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

by Susanna Gregory

  It had been eerie the first time he had visited, when others had been with him, but it was far more so on his own. It was full of echoing drips, and the lamp he carried did not penetrate very far into the darkness. Splashes and ripples came from every direction, and the near-constant rain of the last few days had caused the water to rise dramatically, so that the pavement where he had examined the bodies of Margery and Roos was now at least six feet below the surface.

  He did not stay long, and escaped outside with relief. He met Richard at the top of the stairs, and used him to conduct one or two experiments regarding how far sound carried from the bailey to the cistern and vice versa, although it told him nothing to help with the murders.

  Dusk came, but there was no let-up in Marishal’s preparations, even though it was clear that everyone was exhausted. He seemed to be everywhere, issuing directions in a non-stop torrent. He was an exacting taskmaster, and if a job was not done to his satisfaction, the culprit could expect a dressing-down and an order to do it again. Whether it was a genuine desire for perfection, or an attempt to distract himself from his grief, Bartholomew did not know.

  The squires and Ella suffered most under his blistering tongue, and there was a general consensus among servants and courtiers alike that this should have happened years ago. As an act of petty retaliation, the twins managed to stage one or two small pranks, but people were too busy to be amused at their victims’ discomfiture, so they soon desisted.

  Bartholomew was about to return to Michael, when there was a commotion outside the Oxford Tower. Marishal emerged from it with Quintone, who was grinning triumphantly. People stopped what they were doing to stare.

  ‘I am releasing him,’ Marishal announced in ringing tones. ‘I have been reflecting on Lichet’s claims all day, and I have decided that he is wrong. He is so determined to have the reward that he has overlooked certain basic facts.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Thomas, dangerously bold. ‘Because if you are mistaken, you are freeing the bastard who murdered our mother and your wife.’

  ‘I am sure,’ replied Marishal. ‘For two reasons. First, the ale barrel was empty when the servants retired to bed, and a new one had been brought from the cellars during the night. And second, Isabel did entertain Quintone in her bed, because three witnesses now attest to it – witnesses who told the truth once threatened with dismissal if they did not.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right, but you still cannot let him go,’ persisted Thomas stubbornly. ‘Not until the Lady gives her permission. She may not agree with your assessment of the situation.’

  ‘And Lichet certainly won’t,’ murmured Ella.

  The look Marishal shot them was enough to make both flinch. ‘Do you think I would make this sort of decision without consulting her? We discussed it at length, and she concurs with me.’

  A murmur of satisfaction rippled through the onlookers. All were delighted that Lichet’s investigation had been assessed and found lacking – and relieved that their Lady had finally started to question his opinions.

  ‘So who did kill Margery?’ called Ereswell.

  Before Marishal could reply, there was a groan, and the pavilion suddenly collapsed in on itself, the sodden material too heavy for the inexpertly assembled poles. The squires regarded the mess in dismay, although the smirk exchanged between Thomas and Ella suggested that they had seen it coming, and may even have helped it along.

  ‘I want that cleared away at once,’ Marishal told them shortly. ‘And Albon taken to the chapel. Can you manage it alone, or shall I send a scullion to supervise?’

  ‘You should,’ said Quintone, revelling in the role of a man who has been publicly acquitted. ‘Because they are useless.’

  Not surprisingly, one man was particularly outraged by Quintone’s release. Within moments, Lichet hurtled from his quarters in the Cistern Tower, where Ereswell had taken great pleasure in breaking the news to him, and stormed across the bailey towards the steward.

  ‘Are you mad?’ he demanded. ‘To release the villain who slaughtered your wife?’

  ‘Quintone is not the culprit,’ replied Marishal, eyeing him in rank disdain. ‘I should have known that the only way to find the truth was to investigate for myself.’

  ‘Quintone is guilty,’ said Lichet between gritted teeth. ‘And you will look a fool when you are forced to recant.’

