Song of a Dark Angel

again stopping to stare out at the grey angry sea. At last the convent came into sight. As soon as he entered the gates, Corbett sensed the wealth of the foundation. The doors were freshly painted, opening soundlessly on well-oiled hinges. The outhouses were tiled, the woodwork fresh and gleaming and the yard neatly cobbled. A groom took his horse and a lay sister led him into the convent. Here again the wealth of the sisters was apparent. The walls were panelled, the furniture well polished and beautifully carved statues stood in recesses. At the end of the passageway, above an arched door, was a superb triptych. The air smelt sweetly of wood, resin and incense.
    'You admire our convent?' the lay sister asked, pausing as Corbett stopped to gaze at a large cross carved and painted in the Byzantine style.
    'It is quite beautiful,' Corbett replied.
    'Only the high-born are admitted here, the daughters or widows of nobles,' the lay sister explained. 'They bring rich dowries – and, of course, there's always the profit from the sheep.'
    Corbett remembered the flocks he had seen on the moors.
    'The convent exports wool?' he asked.
    'Oh, yes, it goes by the cartload to Whitstable, Boston, Bishop's Lynn and Hull.' The lay sister straightened up. 'It is high-quality wool, much in demand by Flemish weavers.'
    Corbett took one last, lingering look at the crucifix and followed his guide along beautifully furnished passageways to Dame Cecily's chamber. The prioress appeared pleased to see him. She ordered wine and sweetmeats and escorted Corbett to a large throne-like chair before a roaring fire. Corbett sat down and stared around. Even the queen's chamber at Westminster couldn't rival such riches – woollen rugs, golden tapestries, silver oil-lamps, precious candelabra, paintings and silver ewers, cups and dishes adorned the room.
    'Before you ask, Sir Hugh,' said Dame Cecily, placing a goblet of wine beside him. 'We sisters of the Holy Cross do not take a vow of poverty. We are a foundation dedicated to good works and prayer and to providing a refuge for women of good standing in what can only be termed a violent world.'
    Corbett murmured his thanks and stared at the fire. Such foundations were common, he reflected, built on generous endowments and constantly financed by a regular source of income.
    'How long has the convent been here?' he asked.
    'Sir Simon's great-grandfather issued the first charter. The building was completed in 1220.1 am the fifth prioress and our community is sixty strong.'
    'So you have no objection to the Pastoureaux. You don't see them as rivals?' Corbett said, half-teasingly, as the prioress lowered herself gracefully into a large, quilted chair.
    Dame Cecily shook her head.
    'Of course not. We give the Pastoureaux every help we can. We are only too pleased to accept their labour in our stables, farms and orchards. They cause us no problems.'
    'You have heard of the murder?' Corbett abruptly asked. 'The girl Marina?'
    Dame Cecily nodded. 'Of course, poor girl. She did apply to this convent, wishing to come to us as a lay sister, but…' Dame Cecily shrugged elegantly plump shoulders, with such a look of contrived sorrow on her face that, in any other circumstances, Corbett would have laughed.
    'Has Master Monck been here?'
    'Yes, this morning.' 'Why?'
    'He came about his servant, Cerdic Lickspittle, the one who was found murdered on the beach.' 'And?' Corbett asked testily.
    Dame Cecily became flustered. 'Well, specifically, he wanted to know if Lickspittle visited here the day he died. I said yes.' Dame Cecily played with the pleats of her woollen gown. 'But his visit was very short. He was a nuisance – our sisters were for ever seeing him riding out along the headland and staring out to sea. Master Monck is no better.'
    'Perhaps they were concerned?' Corbett suggested.
    'About what?'
    'About one of your order, Dame Agnes, who fell from the cliff top.'
    Dame Cecily became visibly agitated. 'That was an accident!' she snapped.
    'But Dame Cecily,' Corbett persisted, 'what on earth was one of your sisters doing out on the headland at the dead of night?'
    'I don't know. We are a foundation for noble ladies, not a prison. We guard against intruders, but do not prevent our sisters from leaving as they wish. I can only suppose that Sister Agnes wished to go for a walk.'
    'On a stormy cliff top,' Corbett said disbelievingly. 'In the dead of night?'
    Dame Cecily spread her plump little fingers.
    'Sister