The Habit of Murder

Chapter 9

The next morning was Sunday, and the scholars were woken by the joyful jangle of Sabbath bells. Langelee was heavy-eyed and weary, having spent another evening with his warrior friends. Michael had also stayed up late, reviewing what he had learned about the murder of Roos, but Bartholomew had gone to bed early and slept like a log, so he rose refreshed and alert. He set about washing and shaving, full of vigour and high spirits, the black thoughts of the previous night forgotten. For now, at least.

‘Do not splash,’ snapped Langelee, flinching from the flying droplets. ‘And do not inflict that dreadful singing on us either. It is unkind.’

‘We have a lot to do today,’ said Michael, primping in front of a mirror, ‘because the Lady’s hundred marks should go to Michaelhouse – not to Albon, and certainly not to Lichet. Will you be available to help, Matt, or are you more concerned with the Lady’s birds? Or is it their keeper who has caught your eye?’

‘I do not blame you,’ said Langelee before Bartholomew could reply. ‘That Katrina de Haliwell is a handsome lass, although she has the appetite of a horse if the tales in the kitchens are true. But watch yourself – you do not want tales getting back to Matilde. Women can be touchy about that sort of thing.’

‘What tales?’ objected Bartholomew. ‘All I did was examine her paroquets.’

‘Of course you did,’ said Langelee with a man-of-the-world leer. ‘But tread with care. She wants a husband to replace the one who died, and will accept anyone who can provide her with a decent standard of living.’

‘Well, that eliminates Matt then,’ quipped Michael. ‘Because he will not earn enough to keep himself once he leaves Michaelhouse. He will be almost entirely reliant on Matilde.’

‘What did you two do while I was busy earning five marks for Michaelhouse?’ asked Bartholomew archly, electing to overlook the fact that the money would not be theirs until the Lady was satisfied that he had actually done something useful.

‘Quite a lot, actually,’ replied the monk. ‘We contrived to slip into the Constable Tower behind Lichet’s back, but Marishal was slumbering so deeply that neither of us could get any sense out of him. Then we visited all the taverns in Clare, asking after Bonde and the hermit.’

‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, conceding that they had achieved rather more than he had. ‘What did you learn?’

‘That everyone is worried about Jan, because they like having a holy man in their town, but they are glad to be rid of Bonde, who they think is dangerous.’

‘He is dangerous,’ said Langelee soberly. ‘You can tell just by looking that he is violent. He could well be our culprit, lying low until the fuss dies down, at which point he will strut back and resume his role as the Lady’s favourite henchman. Of course, the hermit was also wandering around the castle at the time of the murders …’

‘He was,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But I discovered last night that he has a deep-rooted terror of underground places, and could no more enter the cistern than fly. Moreover, he adored Margery, as she not only built his cottage but gave him money for his weekly shopping. The townsfolk believe that he witnessed the killer emerge bloody-handed from his crime, and fled in terror.’

‘Perhaps he saw Bonde,’ suggested Langelee, ‘who then set off after him. That would explain why both have gone.’

‘I agree that Jan knows the killer’s identity,’ said Michael. ‘Or rather knew, given that I doubt he is still alive. But I am not sure the culprit is Bonde. There are still others to consider.’

‘Who?’ asked Langelee tiredly. ‘I keep losing track, because they are on and off the list like jumping fleas.’

Michael began to list them. ‘First, Nicholas. I know you are all admiration for him, Master, because he is hearty, strong and decisive, but I cannot take to him at all. There is something sinister beneath that bluff exterior.’

‘You doubtless say the same about me,’ retorted Langelee. ‘But you would be wrong.’

‘You are not artful enough to be sinister,’ said Michael, and hurried on before Langelee realised that was no great compliment. ‘Then there are Marishal, his twins, Lichet, Bonde, Albon and Grym. Not Badew and Harweden, though – they could never have gained access to the castle.’

He did not mention that Prior John was also a suspect, for the simple reason that Langelee would disagree, and he did not want to waste time arguing about it.

‘I thought we had decided that Grym was too fat to squeeze down the cistern steps,’ said Langelee. ‘You only just made it, and he is much stouter than you.’

Michael eyed him beadily. ‘He is a suspect for killing Godeston, on the grounds that he likes to dispense hemlock for medicinal purposes, which Matt says is a risky thing to do. Of course, Lichet uses it, too …’

‘He does,’ agreed Bartholomew, rather eagerly. ‘And perhaps there is a good reason why he has kept Marishal asleep for two days – namely that he killed the man’s wife.’

Langelee frowned. ‘Are we looking into Mayor Godeston’s murder now as well? I thought John told us to leave that to him.’

‘He did,’ said Michael, ‘but the Lady wants all the suspicious deaths investigated and she charged us to do it. I have no objection, though. Godeston’s curious death follows five others, and it is possible that we may only have answers when we look at the whole picture.’

‘How will we do that?’ asked Langelee helplessly.

‘By re-questioning witnesses, starting with you. You were in the castle when Roos and Margery were killed. You must remember something to help.’

Langelee looked pained. ‘All I recall is lugging Heselbech to the chapel for nocturns – which he never celebrated because he was too drunk.’

‘But he did celebrate it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Katrina was there, and she heard him.’

Langelee shrugged. ‘Then he must have managed to rouse himself after I left. I did not notice her, though. Did she see me?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘She said you were coming out as she was going in.’

‘You must be losing your touch, Master,’ said Michael wryly. ‘You do not usually neglect to notice pretty women. Or shall we just put it down to how much you had had to drink?’

Langelee regarded him archly. ‘The strain of running a foundering College must be depriving me of the ability to enjoy life.’ He was silent for a while, thinking. ‘Perhaps Roos killed Margery because he was irked with her for dragging him to Clare under false pretences.’

‘And then what?’ asked Michael. ‘Stabbed himself and threw his own body in the water?’

‘I suppose it is unlikely. But he was a vile man. Only vermin betray their friends – Badew and Harweden trusted him, and he repaid them with treachery. You should find out when he was last in Clare – see if his presence corresponds to the other suspicious deaths.’

‘I did,’ said Michael. ‘And it did not.’

Langelee looked disappointed. ‘Then the culprit must be Lichet. He is not a good man either.’

‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew keenly.

