The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1

by Andrea Japp

  Sweet Apolline’s gentle frivolity had been reduced to ashes – grey like herself. This, too, was Eudes’s doing. The realisation filled the Comte with an indefinable sorrow, and he felt angry at himself for having manoeuvred this young woman he had once considered rather foolish into revealing her half-secrets.

  As he took his leave of her he experienced for the first time a feeling of tenderness towards her and counselled:

  ‘Take good care of yourself, Madame. The child you bear is precious.’

  She murmured a response:

  ‘Do you think so, Monsieur?’

  The journey back to Authon did nothing to dispel his unease. It was growing dark when he joined his Chief Bailiff, Monge de Brineux, who was waiting for him in the library.

  The modest-sized room with the rotunda was one of Artus’s favourite places. It contained a fine collection of books he had brought back from his restless wanderings across the world. He felt on his own ground there, surrounded by memories the details of which had paled over time. All the people he had encountered, all the names he had uttered, all the places he had passed through, and in the end so few attachments.

  Monge was drinking fruit wine and gorging himself on quince and honey conserve. When Artus entered, he rose to his feet, declaring:

  ‘Oh, Monsieur, you have saved me from my own gluttony.’

  ‘Must you eat those confections by the handful?’

  ‘Their sweetness calms me.’

  ‘Tell me the bad news, then.’

  The Comte’s perceptiveness hardly surprised Monge de Brineux, but the grave expression he wore troubled him.

  ‘Is something worrying you, my Lord?’

  ‘The question would be more apt in the plural. I am completely in the dark. Come along, Brineux, out with it.’

  ‘One of my sergeants rode over here in a great hurry at midday. Another disfigured corpse has been found close to the edge of Clairets Forest. This one appears to have been killed recently.’

  ‘Another friar?’

  ‘It would seem.’

  ‘Near the forest’s edge, you say?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord. The killer has been very careless.’

  ‘Or very cunning,’ suggested Artus. ‘In this way he could be sure his victim would be found relatively quickly. Was there a letter A near the body?’

  ‘Yes, right beside the corpse’s leg, scratched in the ground.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘For the moment that is all I know. I have given the order to make a thorough search of the surrounding area,’ the Bailiff explained.

  Monge de Brineux hesitated to pick up their earlier conversation. His admiration and liking for the Comte did not make of him a close friend, or even a companion. In fact there were few who could boast such a degree of intimacy with Artus. His lord was remote in a way that, while not hostile, discouraged familiarity. However, Monge knew the man to be just and good. He continued:

  ‘Did your meeting with the Dame de Souarcy bear out my description of her?’

  ‘Indeed. I do not see her as a bloodthirsty criminal. She is learned, excellent company and undoubtedly a pious woman.’

  ‘And do you not find the young widow very beautiful?’

  No sooner had Monge uttered these words than he cursed his indiscretion. The Comte would immediately see what he was hinting at. What followed proved him right. Artus glanced up at him and Monge detected a flicker of irony in those dark eyes.

  ‘I do indeed. You wouldn’t be playing at matchmaking, would you, Brineux?’

  The Bailiff remained silent but beneath his stubble his face turned bright red.

  ‘Come, Brineux, don’t pull such a face! I am touched by your concern for me. Marriage agrees with you so well, my friend, that you hear the sound of wedding bells everywhere. Have no fear. Sooner or later I shall produce an heir, like my father before me.’

  It was largely Julienne who was to blame for Monge’s recent propensity to wish marriage on anyone whose happiness was dear to his heart. The Comte had been a widower for many years and had no direct heir, his wife had argued one evening. How sad it was to see a man of his distinction grow old alone, without the love of a woman, she had insisted. Monge had tempered his wife’s redoubtable zeal for matchmaking with the observation:

  ‘It all depends on the lady.’

  ‘I did not mean …’ Brineux stuttered rather ashamedly.

  ‘Do you really think that Madame Agnès is one of those fine ladies one mounts in the antechamber? It is true that we have both enjoyed the favours of a few of those ourselves.’

