The Habit of Murder

Chapter 7

In the event, Michael did not ponder the murders either, because he arrived at the priory to find Langelee in a state of gloom over his lost letter-opener. He helped the Master look again, and by the time they had finished, an invitation to dine with John and his senior friars had arrived. Michael accepted, as it had been some time since he had availed himself of the food at the Bell.

Bartholomew joined them in the Prior’s House when he returned from his perambulations. The fare was plain, but well cooked, and comprised the sort of food that was popular with soldiers and portly senior proctors – a lot of red meat, very little in the way of greenery, and plenty of bread to sop up the grease and bloody juices.

The wine was copious as well, and Michael grew merrier as the evening progressed. By contrast, Langelee turned uncharacteristically morose, fretting over his missing weapon, and grumbling about the fact that Roos’s murder was preventing them from securing the wealthy benefactors that Michaelhouse so desperately needed. Meanwhile, Bartholomew never drank to excess in Cambridge, lest he was called out on a medical emergency, but he had no patients in Clare, so he allowed John to pour him a second and then a third cup of claret, after which he lost count.

The rest of the evening was a blur, and Bartholomew awoke the next morning with a thundering headache and the uncomfortable sense of having entertained the Austins with songs he had learned while with the English army at Poitiers. He hoped it had been at their request.

‘That was quite a night,’ remarked Michael, speaking carefully, because he feared his head might explode if he did not. He was pale, too, his eyes bloodshot and puffy. ‘Prior John knows how to entertain, although it is a pity I could not persuade him to discuss Clare’s spate of mysterious deaths. Every time I tried, he changed the subject.’

‘For two reasons,’ said Langelee, annoyingly chipper, because he had exercised untypical restraint, and had retired to bed stone-cold sober. ‘First, because you were too drunk to debate anything so serious; and second, because he fears gossip will make matters worse.’

‘Analysing what we know is hardly “gossip”,’ objected Michael. ‘And one of the casualties was an Austin. Does John not want the truth about what happened to Wisbech?’

‘He is afraid of being drawn into the feud – which would break his Prior General’s orders,’ explained Langelee. ‘Not to mention the fact that taking sides will hinder his ability to act as peace-keeper. Incidentally, I asked Nicholas if he stole my letter-opener, and he said no. The culprit is probably Lichet, who I would not trust as far as I can spit. Or Bonde, perhaps, who will also have an eye for a decent weapon. He is a hardened killer, after all.’

‘So are you, if Prior John’s stories are to be believed,’ remarked Bartholomew, recalling with sudden clarity one very violent and distasteful tale involving a band of robbers.

Langelee waved a dismissive hand. ‘I did what was necessary to protect the innocent, whereas Bonde acts for the love of blood. Indeed, it is possible that he dispatched Roos and Margery, given that he has disappeared and no one knows where he has gone. I hope you bear that in mind as you go about your enquiries today.’

‘We will.’ Michael winced. ‘As far as I can bear anything in mind today. My poor head!’

They had slept through the bell for prime, and had missed breakfast as well, although Weste – his one remaining eye bright with robust good health – brought them bread and honey, along with water from what he claimed was a healing spring. It helped, along with Bartholomew’s remedy for overindulgence.

‘We are sadly out of practice with riotous evenings,’ sighed Michael ruefully. ‘We could have taken one in our stride ten years ago, when Michaelhouse was rich and we had feasts every week.’

‘I shall use your gluttony last night as the basis for my next Book of Hours,’ chuckled Weste, ‘just as I used Philip de Jevan as an example of Satan lying in wait for the unwary in the tome that now belongs to the Lady.’

‘It was his face on the Devil in the trees?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I rather thought it was someone we have met, as there was something familiar about him …’

‘Of course it was familiar,’ said Weste darkly. ‘Satan is everywhere, and we all know him better than we imagine. It is why I took the cowl – to drive him out of my soul.’

‘Why choose Jevan? It is Lichet who is called the Red Devil.’

‘I did not know Lichet when I illustrated that book – he has only been in Clare for a few months. But I would not have used him to depict Satan anyway – he is not evil, just dishonest, opinionated and greedy.’

‘But Jevan is evil?’

‘Oh, yes! I dislike his arrogant demeanour, and who knows what he tells the Lady when they are behind closed doors together. I am surprised Marishal allows it.’

