Lichet thrust his lute at Quintone, and stalked towards Michael, aiming to claw back the authority that was draining away with every word that was spoken. Quintone rolled his eyes, which made some folk laugh, although they stopped when the Red Devil glared furiously at them.
‘Well, monk?’ Lichet demanded coldly. ‘What did you learn from visiting the scene of the crime? Do you know the name of the killer?’
‘It will take days of painstaking detail-gathering before that becomes clear,’ replied Michael. ‘So when will you start your enquiries, Master Lichet? I am sure a man of your vigour does not need to eat or sleep, and can catch a killer, pay court to the Lady and run the castle while Marishal is indisposed.’
Lichet thought fast. ‘I have decided to delegate the murders to you. However, you will report to me and only to me. I shall then decide what should be done with any solutions you might devise. Is that clear?’
Michael inclined his head in acquiescence, a gleam of amusement in his green eyes that Lichet should be so easy to manipulate. ‘You will be the first to know anything of import.’
It was such a vague promise that Bartholomew knew Lichet was unlikely to benefit from it. To prevent Lichet from thinking the same, Michael furnished him with a brief account of his findings to date. When he had finished, Lichet strode to the front of the dais and cleared his throat loudly, to attract everyone’s attention.
‘Through the careful application of logic and skill,’ he announced in his booming voice, ‘I have ascertained that Mistress Marishal and Master Roos were stabbed by an unknown assailant, and their bodies tossed into the cistern in the expectation that they would sink and be lost for ever. However, the culprit should know that I have ordered an investigation, and I will catch him.’
‘No, Lichet,’ said Albon, coming to his feet and giving a toss of his glorious mane. ‘I will catch him. I swear it by God and by my honour. This vile deed is an affront to the chivalric code by which I live.’
‘But you are leaving for France soon,’ Lichet pointed out. ‘And the monk has just told me … I mean it is my learned opinion that the mystery may take longer to solve.’
Albon smiled thinly. ‘I shall go nowhere until the culprit is hanged.’
A groan of dismay went up from nobles and servants alike. Yet there were a few smiles. Two serving girls exchanged pleased grins, and so did several young ladies-in-waiting, after which their eyes turned to Thomas, who winked at them.
‘If my mother had been stabbed, I would join Albon in vowing to catch her killer,’ muttered Langelee to Bartholomew. ‘Not simper at my conquests. And look at Ella. I am sure I saw those pink pearls on Margery yesterday – she did not wait long before raiding her dam’s jewellery box.’
‘Maybe she donned them in tribute,’ suggested Bartholomew charitably.
Langelee shot him a disbelieving glance. ‘There is no doubting their sire’s grief, though, so I think we can eliminate him as a suspect for the murders.’
‘It may be grief,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But it might also be guilt. It is often difficult to tell.’
CHAPTER 6
It quickly became apparent that Albon had no idea how to conduct a murder investigation, because if he had, he would not have listened to Lichet. The Red Devil advised him to lock everyone in the hall until they had been questioned, which was a bad strategy on several counts. First, it meant that no one could tend livestock or prepare food. Second, as the interviews were conducted in public, it would give the killer an opportunity to listen to others’ replies and adapt his own accordingly. And third, a seemingly random assortment of people were allowed to leave. Donwich, Pulham, three dozen courtiers, ten servants and two squires were among those who contrived to sail out unchallenged.
‘I do not know who is the greater fool – Lichet or Albon,’ muttered Michael, watching the Red Devil stride away to resume his lute playing, although now to a considerably reduced audience.
‘Is Lichet a fool?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or is he trying to sabotage your enquiry?’
‘Why would he do that?’ asked Langelee, frowning. ‘He has just appointed Michael as his official investigator, with the obvious aim of stealing any solutions and claiming them as his own.’
‘Because he is the culprit,’ replied Bartholomew promptly. ‘Do not forget that Margery and Roos were killed in the Cistern Tower – where he lives.’
‘Yes, we shall certainly ask him where he was all night,’ said Michael. ‘He raced away before I could press him earlier, but it will not happen again. Lord! What is Albon doing?’