  ‘I think I had better take my leave of you now, my Lord, before I dig myself deeper and make even more of a fool of myself.’

  ‘I am teasing you, my friend. On the contrary, I bid you stay. I need you to help me gain a clearer understanding. Nothing seems to make any sense in this affair.’

  Monge sat down opposite Artus. The Bailiff could tell his lord was lost in thought from the way his eyes stared into space and from his tensed jaw and rigid posture. He waited. He was accustomed to these moments when Artus became immersed in deep reflection.

  A few minutes elapsed in complete silence before the Comte emerged from the furthest reaches of his mind and said:

  ‘It makes no sense whichever way you look at it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We agree on one point, Brineux, which is that Agnès de Souarcy played no part in these killings.’

  ‘As she so ably made me see, I cannot imagine her running through the undergrowth armed with a claw, intent on slashing the faces of a few unfortunate friars – except perhaps in a fit of homicidal madness or temporary possession. Besides, these men – especially the last one – are twice the lady’s weight.’

  ‘If we include this last killing, four of the victims, it would seem, traced the letter A before they died, and a linen handkerchief belonging to the lady was found near one of them. Somebody is trying to implicate her, then.’

  ‘I had reached the same conclusion.’

  ‘Before posing the fundamental questions, namely who and why, let us consider the killer’s intelligence.’

  ‘Whoever it is must be a fool,’ Brineux retorted.

  ‘It seems likely, for there are far more convincing ways of incriminating Agnès de Souarcy – unless, and this is what I am beginning to fear, we have understood nothing of these murders and have been mistaken right from the very start of your investigation.’

  ‘I do not follow.’

  ‘I am a little lost myself, Brineux. What if it has never been the villain’s intention to point us in the direction of the Manoir de Souarcy? What if the letter A means something entirely different?’

  ‘And the linen handkerchief, have you forgotten about that?’

  ‘Yes, you are right. There is still the question of the linen handkerchief,’ admitted the Comte.

  After a brief silence, Artus d’Authon continued:

  ‘I wish to ask you a rather delicate question – or rather an extremely indelicate one.’

  ‘I am at your service, Monsieur.’

  ‘I would prefer you to answer me as a friend.’

  ‘I should be honoured.’

  ‘Are you aware of any stories, any malicious gossip concerning Eudes de Larnay’s relationship with his half-sister?’

  Artus understood from the way his Bailiff pursed his lips that some rumour had indeed reached his ears.

  ‘Larnay is not a very pleasant man.’

  ‘It comes as no surprise,’ admitted the Comte.

  ‘I mean to a degree that offends the ear. His ill treatment of his wife is infamous. The poor woman is more cuckolded than an Eastern queen. They tell me he thinks nothing of entertaining strumpets in the very chambers of the chateau. And that some of these women of easy virtue have been discovered brutally beaten after their encounters with him. None has been willing to recount their story to my men for fear of reprisals.’

  ‘And what about his si
ster?’

  ‘It would appear that Eudes de Larnay has a very loose notion of kinship and blood relationship. He showers the lady with lavish gifts …’

  ‘Which she accepts?’

  ‘She would be foolish to refuse. I heard he even gave her sweet salt.’

  ‘Goodness me! The man treats her like a princess!’ remarked the Comte.

  ‘Or an expensive prostitute.’

  ‘Do you think that they … I mean that she …’

  ‘I admit having entertained the idea up until I met her – after all Larnay may be rotten inside, but he is still an attractive man. No. I do not believe that she would rub herself against that miserable brute. Other facts concur.’

  ‘And what are they?’

  Artus d’Authon realised at that very moment that it was not only necessary but vital for him to be certain of Agnès’s indifference towards her brother, and if possible her detestation of him.

  ‘Agnès de Souarcy has always refused her half-brother’s “hospitality”, despite the true affection and compassion she feels for her sister-in-law, Madame Apolline. She goes out of her way to avoid meeting him. In addition, one of Eudes’s mother’s – the late Baroness de Larnay’s – ladies-in-waiting confided that Agnès instantly accepted the first offer of marriage as a way of escaping from her brother’s predatory instincts. Fate would have it that Hugues died prematurely, killed by an injured stag, delivering her once more into Eudes’s clutches.’

