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

by Susanna Gregory

‘I wish he had kept his suspicions to himself as well,’ agreed Michael, ‘because then Grym would not have tossed the tainted wine out of the window, thus preventing us from proving our case. Did you not find that odd?’

  ‘I doubt Grym killed Godeston, if that is what you are suggesting,’ said John impatiently. ‘They were friends, and Grym will be lost without him. However, I accept that Godeston died from hemlock poisoning. I thought I could smell it the moment I entered the room.’

  ‘Then why did you—’ began Bartholomew indignantly.

  ‘Because I wanted to avoid the kind of trouble that is brewing now,’ interrupted John shortly, and nodded towards Rutten Row, where several young merchants were listening to the litter-bearers with growing anger. ‘Those boys have been itching to fight the squires for weeks – several have lost their sweethearts to the rich braggarts at the castle, and they want revenge.’

  At that moment, Weste hurried up to report that Nuport and his cronies were in the market square, where they had entered the shop of a vintner and removed a cask of wine.

  ‘They say they will pay later, but we all know they will not,’ said Weste. ‘They have heard that the Mayor is dead, and think the town will be in too much disarray to take issue with them. But the likes of Paycock will not stand by meekly …’

  ‘No,’ agreed John, his face creased with concern. ‘We shall have our hands full today if we are to prevent a bloodbath.’

  ‘I hope our peace-keeping duties will not interfere with our religious obligations,’ muttered Weste unhappily. ‘I have a lot of atoning to do. I cannot afford to miss offices.’

  ‘I know,’ said John kindly, then addressed the scholars. ‘So if anyone asks you about Godeston, please keep your suspicions to yourselves. Lives and immortal souls depend on it.’

  ‘But someone did kill him,’ argued Michael. ‘An old man who could barely walk. Feeding him the kind of poison that takes hours to work was despicable and cannot go unpunished.’

  ‘Leave vengeance to the Lord,’ ordered John. ‘He knows what he is doing – more than you.’

  ‘Is that why you chose to ignore what happened to Wisbech?’ demanded Michael. ‘If so, it was a mistake. It left the killer free to claim other victims, which has made the situation worse. How many more people must die before you act?’

  ‘We are acting,’ growled Weste, his one eye cold and angry. ‘We are busily ensuring that eight deaths do not become eighty.’

  John rubbed a gnarled hand over his shiny pate and sighed. ‘Yet you have a point about stopping the killer, Brother, so investigate if you must. However, I recommend that you stay away from Godeston’s death – first, because the town will not appreciate you meddling, and second, because you may put yourselves in danger.’

  ‘And we may not be on hand to rescue you next time,’ added Weste, a little threateningly.

  ‘If you want my opinion about Roos and Margery,’ said John, more conciliatory than his cofferer, ‘it is that someone from the town killed them. That means the guards let the culprit through the gate, so speak to them about it.’

  ‘Unfortunately, the guard was Bonde,’ said Michael harshly, ‘who has now disappeared.’

  ‘Bonde did not watch the gate on his own,’ said John. ‘Others would have been with him, so talk to Richard the watchman. He has a keen eye for detail, which I know because he was once one of my patrolmen. He will answer your questions if you tell him that I sent you.’

  Richard the watchman was just finishing work when the scholars arrived, and was enjoying a meal with his friends. He was a solid, dependable man with a neat beard, an ancient but well-maintained leather jerkin, and weapons that were carefully honed. He refused to speak to Michael and Bartholomew at first, but capitulated immediately when they said they had been sent by Prior John. He set down his spoon and took them to a stable, where they could talk in private.

  ‘Good man, John,’ he declared. ‘I would follow him anywhere. Well, other than into holy orders. A number of my comrades have found solace along that path, but it is not for me. I prefer to take my comfort in the arms of a woman. And do not suggest doing both, because John disapproves of those who break sacred vows. He considers it the worst of all sins.’

  Michael changed the subject quickly, as his own views on chastity were rather more fluid than his Order allowed. ‘We came to ask who visited the castle on Thursday night. We know money exchanged hands, but we do not care about that. We just want a list of names.’

