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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Perhaps he saw Bonde,’ suggested Langelee, ‘who then set off after him. That would explain why both have gone.’

  ‘I agree that Jan knows the killer’s identity,’ said Michael. ‘Or rather knew, given that I doubt he is still alive. But I am not sure the culprit is Bonde. There are still others to consider.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Langelee tiredly. ‘I keep losing track, because they are on and off the list like jumping fleas.’

  Michael began to list them. ‘First, Nicholas. I know you are all admiration for him, Master, because he is hearty, strong and decisive, but I cannot take to him at all. There is something sinister beneath that bluff exterior.’

  ‘You doubtless say the same about me,’ retorted Langelee. ‘But you would be wrong.’

  ‘You are not artful enough to be sinister,’ said Michael, and hurried on before Langelee realised that was no great compliment. ‘Then there are Marishal, his twins, Lichet, Bonde, Albon and Grym. Not Badew and Harweden, though – they could never have gained access to the castle.’

  He did not mention that Prior John was also a suspect, for the simple reason that Langelee would disagree, and he did not want to waste time arguing about it.

  ‘I thought we had decided that Grym was too fat to squeeze down the cistern steps,’ said Langelee. ‘You only just made it, and he is much stouter than you.’

  Michael eyed him beadily. ‘He is a suspect for killing Godeston, on the grounds that he likes to dispense hemlock for medicinal purposes, which Matt says is a risky thing to do. Of course, Lichet uses it, too …’

  ‘He does,’ agreed Bartholomew, rather eagerly. ‘And perhaps there is a good reason why he has kept Marishal asleep for two days – namely that he killed the man’s wife.’

  Langelee frowned. ‘Are we looking into Mayor Godeston’s murder now as well? I thought John told us to leave that to him.’

  ‘He did,’ said Michael, ‘but the Lady wants all the suspicious deaths investigated and she charged us to do it. I have no objection, though. Godeston’s curious death follows five others, and it is possible that we may only have answers when we look at the whole picture.’

  ‘How will we do that?’ asked Langelee helplessly.

  ‘By re-questioning witnesses, starting with you. You were in the castle when Roos and Margery were killed. You must remember something to help.’

  Langelee looked pained. ‘All I recall is lugging Heselbech to the chapel for nocturns – which he never celebrated because he was too drunk.’

  ‘But he did celebrate it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Katrina was there, and she heard him.’

  Langelee shrugged. ‘Then he must have managed to rouse himself after I left. I did not notice her, though. Did she see me?’

  Bartholomew nodded. ‘She said you were coming out as she was going in.’

  ‘You must be losing your touch, Master,’ said Michael wryly. ‘You do not usually neglect to notice pretty women. Or shall we just put it down to how much you had had to drink?’

  Langelee regarded him archly. ‘The strain of running a foundering College must be depriving me of the ability to enjoy life.’ He was silent for a while, thinking. ‘Perhaps Roos killed Margery because he was irked with her for dragging him to Clare under false pretences.’

  ‘And then what?’ asked Michael. ‘Stabbed himself and threw his own body in the water?’

  ‘I suppose it is unlikely. But he was a vile man. Only vermin betray their friends – Badew and Harweden trusted him, and he repaid them with treachery. You should find out when he was last in Clare – see if his presence corresponds to the other suspicious deaths.’

  ‘I did,’ said Michael. ‘And it did not.’

  Langelee looked disappointed. ‘Then the culprit must be Lichet. He is not a good man either.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew keenly.

  ‘The Lady’s courtiers certainly do not like him,’ said Michael. ‘They told me that he does sit with her while she sleeps, but he comes and goes at will. Thus he cannot prove where he was at the time of the murders – which took place in the tower where he lives.’

  ‘Albon believes Lichet’s alibi, though,’ mused Langelee. ‘Of course, he suspects that the killer is a squire, and thinks that quiet, godly patience will shame the culprit into a confession. He was still sitting in the bailey when I left last night. What an ass!’

  At that moment, the priory bell began to ring, summoning the friars to prime in their chapel. Michael became businesslike, standing and rubbing his hands together purposefully.

