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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘There are three hundred people living in the castle at the moment,’ Langelee told him. ‘Plus God knows how many in the town. All with secrets, alliances and animosities. You may never find the culprit, Brother – not when we are strangers, with no notion of where to start.’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Michael, who had rather more faith in his abilities as a solver of mysteries. He nodded towards the tower on the other side of the bailey. ‘Here is Albon, emerging from his lair at last. He is still surrounded by admirers, despite the fact that his late appearance suggests he is not a man who can be relied upon in an emergency.’

  The knight’s train was not as large as it had been the previous day, as many of his retainers were in the hall, gossiping, but it was still impressive and so was he. He was clad in red robes that would not have looked out of place on a monarch and his grey-gold mane had been brushed until it shone. However, there were pouches under his eyes and he seemed subdued.

  ‘Perhaps he drank too much ale last night,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Like Langelee.’

  ‘Or he did away with Margery and Roos, and is stricken by conscience,’ countered the Master. ‘I have never trusted showy warriors. Some are lions in battle, but most are lambs, and it is impossible to know which they will transpire to be until it is too late.’

  ‘He does not look very leonine at the moment,’ mused Michael. ‘Indeed, he seems troubled. Perhaps he is our culprit, and it has taken him until now to muster the courage to show his face.’

  ‘He is watching the squires.’ Bartholomew nodded to where the young men were making a show of inspecting a horse with a damaged leg, although the animal was gaining nothing from their ministrations, and clearly itched to be back in its stall with a bag of hay. ‘I think he is afraid that one of them is responsible, and he does not want the company of a killer in France.’

  ‘He should want the company of a killer in France,’ countered Langelee. ‘They tend to come in useful when one is fighting a war. Unless he is afraid that he might be the next victim – that the killer may decide he is not worth all the adulation he has been given.’

  While they were talking, Lichet strode past again, bawling for Quintone to bring him his lute. Michael caught the Red Devil’s arm and jerked him to a standstill.

  ‘We cannot take Roos to the chapel because the cistern is locked,’ he said. ‘And we are reluctant to press Marishal for the key when he is so obviously distressed. You must do it – preferably before you disappear to enjoy yourself with music.’

  ‘My intention is not to enjoy myself,’ snapped Lichet, freeing his arm irritably. ‘It is to calm everyone down. I shall gather them in the hall, and play until the panic and consternation have eased. Music is the best remedy in these situations. It is a medical fact.’

  ‘Is it indeed?’ muttered Bartholomew.

  ‘You can lull everyone to sleep in a moment,’ said Michael. ‘But first, please fetch the key.’

  ‘Later,’ hedged Lichet, glancing at the steward and evidently deciding that he did not want to be the one to intrude on his grief either. ‘When I am not quite so busy.’

  ‘So what happened down there?’ asked Michael before the Red Devil could stride away again. ‘We know that Roos and Margery were stabbed, but how did they end up in the cistern?’

  Lichet assumed a haughty expression. ‘My enquiries are at a very preliminary stage, so I cannot possibly answer questions yet. However, I can tell you one thing: Roos should not have been here. He was ousted from the castle with his two Swinescroft cronies yesterday, and he had no right to return uninvited.’

  Michael tried a different tack. ‘Then tell us how the bodies came to be discovered. Was it on a routine inspection?’

  ‘We do not include the cistern on our regular patrols. What would be the point? It is just a big well filled with water. However, it supplies the kitchens, but nothing was coming out of the pipe this morning, so Adam the baker was sent to find out why. Quintone! Come here. Is that my lute? Good. Now go and tell Master Marishal that Brother Michael wants the key.’

  ‘Me?’ asked the servant uneasily. ‘But he looks so … why can’t you do it?’

  ‘Because I told you to,’ snapped Lichet. ‘Well, go on, man. We do not have all day.’

  Quintone slouched away reluctantly, and Michael resumed his attack on Lichet.

