She said, ‘We found the body in the cottage. We knew it to be that of a man. I had — without proof I could not be sure, but, ever since then, I have been haunted by the fear that Alba was involved.’
‘More than merely involved,’ Bastian said. ‘She followed him there, to the empty cottage. She crept up behind him, hit him on the back of the head and knocked him unconscious, and tied his wrists to a stake in the floor.’
Helewise knew what was coming next. She did not want to hear. ‘No,’ she whispered.
But he was relentless. ‘I must tell you, Abbess, in order that you recognise Alba for what she is. Having rendered the young man helpless, she fetched the dry fuel she had prepared and set light to it. Then, while the cottage and its human contents burned, she stood and watched.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Because somebody saw her do it.’
‘Why didn’t they intervene?’
‘The witness was a child. Who, God be thanked, thought that Alba had done nothing worse than set her supper on fire. The boy could not tell the smell of burning human flesh from roasting beef or lamb. But he did wonder why she had filled the cottage with bales of hay and put a flame to them.’
‘A child,’ Helewise whispered. Oh dear Lord, what might Alba have been driven to do if she had known a child had seen her perpetrate a murder?
‘The child told his mother — who is known to me — and she told me,’ Bastian went on. ‘But not until some time later. By then, Alba had disappeared, taking Meriel and Berthe with her. The mother refused to allow the child to lead us to the spot — reasonably enough, I suppose.’ He glanced at Helewise, who nodded her understanding. ‘Although we searched for the place, we were unsuccessful. The child’s account was unclear; I did not realise that he spoke of a location which in fact I knew. We decided our prime concern should be to hunt for Alba and her sisters, and-’ He stopped himself, and a brief frown darkened his face, as if at some ill memory. ‘Er — we sent people to track them. And when I discovered that — that is, as soon as I could get away, I followed.’
Only half hearing him, suddenly Helewise had remembered what Jerome had said, when Josse asked if he had managed to pick up the sisters’ trail. Yes. It was not difficult. And I had-
What had he been going to say? ‘And I had help’?
‘Jerome followed them!’ she exclaimed. ‘Jerome and somebody else, somebody more experienced?’
Bastian’s frown lifted; for an instant Helewise thought he appeared relieved. ‘You are perceptive, Abbess,’ he said smoothly. It was only later that she realised he had not actually answered her question. ‘And I see that you have met young Jerome. He is well, I hope?’
‘He’s married,’ she said before she could stop herself. ‘He and Meriel are man and wife.’
‘I know.’ Bastian gave her a calm smile. ‘They were wed before they left Medely.’
‘What?’ But it was not the moment to ask that; recalling what they had been discussing, she said, ‘Jerome must have found the burned body in the cottage, and realised that Alba had to get away from the farm before anyone else came across it, in case she was suspected of being involved.’ She paused. ‘I do not believe Jerome knows the truth,’ she said slowly. ‘He and Meriel may have their suspicions, but I believe they have no proof.’
‘I believe you are right,’ Bastian put in quietly.
But she barely heard. ‘He — Jerome — would surely have hurried to the farm. But before he had time to prevent her, Alba had swept up her sisters and fled — Jerome would have found nothing but an empty house. Since Alba must have known that Meriel wouldn’t go with her otherwise, she told her that Jerome had died in the cottage.’ She even showed me. ‘Oh, God,’ she murmured. ‘Alba made Meriel look. And how convincing she must have been in persuading the girl that the poor, dead youth was Jerome!’
Bastian was looking at her sorrowfully. ‘Alba was convincing because she believed he was Jerome. It was her intention to murder Jerome, and she thought she had done so.’
‘But why?’
Bastian gave a deep sigh. ‘It is all to do with the person that Alba is,’ he said, ‘or, perhaps, the person that her life has made her.’ His eyes on Helewise’s, he asked, ‘Will you hear the tale?’
And, late though it was, surreal though it seemed to be sitting here with a stranger in the silent, candlelit dimness of her room, she nodded.
‘Alba,’ he began, ‘is considerably older than her sisters, as you will have observed. This meant that, when Meriel and Berthe were born, Alba developed a rivalry with their mother, Adela, over who had the greater responsibility for them and, indeed, for their father. Alba had been used to caring solely for Wilfrid, and he allowed a far greater intimacy to develop between the two of them than he ought to have done. But he was a weak man. An autocrat within his own four walls, but without the moral strength to recognise a developing wrong and correct it.’
‘You speak of the two of them, Alba and Wilfrid,’ Helewise put in. ‘What of Adela?’
‘Adela was not Alba’s mother. In his young manhood, Wilfrid took a village whore to his bed and impregnated her. She died giving birth to the child, and my predecessors — that is, those who had overseen events made sure that the baby was placed where she belonged, with her father. Wilfrid was faced with the baby, Alba, and he had no choice but to accept his responsibilities. Village gossip being what it is, Alba grew up in no doubt about the identity of her mother, who was, indeed, a loose-living, indolent soul with few, if any, saving graces.’
‘Only God can know that,’ Helewise put in gently. ‘We receive many prostitutes here, Bastian, and their profession does not necessarily remove them from God’s love and favour.’
‘I know, Abbess. I accept your reprimand.’ He bowed his head briefly. It was hardly a reprimand, she thought. He went on, ‘And in any case, I am only repeating what others said, which I should not do.’
She had, she realised, interrupted the flow of his story. ‘Please, continue,’ she said.
‘Thank you. Alba, the child of a whore, began early in her life her attempt not only to better herself, but also to raise up the family into which, on her father’s side, she had been born. He was, as I have said, a weak man, and it was easier for him to go along with Alba’s high-flying aspirations than to argue her out of them. Indeed, he probably enjoyed her flattery and her insistence that only the best would do for them. There was an adequate living on the farm and Alba, for all her faults, was a good manager. She was apparently horrified when Wilfrid announced he was going to marry Adela, who, decent and loving woman that she was, came from very humble stock.’
‘Then, when Meriel and Berthe were born, Alba would have sensed that she was being thrust into the background, and doubled her efforts to make herself and her family shine,’ Helewise said thoughtfully. ‘Because she saw them as hers, any achievement of theirs reflected back on to her.’
‘Precisely. With Wilfrid’s support, Alba became bossy, then dogmatic, and finally domineering to the point of tyranny. She instigated a system of punishments, and even Adela sometimes suffered, although never as much as the girls. Wilfrid, one gathers, was vastly amused at the sight of his middle child being penned up outside with the hounds because she had forgotten to feed them, and by the howls of little Berthe shut in the cellar for answering Alba back.’
‘Meriel said Berthe is afraid of the dark,’ Helewise said pityingly.
‘Is it any wonder, when Alba worked on that childish fear to increase Berthe’s suffering? It was a dreadful life, Abbess, and, although Wilfrid was perhaps even more to blame, he is dead and gone. Alba, on the other hand, is very much alive.’