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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Oh, yes. He killed one of our neighbours and should have been hanged, but the Lady is as loyal to him as he is to her – she bribed the judges and got him acquitted.’

  ‘So we have yet another mysterious death in Clare,’ mused Michael. ‘To go with Roger, Talmach, Charer, Skynere and Wisbech.’

  ‘It was not in Clare,’ replied Ella. ‘It happened miles away in Wixoe. And there is nothing mysterious about it – Bonde knifed Master Knowl in front of several horrified witnesses.’

  And with that, she turned on her heel and flounced away.

  It was some time before the hawkers were finally ready to leave. Albon led them out, mounted on a prancing white stallion that was draped with a silver blanket – which seemed inappropriate tackle for what promised to be a muddy excursion. His retinue clattered after him, followed by the dogs and men with birds. When they had gone, the silence seemed deafening. Marishal gazed after them wistfully, clearly wishing he could go too, then began to issue instructions to the castle servants, so that a hot meal would be ready for when the party returned.

  Meanwhile, the quarrel between Clare Hall and Swinescroft had escalated, and the participants were on the verge of coming to blows.

  ‘You came to gloat over her death,’ Donwich was declaring hotly. ‘It is disgusting, and you should be ashamed of yourselves. Thank God you are no longer part of our College, because I should be mortified to be associated with you.’

  ‘Oh, we are not here to gloat,’ countered Badew, eyes flashing. ‘We came to reveal a secret. We have kept it for years, but now the she-devil is dead, it is time to share it with the world.’

  ‘Tell them she is alive,’ whispered Bartholomew to Michael and Langelee, alarmed. ‘Or he may say something to harm the whole University.’

  Michael started to step forward, but the Clare Hall men were too intent on Badew to notice.

  ‘If you damage our chances of an inheritance,’ Donwich was snarling, ‘I will kill you with my bare hands. I swear to God I will!’

  ‘The secret has nothing to do with you,’ sneered Badew. ‘It is to do with her. And while we are speaking the truth, I have something to tell Marishal about his brats as well.’

  Pulham’s expression was murderous. ‘If you say or do anything untoward, we will make it known that you falsified the accounts when you ran “University Hall”.’

  Badew blinked his shock. ‘But I never did!’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ acknowledged Pulham, ‘but can you prove it? No? Then who do you think folk will believe? Two distinguished members of Clare Hall, or a man no one likes? You may have been respected – even loved – once, but your bitterness and rage these last fourteen years mean that no one will baulk at thinking ill of you.’

  Badew spluttered his outrage, but the spat was cut short by the return of Marishal.

  ‘I shall escort you to the Lady now,’ he said. ‘She is in the hall.’

  ‘Is she?’ blurted Donwich, startled. ‘Good gracious! Is that not a little … public?’

  Marishal frowned his bemusement at the question, but he was keen to be finished with business so he could join the hawking. Thus he did not ask for clarification, and instead led the way at a brisk trot to the palace, where he opened the door to the ground-floor hall.

  It was a beautiful room. Tapestries adorned the walls, while the ceiling was hung with banners from the Lady’s knights. The floor was made of stone and very clean, and the whole place smelled of herbs and fresh food, as opposed to sweat and wet dog, like the hall in Cambridge Castle. There was a throne-like chair on the dais at the far end, and the men from Clare Hall and Swinescroft stopped abruptly when they saw the Lady sitting in it, slumped with her head lolling to one side. Michael and Langelee chuckled at their shocked expressions, especially when she sat up, and fixed them with bright, beady eyes.

  ‘My Lady of Clare,’ gulped Donwich, the first to regain his composure. ‘May I congratulate you on your radiant good health? We expected to find you … rather less ambulatory.’

  CHAPTER 4

  A short while later, seven of the eight scholars waited in a pleasant antechamber, where the Lady had agreed to grant them a private audience, away from the hundred or so courtiers who clustered around her. Roos had disappeared, which annoyed Badew and Harweden, who muttered darkly about needing his support in the light of the recent unwelcome developments. Both were trembling with anger and disappointment.

  ‘So what of your secret, Badew?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘Will you still reveal it today?’

