72

Merthin opened his eyes to bright daylight. He had slept late: the angle of the sun’s rays shining through the bedroom window told him it was the middle of the morning. He recalled the events of the previous night like a bad dream, and for a moment he cherished the thought that they might not really have happened. But his chest hurt when he breathed, and the skin of his face was painfully scorched. The horror of Tilly’s murder came back to him. And Sister Nellie, too – both innocent young women. How could God permit such things to happen?

He realized what had awakened him when his eye lit on Caris, putting a tray down on the small table near the bed. Her back was to him but he could tell, by the hunch of her shoulders and the set of her head, that she was angry. It was not surprising. She was grieving for Tilly, and enraged that the sanctity and safety of the nunnery had been violated.

Merthin got up. Caris pulled two stools to the table and they both sat down. He studied her face fondly. There were lines of strain around her eyes. He wondered if she had slept. There was a smear of ash on her left cheek, so he licked his thumb and gently wiped it off.

She had brought new bread with fresh butter and a jug of cider. Merthin found he was hungry and thirsty, and he tucked in. Caris, bottling up fury, ate nothing.

Through a mouthful of bread Merthin said: “How is Thomas this morning?”

“He’s lying down in the hospital. His head hurts, but he can talk coherently and answer questions, so there’s probably no permanent damage to his brain.”

“Good. There will have to be an inquest on Tilly and Nellie.”

“I’ve sent a message to the sheriff of Shiring.”

“They will probably blame it on Tam Hiding.”

“Tam Hiding is dead.”

He nodded. He knew what was coming. His spirits had been lifted by the breakfast, but now they sank again. He swallowed and pushed away his plate.

Caris went on: “Whoever it was that came here last night, he wanted to conceal his identity, so he told a lie – not knowing that Tam died in my hospital three months ago.”

“Who do you think it could have been?”

“Someone we know – hence the masks.”

“Perhaps.”

“Outlaws don’t wear masks.”

It was true. Living outside the law, they did not care who knew about them and the crimes they committed. Last night’s intruders were different. The masks strongly suggested they were respected citizens who were afraid of being recognized.

Caris went on with merciless logic. “They killed Nellie to make Joan open up the treasury – but they had no need to kill Tilly: they were already inside the treasury by then. They wanted her dead for some other reason. And they were not content to leave her to be suffocated by smoke and burned to death: they also stabbed her fatally. For some reason, they had to be sure she was dead.”

“What does that tell you?”

Caris did not answer the question. “Tilly thought Ralph wanted to kill her.”

“I know.”

“One of the hooded men was about to do away with you, at one point.” Her voice caught in her throat, and she had to stop. She took a sip of Merthin’s cider, composing herself; then she went on. “But the leader stopped him. Why would he do that? They had already murdered a nun and a noblewoman – why scruple to kill a mere builder?”

“You think it was Ralph.”

“Don’t you?”

“Yes.” Merthin sighed heavily. “Did you see his mitten?”

“I noticed he was wearing gloves.”

Merthin shook his head. “Only one. On his left hand. Not a glove with fingers, but a mitten.”

“To hide his injury.”

“I can’t be sure, and we certainly couldn’t prove anything, but I have a dreadful conviction about it.”

Caris stood up. “Let’s inspect the damage.”

They went to the nuns’ cloisters. The novices and the orphans were cleaning the treasury, bringing sacks of charred wood and ashes up the spiral staircase, giving anything not completely destroyed to Sister Joan and carrying the detritus out to the dunghill.

Laid out on a refectory table Merthin saw the cathedral ornaments: gold and silver candlesticks, crucifixes and vessels, all finely wrought and studded with precious stones. He was surprised. “Didn’t they take these?” he said.

“Yes – but they seem to have had second thoughts, and dumped them in a ditch outside town. A peasant on his way in with eggs to sell found them this morning. Luckily he was honest.”

Merthin picked up a gold aquamanile, a jug for washing the hands, made in the shape of a cockerel, the feathers of its neck beautifully chased. “It’s hard to sell something like this. Only a few people could afford to buy it, and most of those would guess it had been stolen.”

“The thieves could have melted it down and sold the gold.”

“Obviously they decided that was too much trouble.”

“Perhaps.”

She was not convinced. Nor was Merthin: his own explanation did not quite fit. The robbery had been carefully planned, that was evident. So why would the thieves not have made up their minds in advance about the ornaments? Either to take them or leave them behind?

Caris and Merthin went down the steps and into the chamber, Merthin’s stomach clenching in fear as he was grimly reminded of last night’s ordeal. More novices were cleaning the walls and floor with mops and buckets.

Caris sent the novices away to take a break. When she and Merthin were alone, she picked up a length of wood from a shelf and used it to prise up one of the flagstones underfoot. Merthin had not previously noticed that the stone was not fitted as tightly as most, having a narrow gap all around it. Now he saw that underneath was a spacious vault containing a wooden box. Caris reached into the hole and pulled out the box. She opened it with a key from her belt. It was full of gold coins.

Merthin was surprised. “They missed that!”

“There are three more concealed vaults,” Caris told him. “Another in the floor and two in the walls. They missed them all.”

“They can’t have looked very hard. Most treasuries have hiding places. People know that.”

“Especially robbers.”

“So maybe the cash wasn’t their first priority.”

“Exactly.” Caris locked the chest and put it back in its vault.

“If they didn’t want the ornaments, and they weren’t sufficiently interested in cash to search the treasury thoroughly for hidden vaults, why did they come here at all?”

“To kill Tilly. The robbery was a cover.”

Merthin thought about that. “They didn’t need an elaborate cover story,” he said after a pause. “If all they wanted was to kill Tilly, they could have done it in the dormitory and been far away from here by the time the nuns got back from Matins. If they had done it carefully – suffocated her with a feather pillow, say – we would not even have been sure she had been murdered. It would have looked as if she had died in her sleep.”

“Then there’s no explanation for the attack. They ended up with next to nothing – a few gold coins.”

Merthin looked around the underground chamber. “Where are the charters?” he said.

“They must have burned. It doesn’t much matter. I’ve got copies of everything.”

“Parchment doesn’t burn very well.”

“I’ve never tried to light it.”

“It smoulders, shrinks and distorts, but it doesn’t catch fire.”

“Perhaps the charters have been retrieved from the debris.”

“Let’s check.”

They climbed back up the steps and left the vault. Outside in the cloisters, Caris asked Joan: “Have you found any parchment among the ashes?”

She shook her head. “Nothing at all.”

“Could you have missed it?”

“I don’t think so – not unless it has burned to cinders.”

“Merthin says it doesn’t burn.” She turned to him. “Who would want our charters? They’re no use to anyone else.”

Merthin followed the thread of his own logic, just to see where it might lead. “Suppose there’s a document that you’ve got – or you might have, or they think you might have – and they want it.”