‘Does he really think that will work?’ asked Bartholomew wonderingly, when Langelee came to explain what was going on. ‘Surely he cannot be that naive?’
‘Oh, I think he can,’ said Langelee sourly. ‘Shall we wager how long he stays there before he realises that he is wasting his time? I think he will persist until the end of tomorrow – it will be Sunday, and he will foolishly expect the culprit’s conscience to prick on that most holy of days.’
‘He will give up tonight,’ predicted Bartholomew. ‘It looks like rain, and he will not want to get his pretty hair wet.’
Michael laughed. ‘I agree with Matt. Shall we speak to Thomas and Ella now? They are by the kitchen, whispering to each other as usual. I wonder what prank is in the offing this time.’
He started towards them, but had not covered half the distance before there was a shriek, and Adam hurtled out of the kitchen, trailing fire. Quick as a flash, Bartholomew whipped off his own cloak and knocked the screeching baker to the ground so that he could smother the flames. Adam continued to howl, although Bartholomew’s speedy reaction had saved him from serious harm.
As he applied a soothing balm to one or two patches of reddened skin, Bartholomew glanced at Thomas and Ella. They were struggling to keep straight faces. The squires did not bother with such niceties, and brayed their mirth openly. Servants and nobles alike eyed them in distaste, which served to make them guffaw all the harder – until Albon put an end to it. He stood with all the dignity at his disposal and strode towards the sobbing baker. The laughter faded away, and only when there was silence did the great man speak.
‘You are a brave boy, Adam,’ he said, gazing down with kindly compassion. ‘Here is a groat for new clothes and another groat for your wounds. Go now, and thank God for your deliverance.’
Adam snatched the coins and fled. He hobbled through the gate and disappeared into the town – the twins’ prank had clearly ended any loyalty he might have felt towards his castle employers, and had turned a friend into an enemy.
‘Your mantle, Doctor,’ said Albon, stooping to pluck the garment from the ground. He held it between thumb and forefinger, so as not to soil his soft white hands.
Bartholomew took it resignedly. It was caked in mud, and holes had been burned in several places, which meant some serious needlework would be required before it was functional again. The journey home would be miserable if the rain continued. Then Albon made a second munificent gesture. With a courtly flourish, he removed his own cloak and held it out.
‘Take this,’ he said, more command than invitation. ‘A medicus must be properly clad when he visits his patients.’
Bartholomew did not want to accept it. It was a beautiful garment of scarlet wool, with fur around the hem and black silk lining. He was notoriously careless with clothes and would ruin it in a week.
‘You are generous,’ he said politely. ‘But you will need it in France.’
Albon stood taller and straighter. ‘Zeal for my God, my King and my country keep me warm in the most inclement of weather,’ he announced grandly, then lowered his voice so that only Bartholomew could hear. ‘Besides, I have five more equally nice ones in my travelling chest, so I shall not miss it.’
A murmur of admiration for his gallantry rippled through the onlookers, and Bartholomew knew that refusing the cloak would not only appear ungracious, but might be construed as offensive. He took it, astonished by its weight and quality, and wondered what Matilde would say when he arrived home in it. He suspected he would be in for a good deal of teasing.
‘Then thank you,’ he said sincerely.
‘You saved an innocent boy from serious harm,’ said Albon, loudly enough for his voice to carry across the whole bailey. He treated the twins to a reproachful glance, and both had the grace to look away. ‘He might have been maimed for life.’
‘It was only a bit of fun,’ objected Nuport, too dim-witted to know when he should have kept quiet. His cronies eased away, unwilling to be associated with him if he was going to challenge their hero. ‘Can no one take a joke?’
‘It was not a joke,’ declared Albon angrily. ‘It was a despicable act – one devised by cowards and fools. Such antics will be punished, although not by me. By God.’
And with that, he turned on his heel and strode back to his throne, where he made a show of sitting in it without the comfort of a nice warm cloak. His sacrifice earned the twins more critical scowls, including from some of the squires. Thomas hid his chagrin with sullen indifference, although Ella was notably subdued. Bartholomew walked over to them, Michael following.
‘I hope you will not do that again,’ he said curtly. ‘Albon is right – it was cruel and stupid.’
Thomas was unrepentant. ‘It was Adam’s own fault for laying dishonest hands on a silver box that he had no right to touch.’
‘It is true,’ agreed Ella. ‘He is a thief and everyone is sick of his pilfering. We expected him to drop the box when he realised that it was full of hot embers – we did not anticipate that he would slyly shove the thing inside his tunic.’
‘Regardless,’ said Michael in distaste, ‘should you really be playing tricks on servants while your mother lies dead? It is hardly appropriate.’
‘We did it for her,’ argued Ella. ‘She worked hard to turn Adam honest, but the moment she died, he reverted to form. It was disrespectful to her memory.’
‘She was an angel,’ said Thomas. ‘Or so everyone tells us. Unfortunately, she was so engrossed in her good works that she never had time for her own children. Anne was far more mother to us than she ever was. More father, too, given that ours was also too busy to bother.’
‘So you are irked with your parents for failing to dote on you,’ sighed Michael heavily. ‘Is that why you killed her?’
Thomas and Ella blinked their astonishment at the accusation, and Bartholomew thought their shock was genuine. Of course, that was not to say they were innocent – only that they considered themselves to be above suspicion.
‘We never did!’ cried Ella, the first to find her tongue. ‘What a terrible thing to say! We were not close, but we never wished her harm. Besides, Anne was a lot of fun, and we would not have enjoyed ourselves nearly as much if our parents had raised us. It all worked out for the best.’
‘So what have you done to find the killer?’ asked Michael archly. ‘Even if you were not fond of Margery, you still must want her murder avenged.’
‘We did discuss hunting the bastard ourselves,’ said Thomas, eyeing the monk with dislike. ‘But Albon told us to let him do it instead. Ella and I do not want to cross the man who will take us to France, so we reluctantly acceded to his request.’
‘You will go to France,’ Michael pointed out. ‘She will stay here, ready to marry another wealthy or powerful suitor.’
Ella regarded him haughtily. ‘No, I will not, because I have decided to follow the Lady’s example and take a vow of chastity – which means no more weddings for me. I am going to France, although not to join the army, naturally. I shall visit religious houses.’
‘Of course you will,’ said Michael flatly. ‘But to return to more important matters, do you have any idea who meant your mother harm?’
‘No,’ replied Thomas sourly. ‘Because she really was loved by all, and I cannot believe this has happened to her. She honestly did not have an enemy in the whole world.’
‘What about Roos?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘He was unpopular in Cambridge, so I cannot imagine his reception was any different here. Did he have enemies in the castle?’
‘Roos!’ spat Thomas. ‘Otherwise known as Philip de Jevan, although we had no idea he was a scholar until Richard the watchman told us just now. We are stunned – we thought he was a merchant from London, which is what he always claimed.’
‘We did not recognise him when he arrived on Wednesday,’ put in Ella. ‘Because we are used to seeing him with white hair and beard.’
‘We believe “Jevan” was your mother’s kinsma
n,’ said Bartholomew. ‘What was their relationship, exactly?’
‘Distant cousins,’ replied Ella, and looked around quickly to ensure no one could hear before adding, ‘but I think they might have been lovers once. I overheard several discussions between them that suggested it, and he was always trying to corner her alone. He was a dreadful lecher.’
‘She tried to send him packing countless times,’ said Thomas, ‘but her rejections were too gentle, and he never did get the message.’
‘What did your father think of Roos’s behaviour?’ asked Michael.
Thomas gave a mirthless bark of laughter. ‘Him? I doubt he noticed anything amiss, and if he did, he would have been too busy to do anything about it. Running the Lady’s estates is more important to him than anything else in the world.’
‘It was your mother who summoned Roos here,’ said Michael. ‘Why would she do such a thing if all he did was harass her?’
‘She doubtless had her reasons,’ replied Thomas, while Ella looked away and bit her lip. ‘But not ones she confided to us. I wish we could help, but we knew nothing of her business.’
‘Then tell us what you were doing the night she died.’
Thomas sighed with exaggerated patience. ‘I was in the Bell Inn with the squires for the first part of it, and I came back here at midnight. I went directly to Ella’s room, where we played board games until Adam raised the alarm with his screeching.’
‘The Bell is where Roos was staying,’ said Michael. ‘Did you see him there?’
‘Not that I recall,’ shrugged Thomas, ‘but I was looking at the lasses, not old men in nasty hats. I did not know then that your Roos was our Jevan, so why would I have paid him any heed? Have you finished with us? Our mother will be buried tomorrow, and we have to make all the arrangements ourselves, because our father does nothing but sleep.’
‘It is Master Lichet’s medicine,’ explained Ella. ‘It is very strong. We only had a sip and it made our heads spin. Father swallowed the whole cup.’
‘He will wake up when we visit,’ vowed Michael. ‘We have questions for him as well.’
Thomas smiled malevolently. ‘Not today, Brother. And not tomorrow either, if Lichet has any say in the matter. His potions are nothing if not effective.’
‘That pair said nothing to make me think them innocent,’ said Michael, once the twins had gone. ‘They are irredeemably selfish, and think they have been ill-used by having parents with lives of their own. They might well have dispatched Margery out of bitterness and spite.’
‘And Roos for being in the way,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But we should request an audience with the Lady now. Lichet cited her as his alibi, so we should see if he is telling the truth – assuming that he has not dosed her with another powerful soporific, of course.’
Lichet was in the Lady’s apartments, reciting an ode of his own composition. It was several pages long, and comprised a lot of convoluted rhymes, which perhaps explained why she had dozed off. Lichet had not noticed and read with gusto. The poem was about a dog that seduced women under cover of darkness, which did not seem an entirely suitable subject for an elderly patron, so perhaps it was just as well she was not awake to hear it.
‘No wonder folk call him the Red Devil,’ murmured Michael. ‘Poor Clare! I would not be happy with such a man assuming a position of power in the University.’
Lichet scowled when a servant interrupted his performance to announce visitors. He started to refuse Bartholomew and Michael permission to enter, but the Lady’s eyes snapped open, and she overrode him by beckoning them forward.
‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘Who killed Margery? I am sure you have been exploring the murders, given that a scholar died as well.’
‘I ordered them to do it,’ put in Lichet quickly. ‘I would have solved the mystery myself, but I decided to apply my superior abilities to being Acting Steward instead. I shall shoulder Marishal’s responsibilities for as long as he is … indisposed.’
‘Drugged senseless, you mean,’ put in Bartholomew disapprovingly. ‘Which is a dangerous thing to do and—’
‘When do you expect him to wake?’ interrupted Michael, aware that such an accusatory discussion was likely to do more harm than good. ‘There are questions that only he can answer.’
‘Not today,’ replied Lichet stiffly. ‘Tomorrow, perhaps. I shall see how he feels.’
‘He will feel inclined to help them, and you will tell him so, Master Lichet,’ said the Lady sharply, and turned back to the scholars. ‘Now tell me what you have learned. Albon gave me his report earlier, but it was disappointingly sparse.’
Michael hastened to oblige, finishing with the fact that Margery had written to invite Roos to a secret meeting in the cistern ‘at the usual time’.
‘My goodness,’ said the Lady flatly. ‘You have been busy.’
‘Now just one moment,’ snapped Lichet, still blinking his astonishment as he raised his hand for clarification. ‘You claim that Roos was on the council?’
‘He called himself Jevan while he was here,’ replied Michael. ‘But yes. Were you not included in the secret? Dear me!’
‘No one was, other than my steward, Margery and a few guards,’ said the Lady. ‘I recruited him fourteen years ago – offered him a lucrative post in exchange for spying on Badew. After all, only a fool does not monitor her enemies. And it worked. Why do you think Badew has never managed to do me any harm?’
Lichet was stunned. ‘Roos deceived his friends – and everyone here – for fourteen years?’
The Lady shrugged. ‘He was a clever man. Of course, he was never included in any sensitive castle business – one can never trust a man who betrays his friends. Yet he served me well enough, although he was coming to the end of his usefulness – Badew is getting too old for mischief.’
‘I beg to differ, madam,’ argued Lichet. ‘Why do you think Badew is here now? It is not to tell Marishal that his twins dispatched Talmach – Marishal already knows those rumours.’
‘Badew thought I was dead, and he came to dance on my grave,’ replied the Lady. ‘While Michaelhouse and Clare Hall came to see what I had left them in my will.’ She smiled haughtily at the scholars. ‘As I said, Roos served me well.’
‘He was kin to Margery,’ interjected Michael hastily, eager to move away from the awkward subject of their reason for visiting Clare. ‘Is that why you invited him to play Judas?’
The lady inclined her head. ‘The family connection meant he was more willing to listen to my proposal than he might otherwise have been. They were cousins and he loved her – perhaps more than he should have done, given that she was another man’s wife.’
‘His affection may have been reciprocated,’ said Michael, and produced the onyx rings. ‘He wore his around his neck, while hers was on her finger.’
The Lady frowned as she took them. ‘I remember hers. It is tawdry, and I once asked why she did not don a nicer one – she had plenty. She told me that it represented a penance. She confided no more and I did not press her, sensing it was something she was reluctant to divulge.’
‘I do not think they were fond of each other,’ said Lichet. His expression was sullen, and it was clear that he bitterly resented being left in the dark. ‘Whenever I saw them together, they were quarrelling.’
‘They did argue,’ acknowledged the Lady. ‘Indeed, Roos was the one person who could shake her from her gentle equanimity – something not even the twins could do, even at their worst.’
‘Do you know why Margery wanted him to come to Clare this time?’ asked Michael. ‘It was not for a council meeting – the next one is not until June, as you know.’
‘I have no idea,’ replied the Lady. ‘Perhaps Marishal can tell you, although you will have to wait until tomorrow, when Master Lichet’s potion has worn off. I imagine Roos was glad that you decided to accompany him here, though – he met Simon Freburn on the way home last time.’
‘And lost an ear,’ put in Lichet with a smirk.
The Lady was silent for a while, thinking. ‘I dislike what is happening in Clare,’ she said eventually. ‘Not just the murders of Margery and Roos, but the other deaths, too. You two have shown yourselves adept at unearthing secrets, so you will investigate those as well as Roos’s.’
‘I shall see they do,’ vowed Lichet. Then he glared at the two scholars. ‘Of course, when I told them to investigate Roos’s death, I also ordered them to report any findings directly to me, so as to spare you the unpleasantness of this sort of audience. I am sorry they chose to disobey me.’
‘Thank you for your concern, Lichet,’ said the Lady briskly. ‘However, from now on, I want Michaelhouse, Albon and you searching for answers. They are coming far too slowly for my liking, and I want this matter solved and settled before the Queen arrives.’
‘You want three investigations to run concurrently?’ asked Lichet uneasily. ‘That is not a good idea, madam. We will fall over each other in—’
‘Nonsense! A little competition is healthy. And to make matters more interesting, I shall offer a reward to the successful party. One hundred marks.’
It was a fortune, and Lichet’s eyes lit greedily. ‘Then I shall have it,’ he declared. ‘I am the one with the best mind.’
‘I am not sure it is wise to offer that sort of incentive, My Lady,’ objected Michael. ‘It may encourage a false solution from someone who just wants the money.’
‘Then you must ensure that yours is the right one, and that it is presented to me first,’ retorted the Lady. ‘However, no one will have anything until I am fully satisfied. And speaking of satisfaction, what is happening with my paroquets, Doctor? You promised to cure them, if you recall.’
‘Lichet refused to let him see them,’ replied Michael, before Bartholomew could tell her that he had done nothing of the kind.
The Lady scowled at the Red Devil, whose face was tight with fury at the revelation. ‘I shall thank you not to countermand my orders, Lichet. I do not tolerate insubordination. Do you hear?’
The Habit of Murder: The Twenty Third Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 23) Page 22