Murder in the Holy City

CHAPTER SIX

Hugh and Roger watched in fascinated disgust as Geoffrey forced milk down the dog’s throat. The dog struggled, but then accepted the ministrations with soulful resignation. Eventually, all the milk had been drunk or spat over Geoffrey, and the dog curled itself into a ball to sleep off its brush with death.

Geoffrey stroked its head with a caring he rarely felt for it. It had been with him so long, he could barely remember being without it, yet it was usually more a problem than a friend. He had found it eight years before as a puppy, abandoned in a ditch. He took it to young Tancred, having named it Angel due to the halo of dried mud on its head. Tancred had shown scant interest in the fawning creature and had finally tried to rid himself of it by throwing it into a well. Geoffrey had rescued it, but the dog-which had quickly and deservedly lost the name of Angel-had shown little loyalty to him except when hungry, and there was rarely much between them that could be called true affection. Since then, Geoffrey had fed and housed the dog, which had, in turn, graced him with its presence, except on those occasions when there appeared to be a better option.

Roger retrieved the parcel of cakes from the shelf and poked at them dubiously with his dagger, as if he imagined they might leap out of the wrappings of their own accord and strike him dead. Geoffrey came to peer over his shoulder.

“That should teach you not to steal a dead man’s food,” he said.

Roger shuddered. “I have never had a problem with it before. Are you sure it was the cakes, and not something else? That foul dog has always got something unsavoury in its mouth.”

Geoffrey shook his head. “There is an odd smell about those cakes, and, from the dog’s reaction, I think there must be a fast-acting poison in them. He is lucky you are mean, and only gave him a little. Had he, or you, eaten a whole one …”

“So, the mystery thickens,” said Hugh. “Were these cakes sent to Dunstan to kill him? Was he aware that attempts were being made on his life, and he became so frightened that he decided to save the killer the trouble? Or had he had these cakes prepared as a gift for someone else-Marius perhaps?”

Geoffrey took Roger’s dagger and poked at the wrappings. The inner ones were a kind of parchment specially designed to absorb grease, but the outer one was of the type used in the market near Pharos Street in the Greek Quarter. The cakes, too, were distinctive, and bore an unusual pattern of crystalised sugar on the crust. Geoffrey thought that it should not be too difficult to trace which of the bakeries near Pharos Street produced the cakes, and perhaps even when. The point at which the poison was added would be more difficult to determine, especially since it might even have been put there by Dunstan himself. But they had to start somewhere, and the bakeries seemed as good a place as any.

He glanced out of the window, and saw that the sky was beginning to lighten. It would not be long before the bakers opened their stalls for business, and he could begin his enquiries. He sighed and stretched, and then turned back to his study of the scraps of parchment from Dunstan’s desk. He wished he could have raided Marius’s desk too, but he did not know which one had been his, and it would have looked suspicious to have asked.

“What are you doing?” mumbled Roger, half-asleep in what looked to be an uncomfortable position on the wall bench. Hugh was already slumbering on the bed.

“Seeing if there is anything to be learned from the scrap vellum in Dunstan’s desk.”

“I do not hold with all those squiggles and scrawls,” said Roger drowsily. “They only serve to get you into trouble.”

Spoken like a true illiterate, thought Geoffrey. As if talking did not have its disadvantages in that way. He peered at one scrap in the yellow light from the lamp, and then put it to one side when he saw it had only been used to clean dirty quills. The next one was a list of scrolls relating to business dealings with a cloth merchant, and the next was a list of loot stolen from a house in the Jewish Quarter. Yet another contained a selection of meaningless words and phrases in a variety of styles, as if Dunstan had been seeing how many different ways he could write. Was this relevant, Geoffrey wondered? Daimbert had praised Dunstan’s writing, so perhaps the man had been able to mimic the handwriting style of others. It might be a useful skill for the Patriarch to draw upon.

Geoffrey was becoming sleepy himself, lulled by the soporific flicker of the amber light of the lamp. Then he jolted back into wakefulness when he realised what he had just read. The text was incomplete because the parchment had been torn, but there was enough left to give him the gist of what had been written. And it was in Greek, and so was probably incomprehensible to most, if not all, the other scribes in the Patriarch’s service.

