The Habit of Murder

Chapter 2

When he emerged from his devotions, Michael was deeply unimpressed to learn that he had had a wasted journey, although Bartholomew was happy to pass a day or two exploring the glories of Clare. Personally, he felt the visit had been worthwhile for the fan vaulting alone.

‘Are you sure?’ the monk asked for at least the third time. He, Bartholomew and Langelee were in a chapel dedicated to the patronal saints – Peter and Paul. It was in a part of the church that had not been revamped, so it was dark, old and rather plain. ‘You did not misunderstand what the vicar and the others told you?’

‘Of course we did not misunderstand,’ snapped Langelee, disappointment turning him testy. ‘The Lady is in fine fettle and has no intention of being buried today.’

‘Then who sent the letter telling us about her funeral?’ demanded Michael. ‘And hired a messenger to take it all the way to Cambridge?’

‘Lord knows,’ replied Langelee, disgusted. ‘But he had better not come to gloat about it, not unless he wants a blade in his gizzard. This jaunt cost us money we can ill afford. The bastard has no idea of the damage he has done.’

Michael was silent for a while. Then his expression turned from irked to calculating, and his green eyes gleamed with the prospect of a challenge.

‘Yet what is to stop us from turning the situation to our advantage? The Lady may appreciate three busy scholars coming here to pay their respects, and it is our chance to ensure that when she does die, Michaelhouse is mentioned in her will for certain.’

‘But I do not like Clare,’ objected Langelee sulkily. ‘There is a nasty dispute between the town and the castle about who has the right to stand where in the church. Oh, you can smile, Brother, but passions are running very high over it.’

‘Probably because so much money has been spent on its refurbishment,’ surmised Bartholomew. ‘Mayor Godeston and Barber Grym mentioned a couple of the sums involved, and even the smallest would keep Michaelhouse afloat for a decade.’

‘In that case, we shall certainly stay,’ determined Michael. ‘If Clare folk have so much spare cash, then we must persuade them to put some of it our way. I do not care if they hail from the town or the castle. Merchants, knights, tradesmen, nobles … their gold is all the same colour.’

‘I suppose we can try,’ conceded Langelee. ‘Everyone here is very well dressed, even the paupers. Indeed, I feel like a beggar in my shabby academic attire.’

‘You are a beggar,’ Michael reminded him. ‘But not one who will go home empty-handed if I have anything to say about it. We shall stay for this rededication service next Tuesday – that will be our excuse for lingering. And in the interim, we shall tout for benefactors and court the Lady.’

Langelee regarded him in alarm. ‘But that is six days hence – we cannot afford to dally here that long! And what about the beginning of term? We dare not leave William and Suttone to manage on their own. William will drive off all our new students with his fanatical bigotry, while Suttone is lazy and incompetent.’

‘Term starts on Thursday, so we shall leave first thing Wednesday morning,’ determined Michael. ‘And do not worry about lodgings. We shall find somewhere cheap.’

Langelee frowned unhappily. ‘Very well, if you are sure. I admit that I am loath to return home with an empty purse.’

Bartholomew left them plotting tactics and went to admire more of the church. Yet again, his eyes were drawn to the roof. He could hear rain drumming on it, and marvelled that there were no leaks, as there would be at home. Personally, he was delighted that Michael and Langelee had agreed to stay, as he wanted to see the ceiling without the scaffolding. And, of course, he was interested in meeting Cambrug, as only a genius could have invented fan vaulting.

It seemed that Nicholas had driven the Swinescroft men off the mason’s tomb, because they were now sitting in the porch. Badew was laughing, which made Bartholomew suspect he did not yet know that the Lady was still in the land of the living. He considered breaking the news, but then decided against it: they would be livid, and he had no wish to bear the brunt of their disappointment. He was about to go and admire more murals, when he was intercepted by Donwich and Pulham.

‘Look at Roos,’ said Donwich disapprovingly. ‘The man is a disgrace.’

Bartholomew could see what he meant. While Badew and Harweden chatted to each other, Roos’s eyes were fixed on a young woman who was sweeping the floor. His leer was brazen, and Bartholomew did not like to imagine how she would react if she looked up and saw it.

