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

by Susanna Gregory

  Weste made a placatory gesture. ‘Just two people – which is why the office had to be said. Katrina de Haliwell and Sir William Albon.’

  ‘I cannot believe this,’ said Michael in disgust. ‘Lies and deceit from fellow clerics! How am I supposed to solve these murders when even friars regale me with falsehoods?’

  ‘You should have confessed sooner, Weste,’ said John admonishingly. ‘But what is done is done, and we are not in the business of recrimination. Judgement is for the Lord to dispense, not us, so we shall say no more about it. Agreed, Brother?’

  Michael looked as though he had a very great deal more to say, but confined himself to an angry sniff, and for a while there was silence, the only sounds being the clank of knives on pewter plates and the occasional murmur of thanks as platters were passed. Eventually, Langelee spoke.

  ‘I do not like Anne. She is not very religious, and I am surprised the Church does not pull her anchorhold down and send her on her way. Why do you tolerate her, John?’

  ‘Guilt,’ explained the Prior sheepishly. ‘When I first learned that she poked about inside pregnant girls with hooks, I was appalled, and it was my horror that compelled the Lady to punish her. Anne’s crimes might have been overlooked otherwise, as there is an unspoken but widely held belief that she did a lot of good.’

  ‘So why did you not order the sentence commuted?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Only a physician with a reputation for heterodoxy could pose such a question,’ said Heselbech before John could speak for himself. He eyed Bartholomew coolly. ‘Because it is wrong. A life is a life, and it is not for Anne to decide who should live and who should perish on a hook.’

  There was a second uncomfortable silence, which again was broken by Langelee, who tended to be immune to chilly atmospheres.

  ‘I have been thinking about the hermit, Brother. You believe he is dead, but you may be wrong, and if you are, we should hear what he has to say. So I will hunt for him today.’

  ‘I will keep you company,’ offered Weste, his one eye gleaming at the prospect of an adventure. ‘I am sure Father Prior can spare me for a few hours.’

  ‘Perhaps we can all go,’ suggested Heselbech, surging to his feet with a grin of happy anticipation. ‘I would not mind an excursion and—’

  ‘No,’ interrupted John, raising his hand with a tolerant smile. ‘The Queen will arrive the day after tomorrow, and we do not have time for jaunts. If you want exercise, Heselbech, help Nicholas. He still has a lot of scaffolding to remove, and I am sure he would be glad of another pair of hands.’

  Heselbech walked away, shoulders slumped dejectedly, as did most of the others, although Weste and Langelee set off towards the stables with a spring in their step.

  ‘Watch out for Simon Freburn,’ John called after them. ‘We do not want you to come back sans ears.’

  ‘No fear of that,’ declared Langelee, clearly delighted by an opportunity to gallop around the countryside with a sword at his side. ‘No mere outlaw will get the better of us.’

  ‘I hope his confidence is not misplaced,’ said Michael worriedly.

  It was raining, so Bartholomew and Michael returned to their lodgings to collect cloaks. Bartholomew picked up his shabby, burned academic one and regarded it with regret.

  ‘You will have to wear Albon’s,’ said Michael. ‘Of course, it is far too good for the likes of you – you will ruin it within a week. If it was black, I would take it for myself.’

  ‘Then I am glad it is red,’ said Bartholomew, making a vow to look after it. Once he left the University, and was no longer obliged to wear Michaelhouse’s uniform, he would need a new one, and Albon’s gift would fit the bill perfectly. Moreover, he was sure Matilde would like to see him wearing more becoming colours.

  ‘With the exception of a dry afternoon here and there, it has been raining for weeks,’ grumbled Michael, sitting on the bed to exchange shoes for boots. ‘We are lucky Roos and Margery were found – that cistern must be full to overflowing by now.’ He shuddered. ‘What if someone was trapped down there, with the water steadily rising?’

  ‘I imagine most people know to stay out of it. And the well needs to be deep to serve hundreds of people in the event of a blockade. Lack of fresh water is one of the main reasons for the fall of fortresses in—’

  ‘Those rough Austins have brought out the warrior in you,’ interrupted Michael accusingly. ‘Because I never expected to hear you waxing lyrical on the intricacies of siege warfare.’

