The Lord Bishop's Clerk

by Sarah Hawkswood

  There was silence. Catchpoll made no comment on his superior’s handling of the interview, for he could not work out how it could have been different, although it was unlike any other he had conducted. Bradecote was besieged by a welter of conflicting emotions. He was annoyed with himself for having failed to control the conversation, admiring of the cool way in which this otherworldly woman had conducted the affair, and convinced that, deep down, there was so much more that he needed to know. Underlying the whole was a small icy feeling in the pit of his stomach that said Sister Edeva was cool enough and hard enough, strong enough too, to be the murderer. What was worse was the illogically desperate desire that he should be wrong. In this one, short, perplexing meeting, some spark had been kindled, both shameful and without any logical basis.

  ‘What happened there, my lord?’ Catchpoll’s perplexity remained, and Bradecote was glad that it did not leave the older man opportunity to see his perturbation.

  He shook his head. ‘I truly cannot say. She interviewed us, didn’t she.’

  ‘I’ve been dealing with crimes and witnesses since long before the old king died,’ Catchpoll avoided saying since the acting under-sheriff had been but a gawky, pimpled youth, ‘and never have I come across a lady quite like that. In general, they get nervous, women, whether they are innocent or guilty, which is why it can be a problem, but that one …’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t say which she is, mind, my lord, but there was much more we were not made privy to than she revealed.’

  Bradecote was trying to think. She had the opportunity, certainly, for she was in the church throughout supper and beyond. Even if it was true that she had been the person in St Eadburga’s chapel when Elias passed by, it was always possible that she had already committed the murder, and then sought refuge to quieten her nerves. Only as an afterthought had she then moved the body, though it was an illogical and dangerous manoeuvre with the master mason liable to return at any time. It made little sense and besides, what could have been her motive? Without a very strong motive, Bradecote told himself, such a woman would not have killed a man.

  Catchpoll watched his superior, unable to fathom his thoughts, but aware that he was in need of silence to put those thoughts into order. It was something he did himself, a mental filing and sorting of information, especially important to an unlettered man, and he kept quiet. Eventually Bradecote spoke, softly, as if emerging from a dream.

  ‘If she is an innocent party, why should she be other than helpful to us? And yet, if she committed the crime, why not say she said a quick prayer but then needed fresh air and so went for a walk down by the fish ponds or the pease field, anywhere but within a hundred feet of the victim?’

  ‘We do not actually know how long she did remain in the church though, do we? We only know she told Sister Ursula she was going there, and that is confirmed by the master mason, who heard someone in the chapel, which was doubtless her. But she chose not to tell us whether she went directly back to the guest hall shortly before Compline, or did go a-wandering.’ Catchpoll shook his head. ‘Makes no sense, that. Unless …’ He stopped.

  ‘Unless what, Serjeant?’

  ‘There are those, and it’s rare mind, that wants to be caught. They commit a crime but then get a fit of conscience. Some comes and admits it straight up, which makes my life easier, but once in a while you find they lead you to themselves slowly, by little steps, and at the end claim relief to have been taken. She’s a nun, so maybe she committed the crime in a fit of passion …’ He paused as Bradecote’s brows rose in disbelief. ‘A fit of passion, as I say, and then it lies ill with her conscience and she half wants us to discover her guilty secret.’

  ‘This is not a serious proposition, I take it, Catchpoll.’

  ‘No, my lord, but it is always wise to consider even outside possibilities, otherwise you can look mighty foolish.’

  Was there a hint that he meant ‘You will look mighty foolish’? Bradecote ignored the possible barb.

  ‘Well, we have considered it and dismissed it, so where next? I think, after supper, we will speak with the widow.’

  Catchpoll’s eyes brightened.

  ‘Not that one, Catchpoll. The weaver’s widow from Winchester. You’ll have to wait before you can feast your lascivious eyes on the lady d’Achelie again.’

  For once, the serjeant grinned. ‘My eyes, lassivy whatever or not, can wait. I’m a patient man.’ He turned and headed for the door, chuckling to himself.

