Day of Wrath (35 page)

‘Then you might find this useful,' said Jane, taking out a small leather-bound book from her pocket. It was a small, beautifully made Book of Hours, illustrated with some very fine hand-painted pictures. ‘My father gave me this on my sixteenth birthday. He bought it from a London bookseller and it's got all the monks' services in it, and some prayers and readings from the Bible.'

Agnes took the book and began to turn the pages. ‘What a treasure! I shall so much enjoy reading it and studying the pictures. I shall keep it safe until I go home. Thank you, my dear.'

‘You said you know most of the monks,' said Jane conversationally as Agnes put the book under her pillow. ‘Which ones come to you frequently?'

‘Oh Father Hubert, of course. He always calls on me when he goes up to the woods to collect sorrel. He exchanges some of the sorrel for my parsley, which grows very easily in my garden but the monks for some reason or other find it difficult to cultivate. He often wants some of my foxglove tincture. It's marvellous for the treatment of elderly hearts. There is an old man in the infirmary who was kept going for a long time with a daily dose of foxglove.'

‘Is he a frequent visitor?'

‘Oh yes. He's getting on a bit, you see, not strong, and sometimes the walk up into the woods is more than he can cope with without a rest. He's a nice man, very gentle. I like talking to him. Ambrose loves him.'

This wasn't the image of a ruthless killer, thought Jane, as she arranged the rest of the food on one of the plates and put it on the table for Agnes's next meal. ‘Do many people come from the village to see you?' she asked.

‘Oh occasionally, when they wanted my services. Abigail Butcher came to see me when she was worried about the baby she was carrying. Poor little thing. I knew it wasn't right when I felt him in her womb. But God wanted him for Himself. Then old Tomkins came to see me when his face was covered with that rash. The Prior often sent down for something when his stomach was troubling him. Sometimes the Bishop would send one of his servants to buy one of my special potions. And Brother Martin came for the opiate. Brother Michael used to send him when he was too busy to come himself.'

‘What would he want with an opiate?'

‘It's the greatest medicine of all. Everyone wants my opiate; but it's very precious and I can't let just everyone have it. You see it eases the pain of the dying, and brings relief to the living. The monks use it in their infirmary, but they run out from time to time, and I always let them have some of mine. I keep it at the back of the shed, as you know, in some pottery jars with good stoppers set in wax. The monks always returned the jars and paid me for the opiate. It's very expensive as you know.'

‘Does he come to see you very often?'

‘Oh no, my dear. Once or twice a year, when my stocks run low and I have to send a message to him by the carrier.'

Then Jane remembered. There was no sign of the jars when she went down to Agnes's last Sunday, with Nicholas, to see what damage the fire had done. So someone had stolen them, but before, or after the fire?

Agnes had finished her meal, washed her fingers in the bowl of water and leaned back on her bed.

‘It's strange,' she said. ‘I feel quite tired. Perhaps I should stay here after all. Everything suddenly goes blurred, as if my brain was clouded over with fog. I think I'll take a nap. You will look after Ambrose, won't you?'

‘Of course I will. Don't worry about anything.'

Jane covered her over with the rug and left her in peace. The monks had stopped chanting. They, too, were eating their midday meal. It was time to see to her father's meal, too. She wanted to see Nicholas. But how was she to get there? She wasn't yet ready to ride Melissa. Suddenly, she felt weary, and it was as much as she could do to walk back to her father's house.

*   *   *

Late on Sunday evening, as the shadows lengthened, and the colony of rooks in the old elm trees which marked the boundary of the graveyard, began to settle down for the night, Edgar Pierrepoint, Churchwarden of the parish of Dean Peverell, made his rounds before saying goodnight to the Vicar and making sure that the church was locked up. It was what he did every Sunday evening, and sometimes the Vicar would produce a jug of ale, and they'd talk over the week's events, and count up the Mass pence.

That evening, Edgar was troubled. Things were not the same in the parish, not since the witch came. He looked across to the little room, stuck on the side of the monks' church like a boil on a thumb, and thought of her sitting there thinking up her next piece of wickedness.

