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

by Susanna Gregory

  CHAPTER 10

  There was pandemonium in the outer bailey. Nuport was clamouring for Lichet to hurry, on the grounds that every breath Quintone drew was an affront to God and justice, and some courtiers were in obvious agreement. The servants were shocked and uneasy – Margery might have been popular, but Quintone was one of them, and they disliked the precedent that a summary execution would set.

  Lichet was wearing his best cloak and a tall hat that accentuated his height, no doubt hoping to quell any objections by virtue of cutting an imposing figure. He ordered Richard the watchman to fetch a rope.

  ‘This is my fault,’ said Langelee wretchedly, as he, Bartholomew and Michael watched in horror from the back of the gathering crowd.

  ‘Is it?’ gulped Michael in alarm. ‘How?’

  ‘Weste and I met Lichet as we rode out earlier. He asked where we were going, so I said we were off to hunt for Jan the hermit – that he had probably witnessed the murders, and so will be able to identify the culprit.’

  ‘He might, if he is still alive. But I fail to understand why—’

  ‘Lichet now claims that the hermit told him Quintone killed Margery – which is a lie, because Jan is still missing. In other words, Lichet took my words and twisted them to suit himself.’ Langelee’s expression was anguished. ‘I put the idea of a conveniently absent eyewitness into his greedy head.’

  ‘Hardly,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘He put it there all by himself.’

  Quintone was screaming at the top of his voice, calling on God, His saints, the Lady and Albon to stop him from being murdered by the Red Devil. His choice of words did nothing to encourage Lichet to stay his hand, and the noose was around his neck by the time Bartholomew, Michael and Langelee had managed to push their way to the front of the onlookers.

  ‘Stop!’ commanded Michael with all the authority he could muster. ‘You cannot hang someone without a fair trial. It is a—’

  ‘We know how to deal with killers in Clare.’ Lichet’s face was flushed with excitement, and his eyes glittered vengefully as he adjusted the rope. ‘We dispatch them fast, so their vile breath does not taint the air we breathe.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ bellowed Nuport. ‘He killed a gentle lady and must pay with his life.’

  ‘No!’ wailed Quintone. ‘I was with Isabel Morley all that night. Ask her – she will tell you.’

  He had to indicate the lady in question with his chin, because his hands were tied behind his back. She paled as heads turned towards her and opened her mouth to speak, but no sound emerged. Then she turned and fled, sobbing her distress. Quintone’s face fell in dismay.

  ‘Isabel! Come back! They will kill me unless you tell the truth. Please! I—’

  His words were cut off abruptly as Lichet hauled on the rope. The Red Devil was stronger than he looked, and within moments, Quintone was kicking empty air.

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Michael, while Langelee jumped forward to tear the noose from Lichet’s hands. Quintone dropped back to the ground, choking and gagging. ‘The Lady wants convincing evidence before—’

  ‘I do have convincing evidence,’ snarled Lichet furiously, trying to grab the rope back from Langelee. ‘But it is for her eyes only.’

  Nuport powered forward with the clear intention of finishing what the Red Devil had started, but Ereswell’s foot shot out and he went sprawling on the ground, unable to keep his balance in his silly shoes. The squires were about to surge to his assistance when there was an almighty bellow from behind them, so loud and masterful that it brought them to an instant standstill.

  ‘STOP! AT ONCE!’

  It was Albon, who possessed an impressive voice to go with his impressive physique. With him were the Lady and Marishal. They processed forward, Albon clearing a path through the onlookers by dint of his haughty gaze alone – anyone in the way, courtier or servant, was treated to a pointed look until they moved. The Lady followed, leaning heavily on Marishal’s arm.

  ‘There will be no executions until I am certain of the culprit’s guilt,’ she said firmly, when she was close enough to speak without the indignity of hollering. ‘After all, an apology will hardly suffice, should a mistake have been made.’

  ‘There is no mistake,’ declared Lichet, eyes ablaze with the strength of his convictions. ‘Quintone slaughtered Margery and Roos, and he was seen doing it by Jan – a holy hermit, whose integrity is beyond question.’

  ‘How do you know what Jan saw?’ demanded Langelee. ‘He is missing. Ergo, he cannot have spoken to you or anyone else.’

