head and fetched blood. I have told you all I can tell from this poor body,” he
said wearily. “Make what you can of it.”
“Murder!” said Prior Robert, rigid with indignation
and horror. “Murder is what I make of it. Father Abbot, what is now to be
done?”
Radulfus brooded for some minutes over the indifferent
corpse which had been Father Ailnoth, and never before so still and quiet, so
tolerant of the views of others. Then he said, with measured regret: “I am
afraid, Robert, we have no choice but to inform the lord sheriffs deputy, since
Hugh Beringar himself is elsewhere about his own duties.” And with his eyes
still upon the livid face on the stone slab he said, with bleak wonder: “I knew
he had not made himself loved. I had not realised that in so short a time he
could make himself so hated.”
Chapter Six
YOUNG ALAN HERBARD, WHO WAS HUGH’S DEPUTY in his
absence, came down hot-foot from the castle with the most experienced of his
sergeants, William Warden, and two other officers in his train. Even if Herbard
had not been well acquainted with the Foregate and its people, Will Warden
certainly was, and went in no misapprehension concerning the degree of love the
congregation of Holy Cross had for its new priest.
“There’ll be very little mourning for him hereabouts,”
he said bluntly, viewing the dead man without emotion. “He made a thorough job
of turning every soul in the parish against him. A poor end, though, for any
man. A poor, cold end!”
They examined the head wound, noted the account rendered
by every man who had taken part in the search, and listened to the careful
opinions put forward by Brother Edmund and Brother Cadfael, and to everything
Dame Diota had to say of her master’s evening departure, and the anxious night
she had spent worrying about his failure to return.
She had refused to depart, and waited all this time to
repeat her story, which she did with a drained but steady composure, now that
the matter and the mystery were out of her hands. Benet was beside her,
attentive and solicitous, a very sombre Benet, with creased brows and hazel
eyes clouded by something between anxiety on her account and sheer puzzlement
on his own.
“If you’ll give me leave,” said the boy, as soon as
the officers had withdrawn from the precinct to go in search of the provost of
the Foregate, who knew his people as well as any man could, “I’ll take my aunt
back to the house now, and see her settled with a good fire. She needs to
rest.” And he added, appealing to Cadfael: “I won’t stay long. I may be wanted
here.”
“Stay as long as is needful,” said Cadfael readily.
“I’ll answer for you if there should be any questions. But what could you have
to tell? I know you were in the church well before Matins began.” And knew,
moreover, where the boy had been later on, and probably not alone, but he said
nothing about that. “Has anything been said about making provision for Mistress
Hammet’s future? This leaves her very solitary, but for you, and still almost a
stranger here. But I’m sure Abbot Radulfus will see to it she’s not left
friendless.”
“He came himself to speak to her,” said Benet, a faint
flush and gleam of his usual brightness appearing for a moment, in appreciation
of such considerate usage. “He says she need not be troubled at all, for she
came here in good faith to serve the church in her proper station, and the
church will see to it that she is provided for. Dwell in the house and care for
it, he said, until a new priest is preferred to the benefice, and then we’ll
see. But in no case shall she be cast away.”
“Good! Then you and she can rest with easy minds.
Terrible this may be, but it’s no fault of yours or hers, and you should not
brood on it.” They were both looking at him then with still, shocked faces that
expressed nothing of grief or reassurance, but only stunned
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