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

by Susanna Gregory

  Bartholomew excused himself hurriedly from such an alarming duty, but he need not have worried, as the townsfolk were perfectly well behaved. None joined the mourners, though, so it was just him, Michael, Badew and Harweden who attended the perfunctory little ceremony. They had to carry the body to the graveyard themselves, as the men who should have done it refused to leave the church, preferring to clamour disparaging remarks about the south aisle instead. Once Roos was in the ground, Badew and Harweden paused just long enough to spit on him, then hurried away, leaving Bartholomew to pick up a spade and back-fill the hole.

  ‘Stamp it down hard,’ called Anne, who was watching through her window. ‘I did not like the look of that man, and I do not want him rising up and messing about in my church.’

  ‘We should go back to the priory, Matt,’ said Michael when they had finished. ‘To take a leaf from Albon’s book, and ponder all we have learned.’

  ‘I will join you later,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘But first, I want to explore Clare. As Langelee always says, only a fool does not learn the lie of the land when a killer is at large.’

  ‘I have never heard him say that,’ said Michael. ‘Matt? Matt, wait! We have work to do!’

  CHAPTER 7

  In the event, Michael did not ponder the murders either, because he arrived at the priory to find Langelee in a state of gloom over his lost letter-opener. He helped the Master look again, and by the time they had finished, an invitation to dine with John and his senior friars had arrived. Michael accepted, as it had been some time since he had availed himself of the food at the Bell.

  Bartholomew joined them in the Prior’s House when he returned from his perambulations. The fare was plain, but well cooked, and comprised the sort of food that was popular with soldiers and portly senior proctors – a lot of red meat, very little in the way of greenery, and plenty of bread to sop up the grease and bloody juices.

  The wine was copious as well, and Michael grew merrier as the evening progressed. By contrast, Langelee turned uncharacteristically morose, fretting over his missing weapon, and grumbling about the fact that Roos’s murder was preventing them from securing the wealthy benefactors that Michaelhouse so desperately needed. Meanwhile, Bartholomew never drank to excess in Cambridge, lest he was called out on a medical emergency, but he had no patients in Clare, so he allowed John to pour him a second and then a third cup of claret, after which he lost count.

  The rest of the evening was a blur, and Bartholomew awoke the next morning with a thundering headache and the uncomfortable sense of having entertained the Austins with songs he had learned while with the English army at Poitiers. He hoped it had been at their request.

  ‘That was quite a night,’ remarked Michael, speaking carefully, because he feared his head might explode if he did not. He was pale, too, his eyes bloodshot and puffy. ‘Prior John knows how to entertain, although it is a pity I could not persuade him to discuss Clare’s spate of mysterious deaths. Every time I tried, he changed the subject.’

  ‘For two reasons,’ said Langelee, annoyingly chipper, because he had exercised untypical restraint, and had retired to bed stone-cold sober. ‘First, because you were too drunk to debate anything so serious; and second, because he fears gossip will make matters worse.’

  ‘Analysing what we know is hardly “gossip”,’ objected Michael. ‘And one of the casualties was an Austin. Does John not want the truth about what happened to Wisbech?’

  ‘He is afraid of being drawn into the feud – which would break his Prior General’s orders,’ explained Langelee. ‘Not to mention the fact that taking sides will hinder his ability to act as peace-keeper. Incidentally, I asked Nicholas if he stole my letter-opener, and he said no. The culprit is probably Lichet, who I would not trust as far as I can spit. Or Bonde, perhaps, who will also have an eye for a decent weapon. He is a hardened killer, after all.’

  ‘So are you, if Prior John’s stories are to be believed,’ remarked Bartholomew, recalling with sudden clarity one very violent and distasteful tale involving a band of robbers.

  Langelee waved a dismissive hand. ‘I did what was necessary to protect the innocent, whereas Bonde acts for the love of blood. Indeed, it is possible that he dispatched Roos and Margery, given that he has disappeared and no one knows where he has gone. I hope you bear that in mind as you go about your enquiries today.’

  ‘We will.’ Michael winced. ‘As far as I can bear anything in mind today. My poor head!’

