‘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!’