The Lord Bishop's Clerk (12 page)

Hugh Bradecote found the novices as much in awe of the sheriff’s representative as of their abbot, and singularly unhelpful. They lowered their eyes in humility, and were vague, as if they hoped to give him the answers he desired whether the truth or not. Their sub-prior, Remigius, could give no proof of what he had been doing after the end of the meal in the refectory, for he had sought solitude to consider a problem, an ‘inner crisis’ all of his own. Even had others seen him, he would not, he said, have noticed them. Only the Compline bell recalled him to his duties. Bradecote asked where he had gone for this contemplation, but other than denying being in the church, Remigius seemed unable (or was it just unwilling?) to say. There was certainly something still preying upon the monk’s mind, but asking him bluntly what it was seemed unlikely to get a response.

‘You came here from Winchester, Brother, so I hear. You must have known Brother Eudo then.’

‘By sight of course, my lord, but he was oft times away upon the lord bishop’s business, and …’ Brother Remigius halted and studied the floor, and Bradecote groaned inwardly. He was going to have to drag anything useful from the man.

‘And what, Brother Remigius?’

‘It’s not charitable to say so, my lord, but Brother Eudo was not well liked among the brethren. No doubt he was a conscientious worker for our bishop, but among those of us who do not venture much outside our walls he was considered lacking in humility and a sower of discord. In community we should live together in charity, but we are human, and fall into sin. We are guilty of not forgiving, of anger, of jealousy, and Brother Eudo was always glad to tell one man of the failings of another and then smile upon the consequences.’ The sub-prior of Pershore shook his head, as if glad to rid himself of the memory.

The under-sheriff hid his momentary delight. Here was one who had knowledge of the victim and disliked him. He tried to elicit more information in the subtle way Catchpoll had used with the mason in the workshop, but the man just looked more miserable and was as closed as an oyster. Bradecote did not see the man as a killer, however, and could see no motive. A Benedictine would surely not imperil his immortal soul because another brother did not match the pattern of rectitude expected, and ‘told tales’.

He rejoined Catchpoll, who had passed an equally fruitless couple of hours, and looked as happy as a man with toothache. Bradecote decided it would be best not to unleash a morose Catchpoll alone on the sensibilities of the ladies, especially the pallid fidgety one, whom he wanted to interview first in the afternoon. After the midday meal he waited in the abbot’s parlour while the serjeant went to fetch her. He hoped more would be gained from the women than the monks, although he had his doubts. His own wife would, he thought, be totally useless at remembering anything that fell outside the scope of her daily round. Ela was almost pathetically keen to please, and fearful of failing her lord in any way, but faced with the sort of questions they were about to set these dames, she would be reduced to wide-eyed panic. He frowned, conscious that it was the first time he had thought of his wife since setting out with the sheriff, though she was advanced in pregnancy with their first child.

He had been told often enough that women in her condition had odd crotchets and fancies, but, rather to his surprise, Ela had become marginally less irritating and developed a measure of serenity as her pregnancy advanced. Theirs was the common sort of marriage for their station, based upon pragmatism and land, but on his side the best that could be said for his feelings was that he had some small affection for her, frequently offset by her fluttery and illogical behaviour. He tried to be a considerate husband, especially while she was carrying, but the strain of not showing frustration at her inherent stupidity was wearing, and he had regarded the sheriff’s summons with no small degree of relief. He experienced a twinge of guilt, but set all thoughts of her aside as soon as the door opened, and he returned to the task in hand.

Serjeant Catchpoll ushered the birdlike lady, who had been identified as the lady Courtney, into the abbot’s parlour, and then stood by the door where his presence would be less intrusive. He made no mention of the difficulty he had encountered in keeping her ‘mastiff’ out of the chamber. Only the lady’s soft command for him to stay on its far side had prevented him forcing his way in, and Catchpoll wondered if he might whine if his lady did not reappear within a short while. Bradecote recognised the usefulness of having an experienced watcher of people, especially guilty people, in the interview, and caught Catchpoll’s eye for a moment before inviting lady Courtney to sit. That the serjeant was also watching his performance was best not dwelt upon. The nervous dame took her seat with a murmur that might have been thanks, her expression a mixture of anxiety and a peculiar childlike pleasure. She was not an old woman in years, and vestiges of an earlier ethereal beauty clung to her like wisps of mist in the Evesham Vale, but she appeared preternaturally aged by life. The stray hairs that had escaped her coif were white, and her face was gaunt, almost underfed. The skin was pale, and drawn taut over the fine bone structure of her face. She gazed at them with misty, pale blue eyes, whose rims were dully red, as if tears were a major part of her daily existence. Her hands, never still, worked agitatedly in her lap.