The knight had ordered a throne-like chair set up on the dais. He sat, then beckoned to Quintone and proceeded to stare intently at him, leaning forward until he was so close that their noses almost touched. Uncomfortable, Quintone tried to back away, but Albon gripped his wrist to prevent it. The servant gazed back, nonplussed and wary.
‘Quintone,’ Albon intoned eventually. ‘Did you kill Mistress Marishal?’
‘God in Heaven!’ breathed Langelee in understanding. ‘He thinks he will catch the culprit by reading the guilt in his eyes. The man is deluded!’
‘Yes,’ agreed Michael. ‘But go and monitor him anyway. Someone may admit to being near the cistern last night, and if so, it would be helpful to know who they are. In the interim, Matt and I will corner the suspects on our list.’
‘No,’ said Langelee firmly. ‘I would rather secure us some new benefactors.’
‘I would rather you did, too, but Lichet has allowed the richest courtiers to leave, and there is no point in wooing paupers. Listen to Albon – that is the most useful thing you can do for us now.’
Langelee glanced at the people who had gathered to watch Albon at work. Most were servants, who were unlikely to have money to spare for a foundation that none of them had ever heard of. He conceded reluctantly that Michael was right, and made for the dais with an expression of grim determination.
‘We have been told that it was the baker who raised the alarm,’ said Bartholomew, watching the Master go. ‘So we should question him first.’
The baker transpired to be the lad with the floury hands and lame leg who had challenged Lichet’s orders earlier. His name was Adam, and he had been cornered by Nuport and two of the other squires. They were amusing themselves by pushing him from one to the other, all the while imitating his ungainly efforts to keep his balance.
‘Enough,’ ordered Bartholomew sharply; he had never liked bullies. ‘I cannot see Albon approving of such low antics. He obviously sets great store by the chivalric code.’
Nuport sneered. ‘So do we, but it only applies to fellow nobles – servants and cripples do not count. Now piss off, fool.’
‘It is you who are the fool,’ flashed back Bartholomew, ‘for tormenting the man who bakes your daily bread. Or do you like eating spit and rat droppings?’
The squires exchanged horrified glances, and while they contemplated the possibility that their cruelty might be repaid in ways they had not imagined, Adam took the opportunity to scuttle away. Their bluster promptly returned when Michael began to ask questions, but the Senior Proctor was used to dealing with arrogant youths, and it did not take him long to put them in their place.
‘Now, where were you when Margery and Roos were killed?’ he demanded, once they were sufficiently subdued.
‘In the Bell Inn,’ replied Nuport sullenly, picking an invisible speck from his multicoloured hose. ‘Celebrating the burial of that rogue Skynere, who went in his grave yesterday.’
‘Skynere was a liar,’ put in a lad named John Mull, who had freckles and spots in equal measure. ‘He went around saying that we killed Roger the mason. But we never did.’
‘We have not killed anyone,’ declared Nuport, then grinned at his friends. ‘Although that will change when we get to France.’
‘Roos was staying at the Bell Inn,’ said Michael, once a hard glare had wiped the smirk from the squire’s heavy face. ‘Did you cross swords with him ther
e, perhaps because he accused Thomas and Ella of having a hand in Talmach’s death?’
‘No, we did not,’ replied Nuport sulkily. ‘We saw his two cronies – they were in the far corner of the room, muttering about avenging themselves on the Lady for stealing “their” College all those years ago. But he was not with them.’
‘Then where was he?’ asked Michael.
‘How should we know? All I can say is that he was not in the Bell.’
‘It was a good night,’ said Mull brightly. ‘We all got very drunk, and I do not remember walking home at all. But I woke up in my own bed, so I suppose I must have done.’
‘I remember walking back,’ scowled Nuport. ‘First, because it was raining. And second, because the whore who accompanied us stole my purse. I will trounce her if I see her again.’
‘If you do,’ said Michael icily, ‘I shall see that you are trounced in return. Leave the townswomen alone. Do you hear?’