  Four

  Margery Weaver came to the abbot’s parlour without any sign of perturbation. She had learned how to cope in a man’s world, and if she was not above using her femininity at times, she had acquired a masculine directness that Bradecote found disconcerting.

  She acknowledged Serjeant Catchpoll with a nod, settled herself in the chair rather like a hen upon a clutch of eggs, and then gave Bradecote her full attention. ‘You’ll be wanting to know where I was when the killing took place, my lord.’

  It was a statement, simply put. She placed her hands, capable, industrious hands that had seen labour enough in earlier years, palm down upon her knees. It was a peculiarly masculine gesture and exactly the same as Master Elias had done in the same chair that morning . Bradecote had moved the chair during Catchpoll’s absence, so that it still caught the best light. The woman’s face was serious but calm.

  ‘Yes, Mistress Weaver.’ If she wanted to be forthright, it would be foolish to prevent her.

  ‘That is simple enough. I came from Vespers, behind lady d’Achelie as I remember. She was on her own, but it’s not a state she’ll have to get used to.’ Her face broke into a smile, one woman acknowledging the prowess of another. ‘Not her.’

  Bradecote queried her with a look.

  ‘Come now, my lord. It is clear enough. The lady is one best suited to the married state. I certainly do not see her taking the veil.’ Mistress Weaver wondered for a brief moment if the sheriff’s man was under the beauty’s spell, but his face only exhibited slight shock at her frankness. She spoke more seriously. ‘My husband, God rest his soul, was a good, hard-working man who built up his business and his status in Winchester. He was at the head of the Weavers’ Guild the year before he died, and deserved longer to have enjoyed his success. But things are not as we would plan them, and he died while our son was too young to take over the business. He is still, though I have had him taught his letters by the monks, and he is learning now about the trade. I have stood in my husband’s place these four years, and though I say it myself, I have failed neither husband nor son. Edward will inherit a flourishing concern.’

  She spoke with head raised, and defiance in her voice. ‘There’s nothing for a lady like the lady d’Achelie to do except find a new husband, she having no craft beyond her womanliness, and nothing to sell except her dower and her own self. She knows her worth, and will not lie in a cold bed for long. Good luck to her, I say, even if it would not be my path.’

  Serjeant Catchpoll was finding the Winchester widow refreshing. Simpering women turned his stomach, truth to tell, and here was one who could not have simpered if her life depended on it. Well, he conceded, perhaps then, but it would go against her nature. He found it amusing that she had Bradecote flustered. The man blinked like an owl, taken aback. High-class ladies must be less forthright.

  ‘You followed the lady d’Achelie, and then?’ It was Catchpoll who put the question.

  ‘I went to the guest hall and tidied myself before supper. It was quite an honour to be invited to the lord abbot’s table, and I would not do him the discourtesy of arriving late or dishevelled.’ A frown creased her brow in annoyance. ‘Not like some whose rank should give them manners, not be worn as a badge, entitling them to rudeness.’

  ‘And this was?’ Bradecote had found his voice, though he knew the answer he would receive.

  ‘Messire FitzHugh.’ The lady’s lip curled in distaste. ‘A shallow whelp, who could do with a lesson in manners. I care not what his station might be.’
Margery Weaver spoke as one who would be happy enough to give the lesson. ‘If my Edward ever behaved thus, I would take a birch bough to him, whatever his years. The youth arrived late, with barely a mumbled apology, and his person grubby and mired. You would have thought he had just ridden in after a wild chase. Disgraceful is what I call it.’

  It was, thought Bradecote, interesting that the squire had offended the sensibilities of two such different women as Sister Ursula and Mistress Weaver.

  ‘Did you linger at table, mistress?’

  ‘Not beyond what was seemly.’ The widow coloured slightly, on the defensive for the first time. Perhaps she had, in retrospect, regretted her involvement in so much of the conversation. In her work she dealt with men all the time, and it was hard to hold back in a social situation where higher-bred dames had learned to appear meek and deferential. ‘I was the last, no not quite …’ She smiled. ‘I left after Sister Ursula and my lady Courtney, but my lady d’Achelie lingered, just for a few moments, behind me. I believe she came out with Messire FitzHugh.’ She could not repress a smirk. ‘Without doubt he wished he had made an effort, then, not that she wanted more than to make the pup wag his tail for her.’ She smirked, quite prepared, as a widow, to be less than coy.

