‘To thank her for bringing us here, we are making new reins for Prioress Joan,’ explained one nun, smiling. ‘Or rather, for Dusty. He is strong, and is always snapping them.’
‘They know the surest way to her heart,’ said Katherine, then indicated the tome in her lap. ‘Whereas I prefer to study Master Clippesby’s treatise. He must be a remarkable man, because I have never encountered such elegant logic.’
‘He is a remarkable man,’ agreed Bartholomew, hoping they would never meet. The mad Dominican would not be what Katherine expected, and they would almost certainly disappoint each other. ‘He has a unique way with animals.’
‘Joan would like him then,’ said Katherine with a smirk. ‘Especially if he is good with horses. But his theories are astonishing. And what an imagination, to use chickens to speak his views.’
Clippesby would argue that the views were the birds’ own, but Bartholomew decided not to tell her that. He changed the subject to Alice.
‘Yes, the wretched woman did visit shortly before the fire started,’ said Katherine. ‘She will not leave us alone, despite our efforts to discourage her. You know why, of course.’
‘Do I?’
‘Because my brother was so shocked by the way she ran Ickleton Priory that he deposed her. Now she aims to avenge herself on him through me. But she will not succeed, because she is not clever enough.’
Unwilling to be dragged into that dispute, Bartholomew returned to the subject of the fire. ‘Did you see Alice near the shed? Or talking to the … patients, particularly those who died?’
‘Not yesterday or any other day,’ replied Katherine. ‘However, that is not to say she did not do it – just that we never saw her.’
All the nuns denied recognising the murder weapon, too, although Bartholomew had to be content with sketching it on a piece of parchment, as Tulyet had the original.
‘We are unlikely to know anything to help you,’ said Katherine, clearly impatient to get to her reading, ‘because a condition of us staying here is that we keep away from the lunatics. We have obliged, because none of us want to exchange these nice, spacious quarters for a cramped corner in St Radegund’s.’
‘But you must look out of the windows,’ pressed Bartholomew, loath to give up. ‘And one faces the shed.’
‘It does,’ acknowledged Katherine. ‘But it is nailed shut, and the glass is too thick to see through. The only ones that open overlook the road.’
Bartholomew saw she was right, and wondered if it was why Alice had rummaged through the nuns’ belongings when they were out – no one from inside the Spital could have looked in and seen her, and she would have got away with it, if Goda had not been cleaning under the beds. Assuming Goda was telling the truth, of course.
‘Is Joan missing a comb?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ replied Katherine. ‘An ivory one. She was upset about it, as it was the one she used on Dusty’s mane. Goda says Alice took it, which Alice denies, of course. If it is true, it will be part of some malicious plot against me or my brother. Her vindictiveness knows no bounds, so if you do arrest her for roasting lunatics, I should be very grateful.’
‘Where were you when the blaze began?’ asked Bartholomew, and when her eyebrows flew upwards in instant indignation, added quickly, ‘Just for elimination purposes.’
Katherine indicated her sisters. ‘We were all in here, except for the hour before the fire. At that point, I was in the garden behind the chapel and Joan was in the stables. We predicted that Alice would come, you see, and we aimed to avoid her.’
‘Alice did come,’ put in another nun. ‘But she left when we told her that Magistra Katherine and Prioress Joan were unavailable. The rest of us were here until the alarm was raised, at which point Prioress Joan came to take us outside lest a stray spark set this building alight, too.’
Bartholomew regarded Katherine thoughtfully. ‘You cannot see the shed from in here, but you can from behind the chapel …’
There was a flash of irritation in the hooded eyes. ‘Very possibly, but I was engrossed in Clippesby’s book and paid no attention to anything else.’
‘But you heard the alarm raised,’ pressed Bartholomew.
Katherine regarded him steadily. ‘I was absorbed, not on another planet. Of course I stopped reading when everyone started shouting and I saw the smoke.’
‘So you have no alibi,’ said Bartholomew, hoping she would not transpire to be the killer, as the Bishop would be livid.
Katherine gave another of her enigmatic smiles. ‘I am afraid not, other than my fervent assurance that high-ranking Benedictine nuns have better things to do than light fires in derelict outbuildings.’
Unfortunately, her fervent assurance was not enough, thought Bartholomew, watching her open the book to tell him that the interview was over.
He was about to leave when Michael walked in with Joan, deep in a conversation about hocks and withers. She was taller than Michael, who was not a small man, and her hands were the size of dinner plates.
‘Have you answered all his questions?’ she asked of her nuns, jerking a huge thumb in Bartholomew’s direction. ‘Nice and polite, like I taught you?’
‘We have,’ replied Katherine, resignedly closing her book again. ‘Although he is disturbed by my inability to prove that I did not incinerate an entire family.’
‘Katherine often disappears to read on her own,’ said Joan. ‘Of course, you will probably say that I cannot prove my whereabouts either, given that I was with Dusty. Or will you? I understand your Clippesby talks to animals – perhaps he will take Dusty’s statement.’
‘It is no laughing matter,’ said Michael sternly. ‘People died in that fire.’
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Joan, contrite. ‘And we shall continue to pray for their souls. However, as it happens, I can do better than Dusty for an alibi. One of the servants – that ridiculously tiny lass – was in the kitchen the whole time. And if I could see her, she must have been able to see me.’
‘Goda?’ asked Michael. ‘So you can vouch for her?’
‘I suppose I can,’ said Joan. ‘I would not normally have noticed her, but she was wearing yellow, a colour Dusty does not like, and he kept snickering in her direction. She was certainly in the kitchen when the blaze would have started.’
‘So, Brother,’ drawled Katherine, amused, ‘I am your only Lyminster suspect. My brother will be horrified when he learns that you have me in your sights.’
‘Then let us hope we find the real culprit before it becomes necessary to tell him,’ said Michael, smiling back at her.
‘That poor family,’ said Joan, sitting heavily on a bed. ‘What will happen to their friends now? There cannot be many places willing to hide Frenchmen.’
‘You know?’ breathed Michael, shocked, while Bartholomew gaped at her. ‘But how?’
‘We are not fools,’ replied Joan softly. ‘Tangmer nailed the window shut to prevent us from seeing them, but we have ears – we often hear the children chattering in French.’
‘Joan took a few of us to Winchelsea when we heard about the raid,’ said Katherine. ‘We wanted to help, and the town is only sixty miles from our convent. We arrived five days later, and although we were spared the worst sights, what remained was terrible enough. We heard the rumours about the “spies” who told the Dauphin when best to come. It did not take a genius to put it all together. We know exactly who these folk are.’
‘Have you told anyone else?’ asked Michael uneasily.
She shot him a withering glare. ‘Of course not! These people have a right to sanctuary, just like any Christian soul. I shall not even tell my brother.’
‘I hope the murders do not panic them into flight again,’ said Joan. ‘It will be more dangerous still on the open road, as I imagine the sentiments spoken on Cambridge’s streets will be just the same in other towns and villages.’