But then it was most unlikely that jars, small glass vessels, funnels and weighing scales were what the thief would have been after.
We went through to the storeroom and Jack held the candle aloft so that we could look along the shelves. I wasn’t all that familiar with their usual appearance, but it definitely looked as if someone had disturbed the pots, jars and vessels on them; in addition, they didn’t look as crowded as I remembered. ‘I think they’ve been-’ I began.
Then Jack tripped over something on the floor.
As one we crouched down to look. The light shone on Adela, lying in a huddle just inside the door through to the living quarters. I called her name and reached for her hand, my other hand feeling around for injury. There was a huge bump on her head, and she seemed to be deeply unconscious.
‘Is she dead?’ Jack whispered.
‘No, she’s breathing, and the beat of her heart is steady, although it’s very slow.’ I was continuing my investigation as I spoke and, as far as I could tell, the bang on her head was the only injury.
‘He must have stood behind the door,’ Jack said, ‘and when she came to investigate – maybe he made some small noise, and perhaps he hadn’t realized there was anyone in the house – he stepped forward and hit her.’
‘She’s old,’ I said quietly. ‘He didn’t need to hurt her so badly.’
‘Will she live?’
‘I don’t know. We need to get her to her bed, warm her up, and somebody should be with her.’
‘We can at least do the first task,’ Jack said. Very gently he lifted Adela’s still form, and, holding the candle, I led the way through to the little cubby-hole beside the storeroom where she had her bed. Jack laid her down and I tucked several blankets round her, chafing her cold hands to bring some warmth back.
Jack had wandered through to the front of the house, and through the doorway I could see him, peering out through the closed shutters on to the market square. Then he walked soft-footed through the house and stared out over the dark garden. I turned my attention back to Adela. But then I heard Jack give a soft exclamation.
‘What is it?’ I hissed.
‘There’s a light flickering, over the roofs of the alley behind us.’
‘Well, lots of people live there,’ I said. ‘Probably someone-’
‘It’s too high for a house,’ he said.
In my mind I tried to see a plan of the town. What could he be looking at?
‘St Bene’t’s tower,’ I said. ‘The church is over there, behind us.’
He didn’t reply. I looked at him, and he seemed suddenly tense. ‘It’s probably the priest keeping a vigil or something,’ I suggested. ‘Maybe he’s praying for the murder victims.’
Still Jack didn’t speak. Finally he muttered, ‘It doesn’t look right…’ Then, spinning round, he said, ‘I’m going to look.’
I leapt up. ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘What about your patient?’
‘I’ve done all I can for now. I’ll come back to check on her later.’
He nodded. It was kind of him not to suggest that the reason I was so keen to go with him was because I was afraid to stay in a place where a violent killer had so recently struck. He’d have had every justification in doing so, since it was absolutely right.
We slipped out of the house and once more climbed over the wall. Now I, too, could see the flickering light, and it could only have been coming from the church tower. Jack took my hand, and we hurried through the network of passages until we came to the rear wall of St Bene’t’s churchyard.
We ran across the wet grass, both of us affected with the same dread. Something was wrong; in that holy place, it felt as if dark, cold fingers were reaching out, crushing the light…
The church door was ajar, and we slipped inside. A lantern had been lit at the base of the tower, and it was its light, shining through high small windows overhead, that Jack had seen from Mistress Judith’s house. The brightness threw the interior of the church into deeper darkness, and at first it was impossible to make anything out.
But I could hear well enough.
From somewhere near the altar there was a muffled gasping, as if someone was fighting some obstacle as they fought for breath. Then there was a shriek, and a low, rumbling voice muttered some words I didn’t catch. Jack took off, running towards the altar, and I went after him.
Two figures were struggling together. One was small, thin and youthful – I recognized one of the junior clerics – and the other loomed over him, hooded, dark, big, tall, strong and powerful. For an instant the intense movements of the struggle twisted him round, and the light fell on him: his face was deathly white, and instead of eyes he had two big black holes…
I wanted to scream, but if I did he’d know I was there and he might pounce.
Jack, far braver than I, hurled himself on the pair, trying to grab at the bigger figure and pull it off the young priest. But whatever it was, it knew how to fight. It jerked an elbow into Jack’s ribs, in precisely the right spot and with such violence that I could hear the breath being driven out of the lungs. Then it spun round and landed a savage blow straight to Jack’s jaw, and he crumpled to the floor.
I cowered in the shadows. I knew I should do something, but I was so terrified that I couldn’t move.
Then the young priest managed to wriggle free. He came running straight for me, and hastily I crawled out of his way; the last thing he needed was to trip over me.
I thought he was going to get away, for he was fast on his feet and driven by terror.
But the hooded figure took off as if some diabolic force drove him. He seemed to fly down the aisle after the priest, and I’d swear his feet didn’t make contact with the ground. He leapt on the poor young cleric from behind, and there was a sound like the cry of a bird of prey.
The light of the lantern caught the glint of metal.
I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
The hooded figure had extended one arm – one heavy, thick arm, clad in something that looked like scales. But there was no human hand at the end of that arm: instead, there was a set of long, shining, curved and viciously pointed claws, horrible yet strangely beautiful in their shape and substance.
The young priest turned, and I saw the whites of his eyes, wide with horror as he saw death descend.
There was a whistle as the silvery claws ripped through the air and a dreadful sound of ripping, tearing.
A desperate cry came, turning into a gurgle, swiftly cut off.
The dark shape seemed to gather itself up, and then suddenly it was no longer there.
I was frozen with terror. But then from somewhere deep within me a voice said reprovingly, He may still be alive.
On hands and knees, trembling and shivering, I crawled down the aisle to where the priest lay. I could smell the blood, metallic and tangy, long before I reached him, and soon I could see it, spreading out in a huge pool.
I took his limp, warm body in my arms, cradling his head on my lap. His wide eyes stared up at me, but I knew he couldn’t see me. In the single, frightful movement, impressive in its deadly savagery, his throat had been torn out.
I bent my head over him, wishing I knew the right words. I found myself whispering, over and over again, ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’
After a time – a long time, a short time – I felt Jack’s warm hands on my shoulders. ‘Come away now, Lassair. We will fetch help, and he will be looked after.’
I tried to stand up, but my legs shook too much to hold me. Once again, Jack picked me up in his arms and, cradling me to his chest, murmuring soft words that didn’t seem to make any sense, he carried me away.