‘And what did they say?’
This time Josse laughed aloud. ‘Nothing. They stood before me staring at me with their mouths open and their eyes popping, like a row of sheep hearing angels sing. I tell you, Abbess, I was in some doubt that they’d taken in a word I said.’
‘Did they say anything?’
‘After what seemed an age, the woman — Peter Ely’s wife — announced, “’E din’ mix with gentry.” Then the three of them turned round and shuffled back inside. I did call out to let me know if any strangers came calling, and that I could be reached at the inn. But I doubt if they took any notice.’ He sighed.
‘Hm.’ She was thinking. ‘I don’t believe I can offer you any suggestions, Sir Josse. Although one thing does strike me.’
‘What?’ he said eagerly.
‘Oh, don’t set any store by it,’ she replied, ‘it’s only a very small point.’
‘Let me have it anyway,’ he encouraged. ‘I’m at my wits’ end!’
‘I doubt that very much,’ she said, ‘Very well. What occurred to me was that this stranger did nothing to disguise himself. Quite the opposite, it appears, since he wore good clothes, which he must have known would stand out in the tap room of the inn, and, by your account, he flirted quite openly with the little maid.’
‘We don’t know he did that,’ Josse said. ‘We only have Tilly’s side of the story. And, Abbess, she’s not a girl I would flirt with.’
‘Nevertheless, he spent the evening in the tap room, with the evening’s company, appearing as himself. Yes?’
‘Ye-es,’ Josse said cautiously.
‘So I conclude that he wasn’t there for any nefarious purpose. His visit to Tonbridge was innocent, and therefore he didn’t care who saw him.’
‘Because, if he had come on secret business, the last place he’d have gone would be the inn! Yes, Abbess, you’re quite right!’
‘Might he have been a guest of the Clare family?’ she suggested. ‘His sort of people, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I would.’ Josse frowned again. ‘But if he were, then why eat his supper at the inn?’
‘Did he put up there for the night?’
Josse shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Mistress Anne says that the dead man was her only guest that night.’ He smiled briefly. ‘Although guest is hardly the word, under the circumstances.’
‘Does anybody know where the stranger went, on leaving the inn?’
‘No.’
‘Might he have returned to Tonbridge Castle?’
Josse folded his arms across his broad chest, tapping the fingers of one hand against the opposite upper arm. ‘Yes, I suppose so. But it doesn’t sound very likely, does it? A nobleman — if we may surmise that from descriptions of his dress and his manner — comes to visit friends, leaves them to take his supper at the local inn, which, for all that it’s a decent one, is still an inn, then, having tucked away his meal, goes back to beg a bed from his hosts.’ He shook his head. ‘Doesn’t accord with anything I’ve ever heard.’
‘Nor I, I have to agree.’ Helewise struggled to sit up.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Josse demanded instantly.
‘Nowhere!’ she protested. ‘I merely need a change of position.’
‘Hmm.’ He eyed her suspiciously, as if half expecting her to filch the ledger off the table and return to her accounts. Then: ‘We are right, aren’t we, Abbess, in assuming the handsome stranger must have been the intended victim?’
‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m sure we are.’ It was pleasant, she thought, to be we again. A satisfying challenge, once more to unite her wits with his over this new conundrum. ‘And I do think that there is only one logical next step, Sir Josse. To find out the identity of the stranger, and what he was doing in Tonbridge that someone else didn’t want him to do.’
‘Aye,’ Josse said heavily. ‘I agree. For all that I don’t relish the task, I agree.’
‘Can there have been so many handsome strangers in town recently?’ she asked. ‘You do, after all, have a good description.’
He grinned at her. ‘Abbess, do you ever visit Tonbridge?’ She shook her head. ‘Well, I fear you have a somewhat inaccurate picture of the place.’
‘It used to be a quiet little town,’ she mused, ‘the castle guarding the river crossing, and-’
‘Aye. The river crossing,’ he interrupted. ‘And what crosses the river?’
‘The road, of course.’
‘Aye. The road from London to the coast. Abbess, traffic has increased, I imagine, since last you were there. To our present disadvantage, since that traffic includes, in with the merchants, the pilgrims and the local travellers, any number of richly-dressed strangers, handsome or otherwise.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t sound so woebegone!’ He seemed to rally, unfolding his arms and straightening up. ‘It’s a starting point, at least. Better than nothing. And I shall set off immediately and begin making enquiries.’
‘Such fervour,’ she murmured.
He was looking at her, his expression softening. ‘May I report progress to you in a day or two?’
‘I should be most upset if you didn’t.’
‘And you’ll promise to rest? Get someone else to see to those accounts?’
‘I will.’ Someone, she thought tiredly, who could add up a column of figures better than she could at the moment.
He opened the door. ‘Do you wish me to send anyone in to see to you? Fetch you a drink, or something to eat?’
The thought of food made her feel slightly sick. ‘No, nothing, thank you.’
‘Then I’ll tell Sister Euphemia you’re resting,’ he said, easing his way out. ‘Sleep well!’
‘Farewell, Sir Josse, and good luck.’
She listened to his heavy footsteps marching away along the cloister. Then, giving in to her fatigue, she turned on her side and was very soon asleep.
Chapter Four
As he rode away from the Abbey, Josse wondered if his last action before leaving would be deemed by Helewise to be uncalled-for interference. If, when she learned of it, she would be angry with him.
He hoped not. But if she were, it was a price he’d have to pay.
He’d been to see Sister Euphemia, and told her he’d been horrified at the Abbess’s appearance.
‘You’ve no need to tell me!’ Euphemia had protested angrily. ‘I’ve got eyes in my head! And you should have seen her last week! Dear merciful Lord, I feared for her life one night, her fever rose that high!’
‘What ails her?’
Euphemia shrugged. ‘There’s any number of fevers about, folks say. It’s a harsh winter we’re having. This particular sickness was brought by pilgrims to the shrine. There was four of them, two old people, two young ’uns. The old folk died — there wasn’t anything we could do for them, and the holy water doesn’t always work its miracle if a body’s too far gone.’
‘Did many of your nuns and monks fall sick?’
Euphemia gave a ‘huh!’ of indignation. ‘Most of our nuns and monks kept their distance, I’m ashamed to say. The Abbess herself took a turn at nursing, with me and Sister Caliste, and Brother Saul relieved us all when we went to our devotions. I reckon we escape most infections, Caliste and Saul and me, because the good Lord above gives us His protection, us being in permanent contact with the sick. But the Abbess, now, she’s different. She was worn out even when she came to help us, Sir Josse, and it does seem to be the way of it, that fevers more readily strike at those whose energies are running low.’ Euphemia shook her head sadly. ‘She takes on too much, I’m always telling her. Fat lot of good it does, though, I might as well save my breath to cool my porridge.’