  Lichet’s expression was sly. ‘I did not need to speak to him, because I have this instead.’

  He presented a document with a jubilant flourish. It was covered in close-spaced writing.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the Lady warily.

  ‘Something I found in the hermitage,’ replied Lichet, all smug triumph. ‘A detailed account of exactly what Jan saw: namely Quintone committing murder.’

  ‘How very convenient,’ murmured Michael, stunned by the transparency of the claim.

  A few of the crowd, including Nuport, began to clamour for Quintone’s death again, although they were a minority. Most remained silent – unsettled and uncertain.

  ‘I doubt Jan is literate,’ called Bartholomew, once the commotion had died down again. ‘And even if he is, his cottage had obviously been abandoned in a great hurry. I do not see him sitting down to produce a document of that length first.’

  ‘Of course Jan is literate,’ snarled Lichet, although alarm flashed across his face that his scheme might have a fatal flaw. ‘He is a religious man. How else would he read his scriptures every day?’

  ‘I have never seen him reading,’ shouted Ereswell. ‘Your claims are a nonsense, Lichet, and Jan will prove it when he returns.’

  ‘He will not return,’ stated Lichet archly. ‘Because Quintone has killed him as well, to prevent him from speaking the truth.’ He whipped around to appeal to his supporters. ‘Are you happy to let Quintone live, knowing what he has done?’

  Nuport led the howl that said they were not, so the Red Devil made a third lunge for the rope. Langelee fended him off handily enough, although that would change if Lichet’s allies joined the tussle. Quintone knew it, and began to sob his terror.

  ‘Give that document to me, Lichet,’ ordered Ereswell, shoving his way forward. ‘I will compare the writing to yours, because I have a sample of it here.’

  But Lichet was not entirely stupid, and his grin was exultant as he handed the letter over. Ereswell pursed his lips in annoyance when he saw that the two styles were different.

  ‘He has done Quintone a serious disservice by underestimating Lichet,’ muttered Michael. ‘Now the Red Devil will persist with his claims until Quintone is hanged.’

  ‘While the real killer goes free,’ Bartholomew whispered back, ‘because I suspect Quintone was with Isabel. Katrina told me that she carries his child but he declines to marry her. What better way to avenge herself than by refusing to provide his alibi?’

  ‘Give me the rope, Langelee,’ ordered Lichet imperiously. ‘We have wasted enough time on this murderous villain.’

  ‘Wait!’ ordered the Lady irritably. ‘And be quiet, while I confer with my steward.’

  There followed an obedient silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of clothes as some of the senior courtiers eased forward in the hope of catching what was being said. At first, Albon was able to drive them back with his basilisk glare, but as time ticked past this grew less effective, obliging him to draw his sword. He was openly relieved when Marishal eventually stepped away from the Lady and addressed the crowd in a clear, ringing voice.

  ‘Jan’s claim must be verified before Quintone is executed,’ he announced. ‘My Lady is wise. God knows, I want my wife’s killer dead, but we must ensure that the right culprit pays the price.’

  ‘But Jan’s claim is verified,’ objected Lichet indignantly, and brandished the document again. ‘He left written testimony of
Quintone’s guilt. What more do you need?’

  ‘Execution is not a matter to be rushed,’ said the Lady curtly, clearly annoyed at having her decision questioned. ‘Besides, I have seen Quintone and Isabel making moon eyes at each other, so perhaps they did lie together that night. Where is she?’

  There followed a brief hunt, after which Isabel was propelled forward, dragging her feet with every step, and her face streaked with tears of shame.

  ‘Now tell the truth,’ ordered the Lady harshly. ‘Or you will join your lover on the scaffold.’

  ‘He is not my lover,’ gulped Isabel in a feeble attempt at injured defiance. She swallowed hard when the Lady scowled. ‘Although he was with me that night. But we were not lying in sin.’ She flailed around for an alternative explanation when the Lady’s eyes narrowed, and relief lit her face as one occurred to her. ‘We were reading your new Book of Hours.’

  ‘Of course you were,’ said the Lady flatly, her acid voice cutting through the titter of amusement that rippled through the onlookers. ‘And I am a fairy.’

