

  The Dominican’s finger gestured once more to Friar Dominic.

  “And can you describe what you saw?”

  Her brow creased up, and she began a pitiful stammering.

  “Perhaps you would like me to help you remember? To refresh your recollection of the scene, so to speak?”

  “Yes, yes, I would. I should like that very much, sir,” she said, managing to produce a filthy linen rag from her sleeve that she proceeded to dab at her eyes and nose.

  “No doubt you saw his blackened and swollen tongue.”

  “I—yes …”

  “Froth on his lips, perhaps mixed with blood, and vomit on his shirt. No doubt you saw that also.”

  “Yes, I think I did.”

  “And his skin was a most unnatural color, was it not? And his eyes bloodied?”

  “Oh yes, now you mention it, I believe so.”

  “And did you get close enough that you noticed any peculiar smell about him, a strangely sweet or bitter smell?”

  “A … a bitter smell?” It was more of a question than a statement, and Agnes looked up uncertainly for approval

  “Yes, sadly that would make sense. And did you find his face frozen in a rictus of terror as if he had seen the Devil himself?”

  “You describe him exact, sir.”

  Justus smiled indulgently. He doubted Agnes had ever heard the word rictus before. Still, there was no need to quibble over the details. This was all going rather well.

  “And at that moment you felt sure he had been poisoned, didn’t you?”

  “I did. I did!” she exclaimed, at last getting into the spirit of her role.

  Dominic had stopped writing and was looking at her intently. Justus gestured to him irritably, and he began scratching away again. This was good stuff, and it needed to be recorded faithfully. There needed to be a record of what had transpired here, so everyone would know the truth of the matter. And detailed proofs would be required to petition the archbishop and pope for a true inquisition.

  Agnes’s face clouded over as she was struck by an inconvenient thought. “At the time, though, I did not say as much.”

  “Of course not,” Justus declared with a little laugh, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for her to have omitted this small detail. “At the time you surely did not think it your place to make such a claim. You no doubt assumed that some clever physician or cleric would examine the body and reach the same conclusion. How could they not? And far better, you thought, to leave such reasoning and investigation to someone with experience of death and an intimate knowledge of poisons. After all, it would be a terrible accusation for a humble maid to make.”

  Agnes listened intently, nodding along. “Yes, yes, that’s how I felt. Best to say nothing than spread wicked rumors and speak out of turn. Best leave it to those who know what they are about.”

  Justus patted her hand encouragingly, careful to avoid the one in which she clutched the grubby nose wipe.

  “Very good. Now, let us go over your story one more time, to make sure we have it exact. And when we are done, you shall put your mark on a piece of paper for me, and we shall have you on your way to picking out a husband in no time.”

  Justus sighed contentedly, sat back, and wriggled about, getting himself even more comfortable. Young Dominic was staring wide-eyed at him, no doubt completely in awe at the masterful performance. Justus smiled knowingly, resisting the urge to share a conspiratorial wink. What a wonderful opportunity for the young man to see a real inquisitor at work; to learn from the very best. He was fortunate indeed.

  CHAPTER 9

  Brother Eustace was a willowy man of advancing years, all wrinkled skin and protruding bone. When Thomas had first met him, he bore the kind of grave and guarded expression that one might expect of a mortician, but on introduction his long face broke into a warm, welcoming smile more befitting his role as infirmerer of the Benedictine priory, a man of infinite compassion who eased his patients’ suffering as much with his manner as with his tonics and balms.

  He tucked his hands into the sleeves of his habit and listened somberly as Thomas explained the purpose of his visit, nodding every now and then to indicate comprehension, and cocking his head to the side in the way of one slightly hard of hearing.

  “I regret to say I can be of little assistance to you,” he said when Thomas was done, speaking in the constrained and graveled tones of the aged. “If the truth be told, I recall nothing remarkable about Father Oswin’s body. To these old eyes, he bore the appearance of a man whose heart had given out on him.”

  “Did you notice aught strange about his lips or nostrils, a discharge of blood or vomit perhaps, or an unusual smell or markings on his neck that might suggest he clawed at his throat?”

  Eustace raised a single bushy white eyebrow. “You know something of poisons and death, then?”

  “You might say so,” Thomas replied.

  The monk eyed him curiously for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders.

  “If it is signs of poisoning you seek, I am afraid I must again disappoint you. In all honesty, I did not examine him for such things. I knew Oswin to have a weak heart. He regularly came to me for decoctions of motherwort and chamomile to steady his nerves, and he was always afraid to exert himself overly much lest he do serious harm. I spent my time preparing his body for its final rest, rather than seeking to determine a cause of death that I believed I already knew.”

