The Habit of Murder

Chapter 12

It was still raining the next day – their last in Clare – although not as hard. It was, however, falling on already sodden ground, so there were muddy puddles everywhere, while the river was a swift brown torrent. Bartholomew had neglected to put his clothes to dry the previous night, so had to force his feet into wet boots, while his cloak was cold and damp around his neck. He looked longingly at Albon’s, but decided it was not worth the risk.

He and Michael ate a hasty breakfast, both anxious about the fact that Langelee and Weste were still missing. Michael eyed the Master’s empty bed anxiously.

‘I hope no harm has come to him. I imagine Talmach and Albon thought they could look after themselves, but look at what happened to them.’

Bartholomew agreed. ‘He is an experienced soldier, but that is no defence against slyly slashed saddle straps and devious ambushes. Let us hope that he and Weste just lost track of time, so were forced to camp. Regardless, I think we should go and look for them.’

‘I do, too.’ Michael stood purposefully. ‘So pack our belongings: we leave as soon as we have tracked them down. I shall be sorry to miss tonight’s ceremony, not to mention the last chance to win a few more benefactors, but Langelee is right – none of this is worth our lives.’

‘And the killer? Or have you given up on solving the case?’

‘I fear we must, much as it pains me to say it. There is no time to work on that and ride out to look for the Master.’

They shoved their belongings into saddlebags, then hurried to the stables to ready their nags. Prior John saw what they were doing, and came to voice his own concerns about the missing men.

‘It would be better if we went to look,’ he said, nodding at Heselbech to make the necessary arrangements. ‘We will bring them back – and hunt for Bonde and the hermit at the same time.’

‘We can manage, thank you,’ said Michael shortly. ‘We are–’

‘We know the area, you do not,’ interrupted John. ‘I shall lead the search myself, while Heselbech minds the priory. We will find Langelee, I promise. And if he and Weste are in trouble, then we are far better equipped to deal with it than you two. No offence intended.’

‘Stay here and hunt killers instead,’ suggested Heselbech slyly. ‘I am sure you would like one last chance to win the hundred marks.’

‘It is kind of you to offer,’ said Bartholomew coolly. ‘But we would rather go ourselves.’

‘Please,’ said John, reaching out to pull the reins from the physician’s hands. ‘I know you were at the Battle of Poitiers, and that you are a highly accomplished warrior, but hacking down an enemy in hand-to-hand combat is not the same as following their scent through unknown territory. Let us do it. It will be safer for all concerned.’

There was a brief tussle over the bridle, but Bartholomew yielded in the end, knowing that John spoke the truth: the friars were better equipped to mount the kind of hunt it would take to find two men who might be anywhere. However, that did not mean he was happy about abrogating the responsibility to comparative strangers, and it was with a sense of deep unease that he watched John begin to choose the horses he wanted to take.

‘Why did you not tell us that Margery planned to leave you a manor in her will?’ asked Michael, whose expression was equally troubled. ‘It would have been helpful to know.’

‘Because she died before she could make her wishes legal,’ explained John, his eyes and most of his attention on the stables and their equine counterparts. ‘So now it will never happen – it is irrelevant.’

‘It is not irrelevant,’ countered Michael. ‘For two reasons. First, it means that you are unlikely to have killed her, on the grounds that you would have waited until the affidavit had been signed–’

‘I hope you did not have any of us on your list of suspects,’ said John indignantly, horses forgotten as he glared at the monk. ‘We might have gone to war in the past, but we are in holy orders now, and we take our vows seriously. If I had any inkling that you thought otherwise, I would not have extended our hospitality to you these last few days.’

‘And second,’ Michael went on, unfazed, ‘it may be a motive for Margery’s murder – that someone did not want the manor to come to you, so killed her to prevent her wishes from being implemented. Thomas and Ella, for example, who may want the property for themselves.’

‘But they did not know what she intended,’ argued John. ‘No one did, other than her and us. Indeed, I cannot imagine how you found out. She did not even confide in her husband, lest he tried to persuade her to leave it to the twins instead.’

‘He would not have done that,’ averred Michael. ‘He does not like them very much.’

‘No one does, but they are his flesh and blood.’ John’s eyes widened in sudden alarm. ‘Or does he fear they are cuckoos in the nest? Lord! I hope he does not remember that I had a mop of golden curls as a youth – much like Thomas’s, in fact. I never went anywhere near Margery, but …’

‘No,’ said Michael flatly. ‘He does not think the twins are your doing.’

‘Thank God for that! It would have been difficult to disprove after all these years.’

John turned back to his duties without further ado. Once the horses were saddled, he picked the roughest and meanest-looking friars to ride out with him, while the remainder were instructed to prevent trouble in the town or guard the priory against attack.

‘We have done our utmost to remain aloof from this feud,’ he told them soberly, ‘but mobs are fickle, and one side may decide to assault us instead. You must all be on your guard.’

