The Bone Fire

by The Bone Fire (retail) (epub)

  He pressed himself against the wall to get away from me. ‘What are you trying to suggest, de Lacy?’ he said – his voice now high-pitched and agitated. ‘That I’m involved in the murder of my own brother? Is that what this nonsense is all about?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  I paused for a while. ‘But perhaps I’ll mention this theory to the other guests, anyway. To see what they think. Particularly Lord Hesket, as he has asked me to keep him abreast of the investigation.’

  Edwin was shaking now. His face wet with sweat. ‘All right. All right,’ he stammered. ‘Look, I did give some coins to the Dutchman. But it was only for the letters. Nothing else. I certainly didn’t pay him to kill Godfrey.’

  ‘So you admit to theft, then?’

  He froze for a moment. ‘Well . . . yes,’ he said, before quickly collecting himself. ‘But was it really a crime, de Lacy?’ He paused, before his lips curled into a sly smile. ‘Now that I think about it, those letters were mine anyway. Godfrey was my brother after all.’ He released his body from the wall and leant towards me. ‘This is my castle now. I am Lord Eden.’

  ‘Yes. But only until the spring, Edwin. Remember that.’

  His smile disappeared and he retreated back to the wall.

  I grabbed another crust of the bread. ‘I feel disappointed in you, to be honest,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been your friend. Agreeing to help you with this investigation. Defending your innocence. Even when you’re the most obvious person to blame for this murder.’

  ‘No. That’s not true. I’m not the killer.’

  I puffed out my lips and sighed regretfully. ‘But you were the last person to see Godfrey alive and you have so much to gain by his death.’

  ‘I’m innocent, de Lacy,’ he said, his face now knotted into a panic-stricken frown. ‘I didn’t kill Godfrey. You’ve got to believe me.’

  ‘But you’re making it so difficult for me, Edwin,’ I said calmly. ‘Especially when you behave so deceitfully. Paying somebody to break into my strongbox and steal letters. Letters that your dead brother entrusted to me.’ I put down the bread and turned to look him in the eye. ‘Give me one reason why I shouldn’t throw you into the dungeon straight away.’

  ‘Because you’d be arresting the wrong man, de Lacy,’ he said defiantly. ‘Lock me in the dungeon, and the killer is still free. Living in the same castle as your wife and child.’

  ‘So give me back the letters,’ I said. ‘Prove to me that I can trust you again.’

  He looked away. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?

  He bit his lip. ‘I burnt them.’

  This didn’t really come as a surprise. Why else would he have stolen these letters, other than to destroy them? ‘But it hasn’t done you any good, Edwin,’ I said. ‘I told you that before. I can bear witness to the letter I was given by Godfrey. And he will have left others. You know what your brother was like. With his love for lists and records, he won’t have left Simon’s inheritance to chance.’

  Edwin rubbed his hands over his face. ‘Yes, you’re right,’ he said at length. ‘I shouldn’t have done it.’ He paused and then turned his head to look me in the eye. ‘But I’m not a killer. You must believe me.’

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ I said, standing up to leave.

  ‘Oh, come on, de Lacy,’ he said. ‘I’m innocent. You and I can find the true killer together.’

  ‘No,’ I said emphatically. ‘I’m investigating this murder on my own. I do not want your help, and I will not be reporting to you.’

  I had reached the door when he scampered after me. ‘Wait a moment, de Lacy. There’s something I want to say.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Something occurred to me when I read the letter that Godfrey wrote to that priest, John Cubit. I thought it might be relevant.’

  ‘You’re being helpful now, are you?’

  ‘Please. Don’t judge me so harshly,’ he said. ‘I want to find Godfrey’s killer as much as you do.’ He paused and then pulled at his ear. I couldn’t help but see the pimples scattered amongst the hairs of his beard. ‘Godfrey was acting very strangely in the months before he died,’ he said. ‘He locked himself up in that library for hours every night. He wouldn’t even let Mistress Cross clean the room. Nobody was allowed to enter unless he was there. And, and . . .’ He paused again. ‘When I read that letter, I saw that Godfrey mentions some sort of secret project.’