He glared until Nuport acknowledged that he did.
Bartholomew and Michael found Adam the baker near the door, where he was begging to be let out, all the while glancing over his shoulder, ready to bolt if the squires reappeared. The guards ignored his pleas, so he was more than happy to take refuge with Michael for a while.
‘I hate Nuport and his cronies,’ he confided tearfully. ‘We were all looking forward to being rid of them, but now Sir William has vowed to catch the killer … well, they might never go.’
‘Could they be the culprits?’ asked Michael.
Adam hesitated, but then shook his head, although with obvious reluctance. ‘Unfortunately not. I work at night, see, to get the bread ready for morning. I saw them stagger into their quarters at midnight, after which none of them stirred. Well, Thomas went off alone, but the others stayed put.’
‘Where did Thomas go?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘I did not notice, because it is the rest who are dangerous, as far as I am concerned. Perhaps he went to visit his sister. They are very close.’
‘How can you be sure the remaining squires stayed put?’ pressed Michael.
‘Because unless I watch them like a hawk, they catch me and push me around, like they did just now. I always know where they are.’
‘And before midnight? Where were you then? And where were they?’
‘I was here in the hall, listening to the Clare Hall men sing – they were rather good, actually. And the squires were out in the town, drinking. I know they came back at midnight, because the hour-candle said so, and it was when Master Marishal ordered everyone to bed.’
‘I am afraid your testimony does not exonerate the squires,’ said Michael, ‘as we do not know exactly when Margery and Roos died.’
‘Well, I can tell you that they were still alive two hours after midnight,’ sniffed Adam, ‘because I saw them. And by then, the bullying bastards were snoring in their beds.’
Michael narrowed his eyes. ‘How can you be so sure of the time?’
‘I heard Heselbech chime the bell for nocturns, which is at two o’clock in the morning at this time of year, as you will know.’ Adam sniggered suddenly. ‘Our chaplain was very drunk and your Master Langelee had to hold him upright.’
‘What were Roos and Margery doing when you spotted them?’ asked Michael.
‘They were not together. I noticed Roos first, strutting along like he owned the place. Then Mistress Marishal appeared a few moments later.’
‘Did it not occur to you that nocturns is an odd time for anyone – other than priests and those keeping them on their feet – to be abroad?’
‘It was odd for Roos certainly, as he was a stranger,’ replied Adam. ‘But it was not odd for Mistress Marishal. She often rose in the night to tend the Lady.’
‘Do you know what Roos was doing here?’
Adam shook his head. ‘But I can tell you that he was in a temper. His fists were clenched and he stamped along like an angry duck.’
‘How did he get in here? I assume the entrances are guarded?’
‘Of course they are, or the townsfolk would invade and create havoc. However, I saw Bonde go to the gatehouse after he had finished minding the squires. You can ask him why he let Roos inside.’
‘We shall,’ promised Michael.
Adam’s hard little face softened. ‘Mistress Marishal was kind to me, and I hope you or Sir William catch whoever killed her. She was an angel.’
‘Did you see anyone else out and about last night?’
‘Just the two Clare Hall men. When they finished singing in the hall, they went to their room in the Oxford Tower, although they never put the lamps out – they kept them burning all night. You might want to find out why.’
Bartholomew winced, hoping Donwich and Pulham would not transpire to be the culprits, as relations between his College and theirs might never recover.
‘So, let us summarise so far,’ said Michael. ‘Roos and Margery were alive at nocturns, but the only squire who could have killed them was Thomas, who had wandered off alone. Besides him and the victims, no one else was about except you, Bonde and our Clare Hall colleagues.’
Adam nodded. ‘But I did not hurt her, and I can prove it. You see, baking is a precise art, timed to the second: if I had jaunted off to commit murder, my bread would have been late and everyone here would have noticed. But it was not – it was exactly on time, as usual.’
Michael acknowledged the alibi with a nod. ‘Now tell me how you came to find the bodies.’
