The Habit of Murder

Chapter 11

The next day was cold, wet and windy, and Bartholomew woke long before dawn, dragged from sleep by rain pounding on the roof. Langelee and Michael were already up – it was only when the downpour reached Biblical proportions that it had penetrated the physician’s consciousness – and were sitting by the hearth, talking in low voices.

‘You would never make a soldier, Bartholomew,’ remarked Langelee. ‘You would drowse right through an attack, and only stir when it was over and you had missed all the fun.’

Bartholomew yawned. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Discussing Lichet’s claim that Albon flung himself from his horse deliberately, because he realised he had made a mistake about the hermit and could not face the disgrace of being wrong.’ Michael shook his head in disgust. ‘I fail to understand why the Lady does not send him packing. She is an intelligent woman, and must see he is a charlatan.’

‘More warlock than charlatan,’ countered Langelee. ‘Word is that he has bewitched her.’

Bartholomew rubbed the sleep from his eyes. ‘You did not tell us how you fared last night in your search for Jan and Bonde.’

‘Because there was nothing to report,’ said Langelee with a grimace. ‘We found neither hide or hair of them. But I was not here when you outlined your conclusions regarding Albon. Obviously, we can rule out suicide, so was it an accident or murder?’

‘He died of a wound to his head,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It might have been caused by him falling from his horse, but it is equally possible that someone hit him.’

‘In other words,’ said Michael acidly to Langelee, ‘our trusty Corpse Examiner refuses to commit himself.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I am no Lichet, inventing evidence that is not there.’

‘When I got back, I inspected Albon’s saddle,’ said Langelee, ‘bearing in mind what happened to poor old Talmach. But there were no suspiciously “frayed” straps. Then I assessed his destrier. It is a solid beast, trained for battle, so unlikely to shy for no reason – and even if it had, Albon was a knight who should have been able to manage.’

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought his martial skills left a lot to be desired.’

‘He was a poor warrior, but a respectable horseman,’ explained Langelee. ‘Which suggests to me that his death is definitely suspicious. After all, what are the chances that he should die in exactly the same manner as Talmach?’

‘But Talmach’s saddle had been sabotaged,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Whereas you have just told us that Albon’s was not.’

‘There are more ways to make a rider fall than tampering with his tack,’ said Langelee. ‘And the killer is not a fool. He will know not to go a-sawing through leather a second time.’

‘Murder, then,’ concluded Michael. ‘So who did it? The hermit, to avoid being arrested?’

Langelee grimaced. ‘Even Albon should have been able to fend off that feeble specimen.’

‘Bonde?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps Albon happened across his hiding place.’

‘Or a townsman,’ countered Langelee. ‘They were furious when Albon invaded Godeston’s woods without asking his heirs first.’

‘Or a squire,’ put in Bartholomew. ‘Because they know Albon’s ineptitude would have got them killed in France. They admired him outwardly, but they may have harboured secret misgivings. Especially Thomas and Mull, who are no fools.’

‘Albon certainly had reservations about them,’ mused Michael. ‘I am sure that is why he offered to find Margery’s killer – he was frightened of travelling to France with a murderer in his train. He wanted his squires to be pretty angels, all adhering to his own chivalric ideals.’

‘Then there is Lichet,’ said Bartholomew, ‘who is determined to have a hundred marks, and perhaps decided to reduce the competition to one other investigation.’

Langelee sighed. ‘You two are making this very complicated, and some philosopher or other once said that the simplest answer is usually the right one. I cannot recall who he was offhand …’

‘Occam,’ supplied Bartholomew, unimpressed that the Master could not remember something so basic. ‘His “razor” contends that in competing hypotheses, the one with the fewest assumptions should always be chosen first.’

Langelee snapped his fingers. ‘Occam! There is the fellow! Well, in this case, I suggest that someone from the town made an end of Albon for daring to trespass in Godeston’s woods. And you know what that means.’

‘Not really,’ said Michael, ever wary of the Master’s idea of logical analysis.

‘That we will never solve the crime, because we are strangers here and we do not know the people involved. I think we should cut our losses and leave. I know we want the Lady’s money, but it is not worth our lives, and the town and the castle will stage a pitched battle soon. I sense it with every fibre of my being.’

‘So do I, but the Austins will stop it,’ said Michael. ‘And if they cannot, we have faced pitched battles between opposing factions in the past.’

‘But you two are my responsibility,’ argued Langelee. ‘And the University cannot manage without its Senior Proctor, while Matilde will be irked if anything happens to Bartholomew. Moreover, unmanly though it is to admit it, you two are my friends and I do not want you dead. Ergo, we go home today.’

‘We cannot leave empty-handed,’ objected Michael, dismayed. ‘Michaelhouse will founder without money, and it will break my heart to see it closed down.’

‘Besides, if we disappear all of a sudden, people may assume that we are the culprits,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘That we are fleeing the scene of our crimes because we feel the net tightening around us. It is Monday today, and the rededication is tomorrow evening. I suggest we wait until then before going – it is what we told everyone we would do.’

‘Very well,’ agreed Langelee, although he was clearly unhappy. ‘But we must be on our guard. And we are not going to the ceremony. It would be too dangerous. We shall slip away the moment it starts, so that if anyone does accuse us of anything untoward, we shall have a head start. We will not be missed until it is over.’

