The Habit of Murder

Chapter 10

There was pandemonium in the outer bailey. Nuport was clamouring for Lichet to hurry, on the grounds that every breath Quintone drew was an affront to God and justice, and some courtiers were in obvious agreement. The servants were shocked and uneasy – Margery might have been popular, but Quintone was one of them, and they disliked the precedent that a summary execution would set.

Lichet was wearing his best cloak and a tall hat that accentuated his height, no doubt hoping to quell any objections by virtue of cutting an imposing figure. He ordered Richard the watchman to fetch a rope.

‘This is my fault,’ said Langelee wretchedly, as he, Bartholomew and Michael watched in horror from the back of the gathering crowd.

‘Is it?’ gulped Michael in alarm. ‘How?’

‘Weste and I met Lichet as we rode out earlier. He asked where we were going, so I said we were off to hunt for Jan the hermit – that he had probably witnessed the murders, and so will be able to identify the culprit.’

‘He might, if he is still alive. But I fail to understand why–’

‘Lichet now claims that the hermit told him Quintone killed Margery – which is a lie, because Jan is still missing. In other words, Lichet took my words and twisted them to suit himself.’ Langelee’s expression was anguished. ‘I put the idea of a conveniently absent eyewitness into his greedy head.’

‘Hardly,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘He put it there all by himself.’

Quintone was screaming at the top of his voice, calling on God, His saints, the Lady and Albon to stop him from being murdered by the Red Devil. His choice of words did nothing to encourage Lichet to stay his hand, and the noose was around his neck by the time Bartholomew, Michael and Langelee had managed to push their way to the front of the onlookers.

‘Stop!’ commanded Michael with all the authority he could muster. ‘You cannot hang someone without a fair trial. It is a–’

‘We know how to deal with killers in Clare.’ Lichet’s face was flushed with excitement, and his eyes glittered vengefully as he adjusted the rope. ‘We dispatch them fast, so their vile breath does not taint the air we breathe.’

‘Hear, hear,’ bellowed Nuport. ‘He killed a gentle lady and must pay with his life.’

‘No!’ wailed Quintone. ‘I was with Isabel Morley all that night. Ask her – she will tell you.’

He had to indicate the lady in question with his chin, because his hands were tied behind his back. She paled as heads turned towards her and opened her mouth to speak, but no sound emerged. Then she turned and fled, sobbing her distress. Quintone’s face fell in dismay.

‘Isabel! Come back! They will kill me unless you tell the truth. Please! I–’

His words were cut off abruptly as Lichet hauled on the rope. The Red Devil was stronger than he looked, and within moments, Quintone was kicking empty air.

‘Wait!’ shouted Michael, while Langelee jumped forward to tear the noose from Lichet’s hands. Quintone dropped back to the ground, choking and gagging. ‘The Lady wants convincing evidence before–’

‘I do have convincing evidence,’ snarled Lichet furiously, trying to grab the rope back from Langelee. ‘But it is for her eyes only.’

Nuport powered forward with the clear intention of finishing what the Red Devil had started, but Ereswell’s foot shot out and he went sprawling on the ground, unable to keep his balance in his silly shoes. The squires were about to surge to his assistance when there was an almighty bellow from behind them, so loud and masterful that it brought them to an instant standstill.

‘STOP! AT ONCE!’

It was Albon, who possessed an impressive voice to go with his impressive physique. With him were the Lady and Marishal. They processed forward, Albon clearing a path through the onlookers by dint of his haughty gaze alone – anyone in the way, courtier or servant, was treated to a pointed look until they moved. The Lady followed, leaning heavily on Marishal’s arm.

‘There will be no executions until I am certain of the culprit’s guilt,’ she said firmly, when she was close enough to speak without the indignity of hollering. ‘After all, an apology will hardly suffice, should a mistake have been made.’

‘There is no mistake,’ declared Lichet, eyes ablaze with the strength of his convictions. ‘Quintone slaughtered Margery and Roos, and he was seen doing it by Jan – a holy hermit, whose integrity is beyond question.’

‘How do you know what Jan saw?’ demanded Langelee. ‘He is missing. Ergo, he cannot have spoken to you or anyone else.’

Lichet’s expression was sly. ‘I did not need to speak to him, because I have this instead.’

He presented a document with a jubilant flourish. It was covered in close-spaced writing.

‘What is it?’ asked the Lady warily.

‘Something I found in the hermitage,’ replied Lichet, all smug triumph. ‘A detailed account of exactly what Jan saw: namely Quintone committing murder.’

‘How very convenient,’ murmured Michael, stunned by the transparency of the claim.

