Where Love Has Gone (14 page)

“Can you be absolutely certain? She has most
likely been dead for more than two months,” Desmond reminded
him.

“True. I understand what you are saying. But
I have prepared many men for burial – far too many in these violent
times! – and women, too, and some of them were dead longer than
Lady Aglise, so I speak from years of experience.”

“I accept your conclusions, Father. Will you
hazard a guess as to what kind of poison?”

“I cannot. I’m not well acquainted with such
evil potions. In my work as a priest I have, from time to time,
seen men and women who died that way. I thank God only two of that
number took the poison themselves. It was grief to me that I could
not see them buried in consecrated ground. Suicide, as you know, is
an unpardonable sin, in part because the dead person cannot repent
later and seek absolution. Still, I continue to include those two
lost souls in my daily prayers, in hope that my prayers will do
some good.”

“Do you have any reason to think Lady Aglise
took her own life?”

Even as he asked the question Desmond knew
how absurd it was. If Aglise had chosen such an unforgivable path,
she still would have required an assistant to wrap her in that
cursed linen sheet and bury her in the cave. Desmond wasn’t sure of
the fine points of theological reasoning, but he thought it was a
safe guess that anyone aiding a suicide would be equally condemned
by the Church. Except, of course, the person who helped her, being
still alive, could later repent and seek absolution. And a very
long and difficult penance would be imposed, he thought grimly.

“Lady Aglise was foolish as only the young
can be,” said Father Otwin, “and perhaps she was too flirtatious.
She even flirted with me! She and her sister ought to have been wed
or sent to convents years ago. But, no, Sir Desmond; nothing in
Lady Aglise’s character leads me to believe she ever considered
taking her own life.”

“That is the same conclusion I have reached.
I never met Aglise, but nothing anyone has said to me about her has
indicated a wish to die.” Then, speaking suddenly to catch the
priest off guard, he asked, “Father, did Aglise have enemies? Or
was she involved in any activity that could make someone want to
kill her? Was she, possibly, with child?”

The last question slipped out because it was
churning around Desmond’s mind whenever he considered who could
have done the murder. A girl who has an affair with a married man
runs the risk of becoming pregnant and, because she cannot marry
her lover to make the situation right, the same lover, if he cannot
acknowledge the affair or the child, would have a very good reason
to want Aglise dead.

He saw a flicker of something in Father
Otwin’s eyes, a look quickly hidden behind a bland, clerical mask.
Desmond was convinced the priest was a good and honest man, and his
conviction was borne out by Father Otwin’s next, carefully chosen
words.

“Certainly, Sir Desmond, you know I can never
reveal anything told to me under the seal of confession.”

Aha!
So, there was something.

“Father, I would never ask a priest to betray
his holy vows. No, I was simply wondering if, in the ordinary way
of things, you had heard or seen anything to make you suspect
Aglise was in trouble just before she disappeared.”

Father Otwin looked him straight in the eye
and made the only answer an honest priest could make when
questioned too closely about his pastoral charges.

“I regret I can tell you nothing, Sir
Desmond. I would strongly suggest you look elsewhere within the
manor for the information you seek.”

“‘Within the manor,’“ Desmond repeated
softly, and saw again that same, swiftly quenched, flicker in the
priest’s blue eyes. “Thank you for your help, Father Otwin. I will
do as you suggest.”

“May the Good Lord help you to uncover the
truth of Lady Aglise’s sad death.” The priest raised one hand in
benediction and dismissal.

“Perhaps it would be of help if you’d say a
few prayers to that effect,” Desmond said. Accepting the firm but
gentle indication that he would uncover no more information during
the present interview, he bowed politely. “I thank you again,
Father Otwin.”

Upon leaving the chapel, Desmond paused in
the entry hall. So many suspicions filled his mind. If he was to
make sense of all he had learned he needed to sort those suspicions
into some kind of order. When a maidservant hurried down the stairs
from the solar and turned toward the great hall, Desmond stopped
her.

“Can you tell me where the garden is?” he
asked.

“At the side of the courtyard,” she said.
“Behind the wattle fence.”

“Does that include the herb and the kitchen
gardens?”