When Weste had gone, the scholars discussed what needed to be done that day.

‘We must speak to Marishal, Thomas and Ella first,’ said Michael. ‘Assuming they are not dead of Lichet’s sleeping potion. Then I have a few questions for the Lady, after which we shall pursue our remaining suspects – rather fewer than this time yesterday, thankfully.’

Bartholomew listed them. ‘Nicholas, Lichet, Bonde, Albon, Marishal and the twins. Oh, and Badew and Harweden. They put on a fine display of stunned disbelief when we told them about Roos’s perfidy, but they held high rank in the University for years. That alone will make them skilled dissemblers.’

‘Thank you, Matt,’ said Michael drily. ‘Do you want to include me as well?’

‘I will follow Albon again,’ said Langelee, ‘lest he happens to stumble across something vital. I will also see about acquiring a few benefactors.’

‘Then go now,’ instructed Michael. ‘We will join you at the castle as soon as I have attended my private devotions in the priory chapel.’

‘If you do that, it will draw attention to the fact that you slept through prime,’ warned Langelee. ‘Use the parish church instead. But no accusing Nicholas of murder. He is not the culprit, Brother – it will be Lichet or Bonde, you mark my words.’

Bartholomew was more than happy to wait in the church while Michael completed his religious duties, as it provided another opportunity for him to admire the fan vaulting. A section of scaffolding had been removed shortly after dawn, revealing a segment of ceiling that had been invisible during Roos’s funeral the previous day.

‘The Queen will be impressed,’ he said, still gazing up in awe when the monk came to collect him a short while later. ‘This place is truly remarkable.’

‘Are you sure it is safe?’ Michael poked a pile of dust with his toe. ‘I am never comfortable with innovation. It nearly always needs refinement, so it is better to wait until a thing is tried and tested before having it installed yourself.’

‘Well, the geometric principles are sound. You can see from here that the load of the ceiling is spread between the–’

‘You can lecture me on principles all you like, Matt,’ interrupted Michael. ‘But all I see is a lot of fancy stonework slathered in paint. And pretty does not equal solid.’

‘Perhaps Cambrug will convince you. He is due to arrive soon, and I want to ask–’

Michael cut across him a second time. ‘Here is Nicholas. He looks unnaturally spry, given that he drank twice as much as you and me combined last night. He must be a sot, used to such debauched occasions.’

‘Have you come to call on our anchoress?’ asked the vicar pleasantly. ‘She will be pleased. The sad events at the castle mean she was neglected yesterday, and she likes attention.’

‘She likes it more than she should,’ said Michael admonishingly. ‘She is supposed to spend her time in prayer, not enjoying the company of visitors. But we came to see you, as it happens.’

‘I hope it is not to accuse me of stealing Langelee’s letter-opener,’ said Nicholas coolly. ‘It is a magnificent weapon, but I am no thief. He must have dropped it somewhere.’

‘No, we want to ask you about Roos and Margery,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It seems that–’

‘I did not kill them,’ said Nicholas, so quickly that it sounded furtive.

‘We are not accusing you of it,’ lied Michael. ‘Although we can eliminate you from our enquiries for certain if you tell us where you were between nocturns and dawn yesterday.’

Nicholas gave him a look that was none too friendly. ‘In the friary, with Langelee and my brethren. Ask them.’

‘I did – last night. But the celebrations finished at nocturns, when John ordered everyone to go and pray. Most did, while Langelee helped Heselbech to the castle. None mentioned being with you, however. They claim they were too addled to notice. In other words, the vows of loyalty you have all sworn prevented them from telling the truth – that you were nowhere to be seen.’

Nicholas made a show of having a sudden attack of memory. ‘Hah! I recall it all now. I left just after Heselbech and Langelee. I was close enough to see them enter the castle, and I heard the chapel bell chime. Then I hurried here to say my own prayers. Ask Anne – she will tell you.’

‘It is true – he did,’ came the inevitable voice from the squint. It made Bartholomew wonder if the anchoress ever bothered with her devotions, and instead spent her whole life eavesdropping on conversations not intended for her ears.

He walked to the anchorhold, where he saw the screen pulled to one side, revealing a very comfortable bed. A dent in the pillow and rumpled covers suggested she had only just risen, which prompted him to ask himself if she spent every night fast asleep – including the one when she claimed to have seen Nicholas recite nocturns.

