A Bone of Contention хмб-3

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘Simon took the opportunity to escape. He was expecting his brother to be recognised, and a search sent out for him, but that did not happen – his ruse had worked more perfectly than he could have dared hope. Rather than set out immediately in pursuit of his fleeing household, and run the risk of meeting the three burgesses who were charged with hunting them down, d’Ambrey hid for a night or two in Trumpington.’

  He paused, and Michael cleared his throat noisily. ‘An interesting conjecture, Master Lydgate, but we must think about your absolution. Time is short. Do you repent of your sins?’

  Lydgate looked at him, some of his old belligerence returning. ‘You will allow a dying man the courtesy of completing his tale in his own time, Brother,’ he whispered harshly. He coughed again, then continued, his voice growing weaker, so that Bartholomew and Michael had to strain to hear.

  ‘At the time, I was betrothed to Cecily. It was not my choice, and hers neither. But the contract was sealed and we were bound by it. The day after d’Ambrey’s supposed death, I saw Cecily enter the tithe barn and leave some time later. I went into the barn myself, hoping she might have a lover there. If that were the case, I might yet escape the marriage contract that I did not want. D’Ambrey was there, leaning back in the straw like a contented cat. It was quite clear what they had been doing and, even though it was in my interests to be glad he was Cecily’s lover, I was moved to anger by his gloating. He told me how he had escaped, and I knew he would not allow me to leave the barn alive. We fought, but a lamp was knocked over and the barn began to burn. Then he hit his head against a post and I could not rouse him. I panicked and fled.’

  Raised voices from outside distracted him momentarily, but they died away, and the house was silent once more.

  Lydgate continued with his tale, sweat beading on his face. Bartholomew wiped it away.

  ‘I told my father everything. He said the marriage contract would stand anyway, and that I should conceal Cecily’s indiscretions unless I wanted to be branded a cuckold. He suggested we accuse Norbert of starting the fire, since using him as a scapegoat, rather than someone else, would precipitate no feuds or ill-feelings among the villagers.’

  ‘Most noble,’ retorted Bartholomew, unable to stop himself. ‘So Norbert was blamed so that you would not be seen to have an unfaithful wife, and Cecily would not be labelled a whore?’ He stood abruptly and paced. ‘He was a child, Lydgate! They were going to hang him!’

  Lydgate shrugged painfully. ‘You saved him.’

  ‘What a dire tale,’ said Michael unsympathetically. ‘No wonder Norbert has returned to wreak havoc on the town.’

  ‘But no body was found in the barn,’ said Bartholomew, trying to rationalise Lydgate’s story. The whole event, now he knew the truth of it, had an unsavoury feel, and he did not like the notion that he had protected the identity of a murderer for the last twenty-five years.

  ‘The fire caused such an inferno that metal nails and bolts melted in the heat,’ breathed Lydgate, swallowing hard. ‘A body would never have been identified from that mess.’

  ‘So, you were responsible for the death of Simon d’Ambrey?’ asked Michael. ‘Is that the essence of this lengthy tale? I take it you confessed to burning the tithe barn yesterday because you knew that was the crime of which Matt believed you were guilty?’

  Lydgate nodded, and then shook his head. ‘I became confused. The blackmail notes mentioned the burning of the tithe barn, and hinted at the murder of d’Ambrey while he was trapped in it. I was going to confess to both of them to you last night. Then I realised that you did not know about the murder, only about the fire. I did not see why I should have to confess to that sort of thing when I did not have to, so I just allowed myself to be guided by you, and told you only about the fire.’

  ‘What a mess!’ said Michael. ‘These notes must have been very carefully worded if you were not certain whether they threatened to expose you for murder or arson.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Bartholomew saw something move. It was a shadow in the interconnecting passage between the two Godwinsson houses. Bartholomew, who had been taken unawares by it once before, was not fooled a second time, and darted forward to seize the person who hid there. Cecily gave a cry as she was unceremoniously hauled into the solar. She stared down at her prostrate husband, several blackened pieces of jewellery dangling from her fingers.

  Lydgate saw her and gave a ghastly smile. ‘My loving wife! It is not my impending death that brings you home, but your treasure.’

