by S. D. Sykes
‘Are you sure that nobody else knew about them?’ she said.
‘You mean Edwin?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. I do mean Edwin. Didn’t you tell me that he was also called to Godfrey’s library last night? Perhaps Godfrey told Edwin the truth, before he brought two new members of the family into the castle? It might have made Edwin very angry.’
‘Are you suggesting that Edwin killed Godfrey?’ I said.
She paused. ‘Well, it’s possible, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. It is,’ I said, standing up and reaching for my cloak. ‘I’ll go and speak to him now.’ I poked Godfrey’s letter to Simon Islip under my belt, and then patted it. ‘I’ll ask him what he knows about this.’
I put on my cloak and reached the door, when she called after me. ‘Be careful, Oswald,’ she said. ‘I don’t like that man.’
I found Edwin lying on his bed, with the long cloak now draped across his head. He didn’t stir when I entered the room, so I nudged him gently at first and then with more urgency. ‘Edwin,’ I said. ‘Wake up. I need to speak to you.’
He groaned and turned away from me. ‘Go away, de Lacy,’ he said. ‘I did as you asked. I spoke to the household, and was pushed over for my troubles.’
I pulled the cloak back, exposing his face to daylight. ‘I said, get up. I need to speak to you.’
‘What’s the matter with you?’ he squealed as he jumped up from the bed to avoid a shaft of light. ‘I told you to leave me alone. So off you go!’ When I didn’t move, he added, ‘You have to do what I say now, de Lacy. I own this castle. I’m Lord Eden.’
I ignored this remark and pressed on with my questions. ‘Did you know that Godfrey was planning to leave the castle today?’ I said.
Edwin squinted at me. ‘What?’
‘Is that why Godfrey called you to his library last night?’
Edwin continued to stare, his mouth hung open like a fish gulping for air. ‘Uh?’
‘For goodness’ sake, Edwin,’ I said, ‘just listen to me. Did Godfrey tell you that he was planning to leave the castle today? Yes or no.’
‘No.’
‘So why did Godfrey want to see you last night?’
Edwin let out a long groan. ‘Oh God, I don’t know,’ he said, pushing the hair out of his eyes. ‘It was just the usual stuff,’ he said. ‘Stop getting drunk. Leave the maids alone.’
‘He didn’t tell you that he was married and had a child?’
Edwin drew back. ‘Godfrey was married with a child?’ he repeated. ‘Says who?’
I pulled the letter from my belt. ‘It’s in here,’ I said. ‘Written by Godfrey himself.’
He let his mouth hang open again, before he shook his head and rubbed his eyes. ‘Where did you find that?’ he said.
‘Godfrey gave it to me last night. For safekeeping.’
‘Let me see it,’ he said, trying to snatch the square of parchment from my grasp. I pulled the letter away quickly, until he held out his hand politely. ‘Look, de Lacy,’ he said. ‘You can’t say that you have a letter like that and then not show me. If I can’t read it, then I won’t believe you.’
I hesitated, because he was right. Edwin needed to see this letter, if only to acknowledge its existence. I passed the folded square of parchment to him with some reluctance, but made sure to stay close in case he made an attempt to destroy it. After all, its contents were hardly in his interests.
Edwin ran his fingers along the writing, mumbling the words aloud as if he were a child learning to read. He went through this same process three times in a row before he flung the letter back to me in disgust.
‘So you knew nothing about this woman and child?’ I asked him.
Edwin sank down upon the side of his bed. ‘What is this, de Lacy? An interrogation?’
‘I just need you to be honest with me,’ I said.
‘I am being honest with you,’ he protested. ‘I knew nothing about this Abigail Franklin and her child. Or Godfrey’s plan to leave the castle.’ He ran his fingers through his hair, forming valleys across his scalp. ‘I’d like you to leave now, please,’ he said. ‘My brother has been murdered and I’m grieving.’
I ignored this instruction and made my way to a table on the other side of the room, where I filled two cups from a jug of Malmsey wine. ‘This news about Godfrey’s son must be a shock for you,’ I said, returning to Edwin’s side, and passing him one of the cups.
