Murder in the Holy City

CHAPTER SEVEN

Geoffrey returned to the citadel, gave Hugh and Roger a brief description of his findings, and prepared to leave again for the Greek market. Hugh looked well-rested and healthy, but claimed a headache. Geoffrey suspected it had more to do with the fact that it was his turn to supervise the repairs on the city walls, than with the blow on the head the previous night, for it had not affected his sword practice with Roger. The knights loathed “wall duty,” which involved overseeing large work parties of soldiers and local labourers to repair the damage caused when the Crusaders took Jerusalem. The soldiers and locals were apt to quarrel at the slightest provocation, and both slacked at the heavy labour as soon as the knights’ attention was elsewhere. Wall duty was hot, dirty, and unrewarding, and the knights thoroughly resented its necessity.

Geoffrey, Roger, Helbye, Wolfram, a trio of soldiers from Bristol, and Geoffrey’s dog set off toward the market in the Greek Quarter. The business day in Jerusalem was already well under way. Carts clattered along the packed-earth streets, and the gutters ran wet with night waste. Blankets were draped out of windows to air, and shutters were thrown open to allow the clean morning breeze to circulate. A few flies buzzed around their heads, but not in the swarms that massed in the heat of the day. The cold unease that had lain leaden in the pit of Geoffrey’s stomach since his conversation with Courrances began to recede, and his natural optimism began to shine through in the freshness of the new day.

The Greek market was seething with activity. Brightly coloured canopies were rigged outside every house, while owners laid out their wares on the street in the shade, so that there was barely enough room to walk between them. Everywhere, voices were raised, advertising goods and arguing about prices, and gangs of children, idle while their parents haggled, whooped and shrieked and weaved in and out of the stalls. The first street contained the spice-sellers, with huge mounds of brightly coloured powders and seeds laid in neat piles across blankets spread on the ground. The sweet smell of dried peppers mixed with the pungent aroma of garlic and coriander. The dog wandered over to a lurid heap of turmeric intent on mischief, but beat a retreat when a preliminary sniff made it sneeze.

The next street was where the cobblers plied their trade, and their stalls had great piles of shoes and boots ready to be stitched to individual requirements. The smell of leather was not quite strong enough to dispel the powerful wafts emanating from the nearby butchers’ shops. Beyond were the candlemakers and beyond them, the bakers, with the rich scents of cakes and bread.

Geoffrey left Helbye and the others at the corner, while he and Roger went to investigate alone-he did not want to frighten anyone who might provide him with information by a show of excess force. Slowly, and with Roger offering to sample the wares from each stall, Geoffrey walked along the street, searching for the sweet cakes with the distinctive pattern. Although the street was full of people, they maintained a wary distance from the knights, whose reputation in the city was, not without cause, that of undisciplined violent louts who sought fights with little provocation. Roger stopped to purchase cakes from a baker who seemed to specialise in goods twice the size of those of his colleagues, and Geoffrey strolled on alone.

As he neared the end of the street, he thought he was going to be unsuccessful and that he would need to begin buying cakes so he could identify the style of wrapping paper. Then he saw them on the very last stall in the row. He paused at the corner and looked up and down the alley that ran to the left and right. It was dingier than the bakers’ street, and there were one or two stalls selling what looked to be broken pots and pans. The alleyway disappeared into shadows in either direction, and Geoffrey felt uncomfortable not knowing where they led. His military training told him he ought to explore them before speaking to the baker-for it was a foolish warrior who did not know his escape routes-but, he decided reluctantly, this might merely serve to arouse suspicion.

The stall owner had her back to him, busily wrapping bread for an elderly man who was complaining about his sore gums in a high-pitched, tremulous voice. When she turned, Geoffrey was startled to recognise Melisende Mikelos. She recognised him at the same moment, and her reaction was far from flattering.

“You! Not again! Will you pester me forever?”

Geoffrey hoped not, but the way she was appearing in the most unexpected of places suggested otherwise. He felt a sudden surge of disappointment that, after all they had been through, she was guilty after all. He had come to accept her innocence after Loukas had been killed while she was in custody, but her clear link with the poisoned cakes gave him cause for serious doubts. Even if she had not committed the murders herself, she must surely be involved. She met his gaze with her clear gold-brown eyes, and Geoffrey’s disappointment intensified. She was an attractive woman-if her personality was not taken into account-and it seemed a shame that she had embroiled herself in the unpleasant business of murder.