‘The Lady’s courtiers certainly do not like him,’ said Michael. ‘They told me that he does sit with her while she sleeps, but he comes and goes at will. Thus he cannot prove where he was at the time of the murders – which took place in the tower where he lives.’

‘Albon believes Lichet’s alibi, though,’ mused Langelee. ‘Of course, he suspects that the killer is a squire, and thinks that quiet, godly patience will shame the culprit into a confession. He was still sitting in the bailey when I left last night. What an ass!’

At that moment, the priory bell began to ring, summoning the friars to prime in their chapel. Michael became businesslike, standing and rubbing his hands together purposefully.

‘Right,’ he said, glancing one last time in the mirror to ensure that every hair was in its proper place. ‘As soon as we have fulfilled our religious obligations, we will talk to Marishal.’

‘What if Lichet has dosed him with more soporific?’ asked Langelee.

‘We must prevent that if we can,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Keeping healthy patients asleep for days on end will do them no good whatsoever.’

‘When we have finished with Marishal,’ Michael went on, ‘we shall set about finding the mysterious priest who entered the castle after Langelee and Heselbech.’

‘If it was a priest,’ cautioned Bartholomew. ‘It was too dark to see properly, and while you are prepared to accept the watchman’s testimony, I think that his claim about religious men gliding to their offices is preposterous. You are a monk, but you cannot glide.’

‘Of course I can,’ objected Michael, stung. ‘I just choose not to.’

* * *

Michael attended Mass in the priory, but Bartholomew and Langelee went to the parish church instead. Langelee thought the office there would be shorter, and he hated being inactive for too long, while the physician wanted another opportunity to study the fan vaulting. Unfortunately, much of the scaffolding still remained in place, so its true glory was yet to be revealed.

‘It will never be ready in time for the Queen,’ predicted Langelee. ‘Nicholas was too ambitious, and should have given himself another week.’

‘I am looking forward to meeting Cambrug,’ said Bartholomew, but then sighed ruefully. ‘Although he will probably be far too busy to bother with the likes of me.’

‘Well, if he does deign to acknowledge you, ask about those cracks,’ said Langelee, peering upwards. ‘I do not want to be crushed by falling masonry during this ceremony, and it would be good to know if we should stand in the south aisle instead. That has a much more sensible ceiling.’

At that point, Nicholas jangled his handbell and the service began. It was not well attended, and Anne could be heard throughout, issuing instructions to him through the squint. At one point, Bartholomew and Langelee exchanged an amused grin, but soon wished they had not.

‘It is unbecoming to smirk during Mass,’ came her admonishing voice. ‘You should be heartily ashamed of yourselves.’

‘It was one quick smile,’ objected Langelee, moving towards her cell so she would not be obliged to yell. A few of the sparse congregation were men he had approached for donations, and he did not want them to think him impious. ‘And what gives you the right to berate us anyway? You are more interested in telling the vicar his job than saying your own prayers.’

‘I would be a poor anchoress if I did not involve myself in religious affairs,’ retorted Anne. ‘And advising Nicholas is how I choose to do it. But never mind that. Do you have any interesting news? It is frustrating, being shut in here with no way to find out what is going on outside.’

Langelee considered carefully. ‘Well, we are worried about the hermit – that he saw the killer, and has been dispatched in his turn.’

‘Then I shall pray for his soul,’ said Anne. ‘Although he was a worthless fellow, and Clare will be much nicer without him. He did not wash, you know. Margery was always good to him, but I do not know how she stood the stench.’

‘Have you heard any rumours about who the killer may be?’

‘The town says he is from the castle, and the castle says he is from the town. However, I can tell you that Margery’s family would never have hurt her, no matter what you might have heard about the lack of affection between them. Ella and Thomas are scamps, but there is no real harm in them, while Marishal loved her, even if he was always too busy to show it.’

‘Michael thinks that Nicholas might be the culprit,’ confided Langelee in a low voice. ‘It is outrageous, I know, but–’

‘Nicholas?’ interrupted Anne, shocked. ‘Do not be ridiculous! He is a priest. The villain is more likely to be one of you scholarly types. We never had any trouble before you lot arrived.’

‘Yes, you did,’ countered Bartholomew, unwilling to let her get away with that one. ‘Starting with Roger, and followed by Talmach, Charer, Wisbech and Skynere.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Anne. ‘I had forgotten about them. Do you want me to keep an ear out for pertinent confessions then? I will do it in exchange for a seed cake and a bottle of lavender water.’

‘Speaking of confessions,’ began Bartholomew, ‘I met Katrina de Haliwell yesterday. She told me that Suzanne–’

‘I provided a valuable service,’ interrupted Anne angrily. ‘As I told you before. And my skills are badly missed. Take Isabel Morley, for example. She is carrying Quintone’s child, but he refuses to marry her. I could have helped, but now she is condemned to bear a bastard and be shunned for the rest of her life. What a waste!’

‘I was going to say that Katrina claims it was the paroquets who screamed, not Suzanne,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She only whimpered.’

There was a short silence as this information was digested.

‘Then I am sorry for all the bad things I said about her,’ conceded Anne eventually. ‘Still, life in here has its advantages. I am warm, dry, well fed and people revere me. I cannot complain.’

They met Nicholas as they were leaving the church. He was bringing his breakfast to share with Anne – a pan of coddled eggs, good white bread, dried fruit and a dish of stewed onions. It was a good deal better than what was usually served in Michaelhouse on a Sunday, and Bartholomew saw that Anne was right to claim she was well looked after.

‘Two warriors together,’ said the vicar with an approving smile when he saw Bartholomew and Langelee. ‘A veteran of Poitiers and a soldier from York. How are you this fine morning?’

‘I am not a warrior,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘I am a physician.’

Nicholas patted his arm. ‘You can be both, and there is no need to be modest on my account. I am all admiration for the number of Frenchmen you slaughtered single-handed.’

‘There are three enquiries into the murders of Roos and Margery now,’ said Langelee, changing the subject quickly before Bartholomew could berate him again for telling lies. ‘Run by Michael, Lichet and Albon. The last two are unlikely to succeed, but our Senior Proctor is a remarkable man, and no killer has bested him yet. I should warn you that he has you in his sights.’

‘Me?’ blurted Nicholas, startled. ‘But I have not killed anyone! Well, not in Clare, at least. And I try to stay away from the castle, on the grounds that it is full of folk who I do not like.’