  ‘You live above the cistern. Did you see or hear anything suspicious at—’

  ‘No, and now you must excuse me,’ interrupted Lichet, pulling his lute from its covers. ‘I have important work to do. You may speak to me later, if I have time.’

  He turned and flounced away. Michael watched him go through narrowed eyes, wondering if the Red Devil’s disinclination to answer perfectly reasonable questions should be regarded as suspicious.

  Bartholomew was sorry that his few precious days in Clare were going to be filled with the unsavoury business of murder. If he had wanted that, he could have stayed in Cambridge, where scholars died with distressing regularity. He was not looking forward to meeting the paroquets either – he knew it was only a matter of time before the Lady learned that he had dodged the assignment, and issued a second order for him to cure them. He glanced at Langelee. The Master would be a far better assistant for Michael, leaving him free to …

  ‘Do not even think about it, Matt,’ warned the monk, reading his thoughts with uncanny precision. ‘It will take all three of us to find Roos’s killer without ruffling sensitive feathers, so you cannot jaunt off to have fun while Langelee and I struggle on alone.’

  ‘Look on the bright side, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee kindly. ‘This will be your last case – you cannot be Corpse Examiner once you leave the University.’

  ‘Oh, yes, he can,’ countered Michael firmly. ‘I amended the statutes when I learned that he planned to get married. He will still be mine when he is joined to Matilde.’

  Bartholomew was not sure whether to be pleased or angry. He did not enjoy helping Michael catch killers, but there was no question that the money would come in useful.

  ‘Here is Quintone with the key,’ said Langelee. ‘Thank God someone had the courage to ask for it, or we might still be waiting here tomorrow.’

  ‘Actually, it is the spare one from the kitchen,’ explained the servant, and glanced to where Marishal still stood in mute shock. ‘I could not bring myself to bother him.’

  He bent to unlock the door. As he did, Bartholomew happened to glance across the bailey. Bonde was there, staring back furiously, which led the physician to wonder why he wanted so badly to keep them out. Was it because he had adored Margery, and had hoped to protect her body from the ghoulish scrutiny of strangers? Regardless, it was clear that his name should be included on any list of suspects they might draw up.

  As Ella had told them, the Cistern Tower was one huge cylinder. Its upper half loomed over the bailey, but its lower section had been driven deep into the ground, where it formed a massive stone-lined well. Access to the water was via a very narrow spiral staircase with steep steps, which was in the thickness of the wall. Michael took one look and refused to descend unless he was sure that no one else would be in front of him.

  ‘I shall have to go down backwards,’ he explained primly, ‘which will allow anyone below to look straight up my habit.’

  ‘We will not be tempted, Brother, believe me,’ Langelee assured him fervently.

  Quintone led the way, skipping down the treacherous steps with an ease that suggested he had done it many times before. Bartholomew and Langelee followed more cautiously, while Michael waited above until he was sure he could make the journey without risk to his modesty.

  There were tiny landings at regular intervals in the stairwell, each with a very thick door that would open directly into the cistern. Quintone passed the first two and opened the third.

  ‘This is the entrance we must use today,’ he explained, revelling in the role of guide. He shone his lamp to show that the stairwell further down was flooded. �
�It has been raining for days, so the cistern is quite full at the moment. There are another five doors beneath this one – eight in all.’

  ‘God’s blood!’ breathed Langelee. ‘That is impressive. The tank must be vast.’

  ‘It is,’ said Quintone proudly. ‘Enough to keep us in fresh water for years, should we ever come under siege.’

  ‘So what happens if you open the wrong door?’ asked Langelee. ‘Would you drown in the inrushing water?’

  ‘No, because the stairs are designed to flood,’ said Bartholomew, understanding the mechanics of the system at once. ‘There will be no inrushing water here, because it will rise at the same rate as in the cistern itself. Ingenious!’

  ‘So the water could reach as high as the door through which we came in?’ asked Langelee. ‘I assume that is where the tank’s ceiling is located?’