The anchoress herself was neat and trim in a fresh blue kirtle, while on her feet were soft calfskin slippers. She had already moved to her other window, where petitioners were waiting to regale her with the latest news.

‘Katrina de Haliwell requisitioned another three pounds of almonds last night,’ Adam the baker was informing her. ‘And that was after she scoffed two bowls of stew in the hall. She claims the nuts are for the paroquets, but I think she eats them herself.’

Uninterested in castle gossip, Bartholomew returned to Michael and Nicholas.

‘The first time I met Roos was three days ago, when he came here with you,’ the vicar was saying. ‘If he visited Clare before, I never saw him – either in disguise or as himself. But speaking of unpredictable old men, have you seen Jan the hermit? He seems to have vanished.’

‘Yes – just like Bonde,’ said Michael. ‘If you ask me, it is suspicious, and I am inclined to wonder if one is the rogue who killed Roos and Margery.’

‘It is certainly possible of Bonde,’ said Nicholas. ‘He has always been vicious. However, Jan has never shown any inclination to violence, and he is a holy man. I seriously doubt he has done anything untoward.’

‘Even if he is innocent,’ said Michael, ‘we would still like to ask what he saw as he strolled around the castle in the dark.’

‘Perhaps he is not so much missing as gone shopping,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Again.’

But Nicholas shook his head. ‘He only does that on Wednesdays.’

‘Then maybe he has decamped to a quieter town,’ said Michael. ‘Communing with God must be very difficult in Clare, with murders and mayhem every few days.’

‘You make us sound like Cambridge,’ said Nicholas coolly. ‘Which I am told is the most dangerous town in the country.’

‘No, you confuse us with Oxford,’ Michael informed him earnestly. ‘However, even that vile city has nothing on Clare with its seven suspicious deaths. You must be concerned, because the Queen will not come as long as there is a killer on the loose.’

‘She will not be deterred by the kind of worm who stabs women and old men in dark cisterns,’ averred Nicholas. ‘But if there is nothing else, Brother, I must be off. There is still a lot to do before the ceremony, and time is short. Unless you are willing to wield a duster?’

‘I am afraid not,’ said Michael quickly, although Bartholomew would not have minded an excuse to linger in the church, as there were several murals he had not yet inspected.

‘Pity,’ sighed Nicholas. ‘I could have done with the help.’

‘I am not surprised,’ said Michael, looking around disparagingly. ‘You cannot possibly expect to have the rest of the scaffolding down by Tuesday – and the paint on the ceiling will still be wet.’

Nicholas grinned. ‘It might, but who will know? Her Majesty is unlikely to climb up there and stick her fingers in it. But the scaffolding will be down, Brother, and Cambrug has promised to be here first thing on Tuesday to disguise any damage that might have occurred in the process.’

When Michael spotted a wealthy merchant who was said to be generous to good causes, he decided to abandon murder for a few moments and work for Michaelhouse instead. Bartholomew left him to it and went to feast his eyes on the handsome rood screen, experiencing a sharp pang of sorrow when he recognised Margery’s face on a carving of the Blessed Virgin. His musings put him near the anchorhold again, and he glanced inside it to see Anne plying a broom.

‘I cannot tell you how sorry I was to hear about Margery,’ she said softly. ‘It makes me glad I have retired from the world, because such a terrible thing should not happen to a saint.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘I heard her tell Bonde to bring you a basket from the kitchen the day she died. She cared about you.’

‘It was a big one,’ said Anne, a catch in her voice, ‘containing all my favourite things. She never forgot her old nurse. I hope the fiend who killed her burns in Hell.’

‘I imagine he will.’

‘But what was she doing in the cistern with Roos in the first place?’ asked Anne, after a brief pause during which he heard a muffled sob and a quick wipe of the nose. ‘It is an odd place to go at any time, but especially at night. Or were they forced down there – at knifepoint, perhaps?’

‘I think they went willingly, although we have no idea how Roos got past the castle guards. Bonde was on the gate, but we cannot ask him about it, because he has left Clare.’

‘Roos probably paid him to look the other way,’ said Anne. ‘Marishal claims he runs a tight ship, but there are many who jump at the chance to earn easy money. Bonde is one of them. And of course he would not linger here to answer for it. He is not stupid.’

‘Do you think he has gone permanently?’

