Satan's Lullaby by Priscilla Royal Page B

placed in the wrong spot.
    “Has anyone come here asking for autumn crocus?” Gracia asked.
    “Sister Christina,” Sister Oliva said, her voice hoarse. “But all know she is close to God. She would never harm that clerk!”
    “Why did she ask for it?”
    “Sister Anne had given her a few, carefully measured packets for our sub-prioress. Sister Christina was the only one who could get her to take it. After Sister Anne was arrested, the infirmarian ran out of her supply and came back for more. I could not give her any because I am not trained in this treatment, nor could anyone else.” The nun glanced back at the chest. “And because there was nothing we could do to help our infirmarian without Sister Anne’s help, I did not even look for the item in the chest.”
    Gracia had been in the priory long enough to know that Sister Christina was too saintly to bring harm to anyone. Sub-Prioress Ruth, although known for her dislike of Prioress Eleanor, might own a murderous tongue, but she would never poison someone. “Fear not,” she said to the nun. “You are not to blame for this missing item. It will be found. I am confident of it.”
    Indeed, it had been found, or at least some of it, in the dead clerk’s room, but this was not information Gracia believed she had any right to divulge. She asked no more questions, and let Sister Oliva finish the preparation for the anchoress.
    Taking the packet she had allegedly come for, she thanked the still-troubled nun, hurried out of the apothecary, and found the anchoress’ servant praying alone in the chapel.
    As they left the hospital, Gracia tried to think how she could question Sub-Prioress Ruth about her supplies of the gout remedy without offending her. Perhaps Prioress Eleanor would think it was wiser for another to do that. If need be, Gracia knew she could talk to Sister Christina.
    Glancing at the packet in her hand, Gracia decided that her teeth still troubled her on occasion, and she would keep this cure for herself.

Chapter Fifteen
    Brother Thomas paced up and down the path near the hospital, unable to dampen his anger. How dare that arrogant priest accuse Sister Anne of murder?
    Proving her innocence should be simple, he thought with bitter sarcasm. All he had to do was find the hooded and unidentifiable messenger who had come for the remedy, and do so without offending Davoir, who seemed to dislike him anyway.
    Thomas knew the elusive one could not be a lay brother or monk from the priory. He must be one of the clerks, slipped like a venomous snake into Tyndal by that accursed priest. Or, he thought, he was one of the soldiers who had accompanied the band of investigators here. If he found a man he suspected, he wondered how he could arrange a meeting between the suspect and Sister Anne with the hope she would recognize the voice if she heard it again.
    “Brother!”
    Thomas turned to see a gray-faced crowner behind him. “You have finally been summoned?” He had tried to keep his sour mood out of his tone but failed.
    “Only after a miscarriage of justice and much reluctance by that priest.” Ralf threw his hands up in despair. “The man may have the unquestionable right to do as he wishes with those vowed to God on priory grounds, but I tried to argue on Sister Anne’s behalf, believing my long acquaintance with her was useful. He silenced me with a churlishness not even a confessed thief deserves.” Ralf swallowed a curse. “If God dared to disagree with him, I doubt this Davoir would even listen.”
    Despite the crowner’s sharp words, Thomas thought Ralf looked both weary and distraught. “You have examined the body?” he quickly asked. His own anger fleeing in the face of his friend’s unease, the monk’s voice grew gentle.
    “That I have, for all the good it did me. My conclusion is that the clerk, Jean, is dead.” He flashed a scornful smile. “Beyond that, I can say little with any certainty. He bears no stab wounds, signs of a crushed