‘I’ll get over it,’ he replied, as he took the wine from me. ‘Now, as I keep saying, I’d like you to leave.’
I sidled up to him instead – even though he smelt very stale at this close proximity.
‘You have to obey me,’ he said. ‘This is my castle.’
‘Do I?’ I replied. ‘You see, now we know that Godfrey has a son, it turns out that you’re not Lord Eden after all.’
He bristled. ‘Not necessarily,’ he said.
I tapped the letter that was once again tucked beneath my belt. ‘Well, that’s what this says, Edwin. And Godfrey gave it to me himself, so we know it’s genuine.’
Edwin stood up to get away from me. ‘Well, let’s see if this boy survives the Plague, shall we? Then we can argue about who is the rightful Lord Eden.’ He stalked over to the door and opened it. ‘Now please leave.’
‘Aren’t you concerned about Godfrey’s wife and son?’ I said.
‘No,’ he answered, letting go of the door for a moment. ‘Why should I be?’
‘Because this child is your nephew, after all. And the rightful Lord Eden. He’s somewhere on the island, at risk from the Plague. Don’t you think that you should bring this boy and his mother to the castle? It’s what Godfrey was planning to do.’
‘No. Of course I don’t, de Lacy,’ he said. ‘I’m not going out there.’ He then paused, allowing time for a smile to cross his face. ‘But if you’re volunteering to leave the castle to find this woman and her son, then I wouldn’t stand in your way. In fact, you would have my blessing for such a selfless and noble act.’
We stared at each other for a while, both knowing that I would not make such an offer – not for the sake of a woman and child I’d never met. I might have looked down my nose at Edwin of Eden, but we were not so very different at heart. We were both ruthless and self-centred, when it came to the people that we loved most. The difference was that my love was for my family, whereas he only cared for himself. But did this quality make Edwin a murderer, as Filomena had suggested? I didn’t think so. I had investigated other murders and learnt to trust my instincts. My instincts told me that Edwin was too stupid to be guilty.
‘What are you going to do with that letter?’ he asked, before looking away, unable to meet my gaze when he made the next suggestion. ‘Perhaps I should have it, for safekeeping?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said, almost wanting to laugh out loud at this preposterous idea.
‘Are you going to tell everybody what it says, then?’ he asked me.
I hesitated. ‘No, Edwin,’ I replied. ‘I’ll let you do that yourself.’ I paused. ‘But please do not doubt me. If you have not said anything about Godfrey’s son by the time we are ready to leave in the spring, then I will tell them all myself.’
We raised the portcullis for a short period the next morning, in order that a party of men from within the castle could dig a shallow grave for Godfrey in the graveyard of the family chapel – the small, stone building that lay just beyond the gate of the castle. We had no option but to bury Godfrey’s body outside, since we could not dig up the cobblestones of the inner ward and lay him to rest within the walls. Leaving the castle was a risk we had to take, so we acted quickly to make sure that we kept our time outside to a minimum.
The gravediggers were myself, Pieter de Groot, his nephew Hans and the knight Robert of Lyndham. Sandro joined us to watch out for any strangers as we worked, but we felt safe enough. The castle sat on top of a steep bank of land at the southern tip of the Isle of Eden, and was surrounded by the marsh on three
sides. To the other side there were open fields, with the nearest woodland being about three hundred yards away. It was unlikely that anybody could approach us without being seen. Our real enemy that morning was the harsh wind, battering us as we dug at the hard, icy soil. Consequently the pit was a shallow hole for this unexpected burial. The true gravediggers would have to return in the spring, as this temporary grave would not suffice as a permanent resting place.
Once we’d lowered Godfrey’s coffin into this hole, the other guests and servants from the castle briefly joined us for the most rapid service of committal that I’d ever attended. As Old Simon sprinkled holy water onto Godfrey’s coffin, I wrapped my cloak about my shoulders and then looked around the grave at my fellow mourners, studying their faces, one by one. Each wore a respectful, if frozen, expression. Some were even shedding a tear, but there was deceit here as well as grief. One of these people was a killer – a person with the self-composure to watch their victim being buried, without displaying even the slightest tremble of guilt.
