'And the other graves?' Corbett asked.

The priest took Corbett round, pointing out the disturbed graves. Corbett quietly realized there was a pattern to the desecration. All but two of the pillaged graves were of persons unknown – the exceptions were both old ladies. And they were all of old people who had died between the years 1216 and 1256.

'And you have no idea who is the perpetrator?'

'None whatsoever,' Father Augustine sighed. 'I have set guard, as did Robert the reeve and members of the parish council. It's always the same.'

'When is it done,' Corbett asked. 'At night?'

The priest nodded. 'Though on one occasion the desecration occurred late in the afternoon. Only the good Lord knows what they were after.'

'Amelia Fourbour, the baker's wife,' Corbett asked abruptly, 'she visited you?'

The priest shrugged. 'Yes, she did. A very unhappy woman. Amelia complained about the villagers, but there was little I could do.' Father Augustine looked up at the overcast sky. 'I cannot explain her death and was unable, God forgive me, to assist her when she was alive. You've met my parishioners, Sir Hugh, they are as hard as the earth they till!'

Corbett agreed and thanked him. He went back to the lychgate, mounted his horse and rode through the dusk towards the Holy Cross convent. He followed the cliff path, now and 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.