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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘This is Doctor Bartholomew,’ Katrina told her brusquely. ‘One of the scholars who has been exploring what happened to Margery. You must tell him about Bonde. I am fairly sure that her murder can be laid at his feet, and it is time to end his reign of terror.’

  ‘Bonde did not kill her – Quintone did,’ countered Ella, clearly furious with Katrina for breaking their trust. ‘My father and the Lady were wrong to pronounce him innocent, because he has always been an arrogant pig. Just look at the way he seduced poor Isabel.’

  ‘It was “poor Isabel” who did the seducing there,’ said Katrina wryly. ‘And Master Marishal has now established that three separate people saw Quintone lugging ale from the cellars. Ergo, he has an alibi. But Bonde does not. Go on, Suzanne. Repeat what you told me just an hour ago.’

  Suzanne spoke with obvious reluctance, all the while casting petrified eyes in Bartholomew’s direction. ‘Bonde was lurking by the Cistern Tower just after nocturns that night. I saw him through my window. It was dark, but I would know his silhouette anywhere.’

  Bartholomew went to the window. It afforded an excellent view of the cistern door, much better than the one from the birds’ room above, because that window was glazed – theirs was distorted by imperfections in the glass, while Suzanne’s view was clear and unimpeded.

  ‘Why were you awake at such an hour?’ he asked.

  ‘Because I have slept badly ever since … I saw Bonde just a few moments after Katrina and Sir William Albon went into the chapel for nocturns.’

  ‘Albon,’ muttered Katrina in disgust. ‘What a wicked waste of an eligible bachelor! Now I shall have to start looking all over again.’

  ‘What was Bonde doing?’ Bartholomew asked Suzanne.

  ‘He went to the cistern door, and then I lost him in the shadows. A short while later, I saw him creeping away.’

  ‘Was this “short while” long enough for him to have gone down the stairs, killed two people, and climbed back up again?’

  ‘Yes,’ whispered Suzanne. ‘I believe it was.’

  ‘Then why did you not mention it sooner?’ demanded Bartholomew, exasperated. ‘If you were afraid to speak to Michael, Lichet or Albon, why could you not have told Katrina or Ella? They would have ensured it reached the right ears.’

  ‘Because any investigator worth his salt would have demanded words with me directly,’ replied Suzanne miserably. ‘And rightly so, when a man’s life depends on it. But people here hate me – they think it is my fault that Anne is in an anchorhold. I cannot face them.’

  ‘Did you see anyone other than Bonde, Albon and Katrina?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘Lots of folk. Margery, who took refreshments to those who worked all night; Roos, who we all called Jevan – I saw him go through the cistern door; Quintone and Isabel frolicking together; two Austins and a scholar, who entered the chapel; Jan the hermit, who was following Bonde; Richard the watchman, who did a few laps around the bailey to stretch his legs as is his wont …’

  Which explained why Richard had not mentioned Bonde disappearing at the salient time, thought Bartholomew – he had been wandering about alone himself. Had Richard been afraid that he might be accused of the murders if he could not prove his whereabouts for every moment of that fateful night? Or had he kept quiet out of loyalty to a man who stood watch with him? Or was it simple expediency, as Bonde was not only the Lady’s favourite henchman, but a violent criminal who had already evaded charges of rape, murder and assault?

  ‘… Ereswell went to the Constable Tower for some early business with Marishal,’ Suzanne continued. ‘And I think Lichet left his quarters at one point, although I cannot be sure. It was too dark to see him properly.’

  Bartholomew rubbed his eyes tiredly, feeling the solution to the crime slip further away with every name that fell from her lips. He and Michael would never identify the killer in the allotted time left now, and he was sorry that Michaelhouse was going to lose its last chance of survival.

  Katrina was more interested in solving a different problem. ‘We need help, Ella. You and Thomas cannot keep everyone distracted with pranks indefinitely. It has been eighteen months now, and it is obvious that you are running out of ideas, because your japes are becoming increasingly stupid, annoying or dangerous.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ acknowledged Ella ruefully. ‘We have resorted to desperate measures of late – such as encouraging the squires to wear silly clothes.’ She glanced at Bartholomew. ‘And setting Adam the baker alight when he was ordered to clean all the rooms on this floor. Thank God he was a thief, and we were able to divert him with a silver box filled with hot embers.’