Too many things had happened to give him peace of mind: Lord Nicholas's steward murdered, so it was said, then the lass from up in Mortimer's place, Bess Knowles, dying in mysterious circumstances, and now Mistress Warrener nearly killed in his church, and he knew that the gallery was perfectly sound – he'd only inspected it and the tower a week before the accident happened. And he knew an unsafe piece of masonry when he saw one. So it must have been some diabolical influence which made a stone dislodge itself and fall on Mistress Warrener. And if there was a diabolical influence about, he knew where it was coming from – that little room. Then there was that business of Abigail Butcher's baby and the shadowy figure up in the woods which had frightened Lord Nicholas's horse, and the murder of the cat and the burning down of the witch's shed. It was all very unsettling. Edgar Pierrepoint was a sensible, God-fearing man, and he was no more superstitious than anyone else in the village, but he had to admit that so many unpleasant events happening over such a short time, a mere three weeks, meant only one thing – there was a witch in their midst. A wicked witch, in league with the devil. And as he looked at the little room attached to the monks' church, he crossed himself and said the Our Father, twice. Then he continued to walk round the graveyard to make sure that the sexton had started to scythe down the long grass before the graves got completely covered.

At that time of the year, the mounds of earth which marked the graves were covered with a blanket of daisies and buttercups. On some, the families had placed posies of herbs and flowers gathered from their own gardens. In the far corner, under the great yew tree which had been there since the Conqueror, there were the graves of the wealthier parishioners whose relatives had marked the last resting place of their loved ones with a stone cross, or maybe a stone slab with the details of the person's life engraved on it. It was very dark under the yew tree, the air soft and warm. It was going to be a beautiful summer night. Suddenly, he stopped. On one of the larger tombstones, old Eleanor Hammond's, he caught a glimpse of bright blue that didn't seem like the colour of flowers. He walked over to take a look. The Hammond family were one of the wealthiest families in the parish, freeholders and sheep farmers. Old Eleanor was ninety-six when she died, and it was right that her family should have given her such a fine tomb. From a hawthorn bush near the tomb a nightingale began to practise a few runs as a warm-up before the real concert began.

The blue wasn't from a posy of flowers. It was the blue of a linen dress, and it was on a small girl who was laid out on the slab, her dress neatly arranged and her fair hair unbound. Edgar stopped and clutched his heart, which began to beat wildly. He knew the little girl. She was Eleanor Hammond's great granddaughter, Katharine Hammond, aged six, the apple of John Hammond's eye. Edgar braced himself and walked over to the child. Her face was deathly pale and when he peered closer because his eyesight wasn't too good, he noticed that both of her eyes had been closed with what he thought were two coins, like the pennies the old people put in the eyes of their dead to pay the ferryman to row them across the River Styx. But they weren't pennies. They were communion wafers. Then he saw the marks around her slender neck and he realised that Katharine Hammond had been vilely murdered whilst she came to visit the tomb of her great grandmother – her little posy lay on the grass where it had fallen when she'd been attacked. This was the devil's work, he thought. Only the devil would commit such a sacrilege as to put communion wafers on his victim's eyes. And there was only one person who was conversant with the black arts – the witch! With a shout of horror Edgar ran back to the church and banged on the Vicar's door.

‘Murder, sacrilege! Open up quickly, the devil's been here. Murder, murder,' he continued to scream when Alfred Hobbes opened the door, and together they ran back to the place where Katharine Hammond was lying.

*   *   *

News travels fast. Nicholas was given a detailed account of Katharine's death from Geoffrey Lowe, and by the time he'd sent an urgent message to the Sheriff, and ridden down to the church, a crowd had gathered, led by John Hammond, Katharine's father. They were carrying lighted torches and were crowding round Agnes's room, screaming for vengeance.

‘Burn the witch, kill the witch before she kills all our children.'

Nicholas pushed his way through the crowd and flattened himself against the door of the cell.

‘Stop! I'll arrest the first person who takes one step nearer this door.'

‘Don't you stick up for the old hag, Lord Nicholas,' said a rough voice from the crowd. ‘We'll burn her here and now and get rid of her. Don't you know what she's done to Kate Hammond?'

‘I know Katharine's dead, and I grieve for her parents, but we don't know Agnes killed her. How could she? She's locked up in here and she hasn't got a key. She can't get out, you fools.'

