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

by Susanna Gregory

  Heselbech bared his pointed teeth in an uneasy smile. ‘Yes, but all I saw was the squires bringing Albon out, slung over his horse like a sack of flour. It was unkind – he would have hated the indignity of being toted through the town with his arse in the air. I imagine it was Thomas’s idea: the others would have fetched a bier.’

  ‘Do you think one of them brained him?’ probed Michael.

  ‘Thomas might have,’ replied Heselbech promptly. ‘He is a sly devil, and it is a pity he did not inherit his mother’s goodness. Then Nuport is a vicious brute, not above biting the hand that feeds him. The others are decent lads, though.’

  ‘With your permission, Father Prior, I would like to help Langelee,’ said Weste, changing the subject abruptly. ‘I enjoyed myself yesterday. It was good to be in the saddle again.’

  ‘You may go, but not until we have discussed our final arrangements for the Queen’s visit,’ said John. ‘It will not take long. Lord! I hope we can impose some order on the town before she arrives. It would be a great pity for her to see us at each other’s throats.’

  Everyone trooped out so that John and Weste could get on with it, and once in the yard, Heselbech began to organise the brethren into peace-keeping patrols. Judging by the number of volunteers, this duty was a lot more desirable than staying behind to pray, cook and clean.

  ‘They may have taken holy vows,’ remarked Langelee, watching Heselbech’s arrangements approvingly, ‘but they will always be warriors at heart.’

  ‘And that is what worries me,’ said Michael unhappily. ‘Especially in Heselbech, who would have kept quiet about being near the spot where Albon was killed if Weste had not spoken up. I imagine Weste will be biting his tongue now.’

  ‘Rightly so,’ said Langelee harshly. ‘He should have kept his mouth shut.’

  Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why do all ex-soldiers possess this reckless need to protect each other? It is a dangerous game, Langelee, because while you and John may once have been comrades-in-arms, you do not know these others. You may be defending killers.’

  ‘They are good men whose aim is to prevent a bloodbath,’ argued Langelee stoutly. ‘God’s teeth! This place is worse than Cambridge. I cannot imagine why you were so keen to visit it, Bartholomew. Matilde was wrong when she claimed it to be a lovely town.’

  ‘Perhaps it was different when she was here,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She had a—’

  ‘I will escort you to the castle,’ interrupted Langelee briskly. ‘And when you have finished, get the watchmen to bring you back. Do not wander about on your own. Is that clear? I cannot have Fellows slaughtered on my watch. It would be acutely embarrassing.’

  Langelee was right to be cautious, as the town felt distinctly uneasy that day. Michael declared a pressing need to attend to his devotions, so they went to the church first, only to find that prayers were being held in the graveyard, as Nicholas had declared the building off limits until the rededication. The vicar’s performance – a startlingly brief one – was indifferent, and all the way through, Anne could be heard waylaying passers-by with demands for gossip and treats.

  ‘I should become an anchorite,’ muttered Langelee. ‘It is a very comfortable existence.’

  ‘You would hate it,’ predicted Bartholomew. ‘And I suspect she does, too. She may claim she is content, but she is a gregarious soul who misses the bustle of castle life. It was a cruel punishment to inflict on such a person. Almost worse than death.’

  Nicholas came to pass the time of day with them when he had finished officiating at his makeshift altar, although his eyes strayed constantly to the door, where workmen emerged with planks and coils of rope. Bartholomew wanted to peep inside, to see more of the nave without the scaffolding, but Nicholas informed him curtly that it was out of bounds to everyone, with no exceptions.

  A combination of unease, exasperation and concern for his College’s future turned Michael brusque, and he addressed the vicar curtly.

  ‘You are still on our list of suspects for Roos and Margery’s murders,’ he said, ignoring Langelee’s irritable sigh for having ignored his opinion on the matter. ‘Your alibi is Anne, but she was almost certainly asleep at the time, so we are disinclined to accept it.’

  ‘She was awake!’ cried Nicholas. ‘And I did not kill anyone. Why would I? And more to the point, how could I? I would have had to get past the castle guards, and I never did. Ask them.’