And then he and his ruffians were gone in a businesslike rattle of hoofs on cobbles. All were armed with knives and cudgels, and as their functional oiled cloaks covered their religious habits, they looked more like a military fighting unit than a group of clerics.

‘He is right, Matt,’ said Michael, seeing the physician was still far from happy about leaving Langelee’s safety in their hands. ‘They are better at this than us, and I know they will do their best for him. Besides, I cannot say I am averse to having one final crack at catching the killer.’

‘I suppose we can corner Lichet, Thomas and Ella again,’ said Bartholomew without enthusiasm. ‘Bonde is unavailable, so they are the only suspects left.’

‘To the castle, then,’ said Michael.

They had grown so used to the town’s rancorous atmosphere that they barely noticed it as they hurried towards the fortress. They heard snippets of conversation as they went, chief of which was outrage that it was to be Heselbech, not Nicholas, who would preside over the rededication ceremony that evening. There was also anger that the church was to remain closed until then, even though the last of the scaffolding had now been taken down. Bartholomew stopped to exchange brief greetings with Grym, but then wished he had not when he saw Paycock was with him.

‘The castle has no right to prevent us from seeing the fan vaulting we paid for,’ Paycock snarled. ‘All they bought was a south aisle that no one wants.’

‘But closing the church was Nicholas’s idea,’ Grym pointed out reasonably. ‘The castle had nothing to do with it.’

‘Oh, yes it does,’ argued Paycock. ‘Anne told me that Nicholas made that decision purely because he is so hurt about being barred from his own ceremony. And his disappointment is understandable. He has been planning the affair for months, and all of a sudden, the castle chaplain is named priest in charge.’

‘Cambrug should arrive this morning,’ said Grym in a transparent effort to change the subject to something less contentious. ‘He will be delighted by all we have achieved since he left – his lovely fan vaulting covered in beautiful geometrical artwork. He will jump for joy.’

‘Then he will have to do it in the graveyard,’ muttered Paycock venomously. ‘Because he will not be allowed inside the church either.’

Bartholomew left Grym trying to placate him, and hurried to catch up with Michael. They reached the castle, and found it on full alert once again, although the monk was spared from crawling under the portcullis a second time, as their arrival coincided with a delivery of fish, so they were able to walk in behind the cart.

‘What time do you expect the Queen, Richard?’ asked Bartholomew as they passed through the gate. The watchman wore his Sunday best, and had shaved for the occasion.

‘Probably this afternoon,’ replied Richard, his eyes bright with excitement. ‘She will want to be here well before the ceremony, so she can change into finery that reflects the importance of the occasion. Her coronation robes, perhaps. They would be suitable.’

‘What if she is late?’

‘Heselbech will wait until she is ready.’

‘That will not please the town,’ warned Michael. ‘Indeed, it is asking for trouble.’

Richard smiled. ‘They will not mind delaying for her. She is the Queen.’

‘Yes, but she will stay in the castle,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Not in the town. Ergo, you may find they are less accommodating than you expect.’

Richard frowned his concern, and they left him pondering the matter, for which Bartholomew was grateful. Complacency was the last thing they needed while Clare was in such turmoil.

The first person they met inside was Quintone, who had also dressed with care. He held himself with lofty dignity, clearly intending to make the most of the fact that he had been unjustly accused. He obeyed orders slowly, and brayed about claiming compensation for the suffering he had endured. A few servants nodded support, but most were unsettled by his defiance and contrived to keep their distance. Nuport watched him with a dark and brooding expression.

‘You court danger with this rash display of mutiny, Quintone,’ cautioned Michael. ‘It would be wiser to chalk it down to experience and forget about it.’

‘I was innocent and the Lady freed me,’ declared Quintone haughtily, then sneered in Nuport’s direction. ‘So he can sod off. He cannot touch me now, and nor can that stupid Lichet.’

‘Are you willing to bet your life on it?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because that is effectively what you are doing with your imprudent swaggering.’

Quintone spat his disdain for the advice. ‘They dare not come anywhere near me! They will have to stay in Clare now that Albon cannot take them to France, but they will bully me no longer. I shall stand up to them, just like Master Marishal did yesterday. And I will win.’

Bartholomew was far from sure he would. ‘It is not–’

‘And while we are talking, let me take this opportunity to inform you that Bonde is the killer,’ announced Quintone with great confidence. ‘I was too frightened to mention it before, but my brush with death has made me a stronger, bolder man. Bonde is a lout, and I know it was him who killed Mistress Marishal and the scholar.’

‘You do?’ asked Michael warily. ‘How? What is your evidence?’

‘I do not have any – not as such. But talk to Katrina de Haliwell if you do not believe me. She will tell you what kind of man Bonde is, because she knows him better than any of us. She was all for taking him as a husband at one point, but then she changed her mind. Ask her why.’

