The mysterious servant troubled her. If he had a grudge against these seven men, he would have had a hard time planning the most advantageous time for the killings to take place. He had not been with the party before the night they arrived at the inn where Tristram and Ilbert were probably poisoned, but how could he have known that a delay would force them to stay there? Had the weather broken or the route proved easier to travel, the abbots might have reached Tyndal instead and he would not have had the easy access to them in the guest quarters that he did at the inn. Again, with good weather, the party would have traveled from here to Norwich the next day and settled into even more secure chambers.
Yet he had specifically waited for them at the ill-fated inn and taken on the duty of go-between between the abbots’ servants and the tempting flesh of those more aged daughters of Eve who cooked at the inn kitchen. It was he who ladled out the portion for each abbot. How easy it must have been to slip something into the bowl intended for Abbot Ilbert, Abbot Tristram, or both.
Then he had begged permission to continue with the party, presumably to Norwich. Was his master there? Or was his master hidden among the abbots themselves or even their servants? Until this man was found and questioned, that solution to the crime might remain hidden forever.
Eleanor kicked at a mound of snow and watched it scatter in a cloud of icy fragments. If only she could find just the right clue. She looked around and listened to the empty whisper of the feeble breeze.
No gift of revelation arrived.
Shivering, she continued her circle of the cloister garth.
Once the abbots did arrive at Tyndal, the mysterious servant had chosen to leave the party of abbots and go with the others to Signy’s inn. To the best of anyone’s knowledge, no stranger had been seen lurking near the guest quarters. And from all she had learned from Sister Matilda and Brother Thomas’ queries, no one could have had access to the mushroom tart that killed Abbot Gifre and sickened Odo.
What did this mean?
Eleanor banned all active thought and paced once more around the garth as she waited for some inspiration, a voice, even a vague but logical suggestion to slip into her mind. The growing silence she encountered was as hard to bear as the chilly day.
Possessed of a woman’s mind, the prioress often found solutions to problems in intuition, not from more masculine reason. Contrary to the beliefs of wise men, she had also learned to trust those instinctive opinions.
Perhaps there is also other merit in being a lesser creature compared to Adam’s sons, she said to herself with mild humor. Such imperfection meant she was closer in nature to the majority of sinners and might therefore understand them best. Sister Beatrice would have laughed with great merriment at this conclusion, the prioress thought, and missed her aunt all the more.
So what do I think? She shook her head and banished that idea. Nay, what do I feel to be the case?
“Were I to guess,” she whispered, her breath turning the air as white as the snow, “I would say that the servant at the inn was used by one of the abbots or one of their servants to start the process of mortal accidents. Once they arrived at Tyndal, by accident or intent, the mysterious man was allowed to go on his way. Perhaps he was paid then and allowed to escape? Perhaps he was dismissed so he might never know his actions had resulted in death, and thus he would never point an accusing finger at the man who planned these crimes?”
Eleanor felt relief. This made sense to her. She might not have lost her ability to solve murders after all.
“Once at my priory,” she continued to murmur as she passed by dark stone walls and emaciated limbs of naked shrubs, “the master of the crimes took over and somehow managed to kill one more abbot. Maybe he hoped Odo would die as well? Maybe he still has plans to kill him as well as the others.”
But she realized that the killer, especially if he were an abbot himself, could not slay all his fellows. The last man left alive was most likely the murderer, and, if he wanted to escape, he would not be so dim-witted. This man, who had so cunningly planned these deaths, was certainly not stupid. This was another reason she was inclined to discount one of the servants as the perpetrator. From what Brother Thomas had told her, none seemed especially gifted with the cleverness required.
Abbot Ancell had made an excellent observation. A man might make himself ill, although not fatally so, to hide his guilt. That would suggest that Odo was a strong suspect. Thinking on this a while longer, she decided she still did not think he had killed anyone.
“So let me consider the other three,” she muttered with determination.
Didier might long for a bishopric, but, despite his denials, he likely had a mistress and had fathered several children. For all his own faults, Pope Martin would not have welcomed such a man into a higher position in the Church. Had the abbot’s sins not been enumerated by Abbot Mordredus, Didier would have had a good chance at advancement, being known as a capable administrator, but he certainly had little enough now. Did the abbot know this? Had he cause to murder his brothers in Christ so only he might be in line for advancement, despite his sins? A clever man could still hide his mistress or else lie convincingly. Mordredus had spoken in his missive only of the tales told to him, and all stories can be retold to suggest different conclusions.
There was also Ancell. He was elderly, although he seemed spry enough. He had readily admitted that his sins had been exposed in the same infamous letter to Rome, but he was little troubled by that. Perhaps he knew that his age might prohibit any hopes for promotion or he was simply confident that he had the best opportunity in this company of sinners. So what reason did he have to kill anyone if he did not care or he was confident enough in his selection? He seemed the weaker prospect for the killer.
