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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘The baker saw lamps burning in your room all night,’ mused Michael. ‘He—’

  ‘Look at my fingers,’ interrupted Pulham, stretching out his hands. ‘Filthy with cheap ink.’

  ‘Can anyone corroborate your tale?’ asked Michael.

  Donwich eyed him coolly. ‘You mean did we slip out and murder Roos in the midst of our labours? Well, I am sorry to disappoint you, Brother, but Marishal posted guards outside our door. He claimed it was so they could fetch him if we had questions about the work, but we know it was really to make sure we did not slack. So, yes, there are witnesses to prove our innocence.’

  ‘That is not why I asked,’ lied Michael. ‘I was hoping you might be able to help us with Marishal’s movements. You will appreciate why we want to know.’

  ‘Because he is a suspect for the murders,’ surmised Donwich. ‘Well, maybe he did make an end of Roos, because he is not very enamoured of scholars, as evidenced by his treatment of us.’

  ‘Yet I cannot see him – or anyone else – hurting Margery,’ said Pulham. ‘She was a lovely lady. She brought us wine and cakes just before nocturns, as she thought we might need refreshment. It was kindly done, and no one else bothered.’

  ‘Did she come alone?’ fished Michael.

  Pulham nodded. ‘She said she decided to bring us the victuals when she saw the light still shining from our window. Then, not long after she had gone, Marishal poked his head around the door to assess our progress.’ He glanced at Donwich. ‘Which was when you made the quip about no one in the entire castle bothering with nonsense like sleep.’

  Donwich shrugged. ‘Marishal, his wife, the guards at the door, us, the castle chaplain hauling on his bell rope – all awake in the dead of night. Marishal retorted that Clare folk work for a living, not like the layabouts in Cambridge.’

  ‘So we have decided to move back to the Swan for the rest of our stay,’ sniffed Pulham. ‘The Lady and Marishal are unlikely to notice our absence, not now there are murders to snag their attention. We shall pay our respects to the Queen on Tuesday, then travel home with you and the rogues from Swinescroft the following morning. Well, not with Roos obviously …’

  ‘When did Marishal visit, exactly?’ asked Michael. ‘Before or after the bell for nocturns?’

  ‘Before,’ replied Pulham promptly. ‘But he only stayed for a moment and then he was gone. So the answers to your unspoken questions are yes, Brother – yes, he was out and about at the same time as his wife, and yes, it is possible that he killed her and Roos.’

  ‘Perhaps she and Roos arranged a lovers’ tryst and he killed them in a fit of jealous rage,’ suggested Donwich, but then shook his head. ‘She would never have chosen Roos when she could have had one of us. Roos was a vile individual, whereas we are handsome, wealthy and charming.’

  ‘And modest,’ muttered Bartholomew.

  ‘Personally, I think Badew killed them,’ said Pulham. ‘He allowed hatred to overwhelm his soul, and would certainly sacrifice a friend to strike at an enemy. Marishal will be weakened by the loss of his wife, and what hurts him, hurts the Lady.’

  ‘You think he is that low?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully.

  ‘I do,’ said Pulham firmly. ‘He has become a bitter, twisted old man who will do anything to avenge himself on the woman he thinks stole his College. He travelled here with the express purpose of harming her, and if he did kill Margery, he has succeeded in that aim.’

  Michael lowered his voice. ‘He came because he thought she was dead. We all did.’

  Pulham reflected for a moment, then raised a forefinger triumphantly. ‘Then think about who opened the letter that contained the “news” of her demise. Roos! No one else saw it, so how do we know he did not lie about the contents – and Badew killed him for falsely raising his hopes?’

  ‘That is possible,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘Badew does claim to know some secret that he will only reveal when the Lady is dead, so I imagine his disappointment was great indeed when he learned it would have to wait again.’

  ‘Especially as he is older than her, and might die first,’ put in Pulham. ‘Of course, it will transpire to be a lot of lies, saved for a time when she can no longer defend herself. He can bray this secret all he likes, but no one will believe it.’

