Fortune Like the Moon

Chapter Eleven

Josse, impatient to speak to the Abbess, knew that, out of respect, he must not disturb her in her laying-out of the dead. A task which, he had seen only too plainly, was not in the least to her liking. He understood why she was doing it. Understood her guilt. For didn’t he, who had been scratching his flea bites and restlessly sleeping not a hundred paces from where Elvera had been found, also feel the same burning emotion?

To occupy the time, he returned to the shelter in the vale and changed back into his tunic. Giving the robe back to Brother Saul, he thanked him and asked where he might find something with which to make a cast.

‘A cast,’ Saul repeated doubtfully.

Josse explained. Saul’s face brightened, and, with a touch on Josse’s sleeve, he said, ‘Follow me.’

He led the way to a small shed attached to the back of the shelter. In it was an assortment of cracked vessels, benches awaiting mending, objects left behind by visitors. And candles. Tall, votive candles. And, in a bin on the floor, dozens and dozens of candle stubs.

‘Brother Saul, you’re brilliant!’ Josse said. Picking up the bin, he was about to head off down the path when, again, Saul touched his sleeve. This time, without speaking but with a faint smile, he handed Josse a flint.

* * *

It was no easy task, Josse discovered, to make a satisfactory cast. It proved to be the very devil of a job acquiring enough molten wax to fill even the front half of a footprint, and, in the end, he’d had to light a small fire on the dry mud of the path. But at least he was done, and, having thoroughly stamped out his fire and returned the unused candle stumps in their bin to the little shed, he went up to the Abbey to report to Abbess Helewise. She had by now left the infirmary and, according to Sister Euphemia, would be found in her room. Carrying his carefully wrapped cast, he went to find her.

She was sitting at her table, hands folded before her and resting on the well-polished wood. There was no sign, now, of the pallid, stricken woman who had knelt by the dead girl and buried her face in her hands. She looked as she always did. Calm, controlled, slightly aloof. And as if, whatever the day threw at her, she would always remain so. But Josse, who had seen her in her distress, knew better. And found himself liking her the more for having seen her fallibility.

‘So, Abbess, you and Sister Euphemia have prepared Elvera for burial,’ he said, responding to her invitation to sit. He was, he found, tired out, for all that the day had scarcely begun.

‘We have. Sister Euphemia entirely supports the notion that she was killed by manual strangulation.’ The words were uttered tonelessly.

Josse hesitated. Should he say what was uppermost in his mind? He met her eyes. He thought she read his thought; abruptly she turned her head and fixed her glance on something over to her left. Hard to say what, he thought, when, following her gaze, he discovered that all there was to see was an unadorned stone wall.

It needs saying, though, he told himself. Even if the Abbess is reluctant to speak of such matters. ‘She did not kill herself,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Abbess, there is no question of our actions having driven her to her death. Any, anyway, we had to speak to her, we had no choice. She was close to Gunnora, and we still have-’

‘How can you say that?’ she hissed back. ‘That we did not drive her to her death? Very well, she didn’t put her head under the water and drown herself, that I accept! But would she, do you think, have left the safety of the convent in the middle of the night, venturing out into the dangers of a lonely place in darkness, had we not forced her to?’

‘It was not we who forced her!’ His voice had risen. ‘Abbess, ask yourself this! Were she innocent, with a clear conscience, why in God’s holy name would our gentle questioning have upset her so? And it was gentle, you know that as well as I do. Neither of us bullied the poor child.’

‘But we — I — knew her to be disturbed already! I should have prevented the interview! Then she would have stayed safe in the dormitory, and this second killer would have been robbed of his victim!’

He leapt to his feet. ‘Second killer? No! Abbess, that’s not the way of it! Two nuns from the same community, brutally murdered within weeks of each other, and you tell me there is no connection?’

‘A connection, yes, of course. But I do not believe they were murdered by the same hand.’ She looked doubtful, as if her own conclusion were surprising her.

‘But-’ He couldn’t believe it. Swallowing his angry frustration, he said, ‘Can you explain?’

