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

by Susanna Gregory

  John began to issue orders, sounding more like a military commander than a prior. ‘Langelee – will you take a patrol westwards? Heselbech can ride north, Weste will search south and Nicholas must take the east. Your remit is to find Jan – do not engage with Albon’s troops. I will stay here with a dozen men and keep the peace. And God have mercy on us all.’

  There followed a flurry of activity, with some friars racing away to saddle horses, and others forming themselves into the units that would impose order on the town. When the church was empty, Nicholas locked it, then hurried to the priory stables to collect a horse himself. Within moments, Bartholomew and Michael were alone in the graveyard.

  ‘It is a pity Nicholas decided to “improve” this place,’ sighed Michael, looking up at the gleaming new stonework. ‘I have been told countless times that the town and castle were the best of friends before the restoration began.’

  ‘Do not blame him,’ called Anne from her window, and Michael grimaced. He had forgotten that she could eavesdrop on discussions outside the church as well as through the squint. ‘And all was not peace and light anyway. The two sides have been sniping at each other for years, and anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar.’

  ‘Do you really think Jan is the culprit?’ Bartholomew asked her, although with not much hope of a sensible answer.

  He did not get one. ‘Yes, because he is a rogue, as I have told you before. And Quintone is innocent – he is not very nice, but he is no killer.’

  Bartholomew was about to ask more when a dirty lad hurried up to him with a message from Grym. He opened it, and learned that before galloping off to hunt hermits with Albon, Nuport had trounced Adam the baker, as a punishment for making such a fuss about the prank that had seen him set alight. Grym wanted Bartholomew’s help to repair the damage. To encourage him to go, Grym offered a free demonstration of how hemlock could be used to dull pain.

  Bartholomew set off at once, leaving Michael to help the Austins. He was glad to be thinking of medical matters – he was a lot more comfortable with those than with murder and mayhem.

  The boy conducted him to Grym’s house on Rutten Row, which was like no other home he had ever visited. It had been built to accommodate a very large man. The front door was twice as wide as all the others on the street, and the furniture had been reinforced to take the additional weight. Bars had been fitted to the walls next to each chair, so that the occupant could use them to heave himself upright, and every pot, platter and bowl in the kitchen was large enough to feed ten.

  ‘No!’ gulped Bartholomew, when he saw how much hemlock Grym was about to give Adam. He did not want yet another death to aggravate the trouble that was brewing – and the dose Grym had prepared for the baker was perilously close to the amount that might prove fatal. ‘We shall use poppy juice, lettuce and bryony instead.’

  He expected Grym to argue, but the barber shrugged amiably and they set to work. Grym transpired to be an indifferent practitioner, but was happy to let Bartholomew do what was needed, so the baker was spared too much discomfort. When they had finished, four more patients were waiting for their services – men who had evaded the friars’ patrols, and had managed to engage in fisticuffs with hotheads from the castle.

  It was dark by the time they had mended everyone as best they could. Wearily, they retired to Grym’s solar, where there was a roaring fire and a gargantuan feast waiting. Bartholomew accepted an invitation to dine gratefully, although he felt like an elf in the lair of a giant, dwarfed as he was by everything in the room.

  It was not long before Michael arrived, ostensibly to ask after Adam, although Bartholomew was sure some innate sense had told him that good food was on offer. Yet even the monk could not match what Grym packed away, and the two of them watched in awe as four ducks, a haunch of venison, three loaves and a whole turbot disappeared into the barber’s churning maw.

  ‘And a dried apricot,’ he said with a smile, holding it in the air before popping it into his mouth. ‘Because all good medici know the importance of a balanced diet.’

  ‘I suppose you refer to Galen,’ said Michael sourly. ‘The bane of my existence. Matt is always braying to me about his nasty theories. Personally, I think there was something wrong with the fellow, because it is not natural for red-blooded men to fuss about with vegetables.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Grym, much to the monk’s delight. ‘But you must eat one dried apricot every week, because it keeps the blood rich.’