  It was a good point, but Michael pressed on anyway. ‘You dislike the Lady for interfering with church business – not only trying to oust you from your spacious home to a poky cottage, but telling you which services you may or may not conduct.’

  ‘It is irksome,’ conceded Nicholas, ‘but I would not resolve the matter by murdering her steward’s wife and a scholar who was a stranger to me.’

  ‘Roos was not a stranger – you knew him as Philip de Jevan.’

  Nicholas blinked. ‘It is true, then? A rumour to that effect is currently racing through the town, but I assumed it was nonsense. However, it is irrelevant to me, as I had nothing to do with his death, regardless of who he happened to be. Anne! Tell Brother Michael that I was saying nocturns when Margery Marishal and Roos were killed.’

  ‘I have already told you that he was,’ came the anchoress’s irritable voice. ‘No doubt you think I was dozing. Well, for your information I would love to sleep all night, but my cell is right next to the chancel, and I challenge you to slumber through the racket priests make when they are about their holy business. I was awake, and Nicholas was here.’

  Michael’s troubled expression suggested that he did not know what to believe. When there was no reply, Anne changed the subject to one she considered more interesting.

  ‘Isabel Morley came to me last night, begging for my help. It is a pity that I am stuck in here, because the stars are favourable for my hook today. A few scrapes would solve all her problems.’

  ‘Or compound them,’ countered Bartholomew.

  Uncomfortable with such a discussion, Michael and Langelee went to corner Paycock, to see if he might be persuaded to donate funds to a College in exchange for Masses for his loved ones, while Nicholas hurried to oversee the work in the nave. Bartholomew was left to talk to Anne alone.

  ‘Now Isabel will have to swallow herbs to save herself from the perils of childbirth,’ the anchoress went on grimly. ‘Tansy and pennyroyal. And those are dangerous.’

  ‘Yes, they are,’ agreed Bartholomew, hoping it was not a hint for him to wield a hook in her stead. He thought about Mistress Starre in Cambridge, and her potions for desperate women. Then he recalled the many times he had been summoned when things had gone catastrophically wrong.

  ‘Although not nearly as dangerous as having a baby,’ Anne flashed back.

  ‘Isabel is not worried about giving birth,’ Bartholomew countered, although even as he spoke, he was aware that Isabel’s reasons for wanting a way out of her predicament were really none of his business. ‘She just wants to end an inconvenient pregnancy.’

  Anne snorted her disdain. ‘Spoken like a true man! It should be our decision what happens inside our own bodies, and all I can say is that if I had to choose between childbirth and a hook, I know which I would pick.’

  ‘Fortunately for you, it is not a decision you will ever have to make.’

  ‘I hope you are not implying that I am too old for motherhood,’ said Anne frostily.

  ‘I am implying that you are unlikely to conceive when you are walled up in a cell. Unless you happen to know some very unusual manoeuvres.’

  The moment the words were out, Bartholomew wished he could retract them, sure she would not appreciate risqué remarks. She had proclaimed herself to be a holy woman, after all. Thus he was relieved when there came a peal of extremely lewd laughter.

  ‘I must remember to tell Nicholas that one!’ she crowed. ‘It will amuse him greatly, and he needs to smile, as he is altogether too anxious about the ceremony tomorrow.’

  When Barthol
omew had finished with the anchoress, he found Michael and Langelee waiting for him by the porch door. They left the churchyard, Bartholomew acutely aware that Langelee kept his hand on the hilt of his sword as they went. The atmosphere along Rutten Row was fraught, with clots of townsfolk gathered on every corner, muttering darkly. Any castle inhabitant rash enough to venture out was subject to torrents of abuse, although the three scholars received nods and even the occasional smile.

  ‘It is because Bartholomew helped Adam,’ explained Grym, who was emerging from his house as they passed. ‘I told everyone that Adam would have died without our cooperative efforts, so you University men are in favour. Of course, it may mean trouble for you at the castle. They have taken against Adam now he refuses to bake for them again.’

  Bartholomew, Langelee and Michael hurried on, and when they reached the barbican, it was to find that the number of guards on duty had been doubled, while archers lined the walkways and battlements. Langelee inspected the precautions with an approving eye.