He smiled politely. “I have come for some cakes.”

She shot him a disbelieving look. “For your elderly mother?” she jibed.

“For my dog,” he retorted, and regretted it instantly. He was not going to gain information from Melisende Mikelos by being offensive. The dog, meanwhile, had recognised the scent of the cakes that had caused him so much discomfort the night before; it paused only to nip Geoffrey hard on the ankle to repay him for the force-fed milk, before sloping away up the street with its tail between its legs. Melisende watched it go, while Geoffrey surreptitiously rubbed his ankle.

“Your dog has no more sense than you do,” she said. “What do you really want?”

“Do you know a scribe named Dunstan?” Geoffrey asked, deciding a direct approach might work better than subterfuge with this outspoken woman.

“No. Why? Does he like cakes?”

“He did. Before he died.”

“Died? You mean murdered?”

Geoffrey looked at her curiously. “No, I mean died. Why do you ask if he was murdered?”

Melisende shook her head impatiently. “Because that is what seems to obsess you. Murder. And you said you are investigating the murders of the knights, so I assume there must be a connection.”

Geoffrey could not fault her logic. “These cakes of yours,” he said, changing the subject. “Do you make them yourself?”

“I do not, as a matter of fact. My skills lie in bread, not cakes. These are made by my servant, Maria. Do you want to interrogate her here, or bear her off to the dungeons?”

“Here will do,” said Geoffrey. “Where is she?”

Melisende eyed him with disapproval, but called to a passing urchin to tell Maria Akira that a knight was waiting to speak with her.

“Akira? Is she a relative of Yusef Akira, the butcher?” And the man in whose shop the body of Brother Pius had been found, thought Geoffrey.

“We usually refer to Crusaders as butchers,” she retorted. “And Akira as a meat merchant.”

Was she fencing with him to gain time to think, or was she simply unable to resist the ample opportunities he gave her to insult him? he wondered.

“You have not answered my question.”

“Yes,” said Melisende with sudden exasperation. “She is his daughter. But they are estranged. He does not know she works for me, and I would rather you did not tell him. I might have known that thieving reprobate would be the kind of person with whom you would associate.”

“He is a very dear friend,” said Geoffrey. “He taught me everything I know.”

She glanced at him sharply and smiled reluctantly. “I suppose you met Akira because one of the priests was killed in his house. Like a knight was killed in mine. But of course he was not arrested and dragged off through a riot to the citadel prison.”

Geoffrey’s patience was beginning to wane. He decided he preferred to question witnesses when they were afraid of him, rather than when they clearly regarded him in the same light as a loathsome reptile. He glanced up the street, heaving with bakers and their customers, and conceded reluctantly that rearresting Melisende so that he might gain some honest answers from her was out of the question. Fate would be unlikely to deliver him from a furious mob a third time-although he was sorely tempted to put her under lock and key.

“It is interesting,” he said, turning back to face Melisende, “that Maria is connected to the deaths of John and Brother Pius because she is acquainted with both you and Akira.”

“So are half the people in this market,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Not to the same extent,” he said. “Akira is her father, and you are her employer.”

“So what?” she said with contempt. “That means nothing at all. Akira has other relatives: I employ one of them to tend my garden.”

That Melisende knew something about the murders was obvious to Geoffrey. How to prise it from her without causing a riot was less clear. A thought suddenly occurred to him.

“Was he blackmailing you? Dunstan?”

She gazed uncomprehendingly at him, eyes vivid in the sunlight. “What? Who is this Dunstan? And what could he blackmail me about?”

“All manner of things,” he replied with a shrug, seeing Roger walking toward him beaming broadly and proudly bearing someone on his arm. “Perhaps an unwanted birth, or selling undersized loaves to your customers, or a string of male visitors …”

She spun round, her hand moving fast to clout him around the face, but his reactions were quicker, and he caught her arm before it struck him. Her eyes flashed in fury, and she was shaking with rage.

“How dare you! How dare you say those things!”

“Oh, come mistress,” he said, maintaining his grip on her arm. “Do not pretend to be shocked. Here is your servant, Maria Akira, better known as Maria d’Accra to every knight in the citadel who knows his brothels.”

Roger reached Melisende’s stall and stood with Maria Akira’s delicate hand resting gently on his brawny arm. Melisende looked from Geoffrey, to Maria, and back to Geoffrey again. For once, she was at a loss for words.

