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

by Susanna Gregory

  Her voice was loud, and several courtiers near the door grinned their delight at his discomfiture. He bowed stiffly and took his leave, evidently deciding that it was more prudent to retreat than stay and risk another. The Lady’s gimlet eye swivelled around to Bartholomew, and she flapped an impatient hand for him to help her to her feet.

  ‘As I cannot trust anyone to do what I ask, I suppose I must take you to see the birds myself,’ she grumbled. ‘I want them mended, and you may have five marks if you succeed.’

  ‘And you may have two marks for getting Lichet into trouble,’ whispered Ereswell to Michael, as he passed. ‘To go with the pig money that you have already won.’

  Michael accepted the coins with a grin. ‘But keep your purse handy. I have not finished with your Red Devil yet. Not by a long way.’

  The Oxford Tower was the shortest and oldest of the four turrets, and possessed the smallest, meanest rooms. Bartholomew recalled Ella saying that it was where the least important guests were usually housed – which had included the men from Clare Hall before they had decanted to the Swan. Its stairs were worn, and the doors to its chambers were so thick and sturdy that he found himself thinking that it would serve as a very good prison.

  ‘You forgot to ask the Lady if Lichet was with her at the time of the murders,’ he murmured as they followed her up the stairs.

  ‘I did not forget,’ Michael whispered back. ‘I just decided it would be better if Lichet was not there when I did it – prompting her into saying what he wants.’

  ‘I do not think there is much chance of that. She knows her own mind.’

  ‘Regardless, I shall ask her when we are alone – and when the occasion is right.’

  The paroquets were on the top floor, so it took a while to reach them, as the Lady moved at a very stately pace. This suited Michael, who also disliked racing up steep and narrow staircases, and it gave Bartholomew time to dredge his memory for what little he knew about paroquets.

  Fortunately, one of his teachers in Paris had owned one, so while no expert, he was not a complete stranger to the species. He recalled that the bird had been an unruly creature, which had learned bad habits far more quickly than good ones. It and its owner had been devoted to each other, and when he had last heard of them, both were living happily together, with the paroquet dictating their social life and terrorising the students.

  ‘What is wrong with your birds?’ he asked, during one of their several lengthy breathers. The Lady used these to gaze out of the windows, watching her retainers scurry about with a critical eye. The shirkers would no doubt receive a dressing-down later.

  ‘They eat vast quantities of food – more than is natural,’ she replied. ‘I am worried that it will adversely affect their health, and they are sweet creatures. I do not want them to sicken.’

  ‘There is nothing wrong with a healthy appetite,’ declared Michael. ‘And if Matt recommends putting the poor things on a dietary regime devised by that maniac Galen, ignore him. Galen might have been a great physician in ancient Greece, but his ideas have no place in a modern society.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Lady, amusement flashing in her eyes. ‘However, the paroquets are costing me a fortune in expensive delicacies, and they have a taste for fine wines, too. I want them cured of their gluttony, because it would be a great pity if they grew too fat to fly.’

  ‘I do not envy you this task, Matt,’ murmured Michael, as the Lady turned to climb the final flight of steps. ‘It is cruel to deprive a living being of its preferred victuals.’

  Before Bartholomew could think of a suitably diplomatic reply, the Lady opened the door to a spacious chamber with windows on all sides. In the middle was a T-shaped structure, on which perched three birds. They had long tails, grey faces and crafty eyes. The largest screeched its excitement when it saw the Lady, and flew to her outstretched arm. It bobbed up and down until she gave it a nut, which it snatched and began to gnaw greedily with its sharp black bill.

  ‘Grisel loves almonds,’ said the Lady, watching it fondly. ‘And meat, of course.’

  ‘Meat?’ echoed Bartholomew warily. ‘I am not sure that is—’

  ‘God save the Queen,’ declared Grisel nasally, then added something that sounded like ‘Bring van the hold down.’

  ‘It talks?’ blurted Michael. ‘My goodness!’

  ‘My goodness, my goodness,’ croaked Grisel, casting a pale eye in the monk’s direction. ‘Hold the van down bring.’