‘No – he likes being the Lady’s henchman, and she has rescued him from trouble before. He will be back. But you did not answer my question: why did they meet in the cistern? It is a terrible place, especially when it rains. The water gushes down from the roof, and it can flood in a flash.’

‘I thought the flow could be controlled by sluices and valves.’

‘It can, but how would a person opening taps on the roof know that there was someone in the basement below? It is a very dangerous business.’

Bartholomew moved to another subject. ‘You must have known Margery well, given that you were nursemaid to her children. Are you aware that she and Roos were related?’

‘Oh, I very much doubt that,’ stated Anne dismissively. ‘She was lovely, while I am told he was … not.’

‘Do you recall the ring she wore – the onyx one with the bird? Well, he had one exactly the same. He kept it on a string around his neck.’

Anne came to glare at him through the squint. ‘I hope you are not suggesting anything untoward. Perhaps they were kin – although she never mentioned him to me. However, even if you are right, there will have been nothing improper going on. She was an honourable lady. But speaking of lovers, do you have one? Yes, I think you do.’

‘What makes you say that?’

Anne smiled. ‘I am a wise-woman. I look into the souls of men and read their darkest secrets.’

‘Matilde is not a dark secret. We are to be married soon.’

‘Why? Is she with child? Do not wed her for that reason – it will lead to bitterness and disappointment, which will poison you both. She will have the worst of the arrangement, of course, saddled with a babe she does not want, as well as a useless husband. It is a pity there are laws forbidding women to decide for themselves what grows inside their bodies.’

‘The laws are there to prevent dangerous interventions,’ argued Bartholomew, although he was uncomfortable with the turn the discussion had taken, ‘which can kill the mother.’

‘Not if you know what you are doing. And as far as I am concerned, forcing women to have unwanted brats is yet another way for men to control us. No girl should bear a child if she does not want one – a child that may kill her by tearing her innards or leaving her with a fatal fever.’

‘Giving birth is a risky process,’ acknowledged Bartholomew soberly, racking his brains for a way to change the subject. ‘But–’

‘Risks men are not obliged to share, or the laws would be very different. It is brazen ignorance that makes them insist on a woman carrying a baby to full term, even when it is patently obvious that it is the wrong thing to do.’

‘Suzanne de Nekton,’ blurted Bartholomew, suddenly realising exactly why Anne was so passionate about the matter. ‘You tried to rid her of one and the procedure went wrong. How did you do it? With herbs?’

There was a person in Cambridge named Mistress Starre, who was quite open about the fact that she was a witch, and made a good living from her charms and remedies. One of her potions was designed to expel unwanted foetuses. It worked, but not without cost, and Bartholomew had been called out several times when a dose had made a patient very ill.

‘I did not have time for all that nonsense,’ Anne declared loftily. ‘I used a hook instead. I performed more than a hundred “special cleansings” and I was very good at it.’

He blinked: it was an enormous number. ‘Were you?’

She nodded, and there was pride in her voice. ‘I soaked the hook in holy water overnight, and in the morning I rubbed it with mint and rosemary. Then it was scratch, scratch’ – here she made the appropriate motion with her hands – ‘and it was all over.’

Bartholomew shuddered. ‘What happened with Suzanne? Was there a lot of bleeding?’

‘There was no bleeding at all, but she screamed a lot afterwards, which attracted attention.’

‘So your scraping hurt her?’

‘I do not believe so, but she was the daughter of a wealthy merchant and thus soft. The others I helped bore any pain more stoically. Afterwards, her outraged father sent her to a nunnery. Silly child! Her foolish shrieks destroyed us both.’

‘I saw that procedure conducted once by an Arab physician,’ recalled Bartholomew, ‘but only to save the mother. It did not work.’

‘Well, the ones I performed did, and I rescued many a careless girl from disaster. I am not sorry I helped them, but I am sorry it led to me being punished. Yet these things happen, and I am happy here. Come to talk to me again. You are nicer than Grym – he refuses to come anywhere near me.’

‘Why is that?’

She smiled again. ‘He is afraid he will catch my fondness for unorthodox medicine.’

‘What next?’ asked Bartholomew, when Michael had finished trying to entice the merchant to support Michaelhouse. ‘Back to the castle, to speak to the murderous Marishals?’

Michael nodded. ‘Although not with that attitude. It is better to keep an open mind.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘We know that Thomas slunk off alone when the squires returned to the castle. Perhaps he saw his mother meeting Roos in a peculiar place, assumed the worst and decided to defend the family honour.’