A few of the crowd, including Nuport, began to clamour for Quintone’s death again, although they were a minority. Most remained silent – unsettled and uncertain.

‘I doubt Jan is literate,’ called Bartholomew, once the commotion had died down again. ‘And even if he is, his cottage had obviously been abandoned in a great hurry. I do not see him sitting down to produce a document of that length first.’

‘Of course Jan is literate,’ snarled Lichet, although alarm flashed across his face that his scheme might have a fatal flaw. ‘He is a religious man. How else would he read his scriptures every day?’

‘I have never seen him reading,’ shouted Ereswell. ‘Your claims are a nonsense, Lichet, and Jan will prove it when he returns.’

‘He will not return,’ stated Lichet archly. ‘Because Quintone has killed him as well, to prevent him from speaking the truth.’ He whipped around to appeal to his supporters. ‘Are you happy to let Quintone live, knowing what he has done?’

Nuport led the howl that said they were not, so the Red Devil made a third lunge for the rope. Langelee fended him off handily enough, although that would change if Lichet’s allies joined the tussle. Quintone knew it, and began to sob his terror.

‘Give that document to me, Lichet,’ ordered Ereswell, shoving his way forward. ‘I will compare the writing to yours, because I have a sample of it here.’

But Lichet was not entirely stupid, and his grin was exultant as he handed the letter over. Ereswell pursed his lips in annoyance when he saw that the two styles were different.

‘He has done Quintone a serious disservice by underestimating Lichet,’ muttered Michael. ‘Now the Red Devil will persist with his claims until Quintone is hanged.’

‘While the real killer goes free,’ Bartholomew whispered back, ‘because I suspect Quintone was with Isabel. Katrina told me that she carries his child but he declines to marry her. What better way to avenge herself than by refusing to provide his alibi?’

‘Give me the rope, Langelee,’ ordered Lichet imperiously. ‘We have wasted enough time on this murderous villain.’

‘Wait!’ ordered the Lady irritably. ‘And be quiet, while I confer with my steward.’

There followed an obedient silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of clothes as some of the senior courtiers eased forward in the hope of catching what was being said. At first, Albon was able to drive them back with his basilisk glare, but as time ticked past this grew less effective, obliging him to draw his sword. He was openly relieved when Marishal eventually stepped away from the Lady and addressed the crowd in a clear, ringing voice.

‘Jan’s claim must be verified before Quintone is executed,’ he announced. ‘My Lady is wise. God knows, I want my wife’s killer dead, but we must ensure that the right culprit pays the price.’

‘But Jan’s claim is verified,’ objected Lichet indignantly, and brandished the document again. ‘He left written testimony of Quintone’s guilt. What more do you need?’

‘Execution is not a matter to be rushed,’ said the Lady curtly, clearly annoyed at having her decision questioned. ‘Besides, I have seen Quintone and Isabel making moon eyes at each other, so perhaps they did lie together that night. Where is she?’

There followed a brief hunt, after which Isabel was propelled forward, dragging her feet with every step, and her face streaked with tears of shame.

‘Now tell the truth,’ ordered the Lady harshly. ‘Or you will join your lover on the scaffold.’

‘He is not my lover,’ gulped Isabel in a feeble attempt at injured defiance. She swallowed hard when the Lady scowled. ‘Although he was with me that night. But we were not lying in sin.’ She flailed around for an alternative explanation when the Lady’s eyes narrowed, and relief lit her face as one occurred to her. ‘We were reading your new Book of Hours.’

‘Of course you were,’ said the Lady flatly, her acid voice cutting through the titter of amusement that rippled through the onlookers. ‘And I am a fairy.’

‘You “read” all night?’ demanded Lichet, all open incredulity. He came to loom over Isabel in an obvious attempt to intimidate her. ‘You did not part even for a moment?’

‘Well, he went to fetch some ale,’ conceded Isabel, her face scarlet with mortification. ‘We were hot and thirsty after … He was gone longer than he should have been.’

‘The jug was empty, so I had to broach a new cask,’ squawked Quintone, pale with fright. ‘But it only took a few moments. Please, Isabel! I will marry you if you tell the truth.’

Albon stepped forward, his noble visage troubled. ‘You did not mention fetching ale when I interviewed you on Friday, Quintone. Why not?’

‘Because I knew what you would think,’ whispered Quintone, slumping in defeat as his world crumbled around him. ‘But I was not gone long enough to kill anyone – just the time it takes to go to the cellar, grab a cask, roll it up to the kitchen, find a hammer to knock out the bung …’

He trailed off miserably when he saw what everyone was thinking – that there would have been ample opportunity to slip to the cistern and plant a dagger in the chests of two victims.