‘Now that really would look furtive,’ said Bartholomew, raising his eyebrows. ‘And what about Simon Freburn? Is it not asking for trouble for the three of us to travel at night?’

‘I will beg a couple of sturdy friars from John,’ determined Langelee. ‘And Pulham, Donwich, Badew and Harweden will come with us, as they will not want to be left behind.’

‘I suppose we can do that,’ conceded Michael, ‘if it makes you happy. So, it means we have roughly thirty-six hours to expose the killer and save Michaelhouse from an ignominious end.’

‘Is that feasible, Brother?’ asked Langelee tiredly. ‘You had only just finished telling me how you have no proper leads to follow.’

‘Perhaps not, but I still have my list of suspects, which is much more manageable now I have decided that Marishal is innocent. I know genuine grief when I see it – he did not kill his wife. That means we are down to Nicholas, the twins, Lichet, Bonde and Heselbech.’

‘And John,’ murmured Bartholomew, although not loud enough for Langelee to hear.

‘How can it be Heselbech?’ demanded Langelee impatiently. ‘He saw the killer sneaking around the castle. He cannot have done that if it was himself.’

‘Because he is a proven liar,’ replied Michael, ‘which means we cannot believe a word he says. He probably invented this hooded figure to mislead us.’

‘Well, you are wrong,’ said Langelee firmly. ‘And the culprit is not Nicholas either. He and Heselbech are old soldiers, for God’s sake.’

‘Quite,’ said Michael. ‘So I recommend we begin our day by seeing what we can learn about the pair of them.’

‘Not me,’ declared Langelee in distaste. ‘If you want to indulge in that sort of thing, you can do it yourself.’

‘So how will you spend the rest of our time here?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Convincing the good people of Clare that Michaelhouse is deserving of all their spare money?’

‘No, I shall hunt for the hermit again. He is in danger as long as Albon’s accusation hangs over him, because someone may decide to avenge Margery without waiting for a trial.’

‘I am not sure that anyone took Albon’s claims seriously,’ said Michael. ‘Other than a couple of squires, perhaps. But you are right. If Jan is still alive, he must be protected.’

‘John will lend me a horse.’ Langelee stood and began to don clothes suitable for a jaunt in the rain. ‘If Jan is out there, I will bring him back.’

‘Do not forget to look for Bonde as well,’ Michael reminded him. ‘He disappeared with suspicious haste when it became clear that the murders of Margery and Roos would be investigated properly. And of all our suspects, he is the one who has committed murder before.’

‘I know,’ said Langelee. ‘But unless he is a complete fool, he will be long gone by now.’

Rain fell steadily as the scholars walked to the Prior’s House, Langelee to beg for help in finding Jan and Bonde, and Michael and Bartholomew to ask if John had learned any more about the murders – including Albon’s – while he and his friars had patrolled the town the previous night. Langelee and Michael had heard them come home at midnight, cold, wet and weary, when the inclement weather had finally driven the last of the troublemakers indoors, although Bartholomew had slept through the commotion their return had generated.

Everything dripped, and the sky was a dull, sullen grey. It was not far from the guesthouse to John’s quarters, but water was trickling down the back of Bartholomew’s neck before he reached it anyway. He had decided against wearing Albon’s cloak that day, lest someone accused him of callousness, and his old one was wholly incapable of keeping him dry in such a deluge, especially with so many holes burned in it.

‘Not a word about Heselbech and Nicholas being on your list,’ warned Langelee before he knocked on the door. ‘John will not let us stay here tonight if he knows you entertain suspicions about two of his friars.’

Bartholomew and Michael readily agreed. It was no time for sleeping under hedges, and they were unlikely to find accommodation anywhere else in Clare that night – not on the eve of a royal visit, when any free rooms would be waiting to receive far more important guests than mere scholars from the University at Cambridge.

They were conducted to John’s solar by a servant, and arrived to find him in conference with his senior officers, including Weste and Heselbech. All looked tired and anxious. John’s bald head was beaded with sweat, Weste’s face was pale against his black eyepatch, while Heselbech gnawed nervously at his lower lip; his filed teeth had made it bleed, but he was too agitated to notice.

‘Albon’s accident is a bad business,’ said the Prior unhappily. ‘It will aggravate the trouble between castle and town for certain.’

‘How do you know it was an accident?’ asked Michael shortly.

John regarded him stonily. ‘Because a murder will result in a full-blown riot. It was an accident, Brother, and you had better tell everyone so or face the consequences.’

‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘You tried that with Godeston, and it did not work. Of course Albon was murdered. Two knights dead in almost identical circumstances within a few weeks of each other? How could it be anything else? And everyone in Clare will know it.’

‘No, they will not,’ insisted John. ‘And it did work with Godeston. We created enough uncertainty to make some folk stay their hands. We can do the same with Albon.’

‘It will fail, John,’ Langelee told him kindly. ‘And may even make matters worse – people will assume you are concealing the truth for sinister reasons of your own. We know your intentions are honourable, but can you be sure that others will think the same?’

John rubbed a hand over his shiny pate. ‘Then how do you suggest we avert trouble? Because you must see that if any more people die, it will create rifts that may never heal.’

‘We avert it by exposing the killer,’ said Langelee, making it sound simple. ‘Michael and Bartholomew will continue their enquiries here, while I hunt for Bonde and the hermit again.’