  ‘It will be more difficult than ever now that no one is going to France,’ Katrina went on. ‘And it is only a matter of time before bored squires come up here to poke about in a tower that we have so far managed to keep them out of.’

  Ella was silent for a moment, then became decisive. ‘Then he must mend Suzanne’s face,’ she said, nodding at Bartholomew. ‘And when she is whole again, we will find her a nice husband in some remote village. My mother’s pearls will be her dowry.’

  ‘I cannot repair her now,’ said Bartholomew, aware of Suzanne’s growing alarm at the plan. ‘It is eighteen months too late. But I can take her to someone who will teach her how to disguise the mark.’

  Matilde championed their town’s prostitutes, where disfiguring injuries were not unusual from vengeful or drunken customers, so she had no small experience with women like Suzanne. Moreover, she would offer far more sensible advice than the girl was getting from her well-meaning but misguided friends.

  ‘Good,’ said Katrina in relief, before Suzanne could voice her reservations. ‘It is settled then. She will go to the University with the scholars when they leave.’

  ‘Your future is bright,’ Ella informed Suzanne bitterly. ‘Unlike ours. Katrina will wither away up here with her birds, while I will be married off to another elderly suitor. It is a wretched shame that Albon is dead, because I was looking forward to Paris. So was Thomas. He does not want to be the Lady’s steward when our father dies.’

  ‘Then go anyway,’ suggested Katrina, as though it was nothing to pack up and decant to another country. ‘What do you have to lose? However, I most certainly will not “wither away” up here – Master Grym smiled at me the other day, and he is a kindly soul.’

  ‘And too fat to make a nuisance of himself by demanding his conjugal rights at every turn,’ mused Ella. ‘Yes, you could do worse than an amiable and wealthy barber.’

  His mind churning, Bartholomew ran to find Michael, although he had been far longer than they had planned, and the monk was not waiting at the agreed rendezvous. Unfortunately, no one was able to tell him where his friend might have gone.

  ‘Try the kitchens,’ suggested Nuport snidely. ‘Where the food is kept.’

  His cronies sniggered. They had been put to work toting blankets to the palace from the laundry, and their revenge for being forced into such menial work was to drop their loads ‘accidentally’ in the mud. Then Nuport’s pugilistic face darkened, and Bartholomew turned to see Quintone strutting towards the gate. The servant was still in his finery, and there was defiance in his every step. Marishal was behind him, his face dark with anger.

  ‘Come back!’ the steward roared. ‘How dare you walk away while I am talking to you!’

  Quintone turned slowly and with deliberate insolence. ‘Things are going to be different from now on, Marishal,’ he called back challengingly, ‘because I am not taking orders from anyone in here – the place where I was very nearly murdered.’

  ‘Then you are dismissed,’ retorted Marishal shortly. ‘Now get out of my sight.’

  ‘I was going anyway,’ declared Quintone insolently. ‘I will fare far better in the town than in a castle ruled by an old woman and her monkey.’

  Marishal did not dignify the insult with a reply, and only turned on his heel and stalked inside the Constable Tower, slamming the door shut behind
him.

  ‘Quintone goes too far,’ remarked Mull, watching the servant swagger away. ‘I have no great love for Marishal, but no minion should cheek the steward.’

  ‘He stole my hat last night,’ growled Nuport, his brutish face harsh with anger. ‘I tried to grab it back, but he danced away with it, laughing. And I do not believe he is innocent of murder, so he had better stay out of my way, or I shall give him something to remember.’

  The other squires murmured their approval, and Bartholomew hoped Quintone would have the sense to moderate his behaviour before he burned too many bridges. He resumed his hunt for Michael, and eventually learned – from Thomas, who was sweeping the stables, resentment in every stroke of the broom – that Lichet had taken the monk to the cistern not long before.

  ‘Doubtless to view some clue that everyone else has missed,’ sneered Thomas. ‘But I went down there with Ella on Saturday, and there was nothing to see. Ergo, whatever Lichet has “discovered” will be something he has planted himself.’

