‘I did dislike him,’ admitted Dole. ‘Lymbury should never have made him Ickleton’s vicar. He had no vocation as a priest, and the villagers deserve better.’
‘You do have a vocation?’ asked Michael. ‘Even though you hanker after Sister Rose, and would marry her in a trice, were she to show any interest in you? You may even be the father of her child.’
Dole regarded him contemptuously. ‘I wondered how long it would be before accusations were levelled from that quarter. Yes, I admire Rose, and yes, I would have taken her as my wife, had she not been repelled by my injury. But it was not to be, and I only broke my vows with her once. I guessed she was with child, but the baby is unlikely to be mine. Others serviced her far more often than I.’
‘It will not be my husband’s, either,’ said Joan spitefully. ‘As Rose will tell you. Oh yes, I knew what they did when I went to visit my mother. But why do you think we have no children of our own? Everyone blames the woman for being barren in such situations, but Philip was married twice before and had mistresses aplenty. And not one has borne him a brat. That should tell you something.’
But Michael did not think Lymbury’s ability to produce heirs was relevant to the murders. He returned to the matter of the vicar. ‘William was going to read Lymbury’s will today. Where is it?’
A search of William’s clothing revealed no documents, so Askyl took Bartholomew and Michael to the priest’s house, a small, pretty building on the edge of Ickleton’s oak-shaded churchyard. Askyl started in shock when he approached a cupboard in the wall near the fireplace. ‘This is where he kept his valuables, but the lock has been smashed. Someone was here before us.’
‘Someone has broken the lock,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But there is a lot of jewellery here. A normal thief would have stolen that, so I conclude the burglar wanted one thing only: the will.’
‘Why would the will be here?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Why would Lymbury not keep it himself?’
Askyl rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘William always stored them for him. I think he believed no one would risk his soul by breaking in to a priest’s house, and so they would be safer here.’
Bartholomew inspected the damage to the cupboard. ‘Actually, the lock has not been smashed–it has been prised out of the door. Whoever did this did not strike blindly, but attacked with precision.’
‘How curious,’ said Michael, inspecting the marks the physician pointed out. He watched hopefully when Bartholomew leaned down to retrieve something from the floor, then grimaced his disappointment when it was tossed away. Whatever it was had been deemed irrelevant. He turned to the knight, who sat on a bench and made no attempt to wipe away the tears that streamed down his face. ‘You were seen arguing with Lymbury yesterday–during the hunt. What about?’
Askyl sighed. ‘About that damned sword. You see, I slipped back to the manor-house to escape from Rose and Joan. I happened across Lymbury, who was waiting for James to fetch William–to dictate his latest will. He said he intended to leave that sword to William, and I asked him to rethink.’
‘Why?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I thought you liked William–you are certainly more distressed by his death than you were about Lymbury’s. Why should you object to him inheriting a fine weapon?’
‘It brings unhappiness and shame,’ explained Askyl unsteadily. ‘And it has a wicked history, as Dole told you. I did not want William tainted with it.’
‘Most men would be flattered by two women lusting after them,’ said Michael, curious as to why the knight should have fled their attentions. ‘One is pretty and the other is rich. It is quite a choice.’
‘I do not think Rose is pretty, and I am not sure Joan will be rich once the will is read,’ said Askyl with a sniff. ‘I go through the motions, pretending to be honoured by their attentions, but I wish they would just leave me alone.’
‘You prefer William,’ said Bartholomew in sudden understanding. ‘He is the reason you came to Ickleton. And you permit Rose and Joan to fawn over you in order to conceal your true feelings. Did William reciprocate?’
Askyl was ashen-faced. ‘I suppose it does not matter now he is dead. Yes, William and I were close and I did use those two ridiculous women to conceal it. I do not know what I shall do now he is gone.’
‘Were you telling the truth when you said William came home alone last night?’ asked Bartholomew, once the knight had composed himself again.
Askyl nodded. ‘I wanted him to stay with me after what had happened to Lymbury, but Dole was beginning to be suspicious, so we separated. The next time I saw William, he was dead.’
