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

by Susanna Gregory

  Marishal blinked. ‘Well, that would certainly have brought him running! The Lady promised to leave him a little something in her will, and he would have wanted to be on hand to claim it. But why would Margery invent such a terrible lie?’

  ‘We were hoping you could tell us,’ said Michael.

  Marishal raised his hands in a helpless shrug. ‘I cannot imagine what prompted her to do such a thing. Are you sure it was her?’

  Michael showed him the two letters from Roos’s room, and explained how they had come by them. Marishal clutched them to his breast while tears brimmed in his eyes.

  ‘She wrote these, without question. She nearly always corresponded with the council for me, confirming our Quarter Day gatherings. She hoped that it would allow me to spend more time with her, although it rarely worked out that way.’

  ‘So there was no extraordinary session,’ pressed Michael, ‘organised to deal with some urgent and unexpected problem?’

  Marishal wiped his eyes. ‘If there were, Roos would not have been included. A few minor matters are aired on Quarter Days, and there is always a nice feast afterwards, but all the important decisions are made by the Lady and me alone, as and when necessary. The Quarter Days are essentially a sop to the likes of Roos, Albon and Lichet, who like to feel valued.’

  ‘And they are unaware of this?’ asked Michael, who would have seen the truth in a trice.

  Marishal gave another weary smile. ‘It is easy to deceive self-absorbed men. But to return to Roos: he was not here on council business, and I know of no reason why Margery should have wanted to see him. I wish I did, because then her death might make sense to me.’

  ‘We know they were kin,’ said Michael. ‘Could it have been some family concern?’

  ‘Their ties were distant, so no. Of course, it was their relationship that made him the perfect choice to monitor the University on our behalf. It was my idea to recruit him, although the Lady will remember it as her own. I invented the name “Philip de Jevan” as well. It has a nice ring about it, and Roos approved.’

  ‘To monitor the University?’ echoed Michael, narrowing his eyes. ‘Are you saying that Roos spied on us all, not just Badew?’

  Marishal spread his hands. ‘Information is power, and your studium generale takes my Lady’s money, so yes, we expected his reports to be wide-ranging. You do it for the Bishop of Ely, and Master Heltisle of Bene’t College does it for the King, so there are precedents.’

  To conceal his consternation that his arrangement with the Bishop should be common knowledge, Michael showed Marishal the onyx rings. ‘Have you seen these before?’

  Marishal nodded. ‘They are family heirlooms. Roos gave one to Margery, and she wore it to please him, although she never liked it very much.’

  ‘We have been told that Roos and Margery were once … close,’ said Michael. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘What gossips people are!’ exclaimed Marishal angrily. ‘Do they have nothing better to do? And yes, he did once pay suit to her, but then she met me. He was disappointed, but could see she was in love with a younger, brighter man. However, their brief and ancient amour had nothing to do with their deaths. Margery and I have been married for twenty-four years, and his infatuation died a long time ago, along with any resentment he might have harboured.’

  ‘I am sorry, but I must ask: where were you between nocturns and dawn on Friday?’

  ‘In here mostly, with my three clerks. We are frantically busy with the royal visit, and Thursday night was particularly hectic, because letters had arrived from Court detailing certain demands that must be met. The Clare Hall men offered to help …’

  ‘They mentioned working all night,’ said Bartholomew, recalling that they had been far from pleased about it.

  ‘I heard the bell chime for nocturns, but we had no time to attend. Later, I went to the Oxford Tower, to collect any documents that Donwich and Pulham might have finished, and on the way, I heard Adam the baker race screaming from the cistern … then everything is a blur.’

  He could tell them no more, so Bartholomew and Michael left him in peace.

  ‘He works so hard that he has missed the most important thing in his life,’ said Bartholomew soberly. ‘Time with his beloved wife. And now she is gone, so he will never have it. Therein lies a lesson for us all.’

  Which meant, he thought, that he should marry Matilde as soon as he could. Marishal would spend the rest of his life lamenting the choices he had made, so Bartholomew should make sure he did not do the same. Or would he then regret abandoning the teaching he loved so much?