  ‘The squires and Bonde came in at about midnight,’ replied Richard, so promptly that it was obvious that he had already given the matter some serious thought. ‘Most trooped off to bed, and Bonde joined us at the gate a bit later. Then there were the two priests. The first was Heselbech, with Langelee holding him up. The second came in a few moments later, on his own.’

  ‘Which priest?’ asked Michael. ‘Nicholas?’

  ‘He had his hood up, so I never saw his face. It was definitely a friar, though. Not only did he wear an Austin’s cloak and cowl, but I could tell he was a priest because of the way he walked. They tend to glide when they are on their way to holy offices. You must have noticed.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Bartholomew, sure Michael could not ‘glide’ to save his life. ‘Who else?’

  ‘Just Jan the hermit, who likes to prowl the castle after dark. And Philip de Jevan, of course, but you already know that. I wondered how long it would take before you made the connection.’

  Michael and Bartholomew exchanged a blank look. ‘What connection?’ asked the monk.

  ‘The connection between Saer de Roos and Philip de Jevan – that they are one and the same,’ replied Richard, then frowned. ‘You mean you did not know and I have just blurted it out?’

  ‘Of course we knew,’ lied Bartholomew, struggling to mask his surprise as realisation dawned. He turned to Michael. ‘Because of Weste and the Devil he painted in his Book of Hours. He told us it was Jevan, but the face was oddly familiar. Of course it was – it was Roos.’

  And Roos had prevented him from studying it more closely by throwing it on the fire. Bartholomew had managed to pull the book from the flames, but not before the incriminating page had been burned out. The moment he saw it was safely destroyed, Roos had calmly walked away.

  ‘That cannot be right, Matt,’ said Michael doubtfully. ‘Someone would have addressed Roos as Jevan or vice versa. But no one did, and everyone here claims he was a stranger.’

  ‘But we have already guessed why no one recognised him,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘He donned a disguise. White whiskers probably, if Weste’s picture was anything to judge by.’

  Richard nodded. ‘They were total opposites. Jevan was always immaculate, with snowy hair and a nice bushy beard. Roos was scruffy, with a nasty old cap and dirty clothes.’

  ‘But you saw through the ruse?’ Michael asked, still far from convinced. ‘How?’

  ‘I am a watchman – it is my business to see people for what they are. I knew Roos was Jevan because of the eyes. I recognised him when you arrived together on Wednesday, and I recognised him again when he came to the gate the night he died and paid us to let him pass.’

  ‘Who else knew?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Bonde?’

  Richard nodded. ‘And the other guards. The Lady and Marishal are in on the secret as well, of course, as was Mistress Marishal. It has been going on for years – fourteen, in fact. I remember because Jevan … I mean Roos joined the council at about the same time as I became a watchman.’

  ‘Roos pretended to be another person for fourteen years?’ breathed Michael in disbelief. ‘But that is impossible! The truth would have leaked out long ago.’

  ‘Why?’ shrugged Richard. ‘He was Jevan here and Roos in Cambridge. It was perfectly straightforward – until this week, when Roos arrived in “Jevan’s” domain.’

  ‘Do you remember the purple silk that “Jevan” brought for Godeston?’ asked Bartholomew of Michael. ‘He told him that it came from London, but you poi
nted out that my sister sells it at home. We shall ask her when we get back, but I wager anything you like that she sold a piece to Roos.’

  ‘But Roos hated Clare and the Lady,’ objected Michael. ‘And now you expect me to believe that he donned a wig and a false beard and sat on her council? With her connivance?’

  Richard shrugged again. ‘It is what happened.’

  ‘Do you know if Roos and Margery Marishal were kin?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Richard considered. ‘Well, they shared some bond, because she was always the one who came to greet him when he arrived.’

  ‘Greeted him how?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Warmly?’

  ‘No, not warmly, but familiarly. Like I might greet a mother-in-law if I had one.’

  ‘So he came here four times a year?’ asked Michael, still sceptical.