  ‘A fine catch, that Hugues de Souarcy, to be sure!’

  ‘It was no doubt preferable in the lady’s eyes to wed him than be bedded by her wicked brother.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘I am your Bailiff, my Lord. It is my task, my duty and my privilege to keep my “big ears” – as Julienne calls them – open in order to serve you.’

  ‘And I am grateful to you for it.’

  Manoir de Souarcy-en-Perche, July 1304

  Clément had spent the last few days trying to decipher the coded message he had copied out. He had gone through every possible combination, varying the pattern, beginning with the first word of each psalm, then realigning his transcription by moving along a few words or lines. But to no avail. He had a nagging suspicion: what if he was wrong and Mabile had used a different book? But if so, which one? The few there were at Souarcy were mostly in Latin, and Clément was sure Mabile had no notion of that language reserved for erudite people. Given that piety was hardly the servant’s main virtue, she could have chosen something more suited to her, a work in French that would be more easily accessible. Where was she hiding it? Agnès was keeping the scoundrel occupied as they had planned earlier that morning.

  When Clément walked into the kitchen, Adeline was sweeping the ashes out of the big hearth.

  ‘I’m looking for Mabile,’ he lied,

  ‘She’s with our lady.’

  ‘Well, in that case I’ll keep you company while I wait for her. Chatting lightens chores.’

  ‘That’s very true.’

  ‘You work hard and our lady is pleased with you.’

  Adeline looked up, blushing.

  ‘She’s a good person.’

  ‘Yes, she is. Unlike … Well, sometimes I have the feeling Mabile isn’t very nice to you.’

  The girl’s usually flaccid lips puckered.

  ‘She’s a nasty piece of work.’

  ‘To be sure.’

  Adeline became emboldened, adding:

  ‘She’s like a boil on the backside, she is! Only I tell you one thing and that is you can prick a boil and it’ll stop hurting. She thinks she’s so high and mighty, with all her simpering … Just because she’s being …’

  Adeline froze suddenly and her eyes darted anxiously towards Clément. She had spoken out of turn and felt afraid suddenly of Mabile’s possible retribution.

  ‘Just because she’s being tupped by her former master it doesn’t give her the right to lord it over the rest of us,’ Clément concluded to make the girl feel at ease. ‘This will be our secret.’

  Adeline’s broad face lit up with a smile of relief and she nodded.

  ‘What’s more, she puts on airs and graces just because she can read a little,’ Clément continued.

  ‘Yes. Well, I don’t need to read to know how to prepare a dish. Whereas she … She’s always got her nose stuck in that meat recipe book of hers just to show off. She is a good cook, mind you, it’s just that …’

  ‘So she uses a meat recipe book, does she!’ exclaimed Clément. ‘And there I was thinking she knew it all herself …’

  ‘No, she cheats!’ affirmed Adeline. ‘But not me. It’s all in here, in my head, not in some book!’

  ‘Well! I’d be interested to know if that’s where she got the recipe for the sauce she made to go with the rack of wild boar, which so impressed the Comte d’Authon. For if she copied it from someone, then the compliments shouldn’t go to her.’

  ‘That’s the honest truth,’ agreed Adeline, pleased with herself. ‘Only she never lets that recipe book out of her sight in case anyone discovers her deception. She hides it in her room!’

  ‘By Jove she doesn’t!’

  ‘She does,’ Adeline assured him, puffed up by a sudden sense of her own importance, and with a glint in her eye she added:

  ‘But I know where she keeps it.’

  ‘I thought you were a crafty one!’

  ‘I am, too. It’s under her mattress.’

  Clément stayed chatting with the girl for a while longer and then stood up to leave.

  The door had scarcely closed behind him before he raced upstairs to the servants’ quarters. He only had a few minutes left before Agnès would be forced to release Mabile, who was surely astonished by the sudden interest her mistress was showing in her.

