‘There now, you’ve been and killed him, so we won’t know why he turned murderer. I was really looking forward to encouraging his explanation. It makes the job so much more worthwhile. Up you come now, my lord, and we’ll see you don’t leave any more nasty stains on the good lord abbot’s domain.’
Bradecote did as he was bid, lacking the strength or will to remonstrate at being treated like an infant, and was assisted by Catchpoll and Gyrth towards the infirmary. He was dimly aware of the crowd now; of the lady d’Achelie being fanned by an agitated FitzHugh as she slumped against the guest hall wall; of Mistress Weaver nodding encouragement at him like a fond aunt, and Sister Edeva, her face as white as her wimple, her grey eyes moist, and her hands clasped, vice-like, before her.
He wanted to say something, but could neither find the right words nor the breath to issue them. He was half carried up the shallow steps into the infirmary and passed into the safe, ministering hands of the infirmarer.
Chapter Twelve
With his wound tended, and given the chance to rest for an hour or two, Bradecote began to feel that lying idle in the infirmary while the loose ends of the business were being tidied up by Catchpoll was not much to his taste. His chest still pained at every breath, certainly, his limbs felt stiff, and his shoulder had seized up entirely, but he told himself that as long as he took things at a steady pace, he could do all that was required of him. He sat up very gingerly, his left arm protectively positioned over his damaged ribs, still protesting at their ill usage. He permitted himself the luxury of a long groan, since there was nobody he knew within earshot. He had just swung his legs to the floor when he heard a female voice, tremulous but insistent, in heated conversation with a man, whom Bradecote thought must be the infirmarer. A moment later Isabelle d’Achelie erupted into the peace of the infirmary. The elderly monk who was the only other current invalid pulled his blanket up to his chin with gnarled fingers, and rolled his eyes in a gesture of wild panic.
The events of the last few hours had not left Isabelle d’Achelie looking her best. Her flawless complexion was marred by the blotchy effects of prolonged and genuine weeping, her eyes were swollen and pink, and hair had escaped in abandoned wisps from within the confines of her coif.
‘My lord,’ she began, her voice throbbing histrionically, ‘you must believe I did not know.’ She threw herself at his feet, and he feared for one awful moment that she was going to fling her arms round his knees.
‘My lady d’Achelie, I …’
‘No, do not say it. You must blame me for concealing the identity of the murderer, but I swear I had no proof.’
Bradecote forbore to say he had not asked for proof, only suspicions, and the lady continued her rapid, exculpatory speech. She wanted to make clear that she was innocent of collusion in such crimes, while simultaneously admitting not having told the sheriff’s men that she had told de Grismont of Eudo’s threat, some time before Vespers, and that he had told her not to worry, because he would ensure Eudo kept quiet.
‘I thought he would threaten him in turn, you see. I do not think the clerk was a brave man, not at all. Afterwards, well I obviously thought it might have been Waleran, defending my good name, but I had no proof.’ An echo of the old Isabelle returned, and she smiled girlishly, the picture of naive frailty. ‘I thought perhaps that Waleran would tell me if it was him, and if he said nothing, and I did not ask, well, it could have been someone else.’ She paused for a moment, and added. ‘Not that I really minded if he had killed him, because he was a nasty, evil man and deserved all he got.’
‘But the apprentice and lady Courtney?’
‘No. Oh, no.’ Her face registered revulsion. ‘How he could have … I mean, lady Courtney was such an innocuous, devout lady, and that poor boy …’ She shook her head. ‘I did not know about the apprentice until supper, and then I was worried. I did not think I should give Waleran away without hearing what he had to say. He denied any connection, and said he thought it must have been a different thing entirely, because he had seen the master mason in the serjeant’s charge. He said it was a matter amongst the masons, and I wasn’t to worry. So I didn’t.’
She paled again, and her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘This morning, when I heard rumour of something horrible happening to lady Courtney, I sort of knew. And then I came outside and saw …’ She covered her face with her hands, unconsciously mimicking her earlier action. She gave a couple of deep sobs, and then raised her head. ‘I thought he would make me happy, and he has brought nothing but misery and shame.’