“… you will agree … not … for others to know … damage … be irreparable … but … minimal sums … left … of the Holy …”

Geoffrey rubbed his chin. It did not take a genius to grasp the essence of the letter. It was informing the recipient that the sender was aware of some fact it was better that others should not know, and that would cause or allow some permanent damage to occur. But for a price, the secret could be kept, providing “sums” were left at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. So, was this a note written to Dunstan, or by him? And if by him, was it for another or on his own account? Was it an original or simply a rough copy to be written out more tidily at a later date? Geoffrey rummaged in the pile for the parchment on which Dunstan had practised his handwriting, and compared it to the blackmail note. At first, he thought he must have been mistaken, but there, at the bottom, was a line in which the writing was made to slope a little to the right, and some letters were given distinctive ornamentations. Dunstan had been practicing Roman letters in Latin, but the style was as distinctive in Greek.

Geoffrey peered closer, almost setting the parchment alight as he came too near to the lamp, and he saw that there must have been some kind of notch in the nib, for there was a strange irregularity in the writing that would have been invisible to all but the most intense scrutiny. When he looked at the practice sheet, he saw the same irregularity, which suggested that the identical pen had been used. Rummaging in his pockets, he found the scroll that Tancred had given him, containing notes made by Dunstan and Marius on their investigation. It was written in two different hands: one had clear, rounded letters written with a thick-nibbed pen, while the other was a hurried, spiky script with randomly shaped letters. But the telltale irregularities were there that showed that the second section had been written with the damaged quill.

Geoffrey leaned his elbows on the table and stared down at the elusive clues. So one of the two who had written the scroll of findings had also written the blackmail note, and had been practising alternative handwriting styles. Since the note and the practice sheet were in Dunstan’s desk, it stood to reason that he was the culprit. In which case, he had sent, or intended to send, the note to someone else. But was Dunstan a blackmailer or simply a scribe? Was the rough note in front of him a dictation? And if so, from whom? Daimbert? Tancred? Bohemond? Geoffrey closed his eyes: if it were a dictation, virtually anyone in the city with the means to pay a scribe might have commissioned Dunstan.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He would need to return to the scriptorium later that day and question Dunstan’s colleagues about any private clients he might have had, or any mysterious meetings. And whether he regularly received or bought parcels of Greek cakes.

Hugh shifted in his sleep and murmured something. Geoffrey turned to look at him. Perhaps he should be concentrating on who in the citadel had murdered Marius and almost killed Hugh. Helbye swore no one had gone in or out of the citadel, other than Geoffrey himself, after sunset, and Helbye had no cause to lie. He rubbed harder at his nose and tried to think. The obvious candidate who came to mind as villain was Courrances, because Geoffrey detested him and knew the feeling was mutual. The Hospitaller would love to see Geoffrey fall from grace, and might well instigate some unpleasant plot to harm him. But would he kill a monk like Marius, a fellow man of God, to ensure its success? Or harm a knight like Hugh, a colleague from the citadel? Geoffrey decided that he would.

Then there were Warner de Gray and Henri d’Aumale, both of whom had fallen foul of Geoffrey’s quick wits from time to time. Geoffrey tried hard not to use his learning to make fools of people, but Warner and d’Aumale sorely tested his good intentions with their bigotry and arrogance. Warner, by dint of his superior talent in swordplay and horsemanship, was the acknowledged leader of the Advocate’s knights, backed by the slightly more intelligent, but lazy, d’Aumale. They poured scorn on Geoffrey’s academic pursuits, and he despised their proudly maintained ignorance.

He racked his brain for other suspects, but they all fell far short of Courrances, d’Aumale, and Warner. Geoffrey would need to discover where they had been on the nights of the five murders. It should not be difficult to do, since the citadel was crowded to the gills, and it was almost impossible to keep any kind of secret. Doubtless even the story of how his dog had been poisoned would be common knowledge by now, a story that would be related with some glee, since Geoffrey’s dog was not a popular resident in the citadel. The unprotected ankles of many knights had fallen foul of its ready fangs, and it had several unendearing habits, chief among which were its penchant for the refuse pits and its ability to seek out edibles that any knight brought to the citadel. Geoffrey leaned down to pat the dog on the head, but withdrew his hand quickly when it sneezed on him.

He stood, walked to the window, and leaned out, breathing deeply of the warm, richly scented air. The sky was now much brighter, although the sun still had not risen. A bird sang a loud and exotic song from the huddle of rooftops below the citadel. People were beginning to stir, and he could hear the rumble of carts as they were allowed through David’s Gate for the day’s trading. In the far distance, he could hear the wail of the muezzins calling the Moslems to their mosques.

The bell on the citadel chapel began to chime, and Geoffrey decided to go to mass. Courrances was sure to be there, and Geoffrey thought he might be able to elicit some information from him. Geoffrey reconsidered: he would not be able to solicit anything from Courrances without arousing his suspicion, but he might be able to goad d’Aumale or Warner into some indiscretion that would reveal their guilt.