  ‘Do you know what it was?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Edwin. ‘But Godfrey was up to something, that’s for certain. Especially as he didn’t want anybody else to know about it.’

  ‘Were you reading Godfrey’s private letters?’ I asked.

  He screwed up his face. ‘What?’

  ‘Godfrey suspected somebody was opening and then resealing his private correspondence. Was it you?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ he protested. ‘I’d never do anything like that. Why must you blame everything on me?’

  ‘Because you’re dishonest and deceitful, Edwin. That’s why.’

  ‘Yes. But that doesn’t make me a killer, does it?’

  We regarded each other for a moment, as I felt my eyes drawn again to those pimples taking cover beneath his unruly beard. Why does the eye seek out such blemishes, even when the mind tells it not to? I blinked and refocused. Was Edwin innocent of Godfrey’s murder, as he so vigorously claimed? Or was I being fooled again? Did his treachery go beyond thieving?

  I turned my back on him and walked away. I was still minded to give Edwin the benefit of the doubt. Which meant continuing to look elsewhere for the killer.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I returned to our apartment to find the usual chaos of the morning under way. Mother was dressing with Filomena’s assistance, Hugh was crying because he had just woken up, and Sandro was trying to breathe some life back into the fire. I offered what help I could, and once we were finally able to leave the rooms and make our way to the inner ward, Filomena and I could speak privately at last.

  ‘Did Hans steal the letters?’ she asked me.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Edwin paid him to do it. That’s what those coins were for.’

  She raised an eyebrow at this. ‘Did Edwin give the letters back to you?’

  ‘No. He burnt them.’

  She gasped. ‘Now will you believe me, Oswald? That man is evil. You must stop defending him.’

  I rubbed my face with my hands. ‘I know why you think that, Filomena. But I still don’t believe he’s the murderer.’

  ‘So what do you believe then?’ she said, folding her arms.

  ‘I want to search Godfrey’s library again.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d like to know what Godfrey was working on, before he died,’ I said. ‘Apparently he barely left his library in recent weeks. And then there was the mention of his “shared vision” in the letter to John Cubit. Something that he was hiding from “prying eyes”. Do your remember?’ She nodded in response. ‘His secret work must be hidden in that room somewhere, Filomena,’ I said, ‘and I want to find it.’

  ‘You think it’s important?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I do.’

  As Filomena and I climbed the many steps towards Godfrey’s library, we could hear Alice Cross below in the inner ward, shouting at Sandro as he chased Hugh about the square. A kinder-hearted person would have been delighted to hear Hugh’s squeals of laughter, but not Alice Cross. The joy of children only seemed to provoke her.

  Once we had reached the second floor, I opened the heavy door to the library and then stepped inside to find this room was as dismal as ever. Without a daily fire, the chamber was rapidly surrendering to the damp of the marsh. A pervasive mouldy smell hit my nose and then lodged itself at the back of my throat.

  Filomena was immediately drawn to Godfrey’s new window, with its impressive view across the marsh. I joined her for a moment
, seeing a pale sky meet a grey sea in a faint line across the horizon. The light was good today. The hills of the Kentish downs were visible to our left, covered in the snow from the previous night. In front of this line of raised land we could see the banks of the innings, where the local farmers were reclaiming the land from the sea in neat, square pockets.

  ‘It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?’ I said, as the clouds threw dancing shadows across the marsh – a vast panorama that was both earth and water.

  She smiled sadly. ‘It reminds me of Venice, Oswald.’

  I tugged at her arm. ‘Come on, then,’ I said quickly, hoping to discourage a bout of homesickness. ‘Let’s see what we can find in here.’

  She pulled her eyes away from the window with a sigh. ‘Remind me what we’re looking for, Oswald?’

  ‘We need to find this “shared vision”.’ I said. ‘Whatever it is.’

  ‘You genuinely think it’s here?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Filomena,’ I said honestly. ‘But this is where Godfrey was conducting his clandestine work. So, I can’t imagine where else it would be.’

  Filomena nodded her head. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Where should I start?’