‘Well, do not tell him that when he questions you, or he will assume that you took the opportunity to dispatch a couple,’ advised Langelee. ‘Apparently, two Austins entered the castle at the salient time – Heselbech and one other. He thinks the mystery priest might have been you.’

‘Then he is wrong,’ said Nicholas firmly, ‘as Anne will attest. Brother Michael cannot doubt the word of a holy anchoress.’

Bartholomew knew he could.

‘Well, just be on your guard,’ said Langelee, and glanced at Bartholomew. ‘Do not look so disapproving. You remember what I was telling you about loyalty earlier? Well, that extends to telling fellow ex-warriors that they may be unjustly accused of a nasty crime.’

‘Michael will have a job to waylay me today anyway,’ said Nicholas, ‘as I shall be very busy. Not only do I have all my usual Sunday offices, but there is the scaffolding to dismantle, and Margery is due to be buried later.’

‘Buried here?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Not in the castle?’

‘The chapel is reserved for the Lady and her kin, so yes, Margery will come to me. I shall put her in the chancel – the best spot in the whole church, right in front of the altar.’

‘That is good of you,’ said Langelee. ‘But why? Because you are an Austin, dedicated to keeping the peace? Your strategy may well work: the town will be glad to see Margery in such an auspicious place, while the castle will be grateful to you for treating her remains with such respect.’

Nicholas regarded him stonily. ‘I do it because I liked her. If it had been any other castle resident, they would have gone on the boggy side of the churchyard. Prior John does not approve of my partiality, but it is the town that pays my stipend …’

‘Will there be trouble at the funeral?’ asked Langelee. ‘The town objecting to a lot of the enemy pouring into their parish church?’

‘They will overlook the outrage for Margery’s sake,’ said Nicholas. ‘She was loved by all.’

Bartholomew and Langelee returned to the priory just as Michael and the friars were emerging from their more extensive devotions in the conventual chapel. The monk’s fine voice had far outshone the manly rumbles of the Austins, and he was modestly accepting the praise they were lavishing on him for his exquisite rendition of the Gloria.

‘They should hire someone to sing for them if they cannot do it themselves,’ Michael muttered, as they traipsed towards the refectory to break their fast. ‘Because they sound like what they are – a lot of old soldiers more used to bawling tavern songs than psalms.’

‘God will not mind,’ said Langelee. ‘He likes ex-soldiers. It says so in the Bible.’

‘I am sure it does not,’ countered Michael, ‘and besides, I am not sure they are ex-soldiers. They are all wearing some form of armour under their habits, while Weste has a cudgel and Heselbech would chop off his fingers if he tried paring fruit with that great big knife in his belt.’

‘Of course they are armed,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘Keeping the peace here is dangerous.’

‘I do not equip myself with weapons when I patrol Cambridge,’ argued Michael. ‘Their precautions are excessive. Besides, I have never been comfortable with men who take holy orders to atone for violent pasts. You never know when they might revert to type.’

Langelee glared. ‘In other words, you think that one of the Austins killed Margery and Roos, just because some watchman thinks a second friar followed Heselbech and me into the castle.’

‘I do. John, Heselbech, Weste – all look as though they would be happier in mail than a habit, and their priory is more like a barracks than a House of God. I wish I had suggested staying somewhere else.’

But he revised his opinion when he saw the Sabbath breakfast table. There was bread, plenty of meat, a whole cheese and butter – the kind of spread he loved. As a sop to health, there was a tiny dish of dried figs, although Bartholomew was the only one who ate one. It was old and stale, leading him to conclude that they had probably been making an appearance every Sunday for months, and as the friars shunned them, would continue to do so for many more to come.

As conversation was permitted that day, it was not long before the subject turned to murder. John asked for an update on the investigation, and Langelee provided him with one, ignoring the warning kicks that Michael aimed at his ankles under the table. The monk did not want to share everything they had learned.

‘I immortalised Roos in my Book of Hours?’ breathed Weste, stunned. ‘I had no idea! All I can tell you is that “Jevan” had nasty glittering eyes that belied his avuncular white hairs. I sensed at once that there was something distasteful about him.’

‘And you were right,’ said John, lips pursed in disapproval at Langelee’s revelations. ‘The only crime worse than the breaking of sacred oaths is betraying one’s friends. You were perceptive to have depicted him as Satan.’

‘I agree,’ said Heselbech, baring his terrifying teeth in a grimace, while there were fervent nods from all around the refectory. ‘It is despicable, and the Devil will certainly have his soul now.’

‘So you think Roos got his just deserts?’ fished Michael.

Heselbech regarded him evenly. ‘Yes, if you want the truth. However, we did not kill him. I was asleep in my chapel, and everyone else was here, celebrating nocturns.’

‘You were not asleep,’ Bartholomew told him. ‘Katrina de Haliwell heard you praying.’

Heselbech blinked. ‘Did she? Goodness! I have no recollection of it at all.’

‘I am not surprised, given the state of you,’ smirked Langelee. ‘You did not really ring the bell either – you clutched the rope for support. Then your hands slid down it and you fell over.’

‘It was I who recited nocturns in the castle,’ announced Weste, and raised his hands apologetically when everyone looked at him in surprise. ‘I knew Heselbech would be incapable, and I did not want him in trouble with the Lady, who attends that ceremony on occasion. So I followed him and Langelee to the chapel, and I did the honours at the altar, while he snored in the corner.’

Heselbech clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You are a good friend, Weste! The Lady would have docked my stipend if she had caught me napping, so I appreciate you looking out for me.’

‘Well, I do not,’ said Michael sourly. ‘Why did you not mention this sooner? You must see it is important. We wasted hours pondering over the mysterious second priest.’

Weste was unrepentant. ‘It is not important, because I neither saw nor heard anything to help your investigation. And I did not tell you, because I did not want Heselbech’s condition to become a subject for gossip. Of course, he has made no effort to conceal his shortcomings himself …’

Heselbech grinned. ‘And rightly so, because it has done my popularity the power of good. Castle folk like me more now they realise that I am just like them.’

‘So who else was in the chapel?’ asked Michael angrily, glaring at Weste. ‘Or will you lie about that as well?’