  ‘You must still be on the lookout for treachery from within, though,’ he warned Richard the watchman. ‘There must be any number of servants with links to the town, and you can never be sure of their loyalty.’

  ‘Marishal ordered all those expelled,’ sighed Richard. ‘Which was ill-advised, as they will swell the enemy’s ranks, and might mean the difference between victory and defeat for us. I do not know how we reached this pass – not when relations between us have been cordial for centuries.’

  ‘The Austins will prevent a battle,’ said Langelee soothingly, although Richard’s worried expression suggested that he did not think they would succeed. ‘But I am going to hunt for Bonde and the hermit today. Do you have any advice about where to look?’

  ‘The hermit could be anywhere, but Bonde has kin in Stoke by Clare, which is three miles east along the river. Do not go alone, though. He is dangerous.’

  ‘So am I,’ declared Langelee with a grin. ‘But I take your point. Weste has offered to come.’

  ‘A good warrior,’ acknowledged Richard. ‘But Bonde is low and crafty, so watch yourself.’

  Langelee inclined his head and strode away. Michael sketched a benediction after him, and muttered a prayer that over-confidence would not see him hurt.

  ‘I seriously doubt that anyone will attack a fortress,’ Michael told Marishal crossly a short while later. He was irked because the portcullis had been down and the guards were under orders to lift it no more than a fraction, compelling any visitors to crawl inside on their hands and knees. The squires had been watching, and there had been a good deal of merriment at the monk’s expense. ‘Your precautions are excessive.’

  ‘Are they?’ Marishal had declined Lichet’s sleeping potion for the second day running, and was the Lady’s steward once more, radiating confidence and efficiency, although his eyes were sunken and his face drawn. ‘The town hates us, and now they have murdered Albon.’

  ‘How do you know it was them?’ asked Michael. ‘Do you have evidence that—’

  ‘I do not need evidence to confirm what any rational man can see,’ interrupted Marishal shortly. ‘Albon was our mightiest warrior, and his execution is a direct challenge to our authority.’

  ‘But the townsfolk liked Albon because he was taking the castle’s rowdy young men away to France,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘None of them wanted him dead.’

  ‘Have you found out what happened to him yet?’ asked Michael, when Marishal made no reply. ‘We tried to question his squires last night, but Lichet ordered them to pray in the chapel instead.’

  ‘Then speak to them now,’ said Marishal briskly. ‘Come.’

  He led the way to the knight’s frilly pavilion, which now had a distinctly lopsided appearance. The squires stood rigidly to attention at intervals around it. Each wore a peculiar black cloak shorn off just below the shoulders, which meant the rest of their finery was sodden and all were shivering – except Thomas, who had opted for a sensible oiled garment that covered him to the knees.

  ‘I cannot credit that they still believe what Thomas says about courtly fashion,’ murmured Michael, shaking his head in disgust. ‘I have encountered some dim-witted lads in my time, but none as stupid as this horde.’

  The squires did not respond when he informed them that he wanted their accounts of what had happened to their hero, and only stared blankly and annoyingly ahead. Bartholomew wondered if that was Thomas’s doing as well, or if the mute guard of honour had been their own idea.

  Before the monk could repeat himself, Marishal intervened, his voice tight with anger. ‘Answer him, you silly young fools,’ he snarled. ‘And when he has finished, you can divest yourselves of these absurd clothes, don sensible ones, and report to me in the hall. There is much to do before the Queen arrives, and I will not have idlers in my castle.’

  ‘Our duty lies here,’ replied Nuport defiantly. ‘It is what Sir William would have wanted.’

  ‘But he is not in a position to say so, is he,’ snapped Marishal. ‘So you now have a choice: make yourselves useful or get out of Clare. And that includes you, Thomas.’

  ‘Me?’ blurted Thomas, startled. ‘But I am a—’

  ‘Your days of indolence are over,’ interrupted Marishal harshly. ‘As from today, you will either work or starve. It is your choice: I do not care one way or another.’