‘She don't need no keys,' said the same voice. ‘Them witches know how to spirit themselves through doors. Don't you stand up for her, Lord Nicholas.'

Such was the respect that the villagers had for Nicholas that no one took a step nearer. He stared at the crowd with their flaming torches, he saw the darkness settle down on the scene, and knew who was responsible for this. Ultor had struck again. Ultor was getting desperate. Agnes could soon recover her wits. Agnes had to be silenced. What better way to arouse the fury of the mob than to murder a young child and make it look like the malevolent action of a witch, one of the devil's emissaries.

The crowd would not be pacified, and some threw their torches at Nicholas in defiance, and by the time the Sheriff arrived with his men, they were almost out of control. Order was soon restored, and the crowd pushed back from Agnes's room. Then the Prior came panting up to Nicholas.

‘This is terrible, my Lord. An abomination. The Sheriff must take Agnes Myles away immediately. We can't keep her here. The mob will tear us to pieces. Let her go to Marchester where the Bishop will know how to deal with her.'

‘Stop, Prior. Think. There's no evidence that Agnes killed Katharine. Don't be swayed by this mob. Use your reason. She can't get out of this room. She's too old to murder a little girl. And how, in God's name, Prior, could she have got hold of communion wafers?'

‘She's right,' said a clear, firm voice from the crowd. It was Jane, who'd just arrived and was pushing her way forward to stand by Nicholas. ‘Whoever killed Katharine knew how to get hold of communion wafers. Now who could do that? Someone from the parish – the Vicar uses communion wafers, of course – someone from further afield who stole wafers from a church, or someone from this community. Which one of your monks has access to the sacred vessels and the communion wafers?'

Nicholas looked at Jane in admiration. He had underestimated her strength. The Prior gasped, and, all of a sudden, seemed to crumble. He looked desperately at Jane, then at Nicholas, and finally at the Sheriff. The crowd had fallen silent.

‘Send these people home, Sheriff. Bring Katharine into our church, where we'll see that the prayers of the dead will be said over her body. And let's go over to my house and sort this out.'

‘And meanwhile, Prior,' said Sheriff Landstock, ‘let none of your monks leave these premises. Shut the gate. Assemble all the brethren in the chapter house and let none of them leave until I say so. My men will guard them and I shall put a guard over Agnes Myles's room.'

‘Oh what a dreadful thing, what a scandal,' said the Prior as he led the way over to his house. ‘What sacrilege – and the King's Commissioners here too. What will they think of us?'

‘And Katharine's family, Prior, think of them,' said Nicholas.

‘Oh I am, I am, Lord Nicholas,' said the Prior. ‘It's a terrible tragedy for them. But why, oh why, should anyone want to murder a little girl in such a diabolical way?'

As they walked over to the Prior's house, the great bell of the Priory tolled out, bringing the monks down from their dormitory and into the chapter house. The crowd slowly dispersed. Two men stood guard over Agnes Myles.

Chapter Twenty-Six

‘This is no place for a woman, Mistress Warrener,' said the Prior, once they were up in his study. ‘I must ask you to leave.'

There were five of them present: the Prior, Nicholas, the Sheriff and his secretary, and Jane. ‘I have to be here, Prior,' she said firmly, ‘Don't you see I'm involved in all of this? Someone, maybe the same person who killed Katharine, tried to kill me. I have been in Lord Nicholas's confidence since his steward was murdered and I have been talking to Agnes Myles, our key witness, who will, I'm sure, lead us to the murderer.'

‘It's still not suitable…' said the Prior, glaring at Jane as if the presence of a woman was the most important part of the proceedings.

‘Oh let her be, Prior,' said Landstock, ‘she's here, she has a right to be here, she can stay as far as I'm concerned.'

‘And I insist she stays here,' said Nicholas. ‘She's been a valuable assistant to me over the last weeks, and she knows as much as the Sheriff and I do.'

‘Oh very well, let her be. But tell me, Peverell, why, in heaven's name do you still protect the old witch? Just look at her – there she is, locked away on my premises, muttering to herself, hatching up all sorts of wickedness.'