‘You do it, Matt,’ ordered Michael, once the servant had strutted away. ‘I shall see what Ella and Thomas have to say, although I doubt either of us will learn much of value. Meet me here as soon as you have finished. And hurry – we do not have a moment to lose.’

Bartholomew was not averse to seeing Katrina again, although he was aware that time was of the essence. He hurried to the Oxford Tower, and began to climb the steps, taking them two at a time. He arrived to find Grisel contentedly chewing the head off a wooden soldier, while Blanche and Morel ripped a doll to shreds between them.

‘God save the Queen,’ muttered Grisel. ‘Hold the bring van down.’

‘I decided to do what you suggested and keep them amused,’ said Katrina, smiling delightedly. ‘It worked! There has not been a fight all morning. The Lady will have to give you the five marks she promised now, because you have cured them.’

‘Unfortunately, she is also concerned about the amount of expensive food they eat,’ said Bartholomew wryly. ‘And I have done nothing to reduce that. I imagine they will consume just as much wine, fruit, cakes and meat as they have always done.’

Amusement sparkled in Katrina’s eyes. ‘Perhaps they will. My charges have always had healthy appetites, and I would not see them go hungry.’

Bartholomew was reluctant to waste valuable time discussing what she did with the supplies she claimed from the kitchens, so he turned the subject to Bonde instead. ‘You said he was your chief suspect for the murders at one point, but you never did explain why. Will you tell me now?’

Katrina’s face darkened. ‘I would rather not.’

Bartholomew pressed on anyway. ‘Quintone mentioned that you considered marrying Bonde at one point, but then you thought better of it. Please tell me what you learned about him, Katrina. If you are right, and he did kill Margery, it may help us see that justice is served.’

Katrina raised her eyebrows. ‘I did not need to “learn” about Bonde, because I knew what kind of man he was the moment I set eyes on him. And I never – not once – entertained the notion of making him my husband. Quintone is wrong.’

‘So what kind of man is Bonde?’

Katrina’s face hardened. ‘He expects women to fall at his feet because he is a favourite of the Lady. When they resist his so-called charms, he forces them to give him what he wants.’

‘Did he force you?’

She smiled rather vengefully. ‘He came up here once to try, but he reckoned without Grisel, who bit off part of his nose – you may have noticed the scar.’ She stroked the paroquet fondly.

‘Nuts,’ said Grisel immediately, and Katrina obliged.

‘Did you tell the Lady?’

Katrina shook her head. ‘She will hear no bad word against Bonde, because he is useful to her – more so than his victims. And I like living here.’

Bartholomew was thoughtful. ‘Is he one of the reasons why Anne’s services were in such high demand? For Suzanne de Nekton, for example?’

Katrina met his gaze levelly. ‘Yes – he raped her. Then he slashed her face and threatened to kill her if she told anyone what he had done. That is why she did not want to bear that particular child, and why Anne agreed to relieve her of it.’

‘But Suzanne confided in you anyway? Or in Anne?’

‘She did not “confide” anything – the ordeal drove her out of her wits for several hours, during which she babbled uncontrollably. Stupid Bonde underestimated the impact his vicious assault would have on his victim.’

‘Then why was he not called to account for it?’

Katrina’s expression was bitter. ‘Because the Lady did not believe it of him. Thomas did, though. He cornered Bonde and issued a warning – not justice in the courts, but meted out quietly in the dark one night. Bonde has behaved since, but we all worry about what will happen when Thomas leaves.’

Bartholomew had difficulty seeing Thomas in the role of gallant protector, but supposed it explained why so many women seemed to like him. Moreover, Thomas – with Ella – claimed to have driven Suzanne’s unsympathetic father from Clare, so perhaps he had taken it upon himself to wreak revenge upon the people who had most hurt the girl.

‘Everyone thinks Suzanne was sent to a nunnery,’ he said reflectively. ‘But you told me that she is in “a place where she is safe from ruthless men” which is not quite the same. Where is she?’

‘I do not know what you are talking about,’ declared Katrina, holding his eyes in a way that made it obvious that she was lying.

‘The paroquets cannot possibly eat everything you take from the kitchens,’ he said patiently, ‘while you usually dine in the hall, so have no need for additional food. These baskets of meat, wine and fruit are for Suzanne – you are hiding her. So I repeat: where is she?’

There was a moment when he thought Katrina would deny it again, but then she sagged in resignation. ‘Very well, then. Come with me and inspect Bonde’s pretty handiwork.’

Although Bartholomew knew he should spend every moment of his last few hours in Clare helping Michael, he still followed Katrina down the stairs. One part of his mind told him that his ‘discovery’ regarding Suzanne might allow him to name Bonde as the killer for certain, but the saner part told him that all it would actually do was underscore what he already knew – that Bonde was a vicious and unlikeable tyrant who abused his position of power.

