halted. It was true that the office could not be abandoned, but there was the important matter of a fresh corpse lying before the high altar.
Bradecote smiled. He saw the abbot’s dilemma, but he also knew how he wanted to proceed. ‘The body must not, of course, be moved. Much can be learned from studying the body as it was discovered.’ He omitted to mention that it had occurred to him that much might also be learned from studying the behaviour of the possible suspects, faced, as he hoped, with gazing at the crime throughout Compline. He hoped the body was not secreted in a side chapel.
The abbot still looked undecided. It was Serjeant Catchpoll who finally persuaded him, by coming forward and offering, in a most reverential tone, to cover the body decently with a blanket if it was in view, to spare the ladies. He nodded in the direction of the two nuns, visible, still on their knees behind the abbot. Bradecote shot him a surprised look. His knowledge of Catchpoll was limited to what he had seen of him over the last few days, and he would have considered the worthy serjeant neither tolerant of squeamishness nor particularly reverent. In fact, he thought him as hard as horse-nails. As a novice was sent running for a blanket, the man sidled up to Bradecote and gave him the benefit of a whispered, ‘Don’t want anybody making adjustments to their handiwork, do we, my lord.’
Bradecote should have been impressed by the serjeant’s forethought, but it was obvious from his tone, which was that of one explaining to a dullard, that Catchpoll wanted to show who was really going to run the hunt for the murderer.
The sheriff watched Bradecote with a satisfied look. The younger man would make every effort to find the culprit, and would almost certainly put Catchpoll’s nose out of joint in the process. It was a pity, in a way, that he could not stay to see the outcome. He gave a dismissive nod, which the abbot considered as much directed to himself as to Bradecote, climbed stiffly from the saddle, and headed for the guest hall. His stomach was more in need of sustenance than his soul, and he had no desire to attend Compline. Though supper was past, he had little doubt of being able to secure something to eat from the abbot’s kitchen if he bellowed long and loud enough.
Hugh Bradecote gestured to the abbot to continue into the church. The younger nun was paying attention now, looking with doe-wide eyes at the sheriff’s men. She placed a hand on the other sister’s arm to rouse her from her prayers. The older nun looked up, blinking owlishly, and got to her feet a little unsteadily, leaning against her junior. The pair then stood back to let Abbot William and the two sheriff’s officers pass. Within the cloister, Bradecote’s glance took in the monks, their line now less than orderly, a large, pale-faced man, a hulking brute with what looked like a permanent frown of perplexity, and three secular dames who had gathered together, sheeplike, as if for mutual support. One of them was sobbing convulsively.
Two men came in behind Catchpoll. One was still almost a youth, a beardless squire or lordling, and the other Bradecote recognised as Waleran de Grismont, who held manors in the shire. De Grismont maintained his customary look of vague boredom, but the young man’s eyes had widened in surprise at the tableau within the cloister walls.
The novice returned, breathless, with a blanket, and Catchpoll took it and went ahead into the church. Bradecote let the others enter before he went in to take his place. It gave him the opportunity to choose a vantage point from where he could best view what must now be ‘his suspects’.
Within the abbey church it was cool, and motes of dust danced in the vaguely coloured evening light, streaming from the muted greenish yellow hues of a grisaille window. Hugh Bradecote positioned himself carefully by the crossing, at right angles to the nave and choir, although half the Pershore
Bradecote smiled. He saw the abbot’s dilemma, but he also knew how he wanted to proceed. ‘The body must not, of course, be moved. Much can be learned from studying the body as it was discovered.’ He omitted to mention that it had occurred to him that much might also be learned from studying the behaviour of the possible suspects, faced, as he hoped, with gazing at the crime throughout Compline. He hoped the body was not secreted in a side chapel.
The abbot still looked undecided. It was Serjeant Catchpoll who finally persuaded him, by coming forward and offering, in a most reverential tone, to cover the body decently with a blanket if it was in view, to spare the ladies. He nodded in the direction of the two nuns, visible, still on their knees behind the abbot. Bradecote shot him a surprised look. His knowledge of Catchpoll was limited to what he had seen of him over the last few days, and he would have considered the worthy serjeant neither tolerant of squeamishness nor particularly reverent. In fact, he thought him as hard as horse-nails. As a novice was sent running for a blanket, the man sidled up to Bradecote and gave him the benefit of a whispered, ‘Don’t want anybody making adjustments to their handiwork, do we, my lord.’
Bradecote should have been impressed by the serjeant’s forethought, but it was obvious from his tone, which was that of one explaining to a dullard, that Catchpoll wanted to show who was really going to run the hunt for the murderer.
The sheriff watched Bradecote with a satisfied look. The younger man would make every effort to find the culprit, and would almost certainly put Catchpoll’s nose out of joint in the process. It was a pity, in a way, that he could not stay to see the outcome. He gave a dismissive nod, which the abbot considered as much directed to himself as to Bradecote, climbed stiffly from the saddle, and headed for the guest hall. His stomach was more in need of sustenance than his soul, and he had no desire to attend Compline. Though supper was past, he had little doubt of being able to secure something to eat from the abbot’s kitchen if he bellowed long and loud enough.
Hugh Bradecote gestured to the abbot to continue into the church. The younger nun was paying attention now, looking with doe-wide eyes at the sheriff’s men. She placed a hand on the other sister’s arm to rouse her from her prayers. The older nun looked up, blinking owlishly, and got to her feet a little unsteadily, leaning against her junior. The pair then stood back to let Abbot William and the two sheriff’s officers pass. Within the cloister, Bradecote’s glance took in the monks, their line now less than orderly, a large, pale-faced man, a hulking brute with what looked like a permanent frown of perplexity, and three secular dames who had gathered together, sheeplike, as if for mutual support. One of them was sobbing convulsively.
Two men came in behind Catchpoll. One was still almost a youth, a beardless squire or lordling, and the other Bradecote recognised as Waleran de Grismont, who held manors in the shire. De Grismont maintained his customary look of vague boredom, but the young man’s eyes had widened in surprise at the tableau within the cloister walls.
The novice returned, breathless, with a blanket, and Catchpoll took it and went ahead into the church. Bradecote let the others enter before he went in to take his place. It gave him the opportunity to choose a vantage point from where he could best view what must now be ‘his suspects’.
Within the abbey church it was cool, and motes of dust danced in the vaguely coloured evening light, streaming from the muted greenish yellow hues of a grisaille window. Hugh Bradecote positioned himself carefully by the crossing, at right angles to the nave and choir, although half the Pershore
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