  ‘Right,’ he said, glancing one last time in the mirror to ensure that every hair was in its proper place. ‘As soon as we have fulfilled our religious obligations, we will talk to Marishal.’

  ‘What if Lichet has dosed him with more soporific?’ asked Langelee.

  ‘We must prevent that if we can,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Keeping healthy patients asleep for days on end will do them no good whatsoever.’

  ‘When we have finished with Marishal,’ Michael went on, ‘we shall set about finding the mysterious priest who entered the castle after Langelee and Heselbech.’

  ‘If it was a priest,’ cautioned Bartholomew. ‘It was too dark to see properly, and while you are prepared to accept the watchman’s testimony, I think that his claim about religious men gliding to their offices is preposterous. You are a monk, but you cannot glide.’

  ‘Of course I can,’ objected Michael, stung. ‘I just choose not to.’

  * * *

  Michael attended Mass in the priory, but Bartholomew and Langelee went to the parish church instead. Langelee thought the office there would be shorter, and he hated being inactive for too long, while the physician wanted another opportunity to study the fan vaulting. Unfortunately, much of the scaffolding still remained in place, so its true glory was yet to be revealed.

  ‘It will never be ready in time for the Queen,’ predicted Langelee. ‘Nicholas was too ambitious, and should have given himself another week.’

  ‘I am looking forward to meeting Cambrug,’ said Bartholomew, but then sighed ruefully. ‘Although he will probably be far too busy to bother with the likes of me.’

  ‘Well, if he does deign to acknowledge you, ask about those cracks,’ said Langelee, peering upwards. ‘I do not want to be crushed by falling masonry during this ceremony, and it would be good to know if we should stand in the south aisle instead. That has a much more sensible ceiling.’

  At that point, Nicholas jangled his handbell and the service began. It was not well attended, and Anne could be heard throughout, issuing instructions to him through the squint. At one point, Bartholomew and Langelee exchanged an amused grin, but soon wished they had not.

  ‘It is unbecoming to smirk during Mass,’ came her admonishing voice. ‘You should be heartily ashamed of yourselves.’

  ‘It was one quick smile,’ objected Langelee, moving towards her cell so she would not be obliged to yell. A few of the sparse congregation were men he had approached for donations, and he did not want them to think him impious. ‘And what gives you the right to berate us anyway? You are more interested in telling the vicar his job than saying your own prayers.’

  ‘I would be a poor anchoress if I did not involve myself in religious affairs,’ retorted Anne. ‘And advising Nicholas is how I choose to do it. But never mind that. Do you have any interesting news? It is frustrating, being shut in here with no way to find out what is going on outside.’

  Langelee considered carefully. ‘Well, we are worried about the hermit – that he saw the killer, and has been dispatched in his turn.’

  ‘Then I shall pray for his soul,’ said Anne. ‘Although he was a worthless fellow, and Clare will be much nicer without him. He did not wash, you know. Margery was always good to him, but I do not know how she stood the stench.’

  ‘Have you heard any rumours about who the killer may be?’

  ‘The town says he is from the castle, and the castle says he is from the town. However, I c
an tell you that Margery’s family would never have hurt her, no matter what you might have heard about the lack of affection between them. Ella and Thomas are scamps, but there is no real harm in them, while Marishal loved her, even if he was always too busy to show it.’

  ‘Michael thinks that Nicholas might be the culprit,’ confided Langelee in a low voice. ‘It is outrageous, I know, but—’

  ‘Nicholas?’ interrupted Anne, shocked. ‘Do not be ridiculous! He is a priest. The villain is more likely to be one of you scholarly types. We never had any trouble before you lot arrived.’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ countered Bartholomew, unwilling to let her get away with that one. ‘Starting with Roger, and followed by Talmach, Charer, Wisbech and Skynere.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Anne. ‘I had forgotten about them. Do you want me to keep an ear out for pertinent confessions then? I will do it in exchange for a seed cake and a bottle of lavender water.’