Katrina had been clever in her choice of hiding place, and had selected a tiny chamber built into the thickness of the Oxford Tower wall. Its entrance was concealed by a heavy tapestry, and there was no reason for anyone to know of its existence, although when she unlocked the door and pushed it open, he saw a window that would be visible from the outside: a keen observer would know a room was there. It was very dark inside, as the shutter was closed, although he could make out plenty of cushions and rugs.

‘What are you doing?’ came a shocked voice, making Bartholomew and Katrina turn quickly. Ella was behind them. ‘We swore to keep this a secret, and you bring a stranger here?’

‘A physician,’ said Katrina. ‘He wants to know about Bonde – what kind of monster he is.’

‘You could have just told him,’ snapped Ella. ‘You did not have to show–’

‘We need help, Ella,’ interrupted Katrina quietly. ‘The Lady was ill last month, and we all thought she would die. What will happen to Suzanne when she does? Her heirs will be all over the castle, and Suzanne will be found. We must plan for the future.’

Before Ella could reply, footfalls sounded on the stairs below. It was Quintone, bringing treats for ‘the birds’. Quickly, Katrina bundled Bartholomew and Ella into the room and locked the door behind them. In the darkness, they heard her thank Quintone politely and send him on his way. His footsteps receded.

A moment later, Katrina unfastened the door and joined them inside, while Ella strode to the window and opened it, allowing daylight to flood into the room. It illuminated a young woman, huddled in one corner like a frightened rabbit. She had long silky hair and her skin was as soft as peaches. The scar across her cheek was not as terrible as Bartholomew had anticipated, although it had still been an unconscionably cruel thing to do. Unsurprisingly, Suzanne was very fat – Katrina stole her vast quantities of food, while proper exercise would be all but impossible in the cramped little chamber.

‘This is Doctor Bartholomew,’ Katrina told her brusquely. ‘One of the scholars who has been exploring what happened to Margery. You must tell him about Bonde. I am fairly sure that her murder can be laid at his feet, and it is time to end his reign of terror.’

‘Bonde did not kill her – Quintone did,’ countered Ella, clearly furious with Katrina for breaking their trust. ‘My father and the Lady were wrong to pronounce him innocent, because he has always been an arrogant pig. Just look at the way he seduced poor Isabel.’

‘It was “poor Isabel” who did the seducing there,’ said Katrina wryly. ‘And Master Marishal has now established that three separate people saw Quintone lugging ale from the cellars. Ergo, he has an alibi. But Bonde does not. Go on, Suzanne. Repeat what you told me just an hour ago.’

Suzanne spoke with obvious reluctance, all the while casting petrified eyes in Bartholomew’s direction. ‘Bonde was lurking by the Cistern Tower just after nocturns that night. I saw him through my window. It was dark, but I would know his silhouette anywhere.’

Bartholomew went to the window. It afforded an excellent view of the cistern door, much better than the one from the birds’ room above, because that window was glazed – theirs was distorted by imperfections in the glass, while Suzanne’s view was clear and unimpeded.

‘Why were you awake at such an hour?’ he asked.

‘Because I have slept badly ever since … I saw Bonde just a few moments after Katrina and Sir William Albon went into the chapel for nocturns.’

‘Albon,’ muttered Katrina in disgust. ‘What a wicked waste of an eligible bachelor! Now I shall have to start looking all over again.’

‘What was Bonde doing?’ Bartholomew asked Suzanne.

‘He went to the cistern door, and then I lost him in the shadows. A short while later, I saw him creeping away.’

‘Was this “short while” long enough for him to have gone down the stairs, killed two people, and climbed back up again?’

‘Yes,’ whispered Suzanne. ‘I believe it was.’

‘Then why did you not mention it sooner?’ demanded Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘If you were afraid to speak to Michael, Lichet or Albon, why could you not have told Katrina or Ella? They would have ensured it reached the right ears.’

‘Because any investigator worth his salt would have demanded words with me directly,’ replied Suzanne miserably. ‘And rightly so, when a man’s life depends on it. But people here hate me – they think it is my fault that Anne is in an anchorhold. I cannot face them.’

‘Did you see anyone other than Bonde, Albon and Katrina?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Lots of folk. Margery, who took refreshments to those who worked all night; Roos, who we all called Jevan – I saw him go through the cistern door; Quintone and Isabel frolicking together; two Austins and a scholar, who entered the chapel; Jan the hermit, who was following Bonde; Richard the watchman, who did a few laps around the bailey to stretch his legs as is his wont …’

Which explained why Richard had not mentioned Bonde disappearing at the salient time, thought Bartholomew – he had been wandering about alone himself. Had Richard been afraid that he might be accused of the murders if he could not prove his whereabouts for every moment of that fateful night? Or had he kept quiet out of loyalty to a man who stood watch with him? Or was it simple expediency, as Bonde was not only the Lady’s favourite henchman, but a violent criminal who had already evaded charges of rape, murder and assault?

‘… Ereswell went to the Constable Tower for some early business with Marishal,’ Suzanne continued. ‘And I think Lichet left his quarters at one point, although I cannot be sure. It was too dark to see him properly.’