‘Lock him in the dungeon,’ ordered Marishal briskly. ‘Lichet, Albon and Michael will continue their enquiries, and we shall assess their findings when they are all complete.’

‘Mine are complete now,’ declared Lichet haughtily. ‘Quintone is the guilty party, and I do not need to explore the matter further. The only reason these scholars challenged my conclusions is because they want the reward.’

‘The day after tomorrow,’ said the Lady to Michael. ‘Before the Queen arrives. That is when I shall decide Quintone’s fate. So, if you really think he is innocent, you had better have another culprit ready or I shall have to accept Master Lichet’s testimony.’

Quintone howled his innocence until he and his captors entered the Oxford Tower, and were out of earshot. Then Marishal clapped his hands, ordering everyone back to work. They went reluctantly, disquieted by what had happened and not sure what to believe. Lichet was on the receiving end of angry glowers from Quintone’s friends, and there were more tears shed for Margery.

‘Lichet should watch himself,’ muttered Langelee. ‘The servants do not appreciate outsiders accusing one of their own, and he has made many enemies today. In fact, perhaps we should go home. Clare has grown far too dangerous.’

‘It is unlike you to run from trouble,’ said Bartholomew, taking in the Master’s wan face and unsteady hands. ‘Has something happened to unnerve you?’

‘Other than watching a man almost executed for a crime he did not commit?’ asked Langelee archly. ‘No, nothing at all.’

‘And what makes you so sure that Quintone is innocent?’ demanded Michael, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. ‘He lied to me as well as Albon – said he spent the night with friends in the stables. Moreover, he was one of the first to arrive when Adam raised the alarm. I do not approve of Lichet’s tactics, but it is entirely possible that he does have the right culprit.’

‘Quintone has no reason to kill Margery,’ argued Langelee. ‘No motive.’

‘How do you know?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps she tried to force him to marry Isabel. She was a good woman, and would not have condoned ungentlemanly conduct towards a vulnerable girl. Roos might have supported his kinswoman, so Quintone killed them both.’

‘No one commits murder for so paltry a reason,’ snapped Langelee.

‘Marriage is not paltry,’ averred Bartholomew fervently. ‘Believe me.’

‘Perhaps not,’ conceded Langelee, ‘but I still do not see Quintone dispatching Margery and Roos. It does not feel like the right solution. And you two agree, or you would not have helped me to prevent his execution.’

‘I do agree,’ said Bartholomew, although Michael made no reply. ‘However, if Quintone is hanged, the crime will be declared solved, and all the other suspects will be deemed innocent. That is why Lichet wants him executed without delay – so that no one will ever accuse him, even though he is likely to be the real culprit.’

‘I suppose we can continue our enquiries,’ said Michael wearily, ‘although I sense we will not have the hundred marks anyway. If you want the truth, I think we should spend the remaining time recruiting more benefactors. We have a few, but not nearly enough.’

‘I will do that,’ said Langelee briskly. ‘While you see what you can find out about the murders. And at first light tomorrow, I shall resume the hunt for Jan.’

When the Master had gone, Bartholomew saw Isabel slinking past. She was older than he had first thought, and had disguised the fact with a careful application of face paints. Her clothes were too big, clearly handed down from someone else, and there was a bitterness in her expression that suggested she knew there was no good future for her, regardless of whether or not her erstwhile lover was hanged. Michael intercepted her.

‘You and I have spoken twice now,’ he said sternly. ‘You informed me both times that you were with the Lady’s other maids at the time of the murders. You lied.’

‘So did Quintone,’ she snapped back, unrepentant. ‘He claimed he was in the stables.’

‘And look where such dishonesty has taken you both – him accused of murder and you shamed in front of everyone. If you had told the truth, I might have been able to protect you.’

Isabel sneered at him. ‘Oh, yes! I should have confessed that I was lying with a man. What does my reputation matter?’

‘Well, nothing now,’ Michael pointed out drily. ‘But why him? Surely you could do better?’

‘You mean one of the squires? They bed us happily enough, but they do not want marriage. And now I am in trouble, which was never a problem when Anne was here to … offer advice.’

‘So what will you do?’ asked Bartholomew, his voice more kindly than Michael’s.

Isabel looked away. ‘I do not know. Visit kin in the country for a few months, I suppose. Perhaps the Lady will take me back afterwards. She has overlooked these mishaps in the past.’

‘Tell us what happened on the night of the murders,’ ordered Michael. ‘Truthfully this time, if you please.’