  ‘It is,’ replied Quintone. ‘And the water has got to that level once or twice, after particularly wet spells, when it spilled out to flood the bailey. However, Lichet has now installed a device that he says will prevent it from happening in the future. Of course, if the cooks did their job properly, there would be no need for the Red Devil’s inventions.’

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The kitchens are lower than the bottom of the well, so the original builders fitted an array of pipes that run directly to them. Thus the cooks always have a plentiful water supply and the water level in here can be controlled by opening or closing the sluices. Ergo, the bailey only floods when the cooks do not run off the excess on a regular basis.’

  ‘Where does the water come from?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued. ‘The roof?’

  ‘Yes – there is a big vat, which catches the rain. It has valves, too, which can either be opened to fill the cistern, or closed to funnel water away down the outside walls. So we can control the level that way as well. Clever, eh?’

  ‘Very,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But you say Lichet has devised an additional fail-safe mechanism?’

  ‘A way of making sure that the bailey door never leaks,’ explained Quintone. ‘Or so he claims – it has yet to be tested. The townsfolk think he is a warlock, and I suspect they are right. I cannot abide the man.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he is sly, stupid, dishonest and greedy,’ came the prompt reply. ‘And it is possible that he killed Roos and Margery. However, if you want my advice, look to the squires first. They are arrogant fools, who do nothing but strut around dressed like lunatics. Let us hope that peace does not prevent Albon from taking them to France.’

  Still talking, Quintone led the way through the door he had opened. Once inside, they saw the cistern was essentially a deep and very wide circular well. There was a broad platform in front of the door, which tapered away to form a narrow ledge that ran all the way around the inside, so that workmen could access the walls for routine maintenance. Glancing up, Bartholomew saw that there were identical arrangements for the two doors above, and supposed the same was true of the five below. A gauge showed the water was currently forty feet deep. It appeared black in the light of Quintone’s lamp, but a ripple on the surface indicated a current.

  ‘The kitchen sluices also prevent it from stagnating,’ explained Quintone.

  Bartholomew was all admiration for the engineers who had designed it, although his colleagues did not share his enthusiasm. Langelee was looking around with undisguised revulsion, while Michael, who had arrived with his dignity intact, declared it sinister.

  ‘It is,’ agreed Langelee, his face unnaturally white. ‘And the sooner we finish here, the happier I shall be. Where are the bodies?’

  ‘You are not going to be sick, are you?’ asked Bartholomew sternly. ‘Because if so, you should leave. People drink this water.’

  Langelee took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘No, but please hurry. I do not like this place.’

  The bodies lay nearby, both covered by cloaks. Marishal’s own was over his wife, while a courtier’s had been commandeered for Roos.

  ‘Ereswell’s,’ confided Quintone. ‘But he wants it back – I heard him say so myself. I was one of the first to come down here, see, after the alarm was raised.’

  ‘Who were the others?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Quintone reflected. ‘Well, Lichet was the very first, but he lives upstairs, so he had a head start on everyone else. Then came Marishal and Thomas, and after them about two dozen courtiers. I helped Thomas to pull Roos from the water, but as we struggled, I noticed a second body.’

  ‘Margery’s,’ said Langelee softly.

  Quintone nodded. ‘Yes, God rest her sainted soul. Marishal was distraught. He ordered everyone away, so that he and Thomas could pay their respects without an audience. It was not long before Thomas brought him out, though. I suspect Marishal was too upset to say many prayers.’

  ‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘Does anything look different to you now than it did earlier?’

  ‘In other words, did Marishal or Thomas tamper with the evidence?’ surmised Quintone astutely, and stepped forward to look. ‘Not that I can tell, which is a pity, as it would be nice to see Thomas in trouble. I am sick of his nasty pranks. He is old enough to know better.’

  While Michael plied him with more questions, Bartholomew examined Roos, watched by Langelee. The old scholar was on his back, still leaking water. He was cold to the touch, and there was a single stab wound in his chest, made with an average-sized blade. It would not have been instantly fatal, and when Bartholomew pressed on his ribs, froth bubbled from Roos’s mouth, suggesting that he had been alive when he had entered the water. Technically, the cause of death was drowning, although the knife wound would have killed him eventually anyway.