  ‘He was too busy to notice what she was doing, as well,’ mused Michael. ‘Perhaps a constantly absent husband made her lonely, but her old flame Roos was there to step into the breach.’

  ‘Regardless, Marishal did not kill them, not if he has three clerks to provide his alibi.’

  ‘Clerks who work for him, and who will say anything to keep his favour. And he did not mention taking them with him when he went to collect documents from the Oxford Tower. However, remember that we were also told how Thomas was quickly on the scene once the alarm was raised. Perhaps it was he who disapproved of his mother cavorting with another man.’

  ‘I suppose we can try speaking to him again,’ said Bartholomew without enthusiasm. ‘Although I suspect it will be a waste of time.’

  The twins were near the chapel, laughing helplessly, and it was obvious to anyone watching that yet another prank was in the offing, suggesting that they had learned nothing from the near-incineration of Adam. That day, Ella had donned a plain blue kirtle that matched her eyes, while Thomas wore shoes with points so long that they were fastened to his knees with ribbons.

  ‘You will trip,’ warned Bartholomew, then wished he had kept his thoughts to himself, as it would be rather satisfying to see the odious young man fall flat on his face.

  ‘Not me,’ declared Thomas confidently, ‘although Nuport will take a tumble when he orders the cobbler to make him footwear to match mine – which he will, because he is a stupid oaf, who copies everything I do, even when it is obviously a joke.’

  ‘I thought you were friends,’ said Bartholomew, bemused by his malice.

  ‘Companions,’ corrected Thomas shortly. ‘It is not the same.’

  ‘Even so, you would be wise not to alienate him. You might need him in France.’

  ‘Need him?’ scoffed Thomas. ‘I would sooner trust a gnat, which would have a good deal more sense and be more likeable into the bargain. Besides, what do you know of France and war?’

  ‘More than you ever will – he fought in the Battle of Poitiers,’ retorted Michael, and seeing this failed to impress, added, ‘The Prince of Wales himself praised his valour.’

  The last part was pure fabrication, but Thomas regarded Bartholomew with new interest. ‘Then perhaps you should join us when we leave. A physician might come in useful.’

  ‘You are not going anywhere as long as your mother’s killer is at large,’ Michael pointed out. ‘Albon has sworn not to leave Clare until the culprit is caught.’

  ‘Yes,’ acknowledged Thomas with a grimace. ‘Which was reckless, because not every crime has a solution, and he might be here for ever.’

  Which would suit Albon perfectly, thought Bartholomew wryly.

  At that moment, a cluster of kitchen maids walked past, and one darted forward to press something into Thomas’s hand. It was a cake, warm from the oven. He accepted it with a gracious bow that made her blush prettily before scampering away to rejoin her fellows. Recalling what Katrina had said about the squires’ morals, Bartholomew wondered how long it would be before she was used and tossed aside with a broken heart.

  ‘So what other questions do you have?’ asked Thomas, tearing his eyes away from the jauntily swaying hips. ‘To ask yet again where we were on the night of our mother’s murder? Very well: we were in Ella’s room playing board games.’

  ‘But you arrived very quickly after Adam raised the alarm,’ said B
artholomew.

  ‘Yes, because we live close to the Cistern Tower. I was still dressed, so all I had to do was run down one flight of stairs and trot across the bailey.’

  ‘And Adam’s screeches were not very loud at first,’ put in Ella. ‘He began with a few whimpers, which we heard because my window was open. Thomas jumped up at once to see what was wrong, so he had a head start when Adam really began to howl.’

  ‘What did you do?’ Bartholomew asked her.

  ‘Unlike Thomas, I was not dressed. By the time I was, he and the others had been down into the cistern, found our mother and Roos, and climbed back up to the bailey again.’

  Michael nodded to the pink pearls around Ella’s neck. ‘Those belonged to Margery. Could you not have waited until after her funeral before raiding her jewellery box?’

  Ella regarded him steadily. ‘She told me I could have them when she died.’

  ‘Did she? Why? The pair of you were not close, by your own admission.’

