The Lady Agnes Mystery, Volume 1 (46 page)

F
rom the table perched on a dais that allowed a good view over the refectory, Éleusie’s gaze swept over the sisters, who were seated at two long planks of wood resting on trestles, their faces lit up by the flickering flames of the resin candles.

The vast room would normally have been alive with the sound of whispering, inappropriate since meals were supposed to take place in silence. The odd misplaced giggle would normally have rung out, occasioning a call to order from the Abbess. The senior, cellarer and treasurer nuns would normally have shared the Abbess’s table, but Blanche de Blinot rarely left her steam room now and Hedwige du Thilay was dead. The only one left was Berthe de Marchiennes, who, divested of her habitual air of superiority, resembled the ageing, pathetic woman she really was.

Éleusie de Beaufort had suggested to Annelette Beaupré that she occupy Hedwige’s empty seat so as to spare her daughters a further painful reminder, but the apothecary nun had declined her offer. It was easier for her to survey the others, to observe their reactions from her end of one of the trestle tables, and she was sure that the murderess would be more cautious of the hierarchy sitting up on their dais.

Annelette Beaupré was keeping a close watch on Geneviève Fournier. The sister in charge of the fishponds and the henhouses was deathly pale, and the almost blackish-purple shadows under her big brown eyes betrayed the fact that she was not sleeping and not eating either, as she had swallowed next to nothing since Hedwige du Thilay’s horrific death. This stubborn refusal to eat, which many attributed to the close friendship the two women
had enjoyed, troubled the apothecary nun. Undeniably they had been close, as were many of the other sisters, but surely not to the point of starving herself to death. Annelette glanced along the table and felt a pang of grief when her eye alighted on the sprigs of autumn flowers marking Adélaïde Condeau’s empty place, and that of Jeanne d’Amblin, who was recovering but still too weak to leave her bed.

Annelette watched Geneviève lift her bowl of turnip, broad bean and bacon soup to her lips, only to set it down abruptly on the table, her hands trembling. She looked around fearfully before lowering her head and pressing the crumbs of black bread between her fingers. The apothecary nun had seen enough; Geneviève was starving herself to death because, despite all the precautions they had taken, she was terrified. Two novices were posted as lookouts at the entrance to the kitchens while the new sister in charge of meals, Elisaba Ferron, prepared the food. Elisaba had just completed her noviciate and taken her final vows. The middle-aged woman, the widow of a rich merchant from Nogent-le-Rotrou, had received Annelette’s backing for this post. She was burly enough to knock out anyone attempting to meddle with her pots. As for her stentorian voice, it struck fear into the hearts of more than a few when she placed her hands on her generous hips and boomed: ‘My name is appropriate. It means joy in the house of God the Father. Don’t forget it, God is joy!’ Nobody in their right mind would contradict Elisaba for, despite her loud generosity, she was made of stern stuff, having spent her married life shaking up lazy clerks and putting impudent customers in their place.

Annelette perceived the worried, suspicious glances. They were all surreptitiously sizing one another up in an attempt to discover which familiar friendly face concealed the wicked beast.
She watched the furtive glances flying around the room, pausing occasionally and silently wondering. Would their hitherto peaceable, relatively harmonious congregation survive the insidious sickness of suspicion? Annelette was unsure. Indeed, if she were honest, she would have to admit that what kept them together was, above all, the shared conviction that this enclosure protected them from the outside world. But death had climbed in among them by stealth, shattering the stout ramparts and their belief that the world’s madness could never enter there. In reality, though, what were the majority of the sisters most afraid of? Being poisoned or finding themselves alone and destitute on the outside with no household willing to take them into service? Faith had unquestionably guided the majority in their choice. And yet, even they must have realised by now that the abbey had been their only refuge. And what would she, proud Annelette, do? She preferred not to think about it. Nobody was waiting for her on the outside. Nobody cared what became of her. Her sole existence, her sole importance was concentrated within these walls. This diverse congregation of women, whose members infuriated, amused and only occasionally interested her, had become her family. She had no other now.