‘Albon died in Godeston’s woods,’ said Bartholomew, aware that the friars were not as friendly as they had been a few days before. He supposed they had been discussing the murders, too, and had mooted the possibility that the more recent ones were down to strangers. ‘Some of you were nearby when it happened, looking for Jan. Did you see anything that might help?’

‘I am afraid not,’ replied John, ‘because I ordered all the patrols to stay well away from that particular area, lest it annoyed Godeston’s heirs. Is that not so, men?’

Everyone nodded except Weste, who frowned. ‘I thought you were over in that direction, Heselbech. Not in the woods, but skirting around the edge.’

Heselbech bared his pointed teeth in an uneasy smile. ‘Yes, but all I saw was the squires bringing Albon out, slung over his horse like a sack of flour. It was unkind – he would have hated the indignity of being toted through the town with his arse in the air. I imagine it was Thomas’s idea: the others would have fetched a bier.’

‘Do you think one of them brained him?’ probed Michael.

‘Thomas might have,’ replied Heselbech promptly. ‘He is a sly devil, and it is a pity he did not inherit his mother’s goodness. Then Nuport is a vicious brute, not above biting the hand that feeds him. The others are decent lads, though.’

‘With your permission, Father Prior, I would like to help Langelee,’ said Weste, changing the subject abruptly. ‘I enjoyed myself yesterday. It was good to be in the saddle again.’

‘You may go, but not until we have discussed our final arrangements for the Queen’s visit,’ said John. ‘It will not take long. Lord! I hope we can impose some order on the town before she arrives. It would be a great pity for her to see us at each other’s throats.’

Everyone trooped out so that John and Weste could get on with it, and once in the yard, Heselbech began to organise the brethren into peace-keeping patrols. Judging by the number of volunteers, this duty was a lot more desirable than staying behind to pray, cook and clean.

‘They may have taken holy vows,’ remarked Langelee, watching Heselbech’s arrangements approvingly, ‘but they will always be warriors at heart.’

‘And that is what worries me,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Especially in Heselbech, who would have kept quiet about being near the spot where Albon was killed if Weste had not spoken up. I imagine Weste will be biting his tongue now.’

‘Rightly so,’ said Langelee harshly. ‘He should have kept his mouth shut.’

Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why do all ex-soldiers possess this reckless need to protect each other? It is a dangerous game, Langelee, because while you and John may once have been comrades-in-arms, you do not know these others. You may be defending killers.’

‘They are good men whose aim is to prevent a bloodbath,’ argued Langelee stoutly. ‘God’s teeth! This place is worse than Cambridge. I cannot imagine why you were so keen to visit it, Bartholomew. Matilde was wrong when she claimed it to be a lovely town.’

‘Perhaps it was different when she was here,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She had a–’

‘I will escort you to the castle,’ interrupted Langelee briskly. ‘And when you have finished, get the watchmen to bring you back. Do not wander about on your own. Is that clear? I cannot have Fellows slaughtered on my watch. It would be acutely embarrassing.’

Langelee was right to be cautious, as the town felt distinctly uneasy that day. Michael declared a pressing need to attend to his devotions, so they went to the church first, only to find that prayers were being held in the graveyard, as Nicholas had declared the building off limits until the rededication. The vicar’s performance – a startlingly brief one – was indifferent, and all the way through, Anne could be heard waylaying passers-by with demands for gossip and treats.

‘I should become an anchorite,’ muttered Langelee. ‘It is a very comfortable existence.’

‘You would hate it,’ predicted Bartholomew. ‘And I suspect she does, too. She may claim she is content, but she is a gregarious soul who misses the bustle of castle life. It was a cruel punishment to inflict on such a person. Almost worse than death.’

Nicholas came to pass the time of day with them when he had finished officiating at his makeshift altar, although his eyes strayed constantly to the door, where workmen emerged with planks and coils of rope. Bartholomew wanted to peep inside, to see more of the nave without the scaffolding, but Nicholas informed him curtly that it was out of bounds to everyone, with no exceptions.

A combination of unease, exasperation and concern for his College’s future turned Michael brusque, and he addressed the vicar curtly.

‘You are still on our list of suspects for Roos and Margery’s murders,’ he said, ignoring Langelee’s irritable sigh for having ignored his opinion on the matter. ‘Your alibi is Anne, but she was almost certainly asleep at the time, so we are disinclined to accept it.’

‘She was awake!’ cried Nicholas. ‘And I did not kill anyone. Why would I? And more to the point, how could I? I would have had to get past the castle guards, and I never did. Ask them.’

It was a good point, but Michael pressed on anyway. ‘You dislike the Lady for interfering with church business – not only trying to oust you from your spacious home to a poky cottage, but telling you which services you may or may not conduct.’

‘It is irksome,’ conceded Nicholas, ‘but I would not resolve the matter by murdering her steward’s wife and a scholar who was a stranger to me.’

‘Roos was not a stranger – you knew him as Philip de Jevan.’

Nicholas blinked. ‘It is true, then? A rumour to that effect is currently racing through the town, but I assumed it was nonsense. However, it is irrelevant to me, as I had nothing to do with his death, regardless of who he happened to be. Anne! Tell Brother Michael that I was saying nocturns when Margery Marishal and Roos were killed.’

