Belladonna at Belstone

by Michael Jecks

  “So my friend was out there looking upwards?” Simon asked.

  “Yes, but then he turned away, and rubbed at his eye, and a moment later the slate struck him. Then there was an awful crash, and the next thing I knew, something was rolling down the roof above me, and fell almost on top of Sir Baldwin.”

  “How do I get to the roof?”

  There was a stone staircase inside the church. Soon Simon was hurrying along the cloister towards it.

  When he was gone, Paul turned to Bertrand. “My Lord, may I speak to you a moment?”

  It was very windy on the roof and Simon had to take a good breath before he dared approach the edge. He was afraid of heights. Looking down, he found himself staring at the upturned face of Bertrand, who remained standing in the quadrangle with Paul.

  To take his mind off the suffragan, Simon peered straight down on to the roof of the cloister. Some twenty yards farther along, he could see the point where the novice’s body had struck it. Not only was there a roughly circular pattern of dark, wrecked slates showing through the snow, which corresponded to the place where she had apparently fallen, there was a broad red stain. He’d heard Katerine had broken her neck. Hitting headfirst, she must have wrecked her skull.

  Simon was aware of an overwhelming sense of inadequacy. Usually he could rely on his native intelligence to solve local mysteries, but today, with his best friend unconscious and unable to aid him, he felt all at sea.

  From the corner of his eye he saw movement, and when he glanced down he saw the suffragan walking with Paul towards the stables. The sight of the two men drew Simon’s attention back to the present, and he found he could concentrate once more.

  Very well, the girl had fallen from the church roof. Either she had slipped - in which case what was she doing here? - or perhaps she had jumped and it was pure mischance that she happened to land on Baldwin, dislodging a slate on the way…

  Simon caught his breath. The canon had said that he saw Baldwin look up, saw him turn away, saw the slate strike, and then heard the girl hit the roof.

  His confidence returned. He marched along the roof until he was in a line with the mark on the grass and the ruined slates on the roof. Here it was maybe fifteen or twenty feet to the cloister roof, Simon guessed. A light dusting of snow clung to the vertical stonework of the church. A line showed where the snow had been swept clear as the girl fell down the wall. Simon had a vision of her toppling headfirst, her skull grating down the stone and losing the flesh.

  Struck by vertigo, Simon had to close his eyes and lean away from the terrible drop. Rather than gaze down, he decided to survey the roof.

  There was no lead here. The convent had not enough money to fully waterproof the place; only the greater houses could afford that sort of luxury. Instead, like the cloister roof below, this one was slated. Each slate had a pair of holes drilled through it so that oak pegs could be thrust through, hooking the tile to the lathes beneath. There were no slates missing nearby, but Simon had hardly expected to see any gone. If someone had done as Simon suspected and thrown one at Baldwin, it would have been an act of extreme stupidity to pull one from the roof. That would prove ill-intent.

  However there was a pile of unfitted slates near the low parapet, as if the builders had left them for use as spares as and when needed, or perhaps the canons thought this was the best place to leave them, rather than taking up storage space in the undercrofts.

  When Simon examined them, he was struck by their new appearance. All looked unused. Even the top one was perfectly cut, its surface a smooth blue-black colour.

  Simon turned slowly back from the pile and stared down at the roof at his feet. The girl had obviously been up here a while, for the snow had been swept clear of much of the area, and where she had clambered over the parapet she had cleared a small space of snow.

  He froze; utterly immobile for a moment, he held his breath. It was so obvious, so clear that someone had tried to murder Baldwin that Simon was unable to turn and confirm the proof for a moment, fearing to find his recollection was wrong.

  Slowly he swivelled around and walked the two steps back to the pile of new slates.

  The slates which had no snow upon them.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Constance returned to the infirmary and found Joan sitting before the fire. Pouring her a cup of spiced wine, Constance stood back to watch the older woman drink. It was peaceful now that Cecily was asleep again, this time drunk on wine rather than dwale and poppy seed, and Joan was clearly enjoying the quiet.

  There was no such peace for Constance. She was confused, anxious and scared. It was while she was still talking to the prioress that the message had arrived that poor Katerine was dead, fallen from the roof, almost braining Sir Baldwin en route.

  Everyone had heard stories of nuns who lost their faith and believed that they had the right to end their lives, denying God’s own supreme responsibility for choosing how and when to call His people to Himself, but Constance would never have believed that of Katerine. Especially since she had always appeared so full of life. She was the last person to look for death. Constance privately thought the girl must have slipped - but that begged the question of what Katerine was doing on the roof in the first place. Spying on the canons?

  It was a thought. The girl was always happy to use information to her own advantage, as Constance knew only too well, although what she could have hoped to have seen up on the roof was a puzzle.

  Constance left the jug by the fire and walked back to the little chamber, standing in the doorway and staring about her.

  Only a few nights ago, when Moll died, she had told Elias of their joint parenthood, while they lay naked in each other’s arms on her mattress. At first he had not wanted to believe it, his face registering shock, but that was only for a moment. Then his expression changed. His eyes had creased, his mouth broke into a wide smile and he had pulled her towards him, embracing her fervently.