  ‘We’re looking for a secret hiding place,’ I said, suddenly feeling a little foolish. ‘There might be a hidden compartment in the walls or floor. Who can say?’

  Filomena looked at me dubiously, before she went to work, lifting the damp tapestries from the wall and feeling along the wooden panelling. I turned my own attentions to the furniture. This room was plain, fitted out in Godfrey’s favoured style of expensive simplicity – but there was still a good selection of chairs, side tables and coffers to inspect.

  When our initial search revealed nothing, I then turned my attentions to the shelves of books along one wall of the room. I picked a book at random, finding it was a simple psalter. The inscription in the front of the book showed that it had been a gift from Godfrey’s mother to his father in the year of 1325. I lifted the book to my nose and smelt its leathery binding. There was a odour of mildew, and some of the pages towards the middle of the psalter were sticking together and had to be gently prised apart. This damp chamber was not suitable for the storage of books. If left here for long enough they would only absorb the sea air like sponges.

  I ran my finger along the other titles, when a thought occurred to me. Where was the manuscript that Godfrey had tried to lend me on the night he was killed? The book by John Wyclif. I returned my eyes to the shelf, checking that I had not missed this thin work, but The Last Days of the Church was definitely absent.

  I then searched the room again – until another thought crossed my mind. I headed for the fireplace, and there, amongst the lumps of charcoaled wood and mounds of fine ash, were the flaked remains of something. Was this the missing book? It certainly had the look of a burnt manuscript.

  I was poking my fingers around in this debris when somebody opened the door without knocking. I must have looked odd, with my hands in the grate, but thankfully Filomena was not feeling behind a tapestry at this point. Instead she had taken a break from her search and was once again staring out of the window at the marsh.

  Our visitor was the monk, Old Simon, who shuffled into the chamber with one hand on his walking stick and the other raised to his chest. The steep ascent up this narrow, winding staircase had made him short of breath. ‘Is that you, Lord Somershill?’ he asked, straining to see my face through the poor light. ‘I can’t see you.’

  I moved nearer the window. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And my wife, Lady Somershill.’

  The old monk creased his face into a smile. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Mistress Cross told me that she’d seen you coming up here.’ He placed his hand on my arm and leant against me. ‘Could you help me to a chair, my Lord,’ he asked. ‘My legs are rather disobedient these days. And those stairs are very steep.’

  Filomena hurried over from the window to assist me and we each took an arm, guiding the old man to one of the chairs near the fireplace.

  ‘God bless you,’ he said, as he sat down and then recovered his breath. ‘You must think I’m very foolish to climb up all those steps.’

  I was unable to lie. ‘I’m surprised you’ve managed it,’ I said. ‘It’s a steep ascent.’

  ‘I’m still looking for Corvina,’ he said. ‘She’s been missing since that brute threw a stone at her last night. I wanted to know if you’ve seen her? Sometimes she flies up onto these windowsills.’

  ‘I haven’t, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘Have you?’ I asked, turning to Filomena. My wife shook her head in response.

  ‘Never mind,’ said the old man with a regretful sigh. ‘Perhaps she has left me at last, and gone to be with her own kind.’ He lifted his hand to his eye to wipe away a tear.

  ‘Would you like some help back down the stairs?’ I asked.

  ‘Thank you, Lord Somershill. That’s very kind of you. But, if I might rest in this chair for a while longer, before I attempt my descent?’

  We stared at each other for a moment, as I could hardly ask him to leave – but then again, Filomena and I could not resume our search with this man as our audience.

  Old Simon didn’t notice my reticence. Instead he looked about the room with sad eyes. ‘Do you know that this library contains some of the most valuable books in England, Lord Somershill?’ he said. ‘They are treasures. Collected by my family over the centuries.’ He cleared his throat with a cough. ‘But they shouldn’t be stored in this damp chamber. The air in this room is not kind to books.’

  I nodded at this.

  ‘Of course, Godfrey wouldn’t hear of moving them, so I’ll have to speak to Edwin on the matter.’ He sighed. ‘Though I’m afraid that our new Lord Eden doesn’t care much for books or reading.’ He then lifted a crooked hand to wipe another tear from his eye. ‘It grieves me to come into this room, Lord Somershill. It was here that I taught Godfrey and Edwin to read as small boys. This place reminds me of those happier days.’