  The argument swayed back and forth, and Quintone prudently took the opportunity to slink away, no doubt afraid that Lichet would win, and he would find himself with a noose around his neck again. Bartholomew went in search of Michael and found him in the hall, grazing on the cakes that had been set out for the few retainers who had time to eat one.

  ‘Did you learn anything helpful today, Brother?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘I did not, other than that Margery and Roos could have screamed at the tops of their voices from inside the cistern, and no one would have heard them, not even if they were right by the door.’

  Michael shuddered. ‘That is an unpleasant thought – that they howled for rescue as the killer attacked them in that terrible place. And I am afraid the only new thing I discovered came from Isabel Morley, whose father was a soldier.’

  ‘Not an old comrade of Prior John and his cronies?’

  Michael nodded. ‘Apparently, something happened to make the whole lot of them decide to end their brutish lifestyles, although he never told her what. Unfortunately, he is dead now, so we cannot ask him.’

  Bartholomew frowned. ‘So this is useful how, exactly?’

  ‘It proves that the Austins are men with dubious pasts, and three of them – John, Nicholas and Heselbech – are on our list of suspects. When we know what they did to necessitate them taking holy orders, we may have answers about the murders.’

  Bartholomew regarded the monk uncertainly. ‘I am not sure that follows. And besides, how can we find out, if the source of the information is dead? By asking the friars themselves? I do not see that taking us very far.’

  ‘It will not. However, according to Isabel, John kept documents about it, so we shall engage in a little burglary tonight. Or rather, you will. I shall stand outside and keep watch.’

  ‘No,’ said Bartholomew, unwilling to employ that sort of tactic against ex-warriors with deadly pasts. ‘You can do it while I keep watch.’

  Michael shot him a sour look, but his reply was drowned out by the burgeoning quarrel between Marishal and Lichet.

  ‘You will not have the Lady’s hundred marks,’ Marishal was informing him sharply. ‘Not for Quintone. If you want the money, you must produce a credible suspect and proper evidence – not the brazen forgery you presented yesterday.’

  ‘It was not a forgery,’ declared Lichet, outraged. ‘It was genuine. But I would not expect a man of your low intellect to—’

  He stopped speaking abruptly when Marishal took a threatening step towards him. Realising that he had gone too far, he bowed curtly and stalked away. Several courtiers gave a spontaneous cheer, but it petered out when Marishal glared at them as well, and they hastened back to their duties before he could load them with more.

  ‘So who is the killer?’ asked Michael, catching the steward’s arm as he strode past. ‘Have you solved the case, and I am wasting my time by persisting with my questions?’

  Marishal smiled thinly. ‘I have my suspicions. All I need is the evidence to prove them.’

  ‘We have suspicions, too,’ said Michael. ‘And I am afraid they include your son and daughter, who cannot prove where they were at the time of the murders. Are they on your list, too?’

  Marishal regarded him steadily. ‘If Thomas and Ella conspired to murder Margery, I will hang them myself. You seem shocked, Brother. Why? Margery was my wife, and I loved her more than life itself. The twins … well, she gave birth to them, but neither looks like me.’

  Michael raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Is this a new thought, or one that has been festering for a while?’

  Marishal glanced around to ensure that n
o one else could hear. ‘Ever since they were born, which was roughly nine months after Roos had been especially persistent with his attentions. She never said anything, but I knew my wife …’

  Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Are you saying that Roos was their father?’

  Marishal shrugged and looked away. ‘It would explain why they have yellow hair, just like his when he was younger. Mine was – and still is – black.’

  ‘Margery had gold hair,’ Bartholomew pointed out gently. ‘Perhaps they got it from her.’

  Marishal’s face was impossible to read. ‘Well, we shall never know, now that both of them have gone. The Lady wants to see you, by the way. She is in the Oxford Tower with her birds. Do not keep her waiting.’

  ‘He does think they killed Margery,’ murmured Michael as they hurried across the bailey. ‘Lord! I should not like to be in his shoes. He must be a soul in torment.’