“Good morning, Sir Geoffrey,” bubbled Maria Akira, flouncing up to him. “I did not know you were partial to cakes, or I would have brought you some.”

“I like cakes,” announced Roger loudly.

Maria looked up at him and giggled. “Then I shall see you have some next time.”

“Next time?” queried Melisende, finding her voice. “What is going on? Maria?”

Maria smiled prettily, while Geoffrey watched the exchange with interest.

“Maria is a favourite of all the knights at the citadel,” said Roger, making Maria blush modestly. “She works at Abdul’s Pleasure Palace on Friday nights.”

“And every other Saturday,” added Maria helpfully. “When I have time off from working for Mistress Melisende.”

Melisende’s jaw dropped, and Geoffrey began to laugh. Maria, ever fun-loving, laughed too, but Roger was unsure where the humour lay.

“Maria is very good,” he protested valiantly. “One of Abdul’s best. All the knights agree!”

Melisende’s jaw dropped further still, and she gazed at Maria in stupefaction. Geoffrey laughed helplessly, while Roger remained confused.

“How could you?” Melisende managed eventually, although whether her comment was addressed to Maria for being a prostitute, or to Geoffrey for laughing at her discomfiture, was unclear. “I no longer require your services,” she said coldly to Maria, before turning abruptly on her heel and striding away.

“No!” Maria was horrified. “I need this job! Abdul can only keep me two nights a week at most. What will I do?” She watched Melisende’s upright figure striding away down the alley, her dainty hands clasped at her throat. Maria gave Roger a hefty shove in the chest which made no impact at all. “This is your fault!” she wailed, and turned and fled.

“Catch her,” said Geoffrey to Roger, still struggling to bring his laughter under control. “Bring her back. I will talk to Mistress Prickly.”

With long strides, he caught up with Melisende who had made good progress down the alley, away from the market. She was rigid with anger and shock, and ignored him as he fell into step beside her.

“You should not abandon your shop,” he said gently. She stopped and spun round to face him, seeing the laughter still playing about in the depths of his green eyes, although his face was quite serious.

“Leave me alone! Every time you appear, trouble follows!”

“It is not my doing that your servant has other occupations in her spare time,” said Geoffrey reasonably. “As far as I know, she has worked for Abdul for several years. If this has not affected her service to you up until now, where is the problem?”

“Where is the problem?” she echoed in disbelief. She shook her head. “A typical Norman response! I am a respectable widow-or was. Now I have murders committed in my house, and I discover my faithful servant is a harlot in her spare time.” She turned from him, and Geoffrey saw tears glitter in her eyes.

“So that is not what Dunstan was blackmailing you about?”

She tipped back her head and took a deep breath. “No,” she said, once she had regained control of herself. “I was not being blackmailed. I know no one called Dunstan. And …”

“And?” he asked, seeing her hesitate.

“Dunstan,” she said, looking away. “A fat man with a tonsure?”

This was not a helpful description in a city where most monks ate well.

“Black, wiry hair, and a thin scar on his upper lip,” he supplied, trying to imagine Dunstan’s bloated features as they might have been before he had hanged himself.

“Yes,” she said, screwing up her face as she thought. “Yes. I think I do know a man of that description and name. Not well. But he buys cakes from me from time to time.”

“When did he last buy them from you?”

She shook her head slowly. “I am not sure. Not this week.”

“He had some wrapped up in a parcel in his desk.”

She shrugged. “Many of our cakes are soaked in honey, which preserves them. He may have had them for a week or more, and they would still be perfectly all right to eat.”

“Did you prepare the packets of cakes for him in advance, or did you wrap them for him when he came to your stall?”

“The latter. He did not come on a regular basis. I imagine, like most people, he only came when he felt like eating cakes.”

“The cakes in his drawer were triangle-shaped with diamond patterns iced on them. There were perhaps ten of them in the one parcel.”

“Ten? Oh no. He did not buy that many. And he usually wanted a selection of different ones, not ones of the same kind.”

Geoffrey regarded her sombrely while he thought. Was she lying or telling him the truth? He had never experienced such difficulty in distinguishing lies from honesty before, and Melisende had him perplexed. The poisoned cakes were definitely from her stall: Geoffrey recognised them, and Melisende had sold cakes to Dunstan by her own admission. But did she poison them? Did Dunstan really buy different types of cake, or was she cleverly trying to throw him off the scent by confusing the issue? And had she only admitted to selling Dunstan cakes now because denying it would merely look suspicious in light of the evidence she must know he had?

