The Habit of Murder

Chapter 6

It quickly became apparent that Albon had no idea how to conduct a murder investigation, because if he had, he would not have listened to Lichet. The Red Devil advised him to lock everyone in the hall until they had been questioned, which was a bad strategy on several counts. First, it meant that no one could tend livestock or prepare food. Second, as the interviews were conducted in public, it would give the killer an opportunity to listen to others’ replies and adapt his own accordingly. And third, a seemingly random assortment of people were allowed to leave. Donwich, Pulham, three dozen courtiers, ten servants and two squires were among those who contrived to sail out unchallenged.

‘I do not know who is the greater fool – Lichet or Albon,’ muttered Michael, watching the Red Devil stride away to resume his lute playing, although now to a considerably reduced audience.

‘Is Lichet a fool?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or is he trying to sabotage your enquiry?’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Langelee, frowning. ‘He has just appointed Michael as his official investigator, with the obvious aim of stealing any solutions and claiming them as his own.’

‘Because he is the culprit,’ replied Bartholomew promptly. ‘Do not forget that Margery and Roos were killed in the Cistern Tower – where he lives.’

‘Yes, we shall certainly ask him where he was all night,’ said Michael. ‘He raced away before I could press him earlier, but it will not happen again. Lord! What is Albon doing?’

The knight had ordered a throne-like chair set up on the dais. He sat, then beckoned to Quintone and proceeded to stare intently at him, leaning forward until he was so close that their noses almost touched. Uncomfortable, Quintone tried to back away, but Albon gripped his wrist to prevent it. The servant gazed back, nonplussed and wary.

‘Quintone,’ Albon intoned eventually. ‘Did you kill Mistress Marishal?’

‘God in Heaven!’ breathed Langelee in understanding. ‘He thinks he will catch the culprit by reading the guilt in his eyes. The man is deluded!’

‘Yes,’ agreed Michael. ‘But go and monitor him anyway. Someone may admit to being near the cistern last night, and if so, it would be helpful to know who they are. In the interim, Matt and I will corner the suspects on our list.’

‘No,’ said Langelee firmly. ‘I would rather secure us some new benefactors.’

‘I would rather you did, too, but Lichet has allowed the richest courtiers to leave, and there is no point in wooing paupers. Listen to Albon – that is the most useful thing you can do for us now.’

Langelee glanced at the people who had gathered to watch Albon at work. Most were servants, who were unlikely to have money to spare for a foundation that none of them had ever heard of. He conceded reluctantly that Michael was right, and made for the dais with an expression of grim determination.

‘We have been told that it was the baker who raised the alarm,’ said Bartholomew, watching the Master go. ‘So we should question him first.’

The baker transpired to be the lad with the floury hands and lame leg who had challenged Lichet’s orders earlier. His name was Adam, and he had been cornered by Nuport and two of the other squires. They were amusing themselves by pushing him from one to the other, all the while imitating his ungainly efforts to keep his balance.

‘Enough,’ ordered Bartholomew sharply; he had never liked bullies. ‘I cannot see Albon approving of such low antics. He obviously sets great store by the chivalric code.’

Nuport sneered. ‘So do we, but it only applies to fellow nobles – servants and cripples do not count. Now piss off, fool.’

‘It is you who are the fool,’ flashed back Bartholomew, ‘for tormenting the man who bakes your daily bread. Or do you like eating spit and rat droppings?’

The squires exchanged horrified glances, and while they contemplated the possibility that their cruelty might be repaid in ways they had not imagined, Adam took the opportunity to scuttle away. Their bluster promptly returned when Michael began to ask questions, but the Senior Proctor was used to dealing with arrogant youths, and it did not take him long to put them in their place.

‘Now, where were you when Margery and Roos were killed?’ he demanded, once they were sufficiently subdued.

‘In the Bell Inn,’ replied Nuport sullenly, picking an invisible speck from his multicoloured hose. ‘Celebrating the burial of that rogue Skynere, who went in his grave yesterday.’

‘Skynere was a liar,’ put in a lad named John Mull, who had freckles and spots in equal measure. ‘He went around saying that we killed Roger the mason. But we never did.’

‘We have not killed anyone,’ declared Nuport, then grinned at his friends. ‘Although that will change when we get to France.’

‘Roos was staying at the Bell Inn,’ said Michael, once a hard glare had wiped the smirk from the squire’s heavy face. ‘Did you cross swords with him there, perhaps because he accused Thomas and Ella of having a hand in Talmach’s death?’

‘No, we did not,’ replied Nuport sulkily. ‘We saw his two cronies – they were in the far corner of the room, muttering about avenging themselves on the Lady for stealing “their” College all those years ago. But he was not with them.’

‘Then where was he?’ asked Michael.

‘How should we know? All I can say is that he was not in the Bell.’

‘It was a good night,’ said Mull brightly. ‘We all got very drunk, and I do not remember walking home at all. But I woke up in my own bed, so I suppose I must have done.’

‘I remember walking back,’ scowled Nuport. ‘First, because it was raining. And second, because the whore who accompanied us stole my purse. I will trounce her if I see her again.’

‘If you do,’ said Michael icily, ‘I shall see that you are trounced in return. Leave the townswomen alone. Do you hear?’

He glared until Nuport acknowledged that he did.

Bartholomew and Michael found Adam the baker near the door, where he was begging to be let out, all the while glancing over his shoulder, ready to bolt if the squires reappeared. The guards ignored his pleas, so he was more than happy to take refuge with Michael for a while.

‘I hate Nuport and his cronies,’ he confided tearfully. ‘We were all looking forward to being rid of them, but now Sir William has vowed to catch the killer … well, they might never go.’

‘Could they be the culprits?’ asked Michael.