‘He shames us with his open lust,’ said Pulham, repelled. ‘Someone should tell him to desist before there is trouble.’

‘Well, I am not doing it,’ said Donwich firmly. ‘Indeed, I think I shall adjourn to the Swan for the rest of the day. It is the best inn in Clare, and I much prefer it to the castle. The Lady always insisted that I stayed with her whenever I visited in the past, but now she is dead …’

‘What about the funeral?’ asked Pulham, startled.

‘It is not until tomorrow,’ replied Donwich. ‘The vicar just told me. Where will you stay tonight, Bartholomew? With us in the Swan? Oh, I forgot! Michaelhouse cannot afford it.’

He smirked, which meant that Bartholomew, who had been about to report that the Lady was still alive, decided to let him find out for himself. At that point, Badew and Harweden approached, although Roos did not join them, and continued to ogle the woman.

‘The Swan!’ spat Badew in distaste, overhearing. ‘I would not demean myself by using a garish place like that. The Bell is more to my liking – staid, decent and respectable.’

‘He means dull,’ said Pulham to Donwich, and turned back to Badew. ‘We shall leave you to enjoy it, then. However, you had better hope that the husband of that young lady does not work there, or you may find yourselves stabbed during the night.’

He nodded towards Roos, who was creeping towards his quarry with one hand extended for a grope. With a hiss of alarm his friends hurried over to stop him. Wanting nothing to do with any of them, Bartholomew beat a hasty retreat and returned to Michael and Langelee.

‘They do not know about the Lady,’ he said. ‘And I am disinclined to tell them.’

‘So am I,’ said Michael, ‘but I imagine they will hear the news when they book into their respective inns. And if not … well, it is hardly our problem.’

Worried about the expense that six nights in Clare would incur, Langelee disappeared to locate the cheapest available tavern, leaving his Fellows with strict instructions to stay in the church until he returned. Bartholomew did not mind, content to examine the paintings in more detail. He roamed the nave, while Michael chatted to Nicholas about the Lady.

‘She was unwell a couple of weeks ago,’ the vicar obliged, ‘but Master Lichet put her right. Or so he claimed. Personally, I think it was Grym’s posset that finally settled her stomach.’

‘Who is Lichet?’ asked Michael. ‘A physician?’

‘A learned man,’ replied Nicholas. ‘At least, that is how he describes himself. To me, he is the Red Devil and an ignoramus. When he arrived here a few months ago, he did not even know that we have an anchoress and a hermit.’

‘Good gracious,’ said Michael mildly, unwilling to confess that neither had he. ‘I have not met an anchorite since I was last in Norwich. Where is she?’

‘In her anchorhold, of course,’ said Nicholas. ‘Where else would she be? Like all her ilk, she is walled inside it, and the only way to extricate her would be to smash a hole in the stonework.’

‘I know how anchorites live,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘What I meant was: where is her cell? Here in the church, or has she chosen a more remote place for her life of saintly contemplation?’

‘She is near the chancel,’ said Nicholas. ‘Our hermit is the one who lives in the wilds. Well, at the back of the castle, actually, although he can always be seen at the market of a Wednesday, as it is when he likes to buy his groceries.’

‘A hermit who goes shopping once a week,’ drawled Michael, amused. ‘And who has chosen a busy fortress for his retreat. Singular!’

‘We are lucky to have him,’ said Nicholas sharply, sensing an insult. ‘Pilgrims will flock here to see him once the word spreads. And Anne the anchoress will draw crowds, of course, not to mention the hordes who will come to see the fan vaulting. We shall be inundated with visitors. But speaking of Anne, when would you like to meet her? Now or later?’

‘Neither,’ replied Michael. ‘I imagine she would rather be left to her devotions.’

Nicholas smiled indulgently. ‘She loves company, and there will be hell to pay if I do not introduce her to scholars from the University at Cambridge. Come.’

Bartholomew tagged along, too, as the vicar led the way to the chancel, where the anchoress’ cell abutted the church’s north wall. It was unusually well constructed – most anchorholds tended to be rough lean-to structures built by the occupants themselves, but Clare’s was made of stone and possessed a tiled roof. The cell was spacious, with a screen across one end, which allowed the inmate to do some things without an interested audience.

