cleared her throat.
‘The Lady Catherine is correct.’
Her voice was soft but Corbett caught the burr, the musical trace of an accent. It almost sounded Scottish and Corbett remembered the Nevilles were a powerful family owning vast tracts of land in Westmorland and along the Northern March.
‘We know nothing, except that someone with a soul as black as night is slaying these unfortunates,’ she murmured. ‘At first I used to attend their funerals at St Lawrence Jewry, the first three or four, but then I stopped. You can understand, Sir Hugh? Surely there must be more to the end of life than being wrapped in a dirty sheet and tossed like a bundle of refuse into a hole in the ground?’
Corbett remembered what he had seen at the church earlier in the day and nodded.
‘Then let us talk of something else.’ Corbett paused as the great bells of the abbey began to ring out for afternoon Mass though he idly wondered if the monks bothered to carry out their spiritual duties.
‘What else is there to talk about?’ Lady Catherine snapped.
‘Lady Somerville’s death. One of your sisters who was killed on Monday, May eleventh as she crossed Smithfield.’
‘I can help you there,’ Lady Mary spoke up. She leaned forward, her hands in her lap. ‘We had a meeting here the very day she died and we finished late in the afternoon. Lady Somerville and I then left Westminster. We chose to walk because of the fine weather. We went along Holborn and visited patients at St Bartholomew’s. Lady Somerville left the hospital but never reached her home; her murdered corpse was found in the early hours of the next morning.’
‘Did anyone have a grudge against her?’
‘No, she was quiet, austere and self-contained. She had a great deal of sadness in her life.’
‘Such as?’
‘Her husband died years ago whilst fighting in Scotland. They had one son Gilbert, I think he is a disappointment to her.’ Lady Mary looked distressed. ‘Sir Gilbert Somerville is more interested in the pleasures of life; he constantly reminded his mother that his father achieved nothing in his life, as the King’s general, except an arrow in the neck.’
Corbett sat and stared at the wall behind her. So many players in this, he thought. The killer could be anyone.
‘Before Lady Somerville died,’ he asked, ‘did she say anything strange or untoward?’
‘No,’ Fitzwarren tartly replied.
‘Oh, come.’ Corbett’s voice became harsh. ‘I have heard she kept repeating a phrase “ Cacullus non facit monachum ”: the cowl does not make the monk?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Lady Mary’s fingers flew to her lips. ‘She did keep saying that. Indeed, she repeated it to me the day she died.’
‘In what circumstances?’
‘We were here, watching the brothers file out of the abbey church. I said something about them looking alike, how difficult it was to tell one from another in their hoods and cowls. She just repeated that phrase. I asked her what she meant, but she smiled and walked away.’
‘Is that all? Was there anything else?’
‘Yes. Yes, there was.’ Fitzwarren tapped the side of her face with her hands. ‘In the week before she died she asked me if I thought our work was worthwhile. I asked her why, and she replied what was the use in such a wicked world? Then the Friday before she died, you must remember it, Lady Mary, she came here rather late, looking very worried and agitated. She said she had been to see Father Benedict.’
‘She didn’t give the reason why?’ Cade asked.
Corbett turned as Lady Mary clapped her hands together excitedly.
‘Oh, I remember something!’ she declared, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Corbett reflected how truly beautiful she became when she threw off her air of subdued piety. ‘Just before we reached St Bartholomew’s she murmured something about leaving the Order. I objected but she maintained the abbey contained evil.’ Lady Mary shrugged. ‘I know it sounds strange but that’s
‘The Lady Catherine is correct.’
Her voice was soft but Corbett caught the burr, the musical trace of an accent. It almost sounded Scottish and Corbett remembered the Nevilles were a powerful family owning vast tracts of land in Westmorland and along the Northern March.
‘We know nothing, except that someone with a soul as black as night is slaying these unfortunates,’ she murmured. ‘At first I used to attend their funerals at St Lawrence Jewry, the first three or four, but then I stopped. You can understand, Sir Hugh? Surely there must be more to the end of life than being wrapped in a dirty sheet and tossed like a bundle of refuse into a hole in the ground?’
Corbett remembered what he had seen at the church earlier in the day and nodded.
‘Then let us talk of something else.’ Corbett paused as the great bells of the abbey began to ring out for afternoon Mass though he idly wondered if the monks bothered to carry out their spiritual duties.
‘What else is there to talk about?’ Lady Catherine snapped.
‘Lady Somerville’s death. One of your sisters who was killed on Monday, May eleventh as she crossed Smithfield.’
‘I can help you there,’ Lady Mary spoke up. She leaned forward, her hands in her lap. ‘We had a meeting here the very day she died and we finished late in the afternoon. Lady Somerville and I then left Westminster. We chose to walk because of the fine weather. We went along Holborn and visited patients at St Bartholomew’s. Lady Somerville left the hospital but never reached her home; her murdered corpse was found in the early hours of the next morning.’
‘Did anyone have a grudge against her?’
‘No, she was quiet, austere and self-contained. She had a great deal of sadness in her life.’
‘Such as?’
‘Her husband died years ago whilst fighting in Scotland. They had one son Gilbert, I think he is a disappointment to her.’ Lady Mary looked distressed. ‘Sir Gilbert Somerville is more interested in the pleasures of life; he constantly reminded his mother that his father achieved nothing in his life, as the King’s general, except an arrow in the neck.’
Corbett sat and stared at the wall behind her. So many players in this, he thought. The killer could be anyone.
‘Before Lady Somerville died,’ he asked, ‘did she say anything strange or untoward?’
‘No,’ Fitzwarren tartly replied.
‘Oh, come.’ Corbett’s voice became harsh. ‘I have heard she kept repeating a phrase “ Cacullus non facit monachum ”: the cowl does not make the monk?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Lady Mary’s fingers flew to her lips. ‘She did keep saying that. Indeed, she repeated it to me the day she died.’
‘In what circumstances?’
‘We were here, watching the brothers file out of the abbey church. I said something about them looking alike, how difficult it was to tell one from another in their hoods and cowls. She just repeated that phrase. I asked her what she meant, but she smiled and walked away.’
‘Is that all? Was there anything else?’
‘Yes. Yes, there was.’ Fitzwarren tapped the side of her face with her hands. ‘In the week before she died she asked me if I thought our work was worthwhile. I asked her why, and she replied what was the use in such a wicked world? Then the Friday before she died, you must remember it, Lady Mary, she came here rather late, looking very worried and agitated. She said she had been to see Father Benedict.’
‘She didn’t give the reason why?’ Cade asked.
Corbett turned as Lady Mary clapped her hands together excitedly.
‘Oh, I remember something!’ she declared, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Corbett reflected how truly beautiful she became when she threw off her air of subdued piety. ‘Just before we reached St Bartholomew’s she murmured something about leaving the Order. I objected but she maintained the abbey contained evil.’ Lady Mary shrugged. ‘I know it sounds strange but that’s
Similar Books