  ‘Speaking of confessions,’ began Bartholomew, ‘I met Katrina de Haliwell yesterday. She told me that Suzanne—’

  ‘I provided a valuable service,’ interrupted Anne angrily. ‘As I told you before. And my skills are badly missed. Take Isabel Morley, for example. She is carrying Quintone’s child, but he refuses to marry her. I could have helped, but now she is condemned to bear a bastard and be shunned for the rest of her life. What a waste!’

  ‘I was going to say that Katrina claims it was the paroquets who screamed, not Suzanne,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She only whimpered.’

  There was a short silence as this information was digested.

  ‘Then I am sorry for all the bad things I said about her,’ conceded Anne eventually. ‘Still, life in here has its advantages. I am warm, dry, well fed and people revere me. I cannot complain.’

  They met Nicholas as they were leaving the church. He was bringing his breakfast to share with Anne – a pan of coddled eggs, good white bread, dried fruit and a dish of stewed onions. It was a good deal better than what was usually served in Michaelhouse on a Sunday, and Bartholomew saw that Anne was right to claim she was well looked after.

  ‘Two warriors together,’ said the vicar with an approving smile when he saw Bartholomew and Langelee. ‘A veteran of Poitiers and a soldier from York. How are you this fine morning?’

  ‘I am not a warrior,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘I am a physician.’

  Nicholas patted his arm. ‘You can be both, and there is no need to be modest on my account. I am all admiration for the number of Frenchmen you slaughtered single-handed.’

  ‘There are three enquiries into the murders of Roos and Margery now,’ said Langelee, changing the subject quickly before Bartholomew could berate him again for telling lies. ‘Run by Michael, Lichet and Albon. The last two are unlikely to succeed, but our Senior Proctor is a remarkable man, and no killer has bested him yet. I should warn you that he has you in his sights.’

  ‘Me?’ blurted Nicholas, startled. ‘But I have not killed anyone! Well, not in Clare, at least. And I try to stay away from the castle, on the grounds that it is full of folk who I do not like.’

  ‘Well, do not tell him that when he questions you, or he will assume that you took the opportunity to dispatch a couple,’ advised Langelee. ‘Apparently, two Austins entered the castle at the salient time – Heselbech and one other. He thinks the mystery priest might have been you.’

  ‘Then he is wrong,’ said Nicholas firmly, ‘as Anne will attest. Brother Michael cannot doubt the word of a holy anchoress.’

  Bartholomew knew he could.

  ‘Well, just be on your guard,’ said Langelee, and glanced at Bartholomew. ‘Do not look so disapproving. You remember what I was telling you about loyalty earlier? Well, that extends to telling fellow ex-warriors that they may be unjustly accused of a nasty crime.’

  ‘Michael will have a job to waylay me today anyway,’ said Nicholas, ‘as I shall be very busy. Not only do I have all my usual Sunday offices, but there is the scaffolding to dismantle, and Margery is due to be buried later.’

  ‘Buried here?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Not in the castle?’

  ‘The chapel is reserved for the Lady and her kin, so yes, Margery will come to me. I shall put her in the chancel – the best spot in the whole church, right in front of the altar.’

  ‘That is good of you,’ said Langelee. ‘But why? Because you are an Austin, dedicated to keeping the peace? Your strategy may well work: the town will be glad to see Margery in such an auspicious place, while the castle will be grateful to you for treating her remains with such respect.’

  Nicholas regarded him stonily. ‘I do it because I liked her. If it had been any other castle resident, they would have gone on the boggy side of the churchyard. Prior John does not approve of my partiality, but it is the town that pays my stipend …’

  ‘Will there be trouble at the funeral?’ asked Langelee. ‘The town objecting to a lot of the enemy pouring into their parish church?’

  ‘They will overlook the outrage for Margery’s sake,’ said Nicholas. ‘She was loved by all.’

  Bartholomew and Langelee returned to the priory just as Michael and the friars were emerging from their more extensive devotions in the conventual chapel. The monk’s fine voice had far outshone the manly rumbles of the Austins, and he was modestly accepting the praise they were lavishing on him for his exquisite rendition of the Gloria.

  ‘They should hire someone to sing for them if they cannot do it themselves,’ Michael muttered, as they traipsed towards the refectory to break their fast. ‘Because they sound like what they are – a lot of old soldiers more used to bawling tavern songs than psalms.’