Bartholomew had visited such places before, and braced himself for an unpleasant smell – personal hygiene tended not to feature very high on anchorites’ lists of priorities. Anne’s abode, however, was fragrant with the scent of fresh straw, and he peered through the squint to see a pile of clean clothes, water for washing and a broom for keeping the cell tidy. Like everything else about Clare, its holy woman was rather more superior than average.

‘I shall leave you to it,’ murmured Nicholas. ‘But do not take up too much of her time. She usually has a nap about now.’

‘A nap?’ blurted Michael in astonishment, but the vicar had gone.

The anchoress sat on a stool, humming over some sewing, although she put it aside when she saw strangers at her squint. She was of indeterminate age, and wore a fine blue gown with a bright white wimple. Bartholomew blinked his surprise – not just at her handsome attire, but at the fact that she should be indulging in needlework. Most people who allowed themselves to be walled up inside churches tended to reject earthly pursuits in favour of the spiritual.

‘You are like no anchoress that I have ever met before,’ he remarked, unable to help himself.

Anne chuckled. ‘You mean I am not some smelly old fanatic who would rather babble nonsense at the Almighty than wash?’

‘Well, yes,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘And they are not usually so well dressed.’

Anne smiled as she smoothed out a couple of wrinkles in her elegant kirtle. ‘I tried wearing sackcloth, but it is difficult to pray when all you want to do is scratch, so I begged some more comfortable apparel from those who come to ask for my blessings.’

‘What about food?’ asked Michael, cutting to what would matter to him. ‘Do you have enough? Itchy clothes are unpleasant, of course, but being hungry would be worse.’

‘Most folk are generous,’ she replied, ‘and those who fall short can expect a piece of my mind. I am not in here being holy for nothing, so if they want me to petition God on their behalf, they can damn well provide me with proper victuals. And they do, generally speaking. Indeed, I usually get so much that I have plenty left over to sell.’

‘Sell?’ echoed Bartholomew warily, while Michael stepped smartly away from the squint so that Anne would not see him smile. ‘You mean for money?’

‘Of course for money! What else? Then I can buy nice things for myself, like scented water, hairpins and silk thread for sewing.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Bartholomew, recalling the grim little cells he had seen in France, where the occupants were so absorbed in matters of the soul that they had to be reminded to eat.

‘Perhaps I should become an anchorite,’ mused Michael, struggling to keep the humour from his voice. ‘Then I could lounge about all day, doing nothing but gorge.’

‘And being holy,’ Anne reminded him earnestly. ‘Not everyone can manage it. But I have a reputation for sanctity, and people from the castle and the town come to me for religious guidance.’

‘What prompted you to take this particular path?’ asked Bartholomew, not sure that ‘sanctity’ was the word he would have used to describe what she had to offer visitors.

‘I was called by God, of course. He asked if I would mind sitting in here, dispensing wisdom on His behalf, and He phrased it so nicely that I decided to oblige.’

‘I am sure He is grateful,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Michael’s large frame quaking with silent laughter next to him.

‘Oh, He is. And it is not a bad life. I got that architect – Cambrug – to put a fireplace in here, so I am very snug of an evening. And once pilgrims come en masse to admire the fan vaulting, they will pay me handsomely to solve their personal problems. Which is why I am here, of course.’

‘Is it? I thought it was to lead a life of quiet communion with God.’

Anne waved a dismissive hand. ‘Giving advice is a lot more fun. Now, do you need my guidance on anything? All it will cost you is a flask of Rhenish wine.’

‘I do not have wine of any description. Does that mean you will withhold your help?’

‘It means we can negotiate,’ she replied smoothly. ‘But do not think you can cheat me, because I am very well versed in the sly ways of men.’

Michael guffawed aloud the moment they were out of earshot, amused by the concept of a recluse with such a worldly outlook on life.

‘She has carved a very comfortable niche for herself here,’ he remarked when he had his mirth under control, ‘and she lives in greater luxury than most monastics.’

‘She is a fraud,’ declared Bartholomew, less inclined to see the funny side of the situation. The poor and desperate would buy her services, but would be cheated of their money’s worth. ‘The Bishop should oust her.’

