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

by Susanna Gregory

  Susanna Gregory was a police officer in Leeds before taking up an academic career. She has served as an environmental consultant, worked seventeen field seasons in the polar regions, and has taught comparative anatomy and biological anthropology.

  She is the creator of the Matthew Bartholomew series of mysteries set in medieval Cambridge and the Thomas Chaloner adventures in Restoration London, and now lives in Wales with her husband, who is also a writer.

  Also by Susanna Gregory

  The Matthew Bartholomew series

  A Plague on Both Your Houses

  An Unholy Alliance

  A Bone of Contention

  A Deadly Brew

  A Wicked Deed

  A Masterly Murder

  An Order for Death

  A Summer of Discontent

  A Killer in Winter

  The Hand of Justice

  The Mark of a Murderer

  The Tarnished Chalice

  To Kill or Cure

  The Devil’s Disciples

  A Vein of Deceit

  The Killer of Pilgrims

  Mystery in the Minster

  Murder by the Book

  The Lost Abbot

  Death of a Scholar

  A Poisonous Plot

  A Grave Concern

  The Thomas Chaloner Series

  A Conspiracy of Violence

  Blood on the Strand

  The Butcher of Smithfield

  The Westminster Poisoner

  A Murder on London Bridge

  The Body in the Thames

  The Piccadilly Plot

  Death in St James’s Park

  Murder on High Holborn

  The Cheapside Corpse

  The Chelsea Strangler

  The Executioner of St Paul’s

  Copyright

  Published by Sphere

  ISBN: 978-0-751-56262-0

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 Susanna Gregory

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Sphere

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  For Chris Wallis

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Susanna Gregory

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  PROLOGUE

  Cambridge, 28 March 1346

  It was the worst day of Richard de Badew’s life. Two decades before, he had founded a new College, which he had proudly named University Hall. It had started out as two cottages, but he had worked tirelessly on its behalf, and it now owned several large houses and a sizeable tract of land. Its membership had grown, too, from three Fellows to eighteen, and Badew ensured they were always paid on time even when it meant hardship for himself. University Hall had flourished under his watchful eye. Or so he had thought. Unfortunately, its Fellows disagreed.

  He looked at them as they stood like peacocks in their ceremonial finery. All were young, greedy and ambitious, and thought they deserved the best of everything – a larger salary, a bigger library, newer rooms and smarter robes. Badew had done his best to oblige, but he was not a very rich man, and he had been forced to refuse some of their more outlandish demands. So what had they done? Gone behind his back to the wealthy Elizabeth de Burgh, known as the Lady of Clare, and asked her to take over the role of major benefactor instead.

  It was an act of treachery that had wounded Badew to the core.

  His first instinct had been to wash his hands of the lot of them and have no more to do with the place ever again, but then he had reconsidered. Why should he make things easy for the damned ingrates? So, in an act of defiant retaliation, he had deployed the only weapon he had left to him: refusing to sign the quit-claim – the deed whereby all rights and claims to the property would pass from him to the Lady. He had become quite an expert at devising reasons as to why he could not do it – the scribe’s writing was illegible, the wording was wrong, an important clause had been omitted, he had lost his seal.

  He had managed to stall and dissemble for ten long, gratifying years, but even he had run out of excuses eventually, and the exasperated Fellows of University Hall, sensing victory at last, had arranged for him to put his name to the quit-claim that very day.

  Because he had caused them so much aggravation, they had spitefully invited a crowd to witness his final defeat. They included not only the Lady and several members of her household, but a host of scholars and townsfolk as well. Glancing around, Badew saw there were only two he could count as friends among the entire throng – Saer de Roos and Henry Harweden, who stood behind him, each with a hand on his shoulder as a gesture of solidarity.

  The ‘ceremony’ was taking place in University Hall’s lecture room, a handsome chamber with tapestries on the walls and a huge fire snapping in the hearth. It was uncomfortably hot, and Badew was not the only one who mopped sweat from his brow as young Master Donwich made a gushing, sycophantic speech about the Lady’s largesse. His mind wandered back to the day when he had founded the place – a whole new College born with a single stroke of his pen. He had been the University’s Chancellor at the time, a man at the height of his powers.

  And then Donwich stopped talking and everyone looked expectantly at Badew: it was time to sign. Truculent to the last, Badew picked up the document and began to study it, aware of Donwich exchanging anxious glances with his cronies. Good! Once they had his signature, they would be rid of him for ever, so it was his last chance to be irksome.

  As he pretended to read, he was pleased to note that it was not only the Fellows who were becoming riled by his antics – so was the Lady of Clare, who considered herself far too important to be kept waiting by the likes of him. Widowed three times before she was thirty, she had inherited a vast fortune, which had given her an inflated sense of her own worth. Well, it would do her good to learn that money could not buy everything, because he would not be rushed.