  ‘So what? I am still her daughter – her only daughter. But if I am a thief, then so are you. I know you stole the onyx ring from her corpse, because I watched you show it to the Lady.’ She held out her hand. ‘And I want it back.’

  ‘Your father has it,’ replied Michael, unmoved by the accusation. ‘Along with the matching one owned by Roos. Ask him for them.’

  Ella’s eyes flashed angrily, and it was clear that she would never dare. She went on an offensive to disguise her annoyance. ‘Although why she agreed to wear an heirloom from that disgusting old lecher is beyond me. He was all pawing hands and will not be missed.’

  ‘What about Talmach?’ asked Michael innocently. ‘Is he missed?’

  ‘Terribly,’ replied Ella coldly. ‘His death turned me into a widow. I know there is a rumour that Thomas and I made an end of him, but it is a lie. We never touched him or his saddle.’

  ‘Ask Anne the anchoress,’ put in Thomas. ‘She knows us better than anyone, and will tell you that we are no killers.’

  ‘I miss Anne,’ sighed Ella, sadness replacing her ire at Michael and his questions. ‘She was more fun than everyone else put together, and the castle is dull without her. It is a pity the Austins made such a fuss about Suzanne. If they had controlled themselves, Anne would still be here.’

  ‘They did not make nearly as much a fuss as that wretched tanner, though,’ said Thomas, and glanced at the scholars before explaining. ‘Suzanne’s father. The Austins were all righteous indignation, but Nekton was poisonous, and it was he who really forced the Lady’s hand. That vicious-tongued hypocrite has a lot to answer for.’

  ‘We have not met Nekton yet,’ said Bartholomew, wondering if the aggrieved tanner was responsible for some of the murders – Margery, Roos, Talmach, Charer and Wisbech had associations with the castle, where Anne had done her work. ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘Not in Clare,’ smirked Thomas vengefully. ‘After all, who wants to reside in a house that is always infested with rats and fleas? And who wants to tan hides that no one will buy? He took himself off to London in the end, where I hope he will be miserable.’

  ‘But what father would not object when he discovered that the castle’s nurse had carried out an illegal and dangerous procedure on his daughter?’ asked Michael reasonably. ‘He could hardly pretend it did not happen and look the other way.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Ella coolly. ‘Other fathers did – lots of them. And because of Nekton’s mean spirit, we lost our beloved nurse and Clare lost a woman with a very useful skill.’

  ‘It is difficult to know what to make of them,’ remarked Michael, as he and Bartholomew walked away a few moments later. ‘They care for no one but themselves, and they are certainly callous enough to dispatch their mother and a kinsman to suit themselves. And yet what would be their motive? Not a string of pink pearls, surely?’

  Bartholomew shrugged. ‘Who knows? I do not understand them either.’

  ‘It is hard to blame Margery and Marishal for declining to dote on them,’ the monk went on. ‘I imagine their stupid japes and arrogance were a cause of shame and embarrassment to two such respectable, hardworking people. Did you notice Marishal’s reaction when I remarked that the twins must be a comfort to him? He does not love them, and I suspect Margery found it difficult, too.’

  ‘So what now? A word with the squires? I know Adam told us that they went to bed at midnight and did not stir again until morning, but he cannot have watched all their doors and windows. One may have slipped out quietly on his own.’

  ‘You mean Nuport,’ surmised Michael. ‘The most loathsome and vicious of the pack. But does he have the wits to commit such a serious crime and leave no clues or witnesses?’

  ‘No, but there is always an element of luck involved. And perhaps there was a witness anyway – the hermit, who you think has been dispatched in his turn.’

  The squires were struggling to stabilise Albon’s pavilion. The wind was no more than a whisper that day, but even that was enough to make it billow alarmingly, and Bartholomew was under the impression that it might take to the skies at any moment. As they passed, Ereswell whispered that it leaked as well, so its owner would be in for a wretched time if, God forbid, he should ever be compelled to use it on a military campaign.

