‘He does not seem overly distressed about his dam,’ remarked Michael.
‘Then shame on him,’ said Prior John, lips pursed in disapproval. ‘She was gentle, kind and loving, and the world will be a sadder place without her. She will be missed more than anyone else in Clare – and that includes all us priests.’
‘The artists in the church certainly admired her,’ said Michael. ‘When painting their murals, it was her face they used to depict the Blessed Virgin. She is carved in the rood screen, too.’
‘As they should. She was a saint.’
A number of folk were sobbing, women and men alike. Bartholomew recalled his own reaction when he had met Margery the previous day – how he had been struck by her sweetness and had hoped to talk to her more. He glanced at her family. Marishal had tears streaming unheeded down his face, which was as white as snow. Ella was also pale, but her eyes were dry. Thomas had stepped into the shadows, so was now virtually invisible.
‘Who is in charge?’ asked Langelee. ‘The Lady? Why is she not here, leading her people in their hour of need? Her steward is understandably incapable at the moment.’
‘She does not enjoy the best of health, and mornings are difficult for her,’ explained John. ‘Even so, she should have detailed one of her council to oblige – Albon, Lichet or Jevan.’ He grimaced. ‘Unfortunately, we cannot expect much of poor Albon, while Jevan is away, and it would be a mistake to appoint the Red Devil – no one will heed any instructions he issues.’
‘But she has a whole court of retainers,’ Langelee pointed out. ‘Hundreds of them. Surely one is capable of stepping up and taking control?’
‘You give them too much credit,’ muttered John. ‘But Ereswell is over there – he has a loud voice and is malleable, so I shall stand behind him and murmur advice in his ear. If we do not impose order on this mêlée soon, there will be more trouble with the town.’
He started to stride towards the courtier, but it was too late, as Lichet had emerged from his quarters in the Cistern Tower. The Red Devil had taken considerable trouble with his appearance. His clothes were the best money could buy, his hair was brushed, and his beard had been fluffed out to impressive proportions. Every head turned towards him, so he drew himself up to his full height, and looked around with an imperious gaze. The hubbub gradually faded into silence.
‘There has been a great tragedy,’ he boomed in a voice that radiated confidence and self-importance. ‘Margery Marishal is dead. So is one of the scholars from Cambridge – both stabbed.’
He paused when Marishal whimpered his distress, and there was a flutter of movement as several ladies hastened to murmur words of comfort – Margery’s friends, eager to help him for her sake. Only when silence reigned again did Lichet continue.
‘The Lady has appointed me to run the castle while her steward is … indisposed.’ He raised his hand to quell the immediate clamour of objections, but it was ignored.
‘But you are a stranger,’ shouted Ereswell angrily. ‘Why should you rule over us?’
‘Because it is the Lady’s wish,’ replied Lichet sharply. ‘And besides, who else is able? You? If you were, you would have done it when all this fuss began. Instead, you retreated into a huddle and cooed with your cronies.’
‘Go on then, Red Devil,’ challenged someone from the back of the crowd. ‘Show us your superior leadership skills. What do you want us to do?’
Lichet thought fast. ‘Go to the chapel and listen to Heselbech celebrate Mass. That should keep you quiet for a while. Then I will—’
‘How?’ shouted one of the watchmen. ‘The chapel is too small for us all to fit inside.’
‘Just the courtiers then,’ determined Lichet. He glared angrily when none of the brightly glittering throng moved. ‘Now, please, not next week.’
‘We do not want—’ began Ereswell indignantly, but Lichet swung around to address the servants, cutting across the nobleman in a way that was sure to annoy.
‘Cooks and scullions,’ he boomed authoritatively, ‘return to the kitchens and start baking the bread for our breakfast.’
‘We did that hours ago,’ called a young baker with floury arms, disbelief thick in his voice. He had a deformity in one leg, which gave him a lopsided gait. ‘The loaves are cooked and the ovens are raked out ready for tomorrow – as they always are by this time in the morning.’