Adam hesitated, but then shook his head, although with obvious reluctance. ‘Unfortunately not. I work at night, see, to get the bread ready for morning. I saw them stagger into their quarters at midnight, after which none of them stirred. Well, Thomas went off alone, but the others stayed put.’

‘Where did Thomas go?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘I did not notice, because it is the rest who are dangerous, as far as I am concerned. Perhaps he went to visit his sister. They are very close.’

‘How can you be sure the remaining squires stayed put?’ pressed Michael.

‘Because unless I watch them like a hawk, they catch me and push me around, like they did just now. I always know where they are.’

‘And before midnight? Where were you then? And where were they?’

‘I was here in the hall, listening to the Clare Hall men sing – they were rather good, actually. And the squires were out in the town, drinking. I know they came back at midnight, because the hour-candle said so, and it was when Master Marishal ordered everyone to bed.’

‘I am afraid your testimony does not exonerate the squires,’ said Michael, ‘as we do not know exactly when Margery and Roos died.’

‘Well, I can tell you that they were still alive two hours after midnight,’ sniffed Adam, ‘because I saw them. And by then, the bullying bastards were snoring in their beds.’

Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘How can you be so sure of the time?’

‘I heard Heselbech chime the bell for nocturns, which is at two o’clock in the morning at this time of year, as you will know.’ Adam sniggered suddenly. ‘Our chaplain was very drunk and your Master Langelee had to hold him upright.’

‘What were Roos and Margery doing when you spotted them?’ asked Michael.

‘They were not together. I noticed Roos first, strutting along like he owned the place. Then Mistress Marishal appeared a few moments later.’

‘Did it not occur to you that nocturns is an odd time for anyone – other than priests and those keeping them on their feet – to be abroad?’

‘It was odd for Roos certainly, as he was a stranger,’ replied Adam. ‘But it was not odd for Mistress Marishal. She often rose in the night to tend the Lady.’

‘Do you know what Roos was doing here?’

Adam shook his head. ‘But I can tell you that he was in a temper. His fists were clenched and he stamped along like an angry duck.’

‘How did he get in here? I assume the entrances are guarded?’

‘Of course they are, or the townsfolk would invade and create havoc. However, I saw Bonde go to the gatehouse after he had finished minding the squires. You can ask him why he let Roos inside.’

‘We shall,’ promised Michael.

Adam’s hard little face softened. ‘Mistress Marishal was kind to me, and I hope you or Sir William catch whoever killed her. She was an angel.’

‘Did you see anyone else out and about last night?’

‘Just the two Clare Hall men. When they finished singing in the hall, they went to their room in the Oxford Tower, although they never put the lamps out – they kept them burning all night. You might want to find out why.’

Bartholomew winced, hoping Donwich and Pulham would not transpire to be the culprits, as relations between his College and theirs might never recover.

‘So, let us summarise so far,’ said Michael. ‘Roos and Margery were alive at nocturns, but the only squire who could have killed them was Thomas, who had wandered off alone. Besides him and the victims, no one else was about except you, Bonde and our Clare Hall colleagues.’

Adam nodded. ‘But I did not hurt her, and I can prove it. You see, baking is a precise art, timed to the second: if I had jaunted off to commit murder, my bread would have been late and everyone here would have noticed. But it was not – it was exactly on time, as usual.’

Michael acknowledged the alibi with a nod. ‘Now tell me how you came to find the bodies.’

‘We have running water in the kitchens, but it was not flowing this morning, so I went to find out why. It is not unusual – dirt, bits of stone and leaves are always getting stuck in the pipes. The cistern door was wide open, which was odd, so I took a lamp and went down the steps …’

‘And?’

‘And I saw the scholar in the water. It was a shock, I can tell you! I turned and raced back up the steps as fast as my legs would take me, yelling for help. Of course, it was not the bodies that stopped the water from flowing, because the pipes are blocked still, even though Mistress Marishal and Roos are now in the chapel.’

‘Roos was missing a boot,’ said Bartholomew.

Adam snapped his fingers. ‘That would do it. Someone will have to go down there and flush it out, although I hope it will not be me. Anyway, I reached the bailey, yelling as loud as I could, and Master Marishal, Thomas, Ereswell, Quintone and several others came running. Lichet appeared from nowhere, like the demon he is.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Master Marishal ordered me back down the stairs to show him what I had found, and a whole host of folk followed. We pulled Roos from the water, and covered him with a cloak. Father Heselbech had arrived by then, but instead of praying for Roos, he raced off to take the news to his priory. Then Quintone spotted a second body – Mistress Marishal.’

‘Did you see anyone else in the bailey when you went to the cistern the first time?’

Adam shook his head. ‘And I have been thinking about it ever since. Poor Mistress Marishal. Killing her was a terrible sin, and the culprit will roast in Hell for ever.’

‘So, we can cross the squires off our list,’ said Michael, as the baker hobbled away to hide under a table. ‘Adam would have implicated them if he could – it pained him to provide their alibi. However, Thomas has gone right to the top, along with Marishal and Lichet. I find it suspicious that both were to hand when Adam raised the alarm.’

‘I wonder if Albon has interviewed them yet,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We should ask Langelee before we tackle them ourselves – to avoid covering the same ground.’

‘Albon will have learned nothing of use,’ predicted Michael disdainfully. ‘And I hate to say it, but do not expect much from Langelee either. He is an admirable man in many respects, but he is hopeless at identifying liars.’

‘Then why did you charge him with monitoring Albon?’

‘Because Roos’s killer will only be caught by cunning, and Langelee will be more hindrance than help, if he insists on looming over my shoulder with one hand on his sword. Listening to Albon will keep him busy without doing any harm.’

It was a valid point, as the Master was not known for his tact, patience or subtlety.