  Badew scowled. ‘It will have to keep for a little longer. However, I still have something to say to Steward Marishal. I shall never forget the vile behaviour of his brats when I was forced to sign that quit-claim, and it is time for revenge.’

  ‘Badew, please,’ said Michael quietly. ‘It was a long time ago and they were children—’

  ‘It feels like yesterday to me,’ flashed Badew. ‘And fourteen years is not a long time ago. Not when you are my age.’

  Donwich and Pulham did not care about Badew and his secrets. They were more concerned about their benefactress finding out that they had travelled to Clare in the expectation of attending her funeral.

  ‘It must be kept from her at all costs,’ Pulham said worriedly. ‘We cannot afford to annoy her – she is old, and there may not be enough time to regain her good graces before she really does die. Our College will not survive without the handsome legacy she promised.’

  ‘Do not fret – I have a plan,’ said Donwich soothingly. ‘No one will accuse you and me of circling like vultures, Pulham, I promise. What about you, Langelee? Do you have a convincing excuse to explain your presence here?’

  ‘I shall tell her the truth,’ hissed Badew, before the Master could reply. ‘And that will be the end of so-called Clare Hall.’

  ‘Then it will be the end of you as well,’ countered Pulham warningly. ‘Because if you hurt us, I shall ensure that you are forever remembered as a thief. Your contributions as Chancellor will be forgotten, and when you die, scholars will spit on your grave.’

  ‘You would not dare,’ snarled Badew, although his eyes were uneasy. ‘It would be a lie.’

  ‘I would dare,’ Pulham flashed back, ‘so think very carefully before you open your mouth. In fact, why not cut your losses and leave now, before the Lady sees you? You will not be dancing on her grave today, so there is no reason for you to linger.’

  ‘We cannot go home on our own,’ said Harweden indignantly. ‘Not with ear-loving robbers at large. Much as your company sickens us, we have no choice but to wait for you.’

  ‘Besides, I still have things to say to Marishal,’ said Badew, so venomously that Bartholomew was repelled by the malice that blazed from the old man’s face. Clearly, the passage of time had inflamed rather than soothed the wound that Clare Hall had inflicted when its Master and Fellows had invited the Lady to take his place.

  ‘Here she comes,’ whispered Langelee, cocking his head at the clatter of approaching footsteps. ‘Best behaviour now, everyone. We do not want her to denounce us all as greedy opportunists with long-standing grudges.’

  The Lady had visited Cambridge fairly regularly when she had first agreed to finance Clare Hall, but her appearances had decreased over the past two or three years. Bartholomew understood why when she entered the antechamber. She had aged since he had last seen her – her gait was stiff, her skin was papery, and there was a pallor about her that was indicative of a recent illness.

  She was followed in by Marishal and Lichet, with Bonde bringing up the rear, toting enough weapons to supply a small army and looking as though he would dearly love to try them out. Donwich and Pulham swept forward to make a gushing obeisance, effecting courtly bows and remarking again on their benefactress’s radiant good health.

  ‘Then you are not very observant,’ the Lady retorted, ‘because I have been unwell. However, I am better now, thanks to Master Lichet. He tended me day and night until I recovered.’


  ‘He is a medical man?’ asked Donwich with polite interest.

  ‘A learned man,’ corrected Lichet in a voice that had a peculiarly booming quality. He stroked his red beard importantly. ‘Which means my knowledge extends far beyond a single discipline. I have studied medicine, of course, but I also know philosophy, theology, geometry, music, the law and art.’

  ‘But not modesty,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew, who struggled not to laugh.

  ‘It is always interesting to meet a fellow intellectual,’ said Pulham, inclining his head courteously. ‘Where did you earn your degrees? Oxford? Perhaps we have mutual acquaintances.’

  ‘I did not insult myself by studying in England,’ declared Lichet, his voice dripping contempt at the very notion of it. ‘I attended the great university at Bordeaux.’

  ‘Bordeaux?’ echoed Michael suspiciously. ‘I did not know it had one.’

  ‘Then you are an ignoramus,’ stated Lichet. ‘Because it is by far the best studium generale in the world. Of course, only the top minds are accepted to study there – the rest have to make do with Paris, Oxford and Cambridge. We shall have no mutual friends, Pulham, of that I am sure.’