  At that point, Lichet began to stride towards them, so he and Donwich beat a hasty retreat before they could be lumbered with more work. Moments later, they emerged from the Oxford Tower, still bundling their belongings into saddlebags. They all but ran to the gate and were gone, although they need not have rushed, as Lichet had been intercepted by Ereswell, who was demanding instructions about some aspect of the Queen’s visit. The learned man quickly became flustered, especially when Adam approached with a question about supplies.

  ‘He had better hope Marishal does not sleep too much longer,’ remarked Michael. ‘Because even he must realise by now that the post of steward is beyond him.’

  But Bartholomew was thinking about their suspects. ‘We can cross Donwich and Pulham off our list. We will check their story with the guards, but I believe they are telling the truth. However, I do not like the suggestion of a romantic tryst between Roos and Margery. Both Donwich and Langelee said she was not that sort of woman, and I agree.’

  ‘But what about the rings?’ Michael pulled them from his scrip and stared at them. ‘They look like lovers’ tokens to me. And Roos did home in on her very quickly after we arrived, while Adam claimed he strutted around as if he owned the place, suggesting that he had been here before …’

  ‘Well, there is only one way to find out – by asking Badew and Harweden.’

  The rain had passed, and the day had turned pretty, with fluffy white clouds dotting a bright blue sky and a warm sun drawing steam from the wet ground. Bartholomew and Michael left the castle, and walked along Rutten Row to the Bell Inn, an attractive establishment with black timbers and pink plasterwork. The appetising scent of frying eggs wafted from within, which perhaps explained why Badew had chosen it – the Swinescroft men liked their victuals.

  Inside, the tavern was busy with traders from the market who had sold all their produce and were rewarding themselves with jugs of frothing ale. Bartholomew could not help but overhear snippets of conversation as he wove through the tables to where Badew and Harweden sat. Most revolved around the double murder at the castle, and there was a general feeling that someone had done it to avenge Skynere.

  ‘The wife of the steward,’ crowed one man. ‘What a coup!’

  ‘Not a coup, Bailiff Paycock,’ said a butcher, a man identifiable by his bloody apron. ‘She was the only decent person in the whole place, and anyone who revels in her death is a pig.’

  ‘Then what about the death of the scholar?’ asked Paycock archly. ‘Can I revel in that? The University will not let that crime pass unremarked, and it will bring the Lady a raft of trouble.’

  Although the tavern was crowded, Badew and Harweden had a table to themselves, perhaps because they were strangers, but more likely because they positively radiated hostility. They scowled when Michael perched on the bench next to them, an expression that deepened when he began to help himself to their food – bread, cheese, eggs, fried pork and apples. Bartholomew sat as well, but the events of the day had deprived him of his appetite.

  ‘When you have finished gorging yourself, Brother, perhaps you will tell us what happened to Roos,’ said Badew acidly. ‘Who lured him into that terrible place and slaughtered him? I assume the Senior Proctor has the matter in hand?’

  ‘Our enquiries are at a very early stage,’ replied Michael, reaching for more meat. ‘So I have no answers for you yet. Rest assured, though, I shall do my utmost to bring his killer to justice. And you can help by answering some questions. When did you last see Roos?’

  ‘At vespers,’ replied Badew. ‘We went to church together, then returned here. Harweden and I share a room, but he has one to himself, because he snores … snored.’

  ‘Did he say
he might go out again?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Of course not, or we would have stopped him. The Lady has never liked us, and would leap at the chance to do us harm. It was recklessness itself for him to have ventured out alone.’

  ‘Especially to the castle,’ added Harweden soberly. ‘Her lair.’

  ‘She is the Devil Incarnate,’ hissed Badew, looking rather demonic himself with his narrowed eyes and spiteful mouth, ‘skilled in deceit and falsehoods. She will delight in pulling the wool over the eyes of a gullible Senior Proctor, so do not believe a word she says.’

  ‘I am not gullible,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘I have outwitted more killers than you can count.’

  ‘But she is in a league of her own,’ whispered Badew, eyes blazing. ‘She is a politician, and we all know they are consummate liars.’

  ‘Right,’ said Michael briskly, and brought the discussion back on track. ‘Now, we have discovered that Roos and Margery shared a close connection. What can you tell me about it?’