‘I shall write to him once we are back in Cambridge,’ promised Michael. ‘You are right – something should be done. But not yet. We cannot afford to annoy anyone here until we have secured Michaelhouse’s future. It is all very well for you – you will be living with Matilde in a few weeks’ time – but the rest of us would like a College to call home.’

Despite Langelee’s injunction to remain in the church, Bartholomew and Michael stepped out into the graveyard. The rain had stopped, and both felt the need for some fresh air. Neither spoke, Bartholomew reflecting again on the changes that would occur in his life when he exchanged wedding vows with Matilde, while Michael pondered the anchoress and her lack of spirituality. He noticed that a queue had formed outside her outer window, of people waiting to talk to her.

‘You are thinking about Anne,’ came a squeaky voice near the monk’s elbow. ‘You have that look about you – the one visitors always get after their first audience with her.’

The speaker was a thin, scrawny man with wiry hair somewhere between red and grey. He was dirty and stank of animals, although his cloak was fur and his boots sturdy, both far better than the scholars’. Over his arm was a basket full of fresh produce.

‘You are the hermit, I suppose,’ surmised Michael. ‘Come from your remote refuge behind the castle to shop for victuals.’

‘Yes, I am Jan,’ replied the man, blithely oblivious of the monk’s sarcasm. ‘I always lay in supplies on a Wednesday, as it is the best time for butter and smoked pork.’

‘A worldly anchorite and a hermit who likes busy markets,’ remarked Michael, raising his eyebrows. ‘Clare is certainly full of surprises.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Jan earnestly. ‘No other town can match us for them. Do you have any spare change, by the way? If you do, I shall pray for you this evening.’

‘And if we do not?’ asked Michael.

Jan raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘Then I shall “forget” to include you on the list of names I give to God each night, and you do not want that. So come on. Give.’ He waggled his fingers.

‘I am afraid Master Langelee has all our money,’ lied Michael. ‘So you are out of luck.’

‘I suppose you can bring it to the hermitage later,’ said Jan grudgingly. ‘Although do not leave it too long – my list does not remain open indefinitely.’

‘The hermitage,’ mused Michael. ‘Is it as elaborate as the anchorhold?’

Jan made a moue of disdain. ‘It is the abode of a spiritual man, not of some wench who likes sitting around braying her opinions. My home is a cave, with nothing in it but the bare essentials – furniture, bedding, pots, pans, a goat, ten chickens, two pairs of shoes, four baskets of–’

‘A cave?’ asked Bartholomew, interrupting because he suspected that the list might go on for some time otherwise. ‘In this sort of countryside?’

‘A cottage, then,’ conceded Jan. ‘Although I do not see that it matters what I call it. Would you like some advice on credit? Because I have three things to say to you.’

‘No, it is all right,’ said Michael quickly, unwilling to run up debts that they might be unable to pay. ‘We are not–’

‘First, do not trust that Anne,’ said Jan, cutting across him. ‘Not as far as you can spit, as she is a liar and a cheat. Second, do not join the war between castle and town, because it is deadly. And third, if the Austin friars invite you to stay in their priory, wear armour.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael, startled. ‘Are they the kind of priests to stab guests, then?’

‘No, but they have sworn oaths,’ replied Jan, and lowered his voice to add darkly, ‘Oaths to help each other in time of need. It is all wrong, if you ask me.’

Bartholomew wanted to know why, but the hermit was already hurrying away, moving with a curious sideways scuttle that was redolent of a crab. Jan had no sooner disappeared into the leafy darkness of the churchyard when someone else strode towards them. It was an Austin with a neat grey beard, a scarred face and a black eyepatch. Bartholomew could only suppose that Jan had seen the friar coming, and it was this that had prompted the curious warning.

‘Is Nicholas in there?’ the priest asked. He nodded towards the church, then went on without giving them time to answer. ‘He probably is – he has a lot to do if he wants the place ready in time for the ceremony next week. So, who are you? Scholars from Clare Hall? We do not see you very often these days, not since you started objecting to the Lady telling you how to run your College.’

‘We are from Michaelhouse,’ replied Michael. ‘A far superior foundation.’

‘Never heard of it,’ declared the friar, but listened with interest as Michael introduced himself and Bartholomew. He gave a military-style salute. ‘And I am John de Weste, the priory’s cofferer.’