  Another person made uneasy by the delay was the Lady’s steward, Robert Marishal. Rashly, Marishal had brought his children to Cambridge with him – twins, nine years old. Thomas and Ella looked like angels with their golden locks and blue eyes, but within an hour of their arrival, they had broken three valuable plates, torn a book, and let a pig into the parish church. And now some new delinquency was in the making, because they were nowhere to be seen. Their apprehensive father was desperate for the si
gning to be over, so that he could find the brats before there was yet more trouble.

  ‘You have had an entire decade to ponder this quit-claim, Master Badew,’ barked the Lady eventually. ‘Do you really need to go through it again?’

  ‘I am a lawyer, My Lady,’ Badew replied with haughty dignity. ‘And the law and haste make for poor bedfellows. None of us want to be subjected to this disagreeable rigmarole a second time, just because some facet of the transfer is badly worded.’

  ‘We both know that is unlikely, given the number of times it has been redrafted,’ the Lady retorted drily. ‘Or would you rather I took my patronage to another foundation?’

  ‘There is no need for that,’ blurted Donwich in alarm before Badew could tell her to do it. ‘We are all delighted by your offer to save us from financial ruin.’

  ‘Financial ruin?’ echoed Badew indignantly. ‘I have been more than generous, and—’

  ‘It takes sixty pounds a year to run a College properly,’ interrupted Donwich acidly. ‘Not the twenty you provide. So unless you can give us what we need, it is time for you to step aside and let someone else help us.’

  ‘Sixty pounds?’ cried Badew, shocked. ‘That is outrageous! Greedy, even! But regardless, I refuse to be bullied, so either shut up while I read this thing, or I shall go home.’

  Everyone immediately fell silent, knowing he meant it. Only when the audience was completely still did Badew bend to the quit-claim again, carefully weighing the implications of each word until he reached the end. And then there was no more he could do – the last battle was over and the war was lost. With a sense of bitter regret, he picked up his pen, acutely aware of the tension that filled the room. He gave the nib a good dunk in the inkpot and started to write … then flung the pen away with an exclamation of disgust. It was not ink in the pot, but thick red blood.

  ‘You put that in there yourself, Badew,’ snarled Donwich accusingly. ‘You cannot bear to admit defeat, so you resort to low tricks instead. You will do anything to postpone—’

  ‘How dare you!’ bellowed Badew, affronted. ‘What do you take me for?’

  ‘I shall offer my purse to Michaelhouse if this business is not resolved today,’ warned the Lady before Donwich could tell him. ‘I have had enough of Badew’s juvenile capers.’

  ‘Juvenile capers,’ mused Roos, and pointed to a bulge in a tapestry; the cloth trembled as the two small culprits laughed helplessly behind it. ‘I think an apology is in order, Donwich.’

  ‘I saw the twins at the slaughterhouses this morning,’ put in Harweden with a moue of disgust. ‘I wondered what they were doing there, and now we know. They have been planning this nastiness for hours.’

  Mortified, Marishal hauled the guilty pair out of their hiding place, although neither child was contrite.

  ‘But surely important documents should be signed in blood?’ declared Ella, her cherubic face the picture of bemused innocence, although mischief sparkled in her eyes. ‘It will make them more binding.’

  ‘And red is a nicer colour than black anyway,’ piped her brother. ‘Black is boring.’

  Marishal marched them out in disgrace, while the onlookers exchanged disapproving glances, all thinking that such ill-behaved imps should have been left at home. Then Donwich produced a pot of proper ink, and everyone waited in taut silence again while Badew reread the document. But the prank had unsettled the older man and he was suddenly keen for the whole affair to be over, so it was not long before he leaned forward and wrote his name. When he sat back, the relief among the Fellows was palpable. It was done – they were free of him at last.

  ‘Now we have something to give you, My Lady,’ announced Donwich grandly. ‘From this day forth, University Hall will be known as Clare Hall, in recognition of your generosity.’

  ‘What?’ Badew was stunned. He had always assumed the College would be named Badew Hall after his death, in recognition of his vision in founding it, as was the custom in such situations. However, it was clear that the Lady had prior knowledge of the Fellows’ intentions, because she was not surprised at all by Donwich’s proclamation. She merely inclined her head in gracious acceptance of the honour. ‘But you cannot—’

  ‘Under your patronage, we shall become a centre for academic excellence,’ Donwich went on, rudely cutting across Badew and addressing the Lady directly. ‘University Hall was mediocre, but Clare Hall will attract the greatest scholars from all over the civilised world.’

  ‘No!’ objected Badew, aghast. ‘I am your founder. She is just—’

  ‘Your association with us is over, Badew,’ interrupted Donwich curtly, eyeing him with dislike. ‘You may see yourself out.’

  While Badew sat in open-mouthed shock, the young Fellow swept out of the chamber with the Lady on his arm. The guests followed, chattering excitedly, and it was not long before only Badew and his two friends were left. Silence reigned, the only sound being the crackle of the fire.

  ‘I cannot believe it,’ breathed Badew eventually, his voice unsteady with dismay. ‘They must name the College after me. I created it – all the Lady will do is throw money at a venture that is already up and running. I did all the hard work.’

  ‘You did,’ agreed Harweden kindly. ‘And you shall have your reward in Heaven, while the Lady and her newly acquired Fellows are destined for another place altogether. Leave justice to God, and forget about them.’

  ‘Forget about them?’ cried Badew incredulously. ‘I most certainly shall not! They will not get away with this outrage.’

  He was barely aware of his friends escorting him home, so intent was he on devising ways to avenge himself. Unfortunately, none of the schemes that blazed into his fevered mind were very practical. He brooded on the matter for the rest of the day, and then went to bed, hoping a better plan would occur to him in the morning, when he would not be quite so incandescent with rage. None did, but that did not mean he was ready to concede defeat – not when he knew things about the Lady that would tear away the façade of pious respectability she had so carefully built around herself. He went to his church, knelt before the altar and made a solemn vow.

  ‘I will not rest until University Hall is mine again,’ he whispered fiercely. ‘I will do anything to bring it about – steal, beg or even kill. It will be Badew Hall, even if it is the last thing I ever do. I swear it on my immortal soul.’

  Clare, Suffolk, February 1360

  The parish church of Clare had a unique claim to fame: it was the only one in the country with a fan-vaulted ceiling. Its vicar, Nicholas, gazed admiringly at it – or rather, he gazed at the parts he could see through the scaffolding. Fan vaulting – an architectural style where clusters of ‘ribs’ sprang from the supporting columns to form a fan-shape – was an entirely new invention. It was the brainchild of Thomas de Cambrug, who had first tried it in Gloucester Abbey. But Clare’s roof was better, because Cambrug had still been experimenting in Gloucester, whereas he had known what he was doing by the time he arrived in Suffolk.

  It had been expensive, of course, but Clare was wealthy, and its inhabitants had leapt at the chance to transform their rather dull church into something remarkable. Donations had poured in, and work had started at once – removing the old, low roof and replacing it with a tier of elegant clerestory windows and the magnificent ceiling above.

  Unfortunately, there was a downside. The Lady of Clare had been complaining for some time that her castle chapel was too small, especially when she had guests, but when she saw Cambrug’s innovations, she realised that a solution to her problem was at hand – the church was not only large enough to accommodate her entire household, but the rebuilding meant that it was now suitably grand as well. However, she was not about to subject herself to the unsavoury company of commoners while she attended her devotions, so she gave Cambrug some money and told him to design a new south aisle. The parishioners could have that, she declared, while she took the nave.

  The townsfolk were outraged. It was their church and
they resented her gall extremely. They marched to the castle as one, where they objected in the strongest possible terms to her projected south aisle. The Lady refused to listen. She ordered Cambrug to begin work, not caring that every stone laid destroyed more of the harmony that had existed between her castle and their town for the last three hundred years.

  As soon as the aisle was completed, Cambrug took a new commission in Hereford Cathedral, relieved to be away from the bitterness and hostility that festered in Clare. He left his deputy Roger to finish the roof, but promised to return and check that all was in order before the church was rededicated the following April.

  Unfortunately, Roger was entirely the wrong man to have put in charge. First, he was a rigid traditionalist who hated anything new, so the fan vaulting horrified him. And second, he was a malcontent, only happy when he was grumbling, which was irritating to his employers and downright exasperating for his workforce.

  ‘I will not answer for it,’ he said, coming to stand at Nicholas’s side and shaking his head as he peered upwards. ‘You should have stuck with a nice groin vault, like I told you. This fan lark is dangerous, and will come to a bad end.’

  Nicholas fought for patience. ‘Nonsense! Cambrug’s ceiling will be the talk of the country, and we shall be celebrated as men of imagination and courage for having built it.’

  Roger sniffed. ‘Oh, it looks pretty enough, but it should have taken twenty years to raise. We tossed it up in a few months.’

  ‘Yes, because we had so much money,’ argued Nicholas, although he did not know why he was bothering; he and Roger had been through this countless times already. ‘We were able to hire a huge army of masons and use high-quality stone.’

  ‘The stone is acceptable, I suppose,’ conceded Roger reluctantly. ‘But the men … well, most are strangers, so their work is shoddy.’

  ‘Not so, because you dismissed all those you deemed to be unsatisfactory. Of course, the same is not true for the south aisle. The Lady’s donation was niggardly, so corners have certainly been cut there.’

  He glared at it, resentful that such an ugly, functional appendage should have been planted on the side of his glorious church, but then his eyes were drawn upwards to the ceiling again. The artists were at work now, painting it with geometrical patterns designed to complement the intricate stonework. It would be a riot of blue, red, gold and green, made all the more impressive for stretching unbroken across both nave and chancel. In Nicholas’s view, this would render it far more imposing than the one in Gloucester.