  ‘Do not talk nonsense,’ spat Badew. ‘Roos met her once – fourteen years ago, when she was in the deputation that came to Cambridge to steal my College. That is not a “close connection”.’

  ‘Tell the truth, Badew,’ said Harweden softly. ‘How will they catch Roos’s killer if we lie? Roos did have an association with Margery. You know he did.’

  ‘I know nothing of the kind,’ snarled Badew furiously. ‘You are reading too much into what you claim to have noticed.’

  ‘And what was that?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Roos chatting in a very familiar manner to Margery the moment we arrived here,’ replied Harweden, and regarded Badew archly. ‘Exactly as he did fourteen years ago. I told you then that they appeared to be intimate, but you refused to believe me.’

  ‘He was our friend,’ argued Badew. ‘He would never betray us by forging links with the enemy’s household.’

  ‘I beg to differ,’ retorted Harweden curtly. ‘And, as he clearly knew her well even back then, it is obvious that their association was one of considerable duration.’

  ‘Did you ever ask him about it?’ enquired Bartholomew.

  ‘Of course, but he fobbed me off with half answers, although he did once let something slip. It was not long after we lost University Hall, and he and I were bemoaning it one evening over a jug of ale. He said that blood is thicker than water, and Margery should have done more for him. He blanched when I demanded to know what he meant, and claimed that I had misheard.’

  ‘So they were kin,’ mused Michael. ‘That is—’

  ‘They were not!’ exploded Badew. ‘He would have told me.’

  ‘Would he?’ asked Harweden quietly. ‘Or would he have kept it secret, lest you expelled him from Swinescroft? If you had, he would never have found another hostel – he was no great shakes as a scholar. Or as a friend, if you want the truth.’

  When Badew made no reply, Michael pulled the onyx rings from his scrip and laid them on the table. The Swinescroft men stared at them in surprise.

  ‘He had two?’ asked Badew. ‘I only know about the one he kept around his neck.’

  ‘The other belonged to Margery,’ explained Michael. ‘It was on her finger.’

  ‘Hah!’ Harweden turned triumphantly to his friend. ‘What more evidence do you need, Badew? They were related, and these baubles prove it. The sly rogue deceived us for years! Indeed, perhaps it was he who helped the Lady get her claws into University Hall in the first place. I would put no low deed beneath him – not now we know what kind of man he was.’

  ‘I cannot believe it,’ whispered Badew, stunned. ‘It is impossible!’

  There was a short silence, as both old men pondered the revelation and its unpleasant implications. Then Bartholomew moved to another matter.

  ‘It was Roos who read the letter telling us that the Lady was dead. The messenger was told to deliver it to Water Lane, so we assumed it was for Chancellor Tynkell – that the sender was unaware that Suttone has been elected to replace him. But your hostel stands at the junction of Water Lane and Swinescroft Row …’

  ‘I see where you are going with this, Matt,’ said Michael. ‘You think Margery wrote to Roos, because of the connection they shared. However, there is a problem with that theory: Roos was the only one who saw the letter, so we do not know what it really contained.’

  ‘Yes, we do,’ countered Harweden, ‘because he showed it to me. It did say the Lady was dead, and urged the recipient to attend her burial without delay. However, I should have been suspicious of the fact that it was addressed to no one in particular. Roos was all gloating delight that he had read it before the Chancellor – but it was a lie. And I swallowed it like a fool!’

  ‘We are all fools,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘We should have questioned his willingness to share the news with Clare Hall, which he detested. In other words, why was he prepared to give its scholars the chance to pay their last respects and win the executors’ good graces?’

  Badew regarded him narrowly. ‘I can tell from your knowing expression that you have the answer. So come on – out with it.’

  Bartholomew was still struggling to put his tumbling thoughts in order, and spoke slowly to give himself time to think. ‘He must have made another journey to Clare recently, one where he lost an ear to Simon Freburn. We saw it was missing when we examined his body.’

  ‘But he told us that he had earache,’ cried Badew, incensed all over again. ‘Are you saying that he lied about that as well?’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘He wanted to attend the Lady’s funeral, but not at the risk of a second encounter with robbers. However, he knew the University would send a delegation of mourners if he made the news public – and a delegation meant an escort for him.’

