The Habit of Murder

Chapter 8

There was no more to be done at Godeston’s house, so Bartholomew and Michael left Grym to care for his dead friend, and went outside, where John was already announcing that the verdict was death by natural causes. Unfortunately for him, the litter-bearers had a different story to spread, and began ranting to anyone who would listen. John tried to stop them, but to no avail – men like Paycock knew which version they wanted to believe. The Prior glared at Bartholomew.

‘I wish you had kept your suspicions to yourself,’ he said crossly. ‘Godeston’s murder will mean trouble for certain.’

‘I wish he had kept his suspicions to himself as well,’ agreed Michael, ‘because then Grym would not have tossed the tainted wine out of the window, thus preventing us from proving our case. Did you not find that odd?’

‘I doubt Grym killed Godeston, if that is what you are suggesting,’ said John impatiently. ‘They were friends, and Grym will be lost without him. However, I accept that Godeston died from hemlock poisoning. I thought I could smell it the moment I entered the room.’

‘Then why did you–’ began Bartholomew indignantly.

‘Because I wanted to avoid the kind of trouble that is brewing now,’ interrupted John shortly, and nodded towards Rutten Row, where several young merchants were listening to the litter-bearers with growing anger. ‘Those boys have been itching to fight the squires for weeks – several have lost their sweethearts to the rich braggarts at the castle, and they want revenge.’

At that moment, Weste hurried up to report that Nuport and his cronies were in the market square, where they had entered the shop of a vintner and removed a cask of wine.

‘They say they will pay later, but we all know they will not,’ said Weste. ‘They have heard that the Mayor is dead, and think the town will be in too much disarray to take issue with them. But the likes of Paycock will not stand by meekly …’

‘No,’ agreed John, his face creased with concern. ‘We shall have our hands full today if we are to prevent a bloodbath.’

‘I hope our peace-keeping duties will not interfere with our religious obligations,’ muttered Weste unhappily. ‘I have a lot of atoning to do. I cannot afford to miss offices.’

‘I know,’ said John kindly, then addressed the scholars. ‘So if anyone asks you about Godeston, please keep your suspicions to yourselves. Lives and immortal souls depend on it.’

‘But someone did kill him,’ argued Michael. ‘An old man who could barely walk. Feeding him the kind of poison that takes hours to work was despicable and cannot go unpunished.’

‘Leave vengeance to the Lord,’ ordered John. ‘He knows what he is doing – more than you.’

‘Is that why you chose to ignore what happened to Wisbech?’ demanded Michael. ‘If so, it was a mistake. It left the killer free to claim other victims, which has made the situation worse. How many more people must die before you act?’

‘We are acting,’ growled Weste, his one eye cold and angry. ‘We are busily ensuring that eight deaths do not become eighty.’

John rubbed a gnarled hand over his shiny pate and sighed. ‘Yet you have a point about stopping the killer, Brother, so investigate if you must. However, I recommend that you stay away from Godeston’s death – first, because the town will not appreciate you meddling, and second, because you may put yourselves in danger.’

‘And we may not be on hand to rescue you next time,’ added Weste, a little threateningly.

‘If you want my opinion about Roos and Margery,’ said John, more conciliatory than his cofferer, ‘it is that someone from the town killed them. That means the guards let the culprit through the gate, so speak to them about it.’

‘Unfortunately, the guard was Bonde,’ said Michael harshly, ‘who has now disappeared.’

‘Bonde did not watch the gate on his own,’ said John. ‘Others would have been with him, so talk to Richard the watchman. He has a keen eye for detail, which I know because he was once one of my patrolmen. He will answer your questions if you tell him that I sent you.’

Richard the watchman was just finishing work when the scholars arrived, and was enjoying a meal with his friends. He was a solid, dependable man with a neat beard, an ancient but well-maintained leather jerkin, and weapons that were carefully honed. He refused to speak to Michael and Bartholomew at first, but capitulated immediately when they said they had been sent by Prior John. He set down his spoon and took them to a stable, where they could talk in private.

‘Good man, John,’ he declared. ‘I would follow him anywhere. Well, other than into holy orders. A number of my comrades have found solace along that path, but it is not for me. I prefer to take my comfort in the arms of a woman. And do not suggest doing both, because John disapproves of those who break sacred vows. He considers it the worst of all sins.’

Michael changed the subject quickly, as his own views on chastity were rather more fluid than his Order allowed. ‘We came to ask who visited the castle on Thursday night. We know money exchanged hands, but we do not care about that. We just want a list of names.’

‘The squires and Bonde came in at about midnight,’ replied Richard, so promptly that it was obvious that he had already given the matter some serious thought. ‘Most trooped off to bed, and Bonde joined us at the gate a bit later. Then there were the two priests. The first was Heselbech, with Langelee holding him up. The second came in a few moments later, on his own.’

‘Which priest?’ asked Michael. ‘Nicholas?’

‘He had his hood up, so I never saw his face. It was definitely a friar, though. Not only did he wear an Austin’s cloak and cowl, but I could tell he was a priest because of the way he walked. They tend to glide when they are on their way to holy offices. You must have noticed.’

‘Not really,’ said Bartholomew, sure Michael could not ‘glide’ to save his life. ‘Who else?’

‘Just Jan the hermit, who likes to prowl the castle after dark. And Philip de Jevan, of course, but you already know that. I wondered how long it would take before you made the connection.’

Michael and Bartholomew exchanged a blank look. ‘What connection?’ asked the monk.

‘The connection between Saer de Roos and Philip de Jevan – that they are one and the same,’ replied Richard, then frowned. ‘You mean you did not know and I have just blurted it out?’