Finally, there was Abbot Mordredus, a man who was as rabidly ambitious as Odo, but, unlike Ralf’s brother, he had written to Rome, condemning his six fellows for their evil ways. Did he fear that the letter was insufficient for the papal envoy to dismiss all except him?
Certainly, the crimes of the others who had been killed were transgressions, but they ranged in gravity. Ilbert suffered rages and beat his clerics, one of whom was Didier’s nephew. Tristram, on the other hand, was simply lazy and demanded others do his work for him while he garnered all praise. Odo’s faults lay in gluttony as well as in an ambition matching that of any courtier seeking a king’s favor. Gifre was rumored to gather plate like others do May flowers in the morning, and he made it a habit to mock any whose birth was lower than his.
Eleanor began to feel numb with the cold and realized she must seek the warm fire of her chambers. Shivering, she hurried back to the stairway.
If she had to point an accusing finger at the one abbot who seemed most likely to be behind the murders, she would pick Abbot Mordredus. After all, he had taken it on himself to write Rome and destroy the reputations of all who might be in competition with him. Such overweening ambition often did lead to murder.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Signy glowed with joy. “Brother, I am grateful to you. My foster daughter is well enough to seek the kitchen and ask to help the cook.”
“Her healing is all due to God’s grace,” he replied, delighted by the news. “And does her poppet enjoy a similar return to health?”
“She left her in the bed this morning but did wrap her up well and cautioned her to rest quietly like a good girl.” The innkeeper laughed and beckoned for ale. “Would you have some of our root vegetable stew?” She grinned. “I promise the broth comes from chicken, and today there is no other meat in it that Prioress Eleanor would find objectionable.”
Thomas gratefully refused. “I come to ask a favor.”
“A request I shall always grant if it is within my power to do so.”
“When last we spoke, I asked which of the people here came with the party of abbots. You pointed out the tragic young couple and Ned with the rash
. After reflection, can you show me any others?”
Signy looked around at the few customers. Some were eating while others stared into space as if bored. A few children raced around the benches, causing either laughter or ire among the adults who watched over the boisterous antics.
“There, I think.” She discreetly pointed. “The elderly couple. They are on pilgrimage to the shrine of Saint William. As for the young couple, the widower no longer stays here. But you have spoken with him, have you not? I grieve for him.”
“He has sought refuge in our priory to ease his anguish until his wife is buried in our cemetery. He has no other place to take her corpse.”
Signy looked at him with some confusion but chose not to ask the question she was pondering.
But Brother Thomas suspected that she wondered if the loss of the child had been deliberate, a mortal sin that would ban her corpse from holy ground had she died before repentance was possible.
“God is so merciful. Her obvious sorrow over any earthly transgression spoke as loudly as words,” he said, carefully avoiding the name of a specific sin. “Be comforted. She died as good a death as possible.”
“You are a kind and good man, Brother, filled with compassion.”
He bent his head so she would not see his expression. I most certainly am not a good man, he thought, and begged God to forgive him if he had, in any way, presented himself as more upright than he was.
With a serious expression, she continued to look around. “There is Ned. He sits by the fire, drinking ale. I gave him the salve yesterday.”
“Surely there were others?” Thomas grew fearful. Perhaps the servant had left and they would never get the answers to their questions.
“A very few decided to travel back to their homes. Of those, I remember some pilgrims and one family with small children.”
“Can you recall any details about them?” He hoped the servant he was seeking had not disguised himself as a pilgrim. It was unlikely that the couple included the man he sought. Nothing Thomas had been told suggested the servant had been familiar with any in the party of travelers nor had he newly befriended anyone in particular.
“The husband of the couple was a carpenter from a small village nearby. Our local carpenter told him that he might just as easily find work in Cambridge, and they seemed glad enough to try.”
“The children were small?”
“One was nursing. The other was still unsteady on her feet.”
The monk nodded, satisfied that this couple was of no interest to him. “And the pilgrims?”
“There were four of them. One lacked a leg. I fear the stump was rotting, for he stank terribly. Another was an ancient woman, her back bent so painfully she could only stare at the ground. She had come with a young lad who must have been kin, for he helped her in all ways and even served the other pilgrims.”
Thomas asked for the youth’s description.
“Tall. Thin as a tree branch. Beardless as a girl, and his voice was still breaking. Skin pitted from the pox. So blond you could see his scalp. About Nute’s age, I think.”
He shook his head, relieved that this boy did not fit even the vague description of the man he sought.
“The last in the party was a widow. I know nothing about her. She said little and her expression was always grim. I felt she had come to beg remission of some terrible sin.” She thought again for a moment. “Ah, yes. A couple of men may have come at the same time but have since left.”