‘We had better find Bonde next,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Adam thinks he allowed Roos through the castle gate, so perhaps he let the killer in, too. Maybe it was a townsman, and Roos and Margery are just two more deaths in this vicious feud – the culprit targeted Margery because she was popular, and Roos just happened to be in the way.’

‘Or Bonde might have stabbed them himself,’ countered Michael. ‘We know for a fact that he is a murderer, and he said and did nothing to convince me of his innocence earlier.’

‘He cried for Margery,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Although he tried to hide it.’

‘That does not mean he did not stab her,’ said Michael soberly.

When they hailed Quintone, to ask if he knew where Bonde might be, they were given some interesting news.

‘I just saw him through the window – leaving,’ replied the servant. ‘I called out to ask where he was going, and he said he was off to London on the Lady’s business. But that is a lie, because she is still in bed, so how can she have given him new orders?’

‘Fleeing the scene of the crime,’ mused Michael. ‘Perhaps he was willing to brazen it out as long as he thought Lichet or Albon would investigate, but wisely decided to disappear when it was announced that I would be exploring the matter.’

‘Possibly,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Although he cannot be familiar with your reputation as a solver of crimes.’

‘He does not have to be, Matt. It may be enough to know that I am neither Lichet nor Albon – men who can be hoodwinked, predicted and manipulated.’

‘Well, we will not forget about him, no matter where he goes,’ determined Bartholomew. ‘We cannot hare after him on our poor old nags, so if we do uncover evidence of his guilt, it will be the Lady’s responsibility to bring him to justice. Of course, she may choose to ignore his crime, which will be easier – and cheaper – than corrupting a second judge.’

‘The murder of her steward’s wife is not the same as some faceless neighbour. If Bonde is the culprit, she will have no choice but to act.’

In Bartholomew’s experience, the rich and powerful had a rather flexible attitude regarding what constituted the right thing to do, so he was rather less sanguine about justice being done. He turned back to Quintone.

‘I do not suppose Bonde mentioned letting anyone – other than Roos – into the castle last night, did he?’

‘He would not have let Roos in,’ averred Quintone. ‘Roos was a stranger, and Bonde is particular about things like that.’

‘But he did let Roos in,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘The body in the cistern proves it.’

Quintone shrugged. ‘Then Roos grew wings and flew over the walls, because he could not have got past the Lady’s favourite henchman. You met Bonde – the man is an animal.’

Next, Michael decided to speak to Marishal. However, when they reached the hearth, the steward had gone. There was no sign of the twins either. Lichet saw their bemusement and came to explain.

‘I sent them to bed with a potion to ease their minds. They are grieving, you see.’

‘So are we,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Roos was our colleague, do not forget.’

‘Yes, but he is not nearly as important as Margery,’ said Lichet dismissively. ‘She was the steward’s wife, whereas he was just a scholar.’

Michael regarded him coldly. ‘Roos’s murder is just as grave a crime as hers, and will be treated as such. Now, take us to Marishal at once.’

‘I shall not! You may apply to me tomorrow, when I shall decide whether he is equal to an audience. Until then, he and his family are off limits. And do not think you can circumvent me – I put guards on the door to their quarters with orders to skewer anyone trying to sneak past.’

‘What kind of potion did you feed the Marishals?’ asked Bartholomew, while Michael gave the Red Devil the kind of look that suggested he had just replaced Bonde as prime suspect.

‘One that brings healing sleep,’ replied Lichet shortly. ‘All three will be dead to the world by now, so even if you do manage to slink past my security arrangements, they will not be in a position to answer questions. Ergo, I advise you not to bother.’

‘Where is the Lady?’ demanded Michael, deciding to see what she had to say about such high-handed tactics, while Bartholomew mused that drugging the steward was one way for Lichet to ensure he was not deprived of his new-found power. However, while it might be acceptable to dose a grieving family with a mild soporific, it was definitely not good practice to give them one that rendered them ‘dead to the world’. Again, he wondered if Lichet was deliberately sabotaging Michael’s enquiry.

‘She was also distraught, so I gave her a draught as well,’ Lichet informed Michael loftily. ‘They will all feel better in the morning.’

‘What was in it?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Exactly.’

‘It is a secret recipe, although I can tell you that it includes hemlock and honey. It is not one you will find in any of your medical tomes, though, so do not waste your time trying to look it up.’

‘You used hemlock to promote natural sleep?’ Bartholomew was horrified. ‘Is that not akin to using a mallet for cracking nuts?’

‘It is perfectly safe for those of us who know what we are doing,’ retorted Lichet. ‘It is only the inexperienced or stupid who make mistakes in dosage.’

Manfully, Bartholomew ignored the insult. ‘Did you ever feed any of this “secret recipe” to Wisbech or Skynere?’

‘No, because Skynere was Grym’s patient, while Wisbech took his medical problems to the priory.’ Lichet gave a superior smile. ‘I do not believe those two were poisoned anyway. There is no evidence to say they were – just a lot of unfounded speculation by an uneducated barber.’

‘What about the other deaths?’ asked Michael, before Bartholomew could indulge in a piece-by-piece demolition of Lichet’s own medical skills. It was unnecessary, as they had already surmised that he was a charlatan with no university training. ‘Roger, Charer and Talmach. Do you have an opinion about what happened to them?’

‘Of course – they were accidents, and anyone who claims otherwise is just trying to encourage trouble between us and the town. Roger was killed by a falling plank, Charer fell in the river, and Talmach tumbled off his horse. There was nothing suspicious about any of them.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew flatly. ‘Where were you between nocturns and dawn?’

‘Me?’ asked Lichet warily. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Because you live above the cistern,’ explained Michael, before Bartholomew could say something more accusatory – there was no point in alerting the Red Devil to the fact that he was high on their list of suspects. ‘You may have seen or heard something.’

