‘Why do you think we can tell you anything about Will Walcote’s murder?’ asked Dame Martyn, sounding a little startled. ‘We barely knew the man.’
‘He visited you here on a regular basis,’ stated Michael, although Nicholas had made no such claim. ‘I want to know why.’
‘You would ask me to reveal the personal secrets of a man who is now dead?’ asked Dame Martyn, her redrimmed eyes wide in feigned shock. ‘That would not be a kind thing to do.’
‘Do not lie to me,’ snapped Michael. ‘We both know perfectly well that he did not come here to avail himself of the services that your nuns like to offer. He was not that kind of man.’
‘No,’ said Eve, suddenly bitter. ‘None of them ever are. But that does not stop them from coming to us and taking advantage of our poverty to snatch what they want. And then they return to their wives and their children, and pretend that they are good and honourable – not “that kind of man”, as you put it.’
‘That is not what I meant at all,’ said Michael. ‘Walcote was engaged in a relationship with one of his brethren, and was not interested in women. I know he did not come to you with the intention of romping in your dormitories.’
Dame Martyn regarded him craftily. ‘Then I can tell you nothing more. I am under the sacred seal of confession.’
‘Do not be ridiculous!’ Michael exploded. ‘Are you claiming that you were Walcote’s confessor? I have never heard anything more outrageous in my life! Now, what was his business here, Dame Martyn? You will tell me, or I shall make a personal recommendation to the Bishop that he removes his niece from you with immediate effect.’
Dame Martyn hastened to make amends. She evidently knew Michael well enough to guess that he would do what he threatened. ‘Actually, we have no idea what Walcote did here. And that is the truth.’
‘I see,’ said Michael coldly. ‘Shall I station my beadles here, then, to question anyone who comes or leaves? That would certainly deter visitors. Your happily married men will not like revealing the nature of their business here to interested beadles.’
‘You are a hard man, Brother,’ said Eve, when Dame Martyn seemed at a loss for words. ‘But the reason we cannot tell you what Walcote did is because we really do not know. As I mentioned earlier, times are hard, and we are obliged to raise funds in any way we can. One method is to rent this room for meetings that people would rather did not take place in the town.’
‘Do not tell him!’ cried Dame Martyn in horror. ‘The reason people come here is because they know they can rely on our discretion. Without that, we have nothing.’
‘Are you telling me that your convent is used as a venue for criminals?’ asked Michael quickly, as he saw Eve hesitate. ‘Men gather here to plan crimes and other evil deeds?’
‘We do not know what they plan,’ said Eve with blunt honesty. ‘All we do is make this parlour available to anyone who pays us four groats – no questions asked.’
‘And Walcote hired this room from you?’ asked Michael.
Eve nodded, while the Prioress looked disgusted at what her Sacristan had revealed.
‘How often? Once a week? More? Less?’
Eve Wasteneys regarded Michael for a moment, and then shrugged, looking at her Prioress as she did so. ‘Walcote is dead, Reverend Mother. He will not be paying us for any more meetings, and so we have nothing to lose by being honest with Brother Michael.’
‘But one of the others might pay us instead,’ said Dame Martyn plaintively. ‘There is no reason these gatherings should stop, just because one of their number is dead.’
‘They were Walcote’s meetings,’ said Eve. ‘He paid us and he organised them. That source of income is finished, and it is in our interests to co-operate with the proctors now. We do not want his beadles stationed at our gates, and we cannot afford to lose Tysilia – assuming the Bishop pays us eventually, that is. We have no choice but to tell Brother Michael what he wants to know.’
‘How often were these meetings?’ repeated Michael, breaking into their conversation.
‘Irregularly,’ replied Eve, while Dame Martyn shook her head angrily and turned her attention to the dregs at the bottom of her cup.
‘But how frequently?’ pressed Michael. ‘What were the intervals between meetings – days or weeks? And how many times did they occur?’
‘He hired the room perhaps eight or nine times,’ replied Eve, frowning as she tried to remember. ‘The first two or three meetings were last November or December – around the time the Master of Michaelhouse was murdered, if I recall correctly.’
‘You do not recall correctly,’ said Michael immediately. ‘When I was conducting that particular investigation, Walcote was in Ely. I remember quite distinctly, because there was a spate of crimes at that time, and I could have done with his help. He only arrived back in Cambridge the day Runham was buried and his cousin’s effigy was smashed in the Market Square.’
That particular incident was vividly etched in Bartholomew’s mind. ‘He was one of the throng who managed to grab a handful of the coins that were hidden inside Wilson’s effigy, and that spilled out when the thing broke.’
‘She said around that time,’ said Dame Martyn, showing a remarkable clarity of mind for someone who was drunk. ‘She did not say exactly at that time.’
‘I know I am right,’ said Eve. ‘I was also one of the fortunate people who managed to seize a couple of gold coins. We used them to repair the leaking roof in this room. Walcote commented on it when he next came, which was after Christmas.’
‘So, the roof leaked the first time Walcote was here, but it was repaired by the time he next visited,’ said Michael. ‘So, his first meeting may have been before Master Runham died.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Eve. ‘We did not acquire the money and have the roof mended the next day. It took some time to reach an acceptable arrangement with a thatcher, and so Walcote’s first set of meetings could have occurred just before or after the effigy incident.’
‘But suffice to say he had two or three meetings in November or December and one after Christmas,’ said Dame Martyn, raising one hand to her lips to disguise a wine-perfumed belch. ‘I remember the Christmas meeting, because we spent the four groats he gave us on wine to celebrate Yuletide.’
‘I bet you did,’ muttered Michael, regarding the nun and her cup with rank disapproval.
‘And you do not keep records?’ asked Bartholomew hopefully. ‘You do not write that kind of income in your accounts?’
Eve regarded him with weary amusement. ‘Brother Michael is probably right: the people who hire our room do not do so for legal purposes. Since we do not want to be accused of complicity in any crimes they commit, of course we do not keep records of when these meetings took place.’
‘Three meetings in November or December and one at Christmas is four,’ said Michael. ‘You said there were eight or nine. When were the others?’
‘Recently,’ said Eve. ‘They were not on any particular day, and they were all late at night.’
‘And who did Walcote meet?’ pressed Michael. ‘Were they local men or strangers? Did you recognise any of them?’
‘No,’ said Dame Martyn immediately. Michael raised his eyebrows.
‘Once I thought I glimpsed William de Lincolne, the Carmelite Prior,’ said Eve, who, unlike the Prioress, saw that it was unwise to play games with Michael.
‘Lincolne,’ said Michael casting a significant glance at Bartholomew. ‘I knew there was something odd about him. Who else?’
‘Possibly William Pechem, the warden of the Franciscans,’ said Eve, ignoring Dame Martyn’s angry signals to say nothing more.