  ‘Is he? There is no love lost between him and the twins, and he told us himself that he was too busy to bother with their upbringing. Now we know why: the sight of them was a constant reminder of the suspicion that his beloved had been with another man.’

  The Lady was disappointed when Michael confessed that he had made scant progress with his enquiries that day, although it was difficult to converse, as Grisel was flying between his perch and her head, which she found far more entertaining than anything the monk had to say. Katrina was laughing, a sound that the bird mimicked with disconcerting accuracy. Bartholomew found himself wondering why no one had offered to marry her. She was pretty, intelligent and had a sense of humour, which were advantages that far outweighed her lack of money, in his opinion.

  ‘I had high hopes when Master Donwich bragged to me about the Senior Proctor’s superior investigative talents,’ the Lady scolded. ‘And I was sure Michaelhouse was going to have my hundred marks. Indeed, it was why I offered such an enormous sum – so it would go to a worthy cause. You have let me and your College down, Brother.’

  ‘Do not give up on me just yet,’ said Michael stiffly, disliking the censure. ‘These matters cannot be rushed. And if you do not believe me, then look at Lichet: he made a precipitous announcement, and now he must live with the ignominy of being wrong.’

  ‘Yes and no,’ said the Lady. ‘He continues to swear that the document he found is genuine, and has promised to bring additional proof of Quintone’s guilt tomorrow. So you must hurry, Brother, because I do not want him to have my money.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused. ‘I thought you liked him.’

  ‘Of course I do not like him,’ barked the Lady impatiently. ‘I keep him at my side because my courtiers had started to take my largesse for granted, and I wanted to shake them out of their complacency by feigning fondness for a grasping stranger. It worked – my people have never been more attentive. I shall be able to dismiss the Red Devil soon, and good riddance.’

  Bartholomew stared at her, stunned that she should be so calculating. Then he reconsidered. She had ruled a large estate for decades, which she could not have done without a certain degree of ruthlessness. Old and ailing she might be, but there was still a core of steel in the Lady of Clare.

  ‘Bring the hold down van,’ suggested Grisel. ‘God save the Queen.’

  ‘So what will you do now?’ asked the Lady. ‘Other than wait to see if Master Langelee can bring the hermit and Bonde home to answer your questions?’

  ‘We have a number of leads to follow tonight,’ lied Michael, ducking as Grisel swooped past his tonsure. ‘And a wealth of information to sift through. Be assured, madam, we are a long way from being defeated yet.’

  ‘Then let us hope your hubris is not misplaced, because I want this killer caught before the Queen comes. I intend to enjoy her arrival and the rededication ceremony without worrying about murderers popping out of the woodwork to spoil everything.’

  ‘Down the van bring hold,’ said Grisel. ‘Ha ha ha.’

  The Lady stroked the bird’s soft feathers. ‘Perhaps we should have let you investigate instead, Grisel. You have more sense than all the rest of them put together.’

  It was pitch dark by the time Bartholomew and Michael ran out of people to interview, and with a sense of bitter frustration, they began to make their way back to the priory. Lights spilled from the houses they passed, and as many owners were wealthy enough to afford glass, the two scholars could see inside to where families and servants were settling down for evening meals and entertainment. Paycock was holding forth to a table of nodding men in one, his fierce expression suggesting that whatever he was saying, it was nothing temperate.

  Bartholomew was uneasy, wishing they had done what Langelee had ordered and asked the watchmen to escort them back to the priory. Michael had demurred, wanting to use the time to discuss what they had learned without interested ears flapping.

  ‘And what have we learned?’ Bartholomew demanded, weariness turning him curt. ‘Nothing, despite our best efforts. And now time has run out, because we leave tomorrow. We have failed – failed Michaelhouse, failed the Lady, and failed Margery and Roos.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Michael stubbornly, although exhaustion edged his voice, too. ‘There are a few hours left to us, and I am not giving up until every last one of them has expired. Besides, we might strike gold tonight, when you search John’s house for these documents. I hope he does not keep a servant, because we cannot afford to have you caught.’