‘And I probably would, had I been there,’ replied Lichet haughtily. ‘Because I am an extremely observant man, and very little escapes my attention. But I was in the palace all night, watching the Lady sleep.’

‘Why would you do that?’ asked Bartholomew, suspicious all over again.

Lichet smiled superiorly. ‘Because I have taken it upon myself to ensure that she has eight hours of undisturbed rest every night. I was with her until daybreak.’

‘No, you were not,’ countered Bartholomew, disliking the fact that Lichet considered them fools who would swallow his lies without question. ‘You were one of the first on the scene when the bodies were found. You “appeared from nowhere” according to one witness.’

‘Well, obviously a man must slip to the latrine on occasion,’ shrugged Lichet, so smoothly that Bartholomew suspected he had been preparing his defence ever since the bodies had been found. ‘I took care of business, and was on my way back when Adam raised the alarm. Naturally, I went to see if I could help.’

‘Who else was there?’ demanded Bartholomew, with the sole intention of catching him out.

Unfortunately, Lichet was too clever to make such a basic mistake, and his reply was flawless, even down to the detail of Marishal covering Margery with his own cloak.

‘So your alibi for the time of the murder is the Lady,’ said Bartholomew, unwilling to let him off the hook, ‘who was fast asleep at the time, so cannot verify it.’

Lichet smiled serenely. ‘Who knows? Perhaps she will remember the guardian angel at the foot of her bed, but perhaps she will not. You may ask her tomorrow, when she wakes, although phrase your question with care. She will not appreciate insinuations made against esteemed members of her household, and may respond by excising you from her will.’

‘He is our culprit,’ determined Bartholomew, once Lichet had strutted away. ‘He cannot prove where he was at the salient time, and he wants us to believe that the other suspicious deaths were accidents. He would probably have insisted that Roos and Margery died of natural causes as well, if no one else had been in a position to examine the bodies.’

‘Possibly,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But he is right about one thing – the Lady will resent her favourites coming under suspicion, so we must proceed with care.’

‘It will take a powerful dose of medicine to make someone sleep until tomorrow,’ Bartholomew went on in disgust. ‘One that not even a dubious practitioner like Lichet would dare use on an old lady in indifferent health. Ergo, there will be an opportunity to question her today. Of course, we all know why he wants us to stay away from her.’

‘We do?’

‘So that when she wakes, he can convince her that he was watching over her all night.’

‘Or perhaps he knows that one of the Marishals is the killer,’ mused Michael, ‘and aims to use the time coaching them on how to evade justice.’

‘Why would he do that? He wants them out of the way, so he can run the castle instead.’

‘He can pose as Acting Steward temporarily, but the post is hereditary, so must revert to the family eventually,’ explained Michael. ‘However, the Lady will not want to lose Marishal, and Marishal will not want to lose his brats. Ergo, Lichet could earn their undying gratitude by making inconvenient accusations go away – gratitude that could be permanent and lucrative.’

Bartholomew glanced at the dais. ‘Albon seems to have finished interrogating everyone now, although how he managed to work his way through upwards of two hundred people in so short a space of time is beyond me. Perhaps Langelee can explain.’

As they walked towards the front of the hall, Albon stood and nodded to the guards, who opened the doors, allowing bright daylight to stream in and people to stream out. Langelee was shaking his head in stunned disbelief.

‘He pressed no one for details,’ he said. ‘Mostly, he just asked one question: did you stab Mistress Marishal? Not surprisingly, no one said yes, and then he was beckoning his next “witness” forward. He seems to think that no one will lie to a man of honour.’

Michael laughed. ‘So what will he do now?’

‘Kneel in the chapel, next to Margery’s coffin, and reflect on all he has learned. I told him that would not take long, given that he has uncovered virtually nothing to ponder, but he said he expects to be there for the rest of the day.’

‘He is out of his depth and he knows it,’ surmised Michael. ‘So we shall corner him in a moment, and offer some friendly advice – and ask him a few questions into the bargain.’

‘Good,’ said Langelee, ‘because it is possible that he is going to the chapel in order to reflect on the crimes he committed – to devise a way to exonerate himself.’

‘We should speak to the hermit when we have finished with Albon,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Bonde mentioned him prowling around, so we should find out what – if anything – he saw.’

‘I will fetch him,’ offered Langelee. ‘Watching Albon has given me a headache, and I need some fresh air.’

When the Master had gone, Bartholomew and Michael went to the chapel. It was a pretty building, although only large enough to hold about fifty people, so it was no surprise that the Lady aimed to stake a claim on the parish church. The chapel was full of her ancestors’ tombs, and was a dark, silent, intimate place.

Heselbech was there, praying in the nave, although his nodding head and bowed shoulders suggested that his sleepless night was beginning to catch up with him. He turned at the sound of footsteps and heaved himself to his feet, yawning hugely as he did so.

‘Have you come to examine the bodies again?’ he asked. ‘Or to pay your respects?’

‘Neither,’ replied Michael. ‘We have come to talk to Albon. Where is he?’

Heselbech led the way past the rood screen to the chancel, where the knight was on his knees before the High Altar, hands clasped reverently in front of him. On one side stood an ornate casket draped in green silk; on the other was a bier with handles, suggesting that Roos would not lie there for much longer. Albon was so still and poised that he might have been a statue, but then he sneezed, and spoiled his attitude of elegant piety by wiping his nose on his gauntlet.

‘He has come to pray for guidance, given that his first stab at identifying the culprit was unsuccessful,’ explained Heselbech. ‘I have been instructed to keep the place quiet, so he can concentrate. Of course, that may prove difficult, given that so many folk want to pay their last respects to Margery.’