Bartholomew rubbed his eyes tiredly, feeling the solution to the crime slip further away with every name that fell from her lips. He and Michael would never identify the killer in the allotted time left now, and he was sorry that Michaelhouse was going to lose its last chance of survival.

Katrina was more interested in solving a different problem. ‘We need help, Ella. You and Thomas cannot keep everyone distracted with pranks indefinitely. It has been eighteen months now, and it is obvious that you are running out of ideas, because your japes are becoming increasingly stupid, annoying or dangerous.’

‘Yes, I know,’ acknowledged Ella ruefully. ‘We have resorted to desperate measures of late – such as encouraging the squires to wear silly clothes.’ She glanced at Bartholomew. ‘And setting Adam the baker alight when he was ordered to clean all the rooms on this floor. Thank God he was a thief, and we were able to divert him with a silver box filled with hot embers.’

‘It will be more difficult than ever now that no one is going to France,’ Katrina went on. ‘And it is only a matter of time before bored squires come up here to poke about in a tower that we have so far managed to keep them out of.’

Ella was silent for a moment, then became decisive. ‘Then he must mend Suzanne’s face,’ she said, nodding at Bartholomew. ‘And when she is whole again, we will find her a nice husband in some remote village. My mother’s pearls will be her dowry.’

‘I cannot repair her now,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Suzanne’s growing alarm at the plan. ‘It is eighteen months too late. But I can take her to someone who will teach her how to disguise the mark.’

Matilde championed their town’s prostitutes, where disfiguring injuries were not unusual from vengeful or drunken customers, so she had no small experience with women like Suzanne. Moreover, she would offer far more sensible advice than the girl was getting from her well-meaning but misguided friends.

‘Good,’ said Katrina in relief, before Suzanne could voice her reservations. ‘It is settled then. She will go to the University with the scholars when they leave.’

‘Your future is bright,’ Ella informed Suzanne bitterly. ‘Unlike ours. Katrina will wither away up here with her birds, while I will be married off to another elderly suitor. It is a wretched shame that Albon is dead, because I was looking forward to Paris. So was Thomas. He does not want to be the Lady’s steward when our father dies.’

‘Then go anyway,’ suggested Katrina, as though it was nothing to pack up and decant to another country. ‘What do you have to lose? However, I most certainly will not “wither away” up here – Master Grym smiled at me the other day, and he is a kindly soul.’

‘And too fat to make a nuisance of himself by demanding his conjugal rights at every turn,’ mused Ella. ‘Yes, you could do worse than an amiable and wealthy barber.’

His mind churning, Bartholomew ran to find Michael, although he had been far longer than they had planned, and the monk was not waiting at the agreed rendezvous. Unfortunately, no one was able to tell him where his friend might have gone.

‘Try the kitchens,’ suggested Nuport snidely. ‘Where the food is kept.’

His cronies sniggered. They had been put to work toting blankets to the palace from the laundry, and their revenge for being forced into such menial work was to drop their loads ‘accidentally’ in the mud. Then Nuport’s pugilistic face darkened, and Bartholomew turned to see Quintone strutting towards the gate. The servant was still in his finery, and there was defiance in his every step. Marishal was behind him, his face dark with anger.

‘Come back!’ the steward roared. ‘How dare you walk away while I am talking to you!’

Quintone turned slowly and with deliberate insolence. ‘Things are going to be different from now on, Marishal,’ he called back challengingly, ‘because I am not taking orders from anyone in here – the place where I was very nearly murdered.’

‘Then you are dismissed,’ retorted Marishal shortly. ‘Now get out of my sight.’

‘I was going anyway,’ declared Quintone insolently. ‘I will fare far better in the town than in a castle ruled by an old woman and her monkey.’

Marishal did not dignify the insult with a reply, and only turned on his heel and stalked inside the Constable Tower, slamming the door shut behind him.

‘Quintone goes too far,’ remarked Mull, watching the servant swagger away. ‘I have no great love for Marishal, but no minion should cheek the steward.’

‘He stole my hat last night,’ growled Nuport, his brutish face harsh with anger. ‘I tried to grab it back, but he danced away with it, laughing. And I do not believe he is innocent of murder, so he had better stay out of my way, or I shall give him something to remember.’

The other squires murmured their approval, and Bartholomew hoped Quintone would have the sense to moderate his behaviour before he burned too many bridges. He resumed his hunt for Michael, and eventually learned – from Thomas, who was sweeping the stables, resentment in every stroke of the broom – that Lichet had taken the monk to the cistern not long before.

‘Doubtless to view some clue that everyone else has missed,’ sneered Thomas. ‘But I went down there with Ella on Saturday, and there was nothing to see. Ergo, whatever Lichet has “discovered” will be something he has planted himself.’