  ‘Grisel used to live on a ship,’ explained the Lady. ‘Hence the nautical terminology.’

  ‘I do not like the look of its beak,’ said Michael uncomfortably. ‘It could relieve a man of fingers, noses, ears and even eyes.’

  ‘It could,’ agreed the Lady with a smile that was not entirely pleasant. ‘So you had better be on your best behaviour. His companions are named Blanche and Morel. All three were Margery’s originally. She gave them to Anne, to keep her company in her cell, but they kept escaping through the squint to fly around the church.’

  ‘How were they enticed back inside the anchorhold again?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

  ‘With almonds,’ replied the Lady, returning Grisel to his perch and offering him a second nut. There was something of a rumpus when the other two tried to relieve him of it. ‘A few weeks later, Anne sent them to me – a bribe, in the hope that I would reinstate her as castle nurse.’

  ‘Is that an option?’ asked Michael. ‘I suspect she is far more suited to tending youngsters than pretending to be holy.’

  ‘The Church condemned what she did to Suzanne de Nekton,’ said the Lady, looking away, ‘and I must uphold its strictures, regardless of my own private thoughts on the matter. I am afraid Anne will be an anchoress for the rest of her life.’

  ‘But you kept the bribe,’ noted Bartholomew, thinking it should have been refused if the Lady aimed to occupy the moral high ground.

  She regarded him coolly. ‘A church is no place for paroquets, and they are happier here. Besides, Anne could not give them what they need – namely a lot of very costly treats and a proper keeper to mind them. Katrina de Haliwell used to raise peacocks for me.’

  Bartholomew and Michael had not noticed the woman standing by the door. Katrina was pretty, dark-haired and freckled, and wore a black bodice of the kind that had recently come to denote widowhood. She had intelligent green eyes and a mischievous smile.

  ‘At last,’ she said, when the Lady introduced Bartholomew. ‘I expected you days ago. Did Master Lichet spin you a tale about the birds being his responsibility?’

  ‘Well, physician?’ demanded the Lady, sparing Bartholomew the need to reply. ‘What are you waiting for? Payment in advance? I am afraid that is not an option. You may only have the five marks when you have diagnosed the cause of their overeating.’

  ‘Nuts,’ said Grisel, nodding sagely. ‘Queen God save. Down the van bring hold.’

  ‘Matt will calculate their horoscopes,’ said Michael gravely, although Bartholomew could tell he itched to laugh. ‘Although inspecting their urine is likely to prove more of a challenge.’

  ‘Then we shall leave him to it,’ said the Lady. ‘Come, monk. Accompany me back down the stairs. You have a killer to catch and I have estate business to attend, so neither of us can dally here.’

  Bartholomew was not entirely sure where to begin. The paroquets regarded him with distrust, and he stared back, ready to duck if one flew at him. He knew from his teacher’s bird that they could move fast, and he still had a scar on one knuckle to prove it, dating from a time when he had been eating a piece of bread that the creature had decided was going down the wrong throat.

  ‘They do not look overfed,’ he said, and glanced surreptitiously at Katrina. It would not be the first time a keeper had requisitioned stores that her charges never saw.

  ‘They eat what they need,’ she replied loftily. ‘However, it is not their diet that worries me, but the fact that they fight. Yet when I separate them, they pine.’
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  ‘Van the down hold bring,’ confided Grisel.

  ‘Of course they fight,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You have two males and one female.’

  Katrina regarded him coolly. ‘So what do you suggest we do? Buy another female? But what happens if Morel and Grisel still prefer Blanche? Then we will still have two sparring cocks, but will have added an offended hen to the equation.’

  Bartholomew wondered how he had let himself be manoeuvred into a position where he was obliged to act as a counsellor for a love triangle between birds. ‘Have you tried distracting them from their amours by giving them interesting things to do?’

  She frowned her bemusement. ‘Such as what?’

  He raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Teach them tricks, give them toys to play with, provide things for them to chew – although preferably not meat.’