  Bartholomew was about to remark that he had never heard such arrant nonsense when there was a clatter of footsteps, followed by Thomas’s distinctive voice, barking at Grym’s servants to let him in.

  ‘Oh,’ he said curtly, when he saw Bartholomew and Michael. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘They are my guests,’ replied Grym pleasantly before they could speak for themselves. ‘Why? Is there a medical emergency?’

  ‘An accident,’ replied Thomas. ‘Sir William has fallen off his horse and cracked his head.’

  CHAPTER 11

  The next day was cold, wet and windy, and Bartholomew woke long before dawn, dragged from sleep by rain pounding on the roof. Langelee and Michael were already up – it was only when the downpour reached Biblical proportions that it had penetrated the physician’s consciousness – and were sitting by the hearth, talking in low voices.

  ‘You would never make a soldier, Bartholomew,’ remarked Langelee. ‘You would drowse right through an attack, and only stir when it was over and you had missed all the fun.’

  Bartholomew yawned. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Discussing Lichet’s claim that Albon flung himself from his horse deliberately, because he realised he had made a mistake about the hermit and could not face the disgrace of being wrong.’ Michael shook his head in disgust. ‘I fail to understand why the Lady does not send him packing. She is an intelligent woman, and must see he is a charlatan.’

  ‘More warlock than charlatan,’ countered Langelee. ‘Word is that he has bewitched her.’

  Bartholomew rubbed the sleep from his eyes. ‘You did not tell us how you fared last night in your search for Jan and Bonde.’

  ‘Because there was nothing to report,’ said Langelee with a grimace. ‘We found neither hide or hair of them. But I was not here when you outlined your conclusions regarding Albon. Obviously, we can rule out suicide, so was it an accident or murder?’

  ‘He died of a wound to his head,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It might have been caused by him falling from his horse, but it is equally possible that someone hit him.’

  ‘In other words,’ said Michael acidly to Langelee, ‘our trusty Corpse Examiner refuses to commit himself.’

  Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I am no Lichet, inventing evidence that is not there.’

  ‘When I got back, I inspected Albon’s saddle,’ said Langelee, ‘bearing in mind what happened to poor old Talmach. But there were no suspiciously “frayed” straps. Then I assessed his destrier. It is a solid beast, trained for battle, so unlikely to shy for no reason – and even if it had, Albon was a knight who should have been able to manage.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought his martial skills left a lot to be desired.’

  ‘He was a poor warrior, but a respectable horseman,’ explained Langelee. ‘Which suggests to me that his death is definitely suspicious. After all, what are the chances that he should die in exactly the same manner as Talmach?’

  ‘But Talmach’s saddle had been sabotaged,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Whereas you have just told us that Albon’s was not.’

  ‘There are more ways to make a rider fall than tampering with his tack,’ said Langelee. ‘And the killer is not a fool. He will know not to go a-sawing through leather a second time.’

  ‘Murder, then,’ concluded Michael. ‘So who did it? The hermit, to avoid being arrested?’

  Langelee grimaced. ‘Even Albon should have been able to fend off that feeble specimen.’

  ‘Bond
e?’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps Albon happened across his hiding place.’

  ‘Or a townsman,’ countered Langelee. ‘They were furious when Albon invaded Godeston’s woods without asking his heirs first.’

  ‘Or a squire,’ put in Bartholomew. ‘Because they know Albon’s ineptitude would have got them killed in France. They admired him outwardly, but they may have harboured secret misgivings. Especially Thomas and Mull, who are no fools.’

  ‘Albon certainly had reservations about them,’ mused Michael. ‘I am sure that is why he offered to find Margery’s killer – he was frightened of travelling to France with a murderer in his train. He wanted his squires to be pretty angels, all adhering to his own chivalric ideals.’

  ‘Then there is Lichet,’ said Bartholomew, ‘who is determined to have a hundred marks, and perhaps decided to reduce the competition to one other investigation.’