Weste made a placatory gesture. ‘Just two people – which is why the office had to be said. Katrina de Haliwell and Sir William Albon.’

‘I cannot believe this,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘Lies and deceit from fellow clerics! How am I supposed to solve these murders when even friars regale me with falsehoods?’

‘You should have confessed sooner, Weste,’ said John admonishingly. ‘But what is done is done, and we are not in the business of recrimination. Judgement is for the Lord to dispense, not us, so we shall say no more about it. Agreed, Brother?’

Michael looked as though he had a very great deal more to say, but confined himself to an angry sniff, and for a while there was silence, the only sounds being the clank of knives on pewter plates and the occasional murmur of thanks as platters were passed. Eventually, Langelee spoke.

‘I do not like Anne. She is not very religious, and I am surprised the Church does not pull her anchorhold down and send her on her way. Why do you tolerate her, John?’

‘Guilt,’ explained the Prior sheepishly. ‘When I first learned that she poked about inside pregnant girls with hooks, I was appalled, and it was my horror that compelled the Lady to punish her. Anne’s crimes might have been overlooked otherwise, as there is an unspoken but widely held belief that she did a lot of good.’

‘So why did you not order the sentence commuted?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Only a physician with a reputation for heterodoxy could pose such a question,’ said Heselbech before John could speak for himself. He eyed Bartholomew coolly. ‘Because it is wrong. A life is a life, and it is not for Anne to decide who should live and who should perish on a hook.’

There was a second uncomfortable silence, which again was broken by Langelee, who tended to be immune to chilly atmospheres.

‘I have been thinking about the hermit, Brother. You believe he is dead, but you may be wrong, and if you are, we should hear what he has to say. So I will hunt for him today.’

‘I will keep you company,’ offered Weste, his one eye gleaming at the prospect of an adventure. ‘I am sure Father Prior can spare me for a few hours.’

‘Perhaps we can all go,’ suggested Heselbech, surging to his feet with a grin of happy anticipation. ‘I would not mind an excursion and–’

‘No,’ interrupted John, raising his hand with a tolerant smile. ‘The Queen will arrive the day after tomorrow, and we do not have time for jaunts. If you want exercise, Heselbech, help Nicholas. He still has a lot of scaffolding to remove, and I am sure he would be glad of another pair of hands.’

Heselbech walked away, shoulders slumped dejectedly, as did most of the others, although Weste and Langelee set off towards the stables with a spring in their step.

‘Watch out for Simon Freburn,’ John called after them. ‘We do not want you to come back sans ears.’

‘No fear of that,’ declared Langelee, clearly delighted by an opportunity to gallop around the countryside with a sword at his side. ‘No mere outlaw will get the better of us.’

‘I hope his confidence is not misplaced,’ said Michael worriedly.

It was raining, so Bartholomew and Michael returned to their lodgings to collect cloaks. Bartholomew picked up his shabby, burned academic one and regarded it with regret.

‘You will have to wear Albon’s,’ said Michael. ‘Of course, it is far too good for the likes of you – you will ruin it within a week. If it was black, I would take it for myself.’

‘Then I am glad it is red,’ said Bartholomew, making a vow to look after it. Once he left the University, and was no longer obliged to wear Michaelhouse’s uniform, he would need a new one, and Albon’s gift would fit the bill perfectly. Moreover, he was sure Matilde would like to see him wearing more becoming colours.

‘With the exception of a dry afternoon here and there, it has been raining for weeks,’ grumbled Michael, sitting on the bed to exchange shoes for boots. ‘We are lucky Roos and Margery were found – that cistern must be full to overflowing by now.’ He shuddered. ‘What if someone was trapped down there, with the water steadily rising?’

‘I imagine most people know to stay out of it. And the well needs to be deep to serve hundreds of people in the event of a blockade. Lack of fresh water is one of the main reasons for the fall of fortresses in–’

‘Those rough Austins have brought out the warrior in you,’ interrupted Michael accusingly. ‘Because I never expected to hear you waxing lyrical on the intricacies of siege warfare.’

‘It is the mechanics of the cistern that intrigue me,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘Not the purpose for which it might be used.’

But Michael was not listening, his mind back on the investigation. ‘We had better find out what Marishal has to say about the death of his wife first, and when we have finished, we will re-interview Thomas, Ella, Lichet, Albon and Nicholas. That should keep us busy for the morning.’

‘And beyond,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I should visit the paroquets, too. The Lady will not give us five marks if she finds out that I only examined them once.’

‘I cannot see the Queen taking to the roads in this weather,’ remarked Michael, wincing as they stepped outside and rain blew straight into their faces. ‘Not even to watch a fan-vaulted ceiling dedicated. She will send word that she is unavoidably detained, and postpone the visit until summer. You mark my words.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The town and the Lady might be friends again by then.’

A thick, drenching drizzle fell as they walked from the priory to the castle, and the River Stour was an ugly brown torrent. People scurried along with their heads down and their hoods up, and Bartholomew felt his hopes rise: the rain would dissuade folk from taking to the streets to protest about the murders, which could only help the cause of peace. Then he heard the hiss of angry conversation drifting from the alehouses they passed, and realised that the malcontents had just taken their complaints indoors.

He and Michael entered the inner bailey and were greeted by a curious sight. Albon had erected the pavilion that he intended to take on campaign with him – a glorious affair of red and gold stripes, with frills around the edges and a large pennant flying from the roof. It was wholly unsuitable for the conditions he was likely to encounter, and the squires, who had been given the task of erecting it, were hot, cross and fractious.

‘Look what they have done to themselves now!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘They have shaved off all their hair except the fringe at the front. What are they thinking? They look absurd!’

‘It is the latest Court fashion, apparently,’ explained Quintone, overhearing. ‘Thomas had a letter about it from London, and he said the Queen would consider them peasants unless they did the same. He declines to do it himself, though, on the grounds that he is only a steward’s brat, whereas the squires are the sons of nobles.’

Bartholomew shook his head wonderingly. ‘Were they born gullible, or did they learn it?’

‘I am glad I am not going to war with Thomas,’ confided Quintone. ‘If he cannot be trusted not to make his friends a laughing-stock, how can he be trusted to watch their backs in battle?’

‘Why has Albon pitched his tent?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘To make sure that he has all the right pieces before he leaves for France?’