Before leaving, he gathered up the scraps of vellum and went to the fireplace. Some months before, he had discovered a loose stone at the back, behind which was a small crevice. He rammed the parchments into the crevice and replaced the stone so that no intruder should see them and ascertain how much he had learned.

“Is that where you keep your wine? No wonder it tastes so foul!”

Geoffrey smiled at Roger, who was easing the stiffness out of his joints in a series of cracks and grunts. Hugh was still asleep, sprawled across the bed, with his mouth open.

“I am going to mass,” said Geoffrey. “I might be able to find out where Courrances, d’Aumale, and Warner were last night.”

Roger nodded toward Hugh. “We should let him sleep,” he said in a stentorian whisper that was almost louder than his normal voice. Hugh stirred, but did not waken. He had lost the pallor of the night before, and Geoffrey imagined resting would do him more good than any of his or Roger’s fumbling ministrations. The dog opened a bleary eye and closed it again with an irritable growl that rumbled deep in its chest.

The two knights walked across the bailey toward the chapel. The citadel was already heaving with life. The great ironbound doors were opening and shutting continuously, allowing a stream of carts through, although each one was allocated a soldier who would stay with it until it left. The Advocate was only too familiar with tales of great fortresses falling to treachery, and he had no intention of allowing his wells to be poisoned, or weevils put in his siege supplies, for the sake of some basic security.

Roger strode into the chapel, blithely ignoring the rule that all weapons should be left in the porch. He bared his big brown teeth at the monk who stepped forward to remind him, and the man cowered back, uncertain as to whether the gesture was friendly or hostile. Geoffrey unbuckled his sword, but kept his dagger under his surcoat.

Mass was just beginning, with monks in the black habits of the Benedictines chanting a psalm. Geoffrey tipped his head back and studied the ceiling as he listened to the rhythmic rise and fall of the plainsong. The mosaics here were fine, too, he thought, depicting scenes from the Bible in brilliant golds, greens, and blues that shone vividly, even in the dull light of early morning.

A group of knights entered noisily, their spurs clanking on the stone floor. Among them were d’Aumale and Warner. The monks, used to such interruptions, did not falter in their singing, even when two Lorrainers began a noisy conversation about horses. Courrances, wearing his robe with the cross that glimmered whitely in the gloom, stood to one side, also chanting, although his pale blue eyes darted here and there, noting who was present and who stood next to whom.

While the monks sang and the celebrant went through the ritual movements of the mass, the knights fidgeted and shuffled. Some chatted, one hummed a folk song loudly to himself, and others sighed and whispered. All stood, although one or two lounged against pillars. D’Aumale and Warner talked to each other, laughing helplessly at some joke, their mirth sufficiently loud to draw disapproving glares from the celebrant. At last it was over, and the knights trooped noisily toward the hall for breakfast. Geoffrey approached d’Aumale and Warner and greeted them cheerfully.

“Good morning,” he said, fishing around for a noncontentious subject with which to draw them into conversation. “Helbye informs me that you plan to hold an archery competition. It is an excellent notion. I hope my men will be allowed to compete?”

“I heard your dog was ill last night,” said d’Aumale irrelevantly, exchanging a look of amusement with Warner. “I cannot think why you keep that wretched thing. It is wholly devoid of redeeming features.”

“Your kindred spirit,” said Warner to Geoffrey, and he and d’Aumale howled with laughter. Geoffrey fought not to reply with one of a tide of biting responses that rose unbidden into his mind.

“Poor Hugh was not well either,” put in Roger. “Nor was the monk who came to seek the safety of our citadel.”

“Probably went too near that dog,” said Warner, and laughed again. Geoffrey looked away. It might be easy to beguile them into betraying themselves, but it would not be pleasant.

“The monk, Marius, was not quite dead when we returned,” lied Geoffrey. “He described his killer to us.”

Warner and d’Aumale exchanged a glance. “Really?” said d’Aumale. “And what did this killer look like? We are all concerned about a murderer within our walls.”

“A Lorrainer,” said Roger heartily. Geoffrey cringed. Roger was not the right person to be indulging in these kind of games. He was far too indiscreet and brutal. Hugh, on the other hand, would have understood Geoffrey’s intentions instantly, and thrown himself into the game with consummate skill.

“You lie!” exclaimed d’Aumale, looking from Roger to Geoffrey. “You slander us all!”

“Do we? Then where were you last night?” demanded Roger. Geoffrey closed his eyes in despair. He could see the way this discussion would end.