‘Of course we knew,’ lied Bartholomew, struggling to mask his surprise as realisation dawned. He turned to Michael. ‘Because of Weste and the Devil he painted in his Book of Hours. He told us it was Jevan, but the face was oddly familiar. Of course it was – it was Roos.’

And Roos had prevented him from studying it more closely by throwing it on the fire. Bartholomew had managed to pull the book from the flames, but not before the incriminating page had been burned out. The moment he saw it was safely destroyed, Roos had calmly walked away.

‘That cannot be right, Matt,’ said Michael doubtfully. ‘Someone would have addressed Roos as Jevan or vice versa. But no one did, and everyone here claims he was a stranger.’

‘But we have already guessed why no one recognised him,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘He donned a disguise. White whiskers probably, if Weste’s picture was anything to judge by.’

Richard nodded. ‘They were total opposites. Jevan was always immaculate, with snowy hair and a nice bushy beard. Roos was scruffy, with a nasty old cap and dirty clothes.’

‘But you saw through the ruse?’ Michael asked, still far from convinced. ‘How?’

‘I am a watchman – it is my business to see people for what they are. I knew Roos was Jevan because of the eyes. I recognised him when you arrived together on Wednesday, and I recognised him again when he came to the gate the night he died and paid us to let him pass.’

‘Who else knew?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Bonde?’

Richard nodded. ‘And the other guards. The Lady and Marishal are in on the secret as well, of course, as was Mistress Marishal. It has been going on for years – fourteen, in fact. I remember because Jevan … I mean Roos joined the council at about the same time as I became a watchman.’

‘Roos pretended to be another person for fourteen years?’ breathed Michael in disbelief. ‘But that is impossible! The truth would have leaked out long ago.’

‘Why?’ shrugged Richard. ‘He was Jevan here and Roos in Cambridge. It was perfectly straightforward – until this week, when Roos arrived in “Jevan’s” domain.’

‘Do you remember the purple silk that “Jevan” brought for Godeston?’ asked Bartholomew of Michael. ‘He told him that it came from London, but you pointed out that my sister sells it at home. We shall ask her when we get back, but I wager anything you like that she sold a piece to Roos.’

‘But Roos hated Clare and the Lady,’ objected Michael. ‘And now you expect me to believe that he donned a wig and a false beard and sat on her council? With her connivance?’

Richard shrugged again. ‘It is what happened.’

‘Do you know if Roos and Margery Marishal were kin?’ asked Bartholomew.

Richard considered. ‘Well, they shared some bond, because she was always the one who came to greet him when he arrived.’

‘Greeted him how?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Warmly?’

‘No, not warmly, but familiarly. Like I might greet a mother-in-law if I had one.’

‘So he came here four times a year?’ asked Michael, still sceptical.

‘Yes, for council meetings, which are held every Quarter Day. The last one was in March, and he was not due again until June. However, I can tell you for a fact that Mistress Marishal wrote and asked him to come early, because she told me to expect him.’ Richard smiled fondly. ‘She could write, you know – and she taught me.’

‘Did she?’ asked Michael, astonished anew. ‘Why?’

‘Because there is nothing much to do as a watchman during long winter nights, but I love the stars and she offered to lend me books on astronomy, if I learned to read them. She was a sweet woman, too good for this world.’

Michael showed him the letters they had found in Roos’s quarters. ‘Are these from her?’

Richard took them from him, handling them almost reverently. ‘Yes – I would recognise her hand anywhere. But wait! This one says the Lady is dead! Why would she …’

‘To make sure Roos would come,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘Which means she must have had some very urgent reason for the lie. Do you know what it might have been?’

‘No, but I saw her go to Roos straight away on Wednesday and start talking. I did not hear what passed between them, but she seemed very upset afterwards, while he was angry.’

‘What about the night they died?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Was she waiting for him then?’

‘Not that I saw.’

‘Did you follow him after you let him inside?’

‘No, why would I? He was a member of the Lady’s council, and Mistress Marishal had asked him to visit. They trusted him, so I felt I could, too.’

Bartholomew and Michael left the castle and aimed for the Bell Inn, to tell Badew and Harweden what they had discovered about their erstwhile friend. The two old men had had a night to reflect on Roos’s antics, and the monk was hopeful that hindsight might have shaken loose some new information. It was raining again, although Clare’s roads were so well drained and free of potholes that Bartholomew’s feet remained quite dry inside his leaky old boots.

‘I wish we had guessed this Jevan–Roos connection sooner,’ muttered Michael. ‘We should have known that there was a reason for his peculiar reaction to Pulham’s Book of Hours.’

‘We might have done, if we had studied the illustration more closely,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But now I think about it, Weste’s Satan did have Roos’s eyes. He is a remarkable artist.’

They did not have far to go, because Badew and Harweden had joined the spectators outside Godeston’s house, all waiting to watch the Mayor’s body carried to the church. Bartholomew was glad when no one spared him and Michael more than a glance as they eased through the throng, although he was alarmed by the anger directed against the castle.

‘I hope Prior John is good at quelling spats,’ murmured Michael, looking around uneasily. ‘Because there will be one before long. The mood is ugly, and set to grow worse.’

Just as they reached the Swinescroft men, there was a sudden stir and Godeston was toted out. His litter-bearers had evidently decided that he should make his final journey in style, so they had strapped him into a sitting position and draped him with purple blankets – although not the piece of silk that he had stipulated.

He swayed alarmingly as he was borne along, and Bartholomew was not the only one who feared he might topple off. So did Grym, who did his best to steady his old friend, but even the stately pace set by the brothers was too fast for the portly barber, who huffed and panted as he struggled to keep up. A number of town worthies fell into line behind them, including Paycock, who was muttering darkly about another murder of a good man by castle rowdies.