‘No – because he does not want to sit out in the rain while he waits for the killer to confess.’ Quintone smirked. ‘It took the squires most of the night to get the thing up.’

‘So Langelee wins the wager,’ murmured Michael. ‘We gave Albon until yesterday to persist with this nonsense, whereas Langelee predicted it would last until tonight. Of course, now he has somewhere comfortable, Albon might confound us all by staying put for the next month.’

‘Well, he does look magnificent in there,’ said Bartholomew, glancing through the entrance to see Albon on his throne, another fine cloak cascading artistically around him and his gold-grey mane brushed until it shone. His expression was one of pious fortitude, and the physician wondered if he might stay that way not just for a month, but for as long as the army was needed in France.

He stepped towards him, intending to thank him again for the cloak, but found his way barred by the squires. Close up, their heads looked sore, covered in small cuts and grazes, which suggested they had shorn themselves rather than entrusting the task to a professional barber.

‘Your master will not thank you for keeping folk out,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘He wants the culprit to go in and confess, which will not happen with you lot loitering outside.’

‘You mean you are the killer?’ asked Nuport, blinking stupidly.

‘Not him,’ said Thomas, regarding the physician with an expression that was difficult to gauge. ‘He is a veteran of Poitiers, and they do not kill women and old men.’

Bartholomew was not so sure about that, but the squires stepped aside to let him pass anyway.

The inside of the pavilion was very luxuriously appointed. Clearly, Albon had an eye for his creature comforts. The knight waved a dismissive hand when Bartholomew indicated his new cloak with a grateful smile, although it was clear that he was pleased his largesse should be appreciated.

‘It is just a trifle,’ he declared. ‘And valour should be rewarded. It was brave of you to put yourself in danger to save a minion. True knightly behaviour.’

‘Speaking of true knightly behaviour, your squires could do with learning some.’

‘I am aware of that,’ said Albon with a pained expression. ‘And I shall teach them, with God’s help. They are not bad lads – just ones in need of a gentle guiding hand.’

‘A guiding hand, certainly,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Although a gentle one will be of scant use. I speak from experience – I have students just like them.’

‘I know what I am doing,’ said Albon, although Bartholomew begged to differ, and wondered how long it would be before the knight conceded that his ruffianly charges were beyond him.

As he and Albon were alone, Bartholomew decided it was a good opportunity to ask about the night of the murder, although not with much hope of learning anything useful. Albon was too self-absorbed to be an observant witness. Even so, the knight listened carefully to his questions, and considered each one thoroughly before venturing a reply. At first, Bartholomew assumed he was being conscientious, but then realised that Albon was desperately bored, and an interview represented a welcome distraction.

‘I went to nocturns in the chapel,’ the knight began. ‘I had hoped to be alone, but a woman stood at the back and fidgeted the whole way through, which was very annoying. She left as soon as the rite was over, which allowed me to pray without the distraction of rustling kirtles.’

‘Were you aware that it was Weste, not Heselbech, who recited the office?’

‘No, but what difference does it make? Both are priests. I appreciate that there are some who would prefer the castle chaplain to a friar from the town, but I am not one of them.’

‘Did you see anyone else out and about that night?’

Albon grimaced. ‘I hesitate to mention it, out of loyalty to a fellow warrior, but Langelee was with Heselbech. They made a dreadful racket with the bell ropes, then staggered behind the rood screen, where I heard one of them fall over. It was most unedifying. Then Langelee left, and I saw another shadow glide into the chancel – Weste, according to you.’

‘Will you really stay here until the culprit confesses?’ asked Bartholomew, sorry that Albon was able to tell him nothing he and Michael did not already know.

Albon smiled serenely. ‘Yes, but it will not be for much longer. Today is Sunday, that most holy of days, when everyone attends church. The killer’s wicked heart will be touched by God, so I anticipate collecting a hundred marks before sunset.’

‘And then you will go to France?’

‘I am afraid I cannot, because the Queen will be here. The Lady will need a strong arm during such an eventful time, and I cannot abandon her in her hour of need.’

‘But Her Majesty might stay in Clare for weeks, or even months.’

‘She might,’ acknowledged Albon, not at all dismayed by the possibility. ‘But France will still be there when she has gone. Of course, her husband may have signed a peace treaty by then …’

‘Your squires will be disappointed to miss the slaughter.’

‘It cannot be helped, and I must do as my conscience dictates. I hope the culprit comes to me soon, though, as I fear Lichet might otherwise accuse an innocent person, just to get the reward. It is a pity the Lady offered such an enormous sum.’

‘What will you do with it, if you win?’

‘Why, give it to the parish church, of course,’ replied Albon, so promptly it was clear that he had already given the matter exhaustive consideration. ‘The ceiling is magnificent, but it would look better still with a picture of me on it.’

Bartholomew left him contemplating the kind of image that would best do him justice, and went in search of Michael. He found the monk listening to a very testy debate between Nuport and the freckled squire named Mull about a guy rope that had no obvious purpose. Apparently, the tent had not been erected as per the manufacturers’ instructions, and Mull thought they should take it down and start again, when the function of the stray rope might become apparent. Nuport was of the opinion that they had struggled with the pavilion quite long enough, and that the offending line should be snipped off and forgotten.

‘I hope Nuport wins,’ said Michael to Bartholomew. ‘Because it would give me great pleasure to see the thing topple down with that lot inside it. And that includes the sanctimonious Albon.’

The two scholars had not taken many steps towards the Constable Tower when they were intercepted by Lichet. The Red Devil’s hair hung in soggy rats’ tails around his face, while his cloak was saturated, suggesting he had been up and about for hours.

‘I have been interviewing witnesses all night,’ he informed them importantly. ‘And I am almost ready to announce my conclusions. The killer will be in custody today, and I shall have the hundred marks while you two continue to flounder.’

‘Perhaps,’ cautioned Michael. ‘But just naming the killer will not do – the Lady wants proof of his guilt. Otherwise I could just say that you are the culprit, and march off with the money.’

Lichet sneered. ‘Oh, I shall have proof, do not worry about that.’

‘Good,’ said Michael briskly. ‘But we want to talk to Marishal now. Is he awake, or have you dosed him with more soporific that will see him sleep the day away?’