Bartholomew looked around the house thoughtfully, then pointed to a domed hat that lay on the table. ‘He was wearing that yesterday, so I think he did come here after leaving you. Then he must have discovered someone had broken into his cupboard, and returned to the manor-house. Perhaps he confronted the thief and was killed.’
‘I suppose Dole could have done it,’ said Askyl, speaking with clear reluctance. ‘After he and I had finished talking about…’
‘About what?’ demanded Michael, when the knight trailed off unhappily.
‘About a man called Curterne. He was killed at Poitiers–stabbed in the back with his own sword. Dole and I discussed it, because it was the same weapon that killed Lymbury.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘Was Curterne killed by a Frenchman?’
Askyl chewed his bottom lip. ‘I do not believe so. Lymbury, William, Dole and I saw him alive after the battle–he spent most of it under a hedge. It was cowardly, but not all men are suited to war.’
‘I felt like hiding under a hedge at Poitiers myself,’ admitted Bartholomew. ‘But I did not do it. It would not have been right to let comrades fight alone.’
‘Obviously someone else felt the same way,’ said Askyl, ‘because I am sure it was an Englishman who killed Curterne–all the enemy had been rounded up by the time he died. After, as William told you yesterday, when we found the sword in his corpse, we drew lots for it. Lymbury won.’
‘Did Lymbury kill Curterne, then?’
‘Possibly. I did not, and neither did William–William would have kept the sword if he had been the killer, since he really wanted to own it. I believe Curterne’s killer was either Lymbury or Dole, although I have no evidence to prove it.’
‘But you are still my main suspect for killing Lymbury,’ said Michael, watching the knight begin to weep again. ‘You lied to us about your whereabouts during the salient time, and innocent men do not fabricate.’
Askyl raised his tear-mottled face. ‘You expect me to admit, in front of all those people, that I was hiding from women? With Dole already suspicious of my fondness for William? I did not kill Lymbury, Brother. Why would I?’
‘Because by making William a vicar, Lymbury ensured he would have to stay in Ickleton,’ suggested Michael. ‘It interfered with your relationship.’
‘But Lymbury invited me to be his bailiff,’ Askyl pointed out. ‘I could have stayed, too.’
‘Speaking of bailiffs, here is Hog,’ said Bartholomew, glancing through the open door.
‘James is ill,’ said Hog, bursting into the house without invitation. ‘You must come at once.’
James was lying on a bench in the manor-house, gasping for breath, his face as scarlet as the setting sun. Bartholomew mixed a potion he prescribed for choleric patients, along with a small dose of poppy syrup to calm him, then wiped the boy’s burning skin with water-cooled cloths. Eventually, James’s face returned to a more normal colour, and his breathing eased.
‘He is young to suffer from a morbid excess of this particular humour,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Such an ailment is more common in older men.’
‘His mother was the same,’ said Hog brokenly. ‘She died before her time.’
Bartholomew suspected James might, too, although nothing would be served by confiding the fact. He did not want the lad’s last days to be tainted by fear.
‘Have you learned who killed my husban
d yet?’ asked Joan, fanning James with a cabbage leaf.
Michael shook his head. ‘Not yet, but I am coming close.’
‘It was William,’ said Joan, fanning hard enough to make James flinch. ‘Probably because he coveted that damned sword. Philip must have decided to leave it to Sir Elias instead, so William murdered Philip before he could change his will to that end.’
‘Then who killed William?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Or do you think there are two murderers in Ickleton?’
Joan’s voice was cold. ‘If William murdered my husband, then he deserved to die–and I shall reward the brave man who dispatched him.’
Bartholomew regarded her thoughtfully. ‘We know a lot about William’s last movements. He practised his swordplay with Askyl, then went home. When he arrived, he discovered that someone had broken into the cupboard where he keeps his valuables and Lymbury’s will had gone. I doubt he would have gone to bed after that, so he probably returned here.’
Michael nodded. ‘He would have wanted to confront the thief and demand the will back.’
‘That assumes he knew who the thief was,’ said Hog.
‘I think he did,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I certainly do.’
