The Habit of Murder

Chapter 5

The castle was in turmoil. Servants scurried in every direction, although to no apparent purpose, while their masters stood in huddles and whispered in low, frightened voices. The atmosphere was thick with fear and confusion. Marishal should have taken charge, but he stood in shocked immobility, clutching Ella’s arm. It would have been a good opportunity for Thomas to prove his worth, given that the post of steward was hereditary, but he only lounged by the stables, watching events unfold with a peculiarly blank expression.

‘He does not seem overly distressed about his dam,’ remarked Michael.

‘Then shame on him,’ said Prior John, lips pursed in disapproval. ‘She was gentle, kind and loving, and the world will be a sadder place without her. She will be missed more than anyone else in Clare – and that includes all us priests.’

‘The artists in the church certainly admired her,’ said Michael. ‘When painting their murals, it was her face they used to depict the Blessed Virgin. She is carved in the rood screen, too.’

‘As they should. She was a saint.’

A number of folk were sobbing, women and men alike. Bartholomew recalled his own reaction when he had met Margery the previous day – how he had been struck by her sweetness and had hoped to talk to her more. He glanced at her family. Marishal had tears streaming unheeded down his face, which was as white as snow. Ella was also pale, but her eyes were dry. Thomas had stepped into the shadows, so was now virtually invisible.

‘Who is in charge?’ asked Langelee. ‘The Lady? Why is she not here, leading her people in their hour of need? Her steward is understandably incapable at the moment.’

‘She does not enjoy the best of health, and mornings are difficult for her,’ explained John. ‘Even so, she should have detailed one of her council to oblige – Albon, Lichet or Jevan.’ He grimaced. ‘Unfortunately, we cannot expect much of poor Albon, while Jevan is away, and it would be a mistake to appoint the Red Devil – no one will heed any instructions he issues.’

‘But she has a whole court of retainers,’ Langelee pointed out. ‘Hundreds of them. Surely one is capable of stepping up and taking control?’

‘You give them too much credit,’ muttered John. ‘But Ereswell is over there – he has a loud voice and is malleable, so I shall stand behind him and murmur advice in his ear. If we do not impose order on this mêlée soon, there will be more trouble with the town.’

He started to stride towards the courtier, but it was too late, as Lichet had emerged from his quarters in the Cistern Tower. The Red Devil had taken considerable trouble with his appearance. His clothes were the best money could buy, his hair was brushed, and his beard had been fluffed out to impressive proportions. Every head turned towards him, so he drew himself up to his full height, and looked around with an imperious gaze. The hubbub gradually faded into silence.

‘There has been a great tragedy,’ he boomed in a voice that radiated confidence and self-importance. ‘Margery Marishal is dead. So is one of the scholars from Cambridge – both stabbed.’

He paused when Marishal whimpered his distress, and there was a flutter of movement as several ladies hastened to murmur words of comfort – Margery’s friends, eager to help him for her sake. Only when silence reigned again did Lichet continue.

‘The Lady has appointed me to run the castle while her steward is … indisposed.’ He raised his hand to quell the immediate clamour of objections, but it was ignored.

‘But you are a stranger,’ shouted Ereswell angrily. ‘Why should you rule over us?’

‘Because it is the Lady’s wish,’ replied Lichet sharply. ‘And besides, who else is able? You? If you were, you would have done it when all this fuss began. Instead, you retreated into a huddle and cooed with your cronies.’

‘Go on then, Red Devil,’ challenged someone from the back of the crowd. ‘Show us your superior leadership skills. What do you want us to do?’

Lichet thought fast. ‘Go to the chapel and listen to Heselbech celebrate Mass. That should keep you quiet for a while. Then I will–’

‘How?’ shouted one of the watchmen. ‘The chapel is too small for us all to fit inside.’

‘Just the courtiers then,’ determined Lichet. He glared angrily when none of the brightly glittering throng moved. ‘Now, please, not next week.’

‘We do not want–’ began Ereswell indignantly, but Lichet swung around to address the servants, cutting across the nobleman in a way that was sure to annoy.

‘Cooks and scullions,’ he boomed authoritatively, ‘return to the kitchens and start baking the bread for our breakfast.’

‘We did that hours ago,’ called a young baker with floury arms, disbelief thick in his voice. He had a deformity in one leg, which gave him a lopsided gait. ‘The loaves are cooked and the ovens are raked out ready for tomorrow – as they always are by this time in the morning.’

‘Then peel some vegetables instead,’ Lichet snapped, and before the lad could argue, he whipped around to scowl at the squires, who were sniggering because Nuport had just aped the baker’s limp. ‘And you lot can exercise the horses and polish the saddles.’

‘Us?’ asked Nuport, grin disappearing. ‘But that is what the grooms do. We are squires–’

‘Do as I say or face the consequences,’ snarled Lichet, obviously irritated that his authority should be questioned at every turn. ‘Everyone else will wait in the hall, where breakfast will be served in one hour.’

‘One hour?’ cried the castle cook. ‘Do you have any idea how long it takes to prepare a meal for three hundred people? Not to mention those greedy paroquets, which requisition all my best–’

‘It will be ready or else!’ roared Lichet. ‘And when you have finished, you can wash all the pots until they gleam. I shall inspect them later, and if I see so much as a speck of black, I shall want them all done again.’

‘But some are meant to be black,’ objected the cook. ‘They are–’

‘Enough!’ screeched Lichet. ‘The next person to defy me will answer to the Lady. Now, do as you are told – all of you. Well, what are you waiting for?’

Despite the threat, it was still some time before the onlookers deigned to obey. Servants dragged their feet, and the courtiers took a deliberately long time to file into the chapel. Then Lichet saw the scholars with John.

‘You can go home,’ he told the Prior. ‘You are not needed, because we have Heselbech. The rest of you can collect your colleague from the cistern and put him in the chapel when Mass is over. But do not lay a finger on Margery. I shall make the arrangements for her myself.’

Obediently, Michael, Bartholomew and Langelee walked to the Cistern Tower. The door was closed, and Bonde was standing guard outside. The henchman was pale and there was a moistness around his eyes that suggested tears – Margery’s death had upset even that warlike ruffian.

‘Step aside,’ ordered Michael, while Bartholomew was grateful for Langelee’s reassuring presence, as there was something about Bonde that unnerved him profoundly. ‘We are here at Lichet’s behest, and he carries the Lady’s authority.’

