It was then that Bartholomew saw Michael. The monk had been forced to walk further around the inside of the cistern, to the point where the pavement tapered abruptly from a wide viewing platform to a narrow service ledge. It was too thin for his princely bulk, so he held himself rigid, terrified that he would slip and share the steward’s fate.
‘Do it, Bartholomew,’ hissed Lichet, taking aim. ‘I will not tell you again.’
But the physician baulked, knowing that once he was there, he and Michael would be doomed for certain – Lichet would shoot one of them, and have plenty of time to reload before the other could counter-attack. Their only hope was to remain apart, forcing Lichet to divide his attention. He stood carefully, but made no attempt to do as he was told.
‘So you are the culprit,’ he said heavily, talking in the hope of gaining a few moments to devise a way out of their predicament. ‘You stabbed Margery and Roos.’
‘No!’ shouted Lichet agitatedly. ‘As I have been explaining to this stupid monk, I have killed no one. Charer the coachman was an accident – he was drunk when he came down here, and he fell. You saw for yourselves how easily it can happen when Marishal did it. It was over in a flash.’
‘So you carried his body to the river,’ surmised Michael. His voice was unsteady. Of all the ways there were to die, drowning was the one that held the greatest fear for him. ‘Why?’
‘Why do you think?’ snapped Lichet. ‘Because I live upstairs, and I did not want to be accused of his murder. Too many people resent the favour the Lady shows me, and they would have used Charer’s death to do me harm. So I took him to a place where he would be found quickly, and then decently laid to rest. It did no harm.’
‘On the contrary – it did a very great deal of harm,’ argued Bartholomew, assessing the distance between him and Lichet with a view to launching an assault. He might have managed on a dry floor, but not on one that was so treacherous. ‘It led castle folk to assume that Charer was murdered by townsmen.’
‘I know,’ acknowledged Lichet sullenly. ‘But it is not my fault that they are ignoramuses. Now stop blathering and walk towards Michael. At once!’
‘If you are innocent, why are you threatening us?’ asked Bartholomew, standing his ground.
‘Because he asked the Lady what she was doing on the night of the murders.’ Lichet glared at Michael. ‘And she told him that she read all night – alone. So I had no choice but to entice him down here with the promise of answers. I did not want to kill anyone, but now I have no choice.’
‘In other words, he lied,’ called Michael. ‘He has no alibi.’
‘Yes, I lied, but that does not make me the killer,’ Lichet shot back. ‘Yet you would have accused me anyway, and I have no way to prove my innocence.’
‘So why did you lie?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Because no one would have believed the truth,’ replied Lichet wretchedly. ‘Which is that I was sound asleep all night, and only woke when Adam raised the alarm. And of course I was one of the first on the scene – I had the least distance to travel.’
‘Then we shall help you prove it,’ coaxed Bartholomew. ‘We can—’
‘It is too late,’ cried Lichet desperately. ‘Because now I have threatened to kill you, and there is the small matter of Marishal’s death to explain.’
‘But that was not your fault,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘He fell – we all saw it.’
‘It does not matter – folk will claim it is murder because I failed to fish him out.’ Lichet’s expression turned haunted. ‘Unlike Charer – I splashed about for an age in the hope of saving him.’
‘Why were you down here together at all?’ asked Bartholomew, more to keep him talking than for information.
‘I saw him totter through the upstairs door, so I followed him to make sure he came to no harm.’ Lichet shook his head bitterly. ‘It was an act of compassion – simple, honest concern for a fellow human being. I asked what he was doing, and he said he had come to fish! The man was a drunken sot, and his friends should have minded him better.’
‘There is still hope for Marishal,’ said Bartholomew quickly, as Lichet raised the bow again, his eyes full of fear and despair. ‘He—’
‘There is not! Besides, if he dies, the Lady will appoint me as her permanent steward. The post is hereditary, but I cannot see her wanting Thomas.’
‘No,’ conceded Bartholomew. ‘But you have not killed anyone yet, so—’
‘I saw Margery and Jevan … I mean Roos together the night they died,’ blurted Lichet, and ran a trembling hand over his face. ‘I have mentioned it to no one else, because I wanted to be the one to solve the mystery. Roos was angry with her, and she was trying to calm him down. I imagine she invited him here to make peace.’