“So now what do I do?” she said, regarding him as intently as he was studying her. “I have just lost a servant whom I considered a friend. I am hounded by the Advocate’s men because I was unfortunate enough to have had my house chosen as the scene of a murder, and now you think a fat clerk is blackmailing me because I sold him some cakes.”

“If you truly value Maria’s friendship, you will talk to her and come to some mutually acceptable agreement,” said Geoffrey after a moment’s thought. It seemed unfortunate that Maria should lose her job because of Roger’s indiscretion, although Maria seemed rather proud of her talents, and he wondered how Melisende could not have known. But Abdul’s Pleasure Palace was mainly stocked with Arab girls, and Maria was the only Greek. Perhaps that was why Maria had chosen to work for Abdul’s establishment. Even though the population of Jerusalem was small, the different communities were insular and tended to be exclusive, so Geoffrey supposed it was possible that the Greeks were unaware of Maria’s actions in an Arab-run brothel serving Crusader knights.

He began to walk with Melisende back toward the market. “Is there anything else you can tell me about Dunstan?”

“Nothing,” she replied with a shrug. “I have probably said too much already. I should have denied knowing him so that you would go away and leave me alone.”

“Then I will go away and leave you alone now Once again, thank you for your help. I am grateful we were able to speak without inciting a riot.”

Geoffrey gave a bow and left her, retracing his steps back up the alleyway toward the bakery, leaving her staring after him in confusion. He was arrogant, spoke with carefully chosen words, and knew exactly how to infuriate her without even raising his voice. Yet, there was more to him than most of the brutish knights who swaggered around the city, and Melisende could not condemn him for the single-mindedness of his enquiries when she possessed that exact same quality herself. She felt her anger evaporate as he rounded the corner. Although he was certainly not classically handsome, with his rugged features and his surcoat stained from innumerable battles, he possessed a certain strength of character and wry humour that made her hope that they would meet again-for bandying words with him was far more interesting than selling cakes in the market.

Roger had retrieved Maria, who sat weeping uncontrollably while he made clumsy attempts to soothe her. Geoffrey told her to talk to Melisende, and they took their leave. As they walked back up the street, a vision of Melisende’s mortified face came unbidden into his mind’s eye, and he began to laugh again. He had admirably resisted the urge to respond rudely to her jibes, he felt, but it had been gratifying to see this articulate, unfriendly woman at a loss for words. Roger shot him a mystified look, but said nothing until they rejoined Helbye, who gave Geoffrey a glare of such malevolence that the knight stopped dead in his tracks.

“Your vile dog has upset a baker’s stall and bitten two people,” Helbye growled. “It cost me a week’s pay, and those people are still livid. Look at them.”

Geoffrey looked and saw they were the object of attention that was far from friendly. The dog, knowing it had transgressed, lay on its side and raised a front paw, exposing its chest in submission. Geoffrey regarded it with exasperation. He wondered, not for the first time, how he had become encumbered with such a worthless, greedy, cowardly animal. He hoped Warner had not been right when he had said the dog recognised a kindred spirit.

“So to conclude,” said Hugh, pulling uncomfortably at the bandage that still swathed his skull, “the cakes came from Melisende Mikelos, but she thinks Dunstan did not buy them himself because he usually preferred a selection to ones all of the same kind. That statement could simply be a ruse to keep you from knowing that Dunstan bought the cakes and that she poisoned them.”

Geoffrey thought about what Huge was saying. His investigations had been brought to an abrupt halt when news came of a Saracen attack on a group of pilgrims on the Jerusalem to Jaffa road. Knowing that the Advocate was going to be travelling that way in the near future, a large contingent of knights and soldiers had ridden out to clear away any of the enemy. But by the time they arrived at the scene of the attack, the Saracens had long since disappeared back into the desert.

On their return, Geoffrey and his men had met Warner de Gray, who had been stricken with fever on his way to Jaffa with the Advocate’s advance guard; he was being returned to Jerusalem on a litter. Warner reported seeing horsemen riding in the distance toward Ibelin, so Geoffrey led a small party in hot pursuit. However, after two more gruelling days of riding through the desert, the horses began to fail. With the Sirocco blowing a fury and baking all in its path, and with his men worn out mentally and physically, Geoffrey turned his company around, and the men gratefully headed back toward Jerusalem.