Bonde moved away. ‘As you wish.’

Michael reached for the handle, only to find the door locked. ‘Do not play games with me, Bonde,’ he snapped, holding out his hand for the key. ‘It is neither the time nor the place.’

‘I am not playing games,’ retorted the henchman. ‘Marishal took the key with him, as he did not want his wife to become the subject of ghoulish scrutiny. He told me to stay here and stop anyone from entering by force, so that is what I am doing.’

‘Very laudable,’ said Michael. ‘But we only want Roos – we will not disturb Margery, I promise. Now fetch the key, if you please.’

‘I cannot abandon my post on your say-so,’ argued Bonde. ‘But I imagine Lichet will be along in a moment, so he can let you in.’

He looked away, and there was enough light in the bailey for Bartholomew to see a fresh glitter of tears. Michael smiled predatorily.

‘Then while we wait for him, you can answer some questions. Start by telling us what happened here from your perspective.’

Bonde struggled to pull himself together. ‘I was in the gatehouse when I heard a commotion. I hurried over and watched Marishal, Quintone and a few others go down the cistern to investigate reports of a body – Roos. A short while later, they climbed back up to say that there was not one corpse, but two. The other was Margery Marishal …’

‘I see. So where were you all night? Can someone verify your whereabouts?’

Bonde’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why should that be necessary? I never harmed Margery or the scholar. And if you must know, I was not even in the castle for most of the time. I was in the town, watching the squires. Albon asked me to do it, because he heard them say they were off to a tavern, and they can be disorderly when they are drunk.’

‘Why you?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Surely he should have done it himself? They are supposed to be under his command, after all.’

Bonde regarded him insolently. ‘He delegated the matter to someone he trusts instead. He is a very busy man.’

‘I am sure he is,’ muttered Langelee. ‘It takes time to look that gorgeous.’

‘So you can give the squires alibis?’ pressed Michael ‘And vice versa?’

‘I am afraid not. I kept myself hidden, so they did not know I was there. And there are eight of them, so one was always off at the latrine or frolicking with a lass. I could not possibly monitor them all on my own.’

‘Then what was the point of you being there?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘To prevent fighting. And I did – the moment a spat looked set to erupt with some merchant boys, I hurried forward and ordered our lads home.’

Michael regarded him coolly. ‘I hear nothing in your testimony to convince me of your innocence.’

Bonde sneered. ‘I suppose you have been listening to gossip about the man I killed in Wixoe. Well, the Lady got me off that particular charge, so I am free of all blame for it.’

‘We heard she bribed the judge,’ countered Michael, ‘which rather suggests that you were guilty and she interfered with the course of justice. The Wixoe victim was stabbed, and now we hear that the same has happened to Roos …’

‘Anne warned me that the Wixoe affair would result in me being accused every time there is a suspicious death,’ muttered Bonde bitterly. ‘She is a clever lady, and I wish I had wed her. I should have done it when she was a nurse here – then she could not have been forced into an anchorhold, and I would have been in bed with her last night, not out doing Albon’s dirty work.’

Bartholomew tried to envisage the sullen killer and the opinionated woman living in married bliss. He could not do it – they were entirely unsuited to each other, and the match would almost certainly have ended in tears. Or worse.

‘So tell me why we should not accuse you,’ suggested Michael.

Bonde shrugged. ‘Well, for a start, when the squires and I came home at about midnight, Margery was still alive. I saw her chatting to some of her friends outside the hall. Then the lads staggered away to their quarters, while Thomas went off alone. I followed the squires, and saw them fall into their beds.’

‘Then what?’

‘I went to the main gate and stood watch for the rest of the night with the other guards. I saw Margery again a bit later, tiptoeing along with a lamp. I assumed she was aiming for the Constable Tower, where she lives. Lived.’

‘When was this?’ demanded Michael. ‘Exactly?’

‘I cannot say for certain. Two o’clock perhaps, or a little before.’

‘Did you see Roos?’

‘No, but I spotted the hermit. Jan often comes here of a night, when it is quiet.’

‘For a recluse, Jan is remarkably mobile,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘Hermits are supposed to stay away from worldly distractions, not wait for cover of darkness to sample them.’

‘Even holy men need to stretch their legs, Brother, and the castle is lovely at night – silent, still and interesting. It is when I like it best.’

‘It was not silent and still last night,’ remarked Michael drily. ‘Although I concede that it was interesting. You, eight squires, Roos, Margery and Jan were busily wandering around it – and those are just the ones that we know about.’

Bonde smirked challengingly. ‘True, so this crime will not be easy to solve. Perhaps you should give up and go home before you embarrass yourself with defeat.’

Michael smiled back, coldly. ‘I have never failed a murder victim yet, and I do not intend to start now. I will find Roos’s killer.’

‘But all your other cases were in Cambridge,’ countered Bonde. ‘And this is Clare. Things are different here, and you have no authority. But I had better fetch the key, given that so much time is passing and Lichet is nowhere to be seen. We cannot keep you waiting for ever, can we?’

‘He is your culprit,’ growled Langelee, as the henchman strode away. ‘I know a killer when I see one, and he is callous enough to dispatch two victims, then stand guard over their corpses.’

Unfortunately, Marishal was in no state to hand the key to Bonde or anyone else. He stood slack-mouthed and stunned, oblivious to the concerned fussing of his wife’s friends. Bonde glanced at Michael, and indicated that the monk would have to wait for someone else to ask for it, because he was not about to oblige. Michael was not overly concerned by the delay, content to pass the time by monitoring the reactions of those who might become suspects.

Ella was talking to Thomas near the palace, although the other squires had made themselves scarce, no doubt to avoid being seen by Lichet, who strutted around like a peacock, issuing orders to anyone he met. His instructions were superfluous in most cases, and downright ridiculous in others, but the contemptuous glances he received did nothing to deter him, and he was clearly relishing the power he had been given.

‘What an ass,’ muttered Michael. ‘I am surprised at the Lady. Surely he cannot be the best she has to offer? I suspect even Albon would be better – at least he looks the part. Or another member of her council, perhaps. Let us hope that someone has had the sense to send for Jevan.’

‘Give Marishal a potion, Bartholomew,’ begged Langelee, troubled by the steward’s anguish. ‘You must have something that will ease him.’