‘You should not be out on the streets,’ Michael told Badew and Harweden, once the body had gone. ‘Matt and I were almost attacked earlier. You will be safer indoors.’

‘Then escort us back to the Bell,’ instructed Badew curtly. ‘And while we walk, you can tell us about your progress regarding the murder of … that person.’

‘Roos,’ said Harweden, willing to spit out the name, even if Badew could not.

Michael obliged, outlining as many details as he could about Roos’s double life. Badew and Harweden listened with increasing horror.

‘I do not believe you,’ breathed Badew when the monk had finished. ‘You are making it up.’

‘It is too incredible a tale for me to have invented,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Indeed, I am still coming to terms with it myself. But you knew nothing of it? No inkling at all?’

‘No, of course not,’ replied Harweden, patently stunned. ‘I suspected some affiliation between him and Margery, as you know, but him being a member of the Lady’s privy council all these years? It cannot be possible!’

‘It feels like a bad dream,’ said Badew in a small voice, and for the first time, Bartholomew felt sorry for him. ‘I keep hoping that I will wake up.’

‘Godeston’s litter-bearers hope he will wake up, too,’ said Harweden grimly, nodding to where both boys wept copiously as they delivered their erstwhile employer to Nicholas. ‘I hear that they are good for nothing else, and will avenge his murder if it kills them.’

‘Then we shall take the Senior Proctor’s advice and remain inside the Bell until it is time for us to leave,’ determined Badew. ‘With our door locked. We should never have come to this terrible place. Damn Roos for his treachery!’

When they had seen the two old men to their chamber, Bartholomew and Michael turned back to the castle, aiming to interview the Marishal clan. They took a detour through the churchyard to avoid a large throng of townsfolk, which allowed them to be hailed by a familiar voice.

‘Poor Godeston,’ called Anne, as they passed her window. ‘He was a pompous old fool, but he did not deserve to die. Personally, I think the Austins did it. It explains why they are now going around telling everyone that he died of natural causes, when his servants say he was poisoned.’

‘John has made a serious tactical error,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘He should never have tried to hide the truth with lies.’

‘They think more about their oaths of loyalty to each other than they do about justice or truth,’ Anne went on resentfully. ‘They would certainly kill to protect one another, even if it means war between the town and the castle.’

‘I disagree,’ said Bartholomew. ‘As far as I can see, everything they have done is to one end: to avert trouble.’

Including, he thought but did not say, declining to avenge the death of one of their own – a man who certainly would have been included in their controversial vows of solidarity.

Anne sniffed huffily. ‘Dismiss my opinions if you will, but you will see.’

‘Do you believe her, Matt?’ asked Michael, as he and Bartholomew left the churchyard. ‘That the killer may be a friar?’

Bartholomew was not sure what to think. ‘It is possible, I suppose. Richard the watchman did say that he let two of them through the gate at the salient time – Heselbech, which Langelee can confirm, and one other.’

‘Well, there are John and Heselbech now,’ said Michael, nodding across the street. ‘We shall ask them which of their brethren went out. Of course, we know one who was abroad, and who probably did not say nocturns in his church as he claims – Nicholas.’

‘Yet anyone can don a cloak with a hood, and pretend to be an Austin,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps it was an imposter, and the friars are innocent.’

But Michael shook his head. ‘Richard thought it was a priest, and I trust his testimony. He is an observant man.’

The two Austins looked very much like former soldiers as they marched along. Both were armed with knives, which was unusual for men in holy orders, although Bartholomew understood why they were loath to go about unprotected.

‘I have already told you,’ said Heselbech impatiently, when Michael put his question. ‘I went to the castle chapel to say nocturns, but I was too drunk – as Langelee will attest. I rang the bell, but then decided it would be better to sleep than recite the sacred words in a stupor.’

‘Quite right,’ agreed John piously. ‘There is little worse than insincerity. It damages the soul, and should be avoided at all costs.’

‘So who was the second friar?’ asked Bartholomew.

Heselbech raised his hands in a shrug. ‘There was no second friar. I am the castle’s only chaplain, and everyone else stayed at home. Is that not so, Father Prior?’

John nodded. ‘Other than Nicholas, who went to his church, but we know he arrived without making a detour, because Anne heard him. Heselbech is right, Brother: there was no second friar.’

‘Yes, there was,’ insisted Michael firmly. ‘My witness is positive.’

‘Then I shall ask my people,’ said John, ‘but I am sure your witness is mistaken. He mistook a common cloak for a religious one in the dark.’

‘Yes, it was probably a servant sneaking home late after a night with friends,’ said Heselbech. ‘Despite the current trouble, there are plenty of castle folk with connections to the town – Adam the baker and Quintone, to name but two.’

When Bartholomew and Michael reached the castle, they found that Albon had moved to the next stage of his investigation, which entailed him sitting outside the chapel and announcing that he was available for the culprit to confess. Unsurprisingly, the killer had not taken him up on the offer, so Albon remained in splendid isolation. The knight had chosen another throne-like chair to lounge in, and had dressed with considerable care, so he looked like a king holding court.

‘Does he really think that will work?’ asked Bartholomew wonderingly, when Langelee came to explain what was going on. ‘Surely he cannot be that naive?’

‘Oh, I think he can,’ said Langelee sourly. ‘Shall we wager how long he stays there before he realises that he is wasting his time? I think he will persist until the end of tomorrow – it will be Sunday, and he will foolishly expect the culprit’s conscience to prick on that most holy of days.’

‘He will give up tonight,’ predicted Bartholomew. ‘It looks like rain, and he will not want to get his pretty hair wet.’