‘I have already told you that he was,’ came the anchoress’s irritable voice. ‘No doubt you think I was dozing. Well, for your information I would love to sleep all night, but my cell is right next to the chancel, and I challenge you to slumber through the racket priests make when they are about their holy business. I was awake, and Nicholas was here.’

Michael’s troubled expression suggested that he did not know what to believe. When there was no reply, Anne changed the subject to one she considered more interesting.

‘Isabel Morley came to me last night, begging for my help. It is a pity that I am stuck in here, because the stars are favourable for my hook today. A few scrapes would solve all her problems.’

‘Or compound them,’ countered Bartholomew.

Uncomfortable with such a discussion, Michael and Langelee went to corner Paycock, to see if he might be persuaded to donate funds to a College in exchange for Masses for his loved ones, while Nicholas hurried to oversee the work in the nave. Bartholomew was left to talk to Anne alone.

‘Now Isabel will have to swallow herbs to save herself from the perils of childbirth,’ the anchoress went on grimly. ‘Tansy and pennyroyal. And those are dangerous.’

‘Yes, they are,’ agreed Bartholomew, hoping it was not a hint for him to wield a hook in her stead. He thought about Mistress Starre in Cambridge, and her potions for desperate women. Then he recalled the many times he had been summoned when things had gone catastrophically wrong.

‘Although not nearly as dangerous as having a baby,’ Anne flashed back.

‘Isabel is not worried about giving birth,’ Bartholomew countered, although even as he spoke, he was aware that Isabel’s reasons for wanting a way out of her predicament were really none of his business. ‘She just wants to end an inconvenient pregnancy.’

Anne snorted her disdain. ‘Spoken like a true man! It should be our decision what happens inside our own bodies, and all I can say is that if I had to choose between childbirth and a hook, I know which I would pick.’

‘Fortunately for you, it is not a decision you will ever have to make.’

‘I hope you are not implying that I am too old for motherhood,’ said Anne frostily.

‘I am implying that you are unlikely to conceive when you are walled up in a cell. Unless you happen to know some very unusual manoeuvres.’

The moment the words were out, Bartholomew wished he could retract them, sure she would not appreciate risqué remarks. She had proclaimed herself to be a holy woman, after all. Thus he was relieved when there came a peal of extremely lewd laughter.

‘I must remember to tell Nicholas that one!’ she crowed. ‘It will amuse him greatly, and he needs to smile, as he is altogether too anxious about the ceremony tomorrow.’

When Bartholomew had finished with the anchoress, he found Michael and Langelee waiting for him by the porch door. They left the churchyard, Bartholomew acutely aware that Langelee kept his hand on the hilt of his sword as they went. The atmosphere along Rutten Row was fraught, with clots of townsfolk gathered on every corner, muttering darkly. Any castle inhabitant rash enough to venture out was subject to torrents of abuse, although the three scholars received nods and even the occasional smile.

‘It is because Bartholomew helped Adam,’ explained Grym, who was emerging from his house as they passed. ‘I told everyone that Adam would have died without our cooperative efforts, so you University men are in favour. Of course, it may mean trouble for you at the castle. They have taken against Adam now he refuses to bake for them again.’

Bartholomew, Langelee and Michael hurried on, and when they reached the barbican, it was to find that the number of guards on duty had been doubled, while archers lined the walkways and battlements. Langelee inspected the precautions with an approving eye.

‘You must still be on the lookout for treachery from within, though,’ he warned Richard the watchman. ‘There must be any number of servants with links to the town, and you can never be sure of their loyalty.’

‘Marishal ordered all those expelled,’ sighed Richard. ‘Which was ill-advised, as they will swell the enemy’s ranks, and might mean the difference between victory and defeat for us. I do not know how we reached this pass – not when relations between us have been cordial for centuries.’

‘The Austins will prevent a battle,’ said Langelee soothingly, although Richard’s worried expression suggested that he did not think they would succeed. ‘But I am going to hunt for Bonde and the hermit today. Do you have any advice about where to look?’

‘The hermit could be anywhere, but Bonde has kin in Stoke by Clare, which is three miles east along the river. Do not go alone, though. He is dangerous.’

‘So am I,’ declared Langelee with a grin. ‘But I take your point. Weste has offered to come.’

‘A good warrior,’ acknowledged Richard. ‘But Bonde is low and crafty, so watch yourself.’

Langelee inclined his head and strode away. Michael sketched a benediction after him, and muttered a prayer that over-confidence would not see him hurt.

‘I seriously doubt that anyone will attack a fortress,’ Michael told Marishal crossly a short while later. He was irked because the portcullis had been down and the guards were under orders to lift it no more than a fraction, compelling any visitors to crawl inside on their hands and knees. The squires had been watching, and there had been a good deal of merriment at the monk’s expense. ‘Your precautions are excessive.’

‘Are they?’ Marishal had declined Lichet’s sleeping potion for the second day running, and was the Lady’s steward once more, radiating confidence and efficiency, although his eyes were sunken and his face drawn. ‘The town hates us, and now they have murdered Albon.’

‘How do you know it was them?’ asked Michael. ‘Do you have evidence that–’

‘I do not need evidence to confirm what any rational man can see,’ interrupted Marishal shortly. ‘Albon was our mightiest warrior, and his execution is a direct challenge to our authority.’