  ‘You “read” all night?’ demanded Lichet, all open incredulity. He came to loom over Isabel in an obvious attempt to intimidate her. ‘You did not part even for a moment?’

  ‘Well, he went to fetch some ale,’ conceded Isabel, her face scarlet with mortification. ‘We were hot and thirsty after … He was gone longer than he should have been.’

  ‘The jug was empty, so I had to broach a new cask,’ squawked Quintone, pale with fright. ‘But it only took a few moments. Please, Isabel! I will marry you if you tell the truth.’

  Albon stepped forward, his noble visage troubled. ‘You did not mention fetching ale when I interviewed you on Friday, Quintone. Why not?’

  ‘Because I knew what you would think,’ whispered Quintone, slumping in defeat as his world crumbled around him. ‘But I was not gone long enough to kill anyone – just the time it takes to go to the cellar, grab a cask, roll it up to the kitchen, find a hammer to knock out the bung …’

  He trailed off miserably when he saw what everyone was thinking – that there would have been ample opportunity to slip to the cistern and plant a dagger in the chests of two victims.

  ‘Lock him in the dungeon,’ ordered Marishal briskly. ‘Lichet, Albon and Michael will continue their enquiries, and we shall assess their findings when they are all complete.’

  ‘Mine are complete now,’ declared Lichet haughtily. ‘Quintone is the guilty party, and I do not need to explore the matter further. The only reason these scholars challenged my conclusions is because they want the reward.’

  ‘The day after tomorrow,’ said the Lady to Michael. ‘Before the Queen arrives. That is when I shall decide Quintone’s fate. So, if you really think he is innocent, you had better have another culprit ready or I shall have to accept Master Lichet’s testimony.’

  Quintone howled his innocence until he and his captors entered the Oxford Tower, and were out of earshot. Then Marishal clapped his hands, ordering everyone back to work. They went reluctantly, disquieted by what had happened and not sure what to believe. Lichet was on the receiving end of angry glowers from Quintone’s friends, and there were more tears shed for Margery.

  ‘Lichet should watch himself,’ muttered Langelee. ‘The servants do not appreciate outsiders accusing one of their own, and he has made many enemies today. In fact, perhaps we should go home. Clare has grown far too dangerous.’

  ‘It is unlike you to run from trouble,’ said Bartholomew, taking in the Master’s wan face and unsteady hands. ‘Has something happened to unnerve you?’

  ‘Other than watching a man almost executed for a crime he did not commit?’ asked Langelee archly. ‘No, nothing at all.’

  ‘And what makes you so sure that Quintone is innocent?’ demanded Michael, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. ‘He lied to me as well as Albon – said he spent the night with friends in the stables. Moreover, he was one of the first to arrive when Adam raised the alarm. I do not approve of Lichet’s tactics, but it is entirely possible that he does have the right culprit.’

  ‘Quintone has no reason to kill Margery,’ argued Langelee. ‘No motive.’

  ‘How do you know?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps she tried to force him to marry Isabel. She was a good woman, and would not have condoned ungentlemanly conduct towards a vulnerable girl. Roos might have supported his kinswoman, so Quintone killed them both.’

  ‘No one commits murder for so paltry a reason,’ snapped Langelee.

  ‘Marriage is not paltry,’ averred Bartholomew fervently. ‘Believe me.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ conceded Langelee, ‘but I still do not see Quintone dispatching Margery and Roos. It does not feel like the right solution. And you two agree, or you would not have helped me to prevent his execution.’

  ‘I do agree,’ said Bartholomew, although Michael made no reply. ‘However, if Quintone is hanged, the crime will be declared solved, and all the other suspects will be deemed innocent. That is why Lichet wants him executed without delay – so that no one will ever accuse him, even though he is likely to be the real culprit.’

  ‘I suppose we can continue our enquiries,’ said Michael wearily, ‘although I sense we will not have the hundred marks anyway. If you want the truth, I think we should spend the remaining time recruiting more benefactors. We have a few, but not nearly enough.’

  ‘I will do that,’ said Langelee briskly. ‘While you see what you can find out about the murders. And at first light tomorrow, I shall resume the hunt for Jan.’