  ‘I would never give them meat,’ replied Katrina crossly, then flushed when she realised this was probably not what he had been told. ‘Other than when it is necessary.’

  Her arrangements with the kitchens were none of his concern, and he was about to say so when Grisel flew to his shoulder, precipitating a sudden memory of his student days. Life had been so simple then, when all he had to do was absorb as much knowledge as he could. Now he was a teacher himself, although that part of his life would be over when he married Matilde. He experienced a sudden sense of misgiving. Was she worth it? To take his mind off such uncomfortable questions, he went to the window and looked out, the bird still on his shoulder.

  ‘You have a good view of the Cistern Tower,’ he remarked.

  ‘Yes, but I did not see who murdered Margery, if that is where this discussion is going. Yet I might have done, because I was up at the time. The squires woke me with their racket at midnight, and I could not go back to sleep again. I read for a while, then went to nocturns in the chapel.’

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘You cannot have done – Heselbech rang the bell, but then decided he was incapable of doing his duty.’

  ‘Then his memory is flawed, because he did do it. He was behind the rood screen, of course, so I could not see him, but I certainly heard him reciting the words.’

  ‘And it was definitely Heselbech?’

  ‘Well, he is our chaplain, so who else could it have been?’ Katrina gave a sudden chuckle. ‘Your friend Master Langelee? He came out as I went in, but he reeked of ale and was just as drunk as Heselbech. It is a pity he is a scholar, as he is a very attractive man.’

  ‘Langelee is?’ blurted Bartholomew, then decided that he did not want to know the answer. ‘Was anyone else in the chapel when you arrived?’

  ‘Just Albon, although he was at the front, as near to the chancel as he could get, whereas I kept to the back. He was already kneeling there when I went in, and he stayed after I left. He spends a lot of time praying – probably asking God for an excuse to get him out of going to war.’

  ‘Then God has given him one,’ said Bartholomew, going to put the paroquet back with its companions. ‘He has vowed not to leave Clare until Margery’s killer is caught.’

  ‘The Lady will not allow him to wriggle out of his obligations that easily – she wants the squires out of her hair.’ Katrina sighed. ‘Yet I wish I did have something useful to tell you. Margery was my friend, and I should like to help you catch her killer.’

  ‘Perhaps you can,’ said Bartholomew, and told her about Roos’s double life. ‘We do not know why she summoned him, but it must have been important, as she told a terrible lie to get him here.’

  Katrina frowned thoughtfully. ‘Margery liked him to bring her things when he came. I assumed they were from London, but perhaps they were from Cambridge …’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘She never said, but you might want to look into it – it could be important.’

  She changed the subject then, and told him how she had been invited to work at the castle after being widowed. She had accepted with alacrity, because her husband had left her penniless, and it was an opportunity to secure a suitable replacement.

  ‘Have you found one?’ Bartholomew hoped she would not set her sights on Langelee, because the Master was likely to take what was offered, then trot home without a backward glance.

  Katrina sighed ruefully. ‘Originally, I thought one of the squires would do. They are young, vigorous and have good prospects. But it transpires that they are scum – they grab what they want, then move on, leaving broken hearts behind them. Nuport was my nemesis: once he had added me to his tally, he went after the baker’s sister.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Thomas is all right, though – he has a sense of humour and I like men who laugh. But he is too much in his sister’s sway, and I do not want to wed twins. So I have decided to make a play for Albon – I think I can secure him before he goes to war. He will treat me well, although he is as dull as ditch-water and a coward into the bargain.’

  Bartholomew blinked. ‘You would pay that price for a secure future?’

  ‘You would never ask that question unless you had experienced real love yourself. Well, I wish you joy of your paragon, but I must take what I can get. Albon will suit me well enough.’

  ‘Suzanne de Nekton. Was she one of the squires’ victims?’

  Katrina shook her head slowly. ‘They may be callous, but they are not rapists. It was another man who destroyed Suzanne. She had to ask Anne for help, but there were problems …’

  ‘Were there problems? Anne told me that Suzanne just screamed a lot.’