“Well, we were not here!” growled Warner. “We were out and did not return until after you did.”

“How did you know when we returned?” asked Geoffrey quickly, “if you were not here to see us arrive back?”

Warner spluttered with rage, although whether because he had been caught in a lie, or because he resented being questioned, was not easy to guess. “We were out!”

“Can anyone vouch for you?” asked Geoffrey with quiet reason.

“Vouch for us? What do you think we are, common soldiers?” shouted d’Aumale, bristling with indignation. “We do not need to discuss our whereabouts with a Norman!”

“True. You do not,” said Geoffrey. “But you will save me a good deal of time if you do, and time wasted on investigating a false trail might lead to the death of another man.”

“I care nothing about your trails!” snarled Warner. “You are like that fat dog of yours, sniffing around in the garbage, looking for murderers! Call this villain out for a fair fight, like any decent knight should do!” His chest heaved with emotion, and flecks of spit gathered around his buff-coloured moustache.

“You are welcome to try that tactic,” said Geoffrey. “But I doubt it will work. Where were you? At a brothel?”

It was not an unreasonable suggestion. There were several institutions where knights were more than welcome, and which formed a mechanism whereby the plunder taken by the Crusaders from the hapless citizens after the city’s fall gradually trickled back to its original owners.

Warner was incensed, and the mounting colour in his cheeks told Geoffrey that he had guessed correctly. But that still did not mean that he or d’Aumale had not killed Marius, for the guard on the citadel gates had been a Lorrainer and would never reveal to Geoffrey the exact time when Warner and d’Aumale had returned. In the citadel, most things could be bought and sold, but not a soldier’s loyalty to his lord. Not if he wished not to be killed in a weapons’ drill by his comrades, or to have his throat slit while on night manoeuvres, or to be selected for every dangerous mission until his luck ran out.

“You are being ridiculous,” said Roger glibly to Geoffrey. “What self-respecting whore would sleep with a Lorrainer?”

Warner leapt toward Roger, his face a mask of fury. Geoffrey stretched out a hand, intending it to be a pacifying gesture, but Warner misunderstood, and in an instant, his sword was drawn. D’Aumale’s was out too, and so was Roger’s. Geoffrey’s lay on the pile in the porch, with those of the other law-abiding knights of the citadel.

“Not in a church!” he cried, grabbing Roger’s arm and trying to pull him away. “No violence in a church!”

“Are you afraid to fight, Norman?” hissed Warner, advancing on Geoffrey with a series of hacking sweeps of his sword that cut the air as cleanly as a whistle. Geoffrey retreated hastily.

“I will not fight in a church!”

“You will if you do not want to die!”

Geoffrey heard the clash of steel, and saw Roger and d’Aumale already engaged. Roger lunged forward with a blow that knocked the smaller man backward, forcing him to retreat before the onslaught, while d’Aumale defended himself with quick, short jabs that just kept Roger at a distance. Geoffrey felt the whistle of steel slice past his face, and realised Warner meant to kill him, armed or not. He whipped the dagger from his belt, and jerked backward, away from a savage swipe that missed him by a hair’s breadth.

Warner was white with fury, and Geoffrey realised he must have angered the man more than he had guessed, for his expression was murderous. Armed only with a dagger, Geoffrey could not hope to win a fight against Warner, a superb swordsman. The best he could do was to try to stay out of reach, and tire his opponent by luring him to hack and sweep. When Warner grew weary from wielding the heavy weapon, Geoffrey might be able to dart through his defences and attack him with his knife.

The sword hacked down, and the tip caught against Geoffrey’s mail shirt, slicing through it like a knife through butter and throwing him off balance. He scrambled away and ducked behind a pillar. Warner’s sword struck it so hard that sparks flew from the blade, leaving a deep gouge in the smooth white stone. Warner swung again and again, and Geoffrey felt him gaining ground. He ducked and weaved, and dodged this way and that around the pillars, but Warner was relentless. Then Geoffrey was hard up against the back wall of the church with nowhere else to go. Warner’s eyes glittered in eager anticipation, and he tensed his arm, ready for the fatal blow.

While Warner prepared to strike, Geoffrey dived at him using every ounce of his strength to drive him off balance. He saw Warner’s sword swing round, and felt the upper part of the blade crunch into his ribs. And then the momentum of Geoffrey’s lunge sent them both sprawling, scrabbling at each other like a pair of wildcats. Warner fought like tiger, abandoning his sword, and pummelling Geoffrey with his mailed fists. Geoffrey, stunned by a dizzying blow to his temple, felt Warner gaining the upper hand, and with a spurt of strength that verged on the diabolical, Warner heaved himself upright and fastened his hands around Geoffrey’s throat.