‘I offered him another draught, but he refused,’ sniffed Lichet, apparently having forgotten that the Lady had forbidden him to dispense more. ‘He is a fool to reject the medicine that will spare him the agony of grief, but it is not my place to insist. I shall reserve my expertise for people who actually appreciate my help.’

He turned and stalked away, full of arrogant pride. Seeing such a tempting target, Nuport scooped up a handful of mud and lobbed it, hitting Lichet square in the back. The Red Devil whipped around, and the fury on his face was such that the laughter died in the young man’s throat.

‘Do that again, and I will turn you into a pig,’ Lichet snarled. ‘And serve you to your cronies, roasted with an apple shoved in your mouth.’

‘Turn him into a pig?’ murmured Ereswell, as he ambled past with his arms full of clean white linen for the Queen’s private chamber. ‘How, when he already is one? I do not know which of that pair I detest more – Lichet or Nuport. I live in hope that they will dispatch each other.’

‘Nuport might dispatch Lichet,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘His expression is murderous – he did not appreciate being threatened in front of his friends.’

‘And Lichet did not appreciate being humiliated with a fistful of filth,’ said Ereswell. ‘He will not forget such an insult, and Nuport should watch himself.’

As befitted a man who ran a great household, Marishal lived in considerable comfort, and his quarters were almost as luxurious as the Lady’s. The walls were covered with tapestries, the mixture of which suggested they had been chosen because he liked them, not because they went with the rest of the décor. Yet Margery’s hand was also everywhere, from the bright cushions that were scattered along the benches to the light, airy nature of the family solar.

Marishal was standing by the hearth when the scholars were shown in. He wore an exquisite gipon with tight sleeves and flowing skirts, which had been embroidered with silver thread. His belt was silver, too, and on his feet were soft slippers that looked as though they had been imported from the east. His hair had been oiled and he was freshly shaved. All he needed, thought Bartholomew, was a circlet of gold on his head, and he might be mistaken for a prince. He was pale, but the numb shock had gone, and he seemed in control of himself once again.

‘Lichet left me a potion,’ he said, gesturing to a brimming cup on the table. ‘But I have slept enough, and it is time to confront my anguish. Indeed, I would have done it yesterday, but he slipped his “remedy” into my breakfast pottage without my knowledge.’

‘Did he indeed?’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘That was unethical.’

‘We appreciate that this is a difficult time for you, Master Marishal,’ said Michael kindly. ‘Yet I imagine your children must be a great comfort to you.’

Marishal sniffed and did not acknowledge the last remark. ‘Margery will be buried today. Nicholas has offered her the best spot in the entire church, which is good of him. Of course, it is no less than she deserves, sweet saint that she was.’

He talked a little longer about Margery and her life, but told them little they did not already know, other than the fact that he had been devoted to her and now deeply regretted not giving her the attention she deserved. His occupation was a demanding one, but she had always been patiently understanding of the long hours he worked. Eventually, Michael steered the subject around to Roos and his double life as a member of the Lady’s council. Marishal smiled wanly, and remarked that he was surprised it had taken them so long to uncover the truth.

‘Were you aware that Margery sent him a message,’ asked Michael, electing to ignore the criticism of his talents, ‘urging him to come with all possible haste? Indeed, she was so determined that he should answer her summons that she claimed the Lady was dead, and told him to hurry if he wanted to make the funeral.’

Marishal blinked. ‘Well, that would certainly have brought him running! The Lady promised to leave him a little something in her will, and he would have wanted to be on hand to claim it. But why would Margery invent such a terrible lie?’

‘We were hoping you could tell us,’ said Michael.

Marishal raised his hands in a helpless shrug. ‘I cannot imagine what prompted her to do such a thing. Are you sure it was her?’

Michael showed him the two letters from Roos’s room, and explained how they had come by them. Marishal clutched them to his breast while tears brimmed in his eyes.

‘She wrote these, without question. She nearly always corresponded with the council for me, confirming our Quarter Day gatherings. She hoped that it would allow me to spend more time with her, although it rarely worked out that way.’

‘So there was no extraordinary session,’ pressed Michael, ‘organised to deal with some urgent and unexpected problem?’

Marishal wiped his eyes. ‘If there were, Roos would not have been included. A few minor matters are aired on Quarter Days, and there is always a nice feast afterwards, but all the important decisions are made by the Lady and me alone, as and when necessary. The Quarter Days are essentially a sop to the likes of Roos, Albon and Lichet, who like to feel valued.’

‘And they are unaware of this?’ asked Michael, who would have seen the truth in a trice.

Marishal gave another weary smile. ‘It is easy to deceive self-absorbed men. But to return to Roos: he was not here on council business, and I know of no reason why Margery should have wanted to see him. I wish I did, because then her death might make sense to me.’

‘We know they were kin,’ said Michael. ‘Could it have been some family concern?’

‘Their ties were distant, so no. Of course, it was their relationship that made him the perfect choice to monitor the University on our behalf. It was my idea to recruit him, although the Lady will remember it as her own. I invented the name “Philip de Jevan” as well. It has a nice ring about it, and Roos approved.’

‘To monitor the University?’ echoed Michael, narrowing his eyes. ‘Are you saying that Roos spied on us all, not just Badew?’

Marishal spread his hands. ‘Information is power, and your studium generale takes my Lady’s money, so yes, we expected his reports to be wide-ranging. You do it for the Bishop of Ely, and Master Heltisle of Bene’t College does it for the King, so there are precedents.’

To conceal his consternation that his arrangement with the Bishop should be common knowledge, Michael showed Marishal the onyx rings. ‘Have you seen these before?’

Marishal nodded. ‘They are family heirlooms. Roos gave one to Margery, and she wore it to please him, although she never liked it very much.’

‘We have been told that Roos and Margery were once … close,’ said Michael. ‘Is it true?’

‘What gossips people are!’ exclaimed Marishal angrily. ‘Do they have nothing better to do? And yes, he did once pay suit to her, but then she met me. He was disappointed, but could see she was in love with a younger, brighter man. However, their brief and ancient amour had nothing to do with their deaths. Margery and I have been married for twenty-four years, and his infatuation died a long time ago, along with any resentment he might have harboured.’

‘I am sorry, but I must ask: where were you between nocturns and dawn on Friday?’