  ‘It is the mechanics of the cistern that intrigue me,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘Not the purpose for which it might be used.’

  But Michael was not listening, his mind back on the investigation. ‘We had better find out what Marishal has to say about the death of his wife first, and when we have finished, we will re-interview Thomas, Ella, Lichet, Albon and Nicholas. That should keep us busy for the morning.’

  ‘And beyond,’ muttered Bartholomew. ‘I should visit the paroquets, too. The Lady will not give us five marks if she finds out that I only examined them once.’

  ‘I cannot see the Queen taking to the roads in this weather,’ remarked Michael, wincing as they stepped outside and rain blew straight into their faces. ‘Not even to watch a fan-vaulted ceiling dedicated. She will send word that she is unavoidably detained, and postpone the visit until summer. You mark my words.’

  ‘Good,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The town and the Lady might be friends again by then.’

  A thick, drenching drizzle fell as they walked from the priory to the castle, and the River Stour was an ugly brown torrent. People scurried along with their heads down and their hoods up, and Bartholomew felt his hopes rise: the rain would dissuade folk from taking to the streets to protest about the murders, which could only help the cause of peace. Then he heard the hiss of angry conversation drifting from the alehouses they passed, and realised that the malcontents had just taken their complaints indoors.

  He and Michael entered the inner bailey and were greeted by a curious sight. Albon had erected the pavilion that he intended to take on campaign with him – a glorious affair of red and gold stripes, with frills around the edges and a large pennant flying from the roof. It was wholly unsuitable for the conditions he was likely to encounter, and the squires, who had been given the task of erecting it, were hot, cross and fractious.

  ‘Look what they have done to themselves now!’ exclaimed Michael. ‘They have shaved off all their hair except the fringe at the front. What are they thinking? They look absurd!’

  ‘It is the latest Court fashion, apparently,’ explained Quintone, overhearing. ‘Thomas had a letter about it from London, and he said the Queen would consider them peasants unless they did the same. He declines to do it himself, though, on the grounds that he is only a steward’s brat, whereas the squires are the sons of nobles.’

  Bartholomew shook his head wonderingly. ‘Were they born gullible, or did they learn it?’

  ‘I am glad I am not going to war with Thomas,’ confided Quintone. ‘If he cannot be trusted not to make his friends a laughing-stock, how can he be trusted to watch their backs in battle?’

  ‘Why has Albon pitched his tent?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘To make sure that he has all the right pieces before he leaves for France?’

  ‘No – because he does not want to sit out in the rain while he waits for the killer to confess.’ Quintone smirked. ‘It took the squires most of the night to get the thing up.’

  ‘So Langelee wins the wager,’ murmured Michael. ‘We gave Albon until yesterday to persist with this nonsense, whereas Langelee predicted it would last until tonight. Of course, now he has somewhere comfortable, Albon might confound us all by staying put for the next month.’

  ‘Well, he does look magnificent in there,’ said Bartholomew, glancing through the entrance to see Albon on his throne, another fine cloak cascading artistically around him and his gold-grey mane brushed until it shone. His expression was one of pious fortitude, and the physici
an wondered if he might stay that way not just for a month, but for as long as the army was needed in France.

  He stepped towards him, intending to thank him again for the cloak, but found his way barred by the squires. Close up, their heads looked sore, covered in small cuts and grazes, which suggested they had shorn themselves rather than entrusting the task to a professional barber.

  ‘Your master will not thank you for keeping folk out,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘He wants the culprit to go in and confess, which will not happen with you lot loitering outside.’

  ‘You mean you are the killer?’ asked Nuport, blinking stupidly.

  ‘Not him,’ said Thomas, regarding the physician with an expression that was difficult to gauge. ‘He is a veteran of Poitiers, and they do not kill women and old men.’

  Bartholomew was not so sure about that, but the squires stepped aside to let him pass anyway.

  The inside of the pavilion was very luxuriously appointed. Clearly, Albon had an eye for his creature comforts. The knight waved a dismissive hand when Bartholomew indicated his new cloak with a grateful smile, although it was clear that he was pleased his largesse should be appreciated.