  And with that, he turned on his heel and strode away. The slight spring in his step suggested that he had enjoyed the confrontation, perhaps because he thought that Margery would have approved of his taking a firm hand at last. The squires gazed after him in dismay, although several folk who had overheard the exchange nodded their approval. They included Ereswell, who evidently thought it was the scholars’ influence, as he touched his purse in a way that indicated another donation would be coming Michaelhouse’s way.

  ‘Right,’ said Michael, rubbing his hands together as he turned to the shivering young men. ‘To business. You were with Albon when he fell: tell us exactly what occurred.’

  ‘A townsman threw a stone that killed him,’ said Nuport sullenly, resentful at the unpleasant direction his life was about to take. ‘In other words, he was murdered. And we plan to avenge him.’

  ‘Did you see a missile lobbed?’ asked Bartholomew.

  ‘No,’ replied Nuport shortly.

  ‘Then did you see a townsman running away shortly afterwards?’

  ‘No,’ said Nuport a second time, and scowled. ‘The culprit kept himself hidden. But it does not matter if we spotted him or not, because it is obvious what happened.’

  ‘Really,’ said Michael flatly. He addressed the others. ‘Now tell us what you know to be true, not what your lurid imaginations suggest.’

  ‘Sir William ordered us into a fan formation, so as to cover more ground,’ obliged Mull. He looked miserable – what little hair he had left was plastered to his head, while water dripped from his gaudy clothes. ‘Which meant that we grew further apart with every step we took, so none of us were with him when he … But Thomas was the closest. Tell him, Tom.’

  Thomas spoke reluctantly. ‘I heard him yell, and I assumed he had caught the hermit – he was an excellent tracker. But I arrived to find his horse grazing and him lying senseless next to it.’

  ‘So he might have fallen off by accident,’ said Bartholomew, who was a dismal rider, and quite often toppled out of his saddle for no reason apparent to those who were good at it.

  ‘It is possible,’ replied Thomas. ‘But highly unlikely. He was a knight.’

  ‘What did he shout, exactly?’

  ‘It sounded like “you”, but I cannot be certain. However, I can tell you that none of us knocked him from his seat, because the offender would have galloped away afterwards, and I would have heard the hoofs. But there was just the yell and the thump of him hitting the ground. It means the killer was on foot, whereas we were all mounted.’

  ‘Did you meet anyone else in the woods?’

  All the young men sho
ok their heads.

  ‘They were deserted,’ said Mull. ‘Probably because it was raining, and they are not a very nice place to be at the best of times. They are terribly boggy and full of brambles.’

  ‘My father can go to the Devil,’ announced Thomas suddenly and angrily. ‘I am not scrubbing floors – I am going to find that damned hermit. He stabbed my mother, and I bet he killed Sir William, too, thus destroying our one chance to escape this hellhole and do something interesting.’

  ‘Jan did not kill your mother, no matter what Albon thought,’ said Michael quietly. ‘Indeed, I suspect he is also dead – dispatched to prevent him from revealing what he saw as he prowled the castle that night.’

  At that point, they were joined by Ella. She had been inside the pavilion with Albon’s body, listening to the discussion secretly, but now she emerged to stand with her brother.

  ‘The monk is right, Tom,’ she said softly, squeezing his arm to make him look at her. ‘We have known Jan all our lives and he has never hurt a fly. Besides, he is terrified of horses – he would have gone nowhere near Sir William’s great destrier.’

  ‘Well, Matt?’ asked Michael, when the twins and the squires had trooped away. Most went willingly, more than happy to exchange their outlandish clothes for dry ones, although resentment was in Thomas’s every step and Nuport was patently livid. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘They did not kill Albon,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘He represented a life of adventure and they wanted him alive. Of course, Nuport does have an unpredictable temper …’

  The rest of the day was taken up with interviewing as many castle residents as would speak to them. It was a frenzied business. Not only was Michael acutely aware that he only had until the following evening to earn the hundred marks, but everyone was frantically busy with preparations for the royal visit. Lichet had failed to implement Marishal’s meticulously planned timetable while he had been in charge, which had lost them three full days. Marishal was determined to make up for lost time, and drove everyone relentlessly. No one had time to talk, and their answers were necessarily terse. Bartholomew grew increasingly frustrated with their lack of progress, and, desperate to achieve something useful, he went to re-examine the cistern.