  ‘I just met Suzanne de Nekton,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You have been—’

  ‘So what?’ demanded Thomas, immediately defensive. ‘Is it a crime to keep someone safe in a room that no one else is using?’

  ‘I was about to commend your courage and compassion,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘And to ask if your mother knew what you had done?’

  Some of the bristling rage drained out of Thomas, and he shook his head. ‘She would have told my father, who would have ousted Suzanne on the grounds that her accusations reflect badly on Bonde. The Lady thinks Bonde can do no wrong, you see, so her faithful steward must share her opinion. My father has always been her creature.’

  Bartholomew disagreed. The steward might be loyal, but he was his own man, and it was a pity the twins disliked him, because he was sure they could have worked together to devise a solution that did not entail Suzanne being locked in a tiny cell, living in constant fear of discovery and eating herself into an early grave.

  ‘My mother was a fool,’ Thomas went on bitterly. ‘She knew what Bonde was like, but insisted on being nice to him, thinking to repair his bad nature with gentleness. What she should have done was use her influence to get him banished. It was ultimately his fault that we lost Anne.’

  ‘I suppose it was,’ acknowledged Bartholomew, thinking of the chain of events that had led to the nurse becoming an anchoress. ‘Combined with the shocked reactions of Suzanne’s father and the Austin friars.’

  ‘Yes, their sanctimonious outrage did not help.’ Thomas sighed. ‘My mother did her best with herbs and practical advice for the girls that fell into trouble after Suzanne, but she could never match the service that Anne provided.’

  Bartholomew thought it was just as well, but it was not the time for such a discussion, so he hurried to the cistern instead. Thomas followed, although to escape his sweeping duties, rather than from a desire to be helpful. Bartholomew reached the door and tried to open it, but it was shut fast. He turned to scowl at Thomas, wondering if the twin had lied about Michael and Lichet as part of some new prank.

  ‘They are unlikely to have locked themselves inside. What are—’

  ‘Well, they must have done,’ interrupted Thomas shortly. ‘Because I saw them go in, but I did not see them come out again – which I would have noticed.’

  ‘Would you? Why?’

  Thomas shrugged slyly. ‘Because they are two men who annoy me, and so would benefit from being the butt of a jape.’ He rolled his eyes with exaggerated weariness when he saw the expression on Bartholomew’s face. ‘A harmless one, so do not look so worried.’

  But Bartholomew’s concern was not for Thomas’s petty plans to settle scores, but because he was suddenly assailed by the conviction that all was not well. He kicked the door, then charged at it with his shoulder, but it did not budge and all he did was bruise himself. He glared at Thomas, who was watching with folded arms and an irritating smile.

  ‘Will you help me?’ he demanded testily. ‘Michael might be in danger down there.’

  ‘From Lichet?’ Thomas laughed derisively. ‘If your friend can be bested by a low specimen like that, then shame on him. But wait here. I will send my father to you with the key.’

  He sauntered away whistling. Agitated, Bartholomew kicked the door again, but the wood was unusually thick, and all he did was add stubbed toes to his sore shoulder. He persisted, though, until he heard an angry voice a few moments later.

  ‘There is no need to damage castle property,’ snapped Marishal, shoving him out of the way, key in his hand. ‘This door was freshly painted last week.’

  ‘The Queen will not notice a few scuffs,’ retorted Bartholomew, and squinted up at the sky, trying to gauge the time. ‘I suppose she will arrive at any moment now …’

  ‘She is not coming,’ said Marishal sourly. ‘A messenger arrived an hour ago, to say that she has been delayed by floods. Tonight’s ceremony will have to proceed without her.’

  ‘Then the squires have not yet heard the news,’ remarked Bartholomew, glancing to where Nuport and his friends had finished lugging blankets, and were trailing to the outer bailey with shovels; they dragged their feet, clearly hating the humiliation.

  A vengeful expression flitted across Marishal’s face. ‘I must have forgotten to mention it to them.’ He inserted the key and made a moue of annoyance. ‘It is not locked. Whose idea was it to haul me from more important duties on a fool’s errand? Yours, or my idiot son’s?’