  They had slept through the bell for prime, and had missed breakfast as well, although Weste – his one remaining eye bright with robust good health – brought them bread and honey, along with water from what he claimed was a healing spring. It helped, along with Bartholomew’s remedy for overindulgence.

  ‘We are sadly out of practice with riotous evenings,’ sighed Michael ruefully. ‘We could have taken one in our stride ten years ago, when Michaelhouse was rich and we had feasts every week.’

  ‘I shall use your gluttony last night as the basis for my next Book of Hours,’ chuckled Weste, ‘just as I used Philip de Jevan as an example of Satan lying in wait for the unwary in the tome that now belongs to the Lady.’

  ‘It was his face on the Devil in the trees?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I rather thought it was someone we have met, as there was something familiar about him …’

  ‘Of course it was familiar,’ said Weste darkly. ‘Satan is everywhere, and we all know him better than we imagine. It is why I took the cowl – to drive him out of my soul.’

  ‘Why choose Jevan? It is Lichet who is called the Red Devil.’

  ‘I did not know Lichet when I illustrated that book – he has only been in Clare for a few months. But I would not have used him to depict Satan anyway – he is not evil, just dishonest, opinionated and greedy.’

  ‘But Jevan is evil?’

  ‘Oh, yes! I dislike his arrogant demeanour, and who knows what he tells the Lady when they are behind closed doors together. I am surprised Marishal allows it.’

  When Weste had gone, the scholars discussed what needed to be done that day.

  ‘We must speak to Marishal, Thomas and Ella first,’ said Michael. ‘Assuming they are not dead of Lichet’s sleeping potion. Then I have a few questions for the Lady, after which we shall pursue our remaining suspects – rather fewer than this time yesterday, thankfully.’

  Bartholomew listed them. ‘Nicholas, Lichet, Bonde, Albon, Marishal and the twins. Oh, and Badew and Harweden. They put on a fine display of stunned disbelief when we told them about Roos’s perfidy, but they held high rank in the University for years. That alone will make them skilled dissemblers.’

  ‘Thank you, Matt,’ said Michael drily. ‘Do you want to include me as well?’

  ‘I will follow Albon again,’ said Langelee, ‘lest he happens to stumble across something vital. I will also see about acquiring a few benefactors.’

  ‘Then go now,’ instructed Michael. ‘We will join you at the castle as soon as I have attended my private devotions in the priory chapel.’

  ‘If you do that, it will draw attention to the fact that you slept through prime,’ warned Langelee. ‘Use the parish church instead. But no accusing Nicholas of murder. He is not the culprit, Brother – it will be Lichet or Bonde, you mark my words.’

  Bartholomew was more than happy to wait in the church while Michael completed his religious duties, as it provided another opportunity for him to admire the fan vaulting. A section of scaffolding had been removed shortly after dawn, revealing a segment of ceiling that had been invisible during Roos’s funeral the previous day.

  ‘The Queen will be impressed,’ he said, still gazing up in awe when the monk came to collect him a short while later. ‘This place is truly remarkable.’

  ‘Are you sure it is safe?’ Michael poked a pile of dust with his toe. ‘I am never comfortable with innovation. It nearly always needs refinement, so it is better to wait until a thing is tried and tested before having it installed yourself.’<
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  ‘Well, the geometric principles are sound. You can see from here that the load of the ceiling is spread between the—’

  ‘You can lecture me on principles all you like, Matt,’ interrupted Michael. ‘But all I see is a lot of fancy stonework slathered in paint. And pretty does not equal solid.’

  ‘Perhaps Cambrug will convince you. He is due to arrive soon, and I want to ask—’

  Michael cut across him a second time. ‘Here is Nicholas. He looks unnaturally spry, given that he drank twice as much as you and me combined last night. He must be a sot, used to such debauched occasions.’

  ‘Have you come to call on our anchoress?’ asked the vicar pleasantly. ‘She will be pleased. The sad events at the castle mean she was neglected yesterday, and she likes attention.’

  ‘She likes it more than she should,’ said Michael admonishingly. ‘She is supposed to spend her time in prayer, not enjoying the company of visitors. But we came to see you, as it happens.’