  “I understand, and I was in no way criticizing you,” explained Thomas. “Would it be fair to suggest, however, that if he had been poisoned, you would likely have noticed?”

>   Eustace clasped his hands under his chin and looked upward in thought. “Perhaps, though it is not certain. As you are probably aware, several of the symptoms of poisoning are things one might anyway expect to see when a heart gives way. And, depending on the manner of administration, some poisons can be almost undetectable, especially those intended to induce heart failure.”

  At this point Prior Gilbert swept into the infirmary, all billowing robes and heavy slapping sandals.

  “Thomas, I do apologize for not having been here to greet you,” he said, a little breathless from having rushed to welcome his guests. “I am so glad we finally have the chance to meet in person.”

  He seized Thomas’s hand in both of his and pumped it up and down before turning to the constable, who had been standing quietly, a deferential pace or so behind Thomas, still a little mortified at having blurted out to all and sundry the possibility that Oswin had been poisoned.

  “And I see you brought my good friend John Constable with you. How is Dorothea, John?”

  John knuckled his forehead, offering the prior something that was not quite a bow and not quite a nod, but a little of both. “Oh, she’s right well, Your Eminence. Right well.”

  “Still keeping you on the straight and narrow, I trust,” chortled the prior pleasantly, with a knowing wink.

  John gave an embarrassed laugh. “Oh yes, she does that. And she has some plum jam fresh made that she will be bringing by for you later today. The last of the Lammas plums, she said.”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Prior Gilbert happily, patting his rotund belly. “Now that is good news indeed. Did you hear that, Eustace? Manna from heaven! Have you met John’s wife, Thomas? She is famous in these parts for her jams, you know. A lovely woman, and the prettiest little thing you ever did see.”

  Thomas had indeed met Dotty, as John called her, and he had rarely seen a more unlikely couple. She was as small as her husband was large, and what little there was of her looked to be made up almost entirely of gristle, skin, and bone. How she managed to bear the weight of the big man on top of her, let alone carry three strapping sons, Thomas could not say, but for all that there was no doubt that she ruled the household, constantly clucking and pecking at the four of them like a mother hen. As for her being pretty, the prior was stretching the truth a little there. Yet she was appealing enough in her country kind of way, and her husband and children completely doted on her. It was a happy family.

  “I often wondered why such a charming creature would marry a big, lumbering oaf like this.” The prior rolled his eyes at the constable who, far from taking offense, was positively glowing with pride, a stupid grin plastered across his face. “Why, if I were not a man of the Church, I would have courted her myself and might well have stolen her out from under you, John. Indeed, had I known her, she might well have tempted me away from the cloth altogether, and perhaps I would be the constable and you the prior.”

  John let out a low rumbling laugh, the grin now threatening to split his face.

  “And I assure you I would have been stiff competition, even for a behemoth such as you. And the boys?” inquired Gilbert. “Growing fast, I’ll wager.”

  “Like weeds, Your Eminence. Like weeds.”

  “Well, let us hope they have inherited their mother’s good looks. And her intelligence. And her charm as well, for that matter.” He reached up to clap a meaty paw on the constable’s broad shoulder, all of which produced another rumbling gale of laughter, before turning his attention back to Thomas, a more serious look on his face.

  “I understand Sir Mortimer has asked you to investigate that nasty business at Saint Mary’s, Thomas. Naturally, we are at your service, though I fear that what assistance we can provide will be little enough. And I am sure you understand that we must do all we can to support the investigation of the archbishop’s delegate.”

  The prior’s chubby hands fluttered apologetically in front of him. The message was clear enough. He could not be seen to be favoring Thomas over the Dominican and would prefer if his house were left out of it altogether.

  “Of course, Prior. I am grateful to you for whatever help you can provide.”

  Gilbert gave him a broad, fat-faced smile at having reached what he considered to be a thoroughly satisfactory understanding.

  “Well, I apologize for interrupting. Are you all done here?”

  “Not quite,” replied Thomas.

  The prior’s face fell, and he clung to his smile like a dead man clinging to his last breath of life.

  “I was just about to ask Brother Eustace how he found the condition of Roger Lacy’s body.”

  The infirmerer took up the conversation eagerly, leaving his senior brother looking on awkwardly, wearing a fixed and now entirely inappropriate grin.