‘We have running water in the kitchens, but it was not flowing this morning, so I went to find out why. It is not unusual – dirt, bits of stone and leaves are always getting stuck in the pipes. The cistern door was wide open, which was odd, so I took a lamp and went down the steps …’
‘And?’
‘And I saw the scholar in the water. It was a shock, I can tell you! I turned and raced back up the steps as fast as my legs would take me, yelling for help. Of course, it was not the bodies that stopped the water from flowing, because the pipes are blocked still, even though Mistress Marishal and Roos are now in the chapel.’
‘Roos was missing a boot,’ said Bartholomew.
Adam snapped his fingers. ‘That would do it. Someone will have to go down there and flush it out, although I hope it will not be me. Anyway, I reached the bailey, yelling as loud as I could, and Master Marishal, Thomas, Ereswell, Quintone and several others came running. Lichet appeared from nowhere, like the demon he is.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Master Marishal ordered me back down the stairs to show him what I had found, and a whole host of folk followed. We pulled Roos from the water, and covered him with a cloak. Father Heselbech had arrived by then, but instead of praying for Roos, he raced off to take the news to his priory. Then Quintone spotted a second body – Mistress Marishal.’
‘Did you see anyone else in the bailey when you went to the cistern the first time?’
Adam shook his head. ‘And I have been thinking about it ever since. Poor Mistress Marishal. Killing her was a terrible sin, and the culprit will roast in Hell for ever.’
‘So, we can cross the squires off our list,’ said Michael, as the baker hobbled away to hide under a table. ‘Adam would have implicated them if he could – it pained him to provide their alibi. However, Thomas has gone right to the top, along with Marishal and Lichet. I find it suspicious that both were to hand when Adam raised the alarm.’
‘I wonder if Albon has interviewed them yet,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We should ask Langelee before we tackle them ourselves – to avoid covering the same ground.’
‘Albon will have learned nothing of use,’ predicted Michael disdainfully. ‘And I hate to say it, but do not expect much from Langelee either. He is an admirable man in many respects, but he is hopeless at identifying liars.’
‘Then why did you charge him with monitoring Albon?’
‘Because Roos’s killer will only be caught by cunning, and Langelee will be more hindrance than help,
if he insists on looming over my shoulder with one hand on his sword. Listening to Albon will keep him busy without doing any harm.’
It was a valid point, as the Master was not known for his tact, patience or subtlety.
‘We had better find Bonde next,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Adam thinks he allowed Roos through the castle gate, so perhaps he let the killer in, too. Maybe it was a townsman, and Roos and Margery are just two more deaths in this vicious feud – the culprit targeted Margery because she was popular, and Roos just happened to be in the way.’
‘Or Bonde might have stabbed them himself,’ countered Michael. ‘We know for a fact that he is a murderer, and he said and did nothing to convince me of his innocence earlier.’
‘He cried for Margery,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Although he tried to hide it.’
‘That does not mean he did not stab her,’ said Michael soberly.
When they hailed Quintone, to ask if he knew where Bonde might be, they were given some interesting news.
‘I just saw him through the window – leaving,’ replied the servant. ‘I called out to ask where he was going, and he said he was off to London on the Lady’s business. But that is a lie, because she is still in bed, so how can she have given him new orders?’
‘Fleeing the scene of the crime,’ mused Michael. ‘Perhaps he was willing to brazen it out as long as he thought Lichet or Albon would investigate, but wisely decided to disappear when it was announced that I would be exploring the matter.’
‘Possibly,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Although he cannot be familiar with your reputation as a solver of crimes.’
‘He does not have to be, Matt. It may be enough to know that I am neither Lichet nor Albon – men who can be hoodwinked, predicted and manipulated.’
‘Well, we will not forget about him, no matter where he goes,’ determined Bartholomew. ‘We cannot hare after him on our poor old nags, so if we do uncover evidence of his guilt, it will be the Lady’s responsibility to bring him to justice. Of course, she may choose to ignore his crime, which will be easier – and cheaper – than corrupting a second judge.’
The Habit of Murder: The Twenty Third Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 23) Page 16