‘Then peel some vegetables instead,’ Lichet snapped, and before the lad could argue, he whipped around to scowl at the squires, who were sniggering because Nuport had just aped the baker’s limp. ‘And you lot can exercise the horses and polish the saddles.’
‘Us?’ asked Nuport, grin disappearing. ‘But that is what the grooms do. We are squires—’
‘Do as I say or face the consequences,’ snarled Lichet, obviously irritated that his authority should be questioned at every turn. ‘Everyone else will wait in the hall, where breakfast will be served in one hour.’
‘One hour?’ cried the castle cook. ‘Do you have any idea how long it takes to prepare a meal for three hundred people? Not to mention those greedy paroquets, which requisition all my best—’
‘It will be ready or else!’ roared Lichet. ‘And when you have finished, you can wash all the pots until they gleam. I shall inspect them later, and if I see so much as a speck of black, I shall want them all done again.’
‘But some are meant to be black,’ objected the cook. ‘They are—’
‘Enough!’ screeched Lichet. ‘The next person to defy me will answer to the Lady. Now, do as you are told – all of you. Well, what are you waiting for?’
Despite the threat, it was still some time before the onlookers deigned to obey. Servants dragged their feet, and the courtiers took a deliberately long time to file into the chapel. Then Lichet saw the scholars with John.
‘You can go home,’ he told the Prior. ‘You are not needed, because we have Heselbech. The rest of you can collect your colleague from the cistern and put him in the chapel when Mass is over. But do not lay a finger on Margery. I shall make the arrangements for her myself.’
Obediently, Michael, Bartholomew and Langelee walked to the Cistern Tower. The door was closed, and Bonde was standing guard outside. The henchman was pale and there was a moistness around his eyes that suggested tears – Margery’s death had upset even that warlike ruffian.
‘Step aside,’ ordered Michael, while Bartholomew was grateful for Langelee’s reassuring presence, as there was something about Bonde that unnerved him profoundly. ‘We are here at Lichet’s behest, and he carries the Lady’s authority.’
Bonde moved away. ‘As you wish.’
Michael reached for the handle, only to find the door locked. ‘Do not play games with me, Bonde,’ he snapped, holding out his hand for the key. ‘It is neither the time nor the place.’
‘I am not playing games,’ retorted the henchman. ‘Marishal took the key with him, as he did not want his wife to become the subject of ghoulish scrutiny. He told me to stay here and stop anyone from entering by force, so that is what I am doing.’
‘Very laudable,’ said Michael. ‘But we only want Roos – we will not disturb Margery, I promise. Now fetch the key, if you please.’
‘I cannot abandon my post on your say-so,’ argued Bonde. ‘But I imagine Lichet will be along in a moment, so he can let you in.’
He looked away, and there was enough light in the bailey for Bartholomew to see a fresh glitter of tears. Michael smiled predatorily.
‘Then while we wait for him, you can answer some questions. Start by telling us what happened here from your perspective.’
Bonde struggled to pull himself together. ‘I was in the gatehouse when I heard a commotion. I hurried over and watched Marishal, Quintone and a few others go down the cistern to investigate reports of a body – Roos. A short while later, they climbed back up to say that there was not one corpse, but two. The other was Margery Marishal …’
‘I see. So where were you all night? Can
someone verify your whereabouts?’
Bonde’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why should that be necessary? I never harmed Margery or the scholar. And if you must know, I was not even in the castle for most of the time. I was in the town, watching the squires. Albon asked me to do it, because he heard them say they were off to a tavern, and they can be disorderly when they are drunk.’
‘Why you?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Surely he should have done it himself? They are supposed to be under his command, after all.’
Bonde regarded him insolently. ‘He delegated the matter to someone he trusts instead. He is a very busy man.’
‘I am sure he is,’ muttered Langelee. ‘It takes time to look that gorgeous.’
‘So you can give the squires alibis?’ pressed Michael ‘And vice versa?’
‘I am afraid not. I kept myself hidden, so they did not know I was there. And there are eight of them, so one was always off at the latrine or frolicking with a lass. I could not possibly monitor them all on my own.’