Warner’s strength was prodigious, reinforced by his clear loathing of the Norman. Geoffrey felt his head begin to swim from lack of air, but with calm presence of mind he swung his arm upward and brought the point of his dagger to Warner’s throat. Warner gazed in disbelief at the weapon and then at Geoffrey, who could now dispatch him with ease despite Warner’s superior position. With a groan of frustration and anger, Warner let his hands go slack, and Geoffrey found he could breathe again. He struggled out from underneath Warner, still keeping the dagger firmly at the Lorrainer’s throat and fought to regain his breath.

“Stop this outrage!”

All four knights turned at the sound of the furious voice. Godfrey, Duke of Lower Lorraine and Advocate of the Holy Sepulchre, stood in the doorway of the chapel and glowered at them. For a moment, they were frozen in a guilty tableau of violence, but then weapons were dropped and put away, and the four climbed warily to their feet.

“Are there not Saracens enough to fight that you need to squabble with each other?” shouted the Advocate. “And in a church of all places?”

“We were provoked,” said Warner sullenly. “They attacked, and what else were we to do than defend ourselves? They heaped insults upon Lorraine and Burgundy!”

“Which was it, cousin?” asked the Advocate with menacing calm. “Did they attack you first, or did they provoke you to attack them with their insults? You cannot have it both ways.”

“We did not …” began Roger.

“Silence!” barked the Advocate. “I know you serve Bohemond, and you,” turning to Geoffrey, “serve Tancred. But they hold their territories under my liegeship. And while in this citadel and in this city, you are responsible to me! I will not have brawling among the knights. What hope do we have of maintaining peace among the troops when you set this kind of example?”

He scowled at each of them in turn. Behind him, in the gaggle of monks and knights who were in constant attendance, Courrances watched with detached amusement, a small smile playing at the corners of his thin lips. Geoffrey watched him. He knew that a few sibilant words breathed into the Advocate’s ever-listening ear would absolve Warner and d’Aumale from blame and bring it all firmly to rest on the shoulders of Roger and him. But Courrances preferred to watch from the sidelines, knowing he had the power to intervene if he felt so inclined, but enjoying the display of disunity between the Normans and the Advocate’s men.

The anger went from the Advocate as quickly as it had come, and he raised his hands in a gesture of despair. He fixed Warner and d’Aumale with his faded blue eyes. “Wait for me in my quarters,” he said wearily. “I must go to Jaffa again, to conduct negotiations with the merchants from Venice. I want you to organise a guard that will protect me and impress the Venetians, but that will leave sufficient troops here to defend Jerusalem.”

Warner and d’Aumale bowed and left, and outside Geoffrey could hear the cheers and laughter of their fellow knights congratulating them on the fight. The Advocate dismissed his retinue with a flick of his hand. No one moved, and it was Courrances who began to usher people out of the chapel. In moments, the chapel was empty with the exception of the Advocate and Geoffrey, while Courrances lurked among the shadows of the pillars, far enough away to be discreet, but certainly close enough to hear what was being said.

“Sir Warner is a hotheaded bully,” said the Advocate. “But his loyalty and courage are invaluable to me. Please bear that in mind when you pick a fight with him next time.”

Geoffrey met his eyes evenly and said nothing. The Advocate was the first to look away, and Geoffrey noticed how tired and ill he looked. The Advocate’s previous visit to Jaffa had ended when he was struck with a mysterious fever-rumours that he had been poisoned were rife-and had to be brought back to Jerusalem to recover.

“What news have you for me about the deaths of the two knights and the monks?”

Geoffrey rubbed his chin, which reminded him he had not shaved for some time, and realised he had very little to tell the Advocate. He outlined what he had learned from interviewing the witnesses the day before, omitting reference to Jocelyn’s ambiguous role, and described the death of Marius. The Advocate grew more pale.

“A monk murdered within the citadel, and a knight knocked senseless,” he breathed. “This cannot go on! This business is affecting the very roots of our hold on Jerusalem.” He pulled hard on the straggling hairs of his long, blond moustache. “So what do you deduce from all this? Do you agree with my brother that the Jews are behind it, with Courrances that the Arabs are responsible, or with me that the Patriarch knows more than he is telling? Or have you an alternative hypothesis?”