Chapter Eight
I had planned to begin our search for the killer as soon as Godfrey was buried, but Edwin was in no fit state to join me. He had drunk so much wine in honour of his dead brother, that he had been forced to retire to his bedchamber with a headache. I thought about waiting for him to sober up, but decided to proceed anyway, knowing that Edwin was unlikely to be of any real assistance to me – whether drunk or sober. In fact, he was more likely to be a hindrance, so I asked Sandro to help instead, knowing that my valet had many skills that would be useful in this investigation. We began by returning to the obvious place – the cellar where Godfrey’s body had been discovered.
The room was as dark and empty as before, apart from de Groot’s chest, which smelt strangely of wood tar. I think the clockmaker had already scrubbed out the inner casing of the chest, such had been his alarm at the foul residues from Godfrey’s dead body.
‘Do you know why Lord Eden came here, Master Oswald?’ asked Sandro as he surveyed the room. ‘It seems odd to me.’
‘I agree,’ I said. ‘This was not one of Godfrey’s storerooms.’
‘Perhaps Lord Eden was interested in the parts for his clock?’ suggested Sandro, pointing at de Groot’s wooden chest.
‘The chest was practically empty,’ I said. ‘The clock is nearly finished.’ I paused. ‘There has to be some other reason why Godfrey came to this cellar in the middle of the night.’
Sandro nodded at this, before dropping to his knees in order to feel about on the flagstones, letting his fingers skim the surface, before lifting them to his nose.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
‘If Lord Eden was killed in this room, Master Oswald, then there should be some blood on this floor,’ he said. ‘But I can’t smell any.’
A thought struck me. ‘What if Godfrey wasn’t killed here?’ I said. ‘ What if the killer only chose this place to hide his body?’
‘Why here?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘But there’s something that’s been bothering me, Sandro.’
‘Oh yes?’ he said, as he got back to his feet.
I continued. ‘When I first saw Godfrey’s body in de Groot’s chest, it seemed to me that the killer had arranged him into a pose. Almost as if Godfrey was being mocked.’
Sandro seemed puzzled by my theory. ‘I see,’ he said, not seeing at all.
‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘It was just an impression I had.’
He hesitated, not sure how to answer. ‘So, Master Oswald. If Lord Eden wasn’t killed here, then where was it?’ he said at length. ‘In his bedchamber perhaps?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Godfrey was dressed in his day clothes and not his nightshirt, when I found him. They were the same clothes that he’d been wearing when I saw him the previous evening.’ I thought for a moment. ‘We need to search Godfrey’s library.’
‘Do you have the key?’ Sandro asked me.
‘No,’ I said. ‘But Alice Cross will have it.’
We found our steward in the kitchen, sitting on a stool and plucking the feathers from a large, white goose. She held the bird’s webbed feet in one hand, letting its long neck dangle between her knees as she pulled the down from its breast.
‘I would like the key to Lord Eden’s library,’ I said.
She looked at me blankly, before blowing a feather from her lips. ‘I haven’t got that key, my Lord.’
‘I thought that you kept all the keys for this castle.’
‘All except that one,’ she said. ‘There was only one key to his library and Lord Eden made sure to keep it on a chain about his neck.’
‘You didn’t find it on his body when you prepared him for burial?’ I asked.
‘No, my Lord.’
‘So, his library is still unlocked, then?’
She turned her attention back to the goose, now scraping a knife over its loose skin to remove the last of the stubborn feathers. ‘Well, I can’t lock a room, can I, my Lord?’ she said sourly. ‘If I don’t have the key.’
Sandro followed me up the steps to Godfrey’s library, but hung back as I pushed at the heavy door. It opened with a creak, and then released a sigh of air into the passageway, as if the chamber beyond was pleased to welcome us at last. I took a deep breath and then stepped over the threshold, finding that Godfrey’s library was colder than ever. The shutters were closed and the air inside smelt damp and salty, as if the mists of the marsh were already reclaiming this room as their own. I let my eyes adjust to the gloomy light and then looked about, seeing nothing but an ordered library – much as it had looked on the night that Godfrey had summoned me for our last ever meeting.