  He struggled to hold back his tears, prompting Filomena to rush to his side. ‘Please, Father,’ she said, kneeling next to him. ‘Don’t be sad. Godfrey may be dead, but he’s with the saints.’

  Old Simon patted Filomena’s hand. ‘I pray for his soul, dear child. I pray for his salvation.’

  ‘His salvation?’ I asked, a little surprised at this choice of words.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘My nephew’s death was so sudden. I can’t imagine that he had time to make his Last Confession. His time in Purgatory may be long.’

  I raised an eyebrow at this, remembering Godfrey’s own opinion of Purgatory. ‘Godfrey seemed pious enough to me.’

  ‘We are each of us sinners, Lord Somershill,’ he said solemnly. ‘Each of us must confess our sins before we can enter the Kingdom of God.’

  Our eyes met for a moment, before I looked away, not able to let my gaze rest for too long upon his aged features. The lids that shrouded his eyes in folds of loose flesh. The blue tinge to his complexion that evoked the lavender shades of death. The veins that pulsed beneath the skin of his forehead like burrowing worms.

  ‘Now that you’re here,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘I wonder if you could help me with something?’

  The old man folded his hands and released his back into the chair. ‘Yes. Of course, Lord Somershill. What is it?’

  I hesitated for a moment, exchanging a glance with Filomena. I sensed a note of caution in her eyes, but I proceeded nonetheless. These questions needed to be asked, sooner or later. ‘Godfrey was working on something before he died,’ I said. ‘A collaboration with a priest called John Cubit.’

  ‘John Cubit?’ said Old Simon, screwing up his eyes, so that they disappeared completely beneath his heavy lids. ‘I don’t know a priest by that name. What sort of collaboration was it?’

  ‘We’re not sure,’ I admitted. ‘Godfrey described this work as their “shared vision”.’

  The old monk began to smile. ‘And you’re wond
ering if I know what it was?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘No,’ he said with a regretful shake of his head. ‘I cannot help you, I’m afraid.’ He sank further into the chair. ‘Godfrey and I have rarely spoken in recent years. Other than to argue about the condition of the books in this library, of course.’ He grunted a laugh. ‘I spend most of my time at the priory, you see. And I only arrived here at Castle Eden a day before you did,’ he sighed. ‘Sadly, Godfrey did not have the time to converse with me during his last days.’

  ‘You’ve never discussed matters of faith with Godfrey?’ I asked.

  The old man scratched at his temple, causing a small flurry of dry skin to flutter down onto the black wool of his habit. ‘No more than I’ve discussed faith with anybody else,’ he said.

  ‘Were you aware that Godfrey was unhappy with aspects of the church?’

  He hesitated, before his frown was replaced with a smile again. ‘Oh, I see what you mean,’ he said. ‘You’re talking about his disdain for rosaries and relics, aren’t you?’ He then shook his head in mock exasperation. ‘That was just talk, Lord Somershill. A foolish fancy.’ He clutched his hands onto the arms of the chair and then leant forward to speak to me in a whisper. ‘But I admired his conviction.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘It is good to question, Lord Somershill. Especially when a man is young. When I was a novice at the abbey, we liked to debate amongst ourselves that the Papal seat should be located in Rome, not Avignon. Can you imagine such a thing?’ He gave a distant smile. ‘We thought ourselves so daring. Sitting in the cloisters and whispering, when we should have been praying in silent contemplation.’

  ‘I think that Godfrey’s work was more than a fancy,’ I said. ‘He and Cubit were followers of John Wyclif.’

  The old monk furrowed his brow. ‘Who?’

  ‘John Wyclif. The master of Balliol College. He’s a controversial figure within the church, I believe.’

  The old man looked into the air, giving my question a lot of thought. ‘I’m sorry, Lord Somershill. I’ve not heard of this man,’ he said. ‘Our abbey is very small and isolated, so we do not hear much news of the outside world. Are you sure that Godfrey was associated with this Wyclif?’