‘Well,’ Lady Catherine leaned forward. ‘Your questions, Clerk?’ She coughed and glanced at her companion. ‘We knew you were coming,’ she continued. ‘The King informed us but the Lady Imelda always acts like that.’ Fitzwarren smoothed the blue tabard over her knees. ‘You want to ask us about the deaths of the girls?’
‘Yes, My Lady.’
‘We know nothing. Oh, we have tried to find out but even amongst the women we work with there’s not a hint, not a whisper, not a suspicion of who the killer could be.’ She licked her dry lips. ‘You see, we work amongst the unfortunates, those who, by appearances anyway, even God has forsaken. Of course, we believe He has not. Now, we are not interested in what they do or who they know, where they go, which men have used their bodies. We are not even interested in their souls. We care for them as people, as women caught in a trap of poverty and ignorance, then lured to false wealth by empty promises. We believe that if we rescue them from that then all will be well.’
Corbett studied the woman. He could not understand her. She was harsh, yet gentle; idealistic but at the same time pragmatic. He glanced sideways and wished Ranulf would stop staring at the Lady Mary and that she would stop looking at him with those dark, doe-like eyes which stirred such memories in his own soul.
‘So, you know nothing?’ he asked.
‘Not a jot, not a tittle.’
‘Lady Mary, is that true?’
Corbett turned, ignoring Fitzwarren’s hiss of annoyance. The young woman cleared her throat.
‘The Lady Catherine is correct.’
Her voice was soft but Corbett caught the burr, the musical trace of an accent. It almost sounded Scottish and Corbett remembered the Nevilles were a powerful family owning vast tracts of land in Westmorland and along the Northern March.
‘We know nothing, except that someone with a soul as black as night is slaying these unfortunates,’ she murmured. ‘At first I used to attend their funerals at St Lawrence Jewry, the first three or four, but then I stopped. You can understand, Sir Hugh? Surely there must be more to the end of life than being wrapped in a dirty sheet and tossed like a bundle of refuse into a hole in the ground?’
Corbett remembered what he had seen at the church earlier in the day and nodded.
‘Then let us talk of something else.’ Corbett paused as the great bells of the abbey began to ring out for afternoon Mass though he idly wondered if the monks bothered to carry out their spiritual duties.
‘What else is there to talk about?’ Lady Catherine snapped.
‘Lady Somerville’s death. One of your sisters who was killed on Monday, May eleventh as she crossed Smithfield.’
‘I can help you there,’ Lady Mary spoke up. She leaned forward, her hands in her lap. ‘We had a meeting here the very day she died and we finished late in the afternoon. Lady Somerville and I then left Westminster. We chose to walk because of the fine weather. We went along Holborn and visited patients at St Bartholomew’s. Lady Somerville left the hospital but never reached her home; her murdered corpse was found in the early hours of the next morning.’
‘Did anyone have a grudge against her?’
‘No, she was quiet, austere and self-contained. She had a great deal of sadness in her life.’
‘Such as?’
‘Her husband died years ago whilst fighting in Scotland. They had one son Gilbert, I think he is a disappointment to her.’ Lady Mary looked distressed. ‘Sir Gilbert Somerville is more interested in the pleasures of life; he constantly reminded his mother that his father achieved nothing in his life, as the King’s general, except an arrow in the neck.’
Corbett sat and stared at the wall behind her. So many players in this, he thought. The killer could be anyone.
‘Before Lady Somerville died,’ he asked, ‘did she say anything strange or untoward?’
‘No,’ Fitzwarren tartly replied.
‘Oh, come.’ Corbett’s voice became harsh. ‘I have heard she kept repeating a phrase “Cacullus non facit monachum”: the cowl does not make the monk?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Lady Mary’s fingers flew to her lips. ‘She did keep saying that. Indeed, she repeated it to me the day she died.’
‘In what circumstances?’
‘We were here, watching the brothers file out of the abbey church. I said something about them looking alike, how difficult it was to tell one from another in their hoods and cowls. She just repeated that phrase. I asked her what she meant, but she smiled and walked away.’
‘Is that all? Was there anything else?’
‘Yes. Yes, there was.’ Fitzwarren tapped the side of her face with her hands. ‘In the week before she died she asked me if I thought our work was worthwhile. I asked her why, and she replied what was the use in such a wicked world? Then the Friday before she died, you must remember it, Lady Mary, she came here rather late, looking very worried and agitated. She said she had been to see Father Benedict.’
‘She didn’t give the reason why?’ Cade asked.
Corbett turned as Lady Mary clapped her hands together excitedly.
‘Oh, I remember something!’ she declared, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Corbett reflected how truly beautiful she became when she threw off her air of subdued piety. ‘Just before we reached St Bartholomew’s she murmured something about leaving the Order. I objected but she maintained the abbey contained evil.’ Lady Mary shrugged. ‘I know it sounds strange but that’s what she said.’
‘Was Lady Somerville deeply involved in your work?’
‘No,’ Fitzwarren replied. ‘And that makes what she said to Lady Mary even stranger. You see, Somerville suffered from rheumatism in her legs, she found walking the streets painful, even though the physicians claimed it was good for her. Her real work was in the abbey laundry, or rather the vestry on the other side of the Chapter House. She was responsible for keeping the altar cloths, napkins and robes clean.’
‘And Father Benedict’s death?’
‘Sir Hugh,’ Lady Fitzwarren replied. ‘He died in a fire. We were bitterly sorry. He was not only our chaplain but an old, very gentle priest. Why do you ask?’
‘How was he before he died? Did he say anything untoward?’
‘Strange that you mention it, Sir Hugh,’ Lady Mary interrupted. ‘Oh,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘he didn’t say anything but he was very quiet, distant.’ She shrugged. ‘But I don’t know why. God rest him!’
‘You noticed this after Lady Somerville visited him?’
‘Yes, but I don’t know what was said. Lady Catherine had her own problems and Father Benedict was our chaplain.’
Corbett rose. ‘My Ladies, is there anything else?’
Both shook their heads in unison.
‘Perhaps,’ Corbett ventured, ‘I could see your work.’
‘We are going out tonight,’ Lady Catherine replied.
Corbett suddenly remembered Maeve’s face and shook his head. ‘No, no, that’s impossible!’
‘Where do you actually work?’ Ranulf asked.
‘In our own ward,’ Lady Mary answered. ‘Farringdon.’
Corbett felt a twinge of jealousy at how the young woman smiled at Ranulf.
‘We think it’s best if we work,’ she explained, ‘in an area where we are known and safe, where we can always count on the local beadles for support. Perhaps tomorrow evening?’
Corbett smiled and bowed. ‘Perhaps.’
The two women rose and led them back to the Chapter House. Corbett glanced suspiciously at his two companions; Cade had a reputation of being a taciturn man but since he had entered the Chapter House, he had been very withdrawn, a shadow of himself whilst Ranulf had ceased to snigger and mutter quips.
Halfway down the deserted Chapter House, Corbett stopped.
‘May I look at the vestry room? You said it was here?’
Lady Fitzwarren led him across, opening a door in the far wall. Corbett looked inside; the vestry was nothing more than a long, oblong room with cowls, hoods and other monks’ attire hanging on pegs driven into the wall. On the shelves were neatly piled altar cloths, napkins for the lavabo, amices, stoles and chasubles. Corbett could see nothing suspicious, certainly nothing to explain Lady Somerville’s deep unease. He left and, outside the Chapter House, bade the ladies adieu, kissing both their hands. Corbett blushed as he turned away for he was sure Lady Mary had pressed his hand more firmly than perhaps she should have done.