‘Probably over the letter she sent to Cambridge,’ surmised Bartholomew. He glanced around. ‘Although it is a curious place for an assignation—’
‘He liked it here,’ said Lichet hoarsely. ‘God knows why. She probably chose it to appease him.’ He took a firmer grip on the bow. ‘But I must go. I cannot miss the Queen’s arrival.’
‘Wait!’ cried Michael, as Lichet aimed at Bartholomew. ‘We can help—’
‘No!’ barked Lichet. His voice shook – he was not a natural killer, and was clearly appalled by the situation in which he had found himself. ‘You will betray me. You already know my qualifications from Bordeaux are bogus. You will tell the Lady, and she will send me packing.’
‘We will not,’ promised Michael desperately. ‘And I can award you a degree from Cambridge if you like. It is easily done – a few strokes of a pen and a stamp of the Chancellor’s seal.’
‘You will renege on the offer the moment you are free. Besides, I have it all worked out. I shall blame Quintone when your bodies are found – and earn another hundred marks for solving the mystery of your deaths.’
Bartholomew forced himself not to flinch as Lichet’s finger tightened on the trigger. Then there was a sudden splash, and a hand shot from the water to grab the Red Devil’s ankle. It was Marishal. The crossbow bolt went wide, although Bartholomew was sure he felt it whip past his ear. Lichet lost his balance on the slippery pavement, and fell heavily, landing close to the steward – who reached out to plunge a dagger into his chest. Lichet twitched briefly and died. It all happened so fast that Bartholomew and Michael could do nothing but gape.
‘Do not just stand there, man,’ shouted Marishal angrily, hauling himself out of the water with the agility of a much younger man. ‘Help the monk off that ledge.’
Bartholomew hastened to obey. Once on safer ground, Michael dropped to his knees in relief, drawing in huge unsteady breaths.
‘I heard it all,’ said Marishal, water streaming from his clothes as he looked dispassionately at the man he had killed. ‘He may not have stabbed Margery and Roos, but he was about to dispatch you. He deserved to die. He is—’
He stopped. A peculiar sound was coming from deeper in the cistern, a rumbling that started softly, but that grew steadily louder. The surface of the water began to shiver more violently.
‘What is that?’ gulped Michael, clambering quickly to his feet and looking around in alarm.
‘Someone has opened the valves on the roof tanks,’ explained Marishal in a shocked whisper. ‘Water is pouring down the pipes – and as the cistern is almost full already, it will soon reach the ceiling. I am sorry, Brother, but it seems you are destined to drown today after all.’
CHAPTER 13
The rumbling grew ever louder, and within moments, water swirled over the lip of the pavement and flowed towards them, foaming from the force of the deluge.
‘The steps!’ yelled Michael. ‘Quick! Climb up—’
‘The door is secured from the outside,’ shouted Marishal, and in the flickering lamplight, he was almost as wan as the monk. ‘The stairwell will flood as quickly as the cistern, and no one will hear us shout for help. We will die there for certain.’
‘Thomas,’
said Bartholomew with desperate hope. ‘He knows we are down here – he came to ask you for the key.’
‘I sent him to spread word about the Queen being delayed.’ Marishal staggered as water surged around his knees. ‘He will not know anything is amiss until it is far too late.’
And he might have been the one to open the valves anyway, thought Bartholomew – to rid himself of Lichet, two annoyingly persistent investigators and an unloved father in one fell swoop.
‘But the cistern is a clever piece of engineering,’ he said urgently. ‘Lichet installed the silly device on the door, but the original architects were much more sensible. They will have predicted that someone might be trapped one day and catered for such an eventuality. We just need to find—’
‘Yes!’ Relief blazed in Marishal’s eyes. ‘There is a special chamber. It is almost directly above where Michael was just standing – I remember being shown it as a child. Access is via a ladder, assuming it has not rotted over the years …’
The ladder was still there, although by the time they reached it, water was bubbling around their thighs. Bartholomew went up it first, alarmed when the ancient rungs flexed under his weight, sure they would not take Michael’s. He climbed quickly, the lamp in one hand. Eventually, he reached an irregularly shaped chamber, which he predicted would be above the cistern’s ceiling, so would form an air pocket.