Isabel glared at him. ‘There is no more to tell: Quintone and I were together most of the night, then he left to fetch us some ale. He was longer than he should have been, and he told me that he had had to broach another keg. I believed him at the time.’

‘And now?’

Malice flashed in Isabel’s eyes, and it was clear that more untruths were in the offing, but then she looked at Michael and thought better of it. ‘He did not kill anyone. Why would he? We both liked Margery, and neither of us knew the scholar.’

‘I suspect you did – it transpires that Roos donned a beard and called himself Philip de Jevan.’

Isabel gaped her astonishment. ‘Truly? But they are so different – one smart with a white mane, the other scruffy and unshaven. Are you sure?’

Michael inclined his head. ‘So tell us what you know about Roos.’

‘He was always panting after Margery when he came for council meetings. Me and the other girls took bets on how long it would be before he cornered her alone. She hated it, so we often contrived to rescue her.’

Michael regarded her coolly. ‘You did not tell me this before, either.’

‘Why would I? As far as I was aware, “Jevan” was miles away, lurking in whatever hole he lives in when he is not here. I had no idea that he was a factor in Margery’s death.’

‘So his attentions were definitely unwanted?’ pressed Bartholomew.

‘Yes – she was a married woman and respectable.’ Isabel gave a bitter smile. ‘Not like me. But Roos was annoyingly persistent. He fawned and simpered, and would not leave her alone.’

‘But she loved her husband?’

‘She did. Master Marishal neglected her shamefully, but she loved him all the same.’

Armed with the new information, Michael descended on others who might have known about Roos’s unhealthy obsession with another man’s wife. Bartholomew helped for a while, then slipped away when he saw Katrina emerge from the hall, where she had just dined. She was carrying a basket, which he offered to carry. As they approached the Oxford Tower, they heard Grisel screeching furiously on the top floor, while Quintone howled piteously in the basement.

‘I hope Quintone does not carry on too long,’ said Katrina. ‘Grisel does not like it.’

Bartholomew felt like pointing out that Quintone would be none too happy with the situation either, but he held his tongue. Her basket was heavy, and when he tweaked aside the cover, he was astonished at what lay within: cakes, fruit, a platter of meat, bread and a flask of wine.

‘I hope this is not all for the birds,’ he said as he followed her up the stairs. ‘It is unsuitable–’

‘You think I would feed them wine? No, that is for me, although it is not something I shall ever admit to the kitchen staff. You see, I cannot always abandon my charges when meals are served in the hall, and only a fool does not take precautions to protect her stomach.’

She and Michael had a lot in common, thought Bartholomew.

‘God the save Queen,’ declared Grisel when they arrived, then added hopefully, ‘Nuts?’

‘Margery’s funeral is today,’ said Katrina, paring an apple into thin slices, while three pairs of eyes watched in greedy anticipation. ‘I hope there is no trouble – she would not have liked it.’

‘Nicholas thinks it will pass off peacefully, out of respect for her.’

‘Yes, but that was probably before the Lady decreed that it should be the castle chaplain who conducts the ceremony, not Nicholas. The town will be affronted on their priest’s behalf.’

‘Van the bolt bring down,’ declared Grisel, accepting a piece of apple. ‘Queen the save God.’

‘They are fellow Austins,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Nicholas will not mind.’

‘Oh, yes, he will, and he will bray his indignation in no uncertain terms. Heselbech will decline the “honour”, but the Lady will insist, and Prior John will tell Heselbech to obey her – he has no choice, unless he wants to risk the money she gives his convent.’

Slighting Nicholas was a bad move on the Lady’s part, and appeared to be deliberately provocative. ‘Why would she do such a thing?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused.

‘Because I think she aims to end the feud by forcing it to a head,’ explained Katrina. ‘It will result in a skirmish, which she will win, because she has armed troops at her disposal. Once the town is defeated, she can sue for peace on her own terms, and the conflict will end.’

‘But the townsfolk outnumber her soldiers by a considerable margin. She might lose.’

Katrina grimaced. ‘Lichet told her she would not, and no one was there to challenge him – Marishal was drugged, Albon was investigating murder, and Lichet had given everyone else jobs to do. Prior John came to talk sense to her, but the Red Devil refused to let him in.’

‘Well, Marishal is back now. Lichet’s reign of ineptitude is over.’

‘But the damage is done. Worse, she ordered Heselbech to preside over the rededication ceremony, too. If Margery’s funeral does not ignite a riot, that insult certainly will. Still, at least she stopped Lichet from executing Quintone. I do not like Quintone, but he should not hang on evidence fabricated by the Red Devil. Besides, I am sure the murderer is Bonde.’

‘Why? Have you learned something new since we last spoke?’

