Читать книгу Lady Agnes Mystery Vol.2 - Андреа Жапп - Страница 23

Jeanne d’Amblin had returned from her rounds a few days before, exhausted, trembling with fever and racked by terrible fits of coughing. She had tried in vain to resist Éleusie de Beaufort’s injunction to rest a little in order to aid her swift recovery. Owing to her state she had been apportioned two thick blankets, and Annelette had brewed a succession of curative decoctions and chest balms. The apothecary was well aware that the extern sister’s symptoms were as common to severe illness as they were to more minor afflictions, and that she must do her utmost to stop the infection spreading to the other nuns.

Jeanne handed her the empty bowl that had contained a chest remedy of cabbage water, beech wood and borage.34 She screwed up her face, protesting:

‘Why do all your remedies taste so foul?’

‘Even though I added spices and honey to improve the taste,’ Annelette remarked. ‘I will leave you to rest for a while. After that … you must agree to a few inhalations.’

‘Oh no, not one of your fumigations with nettle and lovage, please!’

‘They work best.’

‘But it’s for horses!’35

‘And for humans too. Decidedly, you are not a good patient, dear Jeanne.’

The other woman replied with an apologetic smile: ‘Forgive me, kind Annelette. I’m bored of being in bed. There’s nothing wrong with my legs; it’s my head that feels as if it’s in a vice and my lungs are roaring like a furnace!’

‘I sympathise. However, you must understand that an untreated cough can turn into something more serious, and besides you’re contagious. Isn’t it curious how diseases spread … Is it only the breath that is infectious? I’m not so sure. We are all aware, for example, that one can become infected by wearing a sick person’s underclothes. A fascinating problem.’

Jeanne, who otherwise had little interest in science, said in a concerned voice:

‘Are you saying that I might infect you?’

‘Not this big old lanky carcass! But if you do, I will lie in the bed next to you and we can keep each other company,’ the apothecary retorted.

She plumped up her patient’s pillow and enquired:

‘Are you certain you have everything you need, Jeanne? Your jug of water contains essence of mallow … I don’t think there’s anything else …’

‘I’ve lost my handkerchief. It must have slipped down somewhere.’

Annelette looked under and around the bed but could not see it. She pulled a replacement out of the reticule attached to her belt, which, besides a handkerchief, contained a phial of antiseptic, a long needle for removing splinters and some tiny pieces of cloth soaked in pine oil.

‘Here, this one is clean. I’ll bring you another later.’

She left Jeanne who, despite her protests to the contrary, was visibly frail and began nodding off. She was careful to lower the thin curtain that screened off her cell from the rest of the dormitory.

Annelette Beaupré walked down the long corridor leading to Éleusie de Beaufort’s study. A familiar figure overtook her. The slim novice turned and gave her a radiant but shy smile. Ah yes, what was her Christian name again? She had said she wanted to take the name of Constantine’s mother, Hélène. Annelette had forgotten. It was not important.

She knocked loudly on the door and was greeted by a violent fit of coughing.

A pox on these chest infections, she thought. They spread like lightning. The Abbess’s age and frail constitution made her an obvious target … Well, now she had a second patient under her charge. She could only hope that there would be no more casualties and that her Reverend Mother would be more cooperative than Jeanne.

The apothecary recalled one spring when she had ministered to over thirty nuns and almost as many lay servants suffering from vomiting, diarrhoea and stomach cramps. She had managed to avoid infection herself, but had feared she might die of exhaustion.

She found the Abbess slumped behind her desk, her head in her hands. Annelette knew she was right the moment Éleusie de Beaufort looked up. Her eyes were streaming, her nose was red and she was sniffing pathetically. The Abbess said in a hoarse voice:

‘This is all we need, my dear Annelette. An epidemic.’

‘So far only Jeanne and you have been infected. Let us hope that it does not spread.’

The Abbess blew her nose loudly and said:

‘I need some fresh bits of cloth. These ones are … terribly soiled. I scarcely have the strength to stand, daughter, and …’

‘Of course. I will go to the linen room at once. On my way back I’ll stop at the herbarium and make you an infusion … Jeanne says they taste foul, but I promise to add an extra dose of honey, ginger and cinnamon to take away the bitterness.’

Half an hour later, Éleusie de Beaufort set down the bowl which Annelette had made her finish down to the last drop, and exclaimed:

‘Sweet Lord, what unpleasant medicine indeed! Is it not the height of injustice to be ill and have to swallow such foul potions as a punishment! Light the oil lamps for me, daughter. Night is already falling and I can barely see. I feel so weak. I hope a good night’s sleep will restore me. Have you advanced in your investigations, in your analysis?’