Marishal followed, but Michael was heavy and not particularly agile. Rungs snapped when he trod on them, and twice he fell back into the churning water, saved from being swept away only by the fact that he was strong – and terrified – enough to keep a powerful grip on the uprights. It felt like an age before Bartholomew and Marishal finally managed to pull him to safety.
Then the water rose higher than the opening to their refuge, effectively cutting them off. The sound of rushing water faded to a muted rumble, and the loudest sound was their own breathing.
‘We will not suffocate just yet,’ Bartholomew assured Michael, aware that the monk was trying not to pant. ‘There is air enough to last a while.’
‘Thank God for small mercies,’ gulped Michael. ‘Of course, we shall starve instead, because it might be weeks before we are found, especially if the cistern is kept full.’
‘I cannot stay here!’ cried Marishal, horrified. ‘The Lady needs me. The Queen may not come today, but she will arrive sooner or later, and I must be there to ensure that all runs smoothly.’
‘While I have a University to manage and a College to close,’ said the monk, and glanced sadly at Bartholomew. ‘We cannot save Michaelhouse now. Even if we do survive this terrible experience, we have not secured enough money to make a difference.’
‘It was not the wind that shut the door,’ said Bartholomew to the steward, his mind running in a different direction entirely. ‘It was the killer. He trapped Michael and Lichet first, then decided to add you and me to his tally of victims – doubtless to ensure that no one is left alive to investigate.’
Marishal regarded him with haunted eyes. ‘Then he must have been very close to hand, given that the door slammed so soon after we began our descent.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘So think. Who else was nearby?’
‘Someone who hid himself well, because I did not see a soul. Did you?’
Bartholomew shook his head, although he could not escape the conviction that Thomas might have ignored his father’s order to tell everyone about the Queen’s change of plan, and followed him back to the cistern instead.
‘I did not either,’ confessed Michael. ‘All my attention was on Lichet. He said important evidence was down here, and I was so frantic for answers that I rashly believed him.’
While they talked, Bartholomew took the lamp and explored the chamber in the hope of finding something that would allow them to escape. There was nothing, but …
‘Do you recognise these?’ he asked, holding up a white wig and a matching beard.
‘Roos’s,’ replied Marishal. ‘He must have come here to don his disguises.’
‘Lichet said that Roos liked the cistern,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘Now we know why – and why Margery suggested it as a place to meet. It is somewhere he felt safe and comfortable.’
Marishal covered his face with his hands. ‘And she did know about this room, because I showed it to her years ago. I had forgotten about it, but clearly she never did, and she shared the secret with him – as a place he could use without fear of discovery. It is my fault that—’
‘What is this?’ interrupted Michael suddenly, leaning down to pluck something from the floor. He grimaced irritably. ‘That is a stupid question! I know what it is – it is Langelee’s letter-opener. What I should ask is: what is it doing here? We know he lost it after a night of drunken debauchery at the priory …’
‘Which was the same night as Margery’s murder,’ said Bartholomew, taking the little implement from him and peering at it in the dim light.
Marishal was looking from one to the other in bemusement. ‘What are you saying? That Langelee is the killer?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Michael irritably. ‘However, he lost his letter-opener that fateful evening, and for it to be here … Is it the murder weapon, Matt?’
‘No – the wounds on both victims were too large to have been made with this.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘Nicholas coveted that blade, and I suspected straight away that he was the one who stole it. So what does this tell us? That he is involved somehow?’
‘He is a lout, who had no business taking holy orders,’ said Marishal. ‘Why do you think I chose Heselbech to bury Margery and preside over the rededication ceremony tonight? However, I know for a fact that Nicholas had nothing to do with killing Margery and Roos. He has an alibi.’
‘Yes, in Anne,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But we suspect she was fast asleep in her cell at the salient time.’