  ‘I will not be caught,’ replied Bartholomew firmly. ‘For the simple reason that I am not going. You can do it. Do not worry – I will distract John while you are inside.’

  ‘But I do not trust you to keep him busy,’ objected Michael, alarmed. ‘And what if it entails squeezing through a window? I might get stuck, and where will that leave us?’

  ‘In a very embarrassing position,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘So you had better stick to using doors instead.’

  The monk did his best to persuade him to change his mind, but Bartholomew was adamant, so in the end it was Michael who crept through the shadows to the Prior’s House. The physician went to the refectory, where he gave the Austins an account of the investigation to date. Unfortunately, as he had little new to report, it was difficult to keep their attention, and he lost count of the times that John stood to leave, obliging him to gabble like a lunatic to make him sit down again. By the time a lamp went on in the guesthouse – the sign that Michael was back – Bartholomew was ready to weep with relief.

  ‘You are no raconteur,’ said John, eyeing him balefully. ‘I could have summarised your discoveries in a few short sentences, and your loquaciousness does not say much for the University’s rules on brevity.’

  Bartholomew aimed for the door, eager to be away from him, but bumped into Heselbech on the threshold. The chaplain was returning from the castle, where he had just recited evening prayers.

  ‘Weste and Langelee are still out,’ he reported worriedly. ‘I hope they have not run into difficulties. They should have been home by now.’

  ‘If they are not back by morning, we shall send out a search party,’ determined John. ‘There is no point in doing it now, not in the dark. Shall we pray for their safety?’

  He led the way to the chapel, leaving Bartholomew to return to the guesthouse alone. The physician’s head ached from tension and his hands shook. He opened the door to their room, where he saw that Michael had washed, shaved, changed into a nightgown, and set his damp clothes by the fire to dry.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ he said heavily. ‘You finished your search ages ago, but did not light the lamp until you felt like it. That was unkind.’

  ‘I forgot,’ lied Michael airily. ‘But we both wasted our time, I am afraid. I did find the documents, and they were about past misdeeds, but they pertain to illicit relationships with married women – it seems the Austins sired half the children in the county before swearing their vows of chastity.’

  Bartholomew was disgusted that he had put himself through such an ordeal
for nothing. ‘I suppose it explains why they are so keen to redeem themselves with pious behaviour, but you are right – the discovery does not help us.’

  ‘I did find one thing of note, though,’ the monk went on. ‘A recent letter from Margery, in which she expressed a wish to leave a large manor to the priory and promising to amend her will accordingly. Unfortunately, she died before she could do it, which makes it unlikely that the Austins killed her – including Nicholas, who was to have been paid a princely sum for drafting the deed of transfer.’

  ‘Then why did they not tell us?’ demanded Bartholomew, exasperated.

  ‘Probably because none of them realise how close they are to the top of the list,’ sighed Michael. ‘I imagine they would have done, if they had.’

  ‘Nicholas did,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘You told him.’

  ‘Yes,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But I have a feeling that he dislikes me as much as I dislike him, so he is perfectly happy for me to waste my time barking up the wrong tree. He is the kind of man to care more about spiteful vengeance than catching a killer.’

  ‘Well, look on the bright side,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘Our suspects are now down to four: Bonde, Lichet, Thomas and Ella. We shall concentrate on them tomorrow. Or were you telling the truth when you informed the Lady that you had plenty of leads to follow tonight?’

  ‘We had one,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘The documents in John’s house. So let us pray that one of us has inspiration about how to proceed before morning, or your earlier gloom about us letting everyone down may transpire to be prophetic.’

  CHAPTER 12

  It was still raining the next day – their last in Clare – although not as hard. It was, however, falling on already sodden ground, so there were muddy puddles everywhere, while the river was a swift brown torrent. Bartholomew had neglected to put his clothes to dry the previous night, so had to force his feet into wet boots, while his cloak was cold and damp around his neck. He looked longingly at Albon’s, but decided it was not worth the risk.