‘No, but everyone knows that he has killed before. Besides, he is a monster and I hate him.’

She spoke with such passion that Bartholomew regarded her askance. ‘Why do–’

But Katrina raised a hand to stop him. ‘I have said too much already, and I can see Brother Michael down in the bailey, looking around for you. You had better go.’

Bartholomew glanced out of the window, and saw she was right. ‘Please tell me what you know about Bonde,’ he said quietly. ‘It may help us catch Margery’s killer.’

‘I do not believe it will. However, I know one thing that might. It regards the priest who chanted the office of nocturns on the night of the murders …’

‘That was Weste. Heselbech was too drunk, so Weste did it for him.’

Katrina nodded impatiently. ‘Yes, I know. I heard them discussing it while the trouble with Quintone was raging – it is what set me thinking. Weste recited nocturns, Langelee had gone, Albon knelt by the rood screen and I was at the back of the chapel. But what was Heselbech doing?’

‘Sleeping – Weste heard him snoring in a corner.’

‘But not for long, or Albon would have complained. Our noble knight is a pious man, and would not have tolerated a lot of snoring while holy words were being uttered. Which means that Heselbech spent part of the time doing something else.’

‘Or he shifted into a different position, where his throat did not vibrate so much.’

‘Maybe. But there was something about Heselbech’s eyes during his discussion with Weste … I cannot explain exactly, but you could do worse than speak to him again.’

‘God the Queen save,’ cawed Grisel, bobbing up and down. ‘Down bring the van hold.’

Bartholomew and Michael found Heselbech in the castle chapel, kneeling by Margery’s coffin. It was draped in rose-coloured velvet, and surrounded by pots of wild flowers. The muddy footprints that trailed to it from the door suggested that a large number of people had already been in to pay their respects.

‘Her funeral is in an hour,’ said Heselbech shortly, glancing up at the two scholars, but declining to rise. ‘And I am ordered to conduct it, so I cannot talk now. I must prepare.’

‘Do you mind taking Nicholas’s place?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Knowing it will cause resentment among the townsfolk?’

‘Of course I mind,’ snapped Heselbech. ‘It is a stupid decision. Lichet’s no doubt, as the Lady seems to listen to every damn fool word that spills from the fellow’s mouth.’

‘Perform the rite together,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Then you cannot be accused of disobeying orders, and Nicholas’s pride will remain intact. It might ease the situation.’

‘Or make it worse,’ grumbled Heselbech. ‘The town will complain that he had an inferior role, while the castle will think that he refused to let me do my duty. But it is worth a try, I suppose. If we can put on a show of unity …’

‘It is worth a try,’ insisted Michael. ‘Or you may find yourself officiating over a brawl.’

‘Very well.’ Heselbech turned back to the coffin. ‘Now please leave me alone.’

‘Just one quick question: why did you lie about sleeping all through nocturns on the night of the murder? We know you did nothing of the kind.’

It was not quite what Katrina had reported, or what Bartholomew had told Michael, but the bluff made Heselbech’s eyes widen in alarm.

‘Says who?’ he demanded.

‘This castle is home to three hundred people,’ Michael told him sternly. ‘It is impossible to do anything without being seen. So what happened? You slept while Weste prayed, but then something woke you and you went outside. What was it?’

‘A call of nature,’ replied Heselbech shortly. ‘We rarely drink to excess nowadays, so I am out of practice. That is what roused me. Then I came back in and nodded off again. Your witness will confirm that I was out only for the time it took me to relieve myself.’

Michael glanced at Bartholomew, who shrugged to say it was possible – Heselbech might have snored to begin with, but had fallen silent after he had made himself comfortable.

‘So what did you see out there?’ pressed Michael. ‘Or rather, who?’

‘A shadow,’ replied Heselbech reluctantly. ‘By the Cistern Tower, although I thought nothing of it at the time. Why would I? As you said, there are three hundred souls here, and there is always someone wandering about, even in the dead of night.’

‘But you recognised the person, of course,’ said Bartholomew, watching him closely. ‘As chaplain, you know everyone here. So who was it?’

‘I could not tell – just someone in a cloak. His hood was up, because it was raining, so I did not see his face. All that I can tell you is that he ran away from the cistern.’

‘In other words,’ said Michael harshly, ‘you saw the killer and decided not to mention it. Why would you do such a thing?’

‘We cannot know it was the killer,’ said Heselbech defensively. ‘Not for certain.’

‘Of course we can.’ Michael was angry and exasperated. ‘Who else would be racing away from the scene of the crime at the salient time? So what more can you tell us about the villain, other than that he wore a cloak?’