‘Then what was the point of you being there?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘To prevent fighting. And I did – the moment a spat looked set to erupt with some merchant boys, I hurried forward and ordered our lads home.’
Michael regarded him coolly. ‘I hear nothing in your testimony to convince me of your innocence.’
Bonde sneered. ‘I suppose you have been listening to gossip about the man I killed in Wixoe. Well, the Lady got me off that particular charge, so I am free of all blame for it.’
‘We heard she bribed the judge,’ countered Michael, ‘which rather suggests that you were guilty and she interfered with the course of justice. The Wixoe victim was stabbed, and now we hear that the same has happened to Roos …’
‘Anne warned me that the Wixoe affair would result in me being accused every time there is a suspicious death,’ muttered Bonde bitterly. ‘She is a clever lady, and I wish I had wed her. I should have done it when she was a nurse here – then she could not have been forced into an anchorhold, and I would have been in bed with her last night, not out doing Albon’s dirty work.’
Bartholomew tried to envisage the sullen killer and the opinionated woman living in married bliss. He could not do it – they were entirely unsuited to each other, and the match would almost certainly have ended in tears. Or worse.
‘So tell me why we should not accuse you,’ suggested Michael.
Bonde shrugged. ‘Well, for a start, when the squires and I came home at about midnight, Margery was still alive. I saw her chatting to some of her friends outside the hall. Then the lads staggered away to their quarters, while Thomas went off alone. I followed the squires, and saw them fall into their beds.’
‘Then what?’
‘I went to the main gate and stood watch for the rest of the night with the other guards. I saw Margery again a bit later, tiptoeing along with a lamp. I assumed she was aiming for the Constable Tower, where she lives. Lived.’
‘When was this?’ demanded Michael. ‘Exactly?’
‘I cannot say for certain. Two o’clock perhaps, or a little before.’
‘Did you see Roos?’
‘No, but I spotted the hermit. Jan often comes here of a night, when it is quiet.’
‘For a recluse, Jan is remarkably mobile,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘Hermits are supposed to stay away from worldly distractions, not wait for cover of darkness to sample them.’
‘Even holy men need to stretch their legs, Brother, and the castle is lovely at night – silent, still and interesting. It is when I like it best.’
‘It was not silent and still last night,’ remarked Michael drily. ‘Although I concede that it was interesting. You, eight squires, Roos, Margery and Jan were busily wandering around it – and those are just the ones that we know about.’
Bonde smirked challengingly. ‘True, so this crime will not be easy to solve. Perhaps you should give up and go home before you embarrass yourself with defeat.’
Michael smiled back, coldly. ‘I have never failed a murder victim yet, and I do not intend to start now. I will find Roos’s killer.’
‘But all your other cases were in Cambridge,’ countered Bonde. ‘And this is Clare. Things are different here, and you have no authority. But I had better fetch the key, given that so much time is passing and Lichet is nowhere to be seen. We cannot keep you waiting for ever, can we?’
‘He is your culprit,’ growled Langelee, as the henchman strode away. ‘I know a killer when I see one, and he is callous enough to dispatch two victims, then stand guard over their corpses.’
Unfortunately, Marishal was in no state to hand the key to Bonde or anyone else. He stood slack-mouthed and stunned, oblivious to the concerned fussing of his wife’s friends. Bonde glanced at Michael, and indicated that the monk would have to wait for someone else to ask for it, because he was not about to oblige. Michael was not overly concerned by the delay, content to pass the time by monitoring the reactions of those who might become suspects.
Ella was talking to Thomas near the palace, although the other squires had made themselves scarce, no doubt to avoid being seen by Lichet, who strutted around like a peacock, issuing orders to anyone he met. His instructions were superfluous in most cases, and downright ridiculous in others, but the contemptuous glances he received did nothing to deter him, and he was clearly relishing the power he had been given.
‘What an ass,’ muttered Michael. ‘I am surprised at the Lady. Surely he cannot be the best she has to offer? I suspect even Albon would be better – at least he looks the part. Or another member of her council, perhaps. Let us hope that someone has had the sense to send for Jevan.’