Sandro stepped cautiously into the room behind me, as if the murderer might still be hiding behind a chair. ‘What would you like me to do, Master Oswald?’ he asked tentatively.
‘Just look around,’ I suggested. ‘To see if anything seems unusual to you.’
Sandro looked at me for a moment, dissatisfied with the vagueness of my instruction, before he wandered off – pacing aimlessly about the library and running his hands along Godfrey’s furniture and books. ‘I can’t see anything, Master Oswald,’ he soon declared. ‘I think we should search Lord Eden’s bedchamber instead.’
I was tempted to agree, and yet there was something amiss in this library – I knew it. I couldn’t say why exactly, but my suspicions were tickled, if not exactly raised. If anything, this chamber appeared too ordered, as if somebody were trying to throw me from the scent.
I pulled back the shutters of the window that gave onto the inner ward, hoping to literally shed some light onto this room, but something caught my eye below. It was Lyndham’s deerhound, tied to a post by a long leash as it sprawled out across the cobblestones, looking thoroughly despondent with life. This gave me an idea.
I turned to Sandro. ‘I’d like you to fetch Sir Robert’s dog,’ I said. ‘It’s tied up in the inner ward.’
My valet looked back at me with a puzzled expression. ‘Why’s that, Master Oswald?’
‘Just bring the dog here, Sandro,’ I said. ‘I’ll explain later.’
The boy puffed out his lips but did as I requested, soon returning with the dog, which had lost its despondency and now pulled my valet into the room with great excitement. As soon as it saw my face, it tried to leap up at me as if I were its long-lost master, before it knocked over a stool with its powerful tail. I grabbed the dog’s leash before it caused any damage and finally brought the spirited hound to a firm halt. The dog submitted with some reluctance, its tongue hanging out in a pant as it sat in front of me, waiting to be rewarded for its obedience. I had nothing to give it, but luckily Sandro was able to produce a crust of bread from his pouch. Once the dog was more settled, I led the creature about the room on its leash, waiting for it to drop its famous nose to the floor.
‘What are you doing, Master Oswald?’ asked Sandro, now even more baffled by my behaviour.
‘I think somebody ha
s recently cleaned this room,’ I said. ‘But this dog will be able to smell if there was any blood here.’
Sandro raised his eyebrows. ‘Very good idea,’ he said dubiously. ‘I hope it works.’
At first the dog was too excited to concentrate and continued to blunder about, causing Sandro to bite his lip in an attempt not to laugh at me. I must admit that I nearly gave up on this plan, as it had begun to seem like a fool’s errand, but then the dog picked up a scent. After its initial unruly exuberance, it was focused on its task – snuffling about the floor with determination, before heading towards Godfrey’s desk and then licking ferociously at one of the table legs. I passed the leash to Sandro and then dropped to my knees to look beneath the table, and there, sure enough, on the underside of the table lip were smears of blood. The murderer had missed these small pieces of evidence in their rush to clean up after the crime.
‘Come and look at this,’ I said, beckoning for Sandro to join me.
The boy knelt down to study the blood. ‘It’s fresh,’ he said, wiping it from the surface and lifting his fingers to his nose. ‘From the hands, I would say.’
‘I agree,’ I said. ‘Godfrey must have grabbed the table with bloodied fingers.’
With our attention taken up by this discovery, the dog took the opportunity to jump up at the table, resting its two paws on the table top as it desperately tried to stretch its neck towards the mazer that sat next to Godfrey’s bible. Sandro jumped back to his feet and tried to pull the dog away, but it was now so anxious to reach this large feasting cup that my suspicions were raised.
Once Sandro had distracted the dog with another piece of food, I picked up the mazer to inspect it more closely. It was turned from burred maple and decorated with a stand and rim of embossed silver, and had been presented to Godfrey when he was in Oxford. I studied the silver decoration, and could see an inscription in the boss – some warning or other about the dangers of drinking too much wine. But there, in the depressions of the lettering, I could also see the traces of blood.