  ‘I hope it is not to accuse me of stealing Langelee’s letter-opener,’ said Nicholas coolly. ‘It is a magnificent weapon, but I am no thief. He must have dropped it somewhere.’

  ‘No, we want to ask you about Roos and Margery,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It seems that—’

  ‘I did not kill them,’ said Nicholas, so quickly that it sounded furtive.

  ‘We are not accusing you of it,’ lied Michael. ‘Although we can eliminate you from our enquiries for certain if you tell us where you were between nocturns and dawn yesterday.’

  Nicholas gave him a look that was none too friendly. ‘In the friary, with Langelee and my brethren. Ask them.’

  ‘I did – last night. But the celebrations finished at nocturns, when John ordered everyone to go and pray. Most did, while Langelee helped Heselbech to the castle. None mentioned being with you, however. They claim they were too addled to notice. In other words, the vows of loyalty you have all sworn prevented them from telling the truth – that you were nowhere to be seen.’

  Nicholas made a show of having a sudden attack of memory. ‘Hah! I recall it all now. I left just after Heselbech and Langelee. I was close enough to see them enter the castle, and I heard the chapel bell chime. Then I hurried here to say my own prayers. Ask Anne – she will tell you.’

  ‘It is true – he did,’ came the inevitable voice from the squint. It made Bartholomew wonder if the anchoress ever bothered with her devotions, and instead spent her whole life eavesdropping on conversations not intended for her ears.

  He walked to the anchorhold, where he saw the screen pulled to one side, revealing a very comfortable bed. A dent in the pillow and rumpled covers suggested she had only just risen, which prompted him to ask himself if she spent every night fast asleep – including the one when she claimed to have seen Nicholas recite nocturns.

  The anchoress herself was neat and trim in a fresh blue kirtle, while on her feet were soft calfskin slippers. She had already moved to her other window, where petitioners were waiting to regale her with the latest news.

  ‘Katrina de Haliwell requisitioned another three pounds of almonds last night,’ Adam the baker was informing her. ‘And that was after she scoffed two bowls of stew in the hall. She claims the nuts are for the paroquets, but I think she eats them herself.’

  Uninterested in castle gossip, Bartholomew returned to Michael and Nicholas.

  ‘The first time I met Roos was three days ago, when he came here with you,’ the vicar was saying. ‘If he visited Clare before, I never saw him – either in disguise or as himself. But speaking of unpredictable old men, have you seen Jan the hermit? He seems to have vanished.’

  ‘Yes – just like Bonde,’ said Michael. ‘If you ask me, it is suspicious, and I am inclined to wonder if one is the rogue who killed Roos and Margery.’

  ‘It is certainly possible of Bonde,’ said Nicholas. ‘He has always been vicious. However, Jan has never shown any inclination to violence, and he is a holy man. I seriously doubt he has done anything untoward.’

  ‘Even if he is innocent,’ said Michael, ‘we would still like to ask what he saw as he strolled around the castle in the dark.’

  ‘Perhaps he is not so much missing as gone shopping,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Again.’

  But Nicholas shook his head. ‘He only does that on Wednesdays.’

  ‘Then maybe he has decamped to a quieter town,’ said Michael. ‘Communing with God must be very difficult in Clare, with murders and mayhem every few days.’

  ‘You make us sound like Cambridge,’ said Nicholas coolly. ‘Which I am told is the most dangerous town in the country.’

  ‘No, you confuse us with Oxford,’ Michael informed him earnestly. ‘However, even that vile city has nothing on Clare with its seven suspicious deaths. You must be concerned, because the Queen will not come as long as there is a killer on the loose.’

  ‘She will not be deterred by the kind of worm who stabs women and old men in dark cisterns,’ averred Nicholas. ‘But if there is nothing else, Brother, I must be off. There is still a lot to do before the ceremony, and time is short. Unless you are willing to wield a duster?’

  ‘I am afraid not,’ said Michael quickly, although Bartholomew would not have minded an excuse to linger in the church, as there were several murals he had not yet inspected.

  ‘Pity,’ sighed Nicholas. ‘I could have done with the help.’