‘But the townsfolk liked Albon because he was taking the castle’s rowdy young men away to France,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘None of them wanted him dead.’

‘Have you found out what happened to him yet?’ asked Michael, when Marishal made no reply. ‘We tried to question his squires last night, but Lichet ordered them to pray in the chapel instead.’

‘Then speak to them now,’ said Marishal briskly. ‘Come.’

He led the way to the knight’s frilly pavilion, which now had a distinctly lopsided appearance. The squires stood rigidly to attention at intervals around it. Each wore a peculiar black cloak shorn off just below the shoulders, which meant the rest of their finery was sodden and all were shivering – except Thomas, who had opted for a sensible oiled garment that covered him to the knees.

‘I cannot credit that they still believe what Thomas says about courtly fashion,’ murmured Michael, shaking his head in disgust. ‘I have encountered some dim-witted lads in my time, but none as stupid as this horde.’

The squires did not respond when he informed them that he wanted their accounts of what had happened to their hero, and only stared blankly and annoyingly ahead. Bartholomew wondered if that was Thomas’s doing as well, or if the mute guard of honour had been their own idea.

Before the monk could repeat himself, Marishal intervened, his voice tight with anger. ‘Answer him, you silly young fools,’ he snarled. ‘And when he has finished, you can divest yourselves of these absurd clothes, don sensible ones, and report to me in the hall. There is much to do before the Queen arrives, and I will not have idlers in my castle.’

‘Our duty lies here,’ replied Nuport defiantly. ‘It is what Sir William would have wanted.’

‘But he is not in a position to say so, is he,’ snapped Marishal. ‘So you now have a choice: make yourselves useful or get out of Clare. And that includes you, Thomas.’

‘Me?’ blurted Thomas, startled. ‘But I am a–’

‘Your days of indolence are over,’ interrupted Marishal harshly. ‘As from today, you will either work or starve. It is your choice: I do not care one way or another.’

And with that, he turned on his heel and strode away. The slight spring in his step suggested that he had enjoyed the confrontation, perhaps because he thought that Margery would have approved of his taking a firm hand at last. The squires gazed after him in dismay, although several folk who had overheard the exchange nodded their approval. They included Ereswell, who evidently thought it was the scholars’ influence, as he touched his purse in a way that indicated another donation would be coming Michaelhouse’s way.

‘Right,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands together as he turned to the shivering young men. ‘To business. You were with Albon when he fell: tell us exactly what occurred.’

‘A townsman threw a stone that killed him,’ said Nuport sullenly, resentful at the unpleasant direction his life was about to take. ‘In other words, he was murdered. And we plan to avenge him.’

‘Did you see a missile lobbed?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘No,’ replied Nuport shortly.

‘Then did you see a townsman running away shortly afterwards?’

‘No,’ said Nuport a second time, and scowled. ‘The culprit kept himself hidden. But it does not matter if we spotted him or not, because it is obvious what happened.’

‘Really,’ said Michael flatly. He addressed the others. ‘Now tell us what you know to be true, not what your lurid imaginations suggest.’

‘Sir William ordered us into a fan formation, so as to cover more ground,’ obliged Mull. He looked miserable – what little hair he had left was plastered to his head, while water dripped from his gaudy clothes. ‘Which meant that we grew further apart with every step we took, so none of us were with him when he … But Thomas was the closest. Tell him, Tom.’

Thomas spoke reluctantly. ‘I heard him yell, and I assumed he had caught the hermit – he was an excellent tracker. But I arrived to find his horse grazing and him lying senseless next to it.’

‘So he might have fallen off by accident,’ said Bartholomew, who was a dismal rider, and quite often toppled out of his saddle for no reason apparent to those who were good at it.

‘It is possible,’ replied Thomas. ‘But highly unlikely. He was a knight.’

‘What did he shout, exactly?’

‘It sounded like “you”, but I cannot be certain. However, I can tell you that none of us knocked him from his seat, because the offender would have galloped away afterwards, and I would have heard the hoofs. But there was just the yell and the thump of him hitting the ground. It means the killer was on foot, whereas we were all mounted.’

‘Did you meet anyone else in the woods?’

All the young men shook their heads.

‘They were deserted,’ said Mull. ‘Probably because it was raining, and they are not a very nice place to be at the best of times. They are terribly boggy and full of brambles.’

‘My father can go to the Devil,’ announced Thomas suddenly and angrily. ‘I am not scrubbing floors – I am going to find that damned hermit. He stabbed my mother, and I bet he killed Sir William, too, thus destroying our one chance to escape this hellhole and do something interesting.’

‘Jan did not kill your mother, no matter what Albon thought,’ said Michael quietly. ‘Indeed, I suspect he is also dead – dispatched to prevent him from revealing what he saw as he prowled the castle that night.’

At that point, they were joined by Ella. She had been inside the pavilion with Albon’s body, listening to the discussion secretly, but now she emerged to stand with her brother.

‘The monk is right, Tom,’ she said softly, squeezing his arm to make him look at her. ‘We have known Jan all our lives and he has never hurt a fly. Besides, he is terrified of horses – he would have gone nowhere near Sir William’s great destrier.’

