"But that is not possible." Clare's gaze went to the heavy wooden door that Gareth and John had recently forced. "Her door was locked from the inside. And the windows are too narrow for a man to pass through."

Gareth glanced toward the doorway. Through the opening he could see that a cluster of curious onlookers had gathered. Several of the nuns and novices as well as a number of villagers stood just outside, trying to look into the cell.

"Instruct everyone to be off about their own business," Gareth said to Margaret. "I do not want them trampling about out there in front of the cell any more than they already have."

Margaret eyed him consideringly. "Aye, my lord."

She went to the door and dispatched the small crowd.

Clare met Gareth's eyes. "The day before our wedding, Beatrice insisted that she had seen Brother Bartholomew. She claimed that she saw him enter the convent grounds. She said he walked straight through the locked gates."

"Brother Bartholomew?" Gareth recalled the conversation between Beatrice and Clare that he had overheard. "Ah, yes. The ghost. You never did tell me what that was all about."

"It is merely an old legend, my lord," Margaret said brusquely. "Brother Bartholomew was a wandering monk. He came to Desire many years ago to preach to the villagers and the members of this house. Tis said that while he was on the isle he seduced a young nun and persuaded her to run off with him."

"They fled during a storm," Clare explained. "Both were drowned when their boat overturned in the high seas."

"This occurred while you were in charge of this convent, madam?" Gareth asked.

"Most definitely not." Margaret was heartily offended. "I would never have tolerated such nonsense.

Nay, the tale is from long before my time."

"And long before mine, also," Clare said. "The legend has it that Brother Bartholomew returns on certain nights seeking his beloved.

Whenever he is seen on the convent grounds, disaster is said to follow."

Gareth got to his feet. "I can promise you that your recluse was not killed by a ghost. A fiesh-and-blood man left those marks on her throat."

He walked to the door and looked out at the trampled grass. "Hell's teeth, I wish I had thought to keep the curious away. Now it will be impossible to see if there are any strange bootmarks in front of the cell."

"My lord." Clare's voice was quiet and thoughtful. "There is something strange here."

"Aye. Murder is always strange."

"I refer to an unusual odor."

Gareth swung around and fixed her with a sharp gaze. "I have great respect for your sense of smell, madam. What odor do you detect?"

"Mint."

"Mint?" Gareth stepped closer to the body. He drew a deep breath, trying to taste the air. "Aye. Very faint."

Margaret's brow wrinkled in confusion. "What is so odd about the scent of mint? Mayhap the recluse recently used some to prepare a meal."

Clare's nose twitched. "Nay, the scent is on her night robe."

Gareth went back down on one knee beside the body. "You're right. 'Tis on the hem of her gown." He glanced at the green stains on the bottom of the recluse's soft leather slippers. "And on her shoes."

Clare wrapped her arms around her waist. "There is a large patch of mint in the convent gardens. Do you think that Beatrice went outside last night?"

"She never left her cell," Margaret said quickly. "Never in all the years I knew her. Do not forget, she was an anchorite. She wanted to be enclosed. Indeed, she once told me that she had a great dislike of being in the outside world."

"Aye, but if she really thought that she had seen the ghost of Brother Bartholomew," Clare said,

"mayhap she would have been curious enough to leave her cell in order to follow him."

"Clare, surely you do not believe in that old legend," Margaret said.

"Nay, but Beatrice did."

"My lady wife has a point." Gareth looked at Clare. "Mayhap Beatrice did see someone last night, someone she took to be the ghost. And mayhap she went outside to see what he was doing."

Margaret shook her head. "It makes no sense. If she had seen someone she took to be a ghost, surely she would have been alarmed. She would have stayed in here behind a locked door."

"Who knows?" Clare said. "Beatrice was a very curious person. And she knew that no one believed that she had actually seen the ghost of Brother Bartholomew. Mayhap she sought proof of her story. And was murdered for it."

"But there is no one on this isle who had any reason to kill Beatrice,"

Margaret said.

Gareth kept his gaze on Clare's troubled face. "Let us have a look at that patch of mint."

Clare nodded. "It is planted near the library." She turned and led the way out of the cell.

Margaret set off after her.

Gareth took one last look at the murdered recluse. Then he followed Clare and the prioress down a garden path to a large square plot of dark-green mint located next to a stone wall. The signs of trampled greenery were evident immediately. The odor of crushed mint was strong.

"Someone stood here recently," Gareth said. He walked around the plot, examining it from all sides.

Then he glanced up at the window in the wall. "The library is on the other side of this wall?"

"Aye," Margaret said quietly.

"I would like to look inside, if you have no objection, madam."

"Of course not, but I do not see what good it will do."

The heavy keys on Margaret's girdle rattled and clashed as she selected one.

"Another locked door," Clare murmured as Margaret approached the library door and inserted the key.

"Aye," Gareth said. "One would almost think that the murderer really was a ghost."

Clare frowned. "Surely you do not believe that?"

"Nay," Gareth said. "But it would appear that someone wishes us to believe it."

Margaret breathed an audible sigh of relief as she opened the library door and took a quick look around inside. "All is well in here. For a moment there I feared that we had been robbed."

"And that the recluse had been killed because she saw the thieves?"

Gareth nodded. "A reasonable assumption."

He walked into the library. Clare followed at his heels. Together they examined the shelves full of heavy books. Many of the richly bound volumes were prudently chained to the wall.

Gareth was impressed. "You have a great many fine books, Prioress."

"Aye. And I'm pleased to say that we have never had a theft from our library during my time here as prioress," Margaret said proudly. "But one can never be too careful with things as valuable as books."

"My lord," Clare called from the last row of library shelves. "There is a volume open on one of the desks."

"Impossible." Margaret hurried down the aisle, clearly alarmed. "All of the books are properly stored after use. I have given strict orders to that effect."

Gareth walked down the aisle to where Clare stood beside an open volume.

He glanced down at the beautifully decorated page filled with exquisitely wrought words. The elaborate design that framed the first letter on the page was done in gleaming gold, brilliant red, and rich blue.

"It is a treatise on herbs," Clare explained. "I have consulted it several times myself."

"I cannot believe that any of the members of this house would leave it open on the desk like this," Margaret said. "It is far too valuable to be treated in such a careless fashion."

Gareth glanced toward the window that overlooked the mint patch. The heavy green glass allowed sunlight to filter into the chamber. "I wonder if the murderer was about to steal this book when he realized there was someone outside watching him."

"Do you think he killed poor Beatrice and then fled?' Clare asked.

"Mayhap." Gareth considered the matter for a moment. "But before he ran off, he went to the trouble of carrying the recluse's body back to her cell."