Geoffrey had concentrated completely on the task at hand, and he had not allowed himself time to consider the mystery of the murders. He knew from bitter experience the dangers of allowing one’s mind to wander when in a land surrounded by hostile forces. So, upon his return after five days in the desert, he felt the need to review what he had learned of the mystery with Hugh and Roger. Now they lounged in the shade of the curtain wall mulling over what had happened before their recent excursion.

“I still cannot see why that Melisende was so appalled at Maria working for Abdul,” said Roger, not for the first time since their talk had begun. “She is very good.”

“So you told Melisende,” said Geoffrey. “I am sure your recommendation of Maria’s sexual prowess will go a long way in restoring her position as servant to a respectable widow.”

“Do you think so?” said Roger, pleased. “Good. I like Maria. I do not like Mistress Melisende, however. She is unpleasantly aggressive, like the Scottish women I meet on occasions at home. But that Maria …”

“Melisende must be involved in all this.” Hugh interrupted Roger’s eulogy before it became graphic. “There are too many coincidences for comfort. And you said you had the impression she was lying, or not telling you all she knew.”

“She was most definitely holding something back,” said Geoffrey. “Could she have killed poor John? She is aggressive enough certainly, and it requires no great strength to stab a man in the back. But then she must also have killed the others, for the method of murders has been identical in each case. And we are left with the conundrum of Loukas, killed while Melisende was talking to Tancred.”

“Perhaps she has an accomplice who killed to give her an alibi,” said Hugh. “She seems a clever woman, and would easily be capable of arranging for another murder to be committed in the event of her arrest.”

“But if you are correct, it was very foolish of her to kill John in her own house,” said Geoffrey. “Why not in someone else’s house-like Akira’s again, or someone unconnected?”

“Perhaps she is more devious than you imagine,” said Hugh. “Perhaps she knew she might be traced through Dunstan’s cakes-if he ever ate them and died of poisoning-or that she might be connected to the murders through Akira, whose daughter works for her. Akira was never considered a suspect when a victim was found in his house-perhaps she assumed she would be regarded as an innocent bystander, like Akira was, if John’s body was discovered in her home.”

“It is a risky thing to do,” said Geoffrey. “Such a plan could go badly awry.”

“It did,” said Hugh. “Horribly awry. As she went through the motions of appalled revulsion for the benefit of the neighbours, she was unfortunate in her timing, for you happened to be going past. Instead of sending for the monks at the Holy Sepulchre-or even fat old Dunstan, her customer-she found herself confronted with a contingent of soldiers. You arrested her so that the Advocate could question her. She had miscalculated. The monks, who doubtless would have been far more sympathetic to a pretty and distraught widow, would never have arrested her. No wonder she loathes you. You seriously interfered with her carefully considered plans.”

“She might be a witch,” said Roger. “That would explain all this plotting and murdering. I would have her arrested again and let the Patriarch’s prison warders question her. They know how to get confessions from witches.”

“I am sure they do,” said Geoffrey. “But I would be happier with the truth than with some confession wrested out of her by the prison warders.” He thought hard. “But even if all our suppositions are correct-and we certainly have nothing to prove them-we are left with the problem of why. Why would a Greek widow feel the need to murder monks and knights and send poisoned cakes to Dunstan?”

“Well, we know Dunstan is a blackmailer,” said Hugh. “So that is easy. Although you will need to find out what secret of hers he had managed to discover. And the Greek population here despise us. They were grateful at first, when Jerusalem was conquered by Christians and the Saracens were expelled, but their lives changed very little in reality. They simply exchanged one brand of slavery for another. So, the Greek community is being avenged for its bad treatment by this forceful widow.”

“Maria said Warner and d’Aumale were at Abdul’s the night Dunstan killed himself,” said Roger casually, picking at his teeth with his dagger.

“What?” said Hugh. “Are you saying they have an alibi for that ruthless attack on me and poor Marius?”

Roger scratched his head. “Well, she said she saw them there, but she did not see what time they left.”

“Damn!” said Geoffrey. “That does not help us at all. Did anyone else see them?”

“There was some kind of celebration that night, and it became rather rowdy by all accounts,” said Roger wistfully. “Virtually everyone was drunk, and it is almost a week ago now, so I imagine the chances of getting an accurate estimate of when those two bravos left will be fairly remote.”