‘Well, Matt?’ asked Michael, when the twins and the squires had trooped away. Most went willingly, more than happy to exchange their outlandish clothes for dry ones, although resentment was in Thomas’s every step and Nuport was patently livid. ‘What do you think?’

‘They did not kill Albon,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He represented a life of adventure and they wanted him alive. Of course, Nuport does have an unpredictable temper …’

The rest of the day was taken up with interviewing as many castle residents as would speak to them. It was a frenzied business. Not only was Michael acutely aware that he only had until the following evening to earn the hundred marks, but everyone was frantically busy with preparations for the royal visit. Lichet had failed to implement Marishal’s meticulously planned timetable while he had been in charge, which had lost them three full days. Marishal was determined to make up for lost time, and drove everyone relentlessly. No one had time to talk, and their answers were necessarily terse. Bartholomew grew increasingly frustrated with their lack of progress, and, desperate to achieve something useful, he went to re-examine the cistern.

It had been eerie the first time he had visited, when others had been with him, but it was far more so on his own. It was full of echoing drips, and the lamp he carried did not penetrate very far into the darkness. Splashes and ripples came from every direction, and the near-constant rain of the last few days had caused the water to rise dramatically, so that the pavement where he had examined the bodies of Margery and Roos was now at least six feet below the surface.

He did not stay long, and escaped outside with relief. He met Richard at the top of the stairs, and used him to conduct one or two experiments regarding how far sound carried from the bailey to the cistern and vice versa, although it told him nothing to help with the murders.

Dusk came, but there was no let-up in Marishal’s preparations, even though it was clear that everyone was exhausted. He seemed to be everywhere, issuing directions in a non-stop torrent. He was an exacting taskmaster, and if a job was not done to his satisfaction, the culprit could expect a dressing-down and an order to do it again. Whether it was a genuine desire for perfection, or an attempt to distract himself from his grief, Bartholomew did not know.

The squires and Ella suffered most under his blistering tongue, and there was a general consensus among servants and courtiers alike that this should have happened years ago. As an act of petty retaliation, the twins managed to stage one or two small pranks, but people were too busy to be amused at their victims’ discomfiture, so they soon desisted.

Bartholomew was about to return to Michael, when there was a commotion outside the Oxford Tower. Marishal emerged from it with Quintone, who was grinning triumphantly. People stopped what they were doing to stare.

‘I am releasing him,’ Marishal announced in ringing tones. ‘I have been reflecting on Lichet’s claims all day, and I have decided that he is wrong. He is so determined to have the reward that he has overlooked certain basic facts.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Thomas, dangerously bold. ‘Because if you are mistaken, you are freeing the bastard who murdered our mother and your wife.’

‘I am sure,’ replied Marishal. ‘For two reasons. First, the ale barrel was empty when the servants retired to bed, and a new one had been brought from the cellars during the night. And second, Isabel did entertain Quintone in her bed, because three witnesses now attest to it – witnesses who told the truth once threatened with dismissal if they did not.’

‘Perhaps you are right, but you still cannot let him go,’ persisted Thomas stubbornly. ‘Not until the Lady gives her permission. She may not agree with your assessment of the situation.’

‘And Lichet certainly won’t,’ murmured Ella.

The look Marishal shot them was enough to make both flinch. ‘Do you think I would make this sort of decision without consulting her? We discussed it at length, and she concurs with me.’

A murmur of satisfaction rippled through the onlookers. All were delighted that Lichet’s investigation had been assessed and found lacking – and relieved that their Lady had finally started to question his opinions.

‘So who did kill Margery?’ called Ereswell.

Before Marishal could reply, there was a groan, and the pavilion suddenly collapsed in on itself, the sodden material too heavy for the inexpertly assembled poles. The squires regarded the mess in dismay, although the smirk exchanged between Thomas and Ella suggested that they had seen it coming, and may even have helped it along.

‘I want that cleared away at once,’ Marishal told them shortly. ‘And Albon taken to the chapel. Can you manage it alone, or shall I send a scullion to supervise?’

‘You should,’ said Quintone, revelling in the role of a man who has been publicly acquitted. ‘Because they are useless.’

Not surprisingly, one man was particularly outraged by Quintone’s release. Within moments, Lichet hurtled from his quarters in the Cistern Tower, where Ereswell had taken great pleasure in breaking the news to him, and stormed across the bailey towards the steward.

‘Are you mad?’ he demanded. ‘To release the villain who slaughtered your wife?’

‘Quintone is not the culprit,’ replied Marishal, eyeing him in rank disdain. ‘I should have known that the only way to find the truth was to investigate for myself.’

‘Quintone is guilty,’ said Lichet between gritted teeth. ‘And you will look a fool when you are forced to recant.’

The argument swayed back and forth, and Quintone prudently took the opportunity to slink away, no doubt afraid that Lichet would win, and he would find himself with a noose around his neck again. Bartholomew went in search of Michael and found him in the hall, grazing on the cakes that had been set out for the few retainers who had time to eat one.

‘Did you learn anything helpful today, Brother?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘I did not, other than that Margery and Roos could have screamed at the tops of their voices from inside the cistern, and no one would have heard them, not even if they were right by the door.’

Michael shuddered. ‘That is an unpleasant thought – that they howled for rescue as the killer attacked them in that terrible place. And I am afraid the only new thing I discovered came from Isabel Morley, whose father was a soldier.’