The meal ended in an uneasy calm. Only the sound of the benches scraping against the floor broke the oppressive silence. Annelette was the last to leave the table and she followed Geneviève Fournier. Once outside the refectory the sister in charge of the fishponds turned left, cutting through the guest house and across the gardens to go and check her fish and poultry once more before going to bed. She walked slowly, stooped forward with her head down, oblivious to her surroundings. It was dark, and Annelette followed at a few yards’ distance, taking care not to give her presence away. Geneviève crossed the
cloisters and went past the relics’ room. She walked alongside the stables until she reached the henhouses, which were near the entrance to the orchards. She stopped in front of the makeshift wooden fence and stood watching her beloved hens. Annelette, who had also come to a halt, was filled with a strange tenderness. What was her sister thinking about as she stood in the dark, chill night? About Hedwige? About death? Finally Annelette took the plunge. She strode over to Geneviève, and placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder. The sister in charge of the fishponds and the henhouses jumped and stifled a cry. Annelette could see a look of terror in her eyes. Geneviève quickly regained her composure and let out a feeble laugh:

‘How fearful I must seem. You gave me such a start … Are you taking the air, dear Annelette?’

The other woman studied her in silence for a moment before declaring:

‘Don’t you think the time has come?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Why are you so afraid of being the next victim that you are starving yourself?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ the younger woman snapped.

‘You know, or think you know, the cause of Hedwige’s murder and Jeanne’s near-fatal poisoning and that is why you fear for your life.’

‘I don’t …’

‘Be quiet! Can’t you see that as long as you say nothing the murderess will want to eliminate you? But the more of us you let into your secret the less reason she will have to silence you.’

A huge tear rolled down the face of the sister in charge of the fishponds and henhouses, and she stammered:

‘I can’t go on …’

‘Then tell me your secret. It is your only protection.’

Geneviève studied her. She so longed to believe her but was still so afraid.

‘I … I saw you take my eggs, a large amount of them. At first, I was so upset that I even considered telling our Reverend Mother. But I waited. I asked Hedwige’s opinion. It was only later, during the incident in the scriptorium when I saw you rubbing the soles of our shoes on the heating pans, that I understood the necessary part my eggs had played in the trap you had laid.’

‘I see. Hedwige knew about my … borrowing from your hens, and as she was good friends with Jeanne she almost certainly mentioned it to her.’

Geneviève nodded nervously and murmured in a faltering voice:

‘I am to blame … It’s my fault they were poisoned.’

‘No. Get that silly idea out of your head. Go back now, Geneviève. Go back and eat something. I will inform our Reverend Mother of this conversation. I advise you … I advise you to confide in some of the sisters about what has been worrying you.’

‘But the poisoner … I might tell her.’

‘That’s precisely what I’m hoping. If she planned to get rid of you in order to stop you from talking, she’ll realise it’s too late and give up.’

A look of relief appeared on the diminutive sister’s face and she flung her arms around Annelette who, embarrassed by this effusiveness, carefully extricated herself, smiling apologetically:

‘I am not accustomed to such displays of affection.’

Geneviève nodded and confessed:

‘Dear Annelette. I think that many of us have misjudged you. You seem so severe …’ she added with a sigh. ‘And yet you are without doubt the bravest, most intelligent woman I have ever known. I wanted to tell you that.’

With this she left, heading towards the gloomy buildings silhouetted against the moonlit sky.

Annelette stayed behind, watching the hunched figures of the hens asleep in their shelter. She did not doubt for a second the veracity of Geneviève’s story. And yet she felt convinced that it didn’t stand up either. Assuming Hedwige had mentioned Geneviève’s concerns about her eggs to Jeanne, it followed that Jeanne must then have told somebody else in order to explain why both women had been targeted by the poisoner. Unless the two had shared food or drink that was only meant for Hedwige. The apothecary decided to put her mind at rest before going to bed. She went up to the dormitory, still deserted before compline, and entered Jeanne’s tiny curtained cell. The extern sister was dozing. Annelette’s foot knocked against something that made a hollow sound. She looked down and saw an empty soup bowl. Good. Jeanne was eating again and would soon recover her strength. She picked it up and went over to the sleeping woman’s bedside. Something cracked under the thick leather sole of her shoe, and she was concerned lest the sharp noise rouse her sister. The hubbub of the other sisters returning to their cells after compline was sure to wake her and she would come back to talk to her then.