  ‘I thought I should see what I could salvage,’ she said coldly. ‘Fortunately, I hid most of my belongings well.’

  So much for her “meagre inheritance”, her “paltry jewels”, thought Bartholomew, eyeing the fistfuls of treasure in some disgust. No wonder she had been so concerned in Chesterton when she heard her room had been ransacked.

  ‘Do you have everything?’ asked Lydgate with heavy irony. ‘Or shall I help you look?’

  ‘You might tell me where you kept that silver chain,’ said Cecily, before she realised he was not sincere. ‘Have you seen that little gold crucifix of my father’s? I cannot find it.’

  ‘The last time I saw that, it was being fingered by Brother Edred,’ said Lydgate maliciously. ‘I imagine he stole it after you ran away. He was always covetous of that cross.’

  ‘Why did you not demand it back?’ cried Cecily, appalled.

  Lydgate shifted weakly in what might have been a shrug, ‘These things are no longer important to me, Cecily. I let him keep it, hoping it might throttle him in his sleep.’ His words were becoming indistinct, and speaking was clearly an effort now.

  ‘Your husband has only a short time left,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it said very little for the sacred institution of marriage that the Lydgates so hated each other that they were prepared to squander his final moments on Earth arguing about jewellery. ‘You might wish to be alone with him.’

  ‘I have been alone with him for twenty-five miserable years. Why should I wish for more? I have things to do, and I have no time to wait around here.’ She stuffed her jewels down the front of her dress for safekeeping.

  ‘Then a few moments longer cannot make a difference,’ said Bartholomew, gesturing for her to kneel next to him.

  ‘Why should I?’ she demanded with sudden anger. ‘I have just heard him confess that he murdered the man I loved. All these years, and I knew nothing of this! I lived with a killer! I am glad Dominica poisoned him.’

  ‘I thought you believed Dominica was dead,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You gave me that ring to help me find her killer.’

  ‘I was mistaken. Poor Dominica was forced to feign her death in order to escape from her brute of a father. I discovered she was alive when she came to see me yesterday morning. My husband discovered she was alive when she and I came to see him together last night – when she gave him wine to help him recover from the shock.’

  ‘And this medicinal wine contained henbane?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Cecily nodded. ‘Justice has been done. She has killed the monster who murdered the man I love.’

  ‘You still love Simon d’Ambrey, even though you believed he died all those years ago?’ asked Michael, clearly unconvinced. Lydgate made a sound, that had he been strong enough, would probably have been a snort of derision.

  Cecily smiled, caught in an untruth. ‘Perhaps not, but I grieved deeply for him for several weeks. And I always knew this pathetic creature was not the father of my Dominica.’

  ‘So, Dominica is the daughter of Simon d’Ambrey,’ said Bartholomew in sudden realisation. On the floor, Lydgate gave an agonised gurgle. Although he could still hear, the poison had deprived him of coherent speech.

  ‘That cannot be so,’ objected Michael. ‘Dominica is too young. Kenzie, her lover, was only eighteen or twenty.’

  ‘Dominica was born the same year that Lydgate married Cecily – about six months after d’Ambrey died,’ said Bartholomew, his mind working fast. ‘Her ea
rly birth was the subject of speculation among the villagers for weeks. Dominica is about twenty-four.’

  ‘But she cannot be that old,’ said Michael. ‘She would have been married off by now.’

  ‘Master Lydgate is wealthy, and so it is unlikely that there will be a shortage of suitors for her hand – regardless of her age,’ said Bartholomew. ‘John of Stirling said Norbert was sixteen or seventeen. I imagine a young woman covered in dirt to disguise the lack of whiskers, might pass for a lad.’

  ‘How could this oaf ever imagine he was the father of my Dominica?’ asked Cecily spitefully. ‘Dominica is clever – she fooled us over the matter of her death, and she helped Ivo and Saul Potter plan this riot so that we could be avenged on the man who destroyed our lives.’

  ‘Destroyed your lives?’ asked Michael. ‘But you have just admitted that you grieved for d’Ambrey for a few weeks only and Dominica, with her secret lovers, has scarcely led a hard life.’