‘The artist?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I saw some of your work yesterday – a Book of Hours.’

Which had almost been incinerated by the surly Roos, he recalled, although it did not seem prudent to mention that to its creator.

Weste beamed with genuine pleasure. ‘My work is at the University in Cambridge? Then perhaps I shall be famous yet! You must visit me in the priory and tell me all about it. But I had better find Nicholas before any more of the day is lost. Good day to you.’

He bowed and hurried away. Bartholomew watched him go.

‘I wonder what Jan has against the Austins. It cannot just be that they have sworn vows to help each other – there is nothing wrong with being loyal to friends.’

‘No,’ agreed Michael. ‘There is not.’

It was some time before Langelee returned, dejected because he had visited every tavern he could find, only to learn that there was no such thing as cheap accommodation in Clare. Even the lowest place charged top rates, and they would run out of money within two days if they accepted the terms on offer. Lines of strain showed around his eyes. It was never easy being Master, but Langelee’s tenure had been harder than most. The College had been plagued with problems from the moment he had taken office, virtually none of his own making. He had done his best, but worry was taking its toll, draining even his ebullient spirits.

‘But if we disappear to sleep under a hedge, it will raise eyebrows,’ he said glumly. ‘And no one will give money to a foundation that cannot pay its envoys’ basic expenses.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘But surely they will want to give us more, on the grounds that their help will be especially appreciated?’

‘That is not how it works,’ explained Michael impatiently. ‘Rich folk invest in foundations that are thriving, not ones that teeter on the edge of collapse, where their money might be wasted. We must look as though we are awash with cash.’

‘How?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘By staying at the Swan?’

‘I will think of something,’ promised Michael, and glanced up at the sky, aware that the rain had started again. ‘Because I am not sleeping under hedges in this weather.’

‘I met that anchoress,’ said Langelee disapprovingly. ‘She hailed me through her window – in a voice like a fanfare – and demanded to know my business.’

‘What did you tell her?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘The truth,’ replied Langelee. ‘That we came to pay our respects to the Lady, and that we are a flourishing College which does not need more benefactors, but if anyone here would like to contribute, then we would consider making an exception in their case.’

‘That is the truth, is it?’ said Bartholomew, amused.

‘Then I asked her about the town’s worthies, so as to know who to target first – I thought I could trust her to give me an honest answer, being holy and all – but she told me to keep my thieving fingers to myself. What sort of saint comes up with that kind of response?’

‘The kind of saint who comes from Clare,’ replied Michael. ‘You should meet their hermit – a “recluse” who lives near a busy castle and likes shopping.’

‘Perhaps we should stay with him then,’ suggested Langelee. ‘He probably has guest quarters we can use, and we will be better fed than at home.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Michael in distaste. ‘He smelled of goat and I do not want to share my bed with a menagerie. Perhaps the Austins will put us up. I know for a fact that they are wealthy.’

‘They are unlikely to extend their hospitality to a Benedictine,’ predicted Langelee gloomily. ‘Maybe we should visit the castle, and hope the Lady offers to house us in return for the pleasure of our company. She likes scholars, and we are charming fellows. Especially me.’

‘How about Nicholas?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘He might find us a corner, and we can tell everyone that we accepted his offer because we want to be near the church.’

‘That is a good idea,’ said Langelee, brightening. ‘It will make us look pious, which is not a bad thing, and he has the look of an old soldier about him. He will not turn a fellow warrior away.’

The three scholars entered the church to see Nicholas and Weste talking near the anchorhold. Unwilling to beg in front of an audience, Langelee made a show of removing a stone from his boot, murmuring that they would make their move once the friar had gone. Unfortunately, the moment Weste walked away, Nicholas was approached by Badew, Roos and Harweden, all demanding to know about the following day’s funeral. Again, Langelee held back, although he, Bartholomew and Michael were close enough to hear the conversation that followed.

‘It was to have been today, but I delayed it because of the rain,’ said Nicholas. ‘And Anne thought it would be better tomorrow, as no one likes standing around open graves in a downpour.’

‘I do not mind,’ declared Badew with a vindictive smirk. ‘Especially if it is to bury someone I hate. What time will it be?’