  ‘It is just a trifle,’ he declared. ‘And valour should be rewarded. It was brave of you to put yourself in danger to save a minion. True knightly behaviour.’

  ‘Speaking of true knightly behaviour, your squires could do with learning some.’

  ‘I am aware of that,’ said Albon with a pained expression. ‘And I shall teach them, with God’s help. They are not bad lads – just ones in need of a gentle guiding hand.’

  ‘A guiding hand, certainly,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘Although a gentle one will be of scant use. I speak from experience – I have students just like them.’

  ‘I know what I am doing,’ said Albon, although Bartholomew begged to differ, and wondered how long it would be before the knight conceded that his ruffianly charges were beyond him.

  As he and Albon were alone, Bartholomew decided it was a good opportunity to ask about the night of the murder, although not with much hope of learning anything useful. Albon was too self-absorbed to be an observant witness. Even so, the knight listened carefully to his questions, and considered each one thoroughly before venturing a reply. At first, Bartholomew assumed he was being conscientious, but then realised that Albon was desperately bored, and an interview represented a welcome distraction.

  ‘I went to nocturns in the chapel,’ the knight began. ‘I had hoped to be alone, but a woman stood at the back and fidgeted the whole way through, which was very annoying. She left as soon as the rite was over, which allowed me to pray without the distraction of rustling kirtles.’

  ‘Were you aware that it was Weste, not Heselbech, who recited the office?’

  ‘No, but what difference does it make? Both are priests. I appreciate that there are some who would prefer the castle chaplain to a friar from the town, but I am not one of them.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else out and about that night?’

  Albon grimaced. ‘I hesitate to mention it, out of loyalty to a fellow warrior, but Langelee was with Heselbech. They made a dreadful racket with the bell ropes, then staggered behind the rood screen, where I heard one of them fall over. It was most unedifying. Then Langelee left, and I saw another shadow glide into the chancel – Weste, according to you.’

  ‘Will you really stay here until the culprit confesses?’ asked Bartholomew, sorry that Albon was able to tell him nothing he and Michael did not already know.

  Albon smiled serenely. ‘Yes, but it will not be for much longer. Today is Sunday, that most holy of days, when everyone attends church. The killer’s wicked heart will be touched by God, so I anticipate collecting a hundred marks before sunset.’

  ‘And then you will go to France?’

  ‘I am afraid I cannot, because the Queen will be here. The Lady will need a strong arm during such an eventful time, and I cannot abandon her in her hour of need.’

  ‘But Her Majesty might stay in Clare for weeks, or even months.’

  ‘She might,’ acknowledged Albon, not at all dismayed by the possibility. ‘But France will still be there when she has gone. Of course, her husband may have signed a peace treaty by then …’

  ‘Your squires will be disappointed to miss the slaughter.’

  ‘It cannot be helped, and I must do as my conscience dictates. I hope the culprit comes to me soon, though, as I fear Lichet might otherwise accuse an innocent person, just to get the reward. It is a pity the Lady offered such an enormous sum.’

  ‘What will you do with it, if you win?’

  ‘Why, give it to the parish church, of course,’ replied Albon, so promptly it was clear that he had already given the matter exhaustive consideration. ‘The ceiling is magnificent, but it would look better still with a picture of me on it.’

  Bartholomew left him contemplating the kind of image that would best do him justice, and went in search of Michael. He found the monk listening to a very testy debate between Nuport and the freckled squire named Mull about a guy rope that had no obvious purpose. Apparently, the tent had not been erected as per the manufacturers’ instructions, and Mull thought they should take it down and start again, when the function of the stray rope might become apparent. Nuport was of the opinion that they had struggled with the pavilion quite long enough, and that the offending line should be snipped off and forgotten.

  ‘I hope Nuport wins,’ said Michael to Bartholomew. ‘Because it would give me great pleasure to see the thing topple down with that lot inside it. And that includes the sanctimonious Albon.’

  The two scholars had not taken many steps towards the Constable Tower when they were intercepted by Lichet. The Red Devil’s hair hung in soggy rats’ tails around his face, while his cloak was saturated, suggesting he had been up and about for hours.

