The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1 (45 page)

A
woman lay face down on the rack, the blood from the gashes on her back oozing to the floor. The woman was moaning. Her long fair hair was sticky with sweat and blood. A hand brushed against her martyred flesh, pouring a grey powder onto her wounds. The woman arched her back and went limp, fainting.

Éleusie de Beaufort clasped her hands to her mouth to stifle her growing impulse to scream. She fell forward onto her desk in a faint.

The same vision had come back to haunt her. She had mistakenly believed that she was the suffering woman. It was Agnès they were torturing at that precise moment.

She fell to her knees and prayed:

‘Dear God … dear God … Dear, sweet Francesco …’

A sudden wave of nausea made her stretch out on the broad dark flagstones where, unable to calm down, she repeated: ‘The beast must die, Francesco, he must die! The beast must die, he must die!’

Annelette Beaupré sat on her stool in the herbarium, leaning against the cold stone wall with her arms crossed, pondering. Berthe de Marchiennes’s confession that morning had baffled her. After the cellarer’s departure, she and Éleusie de Beaufort had exchanged glances, unable to make head or tail of her story. The Abbess was adamant: her key had never left her person and she was too light a sleeper for anyone to be able to take it and return it while she was resting. And why replace Berthe’s key
when all three were necessary in order to open the safe where the seal was kept? Was Berthe lying to cover herself? Curiously, Annelette did not give that theory much credence, despite her dislike of the cellarer nun.

The answer came to her in a flash. Copies! Four days was plenty of time for a good smith to produce one. She suddenly had a worrying thought: what if Blanche de Blinot had also mislaid her key temporarily and said nothing? What if – given her mental deterioration – she had not even noticed its disappearance? What if a second copy had been made of the key for which Annelette had publicly accepted resonsibility? Her hand automatically reached up to touch the top of her robe. The small lump she felt there did not set her mind at ease.

The third and last key was hanging round Éleusie’s neck. Assuming the theory of the copies was correct, it placed Éleusie de Beaufort above suspicion since she was free at any time to open the safe and retrieve her private seal. However, since her key was the only one of its kind she would be the next victim.

Something was not right. Some crucial element was missing. Why would the murderess insist on trying to take the seal when so many of them now thought this was her intention? Every deed, every letter would be scrupulously checked and rechecked by the Abbess. Moreover, if the poisoner killed her, her seal would automatically be invalidated.

There were so many loose ends and no clear way of tying them together. The whole affair seemed illogical. Annelette was unable to arrive at the truth. The murderess was both intelligent and extremely cunning. She had discovered the other sisters’ weaknesses and strengths, their petty secrets and vanities, their deep resentments and turned them to her advantage. Yolande’s Thibaut, Berthe’s pride, Blanche’s senility … But why poison
Hedwige du Thilay and Jeanne d’Amblin? What part did these two friends play in these murderous equations? Two friends … What if only one had been targeted and their innocent habit of sitting together at mealtimes or taking tea together had sent the other to her grave? Which of the two had been meant to die, then, Hedwige or Jeanne? Hedwige du Thilay? Was her position as treasurer in some way connected? The paymistress managed the abbey’s revenue, oversaw and paid the farrier, the singers and the veterinary doctor … In short, she was in charge of a good deal of money. It had not been unheard of in the past for monks to make veritable fortunes by falsifying deeds with stolen seals. No, she felt she was losing her way. Enrichment was not the murderess’s motive, Annelette would have staked her life on it. And what of Jeanne d’Amblin, whose strong constitution alone had saved her from the poison? Jeanne had permission to leave the abbey in order to make her rounds. She met many of their donors, conversed with them and even became their confidante. Had she seen or heard something that had worried the poisoner? Something whose importance the extern sister had not realised at the time? Think … the answer was easily within her grasp.

Thibaut!

Thibaut, the beloved son for whom Yolande had been prepared to lie. Annelette must learn more about him and ask for the Abbess’s help in order to do so.

Annelette had suddenly made great headway towards a solution. The poisoner must have discovered that the sister in charge of the granary slipped out at night to meet her informant near the herbarium. She had borrowed her shoes in order to point the finger at Yolande de Fleury. Annelette cursed for the first time in her life, stamping her foot petulantly:

‘Zounds!’

Her theory didn’t hold water, for it assumed the culprit knew that a trap had been laid for her, and yet Annelette had told no one of her plan, not even the Abbess.

Thibaut, Thibaut … The answer, she was certain, lay in the pretty name of that illegitimate little boy.

An insistent ringing sound gradually brought her out of her thoughts: the sisters were being called for vespers.

She left the herbarium, more determined than ever to ingest nothing that she had not prepared herself in the kitchens. For, if her enemy were as clever as she gave her credit for, she would soon realise that Annelette was her most formidable enemy and would not hesitate to crush her.

A figure was crouching behind the hedging laid with chestnut branches that protected the medicinal herb garden from the wind.

Annelette, Annelette, thought the figure, how tiresomely tenacious you are. How it bores me. How would you like to die, dear apothecary? Just to please me, go on. Die!