‘Give Marishal a potion, Bartholomew,’ begged Langelee, troubled by the steward’s anguish. ‘You must have something that will ease him.’
‘There is no remedy for grief,’ replied Bartholomew soberly. ‘Other than time.’
‘His children should be at his side,’ Langelee went on unhappily. ‘I am surprised Lichet does not tell them so. Of course, if he does, it will be the first sensible instruction he has given all day.’
While Langelee and Michael discussed the Red Devil’s ineffectual leadership, Bartholomew looked around him. Dawn had broken, and it had started to rain. Servants still scurried about to no or little purpose, more intent on gossiping than completing their chores. The courtiers had not stayed long in the chapel, and had gone to the hall, where they stood in small clusters.
The news had encouraged droves of townsfolk to come and see what was happening. Several carts had arrived, ostensibly to make deliveries, although the eyes of their owners were everywhere, and all tried to strike up conversations with those who came to receive their goods. Mayor Godeston was toted in on his purple litter, aiming to convey his sympathies to the bereaved. Grym was at his side, clad in a large yellow robe that made him look like a lemon.
‘You are not welcome,’ Lichet told them coldly. ‘Go away before I have you thrown out.’
‘Our business is with Marishal, not you,’ Godeston flashed back. ‘Tell him we are here.’
In response, Lichet clicked his fingers at the castle guards, and indicated that the pair were to be forcibly removed. Godeston opened his mouth to argue, but his bearers knew when it was wise to beat a retreat. They left at a run, jostling their passenger so violently that he was obliged to cling on for dear life to avoid being spilled out. Unwilling to stay on his own, Grym waddled after them.
‘I wonder where Badew and Harweden are,’ said Michael worriedly. ‘They should be hammering at the gate, demanding an explanation. They were Roos’s friends, after all.’
‘Donwich and Pulham are here, though,’ said Bartholomew, nodding to where Lichet was in the process of ordering the two Clare Hall men to read to everyone in the hall, on the grounds that no one could gossip if they were listening to a story. The Red Devil did not wait to see if they did as they were told – which they did not, of course – and descended on Heselbech instead
.
‘You want me to make Margery a coffin?’ asked Heselbech, startled. He still looked shabby from his excesses the previous night, although at least he was no longer reeling or slurring his words. ‘But I am a friar, not a carpenter. It is—’
But Lichet had already gone, informing Ereswell in a self-important bawl that the task of securing supplies for the Lady’s greedy paroquets was now his responsibility. Ereswell gaped his astonishment at the commission, after which Lichet strode away to pounce on someone else. Heselbech came to speak to the three Michaelhouse men, although he was watching Lichet with an expression that made no secret of his disdain.
‘This is a sorry business,’ the chaplain began. ‘What was Roos doing here with Margery in the first place? I was under the impression that all three Swinescroft men hated the Lady and her people. Of course, I did see Roos and Margery talking together a couple of times yesterday …’
‘So did I,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And at another point, he ogled her shamelessly.’
‘Perhaps Badew and Harweden killed them both for being on friendly terms with each other.’ Heselbech turned to Michael. ‘Langelee tells me that you are the University’s Senior Proctor. Does that mean you will investigate the crime? If so, be warned – the Lady may not like it, and it could cost your College its legacy.’
‘That is a good point,’ said Langelee worriedly. ‘Perhaps we should let Lichet do it instead.’
‘Lichet could not catch a snail, let alone a killer,’ declared Michael. ‘And I am not a man to shirk my obligations. Besides, it is entirely possible that my skills will encourage the Lady to favour Michaelhouse even further.’
‘Then be careful,’ said Heselbech. ‘Because if you pick up rocks, who knows what manner of vermin may lurk beneath?’
While they continued to wait for the key, Michael watched all the gawpers who contrived to walk past the Cistern Tower, aware that the killer might well be among them – he knew from past experience that some murderers liked to revisit the scene of their crimes, to savour the commotion they had generated.
The Habit of Murder: The Twenty Third Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 23) Page 13