‘Mid-morning,’ replied the vicar, eyeing him askance. ‘Anne said that is the best hour for burials, as it leaves plenty of time for a drink afterwards, to remember the deceased’s virtues.’

‘Anne thought, Anne said,’ scoffed Harweden nastily, although the three Michaelhouse men were thinking much the same. ‘Do you make no decisions for yourself?’

‘It is not a crime to confer with a holy woman,’ retorted Nicholas stiffly. ‘Indeed, it would be foolish not to. She is a very wise lady.’

‘Is she?’ sneered Roos. ‘She seems rather worldly to me.’

Nicholas regarded him coldly. ‘You are an experienced traveller, are you?’

Roos frowned suspiciously. ‘Not especially. Why?’

‘To ascertain how many other anchorites you have met, because if Anne is the only one, then your opinion is worthless.’

‘He is very well travelled,’ declared Harweden, indignant on his friend’s behalf. ‘He has kin in Peterborough, whom he visits every three months. Is that not so, Roos?’

‘Hah!’ exclaimed Nicholas triumphantly. ‘I hail from Peterborough, and there are no future saints living anywhere near the place. Thus Anne is the only one he has–’

‘Come, Harweden,’ said Roos, plucking his crony’s sleeve. ‘We have better things to do than converse with this ignoramus. Like wiping horse muck from our boots.’

The three old men sailed away, although their haughty departure was spoiled when Badew skidded in mud, almost pulling his friends to the ground with him. They walked more carefully after that. When they had gone, Langelee, Michael and Bartholomew approached the vicar.

‘You do realise that they were asking about the Lady’s funeral, do you not?’ said Michael. ‘The one that will not happen tomorrow, because she is still alive?’

Nicholas smiled smugly. ‘Then they should have made themselves more clear. I assumed they were asking after Robert Skynere, who was killed by someone from the castle four days ago.’

‘How do you know the culprit is from the castle?’ asked Bartholomew warily.

‘Because who else would dispatch a townsman?’ Nicholas shot back. ‘Moreover, he was poisoned, and sly toxins are difficult to acquire – townsfolk do not know where to buy them, but some of the castle residents have been to London.’ He pursed his lips, as if this was all the proof that was needed.

‘How can you be sure that Skynere was poisoned?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Death by such means is notoriously difficult to diagnose.’

‘Because Grym says so,’ replied Nicholas. ‘And as he is a barber-surgeon, he is familiar with such matters. The culprit is doubtless one of those nasty squires. Or that knight Albon, who is so stupid that he probably does not even know what he has done.’

‘I am beginning to feel quite at home here,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘Murders, feuds, unfounded accusations. It is just like Cambridge.’

‘Yes, except that it is not our responsibility to investigate anything,’ warned Bartholomew, afraid that the monk would see it as a challenge worthy of his talents. ‘Thank God.’

While the two of them spoke, Langelee started to work on Nicholas, casually mentioning his own military background. The vicar beamed his delight, and clapped a burly arm around the Master’s broad shoulders.

‘I once knew the garrison in York very well,’ he declared. ‘Indeed, I still have friends in the Austin Priory there.’

‘I did not mix with clerics,’ said Langelee, making it sound like a very undesirable thing to have attempted. ‘But there are several soldiers who you might have met.’

He began to list them, and the vicar chortled with pleasure when several names were familiar to him. And then, while Bartholomew and Michael watched in silent admiration, Langelee secured not only three beds for the night, but an invitation to dine as well.

‘Unfortunately, it cannot be for longer,’ said Nicholas apologetically. ‘Do you remember what I told you earlier about the castle meddling in town affairs? Well, the Lady decided that the Queen’s priests will lodge with me when Her Majesty comes for the rededication service, and tomorrow is when everything will be made ready for them.’

‘We have other plans for the rest of our stay,’ lied Langelee, affecting insouciance to conceal his disappointment. ‘We shall not trouble you after tonight.’

When Nicholas showed the three scholars around his home, Bartholomew thought it was small wonder that the Lady aimed to commandeer it. Most vicars occupied modest houses, but Nicholas’s, located a few convenient steps across the graveyard, was palatial. It comprised a large chamber on the ground floor, three bedrooms on the one above, and five little attics on the top.