It had seemed an obvious move to question first the person who seemed only too pleased to talk to them, and appeared to have some direct knowledge of the deceased, but neither serjeant nor acting under-sheriff held out any great hopes for the encounter.

‘Well, my lady Courtney, why do you think that the lord Bishop of Winchester’s clerk was murdered?’ Bradecote began briskly, not wishing to give this strange woman the opportunity to let her tale wander.

‘Not murdered, you must not say murdered.’ She did not look at him, but stared into the middle distance. The voice was pale also, barely more than a whisper, echoing her appearance, but as insistent as a petulant child’s.

‘Killed, then,’ Bradecote’s tone was patient.

‘Why? Because it was a Judgement of Heaven. God has punished him for his terrible sins. There is no crime.’ She had an equally childlike simplicity to her approach.

‘But, forgive me, his skull was smashed to a pulp with a mason’s mallet. He did not fall dead without cause, nor was he struck by lightning.’

The pallid lady, surprisingly unmoved by the description of such a messy and violent death, smiled beatifically at the sheriff’s men. She could see no problem, yet Catchpoll winced and his face performed a contortion that suggested he was suffering acute pain. Bradecote could not see why, for he was clearly not squeamish.

‘God works in ways we are unable to understand, my lord.’ Lady Courtney’s response drew him back.

Serjeant Catchpoll now sighed meaningfully, and raised his eyes heavenward. Hugh Bradecote rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He was not getting anywhere on the reason for Eudo the Clerk’s death, although the lady had obviously some deep seated reason for loathing the man, if one so insipid could achieve so strong an emotion as loathing.

‘How do you know that his sins were any greater than yours or mine, my lady?’

Two spots of colour appeared on the woman’s thin, white cheeks, and her brows drew together. When she spoke, her voice had dropped an octave, and held a vehemence at odds with her natural gentle mien.

‘That man was a wicked, cruel thief,’ she declared, her voice shaking with passion.

Catchpoll, who had apparently lost interest in the proceedings, and had been contemplating a woodlouse clambering, slowly and determinedly, across the rush-strewn floor, looked up suddenly, incredulous.

‘Him, a thief!’

Bradecote shot him a quelling glance, and spoke to the lady, gently, as if eliciting information from a shy infant.

‘Did he steal something from you, lady?’

Lady Courtney gazed at the floor and nodded, the action continuing as if she knew not how to stop it.

‘What was it?’ Bradecote was patient.

She swallowed hard and raised her face to meet him eye to eye, suddenly distraught.

‘My husband.’

There was a momentary silence. Catchpoll now regarded her warily, as if her madness might make her dangerous. Bradecote strove to overcome his own surprise and puzzlement. ‘I see,’ he said slowly, although it was far from the truth, ‘But how did he do that?’

‘My husband is … was … is, a good man, a fine man.’ Emma Courtney ceased to fidget. ‘He went to Winchester, and there fell sick of a fever. He was terribly ill, cared for in the infirmary of the New Minster, he was, and Henri de Blois himself came and prayed for him. After a week he began to recover, but while he was still weak, that Eudo came to him. He said how important the lord bishop’s intercessions had been, how little hope there had been before. He kept telling my poor husband how much he owed to God and to the Bishop of Winchester. He persuaded him to make over some land revenues to the abbey, but he also told him that God had spared his life and that he ought to show his gratitude by taking the cross and going on pilgrimage to Jerusalem. My lord returned home, and made instant preparations to leave. Goodness knows, I tried to prevent him, begged him to stay, but he said he had promised and that it was the will of God.’ She snorted. ‘The will of the lord bishop’s clerk, more like!’

Suddenly the animation that had possessed her disappeared. She seemed to shrink before their eyes, and when she spoke, it was softly, to herself.