‘In here mostly, with my three clerks. We are frantically busy with the royal visit, and Thursday night was particularly hectic, because letters had arrived from Court detailing certain demands that must be met. The Clare Hall men offered to help …’

‘They mentioned working all night,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that they had been far from pleased about it.

‘I heard the bell chime for nocturns, but we had no time to attend. Later, I went to the Oxford Tower, to collect any documents that Donwich and Pulham might have finished, and on the way, I heard Adam the baker race screaming from the cistern … then everything is a blur.’

He could tell them no more, so Bartholomew and Michael left him in peace.

‘He works so hard that he has missed the most important thing in his life,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘Time with his beloved wife. And now she is gone, so he will never have it. Therein lies a lesson for us all.’

Which meant, he thought, that he should marry Matilde as soon as he could. Marishal would spend the rest of his life lamenting the choices he had made, so Bartholomew should make sure he did not do the same. Or would he then regret abandoning the teaching he loved so much?

‘He was too busy to notice what she was doing, as well,’ mused Michael. ‘Perhaps a constantly absent husband made her lonely, but her old flame Roos was there to step into the breach.’

‘Regardless, Marishal did not kill them, not if he has three clerks to provide his alibi.’

‘Clerks who work for him, and who will say anything to keep his favour. And he did not mention taking them with him when he went to collect documents from the Oxford Tower. However, remember that we were also told how Thomas was quickly on the scene once the alarm was raised. Perhaps it was he who disapproved of his mother cavorting with another man.’

‘I suppose we can try speaking to him again,’ said Bartholomew without enthusiasm. ‘Although I suspect it will be a waste of time.’

The twins were near the chapel, laughing helplessly, and it was obvious to anyone watching that yet another prank was in the offing, suggesting that they had learned nothing from the near-incineration of Adam. That day, Ella had donned a plain blue kirtle that matched her eyes, while Thomas wore shoes with points so long that they were fastened to his knees with ribbons.

‘You will trip,’ warned Bartholomew, then wished he had kept his thoughts to himself, as it would be rather satisfying to see the odious young man fall flat on his face.

‘Not me,’ declared Thomas confidently, ‘although Nuport will take a tumble when he orders the cobbler to make him footwear to match mine – which he will, because he is a stupid oaf, who copies everything I do, even when it is obviously a joke.’

‘I thought you were friends,’ said Bartholomew, bemused by his malice.

‘Companions,’ corrected Thomas shortly. ‘It is not the same.’

‘Even so, you would be wise not to alienate him. You might need him in France.’

‘Need him?’ scoffed Thomas. ‘I would sooner trust a gnat, which would have a good deal more sense and be more likeable into the bargain. Besides, what do you know of France and war?’

‘More than you ever will – he fought in the Battle of Poitiers,’ retorted Michael, and seeing this failed to impress, added, ‘The Prince of Wales himself praised his valour.’

The last part was pure fabrication, but Thomas regarded Bartholomew with new interest. ‘Then perhaps you should join us when we leave. A physician might come in useful.’

‘You are not going anywhere as long as your mother’s killer is at large,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Albon has sworn not to leave Clare until the culprit is caught.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Thomas with a grimace. ‘Which was reckless, because not every crime has a solution, and he might be here for ever.’

Which would suit Albon perfectly, thought Bartholomew wryly.

At that moment, a cluster of kitchen maids walked past, and one darted forward to press something into Thomas’s hand. It was a cake, warm from the oven. He accepted it with a gracious bow that made her blush prettily before scampering away to rejoin her fellows. Recalling what Katrina had said about the squires’ morals, Bartholomew wondered how long it would be before she was used and tossed aside with a broken heart.

‘So what other questions do you have?’ asked Thomas, tearing his eyes away from the jauntily swaying hips. ‘To ask yet again where we were on the night of our mother’s murder? Very well: we were in Ella’s room playing board games.’

‘But you arrived very quickly after Adam raised the alarm,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Yes, because we live close to the Cistern Tower. I was still dressed, so all I had to do was run down one flight of stairs and trot across the bailey.’

‘And Adam’s screeches were not very loud at first,’ put in Ella. ‘He began with a few whimpers, which we heard because my window was open. Thomas jumped up at once to see what was wrong, so he had a head start when Adam really began to howl.’

‘What did you do?’ Bartholomew asked her.

‘Unlike Thomas, I was not dressed. By the time I was, he and the others had been down into the cistern, found our mother and Roos, and climbed back up to the bailey again.’

Michael nodded to the pink pearls around Ella’s neck. ‘Those belonged to Margery. Could you not have waited until after her funeral before raiding her jewellery box?’

Ella regarded him steadily. ‘She told me I could have them when she died.’

‘Did she? Why? The pair of you were not close, by your own admission.’

‘So what? I am still her daughter – her only daughter. But if I am a thief, then so are you. I know you stole the onyx ring from her corpse, because I watched you show it to the Lady.’ She held out her hand. ‘And I want it back.’

‘Your father has it,’ replied Michael, unmoved by the accusation. ‘Along with the matching one owned by Roos. Ask him for them.’

Ella’s eyes flashed angrily, and it was clear that she would never dare. She went on an offensive to disguise her annoyance. ‘Although why she agreed to wear an heirloom from that disgusting old lecher is beyond me. He was all pawing hands and will not be missed.’

‘What about Talmach?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘Is he missed?’

‘Terribly,’ replied Ella coldly. ‘His death turned me into a widow. I know there is a rumour that Thomas and I made an end of him, but it is a lie. We never touched him or his saddle.’

‘Ask Anne the anchoress,’ put in Thomas. ‘She knows us better than anyone, and will tell you that we are no killers.’

‘I miss Anne,’ sighed Ella, sadness replacing her ire at Michael and his questions. ‘She was more fun than everyone else put together, and the castle is dull without her. It is a pity the Austins made such a fuss about Suzanne. If they had controlled themselves, Anne would still be here.’

‘They did not make nearly as much a fuss as that wretched tanner, though,’ said Thomas, and glanced at the scholars before explaining. ‘Suzanne’s father. The Austins were all righteous indignation, but Nekton was poisonous, and it was he who really forced the Lady’s hand. That vicious-tongued hypocrite has a lot to answer for.’