She left quietly, pulled the drapes closed behind her and went to the kitchen to return the soup bowl. It was then that she became aware of something squeaking as she walked. She looked under her shoe, assuming she must have picked up a pebble from the garden.
A tiny object glistened in the darkness. She tried to dislodge it and cried out in pain. At first she saw nothing. It was only when she went and stood under one of the lights in the kitchen that she noticed that her finger was bleeding. Upon closer inspection of her shoe she realised that the pebble was in fact a thick shard of glass. How had it got there? There was very little glass in the abbey. Only the scriptorium windows were glazed, and as far as she knew none of them was broken. Holding her finger above the sink, she doused it with water from a ewer, then bathed it with liquor made of thyme, rosemary, birch and sage,
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a phial of which she carried in her belt at all times. A discreet cough made her swing round. A shy novice leaned forward and murmured:

‘Our Reverend Mother wishes to see you. She is waiting in her study.’

The young woman disappeared immediately and Annelette spent a few moments dressing the tiny wound with a strip of linen before joining the Abbess in her study.

When she walked in, Éleusie rose to her feet, an inscrutable look on her face. Annelette raised her eyebrows quizzically.

‘I have just received a most astonishing piece of news. I still do not know what to make of it. It feels as though the more we progress, the less I understand.’

Annelette waited. Something in the Abbess’s manner intrigued her, alarmed her even. Éleusie raised her impossibly dainty hand to her brow and sighed:

‘The child … little Thibaut de Fleury … He died nearly two years ago, a few months after his grandfather.’

Annelette felt her knees go weak. She slumped down onto the chair opposite the desk and breathed:

‘Oh dear … But …’

‘That was my first reaction, too, daughter. We have come up against a series of impossibilities. Why bring tales of a thriving happy childhood to his mother in that case? Who would be capable of such a monstrous act? And why did nobody notify her of her father’s and then her son’s deaths?’

‘I am at a loss,’ Annelette confessed. ‘Above all, I don’t know what to do. Should we inform Yolande that she is the victim of a grotesque farce?’

‘And risk it killing her?’

‘And risk it killing her … but also perhaps forcing her to give us her informant’s name,’ corrected the apothecary.

‘Do you think that this informant is acting out of spite or is she simply passing on to Yolande information communicated to her by a third person?’

‘I have no idea, and the only way of finding out is to discover her identity.’

Another silence descended. Annelette tried to bring order to the chaos of her thoughts, to find a link between the disparate, seemingly nonsensical elements. Éleusie de Beaufort was overwhelmed by an intense fatigue. She felt herself withdraw. Her world was gradually being reduced to ashes and she could only contemplate the wreckage. By dint of a supreme effort of will, she ordered:

‘Go and fetch Yolande.’

Annelette found the sister in charge of the granary in the steam room folding bed linen with the guest mistress, Thibaude de Gartempe. Yolande stared at her coldly when she passed on the Abbess’s request. The little woman, who had always been so
cheerful, had not forgiven the apothecary nun for her suspicions. She followed her in silence and, much to Annelette’s relief, did not even ask the reason for the interview.

Éleusie was standing, leaning back against her desk as though steeling herself for an attack. Yolande could tell from the concern on her face that something terrible had happened.

‘Reverend Mother?’

‘Yolande … my dear child … Your … Your father died nearly two years ago.’

Yolande lowered her eyes and murmured:

‘Dear God … May his soul rest in peace. I hope he found it in his heart to forgive me …’ Suddenly she asked: ‘But … What about my son? What about Thibaut? Who looks after him now? I was my father’s only child.’

‘Your informant did not tell you, then?’ the apothecary nun cut in.

Yolande turned towards her, a hard, inscrutable expression on her face, before saying through gritted teeth: