A Bone of Contention хмб-3

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘What will you do with me?’ Cecily asked, her bulging eves flicking from Bartholomew’s face to the knife in his hand.

  ‘Nothing, if you do not shout,’ Bartholomew replied, wondering how he could extricate himself from the situation without harm to either of them.

  They were both silent while Bartholomew moved his weight from foot to foot to try to speed up the process of easing his cramp.

  ‘Master Bigod’s retainers are looking for you outside,’ she said finally.

  Bartholomew grimaced. ‘Because the villagers told them I had come?’

  Cecily nodded, her eyes fixed on the knife. ‘But they will not think to look here. My husband said you were clever.’

  Not a great compliment from one whose intellect Bartholomew did not rate highly. He said nothing, but closed the chest so he could sit on it. Cecily stayed where she was.

  ‘Why are you here, Mistress?’ he asked, gesturing around the gloomy basement. ‘It can scarcely compare with your handsome house in the town.’

  Her pale grey eyes suddenly filled with tears that dropped down her wrinkled cheeks. ‘I am safe here.’

  ‘Safe from whom?’ asked Bartholomew, although he had already guessed at the answer.

  ‘Safe from him. From Thomas.’

  ‘Do you think your husband would harm you?’ Bartholomew asked. He was not surprised she was afraid: Lydgate seemed to be a man who might resort to violence if it suited him.

  ‘He killed Dominica!’ she said in a sudden wail, muffling her face in one of her wide sleeves. Bartholomew cast a nervous glance up at the trapdoor. If she carried on so, someone would come to investigate. He thought about her accusation. Could it be true? Lydgate had no alibi for the night that Dominica had died. Indeed, he had worse than no alibi: he had given one that had proven to be false. Could Lydgate have killed his daughter? Was his appearance at her grave remorse, rather than grief? He glanced at the knife in his hand, some of the dried blood staining his palm, and wondered whether it had been used on Dominica. He almost cast it away from him in disgust, but if he were unarmed, Cecily would certainly raise the alarm.

  Once the matter was out in the open, Cecily began to talk with evident relief. ‘As soon as the riots started most of the students left, spoiling for mischief. I was grateful Dominica was safe, away from the town. Then Edred came back, breathless and limping and said he had seen her in the company of a man near the Market Square. Thomas was furious. He knew she had been seeing a student but she would not tell us which one. Thomas set out into the night, and I followed, hoping to find her first so that I could warn her.’

  She paused, wiping first her eyes, then her nose, on the ample material of her sleeves. ‘I went to all the places where I thought she might be – her friends, a cousin, the church. And then I saw Thomas, standing with his dagger dripping, and Dominica lying there with her clothes all drenched in blood. There was a man there, too, also dead – her lover, I presume. Thomas did not see me. I ran to Maud’s, and Thomas Bigod ordered one of his servants to bring me here.’

  ‘Is this where you kept Dominica before she died?’ Bartholomew asked, gesturing to the underground chamber and trying to force his bewildered mind to make sense of the details.

  ‘Yes, with the chest across the trapdoor. But she got out when a servant brought her food. The servant claimed she stabbed him but I do not believe Dominica could do such a thing.’

  Bartholomew and Cecily simultaneously looked at the bloodstained knife. Cecily’s hands flew to her throat. But the poor girl had been kept a prisoner in the painted dungeon, so who could blame her for using violent means to escape? Bartholomew thought Dominica must have disposed of the knife in the chest before she left.

  Bartholomew did not doubt that Cecily believed the story she had related to him, but was what she saw really what had happened? He had seen no stab wounds on Dominica – assuming she was Joanna, of course – and so if Lydgate had killed her, it had not been with his blood-dripping knife. But two students had died from knife wounds that night, although, whatever Cecily might believe, neither of them could have been Dominica’s lover because James Kenzie had been murdered the night before. And who had raped Dominica? Surely not Lydgate!

  Bartholomew was certain that Lydgate might kill given the right circumstances – for a short while he had given serious consideration to the possibility that Lydgate might have killed Cecily, and was only claiming she had left him to explain her sudden absence. And he definitely had something to hide, or why would he be so hostile to Michael and his inquiries, and give Tulyet a false alibi?