  There was a pause, and Bradecote looked a little uncomfortable. Mistress Weaver wondered if perhaps she had gone too far, and composed herself once more. ‘Afterwards I returned to the guest hall. I could not say that anyone saw me, unless it was Sister Ursula. I heard her humming to herself in the chamber where the nuns have been placed. I came out when the bell rang for Compline and, well, from then on everyone was visible.’

  She looked down at her hands, and then full at Hugh Bradecote. ‘My lord, the man who was murdered was no loss to the world, excepting perhaps to the lord Bishop of Winchester. I did not kill him, that I swear, but if what I know of him was as he was with others, then it is not surprising to me that he should meet such an end.’ Her eyes flashed for an instant. ‘Not that I am one to gossip, but when I tell the guild of this in Winchester, well there’s many will want to know I saw the body, for they would think the weasel was just at his tricks again, and not really dead.’ She sniffed. ‘If you find anyone who tells you they liked the man, then I will show you a liar, my lord, and that’s a fact. I doubt even the lord bishop’s grace himself actually liked him.’

  This was more than the sheriff’s men could have anticipated. Bradecote looked noticeably cheered.

  ‘Tell us, if you will, Mistress Weaver, everything that you know about the dead man.’

  Margery Weaver settled herself more comfortably, reminding Catchpoll even more of the brooding fowl. She spoke calmly for the most part, though on occasion her bitterness showed through.

  ‘I only came upon Eudo the Clerk after my husband’s death – in person, that is. My Edric was a master of his trade. We … he … provided the finest woollen cloth for Henri de Blois himself. Cleric he may be, but the lord Bishop of Winchester is of royal blood, the Conqueror’s grandson, and not one to be chafed by lowly garments. It was good business, and my husband was proud of the connection. When he died there was a roll of cloth in preparation. When it was delivered, Eudo the Clerk visited me to make payment.’

  She halted for a moment before continuing. ‘That nasty little man tried to threaten me with “do this or else”. Yes, you could call it no less. He “suggested”, and that was his term, the wyrm, that it would be unsuitable for his bishop to purchase cloth from a woman.’ She snorted. ‘As though I might be a contamination of his grace’s holiness. However, if, after a period of devout mourning, I were to go to the master goldsmith and commission a gold chalice and patten for the New Minster, in memory of my husband of course, it would be seen by all that I was a devout and righteous dame, and a few discreet purchases might be made by the lord bishop once again.’

  She clamped her mouth suddenly shut, as if to prevent an unseemly utterance. ‘I told him, Eudo the Clerk, that my husband’s business had always been done openly, and on the quality of his cloth. Never had he engaged in anything underhand, and I would not betray his memory by doing so now, even if it meant the loss of a valued customer. That horrible little toad told me that it was only to be expected that others would follow his master’s example. He threatened me. How dared he!’

  The widow shook her head, still stunned at his temerity. ‘Well, I sent him about his business, assuring him that quality of cloth would keep the business going, whatever he put about. And so it proved.’ She sat more erect. ‘If trade dropped briefly, it returned well enough, and our business was spared in the ruination of the Great Fire, and prospers.’

  ‘Thank you, Mistress Wea–’

  ‘That is not all, my lord.’ She interrupted him without compunction. ‘I had no more dealings with him direct, but Winchester, however great, is not so large that rumours do not spread like licking flame. The lord bishop has, shall we say, changed his tone according to whosoever held best grasp on the crown. In Winchester, I heard from differing sources, aye, and ones I’d trust, that it was his clerk that Henri de Blois used as his trusted man in dealings with both sides, and that he used information as a bargaining tool with each. Eudo the Clerk was, my lord, almost certainly, Eudo the Spy.’ She finished on a note approaching triumph, knowing that she would surprise her auditors, and was not disappointed.