‘There is no remedy for grief,’ replied Bartholomew soberly. ‘Other than time.’

‘His children should be at his side,’ Langelee went on unhappily. ‘I am surprised Lichet does not tell them so. Of course, if he does, it will be the first sensible instruction he has given all day.’

While Langelee and Michael discussed the Red Devil’s ineffectual leadership, Bartholomew looked around him. Dawn had broken, and it had started to rain. Servants still scurried about to no or little purpose, more intent on gossiping than completing their chores. The courtiers had not stayed long in the chapel, and had gone to the hall, where they stood in small clusters.

The news had encouraged droves of townsfolk to come and see what was happening. Several carts had arrived, ostensibly to make deliveries, although the eyes of their owners were everywhere, and all tried to strike up conversations with those who came to receive their goods. Mayor Godeston was toted in on his purple litter, aiming to convey his sympathies to the bereaved. Grym was at his side, clad in a large yellow robe that made him look like a lemon.

‘You are not welcome,’ Lichet told them coldly. ‘Go away before I have you thrown out.’

‘Our business is with Marishal, not you,’ Godeston flashed back. ‘Tell him we are here.’

In response, Lichet clicked his fingers at the castle guards, and indicated that the pair were to be forcibly removed. Godeston opened his mouth to argue, but his bearers knew when it was wise to beat a retreat. They left at a run, jostling their passenger so violently that he was obliged to cling on for dear life to avoid being spilled out. Unwilling to stay on his own, Grym waddled after them.

‘I wonder where Badew and Harweden are,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘They should be hammering at the gate, demanding an explanation. They were Roos’s friends, after all.’

‘Donwich and Pulham are here, though,’ said Bartholomew, nodding to where Lichet was in the process of ordering the two Clare Hall men to read to everyone in the hall, on the grounds that no one could gossip if they were listening to a story. The Red Devil did not wait to see if they did as they were told – which they did not, of course – and descended on Heselbech instead.

‘You want me to make Margery a coffin?’ asked Heselbech, startled. He still looked shabby from his excesses the previous night, although at least he was no longer reeling or slurring his words. ‘But I am a friar, not a carpenter. It is–’

But Lichet had already gone, informing Ereswell in a self-important bawl that the task of securing supplies for the Lady’s greedy paroquets was now his responsibility. Ereswell gaped his astonishment at the commission, after which Lichet strode away to pounce on someone else. Heselbech came to speak to the three Michaelhouse men, although he was watching Lichet with an expression that made no secret of his disdain.

‘This is a sorry business,’ the chaplain began. ‘What was Roos doing here with Margery in the first place? I was under the impression that all three Swinescroft men hated the Lady and her people. Of course, I did see Roos and Margery talking together a couple of times yesterday …’

‘So did I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And at another point, he ogled her shamelessly.’

‘Perhaps Badew and Harweden killed them both for being on friendly terms with each other.’ Heselbech turned to Michael. ‘Langelee tells me that you are the University’s Senior Proctor. Does that mean you will investigate the crime? If so, be warned – the Lady may not like it, and it could cost your College its legacy.’

‘That is a good point,’ said Langelee worriedly. ‘Perhaps we should let Lichet do it instead.’

‘Lichet could not catch a snail, let alone a killer,’ declared Michael. ‘And I am not a man to shirk my obligations. Besides, it is entirely possible that my skills will encourage the Lady to favour Michaelhouse even further.’

‘Then be careful,’ said Heselbech. ‘Because if you pick up rocks, who knows what manner of vermin may lurk beneath?’

While they continued to wait for the key, Michael watched all the gawpers who contrived to walk past the Cistern Tower, aware that the killer might well be among them – he knew from past experience that some murderers liked to revisit the scene of their crimes, to savour the commotion they had generated.

‘There are three hundred people living in the castle at the moment,’ Langelee told him. ‘Plus God knows how many in the town. All with secrets, alliances and animosities. You may never find the culprit, Brother – not when we are strangers, with no notion of where to start.’

‘We shall see,’ said Michael, who had rather more faith in his abilities as a solver of mysteries. He nodded towards the tower on the other side of the bailey. ‘Here is Albon, emerging from his lair at last. He is still surrounded by admirers, despite the fact that his late appearance suggests he is not a man who can be relied upon in an emergency.’

The knight’s train was not as large as it had been the previous day, as many of his retainers were in the hall, gossiping, but it was still impressive and so was he. He was clad in red robes that would not have looked out of place on a monarch and his grey-gold mane had been brushed until it shone. However, there were pouches under his eyes and he seemed subdued.

‘Perhaps he drank too much ale last night,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Like Langelee.’

‘Or he did away with Margery and Roos, and is stricken by conscience,’ countered the Master. ‘I have never trusted showy warriors. Some are lions in battle, but most are lambs, and it is impossible to know which they will transpire to be until it is too late.’

‘He does not look very leonine at the moment,’ mused Michael. ‘Indeed, he seems troubled. Perhaps he is our culprit, and it has taken him until now to muster the courage to show his face.’

‘He is watching the squires.’ Bartholomew nodded to where the young men were making a show of inspecting a horse with a damaged leg, although the animal was gaining nothing from their ministrations, and clearly itched to be back in its stall with a bag of hay. ‘I think he is afraid that one of them is responsible, and he does not want the company of a killer in France.’

‘He should want the company of a killer in France,’ countered Langelee. ‘They tend to come in useful when one is fighting a war. Unless he is afraid that he might be the next victim – that the killer may decide he is not worth all the adulation he has been given.’

While they were talking, Lichet strode past again, bawling for Quintone to bring him his lute. Michael caught the Red Devil’s arm and jerked him to a standstill.

‘We cannot take Roos to the chapel because the cistern is locked,’ he said. ‘And we are reluctant to press Marishal for the key when he is so obviously distressed. You must do it – preferably before you disappear to enjoy yourself with music.’

‘My intention is not to enjoy myself,’ snapped Lichet, freeing his arm irritably. ‘It is to calm everyone down. I shall gather them in the hall, and play until the panic and consternation have eased. Music is the best remedy in these situations. It is a medical fact.’

‘Is it indeed?’ muttered Bartholomew.

‘You can lull everyone to sleep in a moment,’ said Michael. ‘But first, please fetch the key.’