‘Not an old comrade of Prior John and his cronies?’

Michael nodded. ‘Apparently, something happened to make the whole lot of them decide to end their brutish lifestyles, although he never told her what. Unfortunately, he is dead now, so we cannot ask him.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘So this is useful how, exactly?’

‘It proves that the Austins are men with dubious pasts, and three of them – John, Nicholas and Heselbech – are on our list of suspects. When we know what they did to necessitate them taking holy orders, we may have answers about the murders.’

Bartholomew regarded the monk uncertainly. ‘I am not sure that follows. And besides, how can we find out, if the source of the information is dead? By asking the friars themselves? I do not see that taking us very far.’

‘It will not. However, according to Isabel, John kept documents about it, so we shall engage in a little burglary tonight. Or rather, you will. I shall stand outside and keep watch.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, unwilling to employ that sort of tactic against ex-warriors with deadly pasts. ‘You can do it while I keep watch.’

Michael shot him a sour look, but his reply was drowned out by the burgeoning quarrel between Marishal and Lichet.

‘You will not have the Lady’s hundred marks,’ Marishal was informing him sharply. ‘Not for Quintone. If you want the money, you must produce a credible suspect and proper evidence – not the brazen forgery you presented yesterday.’

‘It was not a forgery,’ declared Lichet, outraged. ‘It was genuine. But I would not expect a man of your low intellect to–’

He stopped speaking abruptly when Marishal took a threatening step towards him. Realising that he had gone too far, he bowed curtly and stalked away. Several courtiers gave a spontaneous cheer, but it petered out when Marishal glared at them as well, and they hastened back to their duties before he could load them with more.

‘So who is the killer?’ asked Michael, catching the steward’s arm as he strode past. ‘Have you solved the case, and I am wasting my time by persisting with my questions?’

Marishal smiled thinly. ‘I have my suspicions. All I need is the evidence to prove them.’

‘We have suspicions, too,’ said Michael. ‘And I am afraid they include your son and daughter, who cannot prove where they were at the time of the murders. Are they on your list, too?’

Marishal regarded him steadily. ‘If Thomas and Ella conspired to murder Margery, I will hang them myself. You seem shocked, Brother. Why? Margery was my wife, and I loved her more than life itself. The twins … well, she gave birth to them, but neither looks like me.’

Michael raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Is this a new thought, or one that has been festering for a while?’

Marishal glanced around to ensure that no one else could hear. ‘Ever since they were born, which was roughly nine months after Roos had been especially persistent with his attentions. She never said anything, but I knew my wife …’

Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Are you saying that Roos was their father?’

Marishal shrugged and looked away. ‘It would explain why they have yellow hair, just like his when he was younger. Mine was – and still is – black.’

‘Margery had gold hair,’ Bartholomew pointed out gently. ‘Perhaps they got it from her.’

Marishal’s face was impossible to read. ‘Well, we shall never know, now that both of them have gone. The Lady wants to see you, by the way. She is in the Oxford Tower with her birds. Do not keep her waiting.’

‘He does think they killed Margery,’ murmured Michael as they hurried across the bailey. ‘Lord! I should not like to be in his shoes. He must be a soul in torment.’

‘Is he? There is no love lost between him and the twins, and he told us himself that he was too busy to bother with their upbringing. Now we know why: the sight of them was a constant reminder of the suspicion that his beloved had been with another man.’

The Lady was disappointed when Michael confessed that he had made scant progress with his enquiries that day, although it was difficult to converse, as Grisel was flying between his perch and her head, which she found far more entertaining than anything the monk had to say. Katrina was laughing, a sound that the bird mimicked with disconcerting accuracy. Bartholomew found himself wondering why no one had offered to marry her. She was pretty, intelligent and had a sense of humour, which were advantages that far outweighed her lack of money, in his opinion.

‘I had high hopes when Master Donwich bragged to me about the Senior Proctor’s superior investigative talents,’ the Lady scolded. ‘And I was sure Michaelhouse was going to have my hundred marks. Indeed, it was why I offered such an enormous sum – so it would go to a worthy cause. You have let me and your College down, Brother.’

‘Do not give up on me just yet,’ said Michael stiffly, disliking the censure. ‘These matters cannot be rushed. And if you do not believe me, then look at Lichet: he made a precipitous announcement, and now he must live with the ignominy of being wrong.’

‘Yes and no,’ said the Lady. ‘He continues to swear that the document he found is genuine, and has promised to bring additional proof of Quintone’s guilt tomorrow. So you must hurry, Brother, because I do not want him to have my money.’

‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused. ‘I thought you liked him.’

‘Of course I do not like him,’ barked the Lady impatiently. ‘I keep him at my side because my courtiers had started to take my largesse for granted, and I wanted to shake them out of their complacency by feigning fondness for a grasping stranger. It worked – my people have never been more attentive. I shall be able to dismiss the Red Devil soon, and good riddance.’

Bartholomew stared at her, stunned that she should be so calculating. Then he reconsidered. She had ruled a large estate for decades, which she could not have done without a certain degree of ruthlessness. Old and ailing she might be, but there was still a core of steel in the Lady of Clare.

‘Bring the hold down van,’ suggested Grisel. ‘God save the Queen.’

‘So what will you do now?’ asked the Lady. ‘Other than wait to see if Master Langelee can bring the hermit and Bonde home to answer your questions?’