‘I just met Suzanne de Nekton,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You have been–’

‘So what?’ demanded Thomas, immediately defensive. ‘Is it a crime to keep someone safe in a room that no one else is using?’

‘I was about to commend your courage and compassion,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘And to ask if your mother knew what you had done?’

Some of the bristling rage drained out of Thomas, and he shook his head. ‘She would have told my father, who would have ousted Suzanne on the grounds that her accusations reflect badly on Bonde. The Lady thinks Bonde can do no wrong, you see, so her faithful steward must share her opinion. My father has always been her creature.’

Bartholomew disagreed. The steward might be loyal, but he was his own man, and it was a pity the twins disliked him, because he was sure they could have worked together to devise a solution that did not entail Suzanne being locked in a tiny cell, living in constant fear of discovery and eating herself into an early grave.

‘My mother was a fool,’ Thomas went on bitterly. ‘She knew what Bonde was like, but insisted on being nice to him, thinking to repair his bad nature with gentleness. What she should have done was use her influence to get him banished. It was ultimately his fault that we lost Anne.’

‘I suppose it was,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, thinking of the chain of events that had led to the nurse becoming an anchoress. ‘Combined with the shocked reactions of Suzanne’s father and the Austin friars.’

‘Yes, their sanctimonious outrage did not help.’ Thomas sighed. ‘My mother did her best with herbs and practical advice for the girls that fell into trouble after Suzanne, but she could never match the service that Anne provided.’

Bartholomew thought it was just as well, but it was not the time for such a discussion, so he hurried to the cistern instead. Thomas followed, although to escape his sweeping duties, rather than from a desire to be helpful. Bartholomew reached the door and tried to open it, but it was shut fast. He turned to scowl at Thomas, wondering if the twin had lied about Michael and Lichet as part of some new prank.

‘They are unlikely to have locked themselves inside. What are–’

‘Well, they must have done,’ interrupted Thomas shortly. ‘Because I saw them go in, but I did not see them come out again – which I would have noticed.’

‘Would you? Why?’

Thomas shrugged slyly. ‘Because they are two men who annoy me, and so would benefit from being the butt of a jape.’ He rolled his eyes with exaggerated weariness when he saw the expression on Bartholomew’s face. ‘A harmless one, so do not look so worried.’

But Bartholomew’s concern was not for Thomas’s petty plans to settle scores, but because he was suddenly assailed by the conviction that all was not well. He kicked the door, then charged at it with his shoulder, but it did not budge and all he did was bruise himself. He glared at Thomas, who was watching with folded arms and an irritating smile.

‘Will you help me?’ he demanded testily. ‘Michael might be in danger down there.’

‘From Lichet?’ Thomas laughed derisively. ‘If your friend can be bested by a low specimen like that, then shame on him. But wait here. I will send my father to you with the key.’

He sauntered away whistling. Agitated, Bartholomew kicked the door again, but the wood was unusually thick, and all he did was add stubbed toes to his sore shoulder. He persisted, though, until he heard an angry voice a few moments later.

‘There is no need to damage castle property,’ snapped Marishal, shoving him out of the way, key in his hand. ‘This door was freshly painted last week.’

‘The Queen will not notice a few scuffs,’ retorted Bartholomew, and squinted up at the sky, trying to gauge the time. ‘I suppose she will arrive at any moment now …’

‘She is not coming,’ said Marishal sourly. ‘A messenger arrived an hour ago, to say that she has been delayed by floods. Tonight’s ceremony will have to proceed without her.’

‘Then the squires have not yet heard the news,’ remarked Bartholomew, glancing to where Nuport and his friends had finished lugging blankets, and were trailing to the outer bailey with shovels; they dragged their feet, clearly hating the humiliation.

A vengeful expression flitted across Marishal’s face. ‘I must have forgotten to mention it to them.’ He inserted the key and made a moue of annoyance. ‘It is not locked. Whose idea was it to haul me from more important duties on a fool’s errand? Yours, or my idiot son’s?’

‘If it is not locked, then open it,’ ordered Bartholomew curtly.

Marishal obliged, and Bartholomew saw that the door had been fitted with a mechanism that allowed it to be firmly secured from the outside – a tiny lever that slotted discreetly into a groove in the wall, which could be released by a quick twist of the handle.

‘There,’ said Marishal. ‘Although I do not know why you could not have done it yourself.’

‘Because I did not know how,’ retorted Bartholomew, feeling he could come to dislike the steward. ‘And why would you install such a thing anyway? It is simply begging for someone to be shut inside – especially with pranksters like your twins around.’

‘Lichet put it in, after a leak saw us ankle-deep in mud for months,’ explained Marishal. ‘It prevents the door from bursting open when the water in the cistern reaches bailey height. The ground here is boggy now, so you can imagine what it is like when the cistern overflows.’

Bartholomew was growing angrier with every word the steward spoke. ‘Then why did no one tell us about this sooner?’ he cried. ‘It is possible that the killer trapped your wife and Roos inside by deploying the thing. And now Lichet – a suspect for the murders – is down there with Michael.’