Michael laughed. ‘I agree with Matt. Shall we speak to Thomas and Ella now? They are by the kitchen, whispering to each other as usual. I wonder what prank is in the offing this time.’

He started towards them, but had not covered half the distance before there was a shriek, and Adam hurtled out of the kitchen, trailing fire. Quick as a flash, Bartholomew whipped off his own cloak and knocked the screeching baker to the ground so that he could smother the flames. Adam continued to howl, although Bartholomew’s speedy reaction had saved him from serious harm.

As he applied a soothing balm to one or two patches of reddened skin, Bartholomew glanced at Thomas and Ella. They were struggling to keep straight faces. The squires did not bother with such niceties, and brayed their mirth openly. Servants and nobles alike eyed them in distaste, which served to make them guffaw all the harder – until Albon put an end to it. He stood with all the dignity at his disposal and strode towards the sobbing baker. The laughter faded away, and only when there was silence did the great man speak.

‘You are a brave boy, Adam,’ he said, gazing down with kindly compassion. ‘Here is a groat for new clothes and another groat for your wounds. Go now, and thank God for your deliverance.’

Adam snatched the coins and fled. He hobbled through the gate and disappeared into the town – the twins’ prank had clearly ended any loyalty he might have felt towards his castle employers, and had turned a friend into an enemy.

‘Your mantle, Doctor,’ said Albon, stooping to pluck the garment from the ground. He held it between thumb and forefinger, so as not to soil his soft white hands.

Bartholomew took it resignedly. It was caked in mud, and holes had been burned in several places, which meant some serious needlework would be required before it was functional again. The journey home would be miserable if the rain continued. Then Albon made a second munificent gesture. With a courtly flourish, he removed his own cloak and held it out.

‘Take this,’ he said, more command than invitation. ‘A medicus must be properly clad when he visits his patients.’

Bartholomew did not want to accept it. It was a beautiful garment of scarlet wool, with fur around the hem and black silk lining. He was notoriously careless with clothes and would ruin it in a week.

‘You are generous,’ he said politely. ‘But you will need it in France.’

Albon stood taller and straighter. ‘Zeal for my God, my King and my country keep me warm in the most inclement of weather,’ he announced grandly, then lowered his voice so that only Bartholomew could hear. ‘Besides, I have five more equally nice ones in my travelling chest, so I shall not miss it.’

A murmur of admiration for his gallantry rippled through the onlookers, and Bartholomew knew that refusing the cloak would not only appear ungracious, but might be construed as offensive. He took it, astonished by its weight and quality, and wondered what Matilde would say when he arrived home in it. He suspected he would be in for a good deal of teasing.

‘Then thank you,’ he said sincerely.

‘You saved an innocent boy from serious harm,’ said Albon, loudly enough for his voice to carry across the whole bailey. He treated the twins to a reproachful glance, and both had the grace to look away. ‘He might have been maimed for life.’

‘It was only a bit of fun,’ objected Nuport, too dim-witted to know when he should have kept quiet. His cronies eased away, unwilling to be associated with him if he was going to challenge their hero. ‘Can no one take a joke?’

‘It was not a joke,’ declared Albon angrily. ‘It was a despicable act – one devised by cowards and fools. Such antics will be punished, although not by me. By God.’

And with that, he turned on his heel and strode back to his throne, where he made a show of sitting in it without the comfort of a nice warm cloak. His sacrifice earned the twins more critical scowls, including from some of the squires. Thomas hid his chagrin with sullen indifference, although Ella was notably subdued. Bartholomew walked over to them, Michael following.

‘I hope you will not do that again,’ he said curtly. ‘Albon is right – it was cruel and stupid.’

Thomas was unrepentant. ‘It was Adam’s own fault for laying dishonest hands on a silver box that he had no right to touch.’

‘It is true,’ agreed Ella. ‘He is a thief and everyone is sick of his pilfering. We expected him to drop the box when he realised that it was full of hot embers – we did not anticipate that he would slyly shove the thing inside his tunic.’

‘Regardless,’ said Michael in distaste, ‘should you really be playing tricks on servants while your mother lies dead? It is hardly appropriate.’

‘We did it for her,’ argued Ella. ‘She worked hard to turn Adam honest, but the moment she died, he reverted to form. It was disrespectful to her memory.’

‘She was an angel,’ said Thomas. ‘Or so everyone tells us. Unfortunately, she was so engrossed in her good works that she never had time for her own children. Anne was far more mother to us than she ever was. More father, too, given that ours was also too busy to bother.’

‘So you are irked with your parents for failing to dote on you,’ sighed Michael heavily. ‘Is that why you killed her?’

Thomas and Ella blinked their astonishment at the accusation, and Bartholomew thought their shock was genuine. Of course, that was not to say they were innocent – only that they considered themselves to be above suspicion.

‘We never did!’ cried Ella, the first to find her tongue. ‘What a terrible thing to say! We were not close, but we never wished her harm. Besides, Anne was a lot of fun, and we would not have enjoyed ourselves nearly as much if our parents had raised us. It all worked out for the best.’

‘So what have you done to find the killer?’ asked Michael archly. ‘Even if you were not fond of Margery, you still must want her murder avenged.’

‘We did discuss hunting the bastard ourselves,’ said Thomas, eyeing the monk with dislike. ‘But Albon told us to let him do it instead. Ella and I do not want to cross the man who will take us to France, so we reluctantly acceded to his request.’

‘You will go to France,’ Michael pointed out. ‘She will stay here, ready to marry another wealthy or powerful suitor.’

Ella regarded him haughtily. ‘No, I will not, because I have decided to follow the Lady’s example and take a vow of chastity – which means no more weddings for me. I am going to France, although not to join the army, naturally. I shall visit religious houses.’