“Damn!” said Geoffrey again. “That means they could have left at any time, neither proving nor disproving their innocence of Marius’s murder. Which means that we still must consider them suspects. And if this occasion was as debauched as you say, then one, or even both, may have slipped out of Abdul’s and returned there later, after Marius’s murder.”

He stood up and began to pace back and forth restlessly, rubbing his chin. “I can make no sense out of all this,” he said eventually. “We have a host of theories, but no facts. And if Melisende is the murderer, then who killed Marius and knocked you senseless? She certainly did not do that: there is simply no way she could get into the citadel without being seen, even if the guards did let her past the gates on the sly. It just does not make sense.”

“It is a muddle,” agreed Hugh. “I am glad it is for you to solve and not me. I am concerned about what Courrances said to you in the church last week, though. He has tricked you cleverly. All I can say is that I will try to help you reason it out, and may even be persuaded to go out and about with you, since it appears your life might depend on it. What is your next step?”

“Abdul’s Palace. Tonight,” said Geoffrey promptly. Roger looked pleased. “I want to see if we can raise some serious doubts about the alibi of d’Aumale and Warner. And I want to talk to Maria, if she is there, to see whether she can tell us anything about Melisende. Good servants, which Melisende maintains Maria is, are unobtrusive, and their presence is often unnoticed by those they serve. Who knows what Maria may have seen or heard? Such as why Dunstan may have been blackmailing her mistress.”

For the rest of the morning, Geoffrey cleaned his weapons and mended minor damage to his chain mail. He could have ordered Helbye, Fletcher, or Wolfram to do it, but, like every knight, he had once learned to do it himself, and now he trusted his own care of the equipment that might save his life over that of others.

Roger and Hugh sat with him in his room, chatting idly about what they planned to do with the treasures they had amassed during three years’ Crusading. Roger honed his sword as they spoke, testing the sharpness of the edge with his rough, dirty thumb. Hugh lay on the bed with his arms under his head, staring up at the ceiling. The bell summoned them for a meal of the inevitable goat in a strongly spiced sauce, with flat bread and piles of underripe figs that Geoffrey suspected were the major cause of intestinal disorders among the knights of the citadel.

After the meal, as the afternoon heat began to make the horizon shimmer and the city boil, a temporary peace settled, and only the flies showed any signs of activity. Geoffrey, having missed most of his sleep the night before, handed his filthy clothes to Wolfram to put through the process of dirt redistribution he called washing, and retired once more to his room.

Moments later, Helbye arrived with a message from Tancred. Geoffrey scanned through it, but it said nothing of relevance to the case in hand. It told him in exuberant terms about the plans he had for attacking Haifa, and of a sad sight he had encountered on the way. The highly respected Sir Guibert of Apulia and a small band of his soldiers had been attacked by Saracens east of Caesarea, and had been killed to a man. Tancred’s soldiers had buried them in the desert. Such an event was nothing unusual, because journeys outside Jerusalem were always dangerous although Tancred questioned why Guibert should have been so far from home.

Geoffrey lay on the bed, but after a moment he rose again to retrieve the fragments of parchment he had taken from Dunstan’s desk. Sleepily, he tugged at the stone, wondering how he had jammed it back into place so hard that it was difficult to remove again. He slipped his hand into the hole, then snapped out of his pleasant drowsiness with a shock. The hole was empty; the parchments were gone.

He backed away from it, bewildered, looking from the stone in his hand to the hole in the wall. Then he took a candle stub, lit it, and peered into the little cavity, half-expecting that he was mistaken. But he was not, and the hole was empty. He backed away a second time and sat heavily on the bed. It was impossible! No one knew of that hiding place but himself! He caught his breath, and his stomach churned so violently that he clutched at it. A clammy sweat broke out on his forehead and down his back as he recalled putting the parchments in the hiding place. Hugh had been sprawled across the bed, sleeping deeply after his knock on the head, but Roger had seen him! When Geoffrey had turned from replacing the stone, Roger had been awake and stretching and had made some comment about him keeping his wine there!

Heart thumping painfully, Geoffrey tried to bring his tumbling thoughts into order. He was being unfair and ridiculous! Roger would never steal from Geoffrey’s room! And even if he did, he could not read, so how would Dunstan’s scribblings be of any value to him? Perhaps he had stolen them to give to someone else, came the unsettling response to his question. But that was even more ludicrous. Firstly, Roger knew what was in the parchments, because Geoffrey had told him, so why would he need to take them? And second, who could Roger have given them to? His friends in the citadel were Geoffrey and Hugh.