  Langelee sighed. ‘You two are making this very complicated, and some philosopher or other once said that the simplest answer is usually the right one. I cannot recall who he was offhand …’

  ‘Occam,’ supplied Bartholomew, unimpressed that the Master could not remember something so basic. ‘His “razor” contends that in competing hypotheses, the one with the fewest assumptions should always be chosen first.’

  Langelee snapped his fingers. ‘Occam! There is the fellow! Well, in this case, I suggest that someone from the town made an end of Albon for daring to trespass in Godeston’s woods. And you know what that means.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Michael, ever wary of the Master’s idea of logical analysis.

  ‘That we will never solve the crime, because we are strangers here and we do not know the people involved. I think we should cut our losses and leave. I know we want the Lady’s money, but it is not worth our lives, and the town and the castle will stage a pitched battle soon. I sense it with every fibre of my being.’

  ‘So do I, but the Austins will stop it,’ said Michael. ‘And if they cannot, we have faced pitched battles between opposing factions in the past.’

  ‘But you two are my responsibility,’ argued Langelee. ‘And the University cannot manage without its Senior Proctor, while Matilde will be irked if anything happens to Bartholomew. Moreover, unmanly though it is to admit it, you two are my friends and I do not want you dead. Ergo, we go home today.’

  ‘We cannot leave empty-handed,’ objected Michael, dismayed. ‘Michaelhouse will founder without money, and it will break my heart to see it closed down.’

  ‘Besides, if we disappear all of a sudden, people may assume that we are the culprits,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘That we are fleeing the scene of our crimes because we feel the net tightening around us. It is Monday today, and the rededication is tomorrow evening. I suggest we wait until then before going – it is what we told everyone we would do.’

  ‘Very well,’ agreed Langelee, although he was clearly unhappy. ‘But we must be on our guard. And we are not going to the ceremony. It would be too dangerous. We shall slip away the moment it starts, so that if anyone does accuse us of anything untoward, we shall have a head start. We will not be missed until it is over.’

  ‘Now that really would look furtive,’ said Bartholomew, raising his eyebrows. ‘And what about Simon Freburn? Is it not asking for trouble for the three of us to travel at night?’

  ‘I will beg a couple of sturdy friars from John,’ determined Langelee. ‘And Pulham, Donwich, Badew and Harweden will come with us, as they will not want to be left behind.’

  ‘I suppose we can do that,’ conceded Michael, ‘if it makes you happy. So, it means we have roughly thirty-six hours to expose the killer and save Michaelhouse from an ignominious end.’

  ‘Is that feasible, Brother?’ asked Langelee tiredly. ‘You had only just finished telling me how you have no proper leads to follow.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but I still have my list of suspects, which is much more manageable now I have decided that Marishal is innocent. I know genuine grief when I see it – he did not kill his wife. That means we are down to Nicholas, the twins, Lichet, Bonde and Heselbech.’

  ‘And John,’ murmured Bartholomew, although not loud enough for Langelee to hear.

  ‘How can it be Heselbech?’ demanded Langelee impatiently. ‘He saw the killer sneaking around the castle. He cannot have done that if it was himself.’

  ‘Because he is a proven liar,’ replied Michael, ‘which means we cannot believe a word he says. He probably invented this hooded figure to mislead us.’

  ‘Well, you are wrong,’ said Langelee firmly. ‘And the culprit is not Nicholas either. He and Heselbech are old soldiers, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Michael. ‘So I recommend we begin our day by seeing what we can learn about the pair of them.’

  ‘Not me,’ declared Langelee in distaste. ‘If you want to indulge in that sort of thing, you can do it yourself.’

  ‘So how will you spend the rest of our time here?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Convincing the good people of Clare that Michaelhouse is deserving of all their spare money?’

  ‘No, I shall hunt for the hermit again. He is in danger as long as Albon’s accusation hangs over him, because someone may decide to avenge Margery without waiting for a trial.’

  ‘I am not sure that anyone took Albon’s claims seriously,’ said Michael. ‘Other than a couple of squires, perhaps. But you are right. If Jan is still alive, he must be protected.’