‘Of course you will,’ said Michael flatly. ‘But to return to more important matters, do you have any idea who meant your mother harm?’

‘No,’ replied Thomas sourly. ‘Because she really was loved by all, and I cannot believe this has happened to her. She honestly did not have an enemy in the whole world.’

‘What about Roos?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He was unpopular in Cambridge, so I cannot imagine his reception was any different here. Did he have enemies in the castle?’

‘Roos!’ spat Thomas. ‘Otherwise known as Philip de Jevan, although we had no idea he was a scholar until Richard the watchman told us just now. We are stunned – we thought he was a merchant from London, which is what he always claimed.’

‘We did not recognise him when he arrived on Wednesday,’ put in Ella. ‘Because we are used to seeing him with white hair and beard.’

‘We believe “Jevan” was your mother’s kinsman,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What was their relationship, exactly?’

‘Distant cousins,’ replied Ella, and looked around quickly to ensure no one could hear before adding, ‘but I think they might have been lovers once. I overheard several discussions between them that suggested it, and he was always trying to corner her alone. He was a dreadful lecher.’

‘She tried to send him packing countless times,’ said Thomas, ‘but her rejections were too gentle, and he never did get the message.’

‘What did your father think of Roos’s behaviour?’ asked Michael.

Thomas gave a mirthless bark of laughter. ‘Him? I doubt he noticed anything amiss, and if he did, he would have been too busy to do anything about it. Running the Lady’s estates is more important to him than anything else in the world.’

‘It was your mother who summoned Roos here,’ said Michael. ‘Why would she do such a thing if all he did was harass her?’

‘She doubtless had her reasons,’ replied Thomas, while Ella looked away and bit her lip. ‘But not ones she confided to us. I wish we could help, but we knew nothing of her business.’

‘Then tell us what you were doing the night she died.’

Thomas sighed with exaggerated patience. ‘I was in the Bell Inn with the squires for the first part of it, and I came back here at midnight. I went directly to Ella’s room, where we played board games until Adam raised the alarm with his screeching.’

‘The Bell is where Roos was staying,’ said Michael. ‘Did you see him there?’

‘Not that I recall,’ shrugged Thomas, ‘but I was looking at the lasses, not old men in nasty hats. I did not know then that your Roos was our Jevan, so why would I have paid him any heed? Have you finished with us? Our mother will be buried tomorrow, and we have to make all the arrangements ourselves, because our father does nothing but sleep.’

‘It is Master Lichet’s medicine,’ explained Ella. ‘It is very strong. We only had a sip and it made our heads spin. Father swallowed the whole cup.’

‘He will wake up when we visit,’ vowed Michael. ‘We have questions for him as well.’

Thomas smiled malevolently. ‘Not today, Brother. And not tomorrow either, if Lichet has any say in the matter. His potions are nothing if not effective.’

‘That pair said nothing to make me think them innocent,’ said Michael, once the twins had gone. ‘They are irredeemably selfish, and think they have been ill-used by having parents with lives of their own. They might well have dispatched Margery out of bitterness and spite.’

‘And Roos for being in the way,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But we should request an audience with the Lady now. Lichet cited her as his alibi, so we should see if he is telling the truth – assuming that he has not dosed her with another powerful soporific, of course.’

Lichet was in the Lady’s apartments, reciting an ode of his own composition. It was several pages long, and comprised a lot of convoluted rhymes, which perhaps explained why she had dozed off. Lichet had not noticed and read with gusto. The poem was about a dog that seduced women under cover of darkness, which did not seem an entirely suitable subject for an elderly patron, so perhaps it was just as well she was not awake to hear it.

‘No wonder folk call him the Red Devil,’ murmured Michael. ‘Poor Clare! I would not be happy with such a man assuming a position of power in the University.’

Lichet scowled when a servant interrupted his performance to announce visitors. He started to refuse Bartholomew and Michael permission to enter, but the Lady’s eyes snapped open, and she overrode him by beckoning them forward.

‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘Who killed Margery? I am sure you have been exploring the murders, given that a scholar died as well.’

‘I ordered them to do it,’ put in Lichet quickly. ‘I would have solved the mystery myself, but I decided to apply my superior abilities to being Acting Steward instead. I shall shoulder Marishal’s responsibilities for as long as he is … indisposed.’

‘Drugged senseless, you mean,’ put in Bartholomew disapprovingly. ‘Which is a dangerous thing to do and–’

‘When do you expect him to wake?’ interrupted Michael, aware that such an accusatory discussion was likely to do more harm than good. ‘There are questions that only he can answer.’

‘Not today,’ replied Lichet stiffly. ‘Tomorrow, perhaps. I shall see how he feels.’

‘He will feel inclined to help them, and you will tell him so, Master Lichet,’ said the Lady sharply, and turned back to the scholars. ‘Now tell me what you have learned. Albon gave me his report earlier, but it was disappointingly sparse.’

Michael hastened to oblige, finishing with the fact that Margery had written to invite Roos to a secret meeting in the cistern ‘at the usual time’.

‘My goodness,’ said the Lady flatly. ‘You have been busy.’

‘Now just one moment,’ snapped Lichet, still blinking his astonishment as he raised his hand for clarification. ‘You claim that Roos was on the council?’

‘He called himself Jevan while he was here,’ replied Michael. ‘But yes. Were you not included in the secret? Dear me!’

‘No one was, other than my steward, Margery and a few guards,’ said the Lady. ‘I recruited him fourteen years ago – offered him a lucrative post in exchange for spying on Badew. After all, only a fool does not monitor her enemies. And it worked. Why do you think Badew has never managed to do me any harm?’