Marishal’s eyes narrowed. ‘Then I suggest we go and make sure all is well. And if the Red Devil does transpire to be the beast who stabbed Margery …’

With mounting trepidation, Bartholomew began to follow him down the steps, but they had not gone far when he heard the door slam shut. He scrambled back up again, only to discover that Lichet’s device had slipped into place. The door was closed, and no amount of shoving and kicking would make it budge. They were trapped.

‘Damn!’ muttered Marishal. ‘The wind must have caught it. Thank God the Queen is not coming today. It would have been very inconvenient – not to mention embarrassing – to be stuck down here when she arrived.’

‘Did the wind catch it?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Or did someone shut it on purpose?’

‘Well, it was not Lichet – not if he is already down here. But I suspect it was the wind. If the door slams hard enough, the mechanism does drop into place of its own volition. I have seen it happen before. I told Lichet to fix it, but it seems he forgot.’

‘Hey!’ bellowed Bartholomew, thumping the door with both fists for good measure. ‘Help!’

‘Save your breath. The only folk working in the inner bailey today are the cooks, and they are too far away to hear you.’

Bartholomew knew, from the experiments he had conducted with Richard the previous afternoon, that this was true. The door was unusually thick – understandably so, given that it was intended to keep the bailey from flooding – and he had not heard the watchman yell from inside, even when he had pressed his ear to the wood.

‘But there must be a way of opening it from within,’ he said agitatedly. ‘Otherwise, the system would be fundamentally flawed – not to mention dangerous.’

‘Well, it was Lichet’s design, so what do you expect?’ shrugged Marishal. ‘I did suggest he include a way for someone to escape, should they inadvertently be locked in, but he said no one would be that stupid. Shall we see what he has to say about it now?’

It was not an easy descent for two reasons. First, because Marishal held the only lamp, and he was not very good at shining it in such a way that both of them could see. And second, because Bartholomew felt his apprehension grow with every step he took. On the upside, they did not have far to go, as the water had risen so much that it had reached the uppermost of the eight doors.

‘Michael?’ he shouted, taking the lantern and ducking through it. ‘Where are you?’

‘Matt!’ came the monk’s voice warningly. ‘Go back! Lichet is here.’

Lichet was indeed there, standing a few feet away holding a crossbow. The sight was too much for Marishal, who surged forward with a howl of rage, clearly of the opinion that Lichet with a weapon proved that he was Margery’s killer. He barrelled past Bartholomew, and had almost reached his target when he skidded in the wet. He fell, and his momentum carried him clean across the slick pavement and into the water beyond. He disappeared with a splash and was gone.

There was a shocked silence. Then Bartholomew ran to look for him, almost losing his own footing in the process, but the water was black and empty. A sinister ripple on the surface showed that a strong current was running, and he could only suppose it had dragged the hapless steward away.

‘Forget him and stand with your friend,’ ordered Lichet, brandishing the crossbow.

It was then that Bartholomew saw Michael. The monk had been forced to walk further around the inside of the cistern, to the point where the pavement tapered abruptly from a wide viewing platform to a narrow service ledge. It was too thin for his princely bulk, so he held himself rigid, terrified that he would slip and share the steward’s fate.

‘Do it, Bartholomew,’ hissed Lichet, taking aim. ‘I will not tell you again.’

But the physician baulked, knowing that once he was there, he and Michael would be doomed for certain – Lichet would shoot one of them, and have plenty of time to reload before the other could counter-attack. Their only hope was to remain apart, forcing Lichet to divide his attention. He stood carefully, but made no attempt to do as he was told.

‘So you are the culprit,’ he said heavily, talking in the hope of gaining a few moments to devise a way out of their predicament. ‘You stabbed Margery and Roos.’

‘No!’ shouted Lichet agitatedly. ‘As I have been explaining to this stupid monk, I have killed no one. Charer the coachman was an accident – he was drunk when he came down here, and he fell. You saw for yourselves how easily it can happen when Marishal did it. It was over in a flash.’

‘So you carried his body to the river,’ surmised Michael. His voice was unsteady. Of all the ways there were to die, drowning was the one that held the greatest fear for him. ‘Why?’

‘Why do you think?’ snapped Lichet. ‘Because I live upstairs, and I did not want to be accused of his murder. Too many people resent the favour the Lady shows me, and they would have used Charer’s death to do me harm. So I took him to a place where he would be found quickly, and then decently laid to rest. It did no harm.’

‘On the contrary – it did a very great deal of harm,’ argued Bartholomew, assessing the distance between him and Lichet with a view to launching an assault. He might have managed on a dry floor, but not on one that was so treacherous. ‘It led castle folk to assume that Charer was murdered by townsmen.’

‘I know,’ acknowledged Lichet sullenly. ‘But it is not my fault that they are ignoramuses. Now stop blathering and walk towards Michael. At once!’

