The Riddle Of St Leonard's

Nineteen

As the sun sank behind the hulk of St Mary’s walls and the monastic buildings beyond St Leonard’s, Dame Beatrice supervised the laying down of six tidy rows of pallets, blankets and pillows. When Alisoun had first arrived she’d wondered where the children slept — she had foolishly imagined individual cells, as for monks. Instead, the undercroft served as the day room, refectory, and bedchamber for the children of St Leonard’s. And if one counted the curtained areas far back in the corners, it also served as their infirmary and bathhouse — to which Alisoun had been subjected on the first day. The Riverwoman had not been the only one who’d thought she’d stank. She had submitted without argument, as long as she was allowed to keep her pack beside her. Now the pack lay beneath her feet, covered by the blanket. No one could pull it out from under her without waking her.

A full hour of anxious bustle ensued, with Dame Beatrice and her lay helpers herding the children to their beds and making certain they were down for the night. At last the only lights in the long, high-ceilinged room were at the doorways. All the sisters had withdrawn except for one lay sister who sat beneath the light farthest from Alisoun. In time, the whisperings and rustlings of her fellows ceased, and Alisoun drifted into a dream.

It was night, a cool spring evening. Alisoun slept in her own bed with the babies. Her mother stood in the doorway, clutching her elbows as she did when she worried, facing out into the night, waiting for her father who had been too long at the market. Her mother at last turned away from the door, a slow, heavy-hearted turning, and crossed over to Alisoun and the babies. Alisoun drifted back to sleep, woke to find her mother’s face bent close to hers, wetting it with her tears. She reached for her mother’s hand, but her mother shook her head and backed away.

Alisoun woke on the narrow pallet, chilly beneath her itchy blanket. No babies surrounded her for warmth. Her eyes were drawn to the light that shone over the nodding sister, then to a figure who stood in the shadows at the foot of her pallet. Alisoun blinked.

‘Mama?’

Whoever it was took a few steps backwards, then turned and hurried off into the darkness. Alisoun stretched out slowly, searching for her pack with her feet. Nothing. She ducked under the covers, crawled to the foot of the pallet, searching. Searched the floor round her. It was gone.

Of course it had been him. The figure had been too tall for her mother. And her mother was dead.

How had he discovered she was at the hospital? Had he followed her? Or had the Riverwoman told him? Alisoun should have known better than to trust the heathen midwife.

Now he had her treasures. Some of them. The ones she had not buried. Alisoun’s face was hot, her eyes tingled with tears. The Riverwoman had betrayed her. She could trust no one.

Dead blossoms to trim, rosehips and mint to harvest. Lucie kept herself busy in the garden till mid-morning while Owen helped Jasper open the shop. It was Owen’s gift to her in gratitude for her patient attention in the evenings, despite her long days in the shop. Lucie’s cat, Melisende, stayed close to her, rolling in the path beside her, sniffing the plants she had trimmed, now and then insinuating herself beneath busy hands for a scratch. Jasper’s orange tabby, Crowder, watched from the workshop windowsill. The morning grew warm, and as she tired Lucie fought thoughts of her children.

‘Thirsty work on such a hot morning.’

‘Magda!’ The elderly woman crouched beside Lucie in the path, scratching Melisende’s long ears. Lucie had not even noticed the cat’s movement. ‘How long have you stood there?’

‘Long enough to see thee blot thy neck and forehead. Hast thou no work in the shade?’

Something of import must bring Magda here so soon after her last visit. ‘Come,’ Lucie gathered her tools, stood up. ‘Have a cool drink with me in the kitchen. Then I must free Owen from the shop.’

In the kitchen, as they waited for Kate to bring water from the cellar, Lucie and Magda bent over the embroidered cloth spread out on the table.

‘An altar cloth. The Ffulford girl gave it to you?’ Lucie wondered whether it could be the cloth missing from St Leonard’s. But how might it then have come to the child?

The Riverwoman folded the cloth with thoughtful care. ‘Aye, the child traded it for Magda’s help at Bootham Bar. Thou sayest an altar cloth. Magda thought it had the look of a church ornament.’

‘You must wait here for Owen. He might know something of this.’

Owen rubbed the scar beneath his patch. Douglas had described the cloth in enough detail for him to recognise the chalice of gold thread lifted in delicately embroidered hands. He did not like this development. ‘What mischief has that child got into?’

Magda shook her head. ‘She says little. Thou hast seen this piece before?’

‘I believe this to be the altar cloth stolen from St Leonard’s.’

Magda snorted. ‘A child who cannot pass the guards without escort has not been thieving at the spital.’

‘I would agree. But whence came this cloth to her, eh? And why has she asked for the protection of the hospital?’