Lichet was stunned. ‘Roos deceived his friends – and everyone here – for fourteen years?’

The Lady shrugged. ‘He was a clever man. Of course, he was never included in any sensitive castle business – one can never trust a man who betrays his friends. Yet he served me well enough, although he was coming to the end of his usefulness – Badew is getting too old for mischief.’

‘I beg to differ, madam,’ argued Lichet. ‘Why do you think Badew is here now? It is not to tell Marishal that his twins dispatched Talmach – Marishal already knows those rumours.’

‘Badew thought I was dead, and he came to dance on my grave,’ replied the Lady. ‘While Michaelhouse and Clare Hall came to see what I had left them in my will.’ She smiled haughtily at the scholars. ‘As I said, Roos served me well.’

‘He was kin to Margery,’ interjected Michael hastily, eager to move away from the awkward subject of their reason for visiting Clare. ‘Is that why you invited him to play Judas?’

The lady inclined her head. ‘The family connection meant he was more willing to listen to my proposal than he might otherwise have been. They were cousins and he loved her – perhaps more than he should have done, given that she was another man’s wife.’

‘His affection may have been reciprocated,’ said Michael, and produced the onyx rings. ‘He wore his around his neck, while hers was on her finger.’

The Lady frowned as she took them. ‘I remember hers. It is tawdry, and I once asked why she did not don a nicer one – she had plenty. She told me that it represented a penance. She confided no more and I did not press her, sensing it was something she was reluctant to divulge.’

‘I do not think they were fond of each other,’ said Lichet. His expression was sullen, and it was clear that he bitterly resented being left in the dark. ‘Whenever I saw them together, they were quarrelling.’

‘They did argue,’ acknowledged the Lady. ‘Indeed, Roos was the one person who could shake her from her gentle equanimity – something not even the twins could do, even at their worst.’

‘Do you know why Margery wanted him to come to Clare this time?’ asked Michael. ‘It was not for a council meeting – the next one is not until June, as you know.’

‘I have no idea,’ replied the Lady. ‘Perhaps Marishal can tell you, although you will have to wait until tomorrow, when Master Lichet’s potion has worn off. I imagine Roos was glad that you decided to accompany him here, though – he met Simon Freburn on the way home last time.’

‘And lost an ear,’ put in Lichet with a smirk.

The Lady was silent for a while, thinking. ‘I dislike what is happening in Clare,’ she said eventually. ‘Not just the murders of Margery and Roos, but the other deaths, too. You two have shown yourselves adept at unearthing secrets, so you will investigate those as well as Roos’s.’

‘I shall see they do,’ vowed Lichet. Then he glared at the two scholars. ‘Of course, when I told them to investigate Roos’s death, I also ordered them to report any findings directly to me, so as to spare you the unpleasantness of this sort of audience. I am sorry they chose to disobey me.’

‘Thank you for your concern, Lichet,’ said the Lady briskly. ‘However, from now on, I want Michaelhouse, Albon and you searching for answers. They are coming far too slowly for my liking, and I want this matter solved and settled before the Queen arrives.’

‘You want three investigations to run concurrently?’ asked Lichet uneasily. ‘That is not a good idea, madam. We will fall over each other in–’

‘Nonsense! A little competition is healthy. And to make matters more interesting, I shall offer a reward to the successful party. One hundred marks.’

It was a fortune, and Lichet’s eyes lit greedily. ‘Then I shall have it,’ he declared. ‘I am the one with the best mind.’

‘I am not sure it is wise to offer that sort of incentive, My Lady,’ objected Michael. ‘It may encourage a false solution from someone who just wants the money.’

‘Then you must ensure that yours is the right one, and that it is presented to me first,’ retorted the Lady. ‘However, no one will have anything until I am fully satisfied. And speaking of satisfaction, what is happening with my paroquets, Doctor? You promised to cure them, if you recall.’

‘Lichet refused to let him see them,’ replied Michael, before Bartholomew could tell her that he had done nothing of the kind.

The Lady scowled at the Red Devil, whose face was tight with fury at the revelation. ‘I shall thank you not to countermand my orders, Lichet. I do not tolerate insubordination. Do you hear?’

Her voice was loud, and several courtiers near the door grinned their delight at his discomfiture. He bowed stiffly and took his leave, evidently deciding that it was more prudent to retreat than stay and risk another. The Lady’s gimlet eye swivelled around to Bartholomew, and she flapped an impatient hand for him to help her to her feet.

‘As I cannot trust anyone to do what I ask, I suppose I must take you to see the birds myself,’ she grumbled. ‘I want them mended, and you may have five marks if you succeed.’

‘And you may have two marks for getting Lichet into trouble,’ whispered Ereswell to Michael, as he passed. ‘To go with the pig money that you have already won.’

Michael accepted the coins with a grin. ‘But keep your purse handy. I have not finished with your Red Devil yet. Not by a long way.’

The Oxford Tower was the shortest and oldest of the four turrets, and possessed the smallest, meanest rooms. Bartholomew recalled Ella saying that it was where the least important guests were usually housed – which had included the men from Clare Hall before they had decanted to the Swan. Its stairs were worn, and the doors to its chambers were so thick and sturdy that he found himself thinking that it would serve as a very good prison.

‘You forgot to ask the Lady if Lichet was with her at the time of the murders,’ he murmured as they followed her up the stairs.

‘I did not forget,’ Michael whispered back. ‘I just decided it would be better if Lichet was not there when I did it – prompting her into saying what he wants.’

‘I do not think there is much chance of that. She knows her own mind.’

‘Regardless, I shall ask her when we are alone – and when the occasion is right.’