  ‘I have been interviewing witnesses all night,’ he informed them importantly. ‘And I am almost ready to announce my conclusions. The killer will be in custody today, and I shall have the hundred marks while you two continue to flounder.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ cautioned Michael. ‘But just naming the killer will not do – the Lady wants proof of his guilt. Otherwise I could just say that you are the culprit, and march off with the money.’

  Lichet sneered. ‘Oh, I shall have proof, do not worry about that.’

  ‘Good,’ said Michael briskly. ‘But we want to talk to Marishal now. Is he awake, or have you dosed him with more soporific that will see him sleep the day away?’

  ‘I offered him another draught, but he refused,’ sniffed Lichet, apparently having forgotten that the Lady had forbidden him to dispense more. ‘He is a fool to reject the medicine that will spare him the agony of grief, but it is not my place to insist. I shall reserve my expertise for people who actually appreciate my help.’

  He turned and stalked away, full of arrogant pride. Seeing such a tempting target, Nuport scooped up a handful of mud and lobbed it, hitting Lichet square in the back. The Red Devil whipped around, and the fury on his face was such that the laughter died in the young man’s throat.

  ‘Do that again, and I will turn you into a pig,’ Lichet snarled. ‘And serve you to your cronies, roasted with an apple shoved in your mouth.’

  ‘Turn him into a pig?’ murmured Ereswell, as he ambled past with his arms full of clean white linen for the Queen’s private chamber. ‘How, when he already is one? I do not know which of that pair I detest more – Lichet or Nuport. I live in hope that they will dispatch each other.’

  ‘Nuport might dispatch Lichet,’ remarked Bartholomew. ‘His expression is murderous – he did not appreciate being threatened in front of his friends.’

  ‘And Lichet did not appreciate being humiliated with a fistful of filth,’ said Ereswell. ‘He will not forget such an insult, and Nuport should watch himself.’

  As befitted a man who ran a great household, Marishal lived in considerable comfort, and his quarters were almost as luxuriou
s as the Lady’s. The walls were covered with tapestries, the mixture of which suggested they had been chosen because he liked them, not because they went with the rest of the décor. Yet Margery’s hand was also everywhere, from the bright cushions that were scattered along the benches to the light, airy nature of the family solar.

  Marishal was standing by the hearth when the scholars were shown in. He wore an exquisite gipon with tight sleeves and flowing skirts, which had been embroidered with silver thread. His belt was silver, too, and on his feet were soft slippers that looked as though they had been imported from the east. His hair had been oiled and he was freshly shaved. All he needed, thought Bartholomew, was a circlet of gold on his head, and he might be mistaken for a prince. He was pale, but the numb shock had gone, and he seemed in control of himself once again.

  ‘Lichet left me a potion,’ he said, gesturing to a brimming cup on the table. ‘But I have slept enough, and it is time to confront my anguish. Indeed, I would have done it yesterday, but he slipped his “remedy” into my breakfast pottage without my knowledge.’

  ‘Did he indeed?’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘That was unethical.’

  ‘We appreciate that this is a difficult time for you, Master Marishal,’ said Michael kindly. ‘Yet I imagine your children must be a great comfort to you.’

  Marishal sniffed and did not acknowledge the last remark. ‘Margery will be buried today. Nicholas has offered her the best spot in the entire church, which is good of him. Of course, it is no less than she deserves, sweet saint that she was.’

  He talked a little longer about Margery and her life, but told them little they did not already know, other than the fact that he had been devoted to her and now deeply regretted not giving her the attention she deserved. His occupation was a demanding one, but she had always been patiently understanding of the long hours he worked. Eventually, Michael steered the subject around to Roos and his double life as a member of the Lady’s council. Marishal smiled wanly, and remarked that he was surprised it had taken them so long to uncover the truth.

  ‘Were you aware that Margery sent him a message,’ asked Michael, electing to ignore the criticism of his talents, ‘urging him to come with all possible haste? Indeed, she was so determined that he should answer her summons that she claimed the Lady was dead, and told him to hurry if he wanted to make the funeral.’