  There were only three other details of note. First, one of Roos’s boots was missing. Second, there were some faint bruises on his chest and arms. And third, his old woollen hat, which was secured very firmly under his chin to prevent it from slipping off, concealed a heavy bandage.

  ‘He had earache,’ said Langelee, lest Bartholomew had forgotten.

  ‘Yes,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Which explains the hat, but not the bandage – it is not the way such ailments are usually treated.’

  He began to unwind it. Then blinked his surprise at what was revealed.

  ‘His ear is missing!’ exclaimed Langelee, shocked. ‘Did he fall foul of Simon Freburn, do you think? But Freburn just haunts the area around Clare, and I cannot imagine that Roos has been here before – not when it is the acknowledged stronghold of the Lady.’

  ‘Harweden said Roos regularly visited kin in Peterborough,’ shrugged Bartholomew. ‘So perhaps Freburn ranges further than we know. Yet I am surprised Roos did not tell me about this injury. I could have repaired it much more neatly, and given him a remedy for the pain.’

  ‘When did it happen? Can you tell?’

  ‘Roughly three to five weeks ago, judging by the degree of healing.’

  Langelee was thoughtful. ‘Which means that last night was not the first time Roos was involved in a violent incident. We should bear that in mind when we investigate.’

  While Quintone and Langelee manoeuvred Roos up the narrow stairway, Michael indicated that Bartholomew was to examine Margery. Lichet had ordered them not to, but her body might hold clues that had been missing from Roos, and the case would be difficult enough to solve without making it harder still by complying with needless strictures.

  ‘Besides, who will ever know?’ he whispered conspiratorially.

  Bartholomew pulled away the cloak that covered her, sorry when he saw the kindly face stilled by death and blood staining the pretty rose-coloured kirtle. It was unfair, he thought, that a good woman should have come to such an untimely end.

  It did not take him long to ascertain that she had also been stabbed, although her wound was clean, deep and would have killed her instantly. When he pressed on her chest, what flowed from her mouth was clear, telling him she had been dead when she had gone int
o the water. He was just covering her up again when Langelee arrived back, whispering an urgent warning that someone else was coming. It transpired to be Heselbech, who was an unnerving presence in the eerily dripping chamber with his sinisterly filed teeth.

  ‘Lichet ordered me to collect her,’ the chaplain explained, nodding towards Margery. ‘Which will be damned difficult on my own. Will you help?’

  Michael nodded. ‘But first, tell us if you noticed anything unusual last night. The Cistern Tower is not far from your chapel.’

  Heselbech indicated Langelee. ‘I was in the priory for most of it, drinking with him. The party broke up when John said we should celebrate nocturns, but I could barely walk, so reciting a holy office was out of the question. Langelee helped me into my chapel, where I managed to ring the bell, but that is all. Tell him, Langelee.’

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ gulped Langelee, pale again. ‘I did give you a shoulder to lean on while you staggered home. It had clean slipped my mind.’

  ‘You were so drunk, you cannot recall where you went?’ Bartholomew was unimpressed.

  Langelee winced. ‘We had a lot of ale. But I remember now my memory is jogged. Heselbech and I left the priory and lurched to the chapel together. I left him lying on the floor, and returned to the priory alone.’

  ‘So did either of you see anything that might help us?’ pressed Michael.

  Both men shook their heads. ‘But we did not know that a killer was at large at the time,’ said Langelee defensively. ‘If we had, obviously we would have been more observant.’

  ‘I suppose we should be grateful that he did not dispatch you, too,’ said Michael sourly.

  ‘He could have tried,’ said Heselbech grimly, ‘but he would not have succeeded. No sly killer could dispatch two bold warriors from the north, even ones who were drunk.’

  ‘Close your eyes,’ Michael ordered. ‘Try to visualise the castle as you saw it. No, do not smirk at each other like errant schoolboys. I am serious.’