The Lord Bishop's Clerk (15 page)

Sister Edeva leaned forward a little, her head to one side. ‘You find it strange that a religious should behave in such a manner? That a nun should turn to prayer?’

Her voice was soft, though Bradecote felt he could detect mockery in its depths. The lady was providing no assistance at all.

He tried another approach. ‘I am trying to ascertain the movements of all within the abbey between Vespers and Compline. You were absent from the abbot’s table. Would you please tell me where you were.’

‘I am sure Sister Ursula has already told you. I was at prayer in St Eadburga’s chapel.’

‘For the entire time?’

‘Obviously not, since I was coming towards the church with my sister when the master mason emerged, and I am sure that Sister Ursula has told you that already.’

Her answers were clear, and yet … Bradecote felt that there was much to be said which was concealed, though he would have sworn she was telling no lie. They were engaged in a verbal combat, which the lady seemed to be enjoying, and in which she had the upper hand. He glanced at Catchpoll, who was eyeing the nun with both respect and suspicion.

‘It seems an unusual time for prayer,’ Bradecote tried again, ‘immediately after the office and when a meal was to be served. What could lead you to spend the time thus?’

The grey eyes, which had appeared cool and vaguely mocking, hardened in an instant, and the voice had an icy, imperious edge. ‘There is no such time as “an unusual time for prayer”, for communing with the All Highest, and my prayers are a matter for none but myself and God, my lord.’

Bradecote could not conceal his amazement at the strength of her reaction, and without thinking, stammered an apology. Only as the words left his mouth did he wonder why she had reacted in such a way.

‘Forgive me, I meant only …’

‘To see if I killed Eudo the Clerk.’ She stared at him, fixing him with the granite hard eyes. The voice was very deliberate. ‘I did not kill that man.’

It was a bald statement, without explanation, without a reason but as though there ought to have been. Something important was being said, but Bradecote, inexperienced in such affairs, could not fathom what it was. As he watched her, the nun withdrew into herself again. It was as though she had emerged briefly into the secular world and then once more withdrawn. He wanted to ask her other questions, but they had become jumbled in his brain, halted by her stark announcement.

It was Serjeant Catchpoll who, clearing his throat respectfully, asked what Bradecote had intended. ‘Since you were present in the chapel during the time when the murder was committed in the church,’ he avoided mentioning exactly where, ‘we have to ask if you heard anything, Sister.’

‘I was at prayer, Serjeant, and my concentration was upon my orisons, nothing else. However, I can say that I heard no scream or cry, if that will help you.’ It would not, but it was clear the Benedictine was not going to be more forthcoming.

The Sister of Romsey rose without either man saying anything to stop her. It was she who was bringing the interview to a close. She gazed calmly at Hugh Bradecote, and he thought she was assessing him. There was the briefest moment, perhaps even one of his own imagining, when her eyes narrowed in surprise, and then resumed their distant mockery.

‘No doubt you will find me, should you have need to question me further, my lord.’ She made him the slightest of obeisances, the spiritual deferring to the secular, and left.

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.

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.’