Geoffrey stood abruptly and began to pace around the room. His movements woke the dog, which eyed him with malevolence at the injustice of being woken at the hottest point of the day, and growled softly. Another thought sprang into Geoffrey’s mind. The dog was an unfriendly creature, yet no one had reported it barking or causing a disturbance when Marius had been killed and Hugh injured. Which may well have meant that the killer was someone whom the dog knew, and did not perceive as a threat. Someone like Roger. He recalled Hugh’s words. “I saw that hound of yours stand up and wag its tail.”

But that was impossible, Geoffrey told himself sternly. He had been with Roger all that night, and they had entered his room together to find Marius dead. Geoffrey closed his eyes and felt sick. But that was not true either. Geoffrey had been called to tend to young Barlow, terrified by his first experience of poison by alcohol. Roger had not been with Geoffrey then; he had waited in the courtyard, or so Geoffrey assumed. He recalled vividly Roger’s massive frame etched against the dark night sky as he drank water from the well.

Was that the answer? That the killer in the citadel was Roger? Geoffrey sat down again and turned the stone over in his shaking hands as he thought. On the way back from the Patriarch’s palace, he and Roger had discussed the case in detail, and Roger had questioned the validity of trying to understand why Marius should disguise Dunstan’s suicide when Marius would tell them what they wanted to know anyway. Geoffrey recalled thinking that Roger had been right and that such speculation was pointless when they would soon have answers. But perhaps Roger knew that they would not have answers, or was afraid that they would. When Geoffrey went off to tend Barlow, a godsent opportunity presented itself: Roger could slip up the stairs to Geoffrey’s room, knock Hugh unconscious, and stab Marius. He could easily have been back outside drinking at the well by the time Geoffrey returned from Barlow’s tent.

Or could Hugh have killed Marius? But that really was ludicrous, for Geoffrey had seen the blood oozing from the back of Hugh’s skull from the blow that felled him, and it was difficult for a man to hit himself on the back of his own head. And anyway, Hugh had an intense loyalty to Bohemond stretching back over many years: they had been friends since boyhood, and Hugh would never consider doing anything to betray him.

But Roger, although in Bohemond’s service, owed no such loyalty: he had simply been available and had joined up with the first Crusade leader he had met. Geoffrey squeezed his eyes tightly shut and remembered the many conversations he had had with Roger, in which the big knight had confided that he did not like Bohemond and did not approve of many of his tactics. The conversations were never in front of Hugh, of course, and Geoffrey had put Roger’s confessions down to too much drink and a tendency to consider all things not English, including the French Bohemond, as suspect. But now it seemed there might be more to them than Geoffrey had possibly imagined.

So, Roger had had the opportunity to kill Marius. He had known Geoffrey was about to question the scribe, and knew that it would only be a matter of time before Geoffrey had the answers to his questions. So, Roger had decided to kill Marius before he could speak. But that was risky. First, how could Roger know that Marius had not already told Hugh everything he knew? And second, what would he have done if Hugh had not been sitting so conveniently with his back to the door? The answer, again, was unpleasantly clear. Roger had not intended to stun Hugh, he had intended to kill him, so that Marius’s secrets would remain untold. The room had been dark-Geoffrey had later waited while Roger fetched a lamp. Roger must have assumed, because there was plenty of blood from the wound on his head, that Hugh was dead, and the room was too dark and time too short to check further.

Geoffrey recalled with a sickening clarity that Roger had tried to persuade him to go for help while he, Roger, stayed with Hugh. Geoffrey, anxious and guilt-ridden that his friend had been injured while doing him a service, had refused, and Roger had gone instead. And in so doing, Geoffrey had probably saved Hugh’s life, as Roger had been unable to complete the job he had started. Then, when Hugh awoke and revealed that Marius had been far too jittery to tell him anything, Roger’s anxieties would have been over. He would have had no need to kill Hugh. What if it had been different, and Hugh had claimed that Roger had struck him and killed Marius? Geoffrey could imagine Roger declaring Hugh’s story the invention of a fevered mind, a man rambling and out of his wits. And at some point, Roger would have been left alone with Hugh, who would then simply have “died in his sleep,” or become raving and “killed himself.”