‘That is what she sought in the city?’ Magda frowned as she folded the cloth, handed it to Owen. ‘Mayhap her kin fear her. All in her house died but Alisoun. They wonder how she came to be saved. Fools oft see evil in good.’

Owen placed the cloth in his pack. ‘I must show it to Don Cuthbert.’

‘Be patient with the child, Bird-eye.’

Cuthbert lifted the cloth in his spidery hands. ‘Alisoun Ffulford, you said?’

‘Aye.’

The cellarer held the cloth close to his bulging eyes, examining the fine needlework. ‘I am certain it is ours, Captain.’ He put down the cloth, tucked his hands up his sleeves, rocked back and forth on his heels. ‘What do you think it means?’

Owen wished he knew. ‘Have you learned any more of her mother?’

‘She was sponsored by a wealthy Yorkshire family who wished to remain anonymous. Two children were left in our care. One died of sweating sickness: a boy.’

‘So Judith Ffulford and the boy were from a wealthy family?’

‘I think it unlikely. Such people take care of their own.’

‘But sponsoring means they paid well for the children’s care?’

‘Well enough.’

Owen felt the prick of trouble beneath his patch. ‘Where is the child?’

‘You will question her about this cloth?’ ‘

I will indeed.’

All dressed alike in undyed gowns and leggings, a group of small children sat quietly on stools or on the floor listening to a lay sister who told a story about Christ and St Christopher. A group of older girls sat in the yard by the shed, frowning over a sewing lesson. Three tall boys were at work on the roof of the storage shed. Owen did not see Alisoun at once; Dame Beatrice pointed her out among the needle-workers. She was a lighter shade of brown now that she was clean. Her hair was neatly tucked into a kerchief, her legs were covered, her feet shod. ‘You have transformed her.’

Dame Beatrice made a face. ‘Outwardly, yes. But God forgive me, her soul is intractable.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Alisoun!’

Owen recognised the scowling brown eyes raised to the nun. The child forced a smile, but it faded when she glanced at Owen.

‘Captain Archer is here to see you. Come along.’ Dame Beatrice’s brusque tone was so unlike her usual manner it effectively discouraged argument. The child put down her sewing, rose and followed quietly. Dame Beatrice led them up the stairs to a small room next to the chapel, then left them alone.

Owen pulled the altar cloth from his pack. ‘Did you give this to Magda Digby?’

Alisoun sat with her feet twisted round the rungs of her chair, her hands gripping the seat on either side of her. She stared at the cloth in puzzlement, then lifted her eyes to glare at Owen. ‘It was mine to give.’

‘Don Cuthbert disagrees with you. He says it disappeared from St Leonard’s church.’

For a moment, the brown eyes revealed confusion. ‘He lies.’

Owen crossed his arms, leaned back against the wall, allowed a silence to make the child uncomfortable.

She began to fidget, clenching and unclenching the edge of the chair. ‘May I return to my lesson?’ she asked at last.

‘No.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I want to know where you found the cloth.’

‘In my mother’s things.’

‘Your mother stole the cloth?’

‘No! How could you say that?’

Owen leaned forward, hands on knees, brought his face close to the child’s. ‘Tell me about the man who stole your horse.’

‘What does he have to do with the cloth?’

‘I am the one asking the questions today.’

The child chewed on a fingernail. ‘Do you think the man who took my horse stole the altar cloth, too?’

‘Did he?’

‘How would I know?’ Her voice rose to an unpleasant pitch.

But though she was upset, Alisoun was becoming more rather than less stubborn, much like Gwenllian when pushed into a corner. Owen rose. ‘Forgive me for wasting your time. I had hoped to discover whether the man who stole your horse was the one who attacked the infirmarian of St Mary’s and stole his bag, which was later found within the hospital walls. But I see you know nothing.’ He took a few steps towards the door.

‘So he was here.’

Owen spun round. ‘You saw him?’

The brown eyes froze. ‘You are not as clever as you think.’

‘None of us is.’

Owen waited.

Alisoun fidgeted. Finally, ‘My mother learned to embroider here. She embroidered cloths for the village church.’

‘This one belonged to St Leonard’s.’

Silence.

Owen shook his head. ‘God go with you.’ He stepped out of the room.

Anneys was just coming up the stairs. ‘I shall see to her, Captain,’ she said, breathless from the climb. ‘Come, Alisoun.’

The child stood in the doorway, twisting a lock of hair that had escaped her kerchief and staring down at her shoes. Owen thought she might be more helpful the next time they met.

Geoffrey the bailiff unlocked the door to Walter de Hotter’s house. ‘What do you seek, Captain?’

‘Something that looks as if it should not be here,’ Owen said. ‘Where was Walter lying?’

