'There've been other happenings as well,' Catchpole interrupted. 'I've seen ships coming close inshore at night, lanterns winking. Signals to someone, but God knows who.'

'Do you think the Pastoureaux are involved in that?' Selditch asked.

'In the autumn,' Catchpole continued, ignoring the question, 'when the evenings were fair, I went out on the headlands. I saw the ships, or rather their lights, but could see no answering signal from the land!'

'But the Pastoureaux never leave their enclosure at night,' Father Augustine asserted. 'These are smugglers.' He smiled apologetically at Gurney. 'No offence, Sir Simon, but the coast is rife with them. Ships from Boston, Bishop's Lynn, Ipswich and Yarmouth. There's a thriving trade. Nonetheless Master Catchpole is right. Strange things do happen here,' – he looked slyly along the table at the prioress – 'such as the death of a member of your community, Dame Cecily.'

The prioress pursed her lips and looked down her nose, as if she did not wish to discuss the matter.

'One of your sisters?' Corbett enquired.

'Aye,' Monck added maliciously. 'It would appear that Dame Agnes, treasurer of the convent was accustomed to taking walks at night along the headland. Apparently she slipped and fell to her death on the rocks below.'

'And, of course,' Selditch interposed, 'there are the murders.' His flushed face and sparkling eyes showed how much he was relishing this litany of disasters. He might perhaps have said more, but at that moment the steward blew his silver horn and the servants brought to the table apples roasted in brown sugar, flavoured with cinnamon and covered with a thick, rich cream as well as plates of sweetmeats, comfits and marchpanes. As Gurney's other guests chattered amongst themselves Ranulf nudged his master. 'A pretty pottage,' he whispered. 'Who would think, Master, that such a collection of notables would have so much to hide?'