‘Nothing. It was only a fleeting glimpse, and I was drunk.’

‘But it was definitely a man?’ pressed Bartholomew.

Heselbech nodded. ‘It was too large for a woman, and the gait was masculine. But he was too far away for me to notice anything else – and it was very dark.’

‘But you must remember something useful!’ cried Michael. ‘This is the man who slaughtered Margery and an innocent scholar, and you saw him. Surely you want him brought to justice?’

‘Of course I do,’ snapped Heselbech crossly. ‘But there is nothing more I can tell you. I wish there were – Margery was a good woman, and the castle will be poorer without her – but all I had was a quick glimpse of a cloaked figure haring away into the night.’

‘Was it Quintone?’ asked Bartholomew, unwilling to give up. ‘Or Bonde?’

‘Not Quintone – someone bigger. But I cannot talk now. I have a saint to bury.’

‘He knows more than he is saying,’ growled Michael, as he and Bartholomew left the chapel. ‘He is holding something back.’

‘Holding what back, though? The identity of the killer?’

‘I think he is telling the truth about not seeing the man’s face, but it is patently obvious that he has his suspicions about the culprit’s identity – he saw enough to be sure it was not Quintone, which means he witnessed more than he is prepared to admit. I shall tackle him again later. Perhaps the funeral of one of the victims will prompt him to do the right thing.’

‘There is another possibility,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Namely that he is the culprit.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael softly. ‘It had crossed my mind.’

The parish church was packed to overflowing and the atmosphere was tense, particularly at the front of the nave, where wealthy merchants jockeyed with courtiers for the best places. There was a buzz of agitated conversation, most of it revolving around the fact that the Lady had slighted Nicholas by refusing to let him conduct a ceremony in his own domain. The townsfolk were livid, and the castle people were smugly delighted, an attitude that promised to cause yet more bad feeling.

But Clare’s feuding factions flew from Bartholomew’s mind when he entered the church. The scaffolding had been removed from the chancel – although the nave was still full of it – allowing him his first real glimpse of the finished ceiling. It was even more glorious than he had anticipated, and all he could do was gaze upwards in admiration, until Michael brought him back to Earth with an irritable pinch.

‘You are supposed to be watching our suspects and witnesses, not gawping like a halfwit,’ he hissed. ‘Or do you want to return home and tell our colleagues that Michaelhouse will close at the end of the year, because we failed to win that hundred marks?’

Bartholomew dragged his eyes from the splendours of Cambrug’s creation, and fixed them on those who were assembling below it instead.

Albon had arrived with the squires. He removed his beautiful hat with an elegant flourish, and strode to the rood screen, his bearing regal. Paycock stepped forward with the obvious intention of preventing him from taking a place so near the front, but the squires were quick to form a protective cordon around their hero. Thomas was with them, and Bartholomew could not help but notice that the others stood closer to him than to Nuport, who alone had refused to exchange his outlandish clothes for ones that were more suitable for the sombre occasion.

Ella was with her father, whose face was pale and waxy. He was clutching her arm almost desperately, but she was more interested in nodding greetings to the people she knew. Clearly, providing filial comfort was not high on her list of priorities that day. The Lady was behind them, leaning on Lichet’s shoulder for support. When Ereswell tried to speak to her, the Red Devil shoved him back, which drew smirks from the watching townsfolk, particularly Grym, who was resplendent in robes of pale green and gold that gave him the appearance of a large pear.

‘The Queen will be impressed by that ceiling,’ muttered Langelee, joining Bartholomew and Michael because all the wealthy merchants he wanted to target for donations were currently jostling for space in the nave, leaving him with nothing to do. ‘But there are some huge cracks. You could not see them when the scaffolding was up, but you can now.’

‘I asked Nicholas about those when I went to ask if he minded being barred from taking the leading role at a ceremony in his own church,’ said Michael. ‘He told me that they will all be filled with glue soon, so will not show.’

‘Does he mind being publicly slighted?’

‘Oh, he is furious. However, in the interests of peace, he has agreed to work with Heselbech, so let us hope his parishioners are equally magnanimous.’

Heselbech’s opening speech was a masterpiece of conciliation and forgiveness, which he claimed was what Margery would have wanted. He gave it in Latin, French and the vernacular, to ensure that everyone understood, after which he and Nicholas began the funeral rite. Even so, there were angry murmurs from the castle contingent whenever they heard Nicholas’s voice, and grumbles from the town whenever Heselbech spoke.

It was over eventually, and the more important members of the congregation traipsed to the chancel to see Margery interred. It was then that the brewing trouble erupted.