  When the Master had gone, Bartholomew saw Isabel slinking past. She was older than he had first thought, and had disguised the fact with a careful application of face paints. Her clothes were too big, clearly handed down from someone else, and there was a bitterness in her expression that suggested she knew there was no good future for her, regardless of whether or not her erstwhile lover was hanged. Michael intercepted her.

  ‘You and I have spoken twice now,’ he said sternly. ‘You informed me both times that you were with the Lady’s other maids at the time of the murders. You lied.’

  ‘So did Quintone,’ she snapped back, unrepentant. ‘He claimed he was in the stables.’

  ‘And look where such dishonesty has taken you both – him accused of murder and you shamed in front of everyone. If you had told the truth, I might have been able to protect you.’

  Isabel sneered at him. ‘Oh, yes! I should have confessed that I was lying with a man. What does my reputation matter?’

  ‘Well, nothing now,’ Michael pointed out drily. ‘But why him? Surely you could do better?’

  ‘You mean one of the squires? They bed us happily enough, but they do not want marriage. And now I am in trouble, which was never a problem when Anne was here to … offer advice.’

  ‘So what will you do?’ asked Bartholomew, his voice more kindly than Michael’s.

  Isabel looked away. ‘I do not know. Visit kin in the country for a few months, I suppose. Perhaps the Lady will take me back afterwards. She has overlooked these mishaps in the past.’

  ‘Tell us what happened on the night of the murders,’ ordered Michael. ‘Truthfully this time, if you please.’

  Isabel glared at him. ‘There is no more to tell: Quintone and I were together most of the night, then he left to fetch us some ale. He was longer than he should have been, and he told me that he had had to broach another keg. I believed him at the time.’

  ‘And now?’

  Malice flashed in Isabel’s eyes, and it was clear that more untruths were in the offing, but then she looked at Michael and thought better of it. ‘He did not kill anyone. Why would he? We both liked Margery, and neither of us knew the scholar.’

  ‘I suspect you did – it transpires that Roos donned a beard and called himself Philip de Jevan.’

  Isabel gaped her astonishment. ‘Truly? But they are so different – one smart with a white mane, the other scruffy and unshaven. Are you sure?’

  Michael
inclined his head. ‘So tell us what you know about Roos.’

  ‘He was always panting after Margery when he came for council meetings. Me and the other girls took bets on how long it would be before he cornered her alone. She hated it, so we often contrived to rescue her.’

  Michael regarded her coolly. ‘You did not tell me this before, either.’

  ‘Why would I? As far as I was aware, “Jevan” was miles away, lurking in whatever hole he lives in when he is not here. I had no idea that he was a factor in Margery’s death.’

  ‘So his attentions were definitely unwanted?’ pressed Bartholomew.

  ‘Yes – she was a married woman and respectable.’ Isabel gave a bitter smile. ‘Not like me. But Roos was annoyingly persistent. He fawned and simpered, and would not leave her alone.’

  ‘But she loved her husband?’

  ‘She did. Master Marishal neglected her shamefully, but she loved him all the same.’

  Armed with the new information, Michael descended on others who might have known about Roos’s unhealthy obsession with another man’s wife. Bartholomew helped for a while, then slipped away when he saw Katrina emerge from the hall, where she had just dined. She was carrying a basket, which he offered to carry. As they approached the Oxford Tower, they heard Grisel screeching furiously on the top floor, while Quintone howled piteously in the basement.

  ‘I hope Quintone does not carry on too long,’ said Katrina. ‘Grisel does not like it.’

  Bartholomew felt like pointing out that Quintone would be none too happy with the situation either, but he held his tongue. Her basket was heavy, and when he tweaked aside the cover, he was astonished at what lay within: cakes, fruit, a platter of meat, bread and a flask of wine.

  ‘I hope this is not all for the birds,’ he said as he followed her up the stairs. ‘It is unsuitable—’

  ‘You think I would feed them wine? No, that is for me, although it is not something I shall ever admit to the kitchen staff. You see, I cannot always abandon my charges when meals are served in the hall, and only a fool does not take precautions to protect her stomach.’