  ‘If it is not locked, then open it,’ ordered Bartholomew curtly.

  Marishal obliged, and Bartholomew saw that the door had been fitted with a mechanism that allowed it to be firmly secured from the outside – a tiny lever that slotted discreetly into a groove in the wall, which could be released by a quick twist of the handle.

  ‘There,’ said Marishal. ‘Although I do not know why you could not have done it yourself.’

  ‘Because I did not know how,’ retorted Bartholomew, feeling he could come to dislike the steward. ‘And why would you install such a thing anyway? It is simply begging for someone to be shut inside – especially with pranksters like your twins around.’

  ‘Lichet put it in, after a leak saw us ankle-deep in mud for months,’ explained Marishal. ‘It prevents the door from bursting open when the water in the cistern reaches bailey height. The ground here is boggy now, so you can imagine what it is like when the cistern overflows.’

  Bartholomew was growing angrier with every word the steward spoke. ‘Then why did no one tell us about this sooner?’ he cried. ‘It is possible that the killer trapped your wife and Roos inside by deploying the thing. And now Lichet – a suspect for the murders – is down there with Michael.’

  Marishal’s eyes narrowed. ‘Then I suggest we go and make sure all is well. And if the Red Devil does transpire to be the beast who stabbed Margery …’

  With mounting trepidation, Bartholomew began to follow him down the steps, but they had not gone far when he heard the door slam shut. He scrambled back up again, only to discover that Lichet’s device had slipped into place. The door was closed, and no amount of shoving and kicking would make it budge. They were trapped.

  ‘Damn!’ muttered Marishal. ‘The wind must have caught it. Thank God the Queen is not coming today. It would have been very inconvenient – not to mention embarrassing – to be stuck down here when she arrived.’

  ‘Did the wind catch it?’ asked Bartholomew uneasily. ‘Or did someone shut it on purpose?’

  ‘Well, it was not Lichet – not if he is already down here. But I suspect it was the wind. If the door slams hard enough, the mechanism does drop into place of its own volition. I have seen it happen before. I told Lichet to fix it, but it seems he forgot.’

  ‘Hey!’ bellowed Bartholomew, thumping the door with both fists for good measure. ‘Help!’

  ‘Save your breath. The only folk working in the inner bailey today are the cooks, and they are too far away to hear you.’

>   Bartholomew knew, from the experiments he had conducted with Richard the previous afternoon, that this was true. The door was unusually thick – understandably so, given that it was intended to keep the bailey from flooding – and he had not heard the watchman yell from inside, even when he had pressed his ear to the wood.

  ‘But there must be a way of opening it from within,’ he said agitatedly. ‘Otherwise, the system would be fundamentally flawed – not to mention dangerous.’

  ‘Well, it was Lichet’s design, so what do you expect?’ shrugged Marishal. ‘I did suggest he include a way for someone to escape, should they inadvertently be locked in, but he said no one would be that stupid. Shall we see what he has to say about it now?’

  It was not an easy descent for two reasons. First, because Marishal held the only lamp, and he was not very good at shining it in such a way that both of them could see. And second, because Bartholomew felt his apprehension grow with every step he took. On the upside, they did not have far to go, as the water had risen so much that it had reached the uppermost of the eight doors.

  ‘Michael?’ he shouted, taking the lantern and ducking through it. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Matt!’ came the monk’s voice warningly. ‘Go back! Lichet is here.’

  Lichet was indeed there, standing a few feet away holding a crossbow. The sight was too much for Marishal, who surged forward with a howl of rage, clearly of the opinion that Lichet with a weapon proved that he was Margery’s killer. He barrelled past Bartholomew, and had almost reached his target when he skidded in the wet. He fell, and his momentum carried him clean across the slick pavement and into the water beyond. He disappeared with a splash and was gone.

  There was a shocked silence. Then Bartholomew ran to look for him, almost losing his own footing in the process, but the water was black and empty. A sinister ripple on the surface showed that a strong current was running, and he could only suppose it had dragged the hapless steward away.

  ‘Forget him and stand with your friend,’ ordered Lichet, brandishing the crossbow.