  ‘God will not mind,’ said Langelee. ‘He likes ex-soldiers. It says so in the Bible.’

  ‘I am sure it does not,’ countered Michael, ‘and besides, I am not sure they are ex-soldiers. They are all wearing some form of armour under their habits, while Weste has a cudgel and Heselbech would chop off his fingers if he tried paring fruit with that great big knife in his belt.’

  ‘Of course they are armed,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘Keeping the peace here is dangerous.’

  ‘I do not equip myself with weapons when I patrol Cambridge,’ argued Michael. ‘Their precautions are excessive. Besides, I have never been comfortable with men who take holy orders to atone for violent pasts. You never know when they might revert to type.’

  Langelee glared. ‘In other words, you think that one of the Austins killed Margery and Roos, just because some watchman thinks a second friar followed Heselbech and me into the castle.’

  ‘I do. John, Heselbech, Weste – all look as though they would be happier in mail than a habit, and their priory is more like a barracks than a House of God. I wish I had suggested staying somewhere else.’

  But he revised his opinion when he saw the Sabbath breakfast table. There was bread, plenty of meat, a whole cheese and butter – the kind of spread he loved. As a sop to health, there was a tiny dish of dried figs, although Bartholomew was the only one who ate one. It was old and stale, leading him to conclude that they had probably been making an appearance every Sunday for months, and as the friars shunned them, would continue to do so for many more to come.

  As conversation was permitted that day, it was not long before the subject turned to murder. John asked for an update on the investigation, and Langelee provided him with one, ignoring the warning kicks that Michael aimed at his ankles under the table. The monk did not want to share everything they had learned.

  ‘I immortalised Roos in my Book of Hours?’ breathed Weste, stunned. ‘I had no idea! All I can tell you is that “Jevan” had nasty glittering eyes that belied his avuncular white hairs. I sensed at once that there was something distasteful about him.’

  ‘And you were right,’ said John, lips pursed in disapproval at Langelee’s revelations. ‘The only crime worse than the breaking of sacred oaths is betraying one’s friends. You were perceptive to have depicted him as Satan.’

  ‘I agre
e,’ said Heselbech, baring his terrifying teeth in a grimace, while there were fervent nods from all around the refectory. ‘It is despicable, and the Devil will certainly have his soul now.’

  ‘So you think Roos got his just deserts?’ fished Michael.

  Heselbech regarded him evenly. ‘Yes, if you want the truth. However, we did not kill him. I was asleep in my chapel, and everyone else was here, celebrating nocturns.’

  ‘You were not asleep,’ Bartholomew told him. ‘Katrina de Haliwell heard you praying.’

  Heselbech blinked. ‘Did she? Goodness! I have no recollection of it at all.’

  ‘I am not surprised, given the state of you,’ smirked Langelee. ‘You did not really ring the bell either – you clutched the rope for support. Then your hands slid down it and you fell over.’

  ‘It was I who recited nocturns in the castle,’ announced Weste, and raised his hands apologetically when everyone looked at him in surprise. ‘I knew Heselbech would be incapable, and I did not want him in trouble with the Lady, who attends that ceremony on occasion. So I followed him and Langelee to the chapel, and I did the honours at the altar, while he snored in the corner.’

  Heselbech clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You are a good friend, Weste! The Lady would have docked my stipend if she had caught me napping, so I appreciate you looking out for me.’

  ‘Well, I do not,’ said Michael sourly. ‘Why did you not mention this sooner? You must see it is important. We wasted hours pondering over the mysterious second priest.’

  Weste was unrepentant. ‘It is not important, because I neither saw nor heard anything to help your investigation. And I did not tell you, because I did not want Heselbech’s condition to become a subject for gossip. Of course, he has made no effort to conceal his shortcomings himself …’

  Heselbech grinned. ‘And rightly so, because it has done my popularity the power of good. Castle folk like me more now they realise that I am just like them.’

  ‘So who else was in the chapel?’ asked Michael angrily, glaring at Weste. ‘Or will you lie about that as well?’