‘Risks men are not obliged to share, or the laws would be very different. It is brazen ignorance that makes them insist on a woman carrying a baby to full term, even when it is patently obvious that it is the wrong thing to do.’
‘Suzanne de Nekton,’ blurted Bartholomew, suddenly realising exactly why Anne was so passionate about the matter. ‘You tried to rid her of one and the procedure went wrong. How did you do it? With herbs?’
There was a person in Cambridge named Mistress Starre, who was quite open about the fact that she was a witch, and made a good living from her charms and remedies. One of her potions was designed to expel unwanted foetuses. It worked, but not without cost, and Bartholomew had been called out several times when a dose had made a patient very ill.
‘I did not have time for all that nonsense,’ Anne declared loftily. ‘I used a hook instead. I performed more than a hundred “special cleansings” and I was very good at it.’
He blinked: it was an enormous number. ‘Were you?’
She nodded, and there was pride in her voice. ‘I soaked the hook in holy water overnight, and in the morning I rubbed it with mint and rosemary. Then it was scratch, scratch’ – here she made the appropriate motion with her hands – ‘and it was all over.’
Bartholomew shuddered. ‘What happened with Suzanne? Was there a lot of bleeding?’
‘There was no bleeding at all, but she screamed a lot afterwards, which attracted attention.’
‘So your scraping hurt her?’
‘I do not believe so, but she was the daughter of a wealthy merchant and thus soft. The others I helped bore any pain more stoically. Afterwards, her outraged father sent her to a nunnery. Silly child! Her foolish shrieks destroyed us both.’
‘I saw that procedure conducted once by an Arab physician,’ recalled Bartholomew, ‘but only to save the mother. It did not work.’
‘Well, the ones I performed did, and I rescued many a careless girl from disaster. I am not sorry I helped them, but I am sorry it led to me being punished. Yet these things happen, and I am happy here. Come to talk to me again. You are nicer than Grym – he refuses to come anywhere near me.’
‘Why is that?’
She smiled again. ‘He is afraid he will catch my fondness for unorthodox medicine.’
‘What next?’ asked Bartholomew, when Michael had finished trying to entice the merchant to support Michaelhouse. ‘Back to the castle, to speak to the murderous Marishals?’
Michael nodded. ‘Although not with that attitude. It is better to keep an open mind.’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘We know that Thomas slunk off alone when the squires returned to the castle. Perhaps he saw his mother meeting Roos in a peculiar place, assumed the worst and decided to defend the family honour.’
‘But Roos might be part of that family.’
Bartholomew shrugged a second time. ‘Kinship did not stop Thomas from killing Talmach if the rumours are true – perhaps with Ella’s help. And do not forget that Marishal himself was up and about at that time. Perhaps it was he who objected to the assignation.’
‘We shall bear it in mind, although we still have other contenders for the crime. For example, Nicholas has not eliminated himself to my satisfaction. He claims he celebrated nocturns here, but his alibi is Anne, who I suspect was in bed – she is not a woman to let religious obligations interfere with a good night’s sleep.’
‘Lichet is more likely to be the culprit than Nicholas. We only have his word that he was watching over the Lady all night – and that he just happened to be visiting the latrine when Adam found the bodies.’
‘But if Nicholas transpires to be innocent,’ Michael went on, ignoring him, ‘then I think we should look harder at the conveniently absent Bonde. Perhaps he killed Roos and Margery for reasons of his own, then decided to disappear until the fuss has died down.’
‘Or perhaps he fled because he was responsible for letting the culprit into the castle in the first place. Anne says he is easily bribed. I do not like the fact that the hermit is missing, either – a man who was in the castle alone at the salient time. Perhaps Jan is the killer.’
‘True,’ agreed Michael. ‘So shall we visit his lair before tackling the Marishals? He may have returned and be ready to confess.’
The hermitage had been built against one of the castle’s outer walls, in a pleasant spot that boasted nice views across the river. Most men in Jan’s profession were happy with very basic amenities, but Clare did nothing by halves, and had provided its holy man with some very sumptuous lodgings. There was a lovely little shrine containing a good supply of devotional candles and a comfortable place to kneel, and a small but cosy cottage with a stone hearth, good furniture and plenty of warm blankets.
‘He left in a hurry,’ remarked Bartholomew, taking in the unmade bed and the pot of burned stew that was suspended over the dead fire. ‘But he took his fur cloak and good boots with him.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Michael.
‘Because they are not here,’ replied Bartholomew, ‘and I know what they look like, because I remember thinking that they were better than my own. I suspect the stew was for his breakfast, but he never had the opportunity to eat it. Which means one of two things: first, that he is the killer or second, that he witnessed the crime.’
‘And if the latter, then he has either fled or he has been dispatched to ensure his silence,’ finished Michael. ‘We may well find that Clare’s body count has risen from seven to eight.’
* * *
As they walked to the castle, they became aware of a commotion emanating from a nearby house. It was one of the more magnificent ones, stone-built with a tiled roof and elegant plasterwork that must have been very costly to produce. The door was new and painted purple.
‘Godeston’s colour,’ noted Bartholomew. ‘And his litter-bearers are doing all the wailing.’
Curious, they joined the crowd that was gathering outside, although they wished they had kept their distance when they found themselves to be the focus of much hostility. This was thanks to Paycock, the bailiff who had been so free with his opinions in the Bell the previous day.
‘Look here,’ he sneered, speaking loudly enough to make people turn towards him. ‘Two toadies, come to Clare in the hope of winning some of the Lady’s money. Scholars will take against us in our dispute with the castle, and so should be considered our enemies.’
‘Then we should trounce them,’ declared one of the litter-bearers. His face was swollen from the tears he had shed, and his eyes were mean. ‘Because someone from the castle murdered poor Mayor Godeston, and this pair might have done it to please her.’
‘Godeston is dead?’ asked Michael, unfazed by the threat, although Bartholomew suddenly felt vulnerable, and his hand dropped to the bag where he kept his surgical knives.
‘You know he is,’ spat the second litter-bearer, who was even more distraught than his companion. ‘Because you did it.’
There followed a furious clamour, as the crowd demanded to know why the scholars should want to deprive Clare of its most prestigious citizen. The loudest voice was Paycock’s.
‘This means war,’ he howled. ‘The castle has gone too far this time, and we will stand for it no longer. I say we send them a message – they can have these two back in pieces.’
The horde surged forward. Bartholomew whipped out a knife, although it was a puny thing, and would do nothing to make anyone think twice about attacking. Michael, however, was used to hostile mobs. He stepped forward, one hand raised in proctorly authority.
‘Stop!’ he commanded with such force that the angry charge faltered uncertainly. ‘I assure you, we have no reason to harm Mayor Godeston or anyone else in Clare. Now tell us what—’
‘Murderers!’ screeched Paycock. ‘Why pick on poor Godeston, a man who could not walk? Well, let us see how you fare with us, because we will not be such easy meat.’
There was another enraged roar, and the assault might have resume
d, but suddenly the Austins were there, insinuating themselves firmly but gently between mob and scholars.
‘What seems to be the problem?’ asked Prior John, his voice full of quiet reason.
‘The castle has arranged for Mayor Godeston to be slain,’ shrieked Paycock. ‘Because he was our leading resident and they knew it would hurt us. His death cannot be allowed to pass unchallenged. We agreed not to avenge Skynere on your recommendation, Father Prior, but all it did was encourage them to slaughter someone else. Well, we will not sit quietly by a second time.’
There was a growl of agreement from those who clustered at his shoulder. Again, Bartholomew braced himself for an onslaught, but the Austins merely reinforced their cordon by standing closer together. No weapons were drawn, but it was clear from the way they stood that they would be more than capable of repelling any would-be attackers with their fists.
‘Take a deep breath,’ John instructed Paycock. ‘And then tell us what has happened properly. And quietly, if you please. We are not deaf, so there is no need to howl.’
‘They found Godeston dead this morning,’ replied Paycock, pointing at the litter-bearers with a finger that shook with passion. ‘Obviously, he was poisoned. Just like Skynere.’
‘Just like Wisbech, too,’ put in the larger of the two litter-bearers accusingly. ‘Although the priory does not care. Well, we will not ignore what has been done. The Mayor was good to me and my brother – gave us work when no one else would look at us.’
‘Because dressing up in purple and toting him around is all you are good for,’ muttered Paycock unpleasantly. ‘Idle buggers.’
‘Even if Godeston has been poisoned, why blame the scholars?’ asked John. ‘And do not say they did it to please the Lady, because she deplores bloodshed. She told me so herself.’
‘You stepped inside her filthy lair for a chat?’ demanded Paycock, angry all over again. ‘And then you come from there to here? How dare you!’
‘I dare because it is time this foolish feud was over,’ replied John sternly. ‘It is dangerous and unnecessary, and it diminishes everyone concerned. And I do not mean just physically – it endangers your souls as well. Now, let us have no more of this nonsense. Go about your business like God-fearing folk, and I shall find the truth about Godeston’s death.’
‘Why should we trust you?’ snarled Paycock.
‘Because I tell you that you can,’ replied John shortly. ‘We have never taken sides in this dispute, and nor will we – you know we are impartial. Now go away, before God loses His temper with you for breaking His peace.’
Paycock opened his mouth to argue further, but John treated him to a sharp glare, and whatever the bailiff started to say died in his throat. Without another word, he turned and slouched away. Most of the onlookers followed, although the litter-bearers and a smattering of folk with nothing else to do lingered to see what would happen next.
‘May we come inside with you, Father Prior?’ asked Michael. ‘Matt will know how Godeston died, and I mean no disrespect, but I trust his opinion more than anyone else’s.’
‘By all means,’ said John amiably.
Mayor Godeston’s fondness for purple extended all the way through his home, and virtually everything in it was of that colour. It dominated the tapestries that covered the walls, the cushions on the benches and the rugs on the floor.
‘Perhaps he thought he was a Roman emperor,’ murmured Michael, looking around in awe.
‘It drove his poor wife to distraction,’ confided John. ‘She left him in the end, and entered a convent, where she said the nuns’ black habits were a blessed relief. Of course, that was forty years ago, and I do not know what she thinks now.’
The Mayor was sitting at a table with his eyes closed and his chin resting on his chest. He looked as though he had fallen asleep over his purple meal, the remains of which lay in front of him: dried plums, pickled beetroot and elderberry wine. The only indications that anything was amiss were his total stillness and the vomit that stained his clothes.
Grym had taken the seat opposite, and tears glittered in his eyes as he contemplated the man who had been his friend.
‘I suppose I shall be Mayor of this beautiful town now,’ he said in a small voice. ‘Although it is rather sooner than I hoped.’
Bartholomew bent to examine the body. Godeston was still warm to the touch, although the sick on his front had dried, telling him that the Mayor had been taken ill some time before he had finally breathed his last. He glanced up to see that the litter-bearers had followed them inside, and were sobbing again, although more in anger than sorrow. He addressed them quietly, struggling not to make his remarks sound accusatory lest it ignited another spat.
‘He could not walk, which means he would have needed your help to get to bed when he had finished eating. So why was he not discovered until now?’
‘He could walk short distances,’ wept one. ‘And his bed is only in the next room. He sent us home early, because Barber Grym was here.’
‘I was,’ said Grym, a catch in his voice. ‘We were discussing the murder of Margery and what it might mean for the town. He said he was hungry, so I fetched him some food from the pantry before I went home …’
‘But he was well when you left him?’
Grym nodded. ‘Although desperately worried that Margery’s death would bring violent reprisals down on our heads. I suppose the strain of thinking about it induced a fatal attack. I have seen such things many times during my medical career.’
While the barber spoke, Bartholomew had continued his examination, not just of the body, but of the food and wine as well. The plums and beetroot seemed innocent, but the wine was a strong brew with a pungent smell – almost, but not quite, powerful enough to mask the distinctive aroma of hemlock underneath. He announced his findings to the others.
‘So Paycock was right?’ said Michael. ‘Godeston was murdered? By whom?’
Bartholomew raised his hands in a shrug. ‘He swallowed poison, Brother, and it was in the wine. I cannot tell you who put it there.’
‘No, no, no!’ whispered Grym, white-faced. ‘Godeston was old and in indifferent health. He died of natural causes. He was not murdered. It is impossible.’
Wordlessly, Bartholomew handed him the jug so that he could smell it for himself.
Grym accepted it warily, took a quick sniff, then shook his head stubbornly. ‘It is not hemlock. What you can detect is the stink of elderberries past their best. Poor Godeston! He never could tell a good brew from an inferior one.’
‘Then you drink some,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘And prove it is innocent.’
Grym raised his eyebrows. ‘I am not in the habit of imbibing bad wine.’
And before anyone could stop him, he stepped to the window and emptied the jug into the rose beds below, moving remarkably swiftly for so large a man. Bartholomew regarded him in astonishment, stunned not only that he should deny what was so patently obvious, but that he should destroy evidence into the bargain.
‘Good,’ said John briskly. ‘It is very sad that poor Mayor Godeston is dead, but better natural causes than murder.’
‘I quite agree,’ said Grym with a sickly smile. ‘So we will bury him today, and I shall assume the role of Mayor until we can hold an election. It is—’
‘No!’ interrupted one of the litter-bearers sharply. ‘You want to hide the truth, so the town will not march against the castle. Well, we will not be party to lies – not when it concerns the man who gave us a job. Mayor Godeston was good to us, and we will not turn our backs on his murder.’
‘Then remember who told you about the hemlock,’ put in Michael. ‘We did – which we would not have done if we had fed it to him. So kindly inform the likes of Paycock that your master’s death had nothing to do with us.’
But the litter-bearer was already thinking about something else. ‘His silk,’ he gulped, looking around in alarm. ‘Where is it?’
‘What silk?’ asked Grym.
‘And he said we would not get anything in his will unless we obliged,’ put in his brother.
They embarked on a frantic hunt for it. John ignored them and began to interrogate Grym, gathering information that he hoped would allow him to forestall any rumours that Godeston was the latest casualty in the war between castle and town. The barber was eager to oblige, and Bartholomew grew ever more appalled by the wild answers he gave. Michael pulled the physician aside.
‘Are you sure about the hemlock, Matt? You cannot be mistaken?’
‘I am sure. I suppose this means Grym fed it to him – he fetched the wine from the pantry at Godeston’s request, dosed it with poison, then destroyed the evidence when we homed in on it. Now he is lying to protect himself. I wonder if he killed Wisbech and Skynere as well. He admits quite openly that he uses hemlock on patients. Maybe he gave them too much by mistake.’
‘I know John wants to avert trouble,’ said Michael soberly. ‘But I dislike lies, and I am uncomfortable with the fact that he is willing to overlook the murder of a friar. It is unnatural, even for a man who wants peace.’
‘Then perhaps we should add him to our list of murder suspects.’
‘Perhaps we should,’ agreed Michael unhappily.
CHAPTER 8
There was no more to be done at Godeston’s house, so Bartholomew and Michael left Grym to care for his dead friend, and went outside, where John was already announcing that the verdict was death by natural causes. Unfortunately for him, the litter-bearers had a different story to spread, and began ranting to anyone who would listen. John tried to stop them, but to no avail – men like Paycock knew which version they wanted to believe. The Prior glared at Bartholomew.
‘I wish you had kept your suspicions to yourself,’ he said crossly. ‘Godeston’s murder will mean trouble for certain.’
The Habit of Murder: The Twenty Third Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 23) Page 20