‘Of course she was,’ said Marishal impatiently. ‘She would not disturb her precious slumbers for mere holy offices. No, Nicholas’s alibi is Barber Grym and two artists, who were in the church from nocturns to dawn. The work is behind schedule, you see, so they met there to see what could be done to hurry it along. All swear that Nicholas recited his office, then stayed on to pray.’
Michael stared at him. ‘Then why did Grym not mention this to me?’
‘Did you ask him about Nicholas?’
‘Well, no,’ conceded the monk. ‘I have concentrated on witnesses from the castle, because it was here that the crimes were committed.’ He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘So how did the letter-opener end up in this place? I suppose Nicholas might have stolen it later, but Langelee is sure he lost it during the night – around the time when he was helping Heselbech to the chapel.’
‘He must have dropped it, after which someone else picked it up and brought it here,’ said Bartholomew, although his words sounded unconvincing, even to his own ears, and he could think of no reason why anyone would do such a thing.
‘He told us that after leaving Heselbech, he went straight back to the priory,’ said Michael in a low voice. ‘But it was a lie, because I heard him come in much later. He claimed he had to stop to vomit, but …’
‘So Langelee did kill my wife?’ demanded Marishal, looking from one to the other. ‘Christ God! No wonder you two have failed to solve the crime!’
‘I suspect Heselbech thinks Langelee is the guilty party,’ Bartholomew told Michael unhappily. ‘He came to after Langelee had deposited him on the chapel floor, and while Weste was reciting nocturns on his behalf, he went outside to relieve himself …’
‘Where he saw a “shadow” by the cistern,’ finished Michael. ‘He assured us that it was too dark to allow identification, but we both had a feeling that he knew who it was anyway.’
‘But he would never admit it, because of the vows that the Austins have sworn to protect fellow ex-warriors.’ Bartholomew felt sick, especially when he recalled the Master’s reaction as he realised the letter-opener
had gone. It was not the loss of a much-loved possession that had caused his distress, but the knowledge that it might later surface to incriminate him.
‘Langelee has been different since the murders,’ Michael went on shakily. ‘He did not drink as heavily the following night, and he has been uncharacteristically subdued and morose.’
Bartholomew was thinking fast. ‘Margery and Roos: we have assumed that because they were killed with the same weapon, it was wielded by the same hand. But what if it was different?’
‘Go on,’ said Michael warily.
‘Langelee suggested several times that Roos killed Margery, but we dismissed it. What if he is right, and Roos stabbed her in a fit of rage? We know they quarrelled that night, because Lichet just said so, and he had no reason to lie. Langelee is not a man to stand idly by while a woman is harmed …’
‘So he fought Roos, and it is obvious who would win that encounter,’ finished Michael. ‘Roos was knifed, after which he fell in the water to drown. But why did Langelee not—’
‘The water!’ shouted Marishal suddenly. ‘It is going down! Thank God! Someone must have opened the sluices in the kitchen. We are saved!’
He grabbed the ladder, fretting impatiently for the water to subside enough for him to leave. He was down it sooner than was safe, although Bartholomew and Michael were more cautious – partly because of the missing and fragile rungs, but mostly because they were afraid of what would inevitably have to happen once they were outside. Moving with care, as the water was still calf high, the two scholars eased around the ledge.
‘Where is Marishal?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly, when they reached the wider part of the pavement and there was no sign of the steward. ‘I hope his impatience has not seen him swept away. It would be a pity for—’
He faltered when he heard voices coming towards them. One was Thomas’s and the other …
‘Oh Lord,’ gulped Michael. ‘It is Langelee!’
Bartholomew and Michael hurried towards the stairwell, but what they saw as they approached stopped them dead in their tracks. Marishal lay senseless on the ground at Langelee’s feet, while Thomas hovered uncertainly behind him. Langelee was wet and muddy, and bore the signs of having spent a night in the open. Yet he was rosy-cheeked and his eyes were bright, suggesting that he had recently enjoyed reverting to the warrior he had once been.
The Habit of Murder: The Twenty Third Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 23) Page 34