  ‘I am not surprised,’ said Michael, looking around disparagingly. ‘You cannot possibly expect to have the rest of the scaffolding down by Tuesday – and the paint on the ceiling will still be wet.’

  Nicholas grinned. ‘It might, but who will know? Her Majesty is unlikely to climb up there and stick her fingers in it. But the scaffolding will be down, Brother, and Cambrug has promised to be here first thing on Tuesday to disguise any damage that might have occurred in the process.’

  When Michael spotted a wealthy merchant who was said to be generous to good causes, he decided to abandon murder for a few moments and work for Michaelhouse instead. Bartholomew left him to it and went to feast his eyes on the handsome rood screen, experiencing a sharp pang of sorrow when he recognised Margery’s face on a carving of the Blessed Virgin. His musings put him near the anchorhold again, and he glanced inside it to see Anne plying a broom.

  ‘I cannot tell you how sorry I was to hear about Margery,’ she said softly. ‘It makes me glad I have retired from the world, because such a terrible thing should not happen to a saint.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘I heard her tell Bonde to bring you a basket from the kitchen the day she died. She cared about you.’

  ‘It was a big one,’ said Anne, a catch in her voice, ‘containing all my favourite things. She never forgot her old nurse. I hope the fiend who killed her burns in Hell.’

  ‘I imagine he will.’

  ‘But what was she doing in the cistern with Roos in the first place?’ asked Anne, after a brief pause during which he heard a muffled sob and a quick wipe of the nose. ‘It is an odd place to go at any time, but especially at night. Or were they forced down there – at knifepoint, perhaps?’

  ‘I think they went willingly, although we have no idea how Roos got past the castle guards. Bonde was on the gate, but we cannot ask him about it, because he has left Clare.’

  ‘Roos probably paid him to look the other way,’ said Anne. ‘Marishal claims he runs a tight ship, but there are many who jump at the chance to earn easy money. Bonde is one of them. And of course he would not linger here to answer for it. He is not stupid.’

  ‘Do you think he has gone permanently?’

  ‘No – he likes being the Lady’s henchman, and she has rescued him from trouble before. He will be back. But you did not answer my question: why did they meet in the cistern? It is a terrible place, especially when it rains. The water gushes down from the roof, and it can flood in a flash.’

  ‘I thought the flow could be controlled by sluices and valves.’

  ‘It can, but how wo
uld a person opening taps on the roof know that there was someone in the basement below? It is a very dangerous business.’

  Bartholomew moved to another subject. ‘You must have known Margery well, given that you were nursemaid to her children. Are you aware that she and Roos were related?’

  ‘Oh, I very much doubt that,’ stated Anne dismissively. ‘She was lovely, while I am told he was … not.’

  ‘Do you recall the ring she wore – the onyx one with the bird? Well, he had one exactly the same. He kept it on a string around his neck.’

  Anne came to glare at him through the squint. ‘I hope you are not suggesting anything untoward. Perhaps they were kin – although she never mentioned him to me. However, even if you are right, there will have been nothing improper going on. She was an honourable lady. But speaking of lovers, do you have one? Yes, I think you do.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  Anne smiled. ‘I am a wise-woman. I look into the souls of men and read their darkest secrets.’

  ‘Matilde is not a dark secret. We are to be married soon.’

  ‘Why? Is she with child? Do not wed her for that reason – it will lead to bitterness and disappointment, which will poison you both. She will have the worst of the arrangement, of course, saddled with a babe she does not want, as well as a useless husband. It is a pity there are laws forbidding women to decide for themselves what grows inside their bodies.’

  ‘The laws are there to prevent dangerous interventions,’ argued Bartholomew, although he was uncomfortable with the turn the discussion had taken, ‘which can kill the mother.’

  ‘Not if you know what you are doing. And as far as I am concerned, forcing women to have unwanted brats is yet another way for men to control us. No girl should bear a child if she does not want one – a child that may kill her by tearing her innards or leaving her with a fatal fever.’

  ‘Giving birth is a risky process,’ acknowledged Bartholomew soberly, racking his brains for a way to change the subject. ‘But—’