‘He should have returned around Michaelmas this last year, for I heard that he was on his way, but there was no word thereafter. I managed, because that is what he wanted of me, but it has been so hard, so hard, and now I fear the worst. I have been to shrines; I have lit so many candles; but in my heart I feel that he will not return to me … and it was all that man’s fault. God has punished him.’

She was rocking gently to and fro by this time, her arms folded round herself as if she were cold. Bradecote had no wish to push this sad, distressed dame further, but he had one more question that had to be asked.

‘I am sorry, my lady, but I must ask you how you spent the time between Vespers and Compline.’

She did not respond.

‘My lady Courtney?’

She looked up at him, blinking away tears, her brow creased as if she was surprised to see him.

‘Me? I … I went to supper at the abbot’s lodging, but I was not very hungry. I excused myself as early as possible and went to the church.’

‘You were in the church.’ Here at last was something useful, but Bradecote felt the need to be certain of what she said.

‘Why, yes. I went to pray and light a candle. I left it before the high altar. When there is nobody else there I feel God may hear my poor supplications better.’

Bradecote and the serjeant exchanged glances. They had gained, at least, an explanation of where the candle used to light the documents had originated, and it meant that the death must have taken place during the latter period between Vespers and Compline.

‘Did anyone see you … after supper, that is?’

‘Sister Ursula of Romsey left with me, but we parted when she returned to the guest hall. I saw no one else. Ulf does not count, of course, and he remained in the cloister while I was at my prayers. He does not like me to be out of his view, but I find his presence … distracting to prayer.’

Ulf was presumably the name of her trusty follower. Bradecote focused on the nuns.

‘Was the other Romsey sister not with her?’

‘No. She did not come to supper.’ The voice was listless. Lady Courtney had no interest in the whereabouts of her fellow guests.

Bradecote did not think there was more to be learned from her, and had Catchpoll escort her back to the guest hall. When the serjeant returned he found Bradecote drawing on a scrap of vellum. Catchpoll sniffed and pulled a face. He did not see the need for writing, not that he could tell one letter from another. In fact, Bradecote was finishing a rough plan of the abbey enclave, and had marked the movements of the interviewees upon it. He did not raise his head from his work as Catchpoll entered.

‘So, what do you think we have learned, Serjeant?’

‘That you’ve not done anything like this before, my lord,’ Serjeant Catchpoll grumbled, and looked genuinely aggrieved.

‘What do you mean, Catchpoll?’ Bradecote spoke sharply, defensive but equally aggravated, for Catchpoll’s tone was not in the least respectful.

‘Well, you see, my lord,’ the serjeant spoke patiently, but patronisingly. ‘We are here to find out things, not tell suspects what we have discovered ourselves.’ He paused, and added judiciously, ‘unless of course it is intentional, or to draw out something, or a plain lie.’

‘Yes.’ Bradecote was keeping a hold on his temper. ‘That is obvious.’

‘Obvious, is it? My lord, you just sat there and merrily told the lady Courtney exactly what the murder weapon was, didn’t you?’ Catchpoll was exasperated.

‘Ah.’

There was a pause as Bradecote digested this error and Catchpoll fought not to tell his superior just how much of an idiot he thought him. Eventually he spoke, very calmly and slowly.

‘By keeping what we know to ourselves, we find out if folk have knowledge only the guilty could possess. If the lady had said, “But even a mallet can be an instrument of God”, then we would have known that either she committed the murder or discovered the body with the mallet beside it and had some motive for concealing the crime. But now, the chances are that everyone will know the murder weapon within the hour, especially since you told a woman.’

‘Perhaps she might not have taken much notice.’ Bradecote was trying to sound positive, but only managed to sound as if clutching at straws.

Catchpoll looked gloomier than usual. ‘Perhaps, but I would doubt it, my lord.’

There was another lengthy silence. Bradecote was angry with himself, both for what he had done, and for opening himself up to justified but insubordinate criticism. He was playing into the experienced man’s hands. Would Serjeant Catchpoll be able to stand before William de Beauchamp if they failed, and say, in truth, that he had been hampered by being yoked to an incompetent novice? Well, there was no point in dwelling upon a mistake that could not be rectified.