Éleusie de Beaufort studied her apothecary daughter in silence.

‘What you are asking me to do is so strange, Annelette … Do you really think that this little boy can help our investigation?’

‘I am convinced of it. We only need to send one of our lay servants. You mentioned that Yolande de Fleury’s father lives on his estate in the vicinity of Malassis. It is not so very far from here. A good day’s ride there and back.’

‘And what is his mission?’

The tall woman sighed. She had no idea. And yet she instinctively persisted.

‘I confess that I am not quite sure.’

‘Annelette, I cannot send one of our servants out without telling him what I want him to do.’

‘I am aware of that, Reverend Mother … I want news of little Thibaut.’

‘News. Is that all?’

‘That is all. I am going back to the dormitory.’

Éleusie de Beaufort had become prey to a strange obsession. Whereas once she had avoided entering the perilous library, now she felt the need to check and recheck its contents several times a day. She was driven by an impulse she was powerless to resist. The abbey plans were locked in the safe, and, unless she was fiendishly clever, the murderess could not possibly know of their existence. Even so, the Abbess always ended up lifting the wall hanging and opening the door leading to the place which at once fascinated and terrified her.

She gazed at the oil lamp sitting on her desk. The feeble light it gave off was not enough to drive out the lingering shadows that seemed to cling to the shelves of books full of revelations. She rushed into the corridor and seized one of the resin candles. She needed a bright light if she was going to check the titles of all those books brimming with terrible truths.

Éleusie sighed wearily. She must remain steadfast. Only when she had finished would she allow herself a few hours’ well-earned rest.

She took her time inspecting the books shelf by shelf, raising her candle aloft for fear of setting alight these precious but terrifying works.

The crouching figure’s eyes were trained on the high horizontal arrow-slit windows, which for the last few minutes had been visible owing to a flickering light marking them out from
the rest of the wall. A triumphant smile lit up the figure’s face in the chilly gloom of the garden. The figure had been right and all this surveillance had finally paid off. The camerlingo would be pleased and, the figure hoped, would prove even more generous. The secret library was right next to the Abbess’s chambers. The figure would soon be in possession of the manuscripts so coveted by Honorius Benedetti. There was no longer any reason to kill Éleusie de Beaufort in order to appropriate the third and last key. The figure was quite happy to grant the Abbess this pardon. Not because her brutal murder would have saddened the figure, but because Éleusie was a stubborn link in the chain. She formed part of the shadowy spider’s web they were at pains to make out. The Reverend Mother might provide valuable information. That is, if she could be persuaded to reveal what she knew. Then again, they had every means of persuasion at their disposal!

N
ight was slowly falling over Rue de l'Ange. Should he see in this street name a sign or simply another quirk of fate?

Francesco de Leone concealed himself in the porch of the handsome town house belonging to the late Pierre Tubeuf, the draper who had had the misfortune of crossing Florin's path. He waited for a moment then walked across the quadrangular courtyard towards the imposing building. The occasional flickering light of a candle passing behind the drawn curtains of the first-floor windows showed that the beautiful Nicolas was somewhere inside the house he had requisitioned for his own use.

The knight had not allowed himself to follow any plan, any strategy. His actions were guided by a sort of superstitious belief. It seemed essential to him that Florin should be the architect of his own doom, although he did not know where this conviction came from. It was not because he feared feeling any remorse, still less compassion. No. It was more like a vague intuition that nothing relating to or affecting Madame de Souarcy should be tainted or soiled, not even the death of her torturer.

Leone's eyes had filled with tears when Jean de Rioux had described to him the cellar, the outstretched body, the pale lacerated back, the blood dripping from her wounds. It had taken a moment for him to realise that he was crying. A miracle. This woman had already produced a miracle in him. How long had it been since he had felt that overpowering sorrow that was a sign of his humanity, proof that his soul had remained intact despite his being habituated to horror? He had witnessed so much death and
suffering, had wallowed in it until it became invisible. Agnès's torment had shocked him into remembering the twisted, burnt bodies, the gaping mouths, the chests pierced by arrows, the amputated limbs, the gouged-out eyes. He was infinitely grateful for these memories which, before he met her, had been packed down so tightly they had become an indistinguishable mass. He no longer wanted to forget; he refused to take the easy escape and become inured to horror.

He walked towards the broad, gently rising steps leading up to the double doors of the hall and rapped with the heel of his hand.

He waited, his mind clear.

A crack appeared in the door before it swung wide open. Florin had changed into a sumptuous silk dressing gown embroidered with gold brocade which Leone was sure had once kept Monsieur Tubeuf warm on chilly evenings.

‘Knight?' he asked in a deep voice.

‘I shall be leaving Alençon shortly, and … the thought of not saying farewell … saddened me.'

‘I would have been equally … sad had you left without saying farewell. Pray come in. Would you care for some wine? The … My cellar is well stocked.'

‘A glass of wine, then.'

‘This hallway is icy. Let me take you upstairs, knight. My principal rooms are on the first floor. I will join you directly.'