‘Later,’ hedged Lichet, glancing at the steward and evidently deciding that he did not want to be the one to intrude on his grief either. ‘When I am not quite so busy.’

‘So what happened down there?’ asked Michael before the Red Devil could stride away again. ‘We know that Roos and Margery were stabbed, but how did they end up in the cistern?’

Lichet assumed a haughty expression. ‘My enquiries are at a very preliminary stage, so I cannot possibly answer questions yet. However, I can tell you one thing: Roos should not have been here. He was ousted from the castle with his two Swinescroft cronies yesterday, and he had no right to return uninvited.’

Michael tried a different tack. ‘Then tell us how the bodies came to be discovered. Was it on a routine inspection?’

‘We do not include the cistern on our regular patrols. What would be the point? It is just a big well filled with water. However, it supplies the kitchens, but nothing was coming out of the pipe this morning, so Adam the baker was sent to find out why. Quintone! Come here. Is that my lute? Good. Now go and tell Master Marishal that Brother Michael wants the key.’

‘Me?’ asked the servant uneasily. ‘But he looks so … why can’t you do it?’

‘Because I told you to,’ snapped Lichet. ‘Well, go on, man. We do not have all day.’

Quintone slouched away reluctantly, and Michael resumed his attack on Lichet.

‘You live above the cistern. Did you see or hear anything suspicious at–’

‘No, and now you must excuse me,’ interrupted Lichet, pulling his lute from its covers. ‘I have important work to do. You may speak to me later, if I have time.’

He turned and flounced away. Michael watched him go through narrowed eyes, wondering if the Red Devil’s disinclination to answer perfectly reasonable questions should be regarded as suspicious.

Bartholomew was sorry that his few precious days in Clare were going to be filled with the unsavoury business of murder. If he had wanted that, he could have stayed in Cambridge, where scholars died with distressing regularity. He was not looking forward to meeting the paroquets either – he knew it was only a matter of time before the Lady learned that he had dodged the assignment, and issued a second order for him to cure them. He glanced at Langelee. The Master would be a far better assistant for Michael, leaving him free to …

‘Do not even think about it, Matt,’ warned the monk, reading his thoughts with uncanny precision. ‘It will take all three of us to find Roos’s killer without ruffling sensitive feathers, so you cannot jaunt off to have fun while Langelee and I struggle on alone.’

‘Look on the bright side, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee kindly. ‘This will be your last case – you cannot be Corpse Examiner once you leave the University.’

‘Oh, yes, he can,’ countered Michael firmly. ‘I amended the statutes when I learned that he planned to get married. He will still be mine when he is joined to Matilde.’

Bartholomew was not sure whether to be pleased or angry. He did not enjoy helping Michael catch killers, but there was no question that the money would come in useful.

‘Here is Quintone with the key,’ said Langelee. ‘Thank God someone had the courage to ask for it, or we might still be waiting here tomorrow.’

‘Actually, it is the spare one from the kitchen,’ explained the servant, and glanced to where Marishal still stood in mute shock. ‘I could not bring myself to bother him.’

He bent to unlock the door. As he did, Bartholomew happened to glance across the bailey. Bonde was there, staring back furiously, which led the physician to wonder why he wanted so badly to keep them out. Was it because he had adored Margery, and had hoped to protect her body from the ghoulish scrutiny of strangers? Regardless, it was clear that his name should be included on any list of suspects they might draw up.

As Ella had told them, the Cistern Tower was one huge cylinder. Its upper half loomed over the bailey, but its lower section had been driven deep into the ground, where it formed a massive stone-lined well. Access to the water was via a very narrow spiral staircase with steep steps, which was in the thickness of the wall. Michael took one look and refused to descend unless he was sure that no one else would be in front of him.

‘I shall have to go down backwards,’ he explained primly, ‘which will allow anyone below to look straight up my habit.’

‘We will not be tempted, Brother, believe me,’ Langelee assured him fervently.

Quintone led the way, skipping down the treacherous steps with an ease that suggested he had done it many times before. Bartholomew and Langelee followed more cautiously, while Michael waited above until he was sure he could make the journey without risk to his modesty.

There were tiny landings at regular intervals in the stairwell, each with a very thick door that would open directly into the cistern. Quintone passed the first two and opened the third.

‘This is the entrance we must use today,’ he explained, revelling in the role of guide. He shone his lamp to show that the stairwell further down was flooded. ‘It has been raining for days, so the cistern is quite full at the moment. There are another five doors beneath this one – eight in all.’

‘God’s blood!’ breathed Langelee. ‘That is impressive. The tank must be vast.’

‘It is,’ said Quintone proudly. ‘Enough to keep us in fresh water for years, should we ever come under siege.’

‘So what happens if you open the wrong door?’ asked Langelee. ‘Would you drown in the inrushing water?’

‘No, because the stairs are designed to flood,’ said Bartholomew, understanding the mechanics of the system at once. ‘There will be no inrushing water here, because it will rise at the same rate as in the cistern itself. Ingenious!’

‘So the water could reach as high as the door through which we came in?’ asked Langelee. ‘I assume that is where the tank’s ceiling is located?’

‘It is,’ replied Quintone. ‘And the water has got to that level once or twice, after particularly wet spells, when it spilled out to flood the bailey. However, Lichet has now installed a device that he says will prevent it from happening in the future. Of course, if the cooks did their job properly, there would be no need for the Red Devil’s inventions.’

Bartholomew frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The kitchens are lower than the bottom of the well, so the original builders fitted an array of pipes that run directly to them. Thus the cooks always have a plentiful water supply and the water level in here can be controlled by opening or closing the sluices. Ergo, the bailey only floods when the cooks do not run off the excess on a regular basis.’

‘Where does the water come from?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued. ‘The roof?’

‘Yes – there is a big vat, which catches the rain. It has valves, too, which can either be opened to fill the cistern, or closed to funnel water away down the outside walls. So we can control the level that way as well. Clever, eh?’

‘Very,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But you say Lichet has devised an additional fail-safe mechanism?’

‘A way of making sure that the bailey door never leaks,’ explained Quintone. ‘Or so he claims – it has yet to be tested. The townsfolk think he is a warlock, and I suspect they are right. I cannot abide the man.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he is sly, stupid, dishonest and greedy,’ came the prompt reply. ‘And it is possible that he killed Roos and Margery. However, if you want my advice, look to the squires first. They are arrogant fools, who do nothing but strut around dressed like lunatics. Let us hope that peace does not prevent Albon from taking them to France.’

