Belladonna at Belstone

by Michael Jecks

  The room was open. A sow was snuffling at the thick gouts of clotted blood on the straw of the floor where Agnes had lain. Simon angrily kicked the big animal out. It was incredible that so many deaths could have occurred one after the other. In a town like Crediton there would not have been so many in so short a space. And now Cecily would likely die as well.

  Simon turned to go back to the buttery, when his eye caught a glimpse of something. Crouching, he picked at a thread lying on the ground. It was snapped, but Simon could see that each end was securely tied, one to a hinge, the other to a protruding nail in the doorframe, both a little over a foot above the threshold. At just the height to trip someone, he realised.

  Deep in thought he made his way back to the frater and fetched a cup and jug of ale. He was alone now - Denise had gone. Thank God, he thought fervently. The last thing he wanted was her chatter.

  Pouring, he drank deeply, staring across at the wall opposite, where Denise had seen Margherita when Moll died - and Agnes last night.

  At first Simon thought it odd that Denise hadn’t seen Agnes being followed. Surely the same light which had illuminated the novice’s form should likewise have lit up her attacker? Then he shrugged. Agnes’s attacker was already in the room and had stabbed her without Denise seeing. The tripwire showed that: surely the killer had been hiding in the room, and when his victim tripped the killer stabbed.

  Could it have been Luke? Elias confirmed that he had taken the alley along the church’s wall towards the garden. From there he would have circled around the claustral buildings and come to the yard. He could have stabbed Agnes and withdrawn, but if he had, he would have been able to get to the church before the alarm was raised, and finding the communicating door closed, would have gone elsewhere to hide, surely?

  Luke said it was his own cry that had alerted the nunnery, and Simon was inclined to believe him.

  What about Margherita? It was easy to suspect her. Except she had denied the murders on the Bible.

  Elias was a possibility: what if he had lied? Couldn’t he have gone through and stabbed Agnes, then returned later? If he had, it meant he must have set the tripwire when he was last in the convent, and there was nothing to suggest he had been earlier, nor that he knew about the chamber. Who did?

  Thoughtfully Simon went back to the yard. The alleyway beckoned, and he walked out along it. At the far side it gave out to a new yard, next to which was the herb garden beneath the infirmary’s window, where Elias had said he would throw pebbles to waken Constance. Simon studied the ground, seeking the knife which had been used to murder Agnes, but could see no sign of it; if the killer had been here, the easiest means of concealing it was the wall - anyone could have thrown it over into the farmyard beyond. Simon retraced his steps and stood once more outside the room in which Agnes had died.

  He couldn’t help but keep returning to the same negative thoughts: there was no reason for Elias to have hurt Agnes so far as he knew. The man had no motive - if he’d stabbed in hot blood or fear, thinking she might report finding him there, he would not have remained with her body to ease her soul’s passage. And then there was the cord: how could Elias have known Agnes would enter that room?

  Luke had no reason to hurt her; what reason could he have for murdering his lover?

  That left Denise, a woman prone to sitting up late in the frater.

  Elias and Luke had seen Denise in the cloister. Both had said that she was there when they came out from the church. And Luke was in the cloister before Elias. Could Denise have hurried from the cloister to the yard, killed the girl, and then dashed back to the frater in the time it took Elias… Simon’s brow furrowed. Elias had said he ran through the frater when he heard Agnes cry out. Surely, if Denise had been there, he would have said? Yet where else could the sacrist have been?

  Simon recalled the very first time he had met Denise. When Baldwin had been questioning her about the first murder, the death of Moll, hadn’t she expressed her disgust with the novices for their unholy attitudes and lack of commitment?

  When Katerine had died, Denise had been in the frater, so she claimed. But she had said that while she had a novice with her, sitting beside her - Agnes, the last novice to have died. What if Agnes knew something about Katerine’s death - that Denise had left the hall, for example? Could Agnes have kept quiet about something incriminating?

  What could have made Denise want to kill the three girls? Simon’s mind kept returning to the expression of disgust on the sacrist’s face when she had spoken of the novices after they had inspected Moll’s body. Denise had said that they had only an outward show of piety, that she would have had them thrashed; she implied that Moll was almost deserving of her end.

  Denise disliked Moll because the girl had made comments about her drinking. Simon wasn’t sure that a woman like Denise could have such deep beliefs that she might feel justified in killing - but perhaps she did. Then another idea struck him. Rose had said that Constance and Elias were having an affair; that they were behaving indecorously.

  That brought dishonour to the convent as well, he thought. Their affair could be looked upon as a grievous insult to God.

  Hugh was in the infirmary when Denise entered. She went over to the sleeping Baldwin and glanced at Hugh. “How is he?”

  When Denise turned to peer at the knight, Hugh stood conspicuously and brought his stool nearer.

  Baldwin had started dozing as soon as Godfrey had left the room, and Hugh and Constance had helped him to lie down, pulling the blankets up to his chin. Now he lay as one dead, his face pale and contrasting strangely with his dark beard.