Geoffrey indicated the spot by the overturned stool. ‘I tried to leave it as I found it, but I cannot say whether his apprentice shifted aught. He said nay, but he was shivering and babbling.’ Walter’s apprentice had discovered his master’s body the morning after the murder, when he had come for his breakfast.

Owen noted the bloodstained rushes. ‘Were the doors ajar?’

‘Not the street door. But that one. To the garden.’

Owen stepped out into the garden, an oblong of weed-choked herbs and flowers surrounding a pear tree. The tree would survive, but many of the plants had already died from lack of water and neglect. The sight saddened Owen.

‘Walter’s son is in Easingwold,’ Geoffrey said, as if to explain the untended patch.

‘I had heard.’ Owen stepped back into the house. ‘Pass me the lantern now.’

The bailiff opened the shutter, but held it beyond Owen’s grasp. ‘I would accompany you, Captain.’

‘You do not trust me?’

‘I would watch and learn from you.’

There were better ways to learn than to watch a man think, but Owen could see Geoffrey was sincere. ‘Come then. We will walk slowly through the house, noting all we see.’

It had been a comfortable household. Once brightly painted cushions, now faded, softened the benches by the table. On the walls, ochre stripes and dots danced against a yellow background. In the chest beside the table, two silver spoons nested among horn ones. Other costly articles included a pearl-handled knife, three pewter platters and a plain silver cup. Another chest in the bedchamber at the top of the ladder held several finely embroidered sheets, a heavy woollen blanket, and two down cushions, all carefully stored with sachets of sweet-smelling herbs. The walls and the bed curtain were painted with white flowers. On a hook by the bed hung a cloak lined with beaver and a good leather belt with a silver buckle.

‘A thief might have found something of interest here,’ Owen commented as they climbed back down to the main room. ‘And much of it easy to hide on his person.’

‘Aye, but his son’s wife missed naught.’

Owen returned to the garden to consider what he had seen. While he thought, he idly pulled at the invasive weeds. Perhaps not such an idle activity. With a bit of clearing, one patch towards the centre was noticeably bare, and the soil crumbly as if recently disturbed. He found a small spade in the shed, dug down into the centre of the patch. Nothing. He moved his attention to the edge, beneath an encroaching patch of chickweed, dug deep. At last the blade hit something hard. He probed, dug up something small, held it up to the fading light. ‘What have we here?’ he muttered as he brushed earth away. It was an ivory pawn dyed with ocre.

Excited by Owen’s find, Geoffrey knelt down beside him, picked up the spade and began to dig at the opposite edge of the patch. ‘I feel sommat!’ He unearthed a white rook.

The two men took turns digging, but found no more.

‘Why would Walter have buried these?’ Geoffrey wondered aloud.

Owen pushed himself up out of the dirt. ‘Not Walter. His murderer. Unless I am much mistaken.’

‘But why?’

Owen glanced round at the buildings bordering the garden. One had two shuttered windows overlooking the garden, another had one. ‘Come within.’ Inside, he settled down on a cushioned bench, set the two pieces on the table before him.

Geoffrey took a seat opposite him, tugged off his hat, scratched his head. ‘You thought we might be overheard?’

‘Risk is foolish in this game.’

Geoffrey picked up the pieces one at a time and looked at them closely. ‘A fine set, this was. I should like to see the whole set.’

‘With luck, you will.’

‘What are you thinking, then, Captain?’

‘That when there are too many coincidences, there are no coincidences.’

Geoffrey frowned. ‘Word games?’

‘Nay. Consider. Walter de Hotter had been two days at St Leonard’s with an injured knee. His house was empty. Suppose someone who had been robbing the hospital saw him there, knew his house would be empty, buried the chess pieces in Walter’s garden. He returned for them when he was ready to sell them or hide them elsewhere, but was surprised by poor Walter.’

‘The thief is someone who is often at the hospital, then?’

‘I think so.’

‘Had these chess pieces just gone missing about the time of his death?’

‘They were not missed until the master returned. But consider this. Walter was often at the hospital. The thief might have buried them during one of Walter’s earlier visits, then returned this time to remove them.’

‘Would Walter not have noticed the disturbed earth?’

‘They were buried deep. Perhaps it was done before the spring planting, when most of the bed would have been bare, perhaps the soil just turned over for planting. He may have seeded over them in spring. Mayhap the entire set was buried here and the thief missed these when removing the others.’

‘Which means he might return.’

Owen would like that. ‘Can you spare a man to watch the house?’

‘Nay. But I might find a lad to do it.’

‘Good.’ Owen rose, walked over to the garden door. ‘One building behind has a window facing the garden. Who lives there?’

Geoffrey joined Owen in the doorway, peered out. ‘Widow Darrow and her crippled son.’

‘Who lives next door? Two windows face this garden.’

‘Master Saurian, the physician.’

‘Indeed?’