Bradecote sighed. He did not know the position of the law, but he did not think any ill intent could be proved against the woman, and even if it could, he, for one, had no stomach for it.
‘Go home, my lady, and do not be over impressed with soft words and warm looks. You need have no fear of dwindling in lonely widowhood. A lady with your,’ he paused, ‘your charm and personality, will impress many a fine man. Do not be rushed into a new marriage.’ He wondered at himself, sounding like a priest taking a confession. She would listen to what he had to say attentively, but he knew that deep down, here was a woman who broke hearts and whose own would always be vulnerable. He hoped, for the peace of her estates, that a good, reliable suitor would arrive in her bailey before she caused more mischief.
She rose from her knees, dusting her skirts in an habitual action, and swept him a deep curtsey. ‘I will, my lord, and thank you.’ She turned, and left, the faintest of swings to her lightened step.
A short while later Bradecote, having ignored the infirmarer’s gentle remonstrations, was walking slowly and cautiously down the infirmary steps. He saw Serjeant Catchpoll coming towards him, holding some missive, and with the air of a man who would like to whistle but knows he is always out of tune.
‘Ah, so we are feeling better are we, my lord?’
‘I don’t know about “we”, Catchpoll, but I can say for certain that I am not feeling as bad as I was earlier, but I have frequently felt better.’
‘Well, you might feel much better when you see this.’ He proffered the document. ‘It has just arrived from Worcester. According to the messenger who brought it, there has been a major discovery of treachery involving a Worcestershire lord who bought his ransom, not with gold, but with the promise of adherence to the empress, but has “forgotten” to do so. Now I wonder who that might be?’
‘I wonder why de Beauchamp bothers with written instructions at all, if the messenger can tell you that much. Let us see if he has it aright.’ Bradecote broke the seal and opened out the vellum. He winced, and Catchpoll solicitously enquired whether he would like to be seated. ‘No, thank you. Getting up and down is worse than standing.’ He leant against the infirmary wall, which provided shade and comfort, and read the contents. The messenger was not far wrong.
‘The lord sheriff hopes we are close to solving the murder of the lord Bishop of Winchester’s clerk, and bids me take into custody one Waleran de Grismont, lord of Defford, upon the wish of the empress. It appears that he bought his freedom after Lincoln by promising to transfer his support to her, but thus far has failed to fulfil that promise and her patience is running out. So, much as you told me, but the failure to change allegiance seems thin reason for detaining him. Men change sides often enough. No need to look further than our lord William de Beauchamp himself. Strictly speaking, as the king’s representative, he should be commending de Grismont for his, er, loyalty.’
‘Ah, this is more in the way of keeping both sides sweet, I would imagine, my lord. The Empress Maud is renowned as an unforgiving woman, and the lord sheriff would not flout her command if it did not break the law. I expect she would also like de Grismont rattled a little to find out who else is less than trustworthy just at present. She’ll miss that now, of course, but I don’t suppose she’s a lady to fret on it.’ Catchpoll ruminated for a moment. ‘Looks like what Master Elias said was true, about de Grismont going to the Jew of Oxford. You certainly would not think him
poor to look at him.’ Catchpoll frowned. ‘But why delay changing sides? He could have done so almost straight away, and if he lay close with someone powerful like Robert of Gloucester he would not have risked being dragged off by the king.’
‘I imagine he wanted the lady d’Achelie wedded and bedded first. Hamo d’Achelie was loyal to King Stephen, and he might not have received so warm a welcome from the lady if he had just shown himself inconstant in his loyalty.’
‘Ah, there you have it, my lord. A very fair reason, and, if the clerk found out and threatened to tell both lady and king of the planned change of allegiance, neither would respond well. There is your motive for murder.’ Catchpoll nodded to himself, content.
Bradecote was ahead of him, though, and was puzzling over practicalities rather than motives.