  “I mean him no harm!” Denise said when she noticed Hugh’s sudden approach.

  Hugh studied her abstractly. Her face was flushed: the colour could have been caused by his perceived insult, but then it could also have been caused by drink - and wine or ale could remove a man or woman’s fear of retribution, Hugh knew. He said nothing, but stared fixedly as she stepped away from Baldwin, her features darkening with anger.

  “Why should I want to hurt him? He was only trying to find the murderer!”

  “Yes,” Hugh agreed.

  “Do you suggest that I am a killer?”

  Hugh shrugged. As he opened his mouth to respond, Constance came from her chamber.

  “Denise? What is it?”

  “I came to see how this knight was, but this rude little serf accused me of trying to kill him.”

  “I said nothing,” said Hugh comfortably.

  Constance smiled wearily. She had slept badly the night before with all the excitement, and now this daft old alcoholic was trying to pick a fight so she must be drunk again. All Constance wanted was peace and quiet to reflect on Elias, and the inebriated sacrist was preventing her.

  Still more annoying was the fact that Constance did not want Denise shouting in the room and waking the other two invalids. Adopting a tone of gentle persuasion, she suggested, “Denise, why don’t we go to the frater and talk? I could do with getting out of here for a while.”

  “I’ve spent most of the morning in the frater,” Denise muttered, confirming both Hugh’s and Constance’s impressions.

  “Why don’t we walk in the garden, then? Some fresh air would do me good.”

  Denise nodded. To Hugh’s eye she looked almost ridiculously eager to take Constance away. “Yes, out to the garden. It’s nice and quiet out there.”

  Bertrand was still panting slightly, an oily sheen of sweat breaking out upon his brow as he appeared before the Bishop of Exeter. “My Lord, I am delighted to see you,” he declared, and bent to kiss the proffered ring. “I trust your journey was not too strenuous?”

  “Strenuous? No, not overmuch. Yet I would have preferred to travel straight to Exeter and see how things were rather than having to be diverted all the way here.”

  “I know, my Lord. It is a disgraceful state of affairs,” Bertrand agreed unctuously.

  “Certainly it is,” Stapledon said, peering ar
ound at the prioress who stood at his side. “Three murders and the attempt to kill my friend Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. And then,” he added, “a fool tries to suggest that my good friend and sister in Christ, Lady Elizabeth, was herself guilty of murder.”

  “I was called here by—‘

  “A woman who wished to remove my Lady to gain power for herself,” Stapledon stated relentlessly. “And I suspect you foresaw your own enhancement in the matter. You thought you might more speedily gain preferment.”

  “Oh, my Lord, no! I was acting for the best interests of the convent.”

  “Then who was the murderer of the three?” Stapledon asked silkily.

  “I fear I do not know, but I am sure that…‘

  Stapledon eyed him with chill severity. Then he raised a hand and beckoned. Elias had been standing, unknown to Bertrand, just behind him, and the suffragan felt a sinking feeling as he recognised the canon.

  “Elias, you shall go with the prioress to the dorter. The prioress will show you where to go. The treasurer has a large chest. You will bring it here.”

  Simon rushed from the frater and went to the entrance to the dorter, pounding up the stairs to the infirmary.

  “Sir?” Hugh asked.

  Simon went to Baldwin and peered down at him. “Has Denise been in here?”

  “Yes, sir. She came in to ask about the knight, but then went out.”

  “Which way did she go?”

  “Constance suggested the orchard.”

  Simon paused. “Constance is with her?”

  “Yes, sir. Said she wanted the fresh air.”

  “Shit!”

  The noise had woken Baldwin, although Cecily remained deep in her drugged sleep. Baldwin himself felt groggy, woken too soon from a deep slumber. He yawned and stretched, wincing at the quick pain in his head. “What is it, Simon?”

  “I think Denise is the killer, and now she’s gone out with Constance.”

  “Then go and find them!” Baldwin commanded. “Leave me and go!”

  “Stay here, Hugh,” Simon said and hurried out. On the stairs he came across the prioress and Elias. “Prioress, I think Denise is the murderer, and she’s gone out with Constance to the orchard. Constance might be in danger - where is the orchard?”

  Astonished, she gave him directions, and Simon sped away. Elias hesitated, eyes as wide as a startled deer, staring at the prioress.

  “My child, I don’t know if this is a good idea or not, but Godspeed! Go and guard Constance,” she said, and Elias darted down the stairs after the bailiff.

  The orchard was a clear space at the northernmost edge of the precinct. Although sheep and lambs wandered among the apple and pear trees, mumbling at the shin-high grasses, Simon could see no sign of the two women as he rushed along the wall. He was aware of Elias pounding along behind him, but the bailiff’s attention was fixed upon the small pasturage, staring about, trying to catch sight of either nun.