‘Wait a moment!’ cried Paycock in angry disbelief. ‘That spot is where I am going to be buried when I die. I paid for it in advance, and I have a letter from the Bishop to prove it.’

‘Lord, so it is!’ muttered Nicholas, flushing red with embarrassment. ‘It slipped my mind in all the turmoil of the last few days. But there is nothing we can do about it now, Paycock. Margery is here and the vault is open so–’

‘But it is the best place in the entire church,’ protested Paycock, livid. ‘Which is why I want it for myself. I am sorry, Nicholas, but you will have to make other arrangements for Margery.’

‘He will not,’ said Marishal dangerously. ‘She goes in the place that was promised.’

‘You can have the porch instead, Paycock,’ called Thomas provocatively.

‘Stop it!’ snapped Albon with stately authority when Paycock took an angry step forward, fists at the ready. ‘This is a church, not a tavern. Behave yourselves – all of you.’

Paycock lowered his hands, but his protest was far from finished. ‘You cannot allow this, Nicholas! First, they foist their chaplain on us, and now they steal our best vault. Be a man, and tell them where to–’

‘Leave Nicholas alone, you,’ came a waspish voice from the squint. ‘And if your tomb is so important, why did you not come here earlier, to protect it?’

‘Because I did not think it was necessary,’ yelled Paycock. ‘How was I to know that the rats in the castle would stoop so low as to steal a man’s private burial space?’

‘No one stole anything,’ declared the Lady curtly. ‘Now step aside, Paycock. Your behaviour at the funeral of a good woman is disgraceful, and you should be ashamed of yourself.’

It was one insult too many. Paycock’s friends objected heatedly and the chancel was suddenly full of clamouring voices, which Heselbech tried in vain to quell. Nicholas made no attempt to help his colleague, and instead went to stand near the squint, where Anne regaled him with her opinions about the situation.

Hot words soon turned to shoves. Albon immediately whisked the Lady away, shielding her from buffets with his own body, although there was definite fear in his eyes as he did so. Most of the squires hastened to help, although Thomas was more concerned with protecting his sister. By contrast, Nuport was in the thick of the fracas and enjoying every moment of it.

Then the Austins appeared, smoothly and professionally insinuating themselves between the warring factions. John nodded to Heselbech, who hastened to resume his prayers and lower Margery into the vault. The ceremony was over quickly then, and the friars ensured that the two sides dispersed in opposite directions. Even so, it was a tense business, and they heaved a collective sigh of relief when the last of the mourners shuffled out and peace reigned once more.

‘I am going to close my doors now,’ sniffed Nicholas, looking around at the aftermath of the scuffle in disapproval. The floor was strewn with items that had been dropped, including gloves, hats and the occasional weapon. It was also filthy from the mud that had been tracked in from the street. ‘It will take me ages to clean all this up.’

‘I will help,’ offered Heselbech generously. ‘It will take half the time with two of us at work.’

Nicholas thanked him with a smile. ‘But once we have finished, the church will not reopen until the rededication. I do not want any more mess or fighting in here. Besides, I still have the nave scaffolding to pull down, which can be done more safely if the place is empty.’

‘I hope everyone will refrain from skirmishing when the Queen is here,’ remarked Michael. ‘Her ministers impose heavy penalties on those who break the King’s peace.’

Then Grym waddled up, his amiable face creased with worry.

‘You must come at once, Prior John. Albon has made an announcement in the market square, accusing the hermit of killing Margery and Roos. The townsfolk are outraged.’

‘Jan is the culprit?’ came Anne’s voice. ‘I might have known! He always was a rogue.’

‘Are you sure, Grym?’ asked Michael, ignoring her. ‘Albon said nothing about having solved the case when he was here for the funeral, and that was only a few moments ago.’

‘Probably because he did not know then what he thinks he knows now,’ explained Grym. ‘Namely that Jan’s dagger was discovered in the cistern, next to the bodies. Lichet just told him.’

‘But that is untrue,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘We never found the murder weapon.’

‘I know that,’ said Grym impatiently. ‘But Albon swallowed the tale and acted on it, just as Lichet predicted he would. That Red Devil really is a poisonous snake, because when the story is proven to be false, no one will take any investigation conducted by Albon seriously again.’

Prior John called his weary friars to order, and although they lined up gamely enough, it was obvious that most of them had hoped to repair to the priory for a much-deserved cup of ale and a warm supper. Ex-warriors they might be, but none were in their prime, and they had reached the age where they appreciated their creature comforts.

