The Habit of Murder: The Twenty Third Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 23)

by Susanna Gregory

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Is he a skilled investigator, then?’

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

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

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

  ‘Why would they accuse Grym?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  CHAPTER 3

  It was still raining the next morning, although not as hard as it had done during the night. Drizzle swept down in gauzy sheets and wreathed the top of the church tower in white. The three scholars rose before dawn, as was their custom, and went with Nicholas to celebrate Mass, where Michael assisted at the altar, and Bartholomew and Langelee gazed contemplatively at the ceiling, although for different reasons. The physician was admiring the fan vaulting again, while the Master of Michaelhouse was pondering ways to win new benefactors.

  The rite was well attended, although it quickly became apparent that the congregants were more interested in staking a claim on ‘their’ piece of the nave than in what was happening in the chancel. Within moments, there was a scuffle near the rood screen – a handsome affair of stone with soaring pinnacles along the top – between a troupe of squires and some young merchants. The squires wore the silly pointed shoes and flowing sleeves currently popular at Court, and strutted about with the arrogance of entitlement. The merchants’ robes were more practical, although every bit as gorgeous, and the supercilious glances they shot their rivals were calculated to provoke.

  They might have come to blows had Michael not gone to see what was happening. As Senior Proctor, he was used to dealing with fractious youths, and stilled the brewing spat with a gimlet-eyed glower. None of them knew him, so it said much for the power of his personality that he was able to restore peace with a single scowl.

  ‘Yes, you behave yourselves,’ came an admonishing voice from the anchorhold. ‘It makes us look bad when you squabble in front of visitors. Do it again and you will answer to me.’

  There was no further trouble, and when the ceremony was over, Bartholomew went to pay his respects to Anne. She was wearing a different gown to the one she had donned the previous day, and people had already presented her with gifts of food, as six or seven sweet-smelling parcels sat on a shelf by the window. He was surprised to note that a pie had several bites taken out of it, while one plate contained nothing but crumbs.

  ‘You do not wait until after Mass before breaking your fast?’ he asked, astonished.

  Anne shrugged. ‘Being holy is hungry work. Besides, I worked at the castle for thirty-seven years before taking up a life of religious contemplation, so I think I have earned the right to ignore the rules when I feel like it.’ She sniffed resentfully. ‘I gave my all to that place, although my efforts were never truly appreciated.’

  ‘What did you do there?’ asked Bartholomew, sensing her need to talk.

  ‘I was a nurse,’ she replied grandly. ‘I raised a host of children – the sons and daughters of lords and their senior servants – and saw them all safely through to adulthood. My charges include Master Marishal’s twins and the naughty squires you saw just now. But then God called me, so I came here instead.’

  ‘Was it very difficult to make the transition?’

  She waved an airy hand. ‘There were one or two trying weeks at the beginning, bu
t I soon had people trained to bring me what I need. I have been in here for a year and a half now.’

  ‘You must find it very noisy, with all these builders and artists.’

  ‘That work began just two months after I took my holy vows. Of course, it was because of me that it happened at all. I told Clare to provide a church worthy of my presence, and the town responded by funding the new roof, while the castle added the south aisle. I am looking forward to the rededication ceremony next week – the culmination of all my labours.’

  Bartholomew smothered a smile that she should claim so much credit for the project. ‘It must have been disruptive, though.’

  ‘At times, but I do not mind. Sitting in here all alone can be tedious, so watching the masons and painters gives me something to do. Of course, I do not like the fan vaulting very much. It is too fussy for my taste, and I would rather have had something simpler. It is a—’

  She broke off abruptly and hurried to her other window, where the squires had appeared. Their company was evidently more appealing than Bartholomew’s, as she was soon laughing and joking with them. She demanded the latest gossip, so they obliged by telling her of a scandal involving the baker’s mother. Bartholomew moved away, disinclined to listen, and taking the charitable view that she wanted the information so as to know who to include in her prayers.

  He met Nicholas and Langelee by the door. The vicar was begging again for Langelee to sell him the letter-opener, and Langelee was becoming irked by his persistence.

  ‘I have just been talking to your anchoress,’ interjected Bartholomew before the Master said or did something that would offend, which would be unfortunate after they had just enjoyed Nicholas’s hospitality. ‘She tells me she was a nurse before coming here.’

  ‘A very good one,’ said Nicholas, accepting the change of subject with obvious regret. ‘And it is a pity that the Lady decided to dispense with her services.’

  ‘Anne was dismissed?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘She told me that she was called by God.’