  Catchpoll and Bradecote stared at the Winchester widow, not in disbelief, but astounded none the less. Catchpoll exhaled slowly, a whistling sound coming from between his teeth. Bradecote wiped his hand across his mouth, frowning. The serjeant recognised it as an habitual gesture.

  ‘What you have told us, mistress, may be of great importance. But I must caution you to keep this knowledge within this room, for your own safety. Will you do that?’

  Margery Weaver, her tale told, paled at his words, but nodded resolutely. ‘As you direct, my lord, but …’ she bit her lip, ‘I cannot vouch for its not being known already. I was speaking with my lady Courtney, who has … had … her own reasons to dislike the dead man.’

  ‘Did anyone else hear this confidence?’ Bradecote tried to keep the urgency out of his voice.

  ‘I cannot say for sure, my lord, though there was nobody close by that I noticed.’ She paused. ‘Is that all, my lord?’

  ‘Thank you, yes. Escort Mistress Weaver back to the guest hall, Serjeant Catchpoll.’

  Bradecote wanted time, and his piece of vellum. When the serjeant returned, he found the acting under-sheriff had at least furnished himself with the latter.

  ‘The more we find out about our victim, the more I see why he ended up dead. A nasty piece of work, Eudo the Clerk.’ Bradecote sounded almost relieved.

  ‘Indeed, my lord, but the more he got people’s backs up the more complicated it is for us. For a start, nobody really wants the killer brought to justice when they think he, or she, was doing the rest of the world a favour.’ Catchpoll shook his head sadly. ‘Give me a nice simple killing, where the man does away with his wife so he can marry his neighbour’s pretty niece.’ He stifled a yawn.

  The bell had tolled for Compline some time since. It was twenty-four hours since their arrival, and although he had learned much, Bradecote felt that he was a long way from discovering the killer.

  ‘Do we speak to anyone else tonight, my lord?’

  ‘I think not, Catchpoll. The monks will have their silence undisturbed. We will speak to the other guests tomorrow. The retainers that haven’t been examined can be seen by Gyrth or my man Wilfrid. We will only see them ourselves if anything important turns up. We can let everyone get their sleep, but first of all I want to address them all. We can catch most if not all after Compline and see the others individually.’ He paused, and frowned as an unwelcome thought occurred to him.

  ‘My lord?’ Catchpoll’s eyes had narrowed.

  ‘What Mistress Weaver told us about Eudo being a spy makes a possible difference. If whoever killed him was engaged in the same business, they may be q
uicker and more dangerous than we think. It might be obvious to us, but the guests should be told, clearly, to bring information only to us.’

  ‘Fair enough, my lord. I’ll make sure the servants and workmen get the same message, if you give me leave.’

  Bradecote’s weary eyes narrowed. Catchpoll was being remarkably correct for once, but it was too late in the day to question why, so Bradecote merely gave his assent.

  Serjeant Catchpoll gave a nod that might just have been deference but was probably simple acknowledgment, and the pair parted.

  Not all the guests had attended the final office. Lady Courtney and the nuns from Romsey were present, as was Mistress Weaver, but the lady d’Achelie and both de Grismont and FitzHugh were elsewhere. The thought occurred to Bradecote that two of that number might be found together, and it would not be lord and squire.

  The scene in the cloister at the end of Compline was much the same as the previous evening, but the atmosphere was wary rather than shocked. The assembly were attentive when he cleared his throat to speak, but regarded him with, he decided, gloomy anticipation. I am become a harbinger of ill tidings, he thought to himself.

  ‘It is only right that I should warn all of you that in the case of such a crime as this, it would be most unwise of any of you to confide any suspicions you might have to others. If something does occur to you, come only to me or Serjeant Catchpoll.’

  ‘You are saying that one of us is the killer, my lord.’ Mistress Weaver’s voice was matter of fact.

  ‘I am saying,’ Bradecote replied with emphasis, ‘that nobody who was not within the walls of this abbey is under suspicion.’

  Sister Edeva gave him a cool, slightly mocking look. ‘Much more circumspect, but the same thing underneath. Do you expect us to lie quaking in our beds, and screeching at shadows? Are you perhaps going to confiscate Sister Ursula’s darning needle?’