  “We have a very different story there. The man had been garroted without a doubt. His larynx was crushed and he had scraped knees, split nails, and claw marks on his neck suggesting he fought hard for his life. Or as hard as might be expected of someone in his fragile condition. The blood had pooled underneath him as he lay on his back across the altar, except where it had crusted around his mouth and the deep scratches on his throat. I would say the murderer was a moderately strong individual who first dragged Lacy across the floor on his knees, flipped him on his stomach and then, with his knee pressed hard into Lacy’s spine, throttled him from behind while he lay helpless. He then laid the body across the altar, as I am sure you have already heard, binding his feet together and throwing out his arms so he formed the shape of a cross.”

  Prior Gilbert had slowly turned ashen as the description progressed, wincing visibly at each new gruesome detail.

  His report complete, Eustace spread his hands wide and shrugged, as if to say, What more is there to know?

  “It is as I had thought,” said Thomas grimly. “I suppose we would need to disinter the body to discover any greater details.”

  The prior’s eyes bulged in disbelief. He shook his head vigorously from side to side, jowls shaking with passion, horrified at what he had just heard.

  “That … simply isn’t possible, Thomas,” he spluttered. “Roger Lacy is well buried now. We saw to it ourselves. I felt it to be our responsibility as he had died in a church over which we have advowson.”

  From this statement, Thomas understood that a local lord, likely Sir Mortimer de Bray himself, had granted the priory the right to recommend a priest to the benefice of Saint Mary’s and to receive a portion of the parish tithes and donations.

  “We laid him to rest in the churchyard with all due reverence. I was a little concerned, what with him being a stranger here, that perhaps he might not have been confessed recently. But he was in church when he died, suggesting he was a pious man. I believed it only just in the circumstances, given what the poor man had suffered, to inter him at Saint Mary’s. It seemed the decent thing to do. We have said several masses for him, and the chaplain from the manor came down to perform the service. He delivered a wonderful homily, you know. Quite inspiring. A remembrance of which any man might be proud.”

  Thomas wondered what the chaplain could have said, given that nobody seemed to know much about poor old Roger Lacy.

  “Did he have any friends or family?”

  Gilbert shook his head, a frown of consternation across his brow. “No, none that we could find. Though we did try,” he added defensively. “It appears he had been living rough for some time. But it was a fine service, nevertheless. A wonderful homily by the chaplain; very moving,” he repeated, as if it somehow lessened the brutal manner in which Lacy had been butchered.

  “I am afraid it would be impossible to disturb the body now, Thomas, completely impossible. The villagers would be mortified. They are all frightened enough as it is, and something like that would only make matters worse.”

  Gilbert shook his head again and folded his arms in his habit, his entire posture making clear there could be no yielding on this matter.

  Thomas was not unsympathetic t
o the prior. He appeared to be a decent man who was genuinely concerned for the moral welfare of the parishioners and who found himself caught in the middle of the rapidly unfolding events. On the one hand, Prior Gilbert did not wish to offend his benefactor, Sir Mortimer de Bray. On the other, he needed to respect the archbishop’s emissary. He could not be seen to be hindering an investigation into suspected heresy, particularly as the sacrilege had occurred in one of the priory’s own churches. And there was a not insignificant risk of some blame or disgrace attaching to the priory itself. The same sort of dilemma had faced many during the Templar trials. Unable to safely pick a side, they had mostly tried to stay out of it, waiting until the storm abated. It was not perhaps the bravest choice, but certainly the safer one.

  In any case, Thomas had only mentioned disinterment in passing as something that would be helpful, not for a minute expecting to disturb Lacy’s grave.

  “I agree, Prior. We cannot disturb the poor man’s rest now. Is there anything more you can tell me about Lacy?”

  “Very little, I am afraid. He had business at the manor—forgive me, at the castle. The locals do like to refer to that noble structure as a castle. It seems to be a matter of some pride to them. Castle they say, so castle it is. And perhaps it once was. Who can say? The Normans threw up so many wooden structures when first they arrived and built some very austere keeps when the land was troubled. Or so I have heard it said.”

  He looked down in contemplation.

  “You were telling me of Roger Lacy?” Thomas urged, concerned the prior was wandering farther and farther from the subject of his inquiry.

  “Oh yes, please forgive me. Local history is a bit of a favorite subject of mine. I never was quite as good a scholar of languages as Eustace here. Nor was I particularly gifted at theology, strangely enough, but history has always fascinated me. I would sit for hours pouring through every history I could find. Livy, Pliny, the works of any Roman or Greek historian.”