‘But Roos might be part of that family.’

Bartholomew shrugged a second time. ‘Kinship did not stop Thomas from killing Talmach if the rumours are true – perhaps with Ella’s help. And do not forget that Marishal himself was up and about at that time. Perhaps it was he who objected to the assignation.’

‘We shall bear it in mind, although we still have other contenders for the crime. For example, Nicholas has not eliminated himself to my satisfaction. He claims he celebrated nocturns here, but his alibi is Anne, who I suspect was in bed – she is not a woman to let religious obligations interfere with a good night’s sleep.’

‘Lichet is more likely to be the culprit than Nicholas. We only have his word that he was watching over the Lady all night – and that he just happened to be visiting the latrine when Adam found the bodies.’

‘But if Nicholas transpires to be innocent,’ Michael went on, ignoring him, ‘then I think we should look harder at the conveniently absent Bonde. Perhaps he killed Roos and Margery for reasons of his own, then decided to disappear until the fuss has died down.’

‘Or perhaps he fled because he was responsible for letting the culprit into the castle in the first place. Anne says he is easily bribed. I do not like the fact that the hermit is missing, either – a man who was in the castle alone at the salient time. Perhaps Jan is the killer.’

‘True,’ agreed Michael. ‘So shall we visit his lair before tackling the Marishals? He may have returned and be ready to confess.’

The hermitage had been built against one of the castle’s outer walls, in a pleasant spot that boasted nice views across the river. Most men in Jan’s profession were happy with very basic amenities, but Clare did nothing by halves, and had provided its holy man with some very sumptuous lodgings. There was a lovely little shrine containing a good supply of devotional candles and a comfortable place to kneel, and a small but cosy cottage with a stone hearth, good furniture and plenty of warm blankets.

‘He left in a hurry,’ remarked Bartholomew, taking in the unmade bed and the pot of burned stew that was suspended over the dead fire. ‘But he took his fur cloak and good boots with him.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Michael.

‘Because they are not here,’ replied Bartholomew, ‘and I know what they look like, because I remember thinking that they were better than my own. I suspect the stew was for his breakfast, but he never had the opportunity to eat it. Which means one of two things: first, that he is the killer or second, that he witnessed the crime.’

‘And if the latter, then he has either fled or he has been dispatched to ensure his silence,’ finished Michael. ‘We may well find that Clare’s body count has risen from seven to eight.’

* * *

As they walked to the castle, they became aware of a commotion emanating from a nearby house. It was one of the more magnificent ones, stone-built with a tiled roof and elegant plasterwork that must have been very costly to produce. The door was new and painted purple.

‘Godeston’s colour,’ noted Bartholomew. ‘And his litter-bearers are doing all the wailing.’

Curious, they joined the crowd that was gathering outside, although they wished they had kept their distance when they found themselves to be the focus of much hostility. This was thanks to Paycock, the bailiff who had been so free with his opinions in the Bell the previous day.

‘Look here,’ he sneered, speaking loudly enough to make people turn towards him. ‘Two toadies, come to Clare in the hope of winning some of the Lady’s money. Scholars will take against us in our dispute with the castle, and so should be considered our enemies.’

‘Then we should trounce them,’ declared one of the litter-bearers. His face was swollen from the tears he had shed, and his eyes were mean. ‘Because someone from the castle murdered poor Mayor Godeston, and this pair might have done it to please her.’

‘Godeston is dead?’ asked Michael, unfazed by the threat, although Bartholomew suddenly felt vulnerable, and his hand dropped to the bag where he kept his surgical knives.

‘You know he is,’ spat the second litter-bearer, who was even more distraught than his companion. ‘Because you did it.’

There followed a furious clamour, as the crowd demanded to know why the scholars should want to deprive Clare of its most prestigious citizen. The loudest voice was Paycock’s.

‘This means war,’ he howled. ‘The castle has gone too far this time, and we will stand for it no longer. I say we send them a message – they can have these two back in pieces.’

The horde surged forward. Bartholomew whipped out a knife, although it was a puny thing, and would do nothing to make anyone think twice about attacking. Michael, however, was used to hostile mobs. He stepped forward, one hand raised in proctorly authority.