Still talking, Quintone led the way through the door he had opened. Once inside, they saw the cistern was essentially a deep and very wide circular well. There was a broad platform in front of the door, which tapered away to form a narrow ledge that ran all the way around the inside, so that workmen could access the walls for routine maintenance. Glancing up, Bartholomew saw that there were identical arrangements for the two doors above, and supposed the same was true of the five below. A gauge showed the water was currently forty feet deep. It appeared black in the light of Quintone’s lamp, but a ripple on the surface indicated a current.

‘The kitchen sluices also prevent it from stagnating,’ explained Quintone.

Bartholomew was all admiration for the engineers who had designed it, although his colleagues did not share his enthusiasm. Langelee was looking around with undisguised revulsion, while Michael, who had arrived with his dignity intact, declared it sinister.

‘It is,’ agreed Langelee, his face unnaturally white. ‘And the sooner we finish here, the happier I shall be. Where are the bodies?’

‘You are not going to be sick, are you?’ asked Bartholomew sternly. ‘Because if so, you should leave. People drink this water.’

Langelee took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘No, but please hurry. I do not like this place.’

The bodies lay nearby, both covered by cloaks. Marishal’s own was over his wife, while a courtier’s had been commandeered for Roos.

‘Ereswell’s,’ confided Quintone. ‘But he wants it back – I heard him say so myself. I was one of the first to come down here, see, after the alarm was raised.’

‘Who were the others?’ asked Bartholomew.

Quintone reflected. ‘Well, Lichet was the very first, but he lives upstairs, so he had a head start on everyone else. Then came Marishal and Thomas, and after them about two dozen courtiers. I helped Thomas to pull Roos from the water, but as we struggled, I noticed a second body.’

‘Margery’s,’ said Langelee softly.

Quintone nodded. ‘Yes, God rest her sainted soul. Marishal was distraught. He ordered everyone away, so that he and Thomas could pay their respects without an audience. It was not long before Thomas brought him out, though. I suspect Marishal was too upset to say many prayers.’

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘Does anything look different to you now than it did earlier?’

‘In other words, did Marishal or Thomas tamper with the evidence?’ surmised Quintone astutely, and stepped forward to look. ‘Not that I can tell, which is a pity, as it would be nice to see Thomas in trouble. I am sick of his nasty pranks. He is old enough to know better.’

While Michael plied him with more questions, Bartholomew examined Roos, watched by Langelee. The old scholar was on his back, still leaking water. He was cold to the touch, and there was a single stab wound in his chest, made with an average-sized blade. It would not have been instantly fatal, and when Bartholomew pressed on his ribs, froth bubbled from Roos’s mouth, suggesting that he had been alive when he had entered the water. Technically, the cause of death was drowning, although the knife wound would have killed him eventually anyway.

There were only three other details of note. First, one of Roos’s boots was missing. Second, there were some faint bruises on his chest and arms. And third, his old woollen hat, which was secured very firmly under his chin to prevent it from slipping off, concealed a heavy bandage.

‘He had earache,’ said Langelee, lest Bartholomew had forgotten.

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Which explains the hat, but not the bandage – it is not the way such ailments are usually treated.’

He began to unwind it. Then blinked his surprise at what was revealed.

‘His ear is missing!’ exclaimed Langelee, shocked. ‘Did he fall foul of Simon Freburn, do you think? But Freburn just haunts the area around Clare, and I cannot imagine that Roos has been here before – not when it is the acknowledged stronghold of the Lady.’

‘Harweden said Roos regularly visited kin in Peterborough,’ shrugged Bartholomew. ‘So perhaps Freburn ranges further than we know. Yet I am surprised Roos did not tell me about this injury. I could have repaired it much more neatly, and given him a remedy for the pain.’

‘When did it happen? Can you tell?’

‘Roughly three to five weeks ago, judging by the degree of healing.’

Langelee was thoughtful. ‘Which means that last night was not the first time Roos was involved in a violent incident. We should bear that in mind when we investigate.’

While Quintone and Langelee manoeuvred Roos up the narrow stairway, Michael indicated that Bartholomew was to examine Margery. Lichet had ordered them not to, but her body might hold clues that had been missing from Roos, and the case would be difficult enough to solve without making it harder still by complying with needless strictures.

‘Besides, who will ever know?’ he whispered conspiratorially.

Bartholomew pulled away the cloak that covered her, sorry when he saw the kindly face stilled by death and blood staining the pretty rose-coloured kirtle. It was unfair, he thought, that a good woman should have come to such an untimely end.

It did not take him long to ascertain that she had also been stabbed, although her wound was clean, deep and would have killed her instantly. When he pressed on her chest, what flowed from her mouth was clear, telling him she had been dead when she had gone into the water. He was just covering her up again when Langelee arrived back, whispering an urgent warning that someone else was coming. It transpired to be Heselbech, who was an unnerving presence in the eerily dripping chamber with his sinisterly filed teeth.

‘Lichet ordered me to collect her,’ the chaplain explained, nodding towards Margery. ‘Which will be damned difficult on my own. Will you help?’

Michael nodded. ‘But first, tell us if you noticed anything unusual last night. The Cistern Tower is not far from your chapel.’

Heselbech indicated Langelee. ‘I was in the priory for most of it, drinking with him. The party broke up when John said we should celebrate nocturns, but I could barely walk, so reciting a holy office was out of the question. Langelee helped me into my chapel, where I managed to ring the bell, but that is all. Tell him, Langelee.’

‘Oh, Christ!’ gulped Langelee, pale again. ‘I did give you a shoulder to lean on while you staggered home. It had clean slipped my mind.’

‘You were so drunk, you cannot recall where you went?’ Bartholomew was unimpressed.

Langelee winced. ‘We had a lot of ale. But I remember now my memory is jogged. Heselbech and I left the priory and lurched to the chapel together. I left him lying on the floor, and returned to the priory alone.’

‘So did either of you see anything that might help us?’ pressed Michael.

Both men shook their heads. ‘But we did not know that a killer was at large at the time,’ said Langelee defensively. ‘If we had, obviously we would have been more observant.’

‘I suppose we should be grateful that he did not dispatch you, too,’ said Michael sourly.