Bartholomew and Michael left him to it and approached the kneeling knight. Albon sneezed again, sniffed loudly, and this time it was his sleeve that cleaned his running nose.

‘How are your enquiries coming along?’ asked Michael, striding up behind him and catching him mid-scrub.

‘Slowly,’ replied Albon, blushing with mortification at being caught in the act of doing something so unmannerly. ‘But that will change once I have spoken to God. He will tell me what to do next.’

‘Of course,’ said Michael. ‘But what are your preliminary conclusions?’

‘I do not have any, Brother. I may be a novice in these matters, but I do know that it is unwise to begin with preconceptions.’

‘Preconceptions often serve me very well,’ countered Michael. ‘Along with hunches. Indeed, it is sometimes impossible to proceed very far without them.’

Albon gave a pained smile. ‘Then I shall confess to you that one solution does keep coming to mind: that Mistress Marishal and Roos were killed by a townsman. You may have noticed that there is a very nasty feud in Clare.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Michael. ‘So where were you between nocturns and dawn?’

‘Why those particular times?’ asked Albon curiously. ‘Is it when the murders were committed? How did you discover that?’

‘The usual way – by asking pertinent questions of relevant witnesses.’

Albon inclined his head. ‘Then thank you for sharing your discovery with a rival investigator. But to answer your question, I was here, in the chapel. I am about to embark on a holy quest to France, so I spend a lot of time communing with the Almighty.’

‘It is not a holy quest,’ argued Bartholomew, offended by the claim. ‘It is taking a lot of ruffians to join a war that we had no right starting in the first place.’

Albon regarded him coolly. ‘I was called to service personally by the King, and he is God’s anointed. Thus it most certainly is a holy undertaking, and I am honoured to have been chosen.’

‘Did you see or hear anything suspicious at all?’ asked Michael, speaking before Bartholomew could inform him that this was a lot of convoluted claptrap. ‘This building is not far from the Cistern Tower – just a stone’s throw from one door to the other.’

‘If I had seen the killer commit his foul deed, I would already have hanged him,’ declared Albon, and turned his noble visage back to the altar, closed his eyes and re-clasped his hands. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, Brother, I must pray.’

‘I have nothing against piety,’ said Michael, a short while later, after Langelee had returned to say that the hermit was out and no one knew where he had gone. ‘But Albon is blinded by it, and it is not healthy. Let us hope we solve these murders, because he never will.’

‘Perhaps he does not want the killer caught,’ suggested Langelee. ‘Because then he can stay here on his knees, instead of leading a host of unruly louts to France. He is a coward, and is frightened now that the day of his departure looms. He wants a way to avoid it.’

‘I am glad he was not my commander at the Battle of Poitiers,’ said Bartholomew, inclined to think Langelee was right.

‘So am I,’ said Langelee fervently. ‘Because then you would not have survived to bring me back that lovely letter-opener. Albon is an ass, who does not know one end of a hauberk from–’

He stopped speaking abruptly and rifled through his scrip, his face a mask of dismay. Then he pulled off his belt and began to pat himself down with increasing urgency.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Michael. ‘You cannot have lost our money – we do not have any.’

‘My letter-opener.’ Langelee’s voice was edged in panic. ‘Did one of you borrow it?’

‘Of course not,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It is far too dangerous for the likes of us. I have told you countless times not to hone it so sharp.’

‘It has gone,’ gulped Langelee, tipping the contents of his scrip out and pawing through them frantically. ‘Someone has stolen it!’

‘Nicholas, probably,’ predicted Michael. ‘He covets the thing, and I doubt he believed your promise to send him one from Cambridge. These things have a way of being forgotten, no matter how sincere the intention at the time.’

‘Nicholas would never steal from me! We are old comrades-in-arms.’

‘No – you are both ex-soldiers,’ corrected Michael, ‘which is not the same thing at all. It would be like me saying that I share a bond with him, just because we are both in holy orders. He owes you no allegiance, just as he owes none to me.’

‘You lost it, Langelee,’ said Bartholomew quickly, disliking the notion of the Master storming up to the vicar and accusing him of theft. ‘Probably last night, when you were too drunk to notice. Retrace your steps – start with our room and the Prior’s House.’

‘I hope to God no one picks the wretched thing up and maims himself,’ said Michael, as Langelee sped away, worry creasing his bluff face. ‘You should never have given it to him.’

‘He adapted it,’ replied Bartholomew defensively. ‘It was an innocent little implement when I brought it back from France. Hah! There are Donwich and Pulham. That is convenient – I was about to suggest we speak to them next.’

The scholars from Clare Hall did not look their best. Donwich had dark circles under his eyes, while Pulham kept yawning. They were unshaven, and wore the same clothes as they had the previous day, which were rumpled and spattered with ink. It was unusual for them be dishevelled, as both were fastidious men – and likely to be more so at Clare, where they aimed to impress their benefactress.

‘No, we did not sleep well,’ snapped Donwich in answer to the physician’s polite enquiry. ‘We rashly offered to help Marishal with preparations for the royal visit, and he ruthlessly exploited our good will. First, he ordered us to provide entertainment for the whole castle – which was not how we envisioned being put to use.’

‘You sang,’ said Michael, recalling that the baker had mentioned their warbling.

‘I felt like a common jongleur,’ said Donwich sourly.

‘I rather enjoyed it,’ countered Pulham. ‘I love singing, and we performed for hours, because folk kept clamouring for more. We did not finish until midnight.’ He grimaced. ‘I was ready for my bed at that point, but Marishal had other ideas.’

‘He has a mountain of correspondence pertaining to the Queen’s visit,’ elaborated Donwich, ‘and he wanted copies made of everything.’