  It was his idea to leave the convent. How could they stay? he had demanded, his strong, muscled arms wrapped about her, talking softly into the side of her neck while she stared up at the ceiling, tears filling her eyes.

  He still wanted her to go with him, she knew; he would be waiting for her down at the iron grille that separated the nunnery from the canons. Waiting for her answer.

  And she would have gone, if Katerine hadn’t accosted her. That had forced her to decide: Elias or the convent. At least the prioress had been kind; understanding. There were rumours that she herself had once fallen in love, and had only come to this convent after being thrown from another in disgrace. Perhaps that was why she was less harsh with her nuns and novices: because she knew what it was to hold a man in her arms, to feel doubt and dual loyalties, one to God, and the other to a man.

  Constance stared at her belly with near revulsion. It had never occurred to her that she could come to this. Elias had been a flirtation, an amusement snatched between services and the routines of claustral life. She had enjoyed flirting so much that one day she had shamefully passed near the grille, and when he made to catch at her robe, she made a show of sweeping it away, casually allowing her hand to pass so close to his that he could hardly help but catch it.

  As soon as his fingers gripped hers, she felt the blood stop in her veins. She was frozen in time; her eyes transfixed by his powerful fingers; scarred, grime-ingrained fingers they were, but to her they were beautiful. She imagined how they would feel upon her body, scratching slightly as the nicks and calluses scraped over her. She pulled away, scared of her own emotions, and for the rest of that day she had lived in a dream, a wonderful dream in which Elias held her hand and smiled at her.

  It had not been easy for him to get to her room. She had tutored him carefully, and had given her patients dwale to ensure their silence. The only risk had been that he might be seen entering the dorter, and then, once inside, that Princess might hear him. The little dog barked whenever she heard a man in the nuns’ area. It was becaus
e of her that Constance had given Elias a bottle of poppy syrup. Princess often went to the men’s cloister, and there would steal any food available. Elias lured her into eating marrow bones, and fed her small pieces of bread soaked in poppy syrup.

  Each time Elias had gone to see Constance the dog had been unconscious. In fact, the poppy juice worked so well that when Elias proposed that they should leave together, Constance hadn’t quibbled when he asked for a larger bottle, this time to ensure that the gatehouse was still as they passed through; they wouldn’t have to concern themselves with over-inquisitive gatekeepers.

  But now Constance couldn’t leave. Partly it was the talk she had had with Lady Elizabeth. The prioress made her feel she was wanted. Oh, she’d made it clear enough that Constance would be committing a sin by leaving, but Constance believed that conceiving her child already put her beyond the pale. No, it was Elizabeth’s understanding that had struck Constance. She truly appeared to understand Constance’s confusion and fear.

  There was another reason why she wasn’t sure about running away. She thought Elias might be the murderer.

  Simon took a pace back from the parapet. It was a hideous drop, made still more repulsive by that revolting smear. Now he knew what he was looking for, he could see the traces of red on the wall itself. Not on the roof below - that puddle was perfectly clear. No, now he could see the vertical path cleared in the snow was not merely an area remarkable by the absence of snow, but also by a smear of red.

  He was as sure as he could be that Katerine had been murdered: these traces of her blood up on the roof of St Mary’s meant that she had already been hurt before falling. Simon felt his stomach churn but not now with squeamishness. A hot, focused rage was guiding him - a rage composed of the desire for vengeance on whoever had tried to assassinate his closest friend, plus requital for the slaughter of two young women.

  It was not that the two were novices, but rather that they were girls just like his own daughter Edith and the thought that someone had taken it into his or her head to kill them was so atrocious that Simon was determined to repay the debt on behalf of the two victims.

  How could he prove Katerine had been murdered? Obviously if someone had heaved her over the parapet, either they had carried the dead girl up here or they had attacked her when she was already here - but if she had been conscious she would have screamed as she was pushed.

  Simon was no expert, but he would have thought that carrying a girl up so many stairs would be difficult. He crouched by the door in the tower to see if there was blood on the top stairs -either drips from a bleeding wound, or smear-marks on the circular tower walls from a wounded body touching its surface as it was carried up over someone’s shoulder. There was nothing in the area around the door.

  He turned his attention elsewhere. The church had one shallowly pitched roof, and from the door he could see that the peak was only a short climb. Swallowing his desire to return to solid, safe ground, he gingerly stepped up and peered over the other side. There was nothing lying around that looked as though it might have been used to kill, nothing lying in plain view. Gloomily, Simon returned to the door. He had to accept that he had failed. There was no sign of someone having been attacked, and no sign of blood on the stairs.

  Walking through to the top of the stairs, he turned to pull the tower door shut behind him when he noticed the smear on the door itself, and if the sight hadn’t been so sombre and doleful, he would have given a whoop of joy.

