“Another of her admirers heard of her plans and murdered her out of envy. Could that be the case?”
“No, my lady. I was the only person who knew about him.”
“Then we must start there. What is his name?”
“She never told me.”
“What did she confide?”
“It was a secret, my lady.”
“And will you let her take it to her grave?” Golde held her hand once more. “Listen, Eadgyth. We must track down this man. He may not even know that she has been killed. If he loved Bertha, he will be desolated by the news. But he has a right to know it. Will you keep the truth from him as it was kept from you?”
“No, my lady. That would be a cruelty.”
“Then tell me how to find him.”
“I do not know.”
“Does he live in the city?”
“No, my lady. He hails from France.”
“Is that where he dwells?”
“Much of the time,” said Eadgyth. “Bertha only saw him when he came to Kent and he would not stay in Canterbury for long.
He travelled around the whole county.”
“Why? What was his occupation?”
“Bertha did not say.”
“How did she describe him?”
“As the most wonderful person she had ever met. Kind, loving and very handsome. Somewhat older than she. She was entranced by him. It is the first time I have seen Bertha truly happy.”
“Why such secrecy about her lover?”
“Because of her father.”
“Alwin the Sailor?”
“He would have stopped her at once.” She gave a little shrug.
“That is all I know, my lady, I swear. Do not press me further. It distresses me to recall the joy in her voice when she talked about him. All that hope, strangled out of her.”
“One more question, then. That is all. May I?” Eadgyth gave a reluctant nod of assent. “When did Bertha last speak of her friend to you?”
“Four or five days ago. She was very excited. Bertha had not seen him for months but word had finally come. It gave her such delight.” Her face was shining at the memory but it soon lost its glow. Eadgyth’s voice was dulled by sorrow again. “He was due to arrive here this week.”
Gervase Bret spent a long time at Christ Church Priory. Having been given permission to speak with Brother Ambrose, he sought out the monk and introduced himself. They adjourned to the privacy of the garden so that they could talk. Ambrose was a round, red-faced, affable man in his fifties, with a zest for life which was quite unmarked by his regular contact with death.
When Gervase showed him the flask which had been found at the hospital of St. Nicholas, the monk needed only one sniff to confirm that it had contained the poison which had ended Brother Martin’s life. Gervase was not allowed to view the cadaver in the morgue but he was given a most detailed inventory of its contours and its condition by the beaming Brother Ambrose. The bell for Vespers brought the conversation to a close and Gervase watched the monks converge on the chapel for Evensong. Special prayers would be said for the soul of the dear departed, and Canon Hubert and Brother Simon joined the obedientiaries to add their personal supplication.
Instinct sent Gervase back to Harbledown. In the hope that the scene of the crime might yield more clues about the murder, he rode steadily up the hill in the cool evening air. When he caught sight of a tall, stooping figure far ahead of him, he recognised Alain at once. The leper was dragging himself toward the crest of the hill and Gervase was chastened by the thought that a journey which would take no more than fifteen minutes on a horse had been an excruciating crawl throughout most of the afternoon for Alain.
Gervase overhauled him and dropped down to walk beside the leper. Alain did not even look up or check his stride.
“You are back, Master Bret,” he grunted.
“How did you know that it was me?”
“Who else would walk so close to a leper?”
“I came to thank you for your gift.”
“Gift?”
“The apple.”
“Was it of any help?”
“We think so.”
“I do not see how.”
“Where exactly did you find it?” asked Gervase. “Beside the body? Under the holly close by?”
“It was in her hand.”
“Of course!” It confirmed his theory. He reached up to take the apple and its wrapping from his saddlebag. “I have brought it back to you, Alain.”
The leper stopped and turned to him, clearly touched but unable to find the words to express his gratitude. When the apple was handed over, he held it as if it were a bag of gold, then secreted it once more inside his voluminous sleeve. Gervase did not have the heart to tell him that the apple had not belonged to Bertha but had probably been put into her fingers after she was dead. It held a special meaning for Alain and should be allowed to go on doing so until the apple rotted slowly away like the man who coveted it.
“You must have cared deeply for Bertha,” said Gervase.
“She was a friend.”
Alain trudged off again and Gervase kept pace with him.
“Did you ever speak to her alone?”
“Now and then.”
“What did you like about her?”
“She was not afraid of me.”
“How long have you had leprosy?”
“Most of my life,” said Alain without any trace of self-pity. “I have got used to the effect I have on others. Bertha was different.
She did not turn away.”
They walked on without speaking until they came to the hospital and turned off the track. One of the monks was distributing food to some of the other lepers. Seen from behind, the man looked so like Brother Martin that the two of them came to a sudden halt and blinked. When the monk turned to smile a welcome, they realised their mistake. The incident served as a reminder to Gervase.
“Were you here when they took Brother Martin away?”
“I was.”
“You saw them arrive with the cart?”
“We stood around the door of the church throughout.”
“How many monks were there, Alain?”
“Five or six.”
“What happened when they went into the church?”
“Why do you ask?”
“It is important. Did one come out again on his own?”
“Yes.”
“And where did he go?”
“I do not know,” said Alain. “We were only interested in Brother Martin. They put his body on the cart and covered it with a shroud.
Then they took him away.”
Gervase was quietly exhilarated to have his guesswork transformed into fact. He thanked Alain and let him join the others for the meal, watching him shuffle away and knowing that he carried an item of food inside his sleeve which would never be consumed and yet which would provide constant nourishment.
The door of the church was open. When Gervase went into the empty nave, he stood at the rear and looked at the spot where Brother Martin had been propped against the pillar. He then gazed across at the altar with its crucifix, its flowers and its single candle in an iron holder. By putting an apple in her hand and a serpent beside her, the murderer had used Bertha’s death as a means of sending a hidden message. Gervase wondered if a similar sign was contained in the manner and the venue of Brother Martin’s demise. He was still standing there when one of the monks joined him.
“Are you looking for something, my son?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Gervase. “A scene from the Bible.”
Cradled in his arms, Golde lay naked in bed beside her husband.
It seemed to her almost sinful to share so much love in a house filled with so much pain and remorse, but Ralph was plainly untroubled by any feelings of guilt. He caressed her hair before running his hand down the smooth skin of her back. There was no responsive purr.
“What is the matter, my love?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“You are unhappy.”
“After that? Of course not.”
“I know you too well, Golde.”
“I am tired, that is all.”
“Your mind is elsewhere. So is your heart. Is it my fault?