‘He could have tried,’ said Heselbech grimly, ‘but he would not have succeeded. No sly killer could dispatch two bold warriors from the north, even ones who were drunk.’

‘Close your eyes,’ Michael ordered. ‘Try to visualise the castle as you saw it. No, do not smirk at each other like errant schoolboys. I am serious.’

Chagrined, they did as they were told. Heselbech shook his head fairly quickly, but Langelee persisted, his face screwed up tight as he struggled with his memory. But eventually he opened his eyes and gave a regretful shrug.

‘All I can tell you for certain is that I delivered Heselbech to the chapel, where he rang the bell. But then he fell over and went to sleep on the floor, so I removed his boots, covered him with a blanket, and returned to our quarters in the priory.’

‘But that is untrue,’ said Michael. ‘If you had gone straight back, you would have arrived while I was saying nocturns. But you did not appear until at least half an hour after I had finished.’

Langelee blushed and his eyes were furtive. ‘If you must know, I had to stop to be sick, but please do not tell anyone – we cannot have the world knowing that Michaelhouse’s Master cannot hold his drink. Our recent economies mean I am no longer used to large quantities of ale.’

Michael turned back to Heselbech. ‘You know this castle and its people. What do you think happened here?’

Heselbech stared at Margery’s cloak-covered form. ‘I really have no idea. However, I can tell you that she was the sweetest, kindest lady in the world, and whoever killed her will be damned for all eternity. I cannot tell you anything about Roos, because I had never met him before yesterday.’

‘There are faint marks on Roos’s arms and chest,’ said Bartholomew, ‘which suggest he may have been involved in some sort of tussle. However, it was not with Margery – her only injury is the single stab wound.’

‘Which means what?’ asked Michael.

‘That she was killed quickly and cleanly, but he was not,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It appears that he tried to fight his – or their – attacker off.’

‘Did she have any enemies?’ asked Michael of Heselbech. ‘Anyone who was jealous of her popularity, or who resented her kindly nature?’

‘Margery was loved by all,’ stated Heselbech firmly. ‘So you will find that the motive for this horrible crime lies with Roos, not her. He was a member of Swinescroft Hostel, for a start.’

‘What does that have to do with anything?’

‘It is full of nasty, bitter old men – the kind who encouraged Badew to delay signing the Clare Hall quit-claim for ten long years. Poor Margery. All I can think is that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ Heselbech glanced around him. ‘Very wrong. She should not have been down here with him or anyone else. It is dangerous.’

‘Is it?’ gulped Michael uneasily. ‘Why?’

‘It can flood suddenly if the valves on the roof are opened,’ explained Heselbech. ‘Fortunately, people know I am down here now, so we are quite safe.’

Bartholomew was not so sure about that, given what had happened to the Austin’s predecessor. He took a step towards the stairs, thinking the cistern would be an awful place to die.

‘You say Margery should not have been down here, Heselbech,’ said Langelee. ‘But she was the steward’s wife – she could go where she pleased in his domain. Roos, however, should have been in the Bell tavern, so his presence is more of a mystery.’

‘True,’ agreed Heselbech. ‘However, Roos seemed to know his way around the castle yesterday – I saw him striding along inside the palace at one point – which suggests that he has been here before. But how could he have done? No one would have invited him, which leads me to wonder if he invaded on the sly – not just last night, but on other occasions, too.’

‘That is an interesting observation.’ Michael turned to Bartholomew. ‘Were they killed here or elsewhere?’

‘Here,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘If they had been carried down the steps, there would be bumps and scrapes on their bodies. The culprit dispatched them here, then shoved them in the water, expecting them to sink. Unfortunately, he chose the wrong spot to do it, because there is a sill just below this pavement. Look.’

He took Langelee’s sword, and demonstrated that the water was only knee deep for the first two or three feet. Then the shelf ended, and it would be forty feet down to the bottom. It meant that the bodies had not sunk out of sight, as had evidently been intended, and the culprit was no doubt horrified that his crime had been discovered so quickly.

‘The boot,’ said Langelee in sudden understanding. ‘Roos was missing one. Is that what plugged the pipes and caused the alarm to be raised?’

‘Probably,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And thank God it did, or the bodies would have rotted in the water. You know from personal experience what a devastating effect that can have on the health of those who drink it.’

Michael stared hard at Heselbech. ‘A killer stalks your town, and his victims now include not only a fellow Austin, but a lady everyone loved. You must have some ideas as to suspects.’

‘Several,’ shrugged Heselbech. ‘But none whose guilt I can prove. The squires, especially Nuport, are vicious louts who need a stronger man than Albon to tame them. Then there are Thomas and Ella, whose pranks often end in tears–’

‘They certainly ended in tears for Talmach,’ remarked Langelee. ‘Her unloved husband.’

Heselbech nodded. ‘You might want to look at Bonde as well – he is an evil fellow, who has committed murder before, while the Red Devil should never have been allowed to gain such a firm foothold at the castle. But accusations are nothing without evidence, which I do not have.’

When Bartholomew and Heselbech manoeuvred Margery up the steps and out into the bailey, it was to find a guard of honour waiting to receive her. Servants and courtiers alike hurried forward to take the body from them and lay it gently on a bier, after which it was borne away in respectful silence. Then the three Michaelhouse men retreated to a quiet spot behind the kitchens to discuss what they had learned and how they should proceed.

‘I know you want to catch Roos’s killer, Brother,’ said Langelee worriedly, ‘but can you not forget your responsibilities, just this once? An enquiry will damage our chances of winning benefactors, because we cannot recruit them and chase murderers. There is not enough time.’

‘Then you concentrate on winning new patrons while Matt and I find the killer,’ determined Michael. ‘I cannot return to Cambridge without at least having tried to see justice done.’

‘But what happens if I worm a donation from someone who then transpires to be the culprit?’ objected Langelee. ‘It would break my heart to give it back.’

‘You would have to,’ said Bartholomew firmly. ‘It would be tainted, and would almost certainly come back to haunt us in the future.’

‘I agree,’ said Michael. ‘Which is another good reason for investigating – so we can lay our hands on our hearts, and say we did our utmost to ensure that any money we take home is clean. So let us begin. What more can you tell us about the bodies, Matt? Start with who was dispatched first.’

‘It is impossible to say. However, the stab wounds are identical in size and shape, which suggests the same weapon was used. It is indicative of a single assailant.’