Sleep now seemed out of the question. Geoffrey leaned back against the wall, stretched his legs out on the bed, and began to go through his analysis again step by step to see if there was some way in which he might have been mistaken. But he was not, of course, and the more he thought about it, the more it seemed to make sense. Roger could also have left the replica dagger and the pig’s heart in his room. No one would have questioned Roger if he had been seen entering or leaving: he and Geoffrey were good friends, and were constantly in and out of each other’s quarters to borrow wine. But why should Roger have become involved in such treachery? Roger, like most of the Normans, was acquisitive, and had come on Crusade with the sole intention of making his fortune. A chest of booty looted from cities all across Asia Minor stood in his room-not as large as Hugh’s, but bigger than Geoffrey’s. So, was that his motive? Was someone paying him to kill?

Could Roger also have killed the priests, and Guido, and John? Geoffrey decided that he could. None of the knights had many regular duties, and it was easy to leave the citadel for hours at a time without being missed. Geoffrey had no idea where he had been himself when the first murders were committed three weeks before, and it would be impossible to prove whether Roger had been at a particular place at a specified time so long after the event. Many of the knights who lived in the citadel were drunk half the time and would probably not recall where they were the previous day, let alone weeks before. Geoffrey studied the fireplace stone in his hands gloomily. No wonder Courrances had been so gloating in the chapel the morning Geoffrey had fought Warner. Perhaps Courrances had already surmised that Roger was involved, and had recruited Geoffrey out of sheer malice.

Geoffrey looked from the stone out the window to the brilliant blue of the sky. What should he do now? He was reluctant to involve Hugh any more than he had to-Hugh had already risked his life for this business. And he certainly could not confront Roger with his findings until he was certain where they led-he did not want Roger to warn any accomplices he might have that Geoffrey was coming close to the truth. And if Roger had already tried to kill Hugh, he would have no compunction at all in killing Geoffrey.

But even the knowledge of Roger’s role in the affair did not clarify matters. There were still many unanswered questions-what was the link between Dunstan and Melisende? Did she send him the poisoned cakes, or did Dunstan poison them ready to send to someone else? If the latter, then to whom? Roger? Why were the monks and knights killed? Who was Dunstan blackmailing? And perhaps most vital of all, who was behind all this? Roger himself? Melisende? Courrances? Warner and d’Aumale? Or was it Bohemond, whom Roger served and whose knights were being killed, or the Patriarch, whose devious ways were notorious all over Christendom?

Geoffrey had planned to go to Abdul’s Pleasure Palace that night to try to ascertain the whereabouts of Warner and d’Aumale, but in view of his discovery about Roger, this seemed unnecessary. Yet Geoffrey supposed that Roger must have accomplices, and knew that he should determine whether Warner and d’Aumale had left the brothel the night of Marius’s murder-unlikely though an alliance between Roger and the Advocate’s knights might seem.

With questions buzzing around in his mind like the flies that cruised around his head, Geoffrey did not think he would fall asleep. But the room was hot, he had slept very little the past few days, and the basic need to rest finally overwhelmed him. He slept fitfully, his dreams teeming with visions of Roger stalking through Jerusalem’s streets with hands that dripped blood.

When his eyes opened and he saw Roger leaning over him, he gave a yell of shock and reached for his dagger. But he had removed his belt to sleep, and belt and dagger hung over a hook on the wall. He was defenceless! Roger leaned closer, and Geoffrey watched him in horror, acutely aware of his vulnerability while Roger towered over him. He felt the stone underneath his leg and reached for it, wondering whether he would be able to crack open Roger’s skull. Just as Roger had attempted to dispatch Hugh-with a hard blow to the back of the head.

“Easy, lad!” Roger said, concern etching his large, blunt features. “Are you fevered?”

A heavy, sweaty hand clamped down across his head, and Geoffrey tried to prevent himself from cringing. His heart thumped more loudly than it had ever done in battle, and he wondered when he had felt so afraid. Now! Do it now! A voice clamoured inside his head, and his fingers tightened on the stone.

“Aye, you do seem a bit hot,” said Roger, removing his hand. “I will nip down to my quarters and bring you some wine.”

He saw Geoffrey’s hand clutching the stone, his fingers white with tension. Roger looked puzzled.

“What have you got there? Is this the latest warfare technology from you southerners?”

He guffawed with laughter, and stood upright. Still laughing uproariously at his own joke, he left the room. Sweat-soaked and shaking, Geoffrey watched him go.