  ‘Yes, for council meetings, which are held every Quarter Day. The last one was in March, and he was not due again until June. However, I can tell you for a fact that Mistress Marishal wrote and asked him to come early, because she told me to expect him.’ Richard smiled fondly. ‘She could write, you know – and she taught me.’

  ‘Did she?’ asked Michael, astonished anew. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there is nothing much to do as a watchman during long winter nights, but I love the stars and she offered to lend me books on astronomy, if I learned to read them. She was a sweet woman, too good for this world.’

  Michael showed him the letters they had found in Roos’s quarters. ‘Are these from her?’

  Richard took them from him, handling them almost reverently. ‘Yes – I would recognise her hand anywhere. But wait! This one says the Lady is dead! Why would she …’

  ‘To make sure Roos would come,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘Which means she must have had some very urgent reason for the lie. Do you know what it might have been?’

  ‘No, but I saw her go to Roos straight away on Wednesday and start talking. I did not hear what passed between them, but she seemed very upset afterwards, while he was angry.’

  ‘What about the night they died?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Was she waiting for him then?’

  ‘Not that I saw.’

  ‘Did you follow him after you let him inside?’

  ‘No, why would I? He was a member of the Lady’s council, and Mistress Marishal had asked him to visit. They trusted him, so I felt I could, too.’

  Bartholomew and Michael left the castle and aimed for the Bell Inn, to tell Badew and Harweden what they had discovered about their erstwhile friend. The two old men had had a night to reflect on Roos’s antics, and the monk was hopeful that hindsight might have shaken loose some new information. It was raining again, although Clare’s roads were so well drained and free of potholes that Bartholomew’s feet remained quite dry inside his leaky old boots.

  ‘I wish we had guessed this Jevan–Roos connection sooner,’ muttered Michael. ‘We should have known that there was a reason for his peculiar reaction to Pulham’s Book of Hours.’

  ‘We might have done, if we had studied the illustration more closely,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But now I think about it, Weste’s Satan did have Roos’s eyes. He is a remarkable artist.’

  They did not have far to go, because Badew and Harweden had joined the spectators outside Godeston’s house, all waiting to watch the Mayor’s body carried to the church. Bartholomew was glad when no one spared him and Michael more than a glance as they eased through the throng, although he was alarmed by the anger directed against the castle.

  ‘I hope Prior John is good at quelling spats,’ murmured Michael, looking around uneasily. ‘Because there will be one before long. The mood is ugly, and set to grow worse.’

  Just as they reached the Swinescroft men, there was a sudden stir and Godeston was toted out. His litter-bearers had evidently decided that he should make his final journey in style, so they had strapped him into a sitting position and draped him with purple blankets – although not the piece of silk that he had stipulated.

  He swayed alarmingly as he was borne along, and Bartholomew was not the only one who feared he might topple off. So did Grym, who did his best to steady his old friend, but even the stately pace set by the brothers was too fast for the portly barber, who huffed and panted as he struggled to keep up. A number of town worthies fell into line behind them, including Paycock, who was muttering darkly about another murder of a good man by castle rowdies.

  ‘You should not be out on the streets,’ Michael told Badew and Harweden, once the body had gone. ‘Matt and I were almost attacked earlier. You will be safer indoors.’

  ‘Then escort us back to the Bell,’ instructed Badew curtly. ‘And while we walk, you can tell us about your progress regarding the murder of … that person.’

  ‘Roos,’ said Harweden, willing to spit out the name, even if Badew could not.

  Michael obliged, outlining as many details as he could about Roos’s double life. Badew and Harweden listened with increasing horror.

  ‘I do not believe you,’ breathed Badew when the monk had finished. ‘You are making it up.’

  ‘It is too incredible a tale for me to have invented,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Indeed, I am still coming to terms with it myself. But you knew nothing of it? No inkling at all?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ replied Harweden, patently stunned. ‘I suspected some affiliation between him and Margery, as you know, but him being a member of the Lady’s privy council all these years? It cannot be possible!’

  ‘It feels like a bad dream,’ said Badew in a small voice, and for the first time, Bartholomew felt sorry for him. ‘I keep hoping that I will wake up.’