‘Not as I would wish. Please do not think me indiscreet, but I understand that a messenger came to you this afternoon and …’

The Abbess gave a faint smile:

‘Some good news, at last. My nephew is on his way here. What a relief!’ Suddenly, her pretty, finely lined face darkened.

‘I sent a message back explaining the recent events here at the abbey.’

‘How is it that I didn’t see your nephew during his last visit? Heavens, it would have been a catastrophe if that wretched Florin had found out he was here!’

The Abbess’s face flushed with pride and she declared:

‘Francesco is cunning. He can slip in and out like a cat. Not a wall or door exists that can keep him out.’

A sudden fit of coughing caused the Abbess to choke. Annelette rushed over to slap her on the back. Finally the spasms abated.

They spoke again of the murders and the threat hanging over their quest. Then Éleusie described Francesco in such terms that it seemed to Annelette that she had mistaken him for an archangel, and she marvelled at the power of a mother’s love. The apothecary was about to leave for the dormitory when something in the Abbess’s manner alerted her. Her teeth appeared clenched and her jaw muscles jutted out beneath her pale skin.

‘Reverend Mother, are you quite well?’

Powerless to unclench her jaw, Éleusie shook her head. An interminable list of symptoms ran through the apothecary’s head. A trismus, this was what was known as a trismus. It was found in certain types of tetanus infections or after an inflammation of the tonsils.

‘Reverend Mother!’ Annelette cried.

Éleusie appeared to jump out of her chair. She fell to the ground like a dead weight. Annelette ran over to her and tried to pick her up, but the tiny woman’s muscles were rigid. She was gasping for breath, suffocating. The sweat was streaming down her face, soaking the neck of her robe.

Then it dawned on Annelette. She leapt to her feet like a madwoman and grabbed the empty bowl. She tasted the dregs and thought her legs would give way under her. The excessive bitterness told her that something had been added to her mixture of herbs. She bent double, letting out a sob of grief. She herself had administered the poison that would end the Abbess’s life. That monstrous poisoner had turned her into an unwitting accomplice. For the first time in her life, Annelette was overwhelmed by the desire to kill. She hated her, she wanted to see the murderess dead at her feet.

She knelt down beside Éleusie, who was fighting for every breath, struggling to control her arms, which were sticking straight up in the air. Annelette wanted to take her hand, but just then a terrible convulsion seized the Abbess’s frail body, causing her back to arch before she collapsed again.

‘Are you in pain, Madame?’ the apothecary whimpered. ‘I don’t recognise any of these symptoms. What did the fiend use? Madame, I beg you, please don’t die, don’t leave me! Oh Madame … I lied to you … I’m not nearly as strong as I pretend to be. I only stood firm in order to reassure you, to prove how indispensable I was to you. Don’t leave me, I beg you! Stay with me! I’m afraid, Reverend Mother. What will I do without you?’

A teardrop fell on the Abbess’s pristine white robe, then another, forming tiny damp circles. Only then did Annelette realise that she was crying. She felt as if her life were ebbing away at the same time as that of the dying woman. The apothecary curled up beside Éleusie on the floor and intoned: ‘Bless you, my sister, bless you, my sister … God loves you. He loves you …’

She had no idea how long she remained there. Her thoughts had strayed far away.

The dying woman’s cry made her leap to her feet. Éleusie, teeth still clenched, was staring at her intently, trying desperately to tell her something. Annelette drew close to the Abbess. Another cry resounded from her throat. The Abbess pursed her lips with difficulty and murmured between gritted teeth:

‘Sa— The … sa—’

‘Your safe.’

‘Fran … ces—’

‘Your nephew, Francesco.’

‘Let—’

‘A letter, or letters for your nephew in your safe.’ Éleusie managed to blink one eye.

‘Se— Se … cret.’

‘It will remain a secret, I swear on my life.’

‘Key … Libr— secr—’

‘The key to the secret library is also there. Who must I give it to? Francesco?’

The Abbess blinked again.

The dying woman’s rasping breath puffed her cheeks out sharply at intervals. In a panic, Annelette was unable to think clearly. Should she leave the room, run for help? No. Éleusie could not be left to die alone in that sinister room.