‘Some of you had better look for Jan as well,’ Grym told them. ‘Because Albon has just ridden off on his great white destrier with the avowed intention of hunting him down. He will not lynch anyone, but the squires are with him and they might. Moreover, they intend to start their search in Mayor Godeston’s woods – which is another insult to the town, as they have not secured the permission of his heirs.’

John began to issue orders, sounding more like a military commander than a prior. ‘Langelee – will you take a patrol westwards? Heselbech can ride north, Weste will search south and Nicholas must take the east. Your remit is to find Jan – do not engage with Albon’s troops. I will stay here with a dozen men and keep the peace. And God have mercy on us all.’

There followed a flurry of activity, with some friars racing away to saddle horses, and others forming themselves into the units that would impose order on the town. When the church was empty, Nicholas locked it, then hurried to the priory stables to collect a horse himself. Within moments, Bartholomew and Michael were alone in the graveyard.

‘It is a pity Nicholas decided to “improve” this place,’ sighed Michael, looking up at the gleaming new stonework. ‘I have been told countless times that the town and castle were the best of friends before the restoration began.’

‘Do not blame him,’ called Anne from her window, and Michael grimaced. He had forgotten that she could eavesdrop on discussions outside the church as well as through the squint. ‘And all was not peace and light anyway. The two sides have been sniping at each other for years, and anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar.’

‘Do you really think Jan is the culprit?’ Bartholomew asked her, although with not much hope of a sensible answer.

He did not get one. ‘Yes, because he is a rogue, as I have told you before. And Quintone is innocent – he is not very nice, but he is no killer.’

Bartholomew was about to ask more when a dirty lad hurried up to him with a message from Grym. He opened it, and learned that before galloping off to hunt hermits with Albon, Nuport had trounced Adam the baker, as a punishment for making such a fuss about the prank that had seen him set alight. Grym wanted Bartholomew’s help to repair the damage. To encourage him to go, Grym offered a free demonstration of how hemlock could be used to dull pain.

Bartholomew set off at once, leaving Michael to help the Austins. He was glad to be thinking of medical matters – he was a lot more comfortable with those than with murder and mayhem.

The boy conducted him to Grym’s house on Rutten Row, which was like no other home he had ever visited. It had been built to accommodate a very large man. The front door was twice as wide as all the others on the street, and the furniture had been reinforced to take the additional weight. Bars had been fitted to the walls next to each chair, so that the occupant could use them to heave himself upright, and every pot, platter and bowl in the kitchen was large enough to feed ten.

‘No!’ gulped Bartholomew, when he saw how much hemlock Grym was about to give Adam. He did not want yet another death to aggravate the trouble that was brewing – and the dose Grym had prepared for the baker was perilously close to the amount that might prove fatal. ‘We shall use poppy juice, lettuce and bryony instead.’

He expected Grym to argue, but the barber shrugged amiably and they set to work. Grym transpired to be an indifferent practitioner, but was happy to let Bartholomew do what was needed, so the baker was spared too much discomfort. When they had finished, four more patients were waiting for their services – men who had evaded the friars’ patrols, and had managed to engage in fisticuffs with hotheads from the castle.

It was dark by the time they had mended everyone as best they could. Wearily, they retired to Grym’s solar, where there was a roaring fire and a gargantuan feast waiting. Bartholomew accepted an invitation to dine gratefully, although he felt like an elf in the lair of a giant, dwarfed as he was by everything in the room.

It was not long before Michael arrived, ostensibly to ask after Adam, although Bartholomew was sure some innate sense had told him that good food was on offer. Yet even the monk could not match what Grym packed away, and the two of them watched in awe as four ducks, a haunch of venison, three loaves and a whole turbot disappeared into the barber’s churning maw.

‘And a dried apricot,’ he said with a smile, holding it in the air before popping it into his mouth. ‘Because all good medici know the importance of a balanced diet.’

‘I suppose you refer to Galen,’ said Michael sourly. ‘The bane of my existence. Matt is always braying to me about his nasty theories. Personally, I think there was something wrong with the fellow, because it is not natural for red-blooded men to fuss about with vegetables.’

‘I quite agree,’ said Grym, much to the monk’s delight. ‘But you must eat one dried apricot every week, because it keeps the blood rich.’

Bartholomew was about to remark that he had never heard such arrant nonsense when there was a clatter of footsteps, followed by Thomas’s distinctive voice, barking at Grym’s servants to let him in.

‘Oh,’ he said curtly, when he saw Bartholomew and Michael. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘They are my guests,’ replied Grym pleasantly before they could speak for themselves. ‘Why? Is there a medical emergency?’

‘An accident,’ replied Thomas. ‘Sir William has fallen off his horse and cracked his head.’