‘Which is work for lowly clerks, not scholars of our standing,’ said Pulham sourly. ‘But they do not have time, so he asked us to do it instead. We dared not refuse, lest he complained to the Lady. We have only just finished.’

‘The baker saw lamps burning in your room all night,’ mused Michael. ‘He–’

‘Look at my fingers,’ interrupted Pulham, stretching out his hands. ‘Filthy with cheap ink.’

‘Can anyone corroborate your tale?’ asked Michael.

Donwich eyed him coolly. ‘You mean did we slip out and murder Roos in the midst of our labours? Well, I am sorry to disappoint you, Brother, but Marishal posted guards outside our door. He claimed it was so they could fetch him if we had questions about the work, but we know it was really to make sure we did not slack. So, yes, there are witnesses to prove our innocence.’

‘That is not why I asked,’ lied Michael. ‘I was hoping you might be able to help us with Marishal’s movements. You will appreciate why we want to know.’

‘Because he is a suspect for the murders,’ surmised Donwich. ‘Well, maybe he did make an end of Roos, because he is not very enamoured of scholars, as evidenced by his treatment of us.’

‘Yet I cannot see him – or anyone else – hurting Margery,’ said Pulham. ‘She was a lovely lady. She brought us wine and cakes just before nocturns, as she thought we might need refreshment. It was kindly done, and no one else bothered.’

‘Did she come alone?’ fished Michael.

Pulham nodded. ‘She said she decided to bring us the victuals when she saw the light still shining from our window. Then, not long after she had gone, Marishal poked his head around the door to assess our progress.’ He glanced at Donwich. ‘Which was when you made the quip about no one in the entire castle bothering with nonsense like sleep.’

Donwich shrugged. ‘Marishal, his wife, the guards at the door, us, the castle chaplain hauling on his bell rope – all awake in the dead of night. Marishal retorted that Clare folk work for a living, not like the layabouts in Cambridge.’

‘So we have decided to move back to the Swan for the rest of our stay,’ sniffed Pulham. ‘The Lady and Marishal are unlikely to notice our absence, not now there are murders to snag their attention. We shall pay our respects to the Queen on Tuesday, then travel home with you and the rogues from Swinescroft the following morning. Well, not with Roos obviously …’

‘When did Marishal visit, exactly?’ asked Michael. ‘Before or after the bell for nocturns?’

‘Before,’ replied Pulham promptly. ‘But he only stayed for a moment and then he was gone. So the answers to your unspoken questions are yes, Brother – yes, he was out and about at the same time as his wife, and yes, it is possible that he killed her and Roos.’

‘Perhaps she and Roos arranged a lovers’ tryst and he killed them in a fit of jealous rage,’ suggested Donwich, but then shook his head. ‘She would never have chosen Roos when she could have had one of us. Roos was a vile individual, whereas we are handsome, wealthy and charming.’

‘And modest,’ muttered Bartholomew.

‘Personally, I think Badew killed them,’ said Pulham. ‘He allowed hatred to overwhelm his soul, and would certainly sacrifice a friend to strike at an enemy. Marishal will be weakened by the loss of his wife, and what hurts him, hurts the Lady.’

‘You think he is that low?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully.

‘I do,’ said Pulham firmly. ‘He has become a bitter, twisted old man who will do anything to avenge himself on the woman he thinks stole his College. He travelled here with the express purpose of harming her, and if he did kill Margery, he has succeeded in that aim.’

Michael lowered his voice. ‘He came because he thought she was dead. We all did.’

Pulham reflected for a moment, then raised a forefinger triumphantly. ‘Then think about who opened the letter that contained the “news” of her demise. Roos! No one else saw it, so how do we know he did not lie about the contents – and Badew killed him for falsely raising his hopes?’

‘That is possible,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘Badew does claim to know some secret that he will only reveal when the Lady is dead, so I imagine his disappointment was great indeed when he learned it would have to wait again.’

‘Especially as he is older than her, and might die first,’ put in Pulham. ‘Of course, it will transpire to be a lot of lies, saved for a time when she can no longer defend herself. He can bray this secret all he likes, but no one will believe it.’

At that point, Lichet began to stride towards them, so he and Donwich beat a hasty retreat before they could be lumbered with more work. Moments later, they emerged from the Oxford Tower, still bundling their belongings into saddlebags. They all but ran to the gate and were gone, although they need not have rushed, as Lichet had been intercepted by Ereswell, who was demanding instructions about some aspect of the Queen’s visit. The learned man quickly became flustered, especially when Adam approached with a question about supplies.

‘He had better hope Marishal does not sleep too much longer,’ remarked Michael. ‘Because even he must realise by now that the post of steward is beyond him.’

But Bartholomew was thinking about their suspects. ‘We can cross Donwich and Pulham off our list. We will check their story with the guards, but I believe they are telling the truth. However, I do not like the suggestion of a romantic tryst between Roos and Margery. Both Donwich and Langelee said she was not that sort of woman, and I agree.’

‘But what about the rings?’ Michael pulled them from his scrip and stared at them. ‘They look like lovers’ tokens to me. And Roos did home in on her very quickly after we arrived, while Adam claimed he strutted around as if he owned the place, suggesting that he had been here before …’

‘Well, there is only one way to find out – by asking Badew and Harweden.’

The rain had passed, and the day had turned pretty, with fluffy white clouds dotting a bright blue sky and a warm sun drawing steam from the wet ground. Bartholomew and Michael left the castle, and walked along Rutten Row to the Bell Inn, an attractive establishment with black timbers and pink plasterwork. The appetising scent of frying eggs wafted from within, which perhaps explained why Badew had chosen it – the Swinescroft men liked their victuals.