Everyone stared at him. ‘How?’ asked Hog eventually.
Bartholomew pointed to the floor, where grain had dropped from the bailiff’s clothing onto the polished boards. ‘You have been working in the fields, and corn has fallen into the folds of your tunic. There was corn in William’s house, too, near his cupboard–I picked it up, but discarded it as irrelevant. But it was not. It proves you were in William’s house last night, because no one else worked near corn yesterday.’
Hog regarded him uneasily. ‘That is not true. The hunt went along some of the fields.’
‘But they were on horseback. The grain came from someone walking among it. You.’
Hog was dismissive. ‘That is ludicrous.’
‘Whoever stole the will broke into William’s cupboard with a specific kind of tool,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘Not a knife, but something with a flat end, like a chisel. You have one, because you brandished it at Dole when he walked on your polished floor in his spurs earlier. You used that chisel to break the lock in William’s house–you did it when he was sparring with Askyl and Dole, knowing they were enjoying themselves and that you would have plenty of time.’
Hog’s face was white. ‘And why would I do that?’
‘Does this mean Hog killed William and my husband, too?’ demanded Joan, cutting across Bartholomew’s reply. It was just as well, because the physician did not know why Hog should have stolen the will.
‘No!’ cried James from his bench. ‘My father is not a killer.’
‘No, he is not,’ agreed Bartholomew gently. ‘He is not even a proper thief–no self-respecting robber would have left all that jewellery untouched.’
Suddenly, the door crashed open, and Prioress Christiana marched in, pushing a subdued Dame Pauline before her. Rose had followed, her eyes bright with interest.
‘I have just found this,’ said Christiana furiously, waving an old, time-yellowed garment that was liberally splattered with blood. ‘Dame Pauline was about to burn it.’
‘Pauline is the killer?’ asked Joan, her jaw dropping in shock.
‘Of course not!’ screeched Pauline, clearly frightened. ‘I am a nun! I do not go around jabbing swords into the backs of men sitting in chairs as they count their money.’
‘How do you know Lymbury was counting his money?’ pounced Michael. ‘Matt found a gold coin in his hand, but only he and I knew about that. Your innocence is looking shaky, madam.’
‘Pauline may well have been present when Lymbury died,’ said Bartholomew, watching the old woman flail around for an answer. ‘But she did not deliver the killing blow. That was James.’
Everyone turned to look at the ailing youth, who closed his eyes tightly, as if he could pretend none of them were there.
‘That is a lie,’ said Hog in a whisper. ‘James is ill. He could not have killed Lymbury.’
‘He was not ill yesterday,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He ran all over the manor looking for William to write the new will. And that is his tunic in the prioress’s hand. The one he wears now is new, very clean and so white it dazzles in the sunlight–but what servant dons such a garment when there is so much work to be done in the fields? The truth is that James killed Lymbury, and his clothes were befouled with blood. Hog said James was too dim-witted to think of ridding himself of stained garments, but someone else was not.’
‘I admit I helped him,’ said Pauline in a wheedling voice. ‘But only because he is a good boy, and I do not want to see him hang for a moment of silly temper.’
‘James is not hot tempered,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He is soft and malleable. He is upset about the prospect of his father losing his post to Askyl–he loves Hog, and will do anything for him.’
Hog went to kneel next to the boy. ‘Is it true?’
James nodded unhappily, his eyes still screwed closed. ‘Dame Pauline said killing Lymbury would make your position safe. She gave me the sword and said no one would ever know it was me–she said everyone would think one of his friends had done it, because they are warlike.’
‘Lies!’ screeched Pauline, starting to move towards him. Bartholomew blocked her path.
‘I did it for you,’ whispered James to his father. ‘Pauline said Lady Joan would inherit all his property, including the right to rent the manor from Michaelhouse, and all would be well again. You love Ickleton, and I do not want your heart broken by leaving it.’
Hog rested his hand on his son’s forehead, then stood and faced Michael. ‘He is rambling. I killed Lymbury. And last night, I went to William’s house and stole the will. It is in my house–I hid it under the table. James has nothing to do with any of this. It was me.’ He faltered, and gazed uncertainly at Pauline. ‘Although I still do not understand why you ordered me to steal the will and hide it until later.’