A hoarse sound, then another. Her arms still sticking up in the air, her legs jutting out from under her dress revealing her ankles, Éleusie waited calmly for death. She did not mind being conscious, experiencing every last detail of death. Dying was not as terrifying as people made it out to be. On the contrary it treated her, its new victim, almost with compassion. For Éleusie clearly felt the presence of her beloved sisters by her side. Claire’s laughter pealed in her memory, Clémence’s lips brushed her soul and Philippine’s fingers stroked her cheek.

Henri, my sweet husband … At long last I will join you. I encountered many obstacles along the path I took to reach you. And my journey was often a lonely one. I always felt so cold without you. Now, at least I feel warm again.

One last effort, only one.

She managed to open her lips:

‘Live … my … friend. Live.’

A final, terrible exhalation. Her chest was motionless. It felt as though a huge red wave had unfurled in her head, blurring the edges of things.

A last gasp. Her body rose in an arch from the icy flagstones, resting only on her heels and the back of her head then slumped to the floor, lifeless.

‘Madame, Madame?’ sobbed Annelette. ‘No. No, it cannot be! No, it isn’t fair, it isn’t fair! It’s my fault, it’s all my fault. I was in such a hurry to prepare her decoction it never occurred to me that the rascal might have mixed her powders in with my herbs. My stupidity and negligence are to blame!’

And all of a sudden she was seized by a terrible rage. She crawled on her hands and knees over to the door and screamed at the top of her voice:

‘Die, you monster! Die! Rot in the darkest depths of hell for all eternity, even if I have to send you there myself!’

There was a sound of running feet, and the door burst open. The two women stumbling upon the grisly scene cried out as one. Thibaude de Gartempe and Berthe de Marchiennes, the cellarer nun. Thibaude knelt beside Annelette who was still hysterical. The apothecary, who was raging uncontrollably, struggled to free herself from her sister’s grasp:

‘Die! I’ll kill you if I have to …!’

‘Annelette, I beg you! Calm yourself. It is over. Calm yourself. Annelette, stop! We must attend to our Reverend Mother’s body.’

The apothecary’s hysterical screams ceased abruptly, and she stared wildly at the guest mistress. Then the dark cloud obscuring her pale-blue eyes cleared and she murmured:

‘My God …’

With Thibaude’s help she rose to her feet. Berthe was standing motionless, inches from the Abbess’s corpse, her face as white as a sheet. She stammered:

‘This place is cursed. I am sure of it now.’

‘You foolish old woman!’ growled Annelette. ‘The only thing in this place that’s cursed is the poisoner. I need your key to the safe; it was our Reverend Mother’s final wish. Give it to me quickly and leave here at once, both of you. I shall call for you later when it is time to destroy the seal.’

‘But …’

‘That’s an order!’

Berthe feebly attempted to counter her:

‘Given the advanced age of dear Blanche, our senior nun and guardian of the seal, and until such time as a new abbess is nominated, I am the …’

‘You are nothing!’ the apothecary shrieked violently. ‘Nothing but a suspect. Now give me the key.’

The cellarer nun’s sour expression became a scowl. She grabbed the leather thong from around her neck and hurled it into the other woman’s face before leaving the room, accompanied by Thibaude.

Annelette Beaupré lifted her robe and untied the small piece of cord around her waist, attached to which was a second key.

As she knelt beside the Abbess’s body, it occurred to her that the hardest part was yet to come. And yet she was overwhelmed by a feeling of infinite tenderness. She lifted the dead woman’s head carefully and slipped her hand down the neck of her robe. Death had relaxed the obscene rigidity of her limbs and jaw, restoring to Éleusie the dignity of a handsome woman in middle years. Annelette retrieved the third key and sat for a moment with the head of the friend she had discovered too late resting on her lap.

Éleusie’s last words to her had been: ‘Live, my friend. Live.’ They were the apothecary’s recompense for a life of bitter, self-imposed isolation, which she had only recently realised how much she detested. She stroked the dead woman’s brow, still damp with sweat, and kissed it before getting up to open the safe with the aid of the three keys. In it she found a heavy key – no doubt a copy of the key to the Abbess’s chambers – and another smaller key. The Abbess’s seal lay on top of a bulky letter. On it she had written in the long hand Annelette knew as if it were her own:

To be given to my dear nephew Francesco de Leone on my death. Should anyone go against the will of the deceased and read this letter, they will answer with their soul. God is my Saviour and my Judge.

