‘I dare as you dare as we dare,’ Corbett mocked. ‘You are a murderess, Joan Mortimer; you are also guilty of fornication with Chaplain Norbert. Your secret sin was discovered by Margaret Beaumont, so you killed her and then Elizabeth Buchan.’ He paused. His adversary’s face seemed to crumple, showing her age as well as the terror that must have sparked inside her narrow, selfish soul. ‘Good.’ His voice was almost soothing. ‘Now I shall tell you who you really are. A woman who, in her own words, wanted everything, much more than being the bride of some lord or the mother of a brood of children. No, you wanted power, status, luxury and protection. Holy Mother Church provided that, and so you eventually entered this beautiful Eden, the ancient nunnery of Godstow. A royal appointment to one of the most comfortable sinecures in the kingdom. You are in all things the Domina, the true lady of the manor, the chatelaine of the great castle, one of the lords spiritual. You live in an atmosphere of luxury and the most comfortable piety. Your word here is law. You have all the delicacies of the table as well as the opportunity to wield real power and make your presence felt.’
‘I had a vocation,’ she protested.
‘So did Judas,’ Corbett countered. ‘You had all the pleasures and all the trimmings of life, but the cowl doesn’t make the monk nor the veil the nun. You always did admire a good-looking man. You have almost an insatiable hunger for flattery and praise. Years ago, when I used to talk to you – and I remember this well – you would listen but your eyes would wander, and if they really liked what they saw, you would make your hasty excuses so as to pursue your new quarry, whoever or whatever had caught your fancy.’
‘You are resentful, prejudiced,’ she spat back.
‘I am truthful. Norbert became your chaplain here. A handsome young man. Possibly a former soldier. Lean, strong and educated, with more than a dash of courtly courtesy. I wonder if he was the first; I doubt it. You became lovers. The abbess and her chaplain, a fairly common occurrence. We even have mummer’s plays mocking such a relationship. However, you can only mock what you know. All was well until the arrival of Margaret Beaumont and Elizabeth Buchan. Two headstrong, wily and wilful young ladies. I doubt you liked them, and I suggest they responded in kind. They decided to stir the placid pond that was Godstow.’ Corbett watched the abbess closely. He sensed he was correct. He just hoped the sheer logic of his argument and the traps he had prepared would prove sufficient to bring this woman and her accomplice to justice.
‘Elizabeth and Margaret,’ he continued, ‘stole two white albs and pretended to be the ghost of Rosamund, or some such nonsense. They acted the part, going to various places, Margaret here, Elizabeth there. They would flit around, energetic young women who could race away and escape pursuit. Now I admit,’ Corbett spread his hands, ‘this is only conjecture for the moment. However, Margaret Beaumont, on one of her hauntings, stumbled on a great secret: the scandalous relationship between the lady abbess and her chaplain. God knows what she saw, where, when and how, but I have my suspicions.
‘I suggest she whispered some of what she knew to her boon companion Elizabeth, who perhaps did not believe it. Margaret also pointed out how along a bench in front of their choir stall was a misericord, a gargoyle carving in the usual grotesque fashion.’ He pointed at the abbess. ‘You know the kind. They can be found in churches up and down the kingdom. They mock conventional piety, they remind us how we are all sinners. Carvings such as a pig garbed as a prelate, a cat being a cardinal. In this case, a priest mounting a woman like a stallion would a mare. Elizabeth and Margaret thought this was very apposite; hence their mocking name for you: “Gargoyle”.’
Lady Joan flinched, though her face remained impassive, her eyes sharp and watchful. She was recovering from the shock, desperately seeking a way out of the closing trap.
‘I am not sure if Elizabeth really believed her friend or truly cared if the lady abbess was being swived by her chaplain. Margaret, I suspect, was of a different heart. She had also discovered how you met at the centre of the maze in Rosamund’s bower.’
‘Nonsense!’
‘Oh yes, we have uncovered the secret passageway that runs beneath Rosamund’s bower. A paving stone in the corner of the buttery can be lifted to reveal steps leading down.’
Lady Joan closed her eyes and sighed as if she had been struck. Corbett almost felt sorry for this murderous and arrogant woman whose world was being violently turned upside down.
‘They found wine, goblets, a lantern, a thick swan-down mattress, blankets of the softest wool and comfortable feather-filled bolsters.’ Corbett made a face. ‘They also discovered that part of the tunnel that probably continued on beneath the convent walls had been blocked by the recent collapse of some of its pillars, struts and beams, which brought down a cascade of rubble. I shall return to that later.’
‘I do not know anything of this,’ interjected the abbess. Corbett, however, glimpsed the sweat on her brow, the trembling of her hands, her swift and shallow breaths.
‘Of course you do. It’s Rosamund’s secret, passed from one abbess to another. Some wouldn’t care about it; you certainly did. Remember the inscription in the church above Rosamund’s tomb? If you study that emblem carefully, it looks like a key pointing to the ground. It is in fact hinting at an underground passageway, and where else would that be but beneath the maze? Why should the abbess have to thread the maze like common sinners? Moreover, if danger ever truly threatened, such a passageway provided swift escape and sure refuge. Poor Vicomte,’ Corbett continued, ‘he argued that no matter how complex or baffling a riddle might appear, the solution was usually very simple. In this he was correct.’
Corbett cleared his throat. His mouth felt dry, yet he did not wish to eat or drink anything in this chamber. ‘Vicomte’s theory of a simple solution appealed to me. I was convinced there was a secret passageway into the centre of the maze. When I established that there wasn’t one above ground, the next logical step was to search for such a passageway beneath the maze. If this existed, so did at least two entrances. Now the one in the nunnery could be anywhere within its walls, but logic dictated that the other entrance must lie at the centre of the maze, a small, enclosed space, the only one available. Such logic proved to be correct.’
Corbett paused. The abbess sat back in her chair. She reminded Corbett of a cat, watchful, ready to spring, and he wondered if she carried a concealed weapon.
‘Margaret Beaumont blackmailed you, didn’t she? She wanted to flee Godstow. She hinted at the secret that she knew. You decided to act all compliant. You can be very charming and persuasive, Joan – I know that to my cost. Somehow you persuaded Margaret to clear her chamber and to come wherever you told her. She was desperate to escape. She had no inkling of who you truly are and what you intended, you and your accomplice, Chaplain Norbert.’ He paused at her sharp intake of breath. ‘Oh, rest assured, your lover is being thoroughly questioned by Ranulf Atte-Newgate.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Ranulf has his own methods of interrogation.’
‘Torture is forbidden under English law. Torture of a priest incurs excommunication.’
‘Ranulf would agree.’ Corbett lowered his head lest this woman, who knew him so well, detect his deceit. ‘But there again, accidents do happen. Chaplain Norbert hates water, doesn’t he? He has a terrible fear of drowning. Now,’ he continued briskly, ‘Margaret Beaumont was flattered to be taken down into the secret passageway. She was in fact going to her death. You and Norbert killed her. God knows how, but I suspect we will find her corpse.’
‘This is all conjecture,’ the abbess replied coolly. ‘No evidence, no proof, nothing but one lie after another, a catalogue of fables.’ Her face twisted in fury. ‘Filthy allegations against a loyal subject of the Crown and a beloved daughter of Holy Mother Church.’