Inside, the tavern was busy with traders from the market who had sold all their produce and were rewarding themselves with jugs of frothing ale. Bartholomew could not help but overhear snippets of conversation as he wove through the tables to where Badew and Harweden sat. Most revolved around the double murder at the castle, and there was a general feeling that someone had done it to avenge Skynere.

‘The wife of the steward,’ crowed one man. ‘What a coup!’

‘Not a coup, Bailiff Paycock,’ said a butcher, a man identifiable by his bloody apron. ‘She was the only decent person in the whole place, and anyone who revels in her death is a pig.’

‘Then what about the death of the scholar?’ asked Paycock archly. ‘Can I revel in that? The University will not let that crime pass unremarked, and it will bring the Lady a raft of trouble.’

Although the tavern was crowded, Badew and Harweden had a table to themselves, perhaps because they were strangers, but more likely because they positively radiated hostility. They scowled when Michael perched on the bench next to them, an expression that deepened when he began to help himself to their food – bread, cheese, eggs, fried pork and apples. Bartholomew sat as well, but the events of the day had deprived him of his appetite.

‘When you have finished gorging yourself, Brother, perhaps you will tell us what happened to Roos,’ said Badew acidly. ‘Who lured him into that terrible place and slaughtered him? I assume the Senior Proctor has the matter in hand?’

‘Our enquiries are at a very early stage,’ replied Michael, reaching for more meat. ‘So I have no answers for you yet. Rest assured, though, I shall do my utmost to bring his killer to justice. And you can help by answering some questions. When did you last see Roos?’

‘At vespers,’ replied Badew. ‘We went to church together, then returned here. Harweden and I share a room, but he has one to himself, because he snores … snored.’

‘Did he say he might go out again?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Of course not, or we would have stopped him. The Lady has never liked us, and would leap at the chance to do us harm. It was recklessness itself for him to have ventured out alone.’

‘Especially to the castle,’ added Harweden soberly. ‘Her lair.’

‘She is the Devil Incarnate,’ hissed Badew, looking rather demonic himself with his narrowed eyes and spiteful mouth, ‘skilled in deceit and falsehoods. She will delight in pulling the wool over the eyes of a gullible Senior Proctor, so do not believe a word she says.’

‘I am not gullible,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘I have outwitted more killers than you can count.’

‘But she is in a league of her own,’ whispered Badew, eyes blazing. ‘She is a politician, and we all know they are consummate liars.’

‘Right,’ said Michael briskly, and brought the discussion back on track. ‘Now, we have discovered that Roos and Margery shared a close connection. What can you tell me about it?’

‘Do not talk nonsense,’ spat Badew. ‘Roos met her once – fourteen years ago, when she was in the deputation that came to Cambridge to steal my College. That is not a “close connection”.’

‘Tell the truth, Badew,’ said Harweden softly. ‘How will they catch Roos’s killer if we lie? Roos did have an association with Margery. You know he did.’

‘I know nothing of the kind,’ snarled Badew furiously. ‘You are reading too much into what you claim to have noticed.’

‘And what was that?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Roos chatting in a very familiar manner to Margery the moment we arrived here,’ replied Harweden, and regarded Badew archly. ‘Exactly as he did fourteen years ago. I told you then that they appeared to be intimate, but you refused to believe me.’

‘He was our friend,’ argued Badew. ‘He would never betray us by forging links with the enemy’s household.’

‘I beg to differ,’ retorted Harweden curtly. ‘And, as he clearly knew her well even back then, it is obvious that their association was one of considerable duration.’

‘Did you ever ask him about it?’ enquired Bartholomew.

‘Of course, but he fobbed me off with half answers, although he did once let something slip. It was not long after we lost University Hall, and he and I were bemoaning it one evening over a jug of ale. He said that blood is thicker than water, and Margery should have done more for him. He blanched when I demanded to know what he meant, and claimed that I had misheard.’

‘So they were kin,’ mused Michael. ‘That is–’

‘They were not!’ exploded Badew. ‘He would have told me.’

‘Would he?’ asked Harweden quietly. ‘Or would he have kept it secret, lest you expelled him from Swinescroft? If you had, he would never have found another hostel – he was no great shakes as a scholar. Or as a friend, if you want the truth.’

When Badew made no reply, Michael pulled the onyx rings from his scrip and laid them on the table. The Swinescroft men stared at them in surprise.

‘He had two?’ asked Badew. ‘I only know about the one he kept around his neck.’

‘The other belonged to Margery,’ explained Michael. ‘It was on her finger.’

‘Hah!’ Harweden turned triumphantly to his friend. ‘What more evidence do you need, Badew? They were related, and these baubles prove it. The sly rogue deceived us for years! Indeed, perhaps it was he who helped the Lady get her claws into University Hall in the first place. I would put no low deed beneath him – not now we know what kind of man he was.’

‘I cannot believe it,’ whispered Badew, stunned. ‘It is impossible!’

There was a short silence, as both old men pondered the revelation and its unpleasant implications. Then Bartholomew moved to another matter.

‘It was Roos who read the letter telling us that the Lady was dead. The messenger was told to deliver it to Water Lane, so we assumed it was for Chancellor Tynkell – that the sender was unaware that Suttone has been elected to replace him. But your hostel stands at the junction of Water Lane and Swinescroft Row …’

‘I see where you are going with this, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘You think Margery wrote to Roos, because of the connection they shared. However, there is a problem with that theory: Roos was the only one who saw the letter, so we do not know what it really contained.’

‘Yes, we do,’ countered Harweden, ‘because he showed it to me. It did say the Lady was dead, and urged the recipient to attend her burial without delay. However, I should have been suspicious of the fact that it was addressed to no one in particular. Roos was all gloating delight that he had read it before the Chancellor – but it was a lie. And I swallowed it like a fool!’