‘I doubt it,’ she murmured. Then, with a visible effort, ‘Sir Josse, consider the methods. Gunnora was held from behind while a second assailant slit her throat. Very neatly, very tidily. Then she was laid on the ground, her skirts were arranged around her waist and her legs and arms placed symmetrically. Her own blood was smeared on her loins, to confuse the crime with that of rape. Elvera, on the other hand, was strangled. By someone’s bare hands. We have both seen his finger and thumb prints, we know he used no other weapon.’ Her brows went up suddenly, as if something had just occurred to her. ‘Perhaps,’ she added tentatively, ‘that — the fact that he had brought with him no weapon — implies there was no premeditation.’

‘He killed her in a fit of passionate fury?’ Josse mused. ‘Aye, perhaps, but that’s no reason to suspect he was not the same man who killed Gunnora. Surely, Abbess, he has to be?’ How to convince her to abandon this irrational line of reasoning! ‘Elvera, let us surmise, was somehow involved in Gunnora’s death, which seems likely because you and I both observed her distress when I came to start asking questions. She went out to meet her fellow conspirator, and poured out to him her terror and her fear at having been interviewed by the king’s investigator. “It’s all very well for you,” I can imagine her saying, “you’re out here where nobody knows of your presence. You’re not having to face the gossips and the accusing comments, not having to brace yourself to answer questions from people who seem to know far more about this business than you’d like!” And, in her hysteria, perhaps she says she can’t go on. “You killed her,” she says, “yet it’s I who am having to go through all this!”’ Warming to his imagined scene, he leaned forward, and the small stool creaked ominously. He ignored it.

‘She tells him she’s got to confess,’ he went on eagerly, ‘tells him that anything, any sort of retribution, is better than this dreadful suspense. She’s crying, getting noisy, and he fears that any minute someone will hear. “Hush!” he says. She takes no notice. “Be quiet!” he says, and grabs at her. She struggles, opens her mouth to scream, and he grasps her round the throat. Before he knows what’s happening, she’s dead. Slips out of his arms, falls on the path, her head in the water. He now has two deaths on his hands. Aghast, it’s his turn to panic. He runs away, pausing only for a quick look over his shoulder. Then he’s off, back to wherever it is he’s been using as his retreat.’

She waited to see if he was going to say any more. When he didn’t, she drew a deep breath, held it a moment, then said, ‘Plausible, yes. But what evidence have you to support it?’

‘One, the marks on her neck. The neatness of those bruises, as if he placed his hands with the same eye for a tidy pattern that he used to arrange Gunnora’s body.’ She was looking sceptical, so he hurried on. ‘Two, I found his footprints.’ He removed the piece of cloth from his wax cast, and placed it carefully on the table.

She studied it. ‘It’s the toe of a shoe,’ she observed.

‘I found it in a row of half a dozen or so, widely spaced.’

She nodded. ‘Hence your conclusion of someone running away.’

‘Aye. And-’ No. Too soon for that. He must present his facts as he had discovered them. ‘Abbess, Elvera presented herself here at Hawkenlye as an unmarried virgin, I imagine?’

The Abbess’s eyes widened, as if the question surprised her. ‘Yes, although — Yes. Why?’

‘Because she wasn’t. Well, as to her not being a virgin, I only surmise. But I know she was married. Her left hand bore a distinct indentation at the base of the third finger. Until very recently, she had worn a wedding ring.’

He had expected amazement. None came. Instead, she said slowly, ‘Married. One question answered, and, yet again, many more raised.’

‘You suspected?’

She lifted her eyes to his. ‘She was pregnant,’ she said. ‘Some three months, Sister Euphemia says. I had, naturally, been speculating on the circumstances of this conception, and why, indeed, she should choose the strange course of entering a convent, assuming she knew herself to be with child. At least, now, I know that it was her husband who fathered her child. Although that is scarcely any help when we have absolutely no idea of his identity.’

He said quietly, ‘But we have.’ And, when her eyebrows went up in enquiry, touched his wax cast.

‘How can you know?’ she murmured.

He traced the elongated point at the front of the print. ‘Not know, perhaps, but make a very likely guess. Because I have seen someone wearing shoes like this. They are common, I dare say, in fashionable circles in London, but, hereabouts, people do not dress in the court style.’

