passed a village slumbering under the snow. The cottages looked deserted; only the lonely cry of a child or the bark of a dog and the curling black wood smoke showed any sign of life. They rode on. Corbett, glimpsing the tower of St Peter’s church, realised they must be following the same path Rebecca used that morning. They dismounted at the lych gate, tethered their horses and walked up the cemetery path to the Galilee porch built on to the side of the church. The door was open and they entered the cold mustiness of the nave, a gloomy place, its paved floor lit by the occasional shaft of light piercing the high narrow windows. Nevertheless, it was a hallowed spot, an ancient chapel with squat pillars, narrow transepts and whitewashed walls. Baskets of herbs stood at the base of each pillar and successive priests had hired itinerant painters to cover the walls with deep glowing paintings, not very skilful, but their reds, browns and greens displayed a robust vigour in their depictions of harvest scenes or images of Christ and His Mother.
The sanctuary was small, cordoned off by a simple Eucharist rail rather than a rood screen. Beyond that, to the left, was an ancient Lady Chapel with a carved wooden statue of the Virgin Mother holding her child, and on the right a Chantry Chapel to St Peter, a statue of whom stood on a plinth, in one hand the keys of the Kingdom, in the other a net. The sanctuary itself was simple, niches and small alcoves to the right and left for the Offertory cruets and other sacred vessels. The high altar was built against the end wall with steep steps before it. On the right of the altar hung the silver pyx in its Corpus pouch, and beneath that a candle glowed under its red glass cap. Corbett genuflected towards this and crossed himself. He was fascinated. Most churches smelt of incense and wax, but this one was different. A sharp, acrid tang which he couldn’t place.
Corbett went through into the small sacristy, a bare limewashed chamber with a large aumbry, coffers and chests, and, beneath a black crucifix, the vesting table where the robes for Mass were laid out. He turned the key in the side door, drew back the bolts and looked out. This part of the church land was reserved for the priest. At the far end stood a simple grey-brick two-storey house, steps leading up to the main door, the windows on either side boarded up. The house looked old, but the slated roof was gleaming black in the patches not yet covered by snow. From the trellis fences and raised mounds of earth, Corbett deduced that Father Matthew was a keen gardener. He glimpsed a statue of a saint and wondered if it was one of the many holy men or women the church claimed as patron saints of gardens and herb plots.
‘What are you looking for, Sir Hugh?’ Ranulf asked.
Corbett walked back to the sacristy and stood before the small gate in the Eucharist rail.
‘I’m thinking of those young women who have been murdered. The one thing which binds them together, apart from their age and sex, is that they all meet here. I wonder if their deaths . . .’
Corbett let his words hang in the air. He returned to the Galilee porch, made sure the door was secure, and walked down towards the main entrance, stopping to admire the font and the image of St Christopher holding the Christ Child painted on a nearby pillar. He opened the door and walked out into a flurry of snow. There was a sound like the rush of bird-wings and a crossbow bolt smacked into the stonework above him. Corbett stepped back hastily, slamming the door behind him. Ranulf, alarmed, drew his sword, Chanson his dagger. The groom was now fully alert but blinking and muttering to himself.
‘They know we have no bows. Whoever it is, they don’t mean to attack us! That crossbow bolt was meant as a warning.’
‘King’s man.’ The voice carried through the closed door. ‘King’s man, we intend no harm.’
Corbett lifted the latch, only to be pushed aside by Ranulf, who
The sanctuary was small, cordoned off by a simple Eucharist rail rather than a rood screen. Beyond that, to the left, was an ancient Lady Chapel with a carved wooden statue of the Virgin Mother holding her child, and on the right a Chantry Chapel to St Peter, a statue of whom stood on a plinth, in one hand the keys of the Kingdom, in the other a net. The sanctuary itself was simple, niches and small alcoves to the right and left for the Offertory cruets and other sacred vessels. The high altar was built against the end wall with steep steps before it. On the right of the altar hung the silver pyx in its Corpus pouch, and beneath that a candle glowed under its red glass cap. Corbett genuflected towards this and crossed himself. He was fascinated. Most churches smelt of incense and wax, but this one was different. A sharp, acrid tang which he couldn’t place.
Corbett went through into the small sacristy, a bare limewashed chamber with a large aumbry, coffers and chests, and, beneath a black crucifix, the vesting table where the robes for Mass were laid out. He turned the key in the side door, drew back the bolts and looked out. This part of the church land was reserved for the priest. At the far end stood a simple grey-brick two-storey house, steps leading up to the main door, the windows on either side boarded up. The house looked old, but the slated roof was gleaming black in the patches not yet covered by snow. From the trellis fences and raised mounds of earth, Corbett deduced that Father Matthew was a keen gardener. He glimpsed a statue of a saint and wondered if it was one of the many holy men or women the church claimed as patron saints of gardens and herb plots.
‘What are you looking for, Sir Hugh?’ Ranulf asked.
Corbett walked back to the sacristy and stood before the small gate in the Eucharist rail.
‘I’m thinking of those young women who have been murdered. The one thing which binds them together, apart from their age and sex, is that they all meet here. I wonder if their deaths . . .’
Corbett let his words hang in the air. He returned to the Galilee porch, made sure the door was secure, and walked down towards the main entrance, stopping to admire the font and the image of St Christopher holding the Christ Child painted on a nearby pillar. He opened the door and walked out into a flurry of snow. There was a sound like the rush of bird-wings and a crossbow bolt smacked into the stonework above him. Corbett stepped back hastily, slamming the door behind him. Ranulf, alarmed, drew his sword, Chanson his dagger. The groom was now fully alert but blinking and muttering to himself.
‘They know we have no bows. Whoever it is, they don’t mean to attack us! That crossbow bolt was meant as a warning.’
‘King’s man.’ The voice carried through the closed door. ‘King’s man, we intend no harm.’
Corbett lifted the latch, only to be pushed aside by Ranulf, who
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