  ‘It was a shame about poor Master Radbeche, though,’ said Cecily, ignoring him. ‘He was a kindly man.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Michael suspiciously. ‘You did not kill him, surely? What would you have been doing in David’s Hostel in the middle of the riot?’

  ‘Not Cecily,’ said Bartholomew wearily. ‘Dominica. Poor Radbeche must have caught her without her disguise at David’s and so she killed him to ensure his silence.’

  ‘That was my husband’s fault, too,’ said Cecily, her eyes narrowed spitefully. ‘If he had not forced Dominica to take refuge at David’s in order to escape from him, then Dominica would not have been forced to kill Radbeche to make certain he did not tell anyone who she really was.’

  ‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘John told us that poor Radbeche was supposed to have taken a trip last night, but I suppose he heard rumours that there might be rioting and he, like a responsible Principal, returned to take care of his hostel. Of course, by this time, Father Andrew had gone for bread, the students had sneaked out and the hostel was bare – except, unfortunately for Radbeche, for Dominica.’

  ‘And then,’ said Bartholomew, easing Lydgate’s head to one side as his breathing became more laboured, ‘Dominica attacked John of Stirling because he almost caught her in the act of killing Radbeche.’

  He saw that Lydgate’s last reservoirs of strength were failing fast. Two tears slid from under the dying man’s eyelids, and coursed down his cheeks. Michael pressed his hands together and began the words of the final absolution. Outside in the street, there were howls of merriment and smashing sounds, as children realised that throwing the shards of glass against the wall could be fun. The sergeant’s voice cut over their laughter, but his tone was friendly, and he obviously thought they were doing no harm. While Michael prayed and Bartholomew bent to tend Lydgate, Cecily slipped away down the stairs and was gone. Michael looked up briefly, but let her go. Bartholomew was grateful, revolted by the malice and bitterness that seemed to taint all members of the Lydgate household.

  When Michael had finished his prayers and Lydgate lay dead, Bartholomew followed the monk down the stairs.

  Instead of turning right to return to the street, they turned left to the kitchens in an unspoken agreement to take some time to think. All was deserted. Bartholomew opened a shutter and surveyed the yard. Against the wall lay a pile of wood – the remains of the shed that had been made to look as though Werbergh had died under it. And it had been Huw and Saul Potter – proven rioters and attackers of Bartholomew in the High Street – who had insisted that they had seen him enter it.

  ‘Why did you let Cecily go?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘She might have been able to tell us where Dominica is.’

  ‘I do not think so,’ said Michael. ‘It seems to me that while Dominica is central to this grand plan, Cecily is wholly unimportant. I think she knows nothing that she has not already told us, and I am not inclined to want to speak any further to someone who is so twisted with bitterness and hatred; such people see the truth through warped eyes. Anyway, Matt, the woman is not quick-witted like your Tyler daughters – she will probably head straight back for her bottle-dungeon at Chesterton, imagining that we will not guess where she is hiding.’

  He looked around for a place to sit, but every stool and bench that could be carried away had gone. All that remained was a large table littered with broken pots and jars. He settled for elbowing Bartholomew to one side and perching on the window-sill. Bartholomew opened another shutter and followed suit, gazing gloomily at the looted kitchen.

  ‘You know, we have allowed Lydgate’s suspicions to mislead us, Matt,’ said Michael, after a moment. ‘It is not Norbert we are seeking, but Simon d’Ambrey himself.’

  ‘And how have you reasoned that out?’ asked Bartholomew, startled.

  ‘I think he did not die in the barn, as Lydgate said, and that he escaped. He has bided his time, and he has returned to Cambridge to wreak revenge on the town that was so quick to believe ill of him after all his charity. It is he who is behind the riots; it is he who has brought about the death of Lydgate and the destruction of Godwinsson Hostel; and it is he who put the ring – Cecily’s ring – on the hand of the skeleton that the town believes is his! That explains why the attacks against the University resulted in little destruction, except at David’s and Godwinsson. The attacks appear to be aimed at the University, but they will ultimately damage the town far more.’

  ‘That cannot be right,’ said Bartholomew, wearily. ‘We have one too many corpses belonging to the d’Ambreys as it is. We have the man who was shot with an arrow on the King’s Ditch, the corpse in the burning barn, and the body brought back with the rest of d’Ambrey’s household from Dover that I saw displayed in the Market Square years ago. Three corpses for two d’Ambreys – Simon and his brother.’