‘Anything else?’

‘We all saw Roos and Margery talking to each other yesterday. I thought it odd at the time that one of the Lady’s most bitter enemies should hobnob with the wife of her steward …’

‘It looked to me as though they were arguing,’ said Langelee. ‘Perhaps Roos killed her, then dispatched himself from remorse.’

‘Never,’ said Michael, shaking his head. ‘I knew Roos – he was not a remorseful man.’

‘I want to say that they cannot possibly share a connection to each other,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not just because they hailed from different sides of a bitter feud between the Lady and Badew, but for their characters – hers as a kindly soul, and his as a nasty old lecher …’

‘I sense a “but”,’ said Michael.

Bartholomew nodded. ‘But I found something that suggests they knew each other rather well. She wore an onyx ring engraved with a bird. Here it is.’

‘You took it?’ gulped Michael in alarm. ‘Lord! I hope we are not accused of theft.’

‘I was afraid it would fall off when we carried her up the stairs. You can give it back to Marishal now. However, before you do, look at what I found on a cord around Roos’s neck. I removed that for safekeeping, too.’

He held both items in the palm of his hand. Michael and Langelee peered at them.

‘But they are the same in every detail,’ breathed Langelee. ‘Why did you not mention it at once? Why wait until now?’

‘Because we were not alone when I made the discovery,’ replied Bartholomew soberly, ‘and it is difficult to know who to trust in this place.’

‘You mean Heselbech?’ asked Langelee, startled. ‘He is all right.’

‘I agree with Matt,’ said Michael. ‘It is wise to be cautious until we know more about what is happening. However, the man who makes me uncomfortable is Nicholas. I disliked the way he drooled over your letter-opener the other night. It is inappropriate for a priest to covet a weapon.’

‘Of course he admired it,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘He is an ex-warrior who knows a good blade when he sees one.’

Michael was disinclined to argue, and returned his attention to the rings. ‘So what do these mean? That Roos and Margery were lovers, and these are tokens of their shared affection?’

‘That does not sound very likely,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I seriously doubt she could have been tempted by anything Roos had to offer.’

‘I agree,’ said Langelee. ‘Besides, I know women, and she was not the sort to break her wedding vows.’

‘Then maybe she and Roos were kin,’ suggested Michael. ‘Do not forget what Heselbech said – that Roos seemed to know his way around the castle. If Roos and Margery were related, he may have been a regular visitor here.’

‘If so, he would not have told Badew and Harweden,’ predicted Langelee. ‘Familial ties to the wife of the Lady’s steward? They would have denounced him on the spot!’

‘They would,’ agreed Michael, taking the rings from Bartholomew and slipping them in his scrip. ‘So perhaps they found out yesterday, and promptly killed them both.’

‘Maybe,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although if Roos was a regular visitor, you would think that someone would have mentioned it by now – as far as I can tell, everyone here considers him a stranger. Yet he did slip away from his cronies yesterday, to end up in a quiet room in the palace with Margery …’

‘And Badew and Harweden were irked about it,’ recalled Michael thoughtfully. ‘So I say we put them at the top of our list of suspects. Right after Nicholas.’

‘Just because he likes my knife?’ asked Langelee irritably. ‘I hardly think that is a reason–’

‘I have a nose for these things, and there is something distinctly awry about that vicar,’ argued Michael. ‘For a start, he is enamoured of his anchoress. I heard him call her “sweetest love” yesterday, which is no way to address a holy woman.’

Bartholomew laughed. ‘Even if he is smitten, there is nothing either can do about it, given that she is walled up inside a cell. Unless he owns a sledgehammer.’

Michael eyed him balefully. ‘You mock, but I am right. Marishal also goes on the list. He was Margery’s husband, and may have objected to her relationship with Roos – whatever that transpires to be – so he killed them both in a fit of rage.’

‘Then we should include Thomas and Ella for the same reason,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Along with the fact that they are no strangers to murder, if the gossip is to be believed.’

‘Which it should,’ said Langelee. ‘A frayed strap, a jaunt in bad weather, a carelessly carried blade … It is too good to be true when we have a young woman and an unwanted older husband.’

‘I agree,’ said Michael. ‘I do not suggest we investigate Talmach’s peculiar demise, but we shall certainly bear it in mind, along with the four other suspicious deaths that have occurred here since February – Roger, Wisbech, Charer and Skynere.’

‘We have been told that the squires might be responsible for some of those,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It would not surprise me – Albon does not have them under control. So they are next on our list. Perhaps they objected to Roos fraternising with the mother of one of their friends.’

‘I say we consider Donwich and Pulham, too,’ said Langelee. ‘They are frantic to keep the Lady’s good graces. Perhaps Roos’s relationship with Margery threatened that in some way.’

‘The same is true of Lichet,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He will go to any lengths to safeguard his position here, but it is possible that Roos and Margery knew something to see him ousted. Moreover, he lives in the Cistern Tower, where they died …’

‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘And we shall finish the list with Bonde, who should have been hanged for murder, but was saved by the Lady’s purse.’

‘The list is not finished yet,’ said Langelee. ‘What about Mayor Godeston and Barber Grym? I did not take to them, and if you can include Nicholas on the grounds of dislike …’

‘But Godeston is carried everywhere on a litter,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He could never scale a ladder. And Grym would not fit down the shaft – it was a tight squeeze for Michael, and Grym is much fatter.’

‘I am not fat,’ objected Michael, offended. ‘I just have big bones.’

‘What about Albon, then?’ asked Langelee. ‘He pretends to be a knight, but he is all hot air and glorious finery. Such men think nothing of slaughtering old men and women.’

‘Very well,’ said Michael, although without conviction. ‘So there is our rogues’ gallery: Nicholas, Badew and Harweden, Marishal and his brats, the squires, our colleagues from Clare Hall, Lichet, Bonde and Albon. Now we must set about narrowing it down.’

‘I suspect we are more likely to expand it,’ predicted Langelee glumly. ‘This is a nasty little town, inhabited by vicious people. I wish we had never come.’

* * *

They began their enquiries in the hall, where Lichet was playing his lute. Many of the women were crying, while their menfolk stood in subdued clusters, talking in low voices. Albon had taken a seat on the dais, looking splendid but preoccupied. Lichet strummed next to him, eyes closed in rapture at the sounds he was producing, although he was an indifferent performer at best. Quintone hovered dutifully nearby, ready to run any errands the Red Devil happened to devise.