  Katrina winced. ‘She whimpered. However, Anne told Suzanne to stay up here and rest when she had finished, and Grisel sensed her distress – it was him who screamed, not Suzanne. Unfortunately, the noise attracted attention, with the result that Anne is walled up in the church, and there is no one left to help needy girls.’

  ‘Perhaps it is just as well. Scraping inside them with a hook is dangerous.’

  ‘Giving birth is dangerous,’ countered Katrina. ‘I have lost several friends to childbed fevers. Anne provided a valuable service, and it is a wicked shame that she was punished for it.’

  It was an uncomfortable conversation for Bartholomew, and although he had always been able to see both sides of this particular argument, it was not something he was about to discuss with a stranger. He hastened to move on.

  ‘Anne said Suzanne was sent to a nunnery.’

  ‘A place where she is safe from ruthless men – including her loathsome father, who claims she shamed him. He is a tanner, but you would think he was a lord from the way he acts.’

  Bartholomew left the Oxford Tower full of dark thoughts. Matilde wanted children, but she was old for first-time motherhood. What would he do if there was a choice between losing her and wielding a hook? He sincerely hoped he would never have to find out.

  CHAPTER 9

  The next morning was Sunday, and the scholars were woken by the joyful jangle of Sabbath bells. Langelee was heavy-eyed and weary, having spent another evening with his warrior friends. Michael had also stayed up late, reviewing what he had learned about the murder of Roos, but Bartholomew had gone to bed early and slept like a log, so he rose refreshed and alert. He set about washing and shaving, full of vigour and high spirits, the black thoughts of the previous night forgotten. For now, at least.

  ‘Do not splash,’ snapped Langelee, flinching from the flying droplets. ‘And do not inflict that dreadful singing on us either. It is unkind.’

  ‘We have a lot to do today,’ said Michael, primping in front of a mirror, ‘because the Lady’s hundred marks should go to Michaelhouse – not to Albon, and certainly not to Lichet. Will you be available to help, Matt, or are you more concerned with the Lady’s birds? Or is it their keeper who has caught your eye?’

  ‘I do not blame you,’ said Langelee before Bartholomew could reply. ‘That Katrina de Haliwell is a handsome lass, although she has the appetite of a horse if the tales in the kitchens are true. But watch yourself – you do not want tales getting ba
ck to Matilde. Women can be touchy about that sort of thing.’

  ‘What tales?’ objected Bartholomew. ‘All I did was examine her paroquets.’

  ‘Of course you did,’ said Langelee with a man-of-the-world leer. ‘But tread with care. She wants a husband to replace the one who died, and will accept anyone who can provide her with a decent standard of living.’

  ‘Well, that eliminates Matt then,’ quipped Michael. ‘Because he will not earn enough to keep himself once he leaves Michaelhouse. He will be almost entirely reliant on Matilde.’

  ‘What did you two do while I was busy earning five marks for Michaelhouse?’ asked Bartholomew archly, electing to overlook the fact that the money would not be theirs until the Lady was satisfied that he had actually done something useful.

  ‘Quite a lot, actually,’ replied the monk. ‘We contrived to slip into the Constable Tower behind Lichet’s back, but Marishal was slumbering so deeply that neither of us could get any sense out of him. Then we visited all the taverns in Clare, asking after Bonde and the hermit.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Bartholomew, conceding that they had achieved rather more than he had. ‘What did you learn?’

  ‘That everyone is worried about Jan, because they like having a holy man in their town, but they are glad to be rid of Bonde, who they think is dangerous.’

  ‘He is dangerous,’ said Langelee soberly. ‘You can tell just by looking that he is violent. He could well be our culprit, lying low until the fuss dies down, at which point he will strut back and resume his role as the Lady’s favourite henchman. Of course, the hermit was also wandering around the castle at the time of the murders …’

  ‘He was,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But I discovered last night that he has a deep-rooted terror of underground places, and could no more enter the cistern than fly. Moreover, he adored Margery, as she not only built his cottage but gave him money for his weekly shopping. The townsfolk believe that he witnessed the killer emerge bloody-handed from his crime, and fled in terror.’