‘We have not met Nekton yet,’ said Bartholomew, wondering if the aggrieved tanner was responsible for some of the murders – Margery, Roos, Talmach, Charer and Wisbech had associations with the castle, where Anne had done her work. ‘Where does he live?’

‘Not in Clare,’ smirked Thomas vengefully. ‘After all, who wants to reside in a house that is always infested with rats and fleas? And who wants to tan hides that no one will buy? He took himself off to London in the end, where I hope he will be miserable.’

‘But what father would not object when he discovered that the castle’s nurse had carried out an illegal and dangerous procedure on his daughter?’ asked Michael reasonably. ‘He could hardly pretend it did not happen and look the other way.’

‘Why not?’ asked Ella coolly. ‘Other fathers did – lots of them. And because of Nekton’s mean spirit, we lost our beloved nurse and Clare lost a woman with a very useful skill.’

‘It is difficult to know what to make of them,’ remarked Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked away a few moments later. ‘They care for no one but themselves, and they are certainly callous enough to dispatch their mother and a kinsman to suit themselves. And yet what would be their motive? Not a string of pink pearls, surely?’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Who knows? I do not understand them either.’

‘It is hard to blame Margery and Marishal for declining to dote on them,’ the monk went on. ‘I imagine their stupid japes and arrogance were a cause of shame and embarrassment to two such respectable, hardworking people. Did you notice Marishal’s reaction when I remarked that the twins must be a comfort to him? He does not love them, and I suspect Margery found it difficult, too.’

‘So what now? A word with the squires? I know Adam told us that they went to bed at midnight and did not stir again until morning, but he cannot have watched all their doors and windows. One may have slipped out quietly on his own.’

‘You mean Nuport,’ surmised Michael. ‘The most loathsome and vicious of the pack. But does he have the wits to commit such a serious crime and leave no clues or witnesses?’

‘No, but there is always an element of luck involved. And perhaps there was a witness anyway – the hermit, who you think has been dispatched in his turn.’

The squires were struggling to stabilise Albon’s pavilion. The wind was no more than a whisper that day, but even that was enough to make it billow alarmingly, and Bartholomew was under the impression that it might take to the skies at any moment. As they passed, Ereswell whispered that it leaked as well, so its owner would be in for a wretched time if, God forbid, he should ever be compelled to use it on a military campaign.

Like Thomas, the squires wore shoes with ridiculously long toes, although theirs were so extreme that they were able to tie the ends to their belts. Combined with their harlequin hose, flowing sleeves, oiled beards and part-shaven heads, they looked worse than absurd, and Bartholomew wondered how much more preposterous they would make themselves before Albon put an end to it. However, while Nuport strutted about proudly, clearly delighted with himself and the way he looked, his friends were now aware that they were a laughing-stock, and were obviously uncomfortable.

‘What, again?’ groaned Nuport, when Michael ordered them to recount their movements on the night of the murder. ‘We have already told you, Brother – we spent the evening in the Bell Inn, and came back here at midnight.’

‘After which we all flopped into our beds and went to sleep,’ finished Mull. ‘Except Thomas, who went to visit his sister.’

‘Flopped into your beds alone?’ asked Michael. ‘Or did you have company?’

‘Alone, unfortunately,’ sighed Mull. ‘Sir William made us promise to remain chaste until we reach France, lest God punishes us for lechery. It is very hard, which is why we are forced to drink so much ale and wine – to suppress our natural appetites.’

‘I must remember that excuse for the next time I have a drop too much claret,’ murmured Michael, fighting down the urge to laugh.

‘I shall not deny myself for much longer, though,’ warned Nuport, and leered at a passing milkmaid; she dropped the pail she was carrying and fled. ‘It was fine when it was only going to be for a few days, but now he says we might be delayed for weeks. Well, bugger that for a lark!’

‘But we took a vow to abstain until we touch French soil,’ Mull pointed out. ‘You cannot break it – not if you do not want dire things to happen to you. But I agree with one thing, though: we cannot deny ourselves for much longer, so unless Sir William takes us away soon, we might have to make our own way there.’

‘Lord! That would be dangerous,’ said another lad worriedly. ‘We need a knight to guide us or we are likely to be dispatched by the first Frenchmen we meet.’

The squires exchanged anxious glances – all except Nuport, who scoffed his disdain for their faint-heartedness, and then informed them that if they felt the urge to take a girl they should do it and the consequences be damned.

‘Did you know Roos, who called himself Jevan?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject abruptly, much to Nuport’s annoyance and the others’ relief.

‘The white-haired ancient from London?’ asked Mull. ‘Yes, we heard he and the scholar were one and the same, although none of us knew it before today. He was on the Lady’s council, but he was an unfriendly devil, and the only person he liked was Mistress Marishal.’

‘You saw them together often?’

‘Just at the Quarter Day meetings,’ replied Mull. ‘They were kin, which explains why she did not send him packing when he pawed at her with his sweaty old hands. If it had been me, I would have punched him in the face. But she was a lady.’

‘I learned a lot from observing him,’ grinned Nuport. ‘How to corner lasses without them realising until it is too late; how to lure them to my bed; how to snatch a grope as they pass without anyone else seeing … He was a master.’

‘I am sure he was,’ said Bartholomew to Michael, recalling Roos’s unsavoury antics when they had first arrived in Clare – his near-assault of the woman sweeping the church, and then his brazen ogling of Margery. ‘There was a–’

He stopped abruptly when he heard an urgent shout. It was Langelee, striding towards them with an expression that told them something was badly amiss.

‘I hope he has not found the hermit dead,’ said Michael uneasily.

At that moment, there was a sudden commotion in the outer bailey, which caused servants and courtiers alike to abandon their duties and hurry towards the hubbub to see what was happening. The squires were among them, leaving Bartholomew and Michael to look questioningly at Langelee.

‘Weste and I had to turn back early, because his horse went lame,’ gasped the Master. ‘I was just coming to tell you that I was home, when I heard Lichet and Quintone quarrelling. I joined the crowd that clustered around to find out why–’

‘And?’ demanded Michael sharply, as an angry roar exploded from the gathering hordes. ‘What is going on? Tell us, quickly!’

‘Lichet has accused Quintone of murdering Margery, and is going to hang him for it. We have to stop him, Brother, because I doubt he has proof. And once Quintone is dead … well, no apology will make up for such a terrible mistake.’