  Bartholomew recalled Tulyet saying that Cecily’s room had appeared to have been ransacked. When he asked her about it, thinking she would confirm his suspicion that she had done it herself in her haste to pack up a few belongings, she denied that she had returned to the hostel after seeing the dead Dominica. In fact, she was horrified.

  ‘Did you see it?’ she cried. ‘Did they take anything?’

  ‘What do you mean? Who?’

  ‘Those thieving students, of course! They all know I have one or two paltry jewels in my room, and they must have been looking for them! Did they get them?’

  ‘I have no idea; I did not see your room. But your husband would have noticed whether anything was missing, surely?’

  She calmed down somewhat. ‘That is true. He would not let a stone lie unturned if he thought we had been relieved of any of our meagre inheritance.’

  Her reactions seemed a little more fervent than a “meagre inheritance” should warrant, and Bartholomew wondered what riches the Lydgates had secreted away in their house. If Dominica had silver rings with blue-green stones to give away to casual lovers, then their fortune was probably substantial. But there seemed no point in pursuing that line of thought any further, so he let it drop.

  ‘Has Bigod lost something, or want something he does not have?’ he asked instead, thinking about the attack on him in the High Street and hoping Cecily might be able to shed some light on it. He fiddled with the knife in his hands. ‘Something important?’

  ‘Such as what?’ she asked, her voice unsteady as she fixed her eyes on the blood-stained weapon.

  ‘Such as a ring?’ Bartholomew suggested.

  She looked confused. ‘Dominica lost a ring. Well, it was my ring, really, but she took it without asking and then lost it.’

  ‘With a blue-green stone?’ Bartholomew asked.

  Cecily’s eyes narrowed and Bartholomew saw her fear mingle with suspicion. ‘How do you know that? Did Thomas tell you?’

  Bartholomew shook his head slowly, but decided there was nothing to be gained by telling this embittered woman that her daughter had given the ring to her lover, whose identity Cecily still did not know. He thought for a while, information and clues tumbling around in his mind in a hopeless muddle, while Cecily watched him like a cornered rat.

  ‘When Brother Michael asked Edred where he had been the night James Kenzie – the Scot from David’s Hostel – was murdered, you did not contradict him when you knew he was lying,’ he said after a few moments. ‘You knew Edred did not return to Godwinsson with Werbergh because Werbergh accompanied you. Why did you not expose him?’

  Cecily wiped her nose again. ‘When Huw, our steward, said you wanted to see us, Thomas told me to say nothing, even if I heard things I knew were not true. He said you and the Benedictine wanted to destroy our hostel and that unguarded words might help you to do it.’

  Bartholomew supposed her answer made sense. ‘Who knows you are here, besides Master Bigod?’ he asked.

  ‘No one,’ said Cecily, surprised by the question. ‘It would be too risky to trust anyone else.’

  ‘Then who was Bigod speaking with just now? He mentioned that there would be a riot on Thursday.’

  ‘There was no one here except Thomas Bigod and me,’ she said, genuinely bewildered. ‘You must have imagined it, or perhaps he was speaking to a servant. None of them know I am hiding here.’

&n
bsp; Bartholomew knew he had imagined nothing of the sort, but then recalled that the voice he had half-recognised had joined the conversation after he had heard Cecily return to her bottle-dungeon. He looked down at the knife in his hand.

  ‘So, what do we do now?’ he wondered aloud. ‘If I leave you here alive, you will raise the alarm and Bigod will come after me. If I bind and gag you. you will tell them I was here when they release you, and they will have little problem in hunting me down in the town.’

  Her eyes flew open, wide with terror. ‘No! I will help you escape! I will create a diversion that will allow you to slip away, and I will tell them nothing!’

  Bartholomew raised his eyebrows at this unlikely proposition. ‘Did you love your daughter, Mistress?’ he asked.

  She blinked, confused by the sudden change in direction.

  ‘More than she believed,’ she answered simply.

  ‘Would you like to see her killer brought to justice?’

  Her eyes glittered. ‘More than you can possibly imagine.’

  ‘Then you must trust me, and I must trust you. I do not think your husband killed Dominica.’ He quelled her stream of objections with a steady gaze. ‘I do not doubt what you saw but I examined what I believe was Dominica’s body and there was no knife wound on it. She was killed by a blow to the head. Whoever’s blood was dripping from your husband’s knife, it was not Dominica’s. I suspect Dominica was already dead when Lydgate found her. Perhaps the blood came from the body of the man you said was next to her. Last night, I saw Lydgate at what I think is Dominica’s grave’

  ‘She is buried then? Where?’

  ‘St Botolph’s Church. I will show you where when this is over. Officially, she is recorded as a woman called Joanna and no one wants to investigate why she died lest it spark another riot. But I will try to find her killer, Mistress.’

  Her face was chalky white as she tried to come to terms with the new information. ‘Why?’ she asked eventually. ‘What makes you want to avenge my Dominica?’

  Bartholomew was unable to find an answer. He could hardly say her hair reminded him of Philippa’s. In truth, he did not know why finding her killer had become important to him. Perhaps it was merely because he had been told not to. He shrugged.

  Oddly, this unpleasant, vindictive woman seemed to accept that his motives were genuine without further explanation. She nodded, and came to perch next to him on the chest. Bartholomew let the knife clatter to the floor. An understanding had been reached. They sat silently for a while, until Cecily spoke.

  ‘Since I have been here, I have asked myself again and again why Thomas should have killed Dominica. She was the only person he has ever truly loved – we both did. If it had not been for her, I suspect Thomas and I would have embarked upon separate lives many years ago. Although I saw him standing over her with the knife, a part of me has always been reluctant to accept that Thomas would destroy the most important thing in his life, and this is why I am prepared to accept your reasoning. Perhaps it was not Dominica’s blood I saw on the weapon, but that of her lover laying next to her. I am sure Thomas would have no compunction in slaying him.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Bartholomew carefully.

  ‘But even if Thomas is innocent of Dominica’s death, I fear him still,’ said Cecily, her expression a curious mixture of defiance and unease. ‘How can I be sure that you will not tell Thomas where I am?’

  ‘Why would I? I do not like him.’

  ‘You do not like me either.’

  That was certainly true. ‘But if I informed your husband of your whereabouts, you could have your own revenge by telling Bigod that I overheard part of his conversation.’

  She nodded, appreciating his point. ‘So, we have a bargain,’ she said. ‘I allow you to leave unmolested and keep from Master Bigod that you were hiding here, while you do not tell anyone where I am, and will investigate the death of my daughter. It seems evenly balanced, would you not saw?’

  Bartholomew agreed cautiously. ‘Evenly enough. But when I return to Michaelhouse, I will write a letter to Thomas Lydgate telling him of our conversation and of your whereabouts. I will seal it, and leave it with a trusted friend with orders that in the event of my unexplained death or disappearance, it is to be given to him.’

  Anger glittered in her eyes for a moment and then was gone. She nodded, begrudgingly accepting his wariness.

  ‘Then be careful, Doctor Bartholomew. Do not disappear or die in your investigations. Although I am well hidden here, there is only one way out, and I do not relish the idea of being trapped in this dungeon if Thomas were to discover my whereabouts.’

  ‘Nor would I,’ said Bartholomew with a shudder. ‘What an unpleasant place. Could Bigod not have found you somewhere more conducive?’

  Cecily looked away, and Bartholomew detected an unsteadiness in her voice when she spoke. ‘I wondered whether he might allow me to share the chamber he has on the upper floor but he insists this one is safer for me.

  I am grateful for his help but I sense I am more of a hindrance to him than a welcome guest. I am not sure I would have fled to him had I known he would recommend I stay here. It reminds me too much of Dominica.’

  Personally, Bartholomew would have asked Bigod to lend him some money and left the area for good had he been in Cecily’s position, but he imagined she was probably afraid to stray too far from the place where she had lived all her life. Bartholomew was unusual in that he had travelled quite extensively: most people did not if they could help it, considering it an unnecessary risk.