  He came to a gate, and leaped over, landing solidly and gazed about him wildly. Elias appeared at his side, his head slowly traversing from left to right. It was hard to see anything, the area was so overgrown. Trees stood with their branches unpruned, each looking like a small thicket in its own right, and while the two men should have been able to peer underneath the lowest branches, so many trees had toppled over and the grass itself was so long, that it was impossible to see anything.

  Simon pointed. “You go that way, halfway from here to the far wall, and wait for me. I’ll go a similar distance to the right here, and then we’ll go in. One of us must see them wherever they are.”

  Elias nodded and ran off while Simon made his way further up. Turning, Simon made sure that Elias was in his place, then dived between the ranks of sturdy boughs.

  He had to climb over a trunk within a few paces, and then he slipped and almost fell in a pile of sheep’s dung, but he kept his head moving, peering intently between the trees, to his left, before him, and to his right, his head swinging regularly as he sought the women. At one point he thought he had found them, seeing a dark movement on his right, but even as he stopped and prepared to launch himself in that direction, he saw that it was a sheep covered in mud. Cursing to himself, he carried on.

  The farther wall was in view now, and there was still no sign of them. Simon walked to it, filled with anxious dismay. There were already three deaths, and he felt panic clutch at his throat at the thought that he might be about to find another body.

  Then he heard a shout from Elias.

  When he looked, he could see no sign of the monk, but he felt sure that Elias needed him. He gave bellow and set off immediately.

  “What was that?” Joan demanded, looking up.

  Hugh sat still, poised on the edge of his seat. He hated sitting here while his master could be in danger, even if only from one mad nun, but he had been given his order.

  Joan ran to the window. “A call - a call from your master, Hugh.”

  He stood, looked down at Baldwin, then over to the window, undecided. “I can’t hear anything,“ he said wretchedly.

  “I could swear it was the bailiff, and he was in pain,” Joan said, her expression anguished.

  “He told me to stay here,” Hugh said, glancing back at the knight.

  Baldwin shifted a little on his bed, groaned as his wound pulled. “Hugh, if Simon is in danger, you should go to him,” he said painfully. “I order you: go! I could never forgive myself if anything were to happen to him.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Simon vaulted over a fallen trunk, ducked beneath a low branch, running along the line of the wall and staring between the trees until he saw the movement of a robe. Turning away from the wall, he soon came to the canon.

  Elias was standing with his arms around Constance, and at her side, blearily glancing from Simon to Elias, was a befuddled-looking Denise.

  Simon was so relieved, he almost sank to his knees in thanksgiving. Nodding to Elias, he said, “Is she all right?” There was no need for Elias to answer. Simon smiled. “You take her back. I’ll bring Denise.”

  Elias and Constance needed no second prompting. They walked back to the convent, he with his arm around her shoulders while she gripped his other hand in both her own. Although her eyes were cast demurely downwards, Simon was sure he saw a tear fall down beneath her veil.

  “Come on, Denise.”

  “Why? What’s going on?” she demanded petulantly. “I wanted to come out for a walk with Constance, and now you want us to return. What right do you have to order me around, eh?“ She was drunk, very drunk, from the look of her, and couldn’t help but slur her words a little, even when she spoke with care, enunciating slowly.

  “It’s no good, Denise,” he said. “We know the truth. Why did the girls have to die?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Where were you last night when Elias ran through the frater?”

  “I told you: out in the buttery. I heard him running, but I only caught a glimpse of him. I was filling my jug.”

  “Why should Katerine and Agnes have died, Denise?”

  “Katerine was a nasty little wench who sought power over others. She even tried to blackmail me, you know. Said I was drunk before a service, the sow! Asked me for money to keep hush. And Agnes… well, she never hid the fact that she liked men. Especially,” she gave a soft belch, “that fair-haired, fair-skinned, fair-featured…‘ she looked about her blankly for a moment, seeking inspiration, then apparently gave up. ’Priest! Nasty little man.”

  “If all that were true, it was no reason to kill them!” Simon said heavily.

  “I never said it was,” Denise agreed.

  “So why did they die, then?”

  “You’ll need to ask the killer,” she said unperturbably.

  Before Simon could speak further, he saw Hugh ahead, waiting at the gate. “What are you doing here?” the bailiff asked.

  “Well, we heard you shout and thought you might need help.”

  �
�No, no. That was just because Elias had found Constance and Denise. Did you leave someone with Baldwin?”

  “Joan’s there.”

  Joan stood over Cecily, tut-tutting in sympathy. The girl’s features were drawn and appeared almost waxen, as if she would melt in direct sunlight or close to a warm fire.

  It was strange to look down at her and see that abbreviated, mutilated stump where her arm should have been, and Joan crossed herself, thinking how curious it was that the one woman in the priory who was committed to helping the ill and bringing them back to full health had been the agent of God’s will in destroying Cecily. It was not the outcome Joan had anticipated when Cecily had gone sprawling over her leg in the laundry.