‘Perhaps I should become a priest,’ said Langelee, looking around enviously. ‘You have ten times as much space as me, and I am Master of a College!’

They deposited their bags, saw their horses settled in the adjoining stable, then used the rest of the day getting to know the town and its residents. Bartholomew was more interested in the architecture, but Michael and Langelee made the acquaintance of several wealthy locals, who they decided could later be targeted for donations.

When the last of the daylight had faded, they returned to the vicarage, pleased to discover that Nicholas had a fire going and a stew warming over it. Outside, a spiteful wind hurled rain against the window shutters, and Bartholomew was glad they did not have to spend the night in the open. So was Langelee, who began to unwind, especially after his third cup of mulled wine. The lines of worry eased from his face, and he reverted to his old ebullient self – the man he had been before College troubles had dragged him down. He perked up even further when the stew transpired to comprise meat and no vegetables, which was the kind of manly fare he loved.

‘So you were old Archbishop Zouche’s henchman,’ said Nicholas admiringly. ‘I heard a lot of good things about him.’

‘He was a fine leader,’ averred Langelee, already firm friends with the worldly vicar. It was not surprising, as they had a great deal in common – a fondness for drink, flexible views on religion, and a penchant for revelling in their warlike pasts.

‘He brooked no nonsense and knew how to deal with awkward customers,’ nodded Nicholas. ‘I respect that in a man.’

‘In a man, perhaps,’ put in Michael disapprovingly. ‘But in a prelate?’

‘Especially in a prelate,’ countered Nicholas. ‘Or sly seculars will run circles around him. Have a bit of this pork fat, Bartholomew. You look as if you need feeding up.’

‘He is all skin and bones,’ agreed Michael, while Bartholomew regarded the glistening lump in revulsion. ‘It comes of eating too much greenery, which is a very unhealthy habit. He should know better, being a physician.’

‘He should,’ nodded Nicholas, regarding Bartholomew as if he had just sprouted horns. Then he turned back to Langelee. ‘But why did you really come to Clare? If you thought the Lady was dead, was it to find out what she left you in her will?’

‘Of course not,’ lied Langelee, managing to sound genuinely indignant. ‘Michaelhouse is awash with money, and her legacy, while nice, will make scant difference to our bulging coffers. But on the subject of wills, who are her executors?’

Nicholas scratched his chin. ‘Let me think. Her steward, Robert Marishal, is one. He is her right-hand man, and she does not so much as cough without consulting him first. Then there is Sir William Albon, her favourite knight, although a duller-witted fellow does not exist.’

‘Why did she choose him then?’ asked Langelee.

‘Because she likes him, and he does cut a dashing figure at ceremonies. And finally, there is the Red Devil – Master Lichet. I cannot abide him. He has a sly tongue, and it is a pity she likes to hear him wag it, because even castle folk are leery of the rogue. So there you are: those are the three you will have to petition for your bequest when the time comes.’

‘Tell us a bit more about the townsman who was killed,’ said Langelee. ‘I heard a few snippets when I was in the taverns earlier, looking for a cheap place to … to buy a drink.’

Nicholas was happy to gossip. ‘His name was Burgess Skynere, and he was fed hemlock by someone from the castle. His body was found by Mayor Godeston and Barber Grym, who were worried when he failed to appear at an important meeting.’

‘How do you know it was hemlock?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because Grym told you?’

Nicholas nodded. ‘Godeston ordered Grym to investigate, but the culprit was cunning – he left no witnesses and no clues. Ergo, Grym’s hunt quickly ground to a halt.’

‘So the feud between town and castle has turned murderous?’ mused Michael, wondering if it was such a good idea to stay in Clare after all.

‘It turned murderous long before Skynere,’ averred Nicholas. ‘Three of the Lady’s men have also died over the last two months – killed by the town, according to the castle. Sir William Talmach was on her council, Charer was her coachman, and Wisbech was her chaplain. Wisbech was an Austin, like me, and will be missed. Charer will not, though – he was a drunken sot.’

Nicholas expressed his disapproval of such behaviour by draining his own goblet and pouring himself another so full that there was a meniscus over the top.

‘How did they die?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking it was hardly surprising that the castle had attacked Skynere if the town had already dispatched three of their number.