‘No,’ she acknowledged. But she was frowning, as if she did not entirely agree with him. ‘Assuming this print was made by the shoe you saw, then who do you think made it?’

‘His name is Milon d’Arcy,’ he said. ‘And I further conjecture that I also know the identity of the girl lying dead in your infirmary. I believe she was his wife. Elanor, niece to Alard of Winnowlands. Gunnora’s cousin.’

‘Oh, but this is too much!’ the Abbess cried. ‘A set of footprints — not even entire prints! — and a finger which, you claim, recently wore a wedding ring, and you present to me the identity of both murderer and victim! Sir Josse, much as I would like to believe you, I can’t!’

Then, he thought, I must make you.

How?

He said, ‘Abbess, may I have your permission to look at Elvera’s possessions? Will you come with me now to her cubicle in the dormitory?’

‘A nun has few possessions,’ Helewise said. ‘What, pray, do you hope to find?’

Two things, he could have said. But he did not. Instead he said evasively, ‘Anything that might help.’

She watched him for a long moment. Then said, ‘Very well.’

* * *

Elvera’s bed had been half-way along the dormitory. Again, the neatly folded covers, the thin hangings pushed back and secured. And, as the Abbess had said, little evidence of personal belongings.

He bent down and looked beneath the plank-like bed. Nothing, not even much dust; the nuns kept their quarters clean. He stood up, running a hand beneath the thin palliasse. Again, nothing. It was beginning to look as if she’d hidden them somewhere else, but she must have-

His hand encountered a small package. Something hard, wrapped in a square of linen.

He withdrew it, put it on the bed. Unfolded the linen. And there, glinting faintly in the morning light, was a wedding ring and a jewelled cross.

* * *

Back in Helewise’s room, they compared Elvera’s cross with Gunnora’s, and with the one that had been found by her body. The three were virtually identical, but for the fact that the rubies in both Gunnora’s own cross and the one found beside her were larger than those in Elvera’s. As was only to be expected, Josse thought, when Gunnora was Alard of Winnowland’s daughter and Elvera — Elanor — but his niece.

‘Your postulant Elvera gave you a false name and a fictitious identity,’ he said to Helewise, who was holding Elvera’s cross in her hands. ‘She was in truth Elanor, wife to Milon. Her uncle gave her a cross, as well, when he presented his daughters with theirs.’

In his head he heard the echo of Mathild’s words. He’s fond of Elanor, Sir Alard is. Well, it’s hard not to be. She’s a lively little thing. Bright, full of fun. Who, he wondered, his mind running off at a tangent, would have the sorry task of telling the dying man that, having lost both daughters, now his pretty and vivacious niece was dead, too?

Dear Lord, not me, he prayed silently. Please, of thy mercy, not me.

Helewise had put down the cross and was picking up the wedding ring, trying it on her own third finger. ‘Too small for me,’ she remarked. ‘Should we try it on the dead girl’s hand, do you think?’

‘If you like,’ he said. ‘Although I feel there is little point.’

She replaced the ring beside the three crosses, folding the linen around them once more. ‘Gunnora’s,’ she said, pointing, ‘and Elvera’s. Elanor’s, I should say. And this?’ She pointed to the one that had been left next to Gunnora.

‘It can only have belonged to her sister, Dillian,’ Josse said. ‘Although God alone knows how it ended up where it did.’

Helewise was watching him. The intent grey eyes were disconcerting. ‘God knows, yes,’ she said neutrally. ‘It is up to us to find out.’

He was trying to think, to put all these new facts racing through his brain into some sort of order. Some order that began to make sense.

After some time, he said, ‘Gunnora’s father is dying. He has two daughters, one who has entered a convent, and who, presumably, has forfeited her right to inheriting any of his undoubted wealth. Her sister, Dillian, married to the suitor chosen by Alard as eminently suitable for one of his girls, looks set to get the lot, but then she dies. She leaves no child, and her husband, it appears, is not without involvement in her death, albeit indirect. So who can Alard leave his fortune to? Gunnora is the obvious candidate — she is, now, all he has left. But what of the niece, who, so we understand, was always treated generously by her uncle? Given a cross only a little smaller than those given to his own girls?’