Then a door clanked, and the squires – minus Thomas – strutted in. They had used the intervening time to change their clothes, and the scholars were not the only ones who gaped at the result. They had kept their long-toed shoes, flowing sleeves and oiled beards, but had added harlequin hose to the ensemble. They swaggered to the dais, confident in the knowledge that every eye was on them. Lichet stopped playing mid-chord, while Albon was so astounded by their appearance that he almost toppled off his seat. When they had made their obeisance to him, they sat with calculated nonchalance on the bench at his side.

‘God’s blood!’ breathed Langelee. ‘Someone should tell them that they are making asses of themselves, as they seem to be incapable of seeing it.’

‘I doubt it was their idea,’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘Look at Thomas and Ella.’

The twins were with their father, who was slumped, ashen-faced and unmoving, in a chair by the hearth. Their faces were sombre, but their eyes gleamed at the shock the squires had generated.

‘I would have thought they would desist from japes today,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘Do they have no sense of decorum?’

‘Margery seems to have been loved by everyone,’ whispered Langelee. ‘Even I am sorry she is dead, and I barely knew her. But her children have not shed a single tear that I have seen, and now they amuse themselves by playing jokes on their fellows. It reveals a cold-bloodedness that repels me – and I was once a warrior, used to a bit of ruthlessness.’

‘They are wild because they have a father who is too busy and a mother who was too gentle,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Margery admitted that Anne was the only person who could tame them, but now she is walled inside a church. And poor proud Albon is certainly not up to the challenge.’

‘They are not children,’ objected Michael. ‘They are adults in their twenties, and Ella has been married. It is too late for Albon – or anyone else – to mould them now.’

‘I could do it,’ bragged Langelee. ‘Perhaps I should offer my services to Marishal – to turn his spawn into sensible beings in exchange for a donation. What do you think?’

‘That we do not want them in Cambridge, thank you very much.’ Michael looked around quickly. ‘All our suspects are here, except Badew and Harweden, who we will corner at the Bell later. I suggest we interview everyone else right away.’

‘Lichet will stop us,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘He will view it as an affront to his authority.’

Michael smiled thinly. ‘We shall see.’

He strode to the dais. Albon looked up questioningly, but Lichet had resumed his strumming and pretended not to notice the monk. Michael climbed on to the platform, and addressed the whole assembly in a loud, clear voice that drowned out the Red Devil’s music.

‘On behalf of the Master and Fellows of Michaelhouse, I would like to offer my condolences to you all. Our College has many priests, and Masses will be said for Margery’s soul.’

A murmur of appreciation rippled around the hall, although Lichet was indignant.

‘How dare you interrupt my playing to make stupid announcements,’ he snarled. ‘In future, you will apply to me before braying to all and sundry.’

‘I hardly think the care of Margery’s soul is “stupid”,’ countered Michael, a remark that drew a universal rumble of agreement. He turned from Lichet and addressed his audience again. ‘Her body lies in the chapel, available to anyone who wishes to pay his respects.’

‘All of us will go,’ said Albon quietly. ‘Although the squires must change first.’

‘Why?’ asked Nuport, startled. ‘Mistress Marishal loved bright things, as Thomas reminded us just an hour ago. We donned these colourful hose in her honour.’

‘They are colourful,’ acknowledged Albon in distaste. ‘But they are inappropriate in the black presence of Death. Besides, there is a difference between “bright” and “gaudy”, and you have not hit the right note at all. She liked pale, discreet shades, not scarlet, emerald and orange.’

Lichet thrust his lute at Quintone, and stalked towards Michael, aiming to claw back the authority that was draining away with every word that was spoken. Quintone rolled his eyes, which made some folk laugh, although they stopped when the Red Devil glared furiously at them.

‘Well, monk?’ Lichet demanded coldly. ‘What did you learn from visiting the scene of the crime? Do you know the name of the killer?’

‘It will take days of painstaking detail-gathering before that becomes clear,’ replied Michael. ‘So when will you start your enquiries, Master Lichet? I am sure a man of your vigour does not need to eat or sleep, and can catch a killer, pay court to the Lady and run the castle while Marishal is indisposed.’

Lichet thought fast. ‘I have decided to delegate the murders to you. However, you will report to me and only to me. I shall then decide what should be done with any solutions you might devise. Is that clear?’

Michael inclined his head in acquiescence, a gleam of amusement in his green eyes that Lichet should be so easy to manipulate. ‘You will be the first to know anything of import.’

It was such a vague promise that Bartholomew knew Lichet was unlikely to benefit from it. To prevent Lichet from thinking the same, Michael furnished him with a brief account of his findings to date. When he had finished, Lichet strode to the front of the dais and cleared his throat loudly, to attract everyone’s attention.

‘Through the careful application of logic and skill,’ he announced in his booming voice, ‘I have ascertained that Mistress Marishal and Master Roos were stabbed by an unknown assailant, and their bodies tossed into the cistern in the expectation that they would sink and be lost for ever. However, the culprit should know that I have ordered an investigation, and I will catch him.’

‘No, Lichet,’ said Albon, coming to his feet and giving a toss of his glorious mane. ‘I will catch him. I swear it by God and by my honour. This vile deed is an affront to the chivalric code by which I live.’

‘But you are leaving for France soon,’ Lichet pointed out. ‘And the monk has just told me … I mean it is my learned opinion that the mystery may take longer to solve.’

Albon smiled thinly. ‘I shall go nowhere until the culprit is hanged.’

A groan of dismay went up from nobles and servants alike. Yet there were a few smiles. Two serving girls exchanged pleased grins, and so did several young ladies-in-waiting, after which their eyes turned to Thomas, who winked at them.

‘If my mother had been stabbed, I would join Albon in vowing to catch her killer,’ muttered Langelee to Bartholomew. ‘Not simper at my conquests. And look at Ella. I am sure I saw those pink pearls on Margery yesterday – she did not wait long before raiding her dam’s jewellery box.’

‘Maybe she donned them in tribute,’ suggested Bartholomew charitably.

Langelee shot him a disbelieving glance. ‘There is no doubting their sire’s grief, though, so I think we can eliminate him as a suspect for the murders.’

‘It may be grief,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But it might also be guilt. It is often difficult to tell.’