The paroquets were on the top floor, so it took a while to reach them, as the Lady moved at a very stately pace. This suited Michael, who also disliked racing up steep and narrow staircases, and it gave Bartholomew time to dredge his memory for what little he knew about paroquets.

Fortunately, one of his teachers in Paris had owned one, so while no expert, he was not a complete stranger to the species. He recalled that the bird had been an unruly creature, which had learned bad habits far more quickly than good ones. It and its owner had been devoted to each other, and when he had last heard of them, both were living happily together, with the paroquet dictating their social life and terrorising the students.

‘What is wrong with your birds?’ he asked, during one of their several lengthy breathers. The Lady used these to gaze out of the windows, watching her retainers scurry about with a critical eye. The shirkers would no doubt receive a dressing-down later.

‘They eat vast quantities of food – more than is natural,’ she replied. ‘I am worried that it will adversely affect their health, and they are sweet creatures. I do not want them to sicken.’

‘There is nothing wrong with a healthy appetite,’ declared Michael. ‘And if Matt recommends putting the poor things on a dietary regime devised by that maniac Galen, ignore him. Galen might have been a great physician in ancient Greece, but his ideas have no place in a modern society.’

‘I see,’ said the Lady, amusement flashing in her eyes. ‘However, the paroquets are costing me a fortune in expensive delicacies, and they have a taste for fine wines, too. I want them cured of their gluttony, because it would be a great pity if they grew too fat to fly.’

‘I do not envy you this task, Matt,’ murmured Michael, as the Lady turned to climb the final flight of steps. ‘It is cruel to deprive a living being of its preferred victuals.’

Before Bartholomew could think of a suitably diplomatic reply, the Lady opened the door to a spacious chamber with windows on all sides. In the middle was a T-shaped structure, on which perched three birds. They had long tails, grey faces and crafty eyes. The largest screeched its excitement when it saw the Lady, and flew to her outstretched arm. It bobbed up and down until she gave it a nut, which it snatched and began to gnaw greedily with its sharp black bill.

‘Grisel loves almonds,’ said the Lady, watching it fondly. ‘And meat, of course.’

‘Meat?’ echoed Bartholomew warily. ‘I am not sure that is–’

‘God save the Queen,’ declared Grisel nasally, then added something that sounded like ‘Bring van the hold down.’

‘It talks?’ blurted Michael. ‘My goodness!’

‘My goodness, my goodness,’ croaked Grisel, casting a pale eye in the monk’s direction. ‘Hold the van down bring.’

‘Grisel used to live on a ship,’ explained the Lady. ‘Hence the nautical terminology.’

‘I do not like the look of its beak,’ said Michael uncomfortably. ‘It could relieve a man of fingers, noses, ears and even eyes.’

‘It could,’ agreed the Lady with a smile that was not entirely pleasant. ‘So you had better be on your best behaviour. His companions are named Blanche and Morel. All three were Margery’s originally. She gave them to Anne, to keep her company in her cell, but they kept escaping through the squint to fly around the church.’

‘How were they enticed back inside the anchorhold again?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

‘With almonds,’ replied the Lady, returning Grisel to his perch and offering him a second nut. There was something of a rumpus when the other two tried to relieve him of it. ‘A few weeks later, Anne sent them to me – a bribe, in the hope that I would reinstate her as castle nurse.’

‘Is that an option?’ asked Michael. ‘I suspect she is far more suited to tending youngsters than pretending to be holy.’

‘The Church condemned what she did to Suzanne de Nekton,’ said the Lady, looking away, ‘and I must uphold its strictures, regardless of my own private thoughts on the matter. I am afraid Anne will be an anchoress for the rest of her life.’

‘But you kept the bribe,’ noted Bartholomew, thinking it should have been refused if the Lady aimed to occupy the moral high ground.

She regarded him coolly. ‘A church is no place for paroquets, and they are happier here. Besides, Anne could not give them what they need – namely a lot of very costly treats and a proper keeper to mind them. Katrina de Haliwell used to raise peacocks for me.’

Bartholomew and Michael had not noticed the woman standing by the door. Katrina was pretty, dark-haired and freckled, and wore a black bodice of the kind that had recently come to denote widowhood. She had intelligent green eyes and a mischievous smile.

‘At last,’ she said, when the Lady introduced Bartholomew. ‘I expected you days ago. Did Master Lichet spin you a tale about the birds being his responsibility?’

‘Well, physician?’ demanded the Lady, sparing Bartholomew the need to reply. ‘What are you waiting for? Payment in advance? I am afraid that is not an option. You may only have the five marks when you have diagnosed the cause of their overeating.’

‘Nuts,’ said Grisel, nodding sagely. ‘Queen God save. Down the van bring hold.’

‘Matt will calculate their horoscopes,’ said Michael gravely, although Bartholomew could tell he itched to laugh. ‘Although inspecting their urine is likely to prove more of a challenge.’

‘Then we shall leave him to it,’ said the Lady. ‘Come, monk. Accompany me back down the stairs. You have a killer to catch and I have estate business to attend, so neither of us can dally here.’

Bartholomew was not entirely sure where to begin. The paroquets regarded him with distrust, and he stared back, ready to duck if one flew at him. He knew from his teacher’s bird that they could move fast, and he still had a scar on one knuckle to prove it, dating from a time when he had been eating a piece of bread that the creature had decided was going down the wrong throat.

‘They do not look overfed,’ he said, and glanced surreptitiously at Katrina. It would not be the first time a keeper had requisitioned stores that her charges never saw.

‘They eat what they need,’ she replied loftily. ‘However, it is not their diet that worries me, but the fact that they fight. Yet when I separate them, they pine.’

‘Van the down hold bring,’ confided Grisel.

‘Of course they fight,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You have two males and one female.’