Pauline licked dry lips. ‘Do not listen to him, Brother. I did not tell either of them to do anything. Killing Lymbury would not have secured Hog’s post, as any fool would know. Michaelhouse is now free to rent the manor to anyone it chooses, and Hog will be dismissed.’
Bartholomew saw James’s stricken expression. ‘But the boy did not know that. He believed you when you told him murder would save his father from unhappiness. You preyed on his gullibility.’
Pauline’s expression was cold and disdainful. ‘What do you know about what James thinks? Besides, you heard Hog. He admitted everything. He killed Lymbury. I did nothing–except burn…’
‘Except burn James’s tunic,’ finished Michael. ‘Which you would not have done if Hog had killed Lymbury. This murder is just as much your doing as the boy’s. You were like a devil, sitting on his shoulder, whispering evil into his ear.’
‘And it was all for selfishness,’ added Bartholomew. ‘You killed Lymbury so you would not have to play chaperon to Rose on any more hunts.’
‘I hate riding,’ said Pauline in a pitiful whine. ‘It jolts my old joints, and I am often in agony for days afterwards. You are right in that I would do virtually anything to avoid riding–but not murder.’
Bartholomew did not believe her. ‘You need not have troubled yourself. In a few weeks, she will not be able to go out into the woods anyway. She is pregnant.’
Pauline was more angry than shocked. She turned on Rose. ‘You told me your heaviness was down to too much bread. You lied–and that made me take poor decisions. This is your fault!’
‘Do not shirk responsibility,’ said Michael sharply. ‘Take her back to the convent, Prioress Christiana. I shall arrange for her transfer to Chatteris within the week.’
With a screech of outrage, Pauline launched herself at the monk. Bartholomew dived to intercept her, but she was faster than he anticipated and he missed. Joan drew the small knife she carried in her belt, and for a moment, Bartholomew thought she intended to stab the
old nun as she hurtled past. But Joan hesitated, and suddenly, the dagger was in Pauline’s gnarled fingers. Rose was made of sterner stuff, however. Calmly, she stretched out a foot as Pauline powered past, and the old woman went sprawling across the wooden floor, dagger skittering from her fingers.
‘She was going to kill you, Brother,’ said Hog in horror, hurrying to grab the weapon and return it to Joan. ‘She is truly a fiend from Hell.’
‘And I saved your life,’ said Rose comfortably. ‘So, you would not be sending me to Chatteris for disobedience, would you, Brother?’
Later that day, Bartholomew and Michael collected their horses and prepared to go home. There were four hours of daylight left, more than enough time to ride to Cambridge before the sun set. In Bartholomew’s saddlebag was a chalice Lymbury had removed from a church near Poitiers, which Dole estimated was worth ten marks. Master Langelee could sell it to pay for the latrines, and the manor’s debt to Michaelhouse would be discharged. The two scholars lingered, waiting for Joan to bring them a parcel of pastries to eat on the journey home.
‘So, it was all Dame Pauline,’ said Michael, rubbing his horse’s neck. ‘She disliked acting as chaperon to Rose and riding was becoming increasingly painful for her, so she decided to murder the lord of the manor so she would not have to do it again.’
‘It does not sound very likely, does it?’ said Bartholomew. ‘A feeble motive for killing.’
‘Perhaps to the likes of you and me, but Dame Pauline is a totally selfish creature, who will do anything for her own comfort. She was willing to see James or Hog hang for the crime she instigated–she cares for nothing and no one but herself.’
Bartholomew thought about how she had achieved her objective. ‘So, during the hunt, she escaped from Rose–who had bribed her to doze under a tree anyway–and slunk back to the manor-house. There was young James, and there was Lymbury, counting his money. She played on James’s fears and his loyalty to his father, by making him believe all would be well if Lymbury was dead. Then she persuaded Hog to steal Lymbury’s will. Why did she do that, Brother? Did she hope she might be a beneficiary?’
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