Geoffrey did not, and he felt that the evidence to support any theory was weak, to say the least. There was clearly a Greek connection: Loukas was Greek, possibly a spy; John was found dead in the house of Melisende Mikelos, a Greek widow; Dunstan had poisoned Greek cakes in his desk; and the three men who had followed him after his meeting with Tancred had spoken Greek. However, the death of the double agent Jocelyn implied that the business had something to do with the Patriarch, while all three knights-Guido, John and now Hugh-had been in Bohemond’s service. Geoffrey decided there was nothing to be gained from telling the Advocate about Jocelyn, and certainly nothing by highlighting Bohemond’s connection. He outlined his suspicions that there might be a Greek dimension cautiously, unsure as to how the Advocate might react.

“The Greeks,” said the Advocate grimly. “We were foolish not to have slaughtered every last one of them when we conquered the city. Now we have nurtured a viper at our breast.”

“Possibly,” said Geoffrey, “but this smacks more of the actions of a few individuals, perhaps even one, and not the entire community.”

“I suppose I have time to arrange a massacre before leaving for Jaffa,” said the Advocate, discouraged only by the effort and time it would take. “If we slaughter the lot of them, we will be certain to kill these individuals of yours, and that will be the end of the affair.”

The slaughter of hundreds of innocent people to ensure the execution of a few would definitely not be a prudent political move, thought Geoffrey, frantically scrabbling around for reasons to stay the Advocate’s hand. The Advocate, no matter how much he disliked the Greeks, needed their labour and their services, and without them, the city’s fortunes would decline.

“This killer is clever,” said Geoffrey hastily. “I do not believe killing the entire Greek community would serve to rid you of him-he might adopt a disguise and escape. And I am sure the Patriarch would not condone a massacre.”

“The Patriarch does not rule here-I do!” snarled the Advocate, and Geoffrey saw he had touched a raw nerve. “I do not care what the Patriarch condones or does not condone! I am a military leader, and he is a frail churchman bound to the apron strings of the Pope.”

The Patriarch was certainly not frail, and Geoffrey doubted very much if Daimbert were tied to the apron strings of any Pope. If the Advocate underestimated his opponents so blithely, he was bound for a fall. Perhaps the murders were aimed against this weak, vacillating ruler after all, thought Geoffrey. Jerusalem needed a powerful leader in these uncertain times, and the Advocate was proving he was not up to the task.

“I may be mistaken about the Greeks,” said Geoffrey. “I will investigate these poisoned cakes this morning, and I will try to ascertain who Dunstan was trying to blackmail. We do not have sufficient information to justify massacring the Greeks.”

“You have enough information for me,” growled the Advocate. “But, very well, I might be prepared to wait a few days to see what else you might uncover. But do not dally. I could grow impatient.”

With these decisive words, the Advocate turned on his heel and stalked out of the church. Geoffrey heaved a sigh of relief, and hoped fervently he had not sown a seed of paranoia in the Advocate’s mind that might lead to some violent act against the Greek community. He wondered whether the stress of leadership might be too great for the man, and whether he might be losing his sanity. To suggest a massacre on the grounds of a few unproven suspicions was scarcely the act of a rational man-even a Crusader.

Courrances materialised from behind a pillar and glided over to Geoffrey.

“You do not really believe the Greeks are behind this, do you?” he asked.

Geoffrey shook his head. “But I do not know who is.”

Courrances put a limp hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder, and Geoffrey heard the clank of a weapon under the soldier-monk’s robe as he moved.

“You are in a vulnerable position, my friend,” said Courrances, so softly that Geoffrey had to strain to hear. “It is difficult to serve two masters, and if you fail to uncover who is behind these deaths, the Advocate will believe you have betrayed him. Even if you do uncover a plot, who knows whether he will believe your findings or not? It depends at whom you will point your finger.”

And you were the one who put me in this position, thought Geoffrey. He was suddenly angry with himself. He had allowed himself to be fooled by Courrances, who probably guessed there was something more sinister afoot than a Saracen plot as he had claimed. Courrances was right: who knew where Geoffrey’s investigations might lead him, and, even if he did uncover the identity of the killer, who was to say the Advocate would believe him? What if it were Warner? The Advocate had already told Geoffrey that his cousin was invaluable to him: there was simply no way the Advocate would accept Warner’s guilt.

Courrances removed his hand, but Geoffrey imagined he still could feel the man’s corruption oozing through his armour. The warrior-monk gave Geoffrey a smile that reminded him of the wolves that slunk around soldiers’ campfires in the desert, and slid noiselessly out of the chapel. Geoffrey waited a moment before following, his mind teeming with questions and worries.