  He immediately found the recipe book hidden where Adeline had told him. There was some writing on the first page: ‘Copied from Monsieur Debray, chef to his most gracious and powerful majesty Sire Louis VIII, the Lion King.’

  The boy paused. Should he replace the book and wait until Mabile was absent again in order to compare it with the text of the message, or should he take it? Time was running out and he chose the second solution. If Mabile noticed it was gone before he had a chance to return it, she would no doubt accuse Adeline. Agnès would then need to protect the poor girl from the servant’s wrath.

  He climbed silently back up to his eaves and set to work at once. He must be quick. The conflict was steadily becoming clearer. He must return to the secret library at Clairets Abbey to try to throw light on another mystery: the notebook of the Knight Eustache de Rioux.

  Vatican Palace, Rome, July 1304

  Cardinal Honorius Benedetti was deathly pale. Although he found the heat so insufferable, he was chilled to the bone.

  Nicolas Boccasini, Benoît XI, lay gasping as he clutched the prelate’s fingers with his clammy hand.

  The front of his white robe was disappearing under the blood-streaked vomit. All night long he had been racked by griping pains, leaving him exhausted by the early morning. Arnaud de Villeneuve* – one of the century’s most eminent doctors, whose ideas were a little too reformist for the Inquisition’s liking – had not left his bedside. His diagnosis had been immediate: the Pope was dying from poisoning and no antidote other than prayer could save him. Thus, without holding out much hope they had tried fumigating with incense, praying, and Monsieur de Villeneuve had been against bleeding, whose ineffectiveness in cases of poisoning was well known since the time of Monsieur Galen.

  Benoît made a feeble but impatient gesture signalling that he wished to be left alone with his Cardinal. Before he left the dying Pope’s chambers, Villeneuve turned to the prelate and murmured in a voice trembling with emotion:

  ‘Your Eminence will have understood the nature of yesterday’s mysterious drowsiness.’

  Honorius looked at him, puzzled. The practitioner continued:

  ‘You were drugged and, judging from your disori
entation and encumbered speech in the afternoon, I would wager it was with opium powder. Somebody needed you out of the way in order to reach His Holiness.’

  Honorius closed his eyes and crossed himself.

  ‘There was nothing you could have done, Your Eminence. These accursed poisoners always achieve their ends. I regret it from the very depths of my soul.’

  Arnaud de Villeneuve then left the two men to their final exchange.

  Benoît had heard nothing of this monologue. Death was in his chamber and deserved his full attention in the company of the only friend he had found in this palace that was too vast, too onerous.

  The room was filled with a strange sickly-sweet odour – the odour of the dying man’s breath. His end was approaching and with it a miraculous release.

  ‘My brother …’

  The voice was so frail that Honorius was obliged to bend over the Holy Father, fighting off the tears he had been holding back for hours.

  ‘Your Holiness …’

  Benoît shook his head in frustration.

  ‘No … brother …’

  ‘My brother?’

  A smile played across the dying man’s cracked lips:

  ‘Yes, your brother. That is all I wished to be … Do not suffer. It was inevitable and I have no fear. Bless me, my brother, my friend. The figs … What day is it today?’

  ‘The seventh of July.’

  Soon after the extreme unction performed by his friend and confidant, the Pope sank into a coma punctuated by delirium.

  ‘… the almond trees at Ostia, how wonderful they were … Every year a little girl would offer me a basketful … I was so fond of them … She must be a mother now … I join You, my Lord … It was a mistake … I tried to do my best, to foresee as best I could … The Light, behold the Light, It bathes me … Unto God, gentle brother.’

  Nicolas Boccasini’s hand gripped Honorius’s fingers then suddenly relaxed, leaving the Cardinal cold and alone in the world.

  There was a last sigh.

  Eternal sorrow, infinite tears. Choking with sobs, Honorius Benedetti fell forward until his brow was resting on the large red stain soiling the deceased Pope’s chest.