Annelette leafed through the other documents: acts of purchase or sale of land or buildings, transfers of forests or mills. With the intention of hiding it, she took the parchment containing the plans the Abbess had mentioned. The only safe place she could think of was the library. She pulled the tapestry aside and discovered the low door.

Armed with one of the oil lamps she had lit what seemed like an eternity ago, she entered the vast, high-ceilinged room. She felt an icy draught on her head and looked up towards the horizontal arrow-slit windows at the top of the walls. Despite her wrenching grief, she gasped with emotion at the sight of the hundreds of volumes before her, scarcely daring to approach them.

Breathless, her mouth gaping in astonishment, she struggled against the superstitious fear that was paralysing her. Suddenly she hurled herself feverishly at the shelves. She devoured the titles, sighing with admiration, moaning with envy at the thought of all that science, of all that assembled knowledge. My God … To be allowed to remain in there for months reading everything, learning everything … She was gripped by a sudden panic: what if the newly appointed Abbess36 decided or was ordered to destroy these marvels? Annelette shuddered at the thought. She would keep the key until the knight Leone’s return. His grief would be terrible, far greater than her own. Annelette knew how much Madame de Beaufort had loved her adoptive son and she did not doubt that her feelings were reciprocated.

She must act quickly in case Berthe and Thibaude came barging in again. Those two fools were quite capable of imagining that she was taking advantage of being alone to forge documents using the seal. Petty souls frequently project their own guilty desires onto others.

As she was placing the letter and plans on a shelf, her foot struck an object. She stooped in the semi-gloom, which was barely illuminated by her lamp, and discovered the wicker basket full of sachets and phials of toxic substances from the herbarium which she had entrusted to the Abbess. So, this was where she had hidden them.

What was the fast-acting poison that produced such convulsions and stiffness of the limbs? She was convinced that the same substance had been used to kill Yolande de Fleury. The sister in charge of the granary must have scratched her own throat in an attempt to breathe before the paralysis spread to her limbs.

An animal. The poison was connected in some way to a large wild animal. No memory stirred. Perhaps the answer lay in one of these books.

No! They weren’t just scratch marks. The discoloration was too extensive, reaching right up to below her nose. Éleusie had cried out every time Annelette touched her. Had the merest contact caused her pain? Annelette imagined the murderess that night in the dormitory. The fiend! She had gripped Yolande’s neck with one hand and gagged her with the other. She had stood there watching her sister die. She would receive no mercy in this world or the next. Annelette swore on her life, on her soul, that the killer’s punishment would be swift and terrible.

Another piece of the puzzle fell into place: the murderess hoped that by killing Éleusie the ban on leaving the abbey and the systematic search of people, bundles and carts would be lifted. The manuscripts. They must under no circumstances be allowed to fall into the hands of their enemies. Annelette would do her best to foil the poisoner by any means possible – even if she had to compensate for her lack of any real authority by blatant aggression, as she had done with Berthe and Thibaude. Despite her age and feeble-mindedness, Blanche de Blinot had every right to claim the position of Vice-abbess. However, the apothecary was sure that the assassin would have no difficulty in manipulating the senile old woman. As for Berthe de Marchiennes, even divested of her former pride, she, too, was fool enough to be swayed by eloquence and clever flattery.

Annelette Beaupré tried hard to fight off a creeping sense of despair. She would find a way to keep the restrictions on leaving the abbey in place.

As she made her way over to the low door, which she had left ajar, another thought struck her. The handkerchief! Conscious of the fact that certain illnesses – notably pulmonary infections – are passed on by contact with a patient’s garments or personal effects, the murderess had no doubt stolen Jeanne’s handkerchief while she was asleep, and placed it within Éleusie’s reach. The Abbess’s frail constitution, in addition to her exhaustion and the anxiety she had suffered over the past few months, had done the rest. The snake only needed to follow the progress of the infection and poison the remedies she knew Annelette would use to treat the Abbess.

She would kill her – with her own bare hands if necessary. Annelette knew she was capable of it. Worse still, she longed to see the life snuffed out in that devil’s eyes, as she had seen it die in those of Éleusie de Beaufort.

The apothecary walked out quickly, locked the low door and pulled back the tapestry. She left Éleusie’s study, locking the door behind her. She would attend the removal of the body. She would prevent anybody from remaining in their deceased Reverend Mother’s chambers until a new Abbess had been appointed and installed, for then Annelette would have to hand back the keys.

Oh dear God … I beg you: make Francesco’s return swift.