After a breakfast of flat, dry bread and pickled olives, the most immediate task was to visit the scriptorium, to ask questions about Dunstan and Marius. Roger and Hugh were already practising their swordplay in the bailey, observed by a crowd of soldiers who formed a circle around them. Geoffrey watched them for a moment, admiring Roger’s decisive movements and massive strength pitted against Hugh’s resourcefulness and speed. Then he went to don his own armour, and set off through the streets to the scriptorium, with Helbye and Fletcher at his heels and the dog slinking behind them.

He was admitted to the Patriarch’s Palace by the captain he had met the night before. The captain had apparently been warned Geoffrey might come, for he led him to the scriptorium without asking him the purpose of his visit.

The scriptorium was not yet light enough for the monks to write, but they were already busy, mixing inks, sharpening pens, and scraping vellum. The large room was full of their chatter, mostly about the death of Dunstan the night before. Talking to a Benedictine at the far end of the room was the Patriarch, who spotted Geoffrey and strode to greet him.

“Marius was murdered last night too,” said Geoffrey without preamble, watching the reactions of the Patriarch carefully. “He was stabbed in my chamber at the citadel while I was here.”

The Patriarch dug strong, slender fingers into Geoffrey’s arm and led him out of the scribes’ hearing. “In the citadel?” he echoed. “Marius was murdered in the citadel?”

Geoffrey nodded. “Which points to the likelihood that the murderer is a knight, for it is not easy to gain access to the citadel at any time, but it is especially difficult after dusk.”

“My God!” breathed the Patriarch. “This is becoming more sinister by the minute. So now I have no one investigating this business but you. You had better take care!”

Geoffrey did not need to be told.

“Do you have any idea who might be responsible?” the Patriarch asked, after a pause.

Geoffrey shook his head, unwilling to give voice to his suspicions about Courrances, Warner, and d’Aumale without adequate proof. “But I need to question your scribes. I want to know more about Dunstan and Marius. Did they have any particular enemies? Or friends?”

The Patriarch steepled his fingers and looked across the scriptorium at the gossiping monks. “Marius was very popular; Dunstan was not. Brother Alain is the best person for you to talk to. He is the scriptorium’s biggest gossip, and he was great friends with Marius.”

He clicked his fingers imperiously and pointed at a large, balding man who sat apart from the others, biting his nails. The man swallowed hard and, looking like a lamb to slaughter, came toward Geoffrey and the Patriarch.

“This is Sir Geoffrey Mappestone,” said the Patriarch to the nervous monk. “He has questions that you will answer fully and honestly.”

The monk nodded miserably, and the Patriarch strode away, calling out orders to his clerks. Geoffrey took Brother Alain’s arm and led him to a window seat near Dunstan’s desk. He could feel the man trembling, and noted that there were fine beads of sweat all across his glistening pate.

“Now,” said Geoffrey when they were seated. “Why did you help Marius make Dunstan’s death appear like murder?”

The man gazed at him aghast, and Geoffrey knew his intuitive guess had been correct. He had based his assumption on the fact that if the man was as great a gossip as the Patriarch had inferred, then very little would have kept him from the hubbub of excitement that Geoffrey had detected as he entered the scriptorium. But Alain had been sitting apart, eyeing Geoffrey and the Patriarch with much the same expression as a mouse sighting a swooping owl.

“I do not know what you mean. I …”

“Brother Marius was murdered last night,” Geoffrey said brutally. “At the citadel. For your own safety, I recommend that you tell me the truth.”

All colour fled from the monk’s face, so that, with his bald head and bloated features, he reminded Geoffrey of a drowned corpse.

“Marius dead?” Alain gave a great sigh and turned to gaze out the window at the fountains in the courtyard. “I would say Dunstan killed him, but Dunstan was dead already, killed by his own hand.”

“Why would you think Dunstan was responsible?”

“Dunstan was a vile creature, greedy in all things. Everything he did bespoke avarice. He always took more food than everyone else, even at times when there was barely enough to go round, and he was always out at the Greek market buying extra. He stole, too. Several of the brothers found things missing-inks, gold leaf, bits of jewellery-small things of no consequence, but we all knew it was him. We think he sold them at the market, because under his bed, he has a great chest of coins.”

“A fine medley of traits for a monk.”

Alain looked at him sharply, uncertain how the knight’s comment was intended to be taken. Geoffrey met his gaze and smiled encouragingly.