  ‘So am I,’ muttered Michael in distaste, ‘because he is a charlatan. Maybe he is a warlock who has bewitched his host – the Lady is no fool, and should be able to see through such transparent mendacity.’

  ‘Then let us hope he does not bewitch us as well,’ Langelee whispered back, ‘or we might find that he has inveigled us into making him a Fellow, and we do not want a man like him offering to teach medicine when Bartholomew leaves.’

  Michael raised his voice. ‘Perhaps you will show us dim-witted Cambridge men how to debate properly, Master Lichet,’ he said, a wicked glint in his eye. ‘So how about a public disputation? I am sure the Lady will agree, as there is no entertainment quite like it. Then you can demonstrate Bordeaux’s superiority to us dullards.’

  ‘I do not have time for that sort of nonsense,’ declared Lichet pompously, although not before alarm had flared in his eyes. ‘I am too busy with the paroquets.’

  ‘Paroquets?’ queried Michael. ‘What are those?’

  ‘Exotic birds,’ explained Lichet, and smirked. ‘Perhaps you can debate with them instead. Then you might stand a chance of winning.’

  The Lady chuckled, so Marishal and Bonde did likewise. Bartholomew held his breath – scholars were sensitive to insults about their intelligence – but Michaelhouse and Clare Hall needed the Lady’s money, and dared not risk offending her by exposing Lichet as a dolt, while Swinescroft was under threat of blackmail. There were pained smiles or glares, but no reckless rejoinders.

  ‘So to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?’ asked the Lady eventually. ‘I am sure it can have nothing to do with money, as I am already generous to Clare Hall, while Michaelhouse must wait until I die to learn if it features in my will. And I have nothing to say to Swinescroft.’

  Donwich effected another of his fancy bows, at the same time snatching the Book of Hours from Pulham’s hands.

  ‘Your grateful Fellows bring you a gift, My Lady,’ he announced grandly, while his colleague’s face filled with horror. ‘This lovely tome was illustrated by John de Weste, the cofferer from Clare Priory. As it is so valuable, Pulham and I decided to deliver it directly to your hands.’

  ‘Of course, you may not want it, given that you have so many books already,’ added Pulham in a strangled voice. ‘We shall not be offended – we will just put it in our own library.’

  ‘He jests,’ said Donwich smoothly, shooting him a warning glare. ‘It was commissioned especially for you, My Lady, and we hope that you will derive much pleasure from it.’

  He handed it over before Pulham could stop him. The Lady accepted it without much enthusiasm, and leafed through it in a desultory manner. But not for long.

  ‘It is damaged!’ she declared indignantly. ‘One page is burned beyond all recognition, while several others are badly singed.’

  ‘We have Roos to thank for that,’ said Pulham tightly. ‘But I am sure Weste can repair it.’

  Bartholomew glanced around for Roos, thinking it would be unfortunate if the curmudgeonly old scholar ripped it from the Lady’s hands and tossed it in the fire. But he was still nowhere to be seen, so Bartholomew supposed he was making a nuisance of himself with some hapless female.

  ‘Well, the rest of it is very nice,’ conceded the Lady, and passed it to Marishal to put away. Pulham watched it disappear with open dismay. ‘Now tell me what you want in return.’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Donwich greasily. ‘It is enough to know that we have pleased you.’

  The Lady raised her eyebrows. ‘Truly? You are not here to demand some boon?’

  ‘We merely wish to express our appreciation for your past generosity, and to offer our assistance in your preparations for this royal visit.’

  ‘Then you may report to the kitchens,’ said the Lady. ‘There are pots that need scouring.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Donwich, taken aback. ‘I see. Well …’

  ‘I jest,’ said the Lady with a smile that was rather malicious. ‘Go and wait in my steward’s quarters. He will find some task that is commensurate with your status.’

  ‘Then we shall go with them,’ determined Badew. ‘Our business is with Marishal, not you.’

  ‘No,’ countered the Lady, her harsh tone stopping the old man dead in his tracks. ‘You will state your purpose here and now, Badew. What do you want with my steward?’

  ‘It concerns information that came to me via Roos,’ replied Badew haughtily. ‘And Marishal will want to hear the news in private, as it is of a personal nature.’

