‘Because I was kneading dough, which is boring, so I spent the whole time gazing through the open door,’ she replied promptly. ‘I would have seen anyone go to the shed.’
‘Yet someone did,’ Michael pointed out. ‘And we have five dead to prove it.’
‘Oh, I saw the Girards popping in and out,’ said Goda impatiently. ‘But no one else. Perhaps they were weary of being persecuted, and decided to kill themselves.’
Michael felt he could come to dislike this arrogantly flippant woman. ‘You think they stabbed themselves in the back? I am not even sure that is possible. And even if it is, why not choose an easier way to die?’
Goda shrugged. ‘Unless you can find a way to quiz the dead, you may never know. However, I can assure you that no staff member had anything to do with it.’
‘What about the peregrini?’ asked Tulyet. ‘There are tensions among them. Were any of them near the shed?’
‘Not that I saw. And before you ask, the nuns were in the guesthouse, although they emerged to gawp when the shed began to burn in earnest.’
‘Are you sure it was the Girards “popping in and out” of the shed?’ asked Tulyet. ‘Because someone committed a terrible crime there, and as you claim no one else was in the vicinity and we know the victims did not kill themselves …’
‘Oh, I see,’ she said, nodding. ‘One time, it could have been the killer impersonating them. It is possible – the shed is some distance from the kitchen, and I was not watching particularly closely.’
‘So, with hindsight, is there anything that struck you as odd?’
Goda shook her head. ‘Obviously, this person took care not to be suspicious. What would be the point of donning a disguise, if you then go out and give yourself away with attention-catching behaviour?’
Michael fought down his growing antipathy towards her. ‘The Spital had several visitors before the fire began. What can you tell us about those?’
‘I only saw Sister Alice. She is always pestering our nuns, even though Magistra Katherine has told her that she is not welcome here. Prioress Joan is kinder, but even her patience is wearing thin. Magistra Katherine has the right of it, though: Alice is a thief, so the other nuns should have nothing to do with her.’
‘A thief?’ echoed Michael warily. ‘How do you know?’
‘Well, once, when all our nuns were at the conloquium, Alice visited the guesthouse while I happened to be cleaning under the bed. Rashly assuming she was alone, she began riffling through their things. I saw her slip a comb up her sleeve and walk off with it.’
Michael was not sure whether to believe her. ‘Was it valuable?’ he asked warily.
For the first time, Goda considered her answer with care, and he saw that the cost of things mattered to her.
‘I would not have paid more than sixpence for it,’ she replied eventually. ‘I told our nuns when they got back, and it transpired that the comb belonged to Prioress Joan. I thought she would not care, given that she is not a vain woman, but she was very upset.’
‘Could Alice have set the fire?’ asked Tulyet, while Michael held his breath; he did not want a Benedictine to be the culprit.
‘Possibly,’ said Goda. ‘But we have let no nun get anywhere near the peregrini, which would mean she killed five people she never met. That seems unlikely.’
‘Look again at the murder weapon,’ ordered Tulyet, laying it on the table in front of her. ‘Have you seen it before?’
Goda spent far more time than necessary turning it over in her hands. When it became clear that she was more interested in assessing its worth than identifying its owner, Tulyet tried to take it back. There was a tussle when she declined to part with it.
‘It is a nice piece,’ she said watching covetously as Tulyet returned it to his scrip. ‘What will you do with it once your enquiries are over? I doubt you will want to keep it, but I will give you a fair price.’
‘I shall bear it in mind,’ said Tulyet, taken aback and struggling not to let it show.
‘That is a fine new kirtle,’ said Michael, wondering if Alice was not the only one with sticky fingers. ‘How did you pay for it?’
Goda regarded him coolly. ‘By saving my wages. Unlike most people, I do not fritter them away on nothing. Not that my clothes are any of your affair. Now, is that all, or do you have more impertinent questions to put to me?’
‘You may go,’ said Tulyet coldly. ‘For now.’
As time was passing, Tulyet suggested that he finished speaking to the staff on his own, while Bartholomew and Michael tackled the nuns.
‘Prioress Joan has just returned from the conloquium,’ he said, watching her dismount her handsome stallion while her ladies flowed from the guesthouse to welcome her back. Bartholomew recalled that she had left them to pray while she went to give a lecture on plumbing.
‘And let us hope one of us has some luck,’ sighed Michael, ‘because I cannot believe that someone could stab four people, drug two children, set a building alight, and saunter away without being seen.’
The guesthouse was a charming building. Its walls were of honey-coloured stone, it had a red-tiled roof, and someone had planted roses around the door. Most of the windows were open, allowing sunlight to stream in, and the furniture was simple but new and spotlessly clean. All the nuns were there, except one.
‘Our Prioress went to settle Dusty in the stables,’ explained Magistra Katherine de Lisle. ‘She spends more time with him than she does at her devotions.’
Bartholomew studied Katherine with interest. Like her prelate brother, she was tall, haughty, and had a beaky nose and hooded eyes. She was perhaps in her sixth decade, but her skin was smooth and unlined. A smirk played at the corners of her mouth, and he was under the impression that she considered herself superior to everyone else, and thought other people existed only for her to mock. He wondered if arrogance ran in the family, because her brother was also of the opinion that he was the most important thing in the universe.
‘Caring for God’s creatures is a form of worship,’ said Michael, who was known to linger in stables at the expense of his divine offices himself. ‘I will fetch her while the rest of you tell Matt about yesterday’s tragedy.’
Bartholomew was happy with that, as he had no wish to visit a place where he would meet an animal that would almost certainly dislike him on sight – horses instinctively knew he was wary of them, and even the most docile of nags turned mean-spirited in his presence.
‘There are a lot of you,’ he remarked when the monk had gone.
‘Twenty,’ replied Katherine, a faint smile playing about her lips. ‘We brought more delegates than any other convent.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Prioress Joan offered to bring any nun who wanted to travel. Some came for the adventure, others to meet fellow Benedictines, the rest to learn something useful. But I was invited personally by the organisers because I am a talented speaker who can preach on a variety of interesting subjects. I am not styled Magistra Katherine for nothing, you know.’
She began to list her areas of expertise, although as most pertained to theology, Bartholomew thought she was sadly mistaken to describe them as ‘interesting’. Sensing she was losing his attention, she finished by saying that Joan’s relaxed rule made for a contented little community of nuns at Lyminster.
While she spoke, the other sisters occupied themselves with strips of leather and pots of oil, filling the room with the sweet scent of linseed. Eschewing such menial work, Katherine picked up a book, clearly aiming to read it the moment Bartholomew left.