“Over the last three or four days, Dunstan became much worse, and he became irritable too. He was constantly devouring those Greek cakes. We all wondered if it were overindulgence that was making him so irascible-all that sweetness disturbing the balance of his humours. He and Marius had arguments. At first, they were nothing much, just the usual disputes between colleagues working closely together. Then the fights began to be serious. Yesterday afternoon, they had a blazing row that could be heard all over the palace. Then Dunstan became maudlin, and he began to say he would take his life if Marius did not recant some of the things he had said. Marius refused. Dunstan sat here and moped for the rest of the day. When he did not appear for dinner, I knew there was something wrong. I found him hanging on that door. He had taken his life as he had threatened. Marius is … Marius …”

“You must tell me the truth,” said Geoffrey as the scribe’s voice trailed off miserably.

Alain took a deep breath. “Marius is important to all of us here,” he said, gesturing round at the other scribes, who were watching them intently. “He has to be told!” he yelled suddenly. Several monks shook their heads, and others appeared anxious, while some would not look at Alain and Geoffrey at all.

“Told what?” asked Geoffrey, mystified.

“Marius is important to us because he provides things … ladies …”

“Marius arranges for women to visit the scriptorium?” asked Geoffrey, hiding a smile. “Do not look so morose, Brother. I will not tell the Patriarch.”

Alain’s relief was tangible. “Every Thursday night,” he said. “He arranges for some ladies to come to us. They have been coming for months now, and we have all … grown fond of them. I knew that if Dunstan was found to have committed suicide after proclaiming so loudly that Marius would drive him to it, then Marius would be sent away. And I would never see Mary again!”

“Mary is one of these women?” asked Geoffrey.

Alain nodded. “I cut Dunstan down and put him over his desk. I thought to make it look as though he had been murdered, and had not taken his own life. I thought the Patriarch would assume he had been killed because he was investigating these strange deaths. Marius was with others all day at the library, and so had a firm alibi and would not be blamed for any murder.”

“But you misjudged the situation,” said Geoffrey, feeling a certain pity for the plump monk. “Marius saw the body, immediately assumed, as indeed you had intended, that Dunstan had been murdered-by someone at the palace-and fled in terror to be murdered at the citadel.”

Alain nodded and turned away to gaze out of the window. “I was foolish to have attempted such a rash plan. But when I saw Dunstan hanging there, all I could think about was that Marius would be blamed. And none of us here knows how to contact these ladies but Marius. He ran errands for the Patriarch, you see, and this enabled him to be out and about a lot. The rest of us live and work here, and we seldom leave the palace premises. Marius not only brought the ladies here, but he knew which of the guards could be trusted not to tell …”

“This explains why Dunstan’s suicide was dressed up as murder, but not why he was driven to suicide in the first place,” interrupted Geoffrey, before the conversation swung too far away from the business at hand. “Have you any ideas?”

Alain took a deep shuddering breath. “Perhaps his evil dealings became too much for him. He was always in the church confessing his sins, so they were obviously beginning to weigh heavily on him.”

“What evil dealings?”

“He could change the style of his writing, and he knew Greek. He did all sorts of scribing for various merchants who paid him far too well for his work to have been honest. Then there was something going on at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Marius and I usually attend mass there on Sundays, and we saw him at least twice. I saw him poking round the back of the altar in one of the chapels.”

And Geoffrey knew exactly why. Dunstan had been searching for the blackmail money that he had instructed should be left there. So that cleared up another mystery-that Dunstan was definitely blackmailing someone.

“Was there anyone who wished Dunstan harm? Someone who might have driven him to his death?”

“Oh yes,” said Alain. “All of us, for a start. He made us pay him to keep the secret of the ladies from the Patriarch. Then there are all the merchants he cheated. And I was beginning to wonder whether the Patriarch knew about him, and decided it was time for … well, you know.”

So Dunstan had been a thief, a cheat, and a blackmailer with scores of enemies. Any one of them could have left the poisoned cakes in his desk; from the sound of him, Dunstan was sufficiently greedy to have eaten them without questioning where they had come from. Dunstan had been a doomed man long before he saved others the bother of killing him.

“Are you aware that he was blackmailing anyone other than all the monks in the scriptorium?”

Alain frowned. “We wondered about that,” he said, gesturing again to his colleagues. “Our suspicion is that he tried to blackmail someone, but the someone was too powerful for him. We think Dunstan’s intended victim turned against him, which explains why, for the last three or four days, his behavior was so odd. He never left the palace, and he was moody.”

“Do you have any idea who might harm Marius?”

Alain shook his head, and Geoffrey was horrified to see the sparkle of tears in his eyes. “None at all. And now I will never see Mary again,” he said.