‘This is all very well. Catchpoll, and we know that he really was the killer, but how did he manage to commit the murders? The evidence does not make it clear. How, for instance, did he get into the church, with Sister Edeva in St Eadburga’s chapel, without being heard? The west door is in clear view of anyone coming out of the guest hall and the courtyard much frequented; the door to the masons’ workshop would be barred from the inside, and even if it was not, then Brother Porter would have seen anyone. He swore none had entered, and we have absolutely no reason to doubt him.’
Catchpoll sniffed, set his face working, and scratched meditatively under his left arm. Bradecote, addressing the same mental problem, merely frowned in concentration. Eventually it was Bradecote who brightened.
‘It could be done, and only by de Grismont, if I have it aright. We know he found out about Eudo the Clerk’s threats to his lady-love before Vespers, and reassured lady d’Achelie, so it would be safe to assume that he had words with the clerk around the end of Vespers, but could not speak his mind where others might see. Eudo, ever wanting to be in control, and having another meeting already set for the workshop after supper, then suggested the Lady chapel, expecting capitulation rather than violence.’
He paused, awaiting Catchpoll’s agreement. It came simply as a nod, and he continued. ‘De Grismont hears the masons talking about their unexpected evening out on the town, and sees the chance to prepare his crime. He probably expects only to have to threaten or at worst mistreat Eudo a little, but if the worst comes to the worst, well, using his sword would really cut down the number of suspects, whereas a mallet could have been used by anyone. In addition, he decides he could get into the church without being obvious. He sends his groom out to exercise his horse, remember. I have no doubt that if we asked the groom, he would say he had strict instructions to be back just after supper. Brother Porter sees nothing unusual, especially as the groom has been out some time and is expected to come back. While he is letting him in, and making a little polite conversation, de Grismont lets himself into the workshop and bars the door from the inside.’
Catchpoll smiled. ‘Which was how the apprentice comes into it. He was bribed to leave the door open, no doubt fed some story of a tryst, and after the murder the lad works out he might have information we want. He sees Waleran has all the trappings of a rich man and takes the opportunity for a little “threatening” of his own.’ The smile twisted. ‘He hadn’t enough sense to see that a man who commits murder once will find it easier a second time, especially if threatened. Fool of a boy. That mistake cost him his life.’
‘Yes, but we are ahead of ourselves, Catchpoll.’ Bradecote was trying to be methodical. ‘We have a method by which de Grismont enters the church, and picks up the murder weapon, without passing St Eadburga’s chapel, so the footsteps Sister Edeva heard were Master Elias’s.’
‘Indeed, and de Grismont was already in the Lady chapel with the clerk. The lady Courtney cannot have known anything, because she came and went almost certainly before de Grismont arrived. Which gives us a puzzle of sorts. We don’t of course know how early in the meeting de Grismont killed Eudo, but it is of no importance. Since he is most unlikely to have called out, there was nothing to hear.’ Catchpoll’s face performed one of its thinking manoeuvres. ‘By now he was dead, because de Grismont had just put the mallet back and must have heard the mason’s footsteps approaching. He slips back to the Lady chapel, up the side of the choir stalls and waits, and nothing happens. He could leave the body where it is, and I for one would have done so, but he is a bit of a risk taker and has a very dry humour, thinks himself very witty, so he drags the body on its scapular to the high altar and puts it in the penitential pose, both to distract us and to show Eudo needed to be penitent. He can hear the mason still in the workshop, so disappears down the nave to the porch. He can make sure nobody is in view before slipping out.’ The serjeant grinned. ‘We didn’t consider that, did we?’
Bradecote wondered if the ‘we’ really meant both of them, but on balance of recent history, thought not.
‘He then,’ concluded Catchpoll, who had warmed to his theme, ‘leaves the porch just before the bell for Compline, biding his time until nobody is in sight and nipping out to head back in through the cloister like a devout member of the community.’
Bradecote was satisfied. It all fitted neatly enough, even if it was a bit convoluted and time dependent. After all, if it had been obvious, they would, he told himself, have seen it all earlier.