  ‘Roos?’ asked Marishal, looking around. ‘I saw him talking to my wife earlier. Where is he? Why does he not give us this “information” himself?’

  ‘Perhaps he could not bring himself to be in the same room as you,’ sniffed Badew. ‘And my news concerns your offspring, who are just as sly now as they were when they were children.’

  ‘Thomas and Ella are not for you to—’ began Marishal uncomfortably.

  ‘What news?’ demanded the Lady. She sighed crossly when Badew pursed his lips and indicated that Marishal was to precede him through the door. ‘No! You will tell us what you have heard now, or I shall direct Bonde to throw you out of my castle by the scruff of your neck. Well? Why do you hesitate still?’

  Badew turned to the uneasy steward. ‘Very well, then. You forced Ella to marry Sir William Talmach – an old man, but a rich one. Yes?’

  Michael, Bartholomew and Langelee blinked their surprise – no one had mentioned this before. Warily, Marishal inclined his head to acknowledge it was true. Harweden took up the tale.

  ‘She was desperately unhappy with the arrangement, and who can blame her? To avoid years of suffering his unwelcome advances, she and her brother conspired to dispatch him.’

  ‘He did not fall off his horse and on to his dagger by accident that fatal day,’ said Badew, eyes bright with malice. ‘He fell because they sawed through one of his saddle straps.’

  ‘You claim Roos told you all this,’ said the Lady contemptuously, although it was clear from Marishal’s stricken face that his heirs’ involvement in the knight’s death was a possibility he had already considered. ‘How would he know? Did he witness it personally?’

  ‘No, but one of your grooms visited Cambridge a couple of weeks ago and he gossiped about it to him,’ replied Badew triumphantly. ‘In other words, the twins murdered Talmach and the whole castle knows it.’

  ‘Leave,’ ordered the Lady, pointing an imperious finger at the door. ‘I will hear no more slanderous lies from you. Go on, get out!’

  ‘With pleasure,’ declared Badew. ‘Come, Harweden. We sully ourselves in this filthy place.’

  They stalked out, heads held high. Several servants stood near the door, hovering lest their mistress should need them. None seemed surprised by the allegations, and Bartholomew even saw one or two
nod agreement as the surly pair pushed past. He was thoughtful. He had seen for himself that the twins loved practical jokes – perhaps they had hacked through the strap for fun, not appreciating that the consequences might be serious. Or had they guessed exactly what would happen when an elderly husband went riding on an unstable perch in the wet?

  ‘Ignore him, Robert,’ instructed the Lady, when Badew and Harweden had gone. ‘He is a snake, who will say or do anything to hurt me. Besides, he heard the gossip from Roos, who had it from a groom, who happened to be in Cambridge. How likely is that? It is malicious nonsense and any fool can see it. Now – Michaelhouse.’ She turned to Langelee, Michael and Bartholomew. ‘Do you come bearing gifts, too?’

  ‘We heard you were ill,’ lied Michael, and indicated Bartholomew, ‘so we brought the University’s Senior Physician to tend you. However, we are delighted to learn that his services will not now be required.’

  ‘A physician,’ mused the Lady, eyeing Bartholomew appraisingly before turning to Lichet. ‘You have been itching to resume your travels for weeks now. If this man agrees to replace you, you will be free to leave.’

  Bartholomew regarded her in alarm. He had wanted to visit Clare, not live there permanently!

  ‘I shall only allow it if he is worthy of filling my shoes,’ said Lichet quickly, and Bartholomew was greatly relieved to see that the Red Devil had no intention of abandoning the comfortable niche he had carved for himself in Clare, and that the threat to depart had almost certainly been made to secure himself a better deal. ‘I could not, in all conscience, leave you in the hands of an inferior practitioner.’

  ‘Then let us hope he continues to judge himself to be the better man,’ murmured Langelee under his breath. ‘Because Matilde will never forgive me if I arrive home without her husband-to-be. That was a reckless offer, Brother – even if it did have the desired effect of making us look solicitous without costing any money.’

  ‘You are kind, Lichet,’ smiled the Lady, patting the Red Devil’s hand. ‘So let us put our visiting medicus’s skills to another use instead – he can cure my paroquets. But first, he and his Michaelhouse friends must dine with me, and tell me all the latest news from Cambridge.’