‘We have a number of leads to follow tonight,’ lied Michael, ducking as Grisel swooped past his tonsure. ‘And a wealth of information to sift through. Be assured, madam, we are a long way from being defeated yet.’

‘Then let us hope your hubris is not misplaced, because I want this killer caught before the Queen comes. I intend to enjoy her arrival and the rededication ceremony without worrying about murderers popping out of the woodwork to spoil everything.’

‘Down the van bring hold,’ said Grisel. ‘Ha ha ha.’

The Lady stroked the bird’s soft feathers. ‘Perhaps we should have let you investigate instead, Grisel. You have more sense than all the rest of them put together.’

It was pitch dark by the time Bartholomew and Michael ran out of people to interview, and with a sense of bitter frustration, they began to make their way back to the priory. Lights spilled from the houses they passed, and as many owners were wealthy enough to afford glass, the two scholars could see inside to where families and servants were settling down for evening meals and entertainment. Paycock was holding forth to a table of nodding men in one, his fierce expression suggesting that whatever he was saying, it was nothing temperate.

Bartholomew was uneasy, wishing they had done what Langelee had ordered and asked the watchmen to escort them back to the priory. Michael had demurred, wanting to use the time to discuss what they had learned without interested ears flapping.

‘And what have we learned?’ Bartholomew demanded, weariness turning him curt. ‘Nothing, despite our best efforts. And now time has run out, because we leave tomorrow. We have failed – failed Michaelhouse, failed the Lady, and failed Margery and Roos.’

‘Not yet,’ said Michael stubbornly, although exhaustion edged his voice, too. ‘There are a few hours left to us, and I am not giving up until every last one of them has expired. Besides, we might strike gold tonight, when you search John’s house for these documents. I hope he does not keep a servant, because we cannot afford to have you caught.’

‘I will not be caught,’ replied Bartholomew firmly. ‘For the simple reason that I am not going. You can do it. Do not worry – I will distract John while you are inside.’

‘But I do not trust you to keep him busy,’ objected Michael, alarmed. ‘And what if it entails squeezing through a window? I might get stuck, and where will that leave us?’

‘In a very embarrassing position,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘So you had better stick to using doors instead.’

The monk did his best to persuade him to change his mind, but Bartholomew was adamant, so in the end it was Michael who crept through the shadows to the Prior’s House. The physician went to the refectory, where he gave the Austins an account of the investigation to date. Unfortunately, as he had little new to report, it was difficult to keep their attention, and he lost count of the times that John stood to leave, obliging him to gabble like a lunatic to make him sit down again. By the time a lamp went on in the guesthouse – the sign that Michael was back – Bartholomew was ready to weep with relief.

‘You are no raconteur,’ said John, eyeing him balefully. ‘I could have summarised your discoveries in a few short sentences, and your loquaciousness does not say much for the University’s rules on brevity.’

Bartholomew aimed for the door, eager to be away from him, but bumped into Heselbech on the threshold. The chaplain was returning from the castle, where he had just recited evening prayers.

‘Weste and Langelee are still out,’ he reported worriedly. ‘I hope they have not run into difficulties. They should have been home by now.’

‘If they are not back by morning, we shall send out a search party,’ determined John. ‘There is no point in doing it now, not in the dark. Shall we pray for their safety?’

He led the way to the chapel, leaving Bartholomew to return to the guesthouse alone. The physician’s head ached from tension and his hands shook. He opened the door to their room, where he saw that Michael had washed, shaved, changed into a nightgown, and set his damp clothes by the fire to dry.

‘Oh, I see,’ he said heavily. ‘You finished your search ages ago, but did not light the lamp until you felt like it. That was unkind.’

‘I forgot,’ lied Michael airily. ‘But we both wasted our time, I am afraid. I did find the documents, and they were about past misdeeds, but they pertain to illicit relationships with married women – it seems the Austins sired half the children in the county before swearing their vows of chastity.’

Bartholomew was disgusted that he had put himself through such an ordeal for nothing. ‘I suppose it explains why they are so keen to redeem themselves with pious behaviour, but you are right – the discovery does not help us.’

‘I did find one thing of note, though,’ the monk went on. ‘A recent letter from Margery, in which she expressed a wish to leave a large manor to the priory and promising to amend her will accordingly. Unfortunately, she died before she could do it, which makes it unlikely that the Austins killed her – including Nicholas, who was to have been paid a princely sum for drafting the deed of transfer.’

‘Then why did they not tell us?’ demanded Bartholomew, exasperated.

‘Probably because none of them realise how close they are to the top of the list,’ sighed Michael. ‘I imagine they would have done, if they had.’

‘Nicholas did,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘You told him.’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But I have a feeling that he dislikes me as much as I dislike him, so he is perfectly happy for me to waste my time barking up the wrong tree. He is the kind of man to care more about spiteful vengeance than catching a killer.’

‘Well, look on the bright side,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘Our suspects are now down to four: Bonde, Lichet, Thomas and Ella. We shall concentrate on them tomorrow. Or were you telling the truth when you informed the Lady that you had plenty of leads to follow tonight?’

‘We had one,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘The documents in John’s house. So let us pray that one of us has inspiration about how to proceed before morning, or your earlier gloom about us letting everyone down may transpire to be prophetic.’