‘Fortunately, the conloquium is over tomorrow,’ said Prioress Joan. ‘And we shall waste no more time indoors when we should be riding out in God’s good clean air. How is Dusty?’
‘Quite content,’ replied Michael shortly. ‘Now where is–’
‘Is it true that your town is on the verge of a major battle?’ interrupted Katherine. ‘And if so, should we make arrangements to leave early?’
‘Please do,’ begged Michael. ‘I cannot see the disorder spreading out here, but there is no point in courting trouble. Tell your sisters to start their journeys as soon as possible.’
Katherine inclined her head. ‘Is it because of the peregrini? The town and the University are accusing each other of harbouring French spies?’
‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘But we need to speak to–’
‘I hope no one remembers that we lodged in the Spital,’ said Joan anxiously. ‘They might accuse us of being French-lovers, and I do not want my nuns subjected to any unpleasantness.’
‘Where is Abbess Isabel?’ Michael managed to interject. ‘We need to see her urgently.’
‘So do I,’ said Katherine with a grimace. ‘She borrowed my copy of the Chicken Debate and I want it back. But she went out on Saturday, and no one has seen her since.’
‘She has been missing for two days?’ cried Michael. ‘Why did no one tell me?’
‘Her retinue assure us that she often disappears for extended periods when she wants to pray,’ shrugged Katherine. ‘They were not concerned, so neither were we.’
‘Did she say where she was going to do it?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘No, but she was last seen aiming for the town,’ replied Joan. ‘I was going to look for her myself as soon as the pea issue was resolved – her own nuns may not be worried, but she has been a little odd of late, and I would like to make sure she is safe and well.’
‘Odd in what way?’ demanded Michael.
‘Fearful and unsettled. Probably because she stumbled across that corpse – Paris’s.’
‘Have you searched the priory?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering if the Abbess’s timely disappearance meant a killer had escaped justice.
‘We have, but we will do it again.’ With calm efficiency, Joan issued instructions to the women who had come to listen. Obediently, they hastened to do as they were told.
‘May we see her quarters?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘If her belongings have gone, it means she … might have decided to make her own way home.’
He dared not say what he was really thinking, because he was unwilling to waste time on explanations that could come later.
‘You may not!’ objected Katherine, shocked. ‘We do not allow men into our sleeping quarters. It would be unseemly!’
Most of the remaining sisters agreed, but Joan sensed the urgency of the situation and overrode them. She led the way to the tiny cell-like room that Isabel had chosen for herself – an austere, chilly place that showed the Abbess placed scant store in physical comfort. Her only belongings were a spare white habit and a few religious books. In the interests of thoroughness, Bartholomew peered under the bed. Something was there, tucked at the very back, obliging him to lie on the floor to fish it out. It was an ivory comb.
‘That is mine!’ cried Joan, snatching it from him. ‘Or rather Dusty’s. What is it doing in here? I thought Alice had stolen it.’
‘Goda said she had,’ mused Michael, ‘although Alice denied it. Perhaps Alice placed it here in the spiteful hope that Isabel would be accused of its theft.’
‘If she did, she is a fool,’ said Joan in disgust. ‘No one will believe that an abbess – and Isabel in particular – would steal a comb.’
‘There is only one way to find out,’ said Michael. ‘Speak to Alice again. And this time, there will be no games. She will tell us the truth or suffer the consequences.’
He did not say what these might be, and Bartholomew gritted his teeth in agitation. How could they be wasting time on combs when the town was set to explode? Or was Isabel the killer, and the peculiar travels of the comb would throw light on why a saintly nun had turned murderer? Stomach churning, he followed Michael to the cellar, where the errant Alice had spent her last two nights.
Captivity had done nothing to blunt Alice’s haughty defiance. She reclined comfortably on a bed in a room that was considerably larger and better appointed than Isabel’s, and the only thing missing, as far as Bartholomew could tell, was a window. Clearly, nuns had a different view of what should constitute prison than anyone else.
‘I will answer your questions,’ she conceded loftily. ‘But in return, all charges against me will be dropped and I will be reinstated as Prioress of Ickleton.’
Michael ignored the demand. ‘We found the comb you hid in Abbess Isabel’s room. However, your plot to see her accused of theft has failed. The comb was stolen from the Spital, but she has never been there. You have, though.’
Alice was unfazed. ‘I have already told you: I did not take it. You will have to devise another explanation for how it ended up where it did.’
Bartholomew pushed his anxieties about the deteriorating situation in the town to the back of his mind, because a solution was beginning to reveal itself to him at last. He was sure Alice had stolen the comb, but was less certain that she had put it in Isabel’s room to incriminate her, because Joan was right: no one would believe the Abbess would steal, and Alice would know it. The only other explanation was that Alice had given it to Isabel, and the Abbess had secreted it there herself.
‘I believe you,’ he said, speaking slowly to give his thoughts time to settle. ‘You would have chosen a far more imaginative hiding place than under a bed.’
‘Is that where she put it?’ scoffed Alice. ‘What a fool! She should be demoted, so that someone more intelligent can be installed in her place. Someone like me.’
‘So you did give it to her,’ pounced Bartholomew. ‘Why?’
Alice folded her arms. ‘I refuse to say more until you promise me something in return.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael. ‘I promise to recommend clemency when you are sentenced to burn at the stake.’
Alice gaped at him. ‘Burn at the stake? What for?’
‘Buying cursing spells from a witch. Do not deny it, because we have witnesses. So what will it be? Cooperation or incineration?’
Alice’s hubris began to dissolve. ‘You misunderstand, Brother. The spell was only a harmless bit of fun – nothing malicious.’
‘No one will believe you. Now, the comb: why did you steal it?’
Alice looked at Michael’s stern, angry face, and the remaining fight went out of her. ‘Because Isabel charged me to visit the Spital, find the comb and bring it to her. In return, she promised to get me reinstated.’
‘You believed her?’ asked Michael, sure Isabel would have done nothing of the kind.
‘Not at first,’ admitted Alice. ‘But I was desperate, so I decided to take a chance.’
‘Did she say why she wanted it?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘She refused to tell me. And then, when I was accused of theft and needed her to prove my innocence, she denied all knowledge of our arrangement. She betrayed me!’
‘So you bought a cursing spell to teach her a lesson,’ surmised Bartholomew.
‘To make her confess to what she had commissioned me to do. I am not a thief – just the agent of one.’
Michael regarded her in disgust. ‘You lie! If Isabel had told you to steal, you would have trumpeted it from the rooftops when you were accused. But you never did.’