This news did not please the monk. “Do you remember anything about them or the road they took?”
Signy shook her head. “The only passable road of which I have knowledge is the one to Cambridge. As for the men themselves, they stayed apart from the others. I paid no attention to them as they stayed only one night.”
Thomas waited for more information and then said, “Those adults you mentioned were the only ones who came here at the same time as the abbots?”
“Aye, Brother. As you can see, the inn is not filled, although the strangers who usually come here at this time of the year are far fewer than this in number.”
The four pilgrims, described by the innkeeper, were of no interest. But Thomas was uneasy. The two men who had left might have been involved in the murders. After all, the road to Cambridge went past the inn where the abbots had stayed.
Thanking Signy, the monk picked up his ale. “I shall question those who remain,” he said and sought out the old couple first.
***
The wife brightened at the approach of the handsome monk. Her husband scowled, began to mash something in his bowl with a spoon, and bent to noisily suck up his broth.
“He cannot hear,” she said. For a woman of her many years, she still had most of her teeth, although her white hair was so wispy it barely covered her head.
After a little companionable talk, Thomas mentioned that he was seeking someone who had come with the party of abbots.
“Describe the man you wish to find, Brother. I might answer you better if I knew what he looked like.” Her eyes were bright with good humor.
Her husband had finished his meal, continued to ignore both monk and wife, and laid his head on his arms. He quickly began to snore.
Thomas gave a general description and added, “He joined the party at the inn the night before you all came here. He was traveling alone.” He hesitated. “Perhaps with another man.”
She rested her chin in her hand and pressed her fingers against her lips several times before answering. “The three couples, my husband and I included, all came together to the inn along with the abbots, although each couple joined the holy men at different villages. There were three other men who were already there waiting when we arrived, and they asked to join us. A far larger party was safer. Lawless men may not like to rob in the piercing cold any more than we enjoyed the journey, but their bellies rumble just like those of honest men.”
“Are the three men still here? Do you know if any left the inn?” He looked around with pointed interest, straining to see around some of those walking about. “I do not see the one I seek.”
Squinting hard, the old woman was doing the same.
Thomas’ heart sank. If her eyesight was that poor, she would be of no help to him.
Finally, she sat back. “There were two men who have gone back toward Cambridge. They might have matched your description, but so does the young man whose wife just died, as well as that man over there.” Pointing her finger, her hand trembled with a mild palsy at Ned sitting by the fire.
“Can you remember anything specific about the men who left?”
Her expression turned blank.
“Do you recall…?” Thomas had raised his voice.
“I heard you well enough, young Brother,” she replied. “I was trying to picture the men.”
With embarrassment, the monk apologized.
She dismissed that with a polite wave of her gnarled hand. “One had a severe limp when he first rose to walk, although that soon disappeared as he moved on. He was an older man with hair the color of iron. His companion was younger. I thought at first he was the elder’s son, but they did not resemble each other.” She mused for a moment longer, then shook her head. “The younger man was not memorable. A surly look, I thought, but that was all.”
Thomas was pleasantly surprised. “I am most grateful to you for your information.”
She tilted her head as she grinned at him.
For an instant, he could see the beauty she must have possessed as a young woman. “You are very observant.”
“There is much in the world to enjoy, Brother. I have never lost my appreciation for a handsome face either, although I have always been a good and faithful wife.”
He looked at the husband who lay on his arms, snoring and drooling. Suddenly, his heart filled with sorrow for the woman.
&nb
sp; She read his expression well and bent her head toward her aged spouse. “You might not think it now, but he was a handsome lad!” Her words were soft with affection. “We had our joy of each other and healthy babes as well. Although our passions have faded, he still takes my hand and kisses it before we sleep. I pray to God every night that neither of us shall wait long for the other after death.”
Thomas spoke for a while longer with the old woman. She had nothing more to impart, but she had eased his mind a bit about one of the two men who had left the inn. Of course, he would ask the abbots if the mysterious servant had limped at all, but he suspected that man was not the one he sought. The second of the pair might be. That possibility continued to trouble him.
Rising at last and taking his leave, Thomas gave the couple a blessing, even though the husband slept on.
“We are both grateful, Brother,” the woman said. “Although my husband seems unaware of your blessing, his soul will know of it and be content. Is that not all that matters?”
He agreed and left, next seeking the man called Ned with the rash. As he did, Thomas prayed for the elderly couple, that they each might end their days with good and easy deaths and that one would not long survive the other.
***
Ned was not as pleased to see him as the old woman had been.
“Any news on when the road to Norwich will be clear of snow?” The man’s tone was peevish.
Thomas noticed that his hands were still red, although the color had faded a little. Yet he was annoyed by his blunt lack of courtesy, and he chose to ignore the question he had been asked. “How has the salve worked?” Thomas queried in response.
The Proud Sinner Page 17