Warming to his theme, he leaned his hands on Helewise’s table, putting his face closer to hers. ‘What if, Abbess, this niece understood herself to be in line to inherit, only to have her young fashion-conscious husband discover, on one of his visits to check up on how near to death is his uncle-by-marriage, that the uncle is thinking of changing his will? Of reinstating the daughter who rejected him and gave herself to God? What would such a greedy and unscrupulous young man do?’

‘You are only conjecturing that he is greedy and unscrupulous,’ she pointed out.

‘Aye, maybe. But would he not have the greatest motive in the world for disposing of Gunnora? So that his wife, the niece Elanor, would then inherit?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Abbess, there are two basic motives for murder, lust and the hunger for money. Nobody, it seems, lusted after Gunnora — you said yourself she was not bothered by the rule of chastity. In addition, we know that she was not raped, indeed, that she had never-’ He paused, trying to think of a delicate way of saying it. ‘That she had never tasted of the fruits of love.’ He was aware of a very swift twitch of the Abbess’s lips, quickly suppressed. ‘She died a virgin,’ he said firmly. ‘So, with the lust motive removed, that only leaves money.’

‘You oversimplify!’ the Abbess cried. ‘And, however plausible your reasoning on the surface, what of the details?’

‘Such as?’ he demanded.

‘Such as, how did he persuade Gunnora to leave the convent that night? And why did she not recognise Elvera as her cousin Elanor?’

‘Who says she didn’t?’ he countered. ‘Elvera herself, in this very room, complained that the nuns kept saying she and Gunnora got on so well together that you’d almost think they’d met before. That was hardly surprising — they had.’

‘Then why did not Gunnora reveal that Elvera was married?’ Helewise demanded.

‘Oh.’ Why indeed. Then he heard Mathild’s words: that worthless new husband of hers. And — although this was hardly incontestable proof — Elvera had only been three months pregnant. A passionate young husband, bedding his new wife nightly, impregnating her soon after the marriage? He said triumphantly, ‘Because Gunnora didn’t know. Elvera and Milon were married after she entered the convent. And Elvera had taken off her wedding ring.’

Helewise nodded slowly. Then, suddenly: ‘How did you know about the cross?’

‘It had to be hidden somewhere. She wasn’t wearing it when she died.’

She gave a brief sound of exasperation. ‘How did you know she had a cross?’

‘If she really was Elanor, she had to have one. And I knew she had — I saw it.’

‘You did?’

‘Well, no, not exactly. I guessed. Remember when we spoke to her? She was grasping at the cloth of her gown — like this.’ He demonstrated. ‘I thought then it was just a nervous gesture. Only afterwards did it occur to me she might be clinging to her own personal talisman, hidden under her robe.’

Helewise’s expression was distant, as if she were thinking hard. ‘You make a good case, sir knight,’ she said eventually. ‘But, again, I ask for your proof. Oh, not of Elvera’s identity — we must, I think, accept that you are right.’

‘We can check,’ he said eagerly. ‘I can return to my informant at Sir Brice’s manor and ask after Elanor. Go to Milon’s house, to the relatives where, so I was told, she is staying.’

‘And what if you find her safe and well?’

‘Then I will have to accept that I am wrong.’

‘You are not wrong,’ she said quietly. ‘You will not, I fear, find any Elanor. She is Elvera, and she lies dead in my infirmary.’ She frowned. ‘But those established facts alone will not prove who killed my nuns, Sir Josse. And I do not know where we can go from here to find that proof.’

‘I will find Milon,’ he said simply. ‘I will go, now, to his house. If he is not there’ — he was almost certain that the young man would be anywhere but at home — ‘then I shall search elsewhere.’

She gave him a quizzical look. ‘England is a big country,’ she remarked. ‘With many lonely and desolate places where a fugitive may run and hide.’

‘He has not run away yet,’ Josse said.

And, before she could ask him how he could be so sure, he bowed, retreated from the room and set off to find his horse.