‘I see why the apprentice needed to be got rid of, Catchpoll, but surely we have a greater problem with that killing than the first one. The north transept is clearly visible from the gatehouse, which is risky, and Brother Porter reported nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘Yes, my lord, but the weather is the major accomplice. It was raining so hard, and had been doing so long enough, that those who had gawped when it began had lost interest, and everyone was finding tasks to do inside. I think de Grismont wasn’t sure how he was going to get rid of Wulfstan. Perhaps he had arranged another meeting. Anyway, he sees him by chance, running to fetch the pitcher of beer. Coming up behind someone in that downpour would be easy, and a man like him could have broken the lad’s neck in a trice.’
‘But de Grismont would be wet, very wet.’ Bradecote was perplexed.
‘And so he was when we saw him.’ Catchpoll noted the frown, and could not resist feeling smug. ‘He came out to see what was going on, which none of the other guests did, remember. No, he came out because he would not be noticed as he approached, not with a body lying there, and by the time he got to us he would he soaked anyway. Clever move, I have to say.’
‘And he took the pitcher back to his chamber, and “discovered” it because, logically, no murderer would keep it. Therefore it must have been planted on an innocent person.’ Bradecote shook his head. ‘The more we delve, the more we find out how devious de Grismont could be.’
‘Aye, but the last killing was not up to his standard. Lady Courtney gave herself away at break of fast and so he had to act swiftly. Luckily for him, he was able to catch up with her outside, on her way to the abbot’s lodging, bundle her through the wicket gate, drop Ulf with a good blow and strangle her. I suppose she was too stunned to scream. He then went back and packed for his escape, because we would be running out of suspects.’ Catchpoll sucked his teeth. ‘He very nearly made it too.’
‘But what on earth could lady Courtney have remembered that would implicate de Grismont? We know she entered and left the church before the murder.’
‘We only know for certain, my lord, that she lit her candle and left before the body was moved to its position in front of the altar. We are assuming de Grismont had not already entered, but he might, and I only say “might”, have already been in the Lady chapel with his victim dead at his feet.’
Bradecote made an indecisive noise. ‘But that would not have given her anything to remember, and whatever it was had something to do with being cold in church.’
Both men set themselves to ponder this problem. Eventually a slow and particularly evil grin spread over Serjeant Catchpoll’s weathered face. ‘I think I may have the answer, my
lord. She said she always wore a cloak in church. I wonder if de Grismont wore one that afternoon? I dare swear he wasn’t wearing one for Compline. Can you recall, my lord, for I do not?’
Bradecote tried to envisage the scene on that first evening, when he had studied all those present with the eyes of a stranger. He remembered Sister Edeva, so cool and calm; Sister Ursula, pale and shocked; the lady Courtney with the fluttering hands and next to her Isabelle d’Achelie, who had eyes only for de Grismont. These were people he did not know, about whom some of his first impressions had been right and some so wrong. Yes, now he could see the man in his mind. He had looked slightly puzzled, but calm, and he had been the only person Bradecote had recognised at all. What had he worn? Nothing that stood out, just the garb of a well-to-do lord, which was a deception in itself. A cloak, though, no. There had definitely been no cloak.
‘He wore no cloak, Catchpoll, of that I am sure.’
‘Well then, it would be nice to have it, but since we cannot get proof positive of her suspicion from the lady Courtney, it matters but little.’ Catchpoll was about to continue when a thought hit him, and it was as obvious to Bradecote as if he had been struck by something tangible.
‘Wait there a moment, my lord, and we could have the last element in the puzzle.’ Without saying anything more, Catchpoll strode to the west end of the church and disappeared inside the porch beneath the tower. Bradecote disobeyed his instruction, and walked slowly towards the door, with muffled groans and a grimace. Catchpoll was nowhere to be seen, but the door to the tower was open. Bradecote did not fancy climbing a spiral stair.
Nothing happened for a while, and then Catchpoll re-emerged with something clasped tightly in his right fist and a look of triumph on his face. He held out his prize before Bradecote’s nose, and gazed at him in the manner of a hound expecting praise on completion of a command.
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