  Like Thomas, the squires wore shoes with ridiculously long toes, although theirs were so extreme that they were able to tie the ends to their belts. Combined with their harlequin hose, flowing sleeves, oiled beards and part-shaven heads, they looked worse than absurd, and Bartholomew wondered how much more preposterous they would make themselves before Albon put an end to it. However, while Nuport strutted about proudly, clearly delighted with himself and the way he looked, his friends were now aware that they were a laughing-stock, and were obviously uncomfortable.

  ‘What, again?’ groaned Nuport, when Michael ordered them to recount their movements on the night of the murder. ‘We have already told you, Brother – we spent the evening in the Bell Inn, and came back here at midnight.’

  ‘After which we all flopped into our beds and went to sleep,’ finished Mull. ‘Except Thomas, who went to visit his sister.’

  ‘Flopped into your beds alone?’ asked Michael. ‘Or did you have company?’

  ‘Alone, unfortunately,’ sighed Mull. ‘Sir William made us promise to remain chaste until we reach France, lest God punishes us for lechery. It is very hard, which is why we are forced to drink so much ale and wine – to suppress our natural appetites.’

  ‘I must remember that excuse for the next time I have a drop too much claret,’ murmured Michael, fighting down the urge to laugh.

  ‘I shall not deny myself for much longer, though,’ warned Nuport, and leered at a passing milkmaid; she dropped the pail she was carrying and fled. ‘It was fine when it was only going to be for a few days, but now he says we might be delayed for weeks. Well, bugger that for a lark!’

  ‘But we took a vow to abstain until we touch French soil,’ Mull pointed out. ‘You cannot break it – not if you do not want dire things to happen to you. But I agree with one thing, though: we cannot deny ourselves for much longer, so unless Sir William takes us away soon, we might have to make our own way there.’

  ‘Lord! That would be dangerous,’ said another lad worriedly. ‘We need a knight to guide us or we are likely to be dispatched by the first Frenchmen we meet.’

  The squires exchanged anxious glances – all except Nuport, who scoffed his disdain for their faint-heartedness, and then informed them that if they felt the urge to take a girl they should do it and the consequences be damned.

  ‘Did you know Roos, who called himself Jevan?’ asked Bartholomew, changing the subject abruptly, much to Nuport’s annoyance and the others’ relief.

  ‘The white-haired ancient from London?’ asked Mull. ‘Yes, we heard he and the scholar were one and the same, although none of us knew it before today. He was on the Lady’s council, but he was an unfriendly devil, and the only person he liked was Mistress
Marishal.’

  ‘You saw them together often?’

  ‘Just at the Quarter Day meetings,’ replied Mull. ‘They were kin, which explains why she did not send him packing when he pawed at her with his sweaty old hands. If it had been me, I would have punched him in the face. But she was a lady.’

  ‘I learned a lot from observing him,’ grinned Nuport. ‘How to corner lasses without them realising until it is too late; how to lure them to my bed; how to snatch a grope as they pass without anyone else seeing … He was a master.’

  ‘I am sure he was,’ said Bartholomew to Michael, recalling Roos’s unsavoury antics when they had first arrived in Clare – his near-assault of the woman sweeping the church, and then his brazen ogling of Margery. ‘There was a—’

  He stopped abruptly when he heard an urgent shout. It was Langelee, striding towards them with an expression that told them something was badly amiss.

  ‘I hope he has not found the hermit dead,’ said Michael uneasily.

  At that moment, there was a sudden commotion in the outer bailey, which caused servants and courtiers alike to abandon their duties and hurry towards the hubbub to see what was happening. The squires were among them, leaving Bartholomew and Michael to look questioningly at Langelee.

  ‘Weste and I had to turn back early, because his horse went lame,’ gasped the Master. ‘I was just coming to tell you that I was home, when I heard Lichet and Quintone quarrelling. I joined the crowd that clustered around to find out why—’

  ‘And?’ demanded Michael sharply, as an angry roar exploded from the gathering hordes. ‘What is going on? Tell us, quickly!’

  ‘Lichet has accused Quintone of murdering Margery, and is going to hang him for it. We have to stop him, Brother, because I doubt he has proof. And once Quintone is dead … well, no apology will make up for such a terrible mistake.’