The vast reception room with its roaring fire was magnificent. An abundance of candelabra cast a harmonious, almost natural light. The exquisitely carved chests, the elegant pedestal tables imported from Italy, the tall bevelled mirrors and the lush tapestries hanging on the walls were evidence of the former owners' wealth. Leone sat in one of the two armchairs drawn
up in front of the stone hearth. Florin returned carrying two Venetian glasses – a rare and splendid luxury seen only at the tables of the most powerful princes.

He pulled the other chair up to face his guest and sat down, brushing his knees against those of Leone, who did not recoil. The inquisitor was filled with a new kind of excitement. He had hooked his fish, and what a fine catch he was. If he managed to seduce this man, who could possibly resist him? The complexity of this game, the subtlety it required, intoxicated him more assuredly than any alcohol. He murmured in a deep, soft, seductive voice:

‘I am … I was going to say honoured but suddenly the word displeases me.'

‘Moved?' suggested Leone, leaning imperceptibly towards him.

‘Yes. Moved.'

‘As for me, I am stirred to the depths,' Leone confessed, and the sincerity Florin perceived in the knight's voice thrilled him since he misunderstood the reason for it.

‘Stirred to the depths?' the inquisitor repeated, rolling the words greedily on his tongue. ‘Is it not remarkable that our paths should have crossed like this?'

‘Not really,' Leone corrected, narrowing his bright-blue eyes.

‘Do you believe in fate?'

‘I believe in desire and in satisfying desire.'

The long, slender hand, responsible for such torment, moved towards the knight's face. He watched it caress the air, the flesh transparent and orange against the firelight. Leone closed his eyes for a moment and a smile spread across his face. He took hold of Florin's wrist and stood up. The inquisitor followed suit and took a step forward so that his body was almost touching the Hospitaller's.

A sigh.

Florin's eyes, as deep as pools, widened and his mouth fell open without emitting any sound. He staggered backwards, staring down at the hilt of the dagger protruding from his belly, and gasped:

‘But why …'

Leone did not take his eyes off him. The other man pulled out the lethal blade and a flow of blood soaked the front of his fine dressing gown, making the gold brocade glisten.

‘You should be asking who, not why. For the sake of the rose. So that the rose may live.'

‘I don't … You said … Stirred …'

‘I am stirred to the depths of my soul. She has stirred me for eternity. I was not mistaken.'

Florin grasped the back of his chair with both hands to stop himself from falling. His thoughts were racing but he could make no sense of them.

‘Agnès?'

‘Who else? Do not even attempt to understand for it is beyond you.'

‘The camerlin—'

‘That evil pig, that vile executioner. There was no letter from the camerlingo. Jean de Rioux wrote the orders you received and the seal was taken from an ancient document in the library of a nearby abbey.'

A crimson bubble burst at the corner of the inquisitor's mouth, then another, followed by a string of ephemeral bright-red pearls. He coughed and a trickle of blood appeared and dangled from his chin. His features were twisted as the pain searing his insides exploded with renewed vigour. He groaned, stumbling over his words:

‘It hurts … It hurts so much.'

‘All those tortured ghosts will finally be at peace, Florin. Your victims.'

‘I … I beg you … I'm bleeding to death.'

‘What? Should I put you out of your misery? What compassion have you ever shown that you should merit mine? Give me a single example. I ask no more in order to spare you the agony of a slow death.'

The blood was draining from the face that had once been so seductive. Leone wondered how many women, and men, had succumbed to the perfect mirage, only to discover the nightmare concealed within. How many had perished after an eternity of pain suffered at those long, slender hands? An infant's cries brought him back to the man now lying crumpled up before the hearth.

‘It hurts … It hurts so terribly … I'm going to die, I'm so afraid … For pity's sake, knight.'

The image of those blue-grey eyes encircled by sickly shadows flashed through his mind. For her sake, for the sake of the incomparable rose whose petals he had once sketched in a big notebook, Leone picked up the bloodstained dagger. He leaned over the dying man, loosened the neck of his gown and with a single movement slashed his pale throat.

A rattle, a sigh. Florin's body shook violently then went limp. Francesco de Leone paused to consider the torturer's corpse, searching deep inside himself to see whether this execution had given him any pleasure. None. Only a fleeting sense of relief. One beast was dead, but others would replace him, of this he was certain.

He picked up his glass from one of the little Italian pedestal tables and placed it carefully on the mantelpiece. Florin had
fallen on top of the other and the purplish wine had mingled with the red of his blood. He stooped to pull off the luxurious rings that adorned the dead inquisitor's fingers. He kicked over one of the chairs, which fell on its side. He opened the blood-soaked dressing gown, baring the slender chest. This would give the appearance of a lovers' tryst that had gone wrong or a bloody burglary. Leone considered the scene he had staged, then removed his soiled surcoat and threw it on the fire before walking out into the night.

God would judge.

As for his fellow men, the knight was counting on their tongues loosening now that they no longer needed to fear the inquisitor, and on their thirst for revenge.

God would judge.