‘Stop!’ he commanded with such force that the angry charge faltered uncertainly. ‘I assure you, we have no reason to harm Mayor Godeston or anyone else in Clare. Now tell us what–’

‘Murderers!’ screeched Paycock. ‘Why pick on poor Godeston, a man who could not walk? Well, let us see how you fare with us, because we will not be such easy meat.’

There was another enraged roar, and the assault might have resumed, but suddenly the Austins were there, insinuating themselves firmly but gently between mob and scholars.

‘What seems to be the problem?’ asked Prior John, his voice full of quiet reason.

‘The castle has arranged for Mayor Godeston to be slain,’ shrieked Paycock. ‘Because he was our leading resident and they knew it would hurt us. His death cannot be allowed to pass unchallenged. We agreed not to avenge Skynere on your recommendation, Father Prior, but all it did was encourage them to slaughter someone else. Well, we will not sit quietly by a second time.’

There was a growl of agreement from those who clustered at his shoulder. Again, Bartholomew braced himself for an onslaught, but the Austins merely reinforced their cordon by standing closer together. No weapons were drawn, but it was clear from the way they stood that they would be more than capable of repelling any would-be attackers with their fists.

‘Take a deep breath,’ John instructed Paycock. ‘And then tell us what has happened properly. And quietly, if you please. We are not deaf, so there is no need to howl.’

‘They found Godeston dead this morning,’ replied Paycock, pointing at the litter-bearers with a finger that shook with passion. ‘Obviously, he was poisoned. Just like Skynere.’

‘Just like Wisbech, too,’ put in the larger of the two litter-bearers accusingly. ‘Although the priory does not care. Well, we will not ignore what has been done. The Mayor was good to me and my brother – gave us work when no one else would look at us.’

‘Because dressing up in purple and toting him around is all you are good for,’ muttered Paycock unpleasantly. ‘Idle buggers.’

‘Even if Godeston has been poisoned, why blame the scholars?’ asked John. ‘And do not say they did it to please the Lady, because she deplores bloodshed. She told me so herself.’

‘You stepped inside her filthy lair for a chat?’ demanded Paycock, angry all over again. ‘And then you come from there to here? How dare you!’

‘I dare because it is time this foolish feud was over,’ replied John sternly. ‘It is dangerous and unnecessary, and it diminishes everyone concerned. And I do not mean just physically – it endangers your souls as well. Now, let us have no more of this nonsense. Go about your business like God-fearing folk, and I shall find the truth about Godeston’s death.’

‘Why should we trust you?’ snarled Paycock.

‘Because I tell you that you can,’ replied John shortly. ‘We have never taken sides in this dispute, and nor will we – you know we are impartial. Now go away, before God loses His temper with you for breaking His peace.’

Paycock opened his mouth to argue further, but John treated him to a sharp glare, and whatever the bailiff started to say died in his throat. Without another word, he turned and slouched away. Most of the onlookers followed, although the litter-bearers and a smattering of folk with nothing else to do lingered to see what would happen next.

‘May we come inside with you, Father Prior?’ asked Michael. ‘Matt will know how Godeston died, and I mean no disrespect, but I trust his opinion more than anyone else’s.’

‘By all means,’ said John amiably.

Mayor Godeston’s fondness for purple extended all the way through his home, and virtually everything in it was of that colour. It dominated the tapestries that covered the walls, the cushions on the benches and the rugs on the floor.

‘Perhaps he thought he was a Roman emperor,’ murmured Michael, looking around in awe.

‘It drove his poor wife to distraction,’ confided John. ‘She left him in the end, and entered a convent, where she said the nuns’ black habits were a blessed relief. Of course, that was forty years ago, and I do not know what she thinks now.’

The Mayor was sitting at a table with his eyes closed and his chin resting on his chest. He looked as though he had fallen asleep over his purple meal, the remains of which lay in front of him: dried plums, pickled beetroot and elderberry wine. The only indications that anything was amiss were his total stillness and the vomit that stained his clothes.

Grym had taken the seat opposite, and tears glittered in his eyes as he contemplated the man who had been his friend.

‘I suppose I shall be Mayor of this beautiful town now,’ he said in a small voice. ‘Although it is rather sooner than I hoped.’