“Yes, and there’s a corner with a bench. I
suppose you need a bit of quiet after finding Lady Aglise. What a
dreadful sight it must have been! Shall I bring a tankard of ale
for you to drink while you sit in the garden?”

“No, but thank you for the kind thought.”

Desmond went through the manor house entrance
and down the steps into the courtyard. He found the garden at once,
nestled behind a fence woven of willow branches, just as the maid
had said, and with a sturdy wooden gate to keep out roaming animals
and, probably, men-at-arms, too.

The spring was too new yet for roses to
bloom, even in the warmth and sunshine of the island climate. But
some plants were pushing through the soil and spreading their
leaves. Desmond knew little about flowers, so he wasn’t sure what
they were. Only the prickly rose bushes and the apple tree that
dropped its white petals across the gravel path were familiar to
him. He did recognize the separate section of the garden that held
a large collection of herbs, and the kitchen garden beyond. He knew
lettuce when he saw it, and he guessed the tiny red stems with
reddish leaves just sprouting were beets. As far as he could tell,
nothing deadly lurked among the vegetables.

The herbs were another matter. Wishing he
knew exactly which herbs could be used to create a poison, Desmond
turned his attention to the part of the garden they occupied. Save
for the dark green, ruffled leaves of parsley, all of the herbs
were mysterious to him and, possibly, any of them could be
dangerous in the right combination.

Hearing a step on the gravel he turned to
find Cadwallon entering the garden.

“I saw you come in,” Cadwallon explained,
closing and latching the gate. “I trust we can speak here without
being overheard. Desmond, something strange is going on in this
place.”

“Yes,” Desmond said. “Murder.”

“I think murder is only part of it. I’ve just
been questioning Flamig. He’s obviously loyal to Lord Bertrand and
he made a point of insisting that Bertrand is loyal to King Henry.
Yet, Flamig seemed to be suggesting – well, I don’t quite know what
he was suggesting. It was all hints about unspoken suspicions, as
if he knew something but couldn’t prove it beyond doubt, so he
wasn’t going to say straight out what was on his mind. I got the
feeling Flamig is hoping we will be able to uncover and prove
whatever it is that he fears he knows.”

“Flamig doesn’t strike me as the kind of man
who easily gives in to fears,” Desmond said.

“I have the same impression of him,”
Cadwallon agreed. “So, what is it that unsettles a hardened
man-at-arms?”

“An interesting problem.” Desmond dropped
onto a stone bench set between a pair of rose bushes that were just
leafing out into pale green. “I have been questioning Father Otwin.
Unlike Flamig, he doesn’t appear to be afraid or even unsettled,
though he did lead me to think there are secrets here that need
discovering. When I tried to press him, he reminded me that a
priest cannot reveal what is spoken in confession. Then he
suggested I continue to search within the manor.”

“How did you fare with Lady Benedicta?”
Cadwallon asked, joining Desmond on the bench.

“Not much better than with Father Otwin.”
Desmond recounted his conversation with the lady of the castle.
“The only facts I learned for certain are that she does not like
Lady Irmina, and she didn’t much like Aglise, either.”

“Do you think she suspected Aglise of
carrying on an affair with Lord Bertrand?”

“If she did suspect, she offered no
indication to me.”

“Hmm.” Cadwallon considered a moment, then
said, “I judge Lady Benedicta too cool a woman to care much if her
husband took a mistress. Such affairs are not at all uncommon, and
so long as he was discreet about it and didn’t embarrass her, a
cold woman might be glad her husband is leaving her alone.”

“That’s very different from the song you were
singing when you thought the person responsible for Aglise’s
disappearance was a man-at-arms,” Desmond exclaimed.

“Yes, well, the men-at-arms are mostly under
thirty years old and those who are married have wives younger than
they. Lady Benedicta is an older woman. She also appears to be an
unemotional one.”

“Unemotional, but not entirely placid,”
Desmond said, recalling the lady’s flashing embroidery needle.
“Like Flamig and the priest, she has something serious preying on
her mind.

“Before we can do anything more,” he
continued, “we need conclusive proof that Lord Bertrand was bedding
Aglise. Without proof, we dare not accuse our host of so grave a
lapse in foster parent probity. Good God, Cadwallon! We may as well
accuse him of incest!”