  ‘No one ever saw this corpse reputedly burned in the barn,’ persisted Michael. ‘And regardless of what Lydgate said, I am sure he searched for it in the wreckage. I certainly would have done. And Lydgate’s suspicions and unfounded conclusions are not the only ones to have misled us. Yours have, too.’

  ‘Mine?’ asked Bartholomew cautiously.

  ‘Yes, yours!’ said Michael, pursing his lips. ‘Tell me again what you saw the day the tithe barn burned all those years ago.’

  Bartholomew sighed. ‘I saw Lydgate enter the barn while Norbert and I were swimming nearby. A brief while later, I saw smoke issuing from the barn, and Lydgate came tearing out. We followed him through the trees and saw him watch the barn burn for a few moments before he left to raise the alarm.’

  ‘But that is not what you told me a few days ago,’ said Michael. ‘You said you saw someone run from the barn, you followed him, and then you saw Lydgate. What if the person you saw running from the barn was not Lydgate at all? Just because you came upon Lydgate moments later does not mean that he was the man you saw running. You have made the same assumption that misled Lydgate, Cecily and Edred over Dominica – you saw what you expected to see and not what was actually there.’

  Bartholomew stared at him. ‘But Lydgate’s clothes were singed and he had been running hard.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Michael. ‘He had just fled a fire. What would you expect? But Lydgate told us he left almost as soon as the lamp was knocked over and the straw caught fire. You saw a man running away after smoke had started seeping from the building. It would have been a couple of minutes at least before the fire had caught hold sufficiently for smoke to start pouring out. And by then, Lydgate was well away. The man you saw was Simon d’Ambrey.’

  ‘But surely Lydgate would have seen him, too,’ said Bartholomew, bewildered by the sudden turn in Michael’s deductions.

  ‘Not necessarily, not if he were concentrating on his own escape and was in a state of shock over what he had done. And we know Lydgate has never had good eyesight – he told us that himself in St Andrew’s Church.’

  ‘And Father Andrew, of course, is about the same age as Simon d’Ambrey would be,’ said Bartholomew, rubbi
ng his temples tiredly. ‘There is our killer.’

  CHAPTER 12

  Michael claimed the stench of burning in the hostel had made him thirsty and, reluctantly, Bartholomew went with him to the secluded garden at the Brazen George. The landlord obligingly told three indignant bakers that they had to leave so that Michael and Bartholomew could talk in private, then brought them a large platter of roast lamb smothered in a greenish, oily gravy. Michael scraped the sauce away with Bartholomew’s surgical knife, muttering in disgust when he discovered a piece of cabbage lurking in it.

  ‘People who eat things that grow in the dirt will die young, Matt,’ he pronounced firmly. ‘And there is always the danger that there might be a worm or a slug served up with them.’

  ‘Time is running short. We need to try to sort out some of this mess before it is too late.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Michael, his mouth full. ‘We had just deduced that the kindly Father Andrew is none other than the villainous martyr Simon d’Ambrey himself. Sit down and eat something, Matt. You will wear yourself out with all that pacing.’

  Bartholomew sat next to him and toyed with his food, trying to make some sense out of the mass of fact and theories. Michael carefully trimmed the fat from a piece of meat and ate it, pushing the lean part to one side.

  ‘All right, then. Let me start. Father Andrew is too old to be your Norbert, but Father William has exposed him as a fraud, and there is clearly something untoward about the man: John of Stirling told us that Father Andrew had some kind of hold over the rioters last night, and there were all your suspicions that he was not all he seemed the way he splattered ink when he wrote, the fact that you think you heard him while you were sneaking around: the Chesterton tower-house, and so on. He is clearly up to, no good. Meanwhile, we learn from Lydgate that he once roasted a martyr in the barn but, conveniently, no body is ever recovered. With one of those leaps of logic of which you are so fond, it is clear that Simon d’Ambrey escaped the fire in Trumpington, was never shot at the King’s Ditch, and now he has returned to take his revenge on the town that so wronged him.’