  ‘Godeston’s litter-bearers hope he will wake up, too,’ said Harweden grimly, nodding to where both boys wept copiously as they delivered their erstwhile employer to Nicholas. ‘I hear that they are good for nothing else, and will avenge his murder if it kills them.’

  ‘Then we shall take the Senior Proctor’s advice and remain inside the Bell until it is time for us to leave,’ determined Badew. ‘With our door locked. We should never have come to this terrible place. Damn Roos for his treachery!’

  When they had seen the two old men to their chamber, Bartholomew and Michael turned back to the castle, aiming to interview the Marishal clan. They took a detour through the churchyard to avoid a large throng of townsfolk, which allowed them to be hailed by a familiar voice.

  ‘Poor Godeston,’ called Anne, as they passed her window. ‘He was a pompous old fool, but he did not deserve to die. Personally, I think the Austins did it. It explains why they are now going around telling everyone that he died of natural causes, when his servants say he was poisoned.’

  ‘John has made a serious tactical error,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘He should never have tried to hide the truth with lies.’

  ‘They think more about their oaths of loyalty to each other than they do about justice or truth,’ Anne went on resentfully. ‘They would certainly kill to protect one another, even if it means war between the town and the castle.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Bartholomew. ‘As far as I can see, everything they have done is to one end: to avert trouble.’

  Including, he thought but did not say, declining to avenge the death of one of their own – a man who certainly would have been included in their controversial vows of solidarity.

  Anne sniffed huffily. ‘Dismiss my opinions if you will, but you will see.’

  ‘Do you believe her, Matt?’ asked Michael, as he and Bartholomew left the churchyard. ‘That the killer may be a friar?’

  Bartholomew was not sure what to think. ‘It is possible, I suppose. Richard the watchman did say that he let two of them through the gate at the salient time – Heselbech, which Langelee can confirm, and one other.’

  ‘Well, there are John and Heselbech now,’ said Michael, nodding across the street. ‘We shall ask them which of their brethren went out. Of course, we know one who was abroad, and who probably did not say nocturns in
his church as he claims – Nicholas.’

  ‘Yet anyone can don a cloak with a hood, and pretend to be an Austin,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps it was an imposter, and the friars are innocent.’

  But Michael shook his head. ‘Richard thought it was a priest, and I trust his testimony. He is an observant man.’

  The two Austins looked very much like former soldiers as they marched along. Both were armed with knives, which was unusual for men in holy orders, although Bartholomew understood why they were loath to go about unprotected.

  ‘I have already told you,’ said Heselbech impatiently, when Michael put his question. ‘I went to the castle chapel to say nocturns, but I was too drunk – as Langelee will attest. I rang the bell, but then decided it would be better to sleep than recite the sacred words in a stupor.’

  ‘Quite right,’ agreed John piously. ‘There is little worse than insincerity. It damages the soul, and should be avoided at all costs.’

  ‘So who was the second friar?’ asked Bartholomew.

  Heselbech raised his hands in a shrug. ‘There was no second friar. I am the castle’s only chaplain, and everyone else stayed at home. Is that not so, Father Prior?’

  John nodded. ‘Other than Nicholas, who went to his church, but we know he arrived without making a detour, because Anne heard him. Heselbech is right, Brother: there was no second friar.’

  ‘Yes, there was,’ insisted Michael firmly. ‘My witness is positive.’

  Then I shall ask my people,’ said John, ‘but I am sure your witness is mistaken. He mistook a common cloak for a religious one in the dark.’

  ‘Yes, it was probably a servant sneaking home late after a night with friends,’ said Heselbech. ‘Despite the current trouble, there are plenty of castle folk with connections to the town – Adam the baker and Quintone, to name but two.’

  When Bartholomew and Michael reached the castle, they found that Albon had moved to the next stage of his investigation, which entailed him sitting outside the chapel and announcing that he was available for the culprit to confess. Unsurprisingly, the killer had not taken him up on the offer, so Albon remained in splendid isolation. The knight had chosen another throne-like chair to lounge in, and had dressed with considerable care, so he looked like a king holding court.