Prince of Darkness

did.'
    'Good.'
    Corbett noticed the colour high in the woman's cheeks. 'It's just that we have so few visitors,' she flustered. Corbett walked back.
    I feel sorry for you, Madam, locked up in the presence of death. I can only imagine your grief and loneliness.'
    'There are celebrations tomorrow,' she boldly interrupted. 'At the local church. It's harvest time. I have to visit Father Reynard for altar breads – he always insists that we use the unleavened wafers he bakes himself. The roads are -'
    'Madam,' Corbett smoothly intervened, I would consider it an honour to accompany you.'
    Dame Agatha led him silently back to the guest house which stood on the other side of the nunnery and showed him into a pleasant, comfortable chamber with a few sticks of furniture. Ranulf was already unpacking their saddle bags. Dame Agatha left them there saying a kitchener would bring across food as their rules forbade visitors in the refectory. Corbett sat on his cot and pulled off his boots. He waited to speak until he heard the nun's soft footsteps fade into the distance.
    'So, Ranulf, what do you think?'
    His servant slumped on the bed opposite him.
    'For ladies concerned about the next world,' Ranulf tartly answered, 'they seem very interested in this one. Hell's teeth, Master! They live as grandly as any princess.'
    'And the Lady Eleanor's death?'
    'I think they are all lying, and they know it The Lady Prioress may be an arrogant cow but she is also a very frightened one.'
    'Anything else?'
    'Those two Sub-prioresses – Dames Frances and Catherine – they detest each other. Did you notice they hardly exchanged a glance?' Ranulf grimaced. 'And you, Master?'
    'I believe the Lady Eleanor did not fall downstairs. If she had, her body would have been a mass of bruises whereas, apart from on her neck, I noticed only one contusion on her leg. She was killed elsewhere and her corpse dumped at the bottom of the stairs to make it appear an accident. I also think,' he added softly, 'the old nun was murdered in her bath because she knew something, though God knows how I am going to prove what really happened.'
    Corbett lay on the bed trying to sort out the jumble of facts in his head. A servant brought them up bowls of hot broth, small white loaves and a dish of cold pheasant garnished with spices and a mess of vegetables. After they had eaten, Ranulf went for a walk, coming back still praising the wealth and luxury he had seen. Corbett stared up at the ceiling. He wondered how Maeve was doing. Would she look after herself? Could she manage the reeve and bailiff? Tomorrow the manor court would meet: John the Heywood was petitioning for leave to marry his daughter to a man from the next village. William Attwood wanted to send his son to school. Hik the warrener had broken the ordinance about using the manor mill and had ground his own com at home. Robert Arundel had stolen a yard of land from his neighbour. Could Maeve deal with all these problems? Outside it fell dark. Corbett's eyes grew heavy. He heard the yip-yip of a hunting fox, together with the sounds of Ranulf preparing for bed.
    'Ranulf!' he murmured.
    'Yes, Master?'
    'Somehow, please return the silver figurines to the Lady Prioress!' 'Yes, Master.'
    The next morning Corbett rose early, woken by the tolling of the priory bell. He washed, cleansing his face and hands in a deep brass bowl placed in the wooden lavarium, dressed and roused Ranulf for early morning Mass. The air was heavy with mist as Corbett made his way towards a small farm within the priory grounds. He heard the gulping noise of greedy sows; a peasant called to his sons across the dawn-dark grass to put away their mattocks and hoes and prepare for Mass. One of the nuns, her face pale as cheese and heavy with sleep, was talking to one of the lay sisters who was yoked with clanking buckets, returning from milking the cows. Another lay sister, her gown rucked up, sleeves pushed high above her elbows displaying lean, brown, muscular arms, was walking slowly up from the well, a brimming bucket in either hand; beside her a barefooted, dusty girl drove a flock of hissing geese back into their pens.
    Corbett walked right round, through the now open Galilee Gate and on the dry, dusty track which wound past the priory. He took a deep breath, enjoying the sweet-scented smells. In the woods across the track, dew still dripped from the branches; cuckoos, wood pigeons and thrushes sang their morning chorus in the deep green