“It’s close enough,” Cadwallon agreed,
shaking his head and blowing out a long breath in disgust. “Suppose
we do find proof? What then? Despicable as such a relationship is,
it doesn’t necessarily mean Bertrand killed Aglise.”

“Unless she threatened to reveal their
liaison.”

“We’ve discussed this before.” Cadwallon
spoke with a touch of impatience. “If Aglise gave herself to a
married man,
any
married man, revealing the affair would
ruin her. The more I think about this, the more it seems to me that
pointing the obvious fact out to her ought to have silenced her as
surely as killing. Since the girl probably hoped to make a good
marriage some day, it would be in her interest never to disclose
what happened and that she was no longer a virgin. So then, why
bother to kill her?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind
again!” Desmond exclaimed in annoyance.

“I am merely examining all of the
possibilities,” Cadwallon told him. “By turning our assumptions
over to look at them in a different way, who knows what we may
uncover?”

“All I know is,” Desmond said with a weary
sigh, “we have to locate the proof. It’s here somewhere, in the
manor, just as the priest said. I’m certain of it.”

Elaine came to the evening meal pale and
subdued, with Father Otwin’s hand at her elbow, as if he was
insisting she must sit down and eat. She did sit, next to Desmond
as usual, but she swallowed only a small bit of bread before
pushing her plate away.

“Starving yourself won’t help Aglise,”
Desmond reminded her. “Nor can you assist Cadwallon and me if you
make yourself sick.”

“Do you truly need my help?”

Her voice was so low and quavering that
Desmond was alarmed. He laid his hand over hers, holding it on the
linen-covered table when she would have pulled it away. He wished
he dared to lift her hand to his lips and speak reassuring words.
Faith, he’d like to put his arms around her and hold her close,
perhaps even offer a few tender kisses. He knew if he tried, she
would reject him. All of her thoughts were on her sister, and would
likely remain on Aglise until she was buried. Yet, Elaine needed
comfort and he didn’t think either Lord Bertrand or Lady Benedicta
was likely to supply it.

Desmond sought a way to cheer her. Even while
sunk deep in sorrow Elaine retained her sharp wits, so he guessed
she would react to any chance of finding proof of who had killed
Aglise.

“I assume you intend to keep a vigil
tonight?” he said quietly, so Lord Bertrand on her other side would
not hear him.

“Yes.” She looked up at him through eyes
swimming in tears. “In fact, I ought to go now. I’ve been away from
the chapel for too long.”

“Wait.” Desmond tightened his hand on hers.
“Cadwallon and I may have learned something important. May I join
you later? We’ll be able to speak privately in the chapel.”

“No, we won’t. Everyone in the castle will
want to say a prayer for Aglise. People will be in and out of the
chapel all night long.”

“Then, tell me where we can speak before you
begin your vigil.”

“No.” Elaine stood. “My lord Bertrand, please
excuse me. I must attend my sister.”

“Of course. I’ll join you shortly.” Lord
Bertrand took a long gulp from his wine cup.

Desmond sat helplessly while Elaine stepped
off the dais and walked out of the hall. From farther down the
table, Father Otwin caught Desmond’s eye and shook his head sadly
before he rose to follow Elaine.

“Now that we know for certain Aglise is dead
and hasn’t run off with some man,” Lady Benedicta said to
Cadwallon, “you have no further reason to stay on Jersey. You will
want to make your report on the matter to Lord Royce. I assume you
will depart tomorrow, as you and Lord Bertrand have agreed.”

“Not at all, my lady.” Cadwallon sounded
positively lighthearted. “Desmond and I must be here for the
funeral.”

“It’s not necessary,” Lord Bertrand said.
“Neither you, nor Sir Desmond, knew Aglise.”

“Ah, but we do know you, my lord,” Cadwallon
said, blithely ignoring the irritation in his host’s voice, “and
your kind lady, and Elaine, too. How could we desert all of you
during your time of grief?”

“Indeed.” Desmond joined the discussion,
eager to promote Cadwallon’s point of view. “We may as well wait
for the
Daisy
to return, so we can sail on her.”