‘If you are innocent, why are you threatening us?’ asked Bartholomew, standing his ground.

‘Because he asked the Lady what she was doing on the night of the murders.’ Lichet glared at Michael. ‘And she told him that she read all night – alone. So I had no choice but to entice him down here with the promise of answers. I did not want to kill anyone, but now I have no choice.’

‘In other words, he lied,’ called Michael. ‘He has no alibi.’

‘Yes, I lied, but that does not make me the killer,’ Lichet shot back. ‘Yet you would have accused me anyway, and I have no way to prove my innocence.’

‘So why did you lie?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Because no one would have believed the truth,’ replied Lichet wretchedly. ‘Which is that I was sound asleep all night, and only woke when Adam raised the alarm. And of course I was one of the first on the scene – I had the least distance to travel.’

‘Then we shall help you prove it,’ coaxed Bartholomew. ‘We can–’

‘It is too late,’ cried Lichet desperately. ‘Because now I have threatened to kill you, and there is the small matter of Marishal’s death to explain.’

‘But that was not your fault,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘He fell – we all saw it.’

‘It does not matter – folk will claim it is murder because I failed to fish him out.’ Lichet’s expression turned haunted. ‘Unlike Charer – I splashed about for an age in the hope of saving him.’

‘Why were you down here together at all?’ asked Bartholomew, more to keep him talking than for information.

‘I saw him totter through the upstairs door, so I followed him to make sure he came to no harm.’ Lichet shook his head bitterly. ‘It was an act of compassion – simple, honest concern for a fellow human being. I asked what he was doing, and he said he had come to fish! The man was a drunken sot, and his friends should have minded him better.’

‘There is still hope for Marishal,’ said Bartholomew quickly, as Lichet raised the bow again, his eyes full of fear and despair. ‘He–’

‘There is not! Besides, if he dies, the Lady will appoint me as her permanent steward. The post is hereditary, but I cannot see her wanting Thomas.’

‘No,’ conceded Bartholomew. ‘But you have not killed anyone yet, so–’

‘I saw Margery and Jevan … I mean Roos together the night they died,’ blurted Lichet, and ran a trembling hand over his face. ‘I have mentioned it to no one else, because I wanted to be the one to solve the mystery. Roos was angry with her, and she was trying to calm him down. I imagine she invited him here to make peace.’

‘Probably over the letter she sent to Cambridge,’ surmised Bartholomew. He glanced around. ‘Although it is a curious place for an assignation–’

‘He liked it here,’ said Lichet hoarsely. ‘God knows why. She probably chose it to appease him.’ He took a firmer grip on the bow. ‘But I must go. I cannot miss the Queen’s arrival.’

‘Wait!’ cried Michael, as Lichet aimed at Bartholomew. ‘We can help–’

‘No!’ barked Lichet. His voice shook – he was not a natural killer, and was clearly appalled by the situation in which he had found himself. ‘You will betray me. You already know my qualifications from Bordeaux are bogus. You will tell the Lady, and she will send me packing.’

‘We will not,’ promised Michael desperately. ‘And I can award you a degree from Cambridge if you like. It is easily done – a few strokes of a pen and a stamp of the Chancellor’s seal.’

‘You will renege on the offer the moment you are free. Besides, I have it all worked out. I shall blame Quintone when your bodies are found – and earn another hundred marks for solving the mystery of your deaths.’

Bartholomew forced himself not to flinch as Lichet’s finger tightened on the trigger. Then there was a sudden splash, and a hand shot from the water to grab the Red Devil’s ankle. It was Marishal. The crossbow bolt went wide, although Bartholomew was sure he felt it whip past his ear. Lichet lost his balance on the slippery pavement, and fell heavily, landing close to the steward – who reached out to plunge a dagger into his chest. Lichet twitched briefly and died. It all happened so fast that Bartholomew and Michael could do nothing but gape.

‘Do not just stand there, man,’ shouted Marishal angrily, hauling himself out of the water with the agility of a much younger man. ‘Help the monk off that ledge.’

Bartholomew hastened to obey. Once on safer ground, Michael dropped to his knees in relief, drawing in huge unsteady breaths.

‘I heard it all,’ said Marishal, water streaming from his clothes as he looked dispassionately at the man he had killed. ‘He may not have stabbed Margery and Roos, but he was about to dispatch you. He deserved to die. He is–’

He stopped. A peculiar sound was coming from deeper in the cistern, a rumbling that started softly, but that grew steadily louder. The surface of the water began to shiver more violently.

‘What is that?’ gulped Michael, clambering quickly to his feet and looking around in alarm.

‘Someone has opened the valves on the roof tanks,’ explained Marishal in a shocked whisper. ‘Water is pouring down the pipes – and as the cistern is almost full already, it will soon reach the ceiling. I am sorry, Brother, but it seems you are destined to drown today after all.’