  Hugh sucked, but no matter what he did the small sliver of meat wouldn’t budge from between his teeth. He looked around to make sure no one was watching and drew his knife. Lips pursed in a low, innocent whistle, he dragged the blade along the edge of the table to peel a long, thin splinter from it. It was the perfect size.

  Sir Baldwin lay still. Godfrey had bustled about collecting a bowl and knife, and asked Hugh whether he would help bleed the knight, but Hugh refused to let him go near Baldwin with a blade until the bailiff returned and gave his permission. It wasn’t that Hugh had any objection to bleeding: he was bled at least twice a year, because everyone knew it was the best way to cleanse the blood of impurities, but Hugh wasn’t taking responsibility for Sir Baldwin’s health - especially with the man whom Hugh suspected could have had a part in the first novice’s death, and especially since Hugh couldn’t know whether Godfrey could have his own reasons for killing, say, an over-inquisitive Keeper of the King’s Peace.

  In the end the canon had huffily stalked out; Hugh knew he had offended the man, but he wasn’t sorry to be left alone with his thoughts, and he would not apologise for taking a sensible precaution, either. At least Sir Baldwin’s long slash had been seen to, and the wound had been left open so that any corrupt matter within it wouldn’t be forced inwards to poison the body. Even Hugh, who had never had any training in medicine, knew that. Godfrey had bound Baldwin’s head with a long bandage which covered a thick poultice - designed to cultivate the pus which would hopefully cleanse the wound.

  Baldwin was very pale, and with his dark beard, the contrast to his marble-white features was still more striking. His breath was shallow, as if he was in a deep sleep, but there was a rasping quality to it, as if he was in pain as well.

  Hugh hitched up his tunic and rested his backside on the table at Baldwin’s side, eyeing the knight contemplatively while he picked his teeth.

  “Is he very bad?”

  Leaping from the table, Hugh turned to find himself being studied by a short woman with shrewd green eyes set in a plain round face. Her skin had a thin, parchment-like look to it, but that was common with slightly older women, as Hugh knew. At least her wrinkled face was kindly. “No. I mean, well, I don’t know.”

  Her eyes creased in amusement as she walked past him. “Let me take a look. This man is a knight, I hear?”

  “Yes… um…‘

  “You may call me Lady Elizabeth, young fellow. Are you trained in leechcraft?”

  When he shook his head, she glanced back down at Baldwin. “Where is Godfrey?”

  “He asked me if he could open the knight’s arm, and I said ”No“. Since then, I don’t know where he’s gone.”

  “God rot his teeth! The damned fool; getting petulant because he’s not allowed to practise his blasted surgery, I suppose,” Lady Elizabeth spat, making Hugh’s eyes widen to circles. “Right, young man, I suppose we’d better get this knight of yours to a place where he can be properly nursed - and that in safety.”

  The staircase from the roof took Simon back to the nave of the canons’ cloister, and all the way down, he kept his eyes fixed upon the steps and the wall, seeking any other smudges of blood. At several points he found them, and with each his conviction grew.

  It was apparent that the girl had been struck and carried up the stairs. The blow had crushed her skull. Perhaps to prevent drips, a cloth had been wrapped around her head, but the blood had seeped into it, and where it touched the wall, it had smeared. That fact convinced Simon that the girl was probably already dead. If she had been hit so hard that she bled that heavily, there was little chance of her being alive. Someone had killed her, then taken her upstairs to throw her from the roof.

  Standing near the altar, Simon glanced at the door communicating with the nuns’ cloister. She must have come from there; she could have been discovered in the canons’ area and murdered there, but Simon doubted it. He also thought she was not likely to have been carried into the church. Surely someone would have seen that. No, more likely that she had walked in and was knocked down inside. A blasphemy in its own right.

  On a sudden impulse, he went to the door and entered. There was little to distinguish the nuns’ side from the men’s side. The choir stalls were much the same, as was the altar. There were no stains on the clean floor. At the back of the room Simon saw Denise’s aumbry and opened it. Inside was a mess of brushes, rags and waxes.

  Plainly the sacrist would have known where to find a cloth. And she’d have known how to clean blood fr
om the floor of the church, too.

  Safely back on terra firma, Simon saw Lady Elizabeth at the door to the frater. He knew instinctively who she was. The prioress had an aura of confidence about her, like many a great lady, and she also gave the impression of power. She nodded to him, and Simon recognised in that short beckoning movement the authority of one used to command.

  “You are the bailiff brought here by that infernal fool Bertrand?” she asked calmly. “Your friend is going to make a perfectly good recovery - so long as his jaw doesn’t lock up, anyway. You never can tell with these things. But I do not think it is sensible to leave him in the frater. He will cause too much chatter in there. The church would be a good place to put him, but too cold; the calefactory would be warm, but too noisy. I think the best thing to do is remove him to the infirmary‘

  “Here in the canons’ cloister?” Simon asked, and when she agreed, he shook his head. “I cannot agree. In my view Godfrey has to be a suspect in the murder of the first novice, and I have no idea whether he could have been involved in the second as well.“