When Ralph tried the door, it creaked so loudly on its hinges that they ruled out the vestry as the place of concealment.
Gervase began to have second thoughts. An idea which had seemed so convincing on their ride to Harbledown was slowly crumbling. With Ralph’s indulgence, he went out of the church, then entered again, retracing the steps he had taken on the previous evening. He came to the pillar against which the old monk had rested, watched him fall to the ground in his mind’s eye, knelt to examine him, then recalled that it was too dark to see properly. When his head turned toward the candle, he had the solution.
“The altar!” he shouted.
“Calm down, Gervase.”
“Where better to hide?”
Removing the crucifix, the candle and the little vase of flowers from the altar, he lifted the white cloth with a mixture of reverence and excitement. The table was small but a man could conceal himself beneath it without undue discomfort. Even Ralph was shocked by the sacrilege.
“Hiding under an altar to commit murder!”
“The last place from which you would expect danger.”
“Brother Martin would have been completely off guard.”
“Kneeling in prayer,” said Gervase, as his gaze raked the floor underneath the table. “The killer eased himself out, jumped on Brother Martin, overpowered him and …”
He broke off as he saw something lying in the crack between two flagstones. Leaning in under the altar, he groped around until his hand closed on the object. When he brought it out, he opened his palm to reveal a small flask.
He held it to his nose and recoiled with disgust. Even the aromatic herbs in the nave could not remove the stink of murder.
“He was here,” said Gervase. “We have a trail.”
Osbern the Reeve was a decent, hardworking, God-fearing man whose life had hitherto followed a pattern of certainty. When he set himself a target, he always achieved it. When he conceived schemes for the future, they invariably came to fruition. His sense of purpose and his unswerving dedication to the task in hand had earned him an important position in the city, a wife whom he adored and a son on whom he doted. It was almost as if he had planned his happiness like a military campaign, marshalling his divisions to strike at the right point and at precisely the correct moment. Every battle he fought under the flag of domestic bliss had so far been attended by triumph.
The situation had altered dramatically. In the space of a couple of days, some of his certainties had been shattered. His contentment had turned to rising anxiety, his faith in his own good judgement had been undermined and, most disturbing of all, he was being forced to reexamine the assumptions he had made about his wife. Osbern had been too complacent in his happiness.
“May I crave a word or two, my lady?” he said politely.
“As many as you wish.”
“Have you spoken to Eadgyth since the funeral?”
“I was just about to do so,” said Golde. “She made me promise to describe it to her when I got back here.”
Osborn nodded. “Thank heaven we were able to persuade her not to attend in person! It would have been far too harrowing for Eadgyth. She was determined to come. It was Helto who finally talked her out of it.”
“He is a sound physician.”
“The best.”
Golde gave a warm smile. “What did you wish to ask me?”
The reeve hesitated. Golde was an honoured guest and he did not wish to offend her in any way by subjecting her to what she might feel was an interrogation. She had also been immensely supportive to Eadgyth and nursed her through the worst of her ordeal. Osbern liked and respected Golde. She had an essential honesty and would answer his question if only he had the courage to ask it. That was Osbern’s other problem. He was torn between wanting to know the truth about Eadgyth and maintaining the illusion that she would never keep anything from her husband.
“Well?” invited Golde.
“How is Eadgyth?”
“You saw her yourself only a few minutes ago.”
“Yes, my lady,” he said, “but I only see her through the eyes of a fond and worried husband. You have sat beside he bed for hours on end, soothing her troubled mind and giving her relief from her sorrow.”
“That sorrow will not easily go away,” warned Golde.
“I know.”
“It ebbs and flows. Today, as you have seen, Eadgyth is understandably distressed. Your wife desperately wanted to go to Bertha’s funeral. She felt it was a betrayal of her closest friend to stay away.”
“There was good reason, my lady.”
“Yes,” said Golde. “It would have upset her beyond measure.
Not simply because she loved Bertha so much but because she would have realised that the truth had been kept from her. Reinbald the Priest did not mention the murder in his sermon but it was common talk among the congregation. Eadgyth must surely have caught a whisper of it.”
“That was my greatest fear.”
“It could easily have been avoided, Osbern.”
“How, my lady?”
“By telling her what really happened to Bertha.”
“Helto cautioned me against that.”
“How long will you keep her ignorant of the truth?”
“I do not know.”
“It cannot be held back forever.”
“I accept that.” He shifted his feet uneasily. “You have spent a great deal of time with Eadgyth,” he said. “She is under enormous stress. Given the circumstances, it is only natural that she would talk to you about Bertha.”
“Constantly.”
“You have shown monumental patience.”
“I have been interested in all that she told me.”
“My lady,” he said, running his tongue over his lips before blurting out his question. “Did my wife ever mention that Bertha had a secret romance?”
“Romance?”
“An admirer whom nobody knew about. A lover. Did she?”
“Not in those terms.”
“There was someone, then?”
“Eadgyth only referred to him as ‘a friend’.”
“What was his name?”
“Your wife did not say,” explained Golde. “Indeed, she did not really mean to confide anything of the relationship to me. It slipped out unwittingly. Once she had told me that Bertha had this special friend, she refused to say another word on the subject. It is a secret she is determined to keep.”
“Yes,” said Osbern ruefully. “Even from me.”
“What harm has it caused you?”
“It was wrong, my lady. I should have been told.”
“This secret belonged only to Eadgyth and Bertha.”
“I am Eadgyth’s husband. There should be no deception between us.”
“Do you not keep secrets from her, Osbern?”
“Never!”
“You take her into your confidence about everything.”
“It is an article of faith.”
“An admirable one in many ways,” said Golde. “Marriage should blend two people completely together. But you must not blame Eadgyth for harbouring this secret. Although you profess to be honest with her, you have clearly not been so.”
“I have, my lady! I swear it.”
“Then why have you not told her the truth about Bertha’s death?
That is a dreadful secret to keep from your wife. Eadgyth may never forgive you.”
The visit to Harbledown was highly productive. Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret were pleased with their progress and rode back toward the city in good humour. As they approached Westgate, they saw a hooded figure sitting outside the town wall with a begging bowl at his feet. Gervase found a coin in his purse and tossed it down as they passed.
Alain caught it expertly in his bowl and looked up to nod his gratitude. Recognising Gervase, he rose from the ground and dipped a hand deep into his sleeve. He brought out something wrapped in a piece of cloth and handed it over before moving away. Gervase was puzzled. He flicked back the folds of cloth and held the object in his palm. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, Ralph urged him to hurl it after the leper, but Gervase felt that it had a significance. He turned it around to examine it more closely.