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Authors: Alys Clare
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thinking.
Then, spotting something, he said, ‘Augustus?’
‘Here,’ came the lad’s instant reply.
‘Gus, can you get me a light?’
‘Aye.’ Augustus ran off, along the passage and up the stairs, quickly coming back again bearing a flaming torch. Good lad, that one, Josse thought. Keeps his eyes open. He must have noticed the torch when we were in the room upstairs.
By the light of the flame, Josse leaned forward and studied the dead man’s throat. Yes. He had been right.
‘Gus?’
In an instant the boy was crouching beside him. ‘Sir Josse?’
‘Look.’ Josse pointed. To the left of the throat, up under the ear, where there was a faint, dark bruise. And to the right, in the same place, where there were four more.
He heard Augustus’s sudden sharp gasp. And the boy said, ‘Someone throttled him.’
‘Aye,’ Josse agreed. ‘Gus, let’s have your hand . . .’
Comprehending instantly, Augustus put his hand around the dead man’s neck. His thumb and fingers, even at full stretch, came nowhere near the bruises. Josse then did the same. Although his hands were larger than Augustus’s, he could not have made the marks either.
‘He was a big man, this killer,’ Augustus breathed into Josse’s ear. ‘Uncommon big.’
‘Aye,’ Josse muttered back. ‘And there’s something else, Augustus.’ He waited, almost believing that he could hear the lad’s quick, intelligent brain at work.
Suddenly Augustus gave a sharp exclamation and swapped his hands over. Now his thumb was over the single bruise and his fingers a few inches short of the group of marks.
‘Aye,’ Josse whispered. ‘When I asked you to stretch out your hand, instinctively you put out the right, because you’re right-handed. But, as you have just realised, the killer used his left hand. Unless some circumstance prevented him from using his dominant hand – it was injured, or perhaps bound – then I think we can say we’re looking for a left-hander.’
Augustus whistled softly. ‘Aye,’ he added, his awe-filled eyes meeting Josse’s, ‘and a bloody great big one.’
5
While Josse was away, Helewise received another visit from Father Micah. The priest informed her that he was dissatisfied with standards within the Abbey and Helewise, controlling with some difficulty her instinctive, outraged reaction, asked him meekly to elaborate.
‘We will take a turn around the Abbey’s various departments,’ he said grandly. ‘I shall point out those areas which are of most concern.’ Rebellion seething under her quiet demeanour, Helewise fell into step beside him.
Within quite a short time, she had a good idea of what it was that formed the foundation of his complaint. In the small room behind the refectory where the cook nuns spent most of their working hours monotonously preparing large amounts of virtually the same few foods, Father Micah objected to the little songs some of the sisters sung and the occasional laughter-inducing pleasantry that helped to pass the long hours. In the infirmary anteroom, he objected to a weary young sister sitting down to roll bandages. The pain in her legs, which were swollen because she had spent much of the night on her feet caring for a very sick patient, should be, in Father Micah’s opinion, offered to God in penance for her sins. She must henceforth stand to do her work.
Out in the chilly cloister, the priest stood for some time over Sister Phillipa, seated at her desk and engaged in illuminating a capital letter A. The work was beautiful, Helewise thought, but Father Micah complained that over-use of blue and gold smacked of luxury, not seemly in an order vowed to poverty. About to tell him that the Queen herself had bestowed the wherewithal for the purchase of those very pigments, Helewise changed her mind. She would not explain herself to this man.
He passed through Sister Bernadine’s room without comment. Sister Bernadine was in charge of the Abbey’s small collection of
Then, spotting something, he said, ‘Augustus?’
‘Here,’ came the lad’s instant reply.
‘Gus, can you get me a light?’
‘Aye.’ Augustus ran off, along the passage and up the stairs, quickly coming back again bearing a flaming torch. Good lad, that one, Josse thought. Keeps his eyes open. He must have noticed the torch when we were in the room upstairs.
By the light of the flame, Josse leaned forward and studied the dead man’s throat. Yes. He had been right.
‘Gus?’
In an instant the boy was crouching beside him. ‘Sir Josse?’
‘Look.’ Josse pointed. To the left of the throat, up under the ear, where there was a faint, dark bruise. And to the right, in the same place, where there were four more.
He heard Augustus’s sudden sharp gasp. And the boy said, ‘Someone throttled him.’
‘Aye,’ Josse agreed. ‘Gus, let’s have your hand . . .’
Comprehending instantly, Augustus put his hand around the dead man’s neck. His thumb and fingers, even at full stretch, came nowhere near the bruises. Josse then did the same. Although his hands were larger than Augustus’s, he could not have made the marks either.
‘He was a big man, this killer,’ Augustus breathed into Josse’s ear. ‘Uncommon big.’
‘Aye,’ Josse muttered back. ‘And there’s something else, Augustus.’ He waited, almost believing that he could hear the lad’s quick, intelligent brain at work.
Suddenly Augustus gave a sharp exclamation and swapped his hands over. Now his thumb was over the single bruise and his fingers a few inches short of the group of marks.
‘Aye,’ Josse whispered. ‘When I asked you to stretch out your hand, instinctively you put out the right, because you’re right-handed. But, as you have just realised, the killer used his left hand. Unless some circumstance prevented him from using his dominant hand – it was injured, or perhaps bound – then I think we can say we’re looking for a left-hander.’
Augustus whistled softly. ‘Aye,’ he added, his awe-filled eyes meeting Josse’s, ‘and a bloody great big one.’
5
While Josse was away, Helewise received another visit from Father Micah. The priest informed her that he was dissatisfied with standards within the Abbey and Helewise, controlling with some difficulty her instinctive, outraged reaction, asked him meekly to elaborate.
‘We will take a turn around the Abbey’s various departments,’ he said grandly. ‘I shall point out those areas which are of most concern.’ Rebellion seething under her quiet demeanour, Helewise fell into step beside him.
Within quite a short time, she had a good idea of what it was that formed the foundation of his complaint. In the small room behind the refectory where the cook nuns spent most of their working hours monotonously preparing large amounts of virtually the same few foods, Father Micah objected to the little songs some of the sisters sung and the occasional laughter-inducing pleasantry that helped to pass the long hours. In the infirmary anteroom, he objected to a weary young sister sitting down to roll bandages. The pain in her legs, which were swollen because she had spent much of the night on her feet caring for a very sick patient, should be, in Father Micah’s opinion, offered to God in penance for her sins. She must henceforth stand to do her work.
Out in the chilly cloister, the priest stood for some time over Sister Phillipa, seated at her desk and engaged in illuminating a capital letter A. The work was beautiful, Helewise thought, but Father Micah complained that over-use of blue and gold smacked of luxury, not seemly in an order vowed to poverty. About to tell him that the Queen herself had bestowed the wherewithal for the purchase of those very pigments, Helewise changed her mind. She would not explain herself to this man.
He passed through Sister Bernadine’s room without comment. Sister Bernadine was in charge of the Abbey’s small collection of
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