She had started on that line of thinking earlier but not followed it far enough. For whoever had done it, killing Sir Reynold had not been the end of it; and she said slowly, “Domina Alys.”
“Yes,” Joliffe agreed. “She was with him, already in the cloister, no problem there and no problem at being at his back if she was seeing him to the door and out. Afterward she would have had her own rooms to wash in, change her clothing, and who’s to know a nun is wearing something different than the day-before?”
The stairs to her rooms were beside the passage where Sir Reynold had been killed. She could have come down with him, killed him, gone back up with little chance of being seen. And she would have had Katerin to help her wash the blood off both her and her clothing, with her fire to dry her dress at afterward so that she might even be wearing it today, come to that.
And Katerin would likely have forgotten all about it by now, or shortly would. Only things that happened over and over again seemed to stay any length of time with her. Passing happenings drifted out of her mind within hours: by now she had likely forgotten there had been any anger between Domina Alys, Sir Reynold, and Sir Hugh last night.
“But it could as well have been him,” Benet said suddenly, looking at Edmund with dislike. “He was alone in the church all night and wouldn’t have to worry about changing clothing if he stripped off and went about it naked. If he was seen before he killed Sir Reynold, it wouldn’t matter. We all thought he was mad. If he wasn’t seen and he made the kill, he only had to wash the blood off to be in the clear, and he had water.” He pointed to the jug and basin left for Edmund’s necessities along the wail beyond the pallet and his blankets. “Any water he bloodied, he could dump out in the cloister garth and no one the wiser.”
Before Edmund could answer, Joice exclaimed, outraged, “He never would!”
“I might,” Edmund said more reasonably, “but where did I lay hands on a dagger? Everything I had was taken away to be burned when Domina Alys had me washed. I had no weapon of any kind.”
Benet glared at him, visibly casting through his mind for an answer, before saying, “You might have had one when you first came to the priory, hid it somewhere, and went out after it last night.”
“Before or after he stripped naked?” Joice asked scornfully.
Still reasonably, Edmund asked, “Where would I have hidden a dagger among those rags I was wearing when I came?”
“A small one, strapped to your side or thigh.”
“It wasn’t a small dagger killed Sir Reynold,” Frevisse said. “It had to be one of the larger kinds to do the damage it did.”
“A basilard for a guess,” Joliffe said. “It would have to be, to go completely through a man and be strong enough to cut sideways into his spine afterward.”
“How would Domina Alys come by one of those?” Frevisse asked sharply. “Or Master Harman hide one in his rags?”
“A shorter way to go,” said Edmund, “might be to ask if there’s anyone we already know who has one.”
Both Joliffe and Benet were suddenly, completely motionless, until Joliffe slowly turned his head and looked at Benet, who still did not move but stayed staring off into the air in front of him as if he were seeing something he very much did not want to see.
“Benet,” Joliffe said gently.
“Sir Hugh,” Benet said, hardly above a whisper. “Sir Hugh has one.”
Chapter 24
“He may have such a dagger,” Frevisse said, “but you said he had no blood on him when he left the cloister last night, and I’ve seen him this morning wearing what he was wearing then.”
Relief made Benet slump and almost laugh. “Yes!” Edmund was not so easily done with Sir Hugh. He had begun to shiver lightly and wrapping his arms around him for a little warmth, he said, “He and your prioress could have worked together. He could have given her the dagger to use, she killed Sir Reynold, and then Sir Hugh carried the dagger away.”
“That would leave her able to deal with the blood but with no weapon, while Sir Hugh had the weapon and no blood!” Joice said eagerly, going to pick up one of the blankets from the bed and handing it to Edmund who took it with a look of thanks that lingered on her, Frevisse saw; saw, too, that Joice’s look lingered on him and their hands were together on the blanket a moment longer than was necessary. To increase the trouble, Benet saw it, too. Frevisse could tell by the frown tightening between his eyes, and she said, “No, I can’t think they’d work together that way.”
“Why not?” Joliffe reasonably asked, and added, “It would solve a great deal,” meaning more than Sir Reynold’s murder.
Ashamed that somewhere in her she would not have minded accepting Domina Alys’ guilt for true, Frevisse said slowly, forcing her feelings aside, “Because that isn’t… like her. She might kill in a fury, on the instant, but to plan out a thing like this… and against Sir Reynold… She doesn’t plan.”
But she had planned Frevisse’s punishment yesterday. Frevisse’s back was still too aching, too hurtful when she moved uncarefully, for her not to remember that Domina Alys had thought that out in detail ahead of time. But to kill Sir Reynold…
“It would have been more possible for them, that way, than it would have been for anyone else,” Joice insisted.
“And if they did it, they can’t be rid of all sign of it yet,” said Edmund. “Isn’t your prioress’ gown made of wool? It won’t dry quickly, even with the fire. It could still be damp, still show signs of just being washed. Anything like that would make a certainty.”
“And we have to be certain,” Joliffe said quietly, his gaze fixed on Frevisse. Unwillingly she nodded, agreeing. More quietly, understanding what he was asking her to do, he said, “It will have to be you who finds out. If there’s anything to find, it will be in her rooms. A damp gown. Some trace of blood.”
Frevisse lifted her head with a thought aside from what he was saying.
Blood.
There had been blood in St. Frideswide’s yesterday, too. And yesterday, if not today, there had been bloodied clothing.
She looked at Benet.
Alys tried to rise to anger. Anger would at least be something she was used to, something better than this dead drag of grief that seemed to be all she could feel since seeing Reynold dead. Dull, aching, heavy grief that weighed down every thought she tried to have, every move she tried to make. The abbot’s letter was in her hand, and she said at Hugh, standing in her parlor doorway, refusing to come farther in, “You had no right to read this. It was to me, not you.”
“Alys, I haven’t time for this. You sent to know why we were readying to go.” He pointed at the letter. “There’s why.”
“Reynold wouldn’t have left,” she said dully. “Reynold would have stayed to help me face it out.” But Reynold was dead.
“If it wasn’t for Reynold, it wouldn’t have to be faced at all,” Hugh said coldly.
“And you,” Alys said. “You, too. You’re in this as much as he was.”
“And you before any of us,” Hugh returned, and turned to go, not interested. “I have to have the men out of here.”
“I didn’t know what he was playing at!” Alys said desperately, trying to be angry but only aching-aching as if something had broken in her that she could not find or mend. Forcing the desperation because she needed to feel something more than pain, she cried, “I didn’t know how he was using me!”
Hugh swung half around to look at her and said disgustedly, “Maybe not, but you knew full well how you were using him.”
She had known, but it had not mattered. What had mattered was that she had been glad of him being here. Using him had been only part of it, and so it had not mattered.