  ‘The sly dog!’ exploded Badew. ‘He knew I would want to go, because I have—’

  ‘A secret?’ asked Michael when the old man stopped abruptly. ‘The one you came here to reveal. Will you tell us what it entails now?’

  ‘No,’ replied Badew shortly. ‘It must wait until the Lady is dead.’

  ‘May we examine Roos’s room?’ Michael spoke gruffly to conceal his disappointment. ‘Perhaps we will find something there that will explain why he deceived you all these years.’

  Badew led the way to a pleasant chamber overlooking the street. The bed had not been slept in, and the water provided for washing was unused. Roos’s saddlebags lay on the bed, still packed.

  The letter was on the windowsill. It was written on cheap parchment, and the message was short and to the point – that the Lady was dead and the recipient should make haste if he wanted to see her in her grave. It was in the vernacular, rather than the more usual Latin, and it was unsigned.

  ‘How could you believe that this was intended for the Chancellor?’ demanded Badew, waving it angrily in Harweden’s face. ‘Even the Lady’s meanest clerk would have composed a more impressive missive than this. And where is the identifying seal?’

  ‘Peterborough!’ exclaimed Bartholomew suddenly. ‘You said that Roos visited kin there every three months, but he changed the subject with suspicious haste when Nicholas started to chat about the place. Perhaps he did not go there at all, but came here instead.’

  ‘To visit Margery,’ surmised Michael. ‘It would explain why he seemed to know his way around the castle. However, if he really did come here when he should have headed north, why did no one recognise him when he arrived with us? Everyone has dismissed him as a stranger.’

  ‘Perhaps he disguised himself,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘As a priest, maybe. The guards would not look twice at an elderly man in a habit.’

  ‘Such laxity on their part would certainly explain how Roos managed to slip into the Lady’s stronghold last night,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘It is—’

  ‘Look at this,’ interrupted Bartholomew suddenly, waving a second letter – it had been under one of the saddlebags. ‘It is on the same cheap parchment and in the same uneducated hand –
a message asking for a rendezvous in the cistern “at the usual time”. So now we know why Roos went to the castle in the dark.’

  ‘I imagine it is from Margery,’ said Michael, putting both missives in his scrip for safekeeping. ‘And “at the usual time” suggests they had regular assignations. Perhaps you are right, Matt – Roos did come here when he claimed he was visiting Peterborough, although he must have worn a very convincing disguise to have fooled so many people.’

  ‘Damn him!’ hissed Badew bitterly. ‘No wonder none of my plans for vengeance have worked – Roos told his paramour, and she warned the Lady. Well, I hope he burns in Hell!’

  Harweden glanced out of the window. ‘I paid the vicar to bury him this morning. Shall we go to his funeral? Or shall we stay away on principle?’

  ‘Oh, we shall go,’ said Badew grimly. ‘If I cannot dance on the Lady’s grave, then I shall dance on his. However, I am not buying Masses for his soul. The Devil is welcome to it.’

  Roos had just been delivered to the parish church from the castle chapel when Bartholomew, Michael and the two old men arrived. He was dumped rather unceremoniously on Roger’s tomb, after which the bier-bearers disappeared fast, unwilling to linger in a place where they were so heavily outnumbered by townsfolk – the church was unusually full that day.

  ‘At least he will have some mourners,’ remarked Michael, as he and Bartholomew went to see what arrangements had been made for the ceremony. ‘I wonder why they are here.’

  ‘To watch the scaffolding come down in the south aisle,’ explained Nicholas, when the monk put the question to him. ‘So we can all revel in the fact that its ceiling is plain and dull, compared to the fan vaulting in the nave and chancel.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ said Michael, squinting up at it. ‘I hope they will not make too much noise while we lay our colleague to rest.’

  ‘If they do, he can tell them to desist,’ said Nicholas, nodding at Bartholomew. ‘A veteran of Poitiers will have no trouble with rowdy civilians, especially once he draws his sword. And while he keeps the peace, we can concentrate on the rite.’