Katrina regarded him coolly. ‘So what do you suggest we do? Buy another female? But what happens if Morel and Grisel still prefer Blanche? Then we will still have two sparring cocks, but will have added an offended hen to the equation.’

Bartholomew wondered how he had let himself be manoeuvred into a position where he was obliged to act as a counsellor for a love triangle between birds. ‘Have you tried distracting them from their amours by giving them interesting things to do?’

She frowned her bemusement. ‘Such as what?’

He raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Teach them tricks, give them toys to play with, provide things for them to chew – although preferably not meat.’

‘I would never give them meat,’ replied Katrina crossly, then flushed when she realised this was probably not what he had been told. ‘Other than when it is necessary.’

Her arrangements with the kitchens were none of his concern, and he was about to say so when Grisel flew to his shoulder, precipitating a sudden memory of his student days. Life had been so simple then, when all he had to do was absorb as much knowledge as he could. Now he was a teacher himself, although that part of his life would be over when he married Matilde. He experienced a sudden sense of misgiving. Was she worth it? To take his mind off such uncomfortable questions, he went to the window and looked out, the bird still on his shoulder.

‘You have a good view of the Cistern Tower,’ he remarked.

‘Yes, but I did not see who murdered Margery, if that is where this discussion is going. Yet I might have done, because I was up at the time. The squires woke me with their racket at midnight, and I could not go back to sleep again. I read for a while, then went to nocturns in the chapel.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘You cannot have done – Heselbech rang the bell, but then decided he was incapable of doing his duty.’

‘Then his memory is flawed, because he did do it. He was behind the rood screen, of course, so I could not see him, but I certainly heard him reciting the words.’

‘And it was definitely Heselbech?’

‘Well, he is our chaplain, so who else could it have been?’ Katrina gave a sudden chuckle. ‘Your friend Master Langelee? He came out as I went in, but he reeked of ale and was just as drunk as Heselbech. It is a pity he is a scholar, as he is a very attractive man.’

‘Langelee is?’ blurted Bartholomew, then decided that he did not want to know the answer. ‘Was anyone else in the chapel when you arrived?’

‘Just Albon, although he was at the front, as near to the chancel as he could get, whereas I kept to the back. He was already kneeling there when I went in, and he stayed after I left. He spends a lot of time praying – probably asking God for an excuse to get him out of going to war.’

‘Then God has given him one,’ said Bartholomew, going to put the paroquet back with its companions. ‘He has vowed not to leave Clare until Margery’s killer is caught.’

‘The Lady will not allow him to wriggle out of his obligations that easily – she wants the squires out of her hair.’ Katrina sighed. ‘Yet I wish I did have something useful to tell you. Margery was my friend, and I should like to help you catch her killer.’

‘Perhaps you can,’ said Bartholomew, and told her about Roos’s double life. ‘We do not know why she summoned him, but it must have been important, as she told a terrible lie to get him here.’

Katrina frowned thoughtfully. ‘Margery liked him to bring her things when he came. I assumed they were from London, but perhaps they were from Cambridge …’

‘What sort of things?’

‘She never said, but you might want to look into it – it could be important.’

She changed the subject then, and told him how she had been invited to work at the castle after being widowed. She had accepted with alacrity, because her husband had left her penniless, and it was an opportunity to secure a suitable replacement.

‘Have you found one?’ Bartholomew hoped she would not set her sights on Langelee, because the Master was likely to take what was offered, then trot home without a backward glance.

Katrina sighed ruefully. ‘Originally, I thought one of the squires would do. They are young, vigorous and have good prospects. But it transpires that they are scum – they grab what they want, then move on, leaving broken hearts behind them. Nuport was my nemesis: once he had added me to his tally, he went after the baker’s sister.’

‘I see.’

‘Thomas is all right, though – he has a sense of humour and I like men who laugh. But he is too much in his sister’s sway, and I do not want to wed twins. So I have decided to make a play for Albon – I think I can secure him before he goes to war. He will treat me well, although he is as dull as ditch-water and a coward into the bargain.’

Bartholomew blinked. ‘You would pay that price for a secure future?’

‘You would never ask that question unless you had experienced real love yourself. Well, I wish you joy of your paragon, but I must take what I can get. Albon will suit me well enough.’

‘Suzanne de Nekton. Was she one of the squires’ victims?’

Katrina shook her head slowly. ‘They may be callous, but they are not rapists. It was another man who destroyed Suzanne. She had to ask Anne for help, but there were problems …’

‘Were there problems? Anne told me that Suzanne just screamed a lot.’

Katrina winced. ‘She whimpered. However, Anne told Suzanne to stay up here and rest when she had finished, and Grisel sensed her distress – it was him who screamed, not Suzanne. Unfortunately, the noise attracted attention, with the result that Anne is walled up in the church, and there is no one left to help needy girls.’

‘Perhaps it is just as well. Scraping inside them with a hook is dangerous.’

‘Giving birth is dangerous,’ countered Katrina. ‘I have lost several friends to childbed fevers. Anne provided a valuable service, and it is a wicked shame that she was punished for it.’

It was an uncomfortable conversation for Bartholomew, and although he had always been able to see both sides of this particular argument, it was not something he was about to discuss with a stranger. He hastened to move on.

‘Anne said Suzanne was sent to a nunnery.’

‘A place where she is safe from ruthless men – including her loathsome father, who claims she shamed him. He is a tanner, but you would think he was a lord from the way he acts.’

Bartholomew left the Oxford Tower full of dark thoughts. Matilde wanted children, but she was old for first-time motherhood. What would he do if there was a choice between losing her and wielding a hook? He sincerely hoped he would never have to find out.