‘We are all fools,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘We should have questioned his willingness to share the news with Clare Hall, which he detested. In other words, why was he prepared to give its scholars the chance to pay their last respects and win the executors’ good graces?’

Badew regarded him narrowly. ‘I can tell from your knowing expression that you have the answer. So come on – out with it.’

Bartholomew was still struggling to put his tumbling thoughts in order, and spoke slowly to give himself time to think. ‘He must have made another journey to Clare recently, one where he lost an ear to Simon Freburn. We saw it was missing when we examined his body.’

‘But he told us that he had earache,’ cried Badew, incensed all over again. ‘Are you saying that he lied about that as well?’

Bartholomew nodded. ‘He wanted to attend the Lady’s funeral, but not at the risk of a second encounter with robbers. However, he knew the University would send a delegation of mourners if he made the news public – and a delegation meant an escort for him.’

‘The sly dog!’ exploded Badew. ‘He knew I would want to go, because I have–’

‘A secret?’ asked Michael when the old man stopped abruptly. ‘The one you came here to reveal. Will you tell us what it entails now?’

‘No,’ replied Badew shortly. ‘It must wait until the Lady is dead.’

‘May we examine Roos’s room?’ Michael spoke gruffly to conceal his disappointment. ‘Perhaps we will find something there that will explain why he deceived you all these years.’

Badew led the way to a pleasant chamber overlooking the street. The bed had not been slept in, and the water provided for washing was unused. Roos’s saddlebags lay on the bed, still packed.

The letter was on the windowsill. It was written on cheap parchment, and the message was short and to the point – that the Lady was dead and the recipient should make haste if he wanted to see her in her grave. It was in the vernacular, rather than the more usual Latin, and it was unsigned.

‘How could you believe that this was intended for the Chancellor?’ demanded Badew, waving it angrily in Harweden’s face. ‘Even the Lady’s meanest clerk would have composed a more impressive missive than this. And where is the identifying seal?’

‘Peterborough!’ exclaimed Bartholomew suddenly. ‘You said that Roos visited kin there every three months, but he changed the subject with suspicious haste when Nicholas started to chat about the place. Perhaps he did not go there at all, but came here instead.’

‘To visit Margery,’ surmised Michael. ‘It would explain why he seemed to know his way around the castle. However, if he really did come here when he should have headed north, why did no one recognise him when he arrived with us? Everyone has dismissed him as a stranger.’

‘Perhaps he disguised himself,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘As a priest, maybe. The guards would not look twice at an elderly man in a habit.’

‘Such laxity on their part would certainly explain how Roos managed to slip into the Lady’s stronghold last night,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘It is–’

‘Look at this,’ interrupted Bartholomew suddenly, waving a second letter – it had been under one of the saddlebags. ‘It is on the same cheap parchment and in the same uneducated hand – a message asking for a rendezvous in the cistern “at the usual time”. So now we know why Roos went to the castle in the dark.’

‘I imagine it is from Margery,’ said Michael, putting both missives in his scrip for safekeeping. ‘And “at the usual time” suggests they had regular assignations. Perhaps you are right, Matt – Roos did come here when he claimed he was visiting Peterborough, although he must have worn a very convincing disguise to have fooled so many people.’

‘Damn him!’ hissed Badew bitterly. ‘No wonder none of my plans for vengeance have worked – Roos told his paramour, and she warned the Lady. Well, I hope he burns in Hell!’

Harweden glanced out of the window. ‘I paid the vicar to bury him this morning. Shall we go to his funeral? Or shall we stay away on principle?’

‘Oh, we shall go,’ said Badew grimly. ‘If I cannot dance on the Lady’s grave, then I shall dance on his. However, I am not buying Masses for his soul. The Devil is welcome to it.’

Roos had just been delivered to the parish church from the castle chapel when Bartholomew, Michael and the two old men arrived. He was dumped rather unceremoniously on Roger’s tomb, after which the bier-bearers disappeared fast, unwilling to linger in a place where they were so heavily outnumbered by townsfolk – the church was unusually full that day.

‘At least he will have some mourners,’ remarked Michael, as he and Bartholomew went to see what arrangements had been made for the ceremony. ‘I wonder why they are here.’

‘To watch the scaffolding come down in the south aisle,’ explained Nicholas, when the monk put the question to him. ‘So we can all revel in the fact that its ceiling is plain and dull, compared to the fan vaulting in the nave and chancel.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ said Michael, squinting up at it. ‘I hope they will not make too much noise while we lay our colleague to rest.’

‘If they do, he can tell them to desist,’ said Nicholas, nodding at Bartholomew. ‘A veteran of Poitiers will have no trouble with rowdy civilians, especially once he draws his sword. And while he keeps the peace, we can concentrate on the rite.’

Bartholomew excused himself hurriedly from such an alarming duty, but he need not have worried, as the townsfolk were perfectly well behaved. None joined the mourners, though, so it was just him, Michael, Badew and Harweden who attended the perfunctory little ceremony. They had to carry the body to the graveyard themselves, as the men who should have done it refused to leave the church, preferring to clamour disparaging remarks about the south aisle instead. Once Roos was in the ground, Badew and Harweden paused just long enough to spit on him, then hurried away, leaving Bartholomew to pick up a spade and back-fill the hole.

‘Stamp it down hard,’ called Anne, who was watching through her window. ‘I did not like the look of that man, and I do not want him rising up and messing about in my church.’

‘We should go back to the priory, Matt,’ said Michael when they had finished. ‘To take a leaf from Albon’s book, and ponder all we have learned.’

‘I will join you later,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘But first, I want to explore Clare. As Langelee always says, only a fool does not learn the lie of the land when a killer is at large.’

‘I have never heard him say that,’ said Michael. ‘Matt? Matt, wait! We have work to do!’