  Cecily looked at the open trapdoor in the floor and gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘This place was never intended to be a prison, you know. Before this house came into the possession of the Bigod family, it was owned by Jewish merchants. They built this secret chamber during the events that led to their expulsion in 1290, intending it to be a refuge if they were ever attacked. But it has become a prison now. First for Dominica and now for me. And both, ultimately, because of Thomas.’

  One part of Bartholomew’s mind had been listening for sounds from the hall above. It had been silent for some time now. Cecily saw him glance up at the trapdoor, and nodded.

  ‘On Sundays, the old lady likes a tour of her manor. The entire household is obliged to be in attendance and the whole affair might take several hours. Go now, Bartholomew. To the north of the house, behind the stable, you will find a path that leads to the river without passing through the village. Wait! Take this!’

  She held out her hand. A silver ring lay there, with a blue-green stone. He looked at her bewildered. How many of these things were there? ‘There were two,’ she said, as if reading his thoughts.

  ‘Lover’s rings and identical, except for the size.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘I am not a fool, Bartholomew. I know why Dominica claimed she lost one ring and clung so dearly to the other. And you mentioned that Master Bigod may have been looking for a ring – perhaps Thomas asked him to look for the one Dominica says she lost.’ She dropped the ring in Bartholomew’s palm. ‘I took that from her the night I sent her here. I have worn it since her murder. Take it. It might help you find the foul beast who killed her – perhaps this lover of hers that she went to such extremes to conceal from us. Who knows? Perhaps he may be foolish enough to wear her ring still, and now you will be able to recognise it from its fellow.’

  Bartholomew put the ring into one of the pouches in his medicine bag. he climbed the ladder, and opened the trapdoor a crack. Cecily waited below. She was right: the hall was abandoned. He clambered out, and helped her to follow. In the gloom, he glimpsed her face, white and shiny with tears. She looked away, embarrassed. He left her behind the service screen and slipped stealthily across the hall towards the door.

  ‘Hey!’

  Bartholomew froze in horror as a group of men entered the hall. He ducked under one of the trestle-tables, but it was an inadequate hiding place at best, and his heart pounded against his ribs in anticipation of being dragged out. The men were
not servants, but mercenaries, probably the ones who, according to Cecily, had been looking for him earlier.

  ‘Just stop that!’ came the voice again, loud in indignation as a conical helmet bounced on the floor. The speaker stooped to retrieve it, so close that Bartholomew was treated to a strong waft of his bad breath. It was all over now! It had to be!

  A piercing scream tore through the air, and all eyes were drawn to the screen at the end of the hall. Bartholomew rubbed ran a hand through his hair wearily.

  It had not taken Mistress Lydgate long to renege on their agreement. But what else could he have done? He could not have killed her in cold blood, and locking her in the underground chamber would only have given him a few hours at most until Bigod came to seek him out. Perhaps he should have done just that and fled Cambridge for London or York. Now he was about to be dispatched by Cecily instead – not by her own hand it was true, but the outcome would be the same.

  The screamed petered out. ‘A rat! A rat!’ came a wavery voice.

  The soldiers looked at each other and grinned or grimaced, depending on their tolerance.

  ‘A rat!’ muttered the one whose helmet had been knocked from his head. ‘Blasted woman.’

  ‘There it goes! After it!’ Cecily screeched. ‘Oafs! Catch it!’

  With rebellious mutterings, the men shuffled in the direction she was pointing up the spiral stair, until the hall was empty. Bartholomew emerged, still shaking, from his hiding place and slipped out of the door. As he left, he raised his hand in a silent salute of thanks to Cecily, who gave him a weak smile, and followed the men up the stairs.

  Outside, the yard was empty; Bartholomew easily found the path Cecily had told him to take. He forced his stiff legs into a trot, continuing to run until he reached the river. He splashed across it, his haste making him careless, so that he missed his footing on one of the slippery rocks in the river bed and fell. Coughing and choking, he regained his feet and continued across, grateful he did not have the copy of Galen in his bag as he had done for the past few days. The water was very cold and the path had led him to a deeper part of the river than where he had crossed that morning.