'Now – yes, just there, do you see it? A gleam of yellow?'
'I think so,' Mark agreed. 'Yes, there's something. Shall I try fishing for it? If I take your staff and you hold my other arm, by stretching I might reach it.'
I shook my head. 'No. I want you to go in for it.'
His face fell. 'The water is near frozen.'
'Singleton's killer may have thrown his bloody clothes in there too. Go on, it can't be more than two or three feet deep. You'll live.'
For a moment I thought he would refuse, but he set his lips and bent to remove his coat, his overshoes and finally his boots. Those expensive leather shoes would be no better for a soaking. He stood a moment shivering on the bank, his solid bare legs and feet nearly as white as the snow. Then he took a deep breath and waded in, shouting aloud at the shock of the cold water.
I had expected it to reach his thighs, but he had taken no more than a couple of steps before, with a cry, he sank to his chest. Great bubbles of stinking gas belched up around him, smelling so vile I took an involuntary step back. He stood there gasping as the foul air dissipated.
'There's a foot of mud – ugh –' he gasped.
'Yes,' I said. 'Of course. The silt from the stream will fall to the bottom. Can you see anything? Can you reach?'
He gave me a withering look, then with a groan he bent down, his arm disappearing under the water. He scrabbled about. 'Yes – something – it's sharp –' his arm reappeared. He was holding a great sword, its handle gilded with gold. My heart leaped as he threw it on the bank.
'Well done!' I breathed. 'Now – again – is there anything more?'
He bent again, his whole shoulder disappearing under the surface and sending slow ripples towards the icy rim.
'Jesu, it's cold. Wait – yes – there is something – it's soft – cloth I think.'
'The killer's clothes!' I breathed.
He rose, pulling, and then overbalanced with a shout, falling right under the surface as another figure shot up out of the water. I gaped at the sight of a human form, dressed in a sodden robe. Its upper body seemed to hang in the air a moment, hair swirling round its head, then it splashed down into the reeds.
Mark's head rose again. He howled with shock and fear, flapping for the shore. Hauling himself onto the bank, he collapsed onto the snow, his yells turning to gasps and his eyes bulging, as mine were, at the sight of the figure in the reeds. A woman's body, grey and rotten and draped in the rags of a servant's dress. The eye sockets were empty; a lipless mouth was drawn back over grey clenched teeth. Rats-tails of hair dripped onto its face.
Mark got shakily to his feet. He crossed himself, over and over, praying. 'Deus salve nos, deus salve nos, mater Christi salve nos…'
'It's all right,' I said gently, all my anger gone. 'It's all right.' I put a hand on his shoulder; he was shaking like a leaf. 'She must have been lying under the silt. Gases built up and you disturbed them. You're safe, the poor creature can do us no harm.' But my own voice broke as I looked at the terrible thing lying there.
'Come, you'll catch an ague. Put on your boots.' He did so, the action seeming to calm him a little.
I saw that something else had risen to the surface and lay floating there; a large black piece of cloth, bloated with gas. I reached over with my staff, dreading a second body, but it was only an empty monk's habit. I hauled it in and set it on the bank. I could see dark patches that could have been the marks of congealed blood. I suddenly remembered the fat carp we had eaten on our first night and shuddered.
Mark was still staring at the body in horror. 'Who is it?' he stuttered.
I took a deep breath. 'My guess is those are the remains of Orphan Stonegarden.' I looked at the dreadful head, grey skin stretched over a skull. '"A sweet gentle face," Goodwife Stumpe said. "One of the prettiest I have ever seen." So this is what Simon Whelplay meant about warning a woman of danger. He knew.'
'So now we have three deaths.'
'I pray God it's the last.' I forced myself to pick up the monk's robe. I turned it over and paused at the sight of a little harp sewn into the fabric. I had seen it before; it was the sacrist's badge of office. My mouth fell open with amazement.
'It's Brother Gabriel's,' I gasped.
CHAPTER 20
I told Mark to run and fetch the abbot, as fast as he could to warm his blood. I watched him plough away through the snow, then turned back to the pond. Bubbles were still rising from the silt, churning the surface. I wondered if the relic was down there, and perhaps the chalices the poor girl was supposed to have stolen.
I made myself approach the cadaver. There was a thin silver chain round its neck and after a moment's hesitation I bent and took it, snapping the links easily between my fingers. There was a tiny medallion on the end, with the crude figure of a man bearing a load on his back. I pocketed it and took up the sword. It was an expensive weapon, a gentleman's sword. A maker's mark was stamped into the blade: JS. 1507, above the effigy of a square building with four pointed towers.
I went and sat down on the pile of rubble by the wall. I was stiff with shock as I sat staring at the bundle among the reeds. Between that and the cold my fingers and toes soon became numb and I got up, waving my arms and stamping my feet to restore the circulation.
I walked up and down, the snow creaking under my boots, pondering what these discoveries meant. I began to see a pattern, facts slotted into place in my head. After a while I heard voices from the orchard, and saw Mark hurrying back, accompanied by two black-habited figures, the abbot and the prior. Prior Mortimus carried a large blanket. Abbot Fabian's face was aghast as he came to a halt and stared at the thing on the bank. He crossed himself and muttered a prayer. The prior went over to the body, his face contorted with disgust. His eyes went to the sword, which I had placed on the bank.
'Was the woman killed with that?' he breathed.
'I do not think so. The body was preserved under the silt; I think it had been there a long time. But I believe this is the sword that killed Singleton. This pond has been used as a hiding place more than once.'
'Whose corpse is it?' There was a note of panic in the abbot's voice.
I gave him a level stare. 'I have been told a former assistant of the infirmarian disappeared two years ago. A girl called Orphan Stonegarden.'
The prior looked at the body again. 'No,' I heard him mutter. There was anger in his voice and sorrow too, disbelief. 'But – she ran away,' he said. 'She was a thief…'
We looked round at the sound of more people approaching. Four servants, carrying a stretcher between them. The abbot nodded to Prior Mortimus, and he threw the blanket over the body. The abbot leaned towards me.
'There is a great hue and cry at the monastery. People saw Master Poer come running to my house; he told me you had found a body and I asked the servants to bring a stretcher to carry it back. But – please – may we keep it covered, just say someone drowned in the pond for now, not that it is a woman –'
'For the present,' I agreed. I hid the sword in the soaked habit as the servants approached. They hung back, crossing themselves. 'Mark, help them,' I said. I noticed that under his coat he had exchanged his wet clothes for a blue servant's shirt. He helped them lay the blanket-covered form on the stretcher and lifted it; it seemed light as paper.
'Take the stretcher to the infirmary,' I said. We formed a procession behind the servants. I glanced at Prior Mortimus once or twice and he looked away. Discoloured water dripped from the body, staining the snow.
A crowd had gathered, monks and servants buzzing around in the orchard like a swarm of bees. The prior called to them angrily to go about their business and they dissipated with many backward glances at the blanket-covered stretcher. Brother Guy approached us.