Bartholomew bent to examine the body. Godeston was still warm to the touch, although the sick on his front had dried, telling him that the Mayor had been taken ill some time before he had finally breathed his last. He glanced up to see that the litter-bearers had followed them inside, and were sobbing again, although more in anger than sorrow. He addressed them quietly, struggling not to make his remarks sound accusatory lest it ignited another spat.

‘He could not walk, which means he would have needed your help to get to bed when he had finished eating. So why was he not discovered until now?’

‘He could walk short distances,’ wept one. ‘And his bed is only in the next room. He sent us home early, because Barber Grym was here.’

‘I was,’ said Grym, a catch in his voice. ‘We were discussing the murder of Margery and what it might mean for the town. He said he was hungry, so I fetched him some food from the pantry before I went home …’

‘But he was well when you left him?’

Grym nodded. ‘Although desperately worried that Margery’s death would bring violent reprisals down on our heads. I suppose the strain of thinking about it induced a fatal attack. I have seen such things many times during my medical career.’

While the barber spoke, Bartholomew had continued his examination, not just of the body, but of the food and wine as well. The plums and beetroot seemed innocent, but the wine was a strong brew with a pungent smell – almost, but not quite, powerful enough to mask the distinctive aroma of hemlock underneath. He announced his findings to the others.

‘So Paycock was right?’ said Michael. ‘Godeston was murdered? By whom?’

Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug. ‘He swallowed poison, Brother, and it was in the wine. I cannot tell you who put it there.’

‘No, no, no!’ whispered Grym, white-faced. ‘Godeston was old and in indifferent health. He died of natural causes. He was not murdered. It is impossible.’

Wordlessly, Bartholomew handed him the jug so that he could smell it for himself.

Grym accepted it warily, took a quick sniff, then shook his head stubbornly. ‘It is not hemlock. What you can detect is the stink of elderberries past their best. Poor Godeston! He never could tell a good brew from an inferior one.’

‘Then you drink some,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘And prove it is innocent.’

Grym raised his eyebrows. ‘I am not in the habit of imbibing bad wine.’

And before anyone could stop him, he stepped to the window and emptied the jug into the rose beds below, moving remarkably swiftly for so large a man. Bartholomew regarded him in astonishment, stunned not only that he should deny what was so patently obvious, but that he should destroy evidence into the bargain.

‘Good,’ said John briskly. ‘It is very sad that poor Mayor Godeston is dead, but better natural causes than murder.’

‘I quite agree,’ said Grym with a sickly smile. ‘So we will bury him today, and I shall assume the role of Mayor until we can hold an election. It is–’

‘No!’ interrupted one of the litter-bearers sharply. ‘You want to hide the truth, so the town will not march against the castle. Well, we will not be party to lies – not when it concerns the man who gave us a job. Mayor Godeston was good to us, and we will not turn our backs on his murder.’

‘Then remember who told you about the hemlock,’ put in Michael. ‘We did – which we would not have done if we had fed it to him. So kindly inform the likes of Paycock that your master’s death had nothing to do with us.’

But the litter-bearer was already thinking about something else. ‘His silk,’ he gulped, looking around in alarm. ‘Where is it?’

‘What silk?’ asked Grym.

‘The gauzy purple piece that Master Jevan brought him from London. Mayor Godeston made us promise to drape it over his coffin when the time came. We cannot fail his last wishes! He made us swear.’

‘And he said we would not get anything in his will unless we obliged,’ put in his brother.

They embarked on a frantic hunt for it. John ignored them and began to interrogate Grym, gathering information that he hoped would allow him to forestall any rumours that Godeston was the latest casualty in the war between castle and town. The barber was eager to oblige, and Bartholomew grew ever more appalled by the wild answers he gave. Michael pulled the physician aside.

‘Are you sure about the hemlock, Matt? You cannot be mistaken?’

‘I am sure. I suppose this means Grym fed it to him – he fetched the wine from the pantry at Godeston’s request, dosed it with poison, then destroyed the evidence when we homed in on it. Now he is lying to protect himself. I wonder if he killed Wisbech and Skynere as well. He admits quite openly that he uses hemlock on patients. Maybe he gave them too much by mistake.’

‘I know John wants to avert trouble,’ said Michael soberly. ‘But I dislike lies, and I am uncomfortable with the fact that he is willing to overlook the murder of a friar. It is unnatural, even for a man who wants peace.’

‘Then perhaps we should add him to our list of murder suspects.’

‘Perhaps we should,’ agreed Michael unhappily.