‘Talmach fell off his horse, Charer drowned and Wisbech swallowed poison – hemlock, just like Skynere.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘But if one victim of hemlock was from the town and the other was from the castle, perhaps you are wrong to accuse each other of foul play. Maybe there is just a single killer – one who does not belong to either faction.’

‘Unfortunately, we will never know,’ sighed Nicholas, ‘because, as I told you, Grym’s enquiries are at a complete standstill.’

‘Is he a skilled investigator, then?’

‘He is the only one I have ever seen in action, so I am not really qualified to judge. However, I can tell you that he spent a long time with the bodies, and asked lots of questions of the victims’ friends and relations. He certainly did his best.’

‘Hemlock is not a good poison for sly murder,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is slow-acting, so its victims take ages to die – which gives them plenty of time to raise the alarm.’

Nicholas raised his hands in a shrug. ‘They may have tried, but they lived alone and they died at night. Their cries would have gone unheard. Of course, the castle accused Grym himself of the deaths, but we all know that was just them being spiteful.’

‘Why would they accuse Grym?’

‘Because he keeps a supply of hemlock himself – he feeds it to patients who need bits sawing off.’

‘Does he?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking he would never use it for such a purpose. The herb could relieve pain and promote healing sleep, but dosage was critical, and it was frighteningly easy to give too much, condemning a patient to paralysis and eventual death. He deployed it rarely – usually only on those who were dying or in such agony that the risk was acceptable.

‘What do your fellow Austins say about losing one of their own?’ probed Michael. ‘And where do they stand in this dispute?’

‘They refuse to join in, on the grounds that they would rather have peace. There is also the fact that they have friars in both places – me in the town and Father Heselbech as castle chaplain. And do not suggest that Wisbech was killed to force them to pick a side, because Prior John is not so easily manipulated, and will remain neutral no matter what.’

‘Well, it is a sorry state of affairs,’ said Michael. ‘And it is not–’

‘God’s blood!’ exclaimed Nicholas, his eyes fixed on Langelee, who was playing idly with one of his smaller weapons. ‘That is a handsome piece. Where did you get it?’

‘He gave it to me,’ replied Langelee, nodding at Bartholomew as he handed the little blade over for closer inspection. ‘It is a letter-opener.’

It had been a letter-opener originally – a small, knife-like device with a blade that could be slipped under a seal to break it cleanly. Bartholomew had bought it in France, as a gift for Langelee, and had expected him to toss it into a chest and forget about it. But Langelee had been delighted, and the physician had watched an innocent little implement become something else entirely in the Master’s warlike hands. The blade had been honed to a wicked sharpness, and the pretty mother-of-pearl handle was wrapped in leather for better purchase. Langelee was inordinately fond of it.

‘Very nice,’ said Nicholas, turning it over appreciatively. ‘I might get myself one of these – it is small enough to fit up a sleeve, but large enough to do what is needed.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Bartholomew uneasily.

‘Defending myself. A parish priest is a tempting target in these uncertain times, and while I cannot arm myself brazenly, something like this would be ideal.’

‘It works for me,’ agreed Langelee. ‘We scholars are also supposed to forswear arms, but only a fool would do it. I always have my letter-opener to hand, and it often comes in useful.’

‘Will you sell it to me?’ asked Nicholas, taking a piece of gristle from his bowl and testing the blade for sharpness. His eyes widened in appreciation at the result.

Langelee took it back from him with an apologetic smile. ‘I shall never part with it – it is like an extension of my own arm. Besides, I need it for opening letters.’

Bartholomew knew he did not, because the Master was not a man for neatly slitting seals when it was quicker to break them with his fingers.

‘Come on,’ wheedled Nicholas. ‘You can hide all manner of weapons under an academic tabard, but a habit is much more difficult. I need it more than you do.’

‘I will send you one from Cambridge,’ promised Langelee, putting it away before there was a spat and they ended up being evicted. ‘One that is smaller and sharper.’

‘All right,’ said Nicholas, although with ill grace. ‘As long as you do not forget.’

‘I will not,’ vowed Langelee, and offered a large, callused hand to seal the deal. ‘As one old soldier to another. Now, shall we have another drink?’