  ‘John will lend me a horse.’ Langelee stood and began to don clothes suitable for a jaunt in the rain. ‘If Jan is out there, I will bring him back.’

  ‘Do not forget to look for Bonde as well,’ Michael reminded him. ‘He disappeared with suspicious haste when it became clear that the murders of Margery and Roos would be investigated properly. And of all our suspects, he is the one who has committed murder before.’

  ‘I know,’ said Langelee. ‘But unless he is a complete fool, he will be long gone by now.’

  Rain fell steadily as the scholars walked to the Prior’s House, Langelee to beg for help in finding Jan and Bonde, and Michael and Bartholomew to ask if John had learned any more about the murders – including Albon’s – while he and his friars had patrolled the town the previous night. Langelee and Michael had heard them come home at midnight, cold, wet and weary, when the inclement weather had finally driven the last of the troublemakers indoors, although Bartholomew had slept through the commotion their return had generated.

  Everything dripped, and the sky was a dull, sullen grey. It was not far from the guesthouse to John’s quarters, but water was trickling down the back of Bartholomew’s neck before he reached it anyway. He had decided against wearing Albon’s cloak that day, lest someone accused him of callousness, and his old one was wholly incapable of keeping him dry in such a deluge, especially with so many holes burned in it.

  ‘Not a word about Heselbech and Nicholas being on your list,’ warned Langelee before he knocked on the door. ‘John will not let us stay here tonight if he knows you entertain suspicions about two of his friars.’

  Bartholomew and Michael readily agreed. It was no time for sleeping under hedges, and they were unlikely to find accommodation anywhere else in Clare that night – not on the eve of a royal visit, when any free rooms would be waiting to receive far more important guests than mere scholars from the University at Cambridge.

  They were conducted to John’s solar by a servant, and arrived to find him in conference with his senior officers, including Weste and Heselbech. All looked tired and anxious. John’s bald head was beaded with sweat, Weste’s face was pale against his black eyepatch, while Heselbech gnawed nervously at his lower lip; his filed teeth had made it bleed, but he was too agitated to notice.

  ‘Albon’s accident is a bad business,’ said the Prior unhappily. ‘It will aggravate the trouble between castle and town for certain.’

  ‘How do you know it was an accident?’ asked Michael shortly.

  John regarded him sto
nily. ‘Because a murder will result in a full-blown riot. It was an accident, Brother, and you had better tell everyone so or face the consequences.’

  ‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘You tried that with Godeston, and it did not work. Of course Albon was murdered. Two knights dead in almost identical circumstances within a few weeks of each other? How could it be anything else? And everyone in Clare will know it.’

  ‘No, they will not,’ insisted John. ‘And it did work with Godeston. We created enough uncertainty to make some folk stay their hands. We can do the same with Albon.’

  ‘It will fail, John,’ Langelee told him kindly. ‘And may even make matters worse – people will assume you are concealing the truth for sinister reasons of your own. We know your intentions are honourable, but can you be sure that others will think the same?’

  John rubbed a hand over his shiny pate. ‘Then how do you suggest we avert trouble? Because you must see that if any more people die, it will create rifts that may never heal.’

  ‘We avert it by exposing the killer,’ said Langelee, making it sound simple. ‘Michael and Bartholomew will continue their enquiries here, while I hunt for Bonde and the hermit again.’

  ‘Albon died in Godeston’s woods,’ said Bartholomew, aware that the friars were not as friendly as they had been a few days before. He supposed they had been discussing the murders, too, and had mooted the possibility that the more recent ones were down to strangers. ‘Some of you were nearby when it happened, looking for Jan. Did you see anything that might help?’

  ‘I am afraid not,’ replied John, ‘because I ordered all the patrols to stay well away from that particular area, lest it annoyed Godeston’s heirs. Is that not so, men?’

  Everyone nodded except Weste, who frowned. ‘I thought you were over in that direction, Heselbech. Not in the woods, but skirting around the edge.’