Michael agreed. ‘The deaths of Roos, Margery and Charer were random events, with no malice aforethought, but someone has been quick to make folk believe otherwise. Something unpleasant is in the offing, and I sense it will happen tonight.’
‘Do you think the ceremony should be cancelled?’
‘Of course, but that will never happen. Nicholas will refuse, and if the Lady or Marishal try to insist, we shall have a riot for certain. The best course of action is to let it proceed, and hope there are enough Austins to prevent too much bloodshed. But who would want the town in an uproar? Paycock? He loves discord.’
Bartholomew grabbed Michael’s arm and hauled him to the south aisle, a place shunned by both town and castle, and so somewhere he and the monk could confer without being overheard.
‘Not Paycock, but someone who has a grievance against both sides and wants revenge. Someone who exacerbates the feud with bad advice and loud opinions. Someone who gave wine to the squires, knowing it would prompt them to reckless behaviour. Someone who provided a valued service to troubled girls for years, but was punished for it by being walled up in a cell. Someone—’
‘You are insane, Matt!’ cried Michael, shocked. He lowered his voice when Marishal glanced towards them. ‘I know Anne is no more holy than we are, but she is still a—’
‘Someone who insists that tonight’s ceremony goes ahead, because “the stars are auspicious”,’ Bartholomew went on. ‘Someone who told Nicholas to let the squires into the church, even though it was obviously the wrong thing to do. Perhaps she even encouraged them to violate sanctuary – she would have seen what was happening through her squint, and I am sure she did not stay silent.’
‘You are wrong,’ hissed Michael. ‘Anne cannot possibly have known what really happened to Roos and Margery, but the culprit used their—’
‘She did not need to know the truth – she just had to twist it to suit herself.’ Bartholomew grew more certain with every word he spoke. ‘But let us consider each death in turn, Brother – the logical analysis that we both know will provide answers.’
‘We do not have time,’ objected Michael agitatedly. ‘We have to tell the Lady what happened down in the cistern, and then—’
‘We must make time. First, Roger. He died here, in the church where Anne lives.’
‘But she is walled in. She cannot have—’
‘Next, Talmach, the unwanted husband of Ella, who loves Anne like a mother. How convenient! Anne did not kill Charer, because Lichet told us what happened to him, but she certainly accused the castle of the crime.’
‘Well, someone from the castle was involved in—’
‘Wisbech was killed next, clearly as a ploy to drag the Austins into the feud, although John declined to be manipulated. Wisbech, Skynere and Godeston were poisoned with hemlock, a herb familiar to all those who dabble in dubious medicine – which Anne does.’
‘And non-dubious medicine,’ Michael pointed out. ‘You and Grym use it as well.’
That was true, but Bartholomew ignored it. ‘And when Godeston died, Anne was quick to claim that he was poisoned by a townsman in revenge for Margery.’
‘You read too much into her idle musings, Matt. She also accused the Austins at one point.’
‘Exactly! Which is evidence that she wants them involved in the dispute, so there will be no peace-keepers. Her remarks are not idle musings, but carefully contrived rumour-mongering. Think about what she has said in the last hour alone – a claim that Nuport ate Quintone’s ears, and comments that set town and castle against each other as they prepared the church for the ceremony.’
‘You argue your case well,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But there is one big problem: Anne is walled inside her anchorhold and cannot get out. Or are you suggesting that she persuaded someone else to kill on her behalf?’
‘Why not? Nicholas does everything she wants, and you heard him call her “sweetest love”. She is obviously popular with people from both sides of the feud, as her cell is always full of gifts. Perhaps some of them repay her in other ways – not food and wine, but deeds.’
Michael shook his head. ‘I cannot see—’
‘The Lady said Anne is clever and resourceful. And I am not sure she is walled in anyway.’
‘Of course she is,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘The only openings are the two windows, which are far too small for anyone to squeeze through.’
‘She keeps one section of her cell covered by a screen—’
‘Yes, and the wall beyond it is solid stone. I checked it myself.’
‘Then what about the floor? It is always covered in straw, so how do you know there is not a trapdoor beneath? For a start, how did she get all that nice furniture in there?’
‘Put in as the cell was built, probably – which was fairly recently, as Nicholas told us that Cambrug designed it specially for her.’
But Bartholomew shook his head. ‘I have seen anchorholds before. They reek, because their occupants never get out. But Anne’s always smells clean and fresh.’
Michael was becoming exasperated. ‘Perhaps she is just more particular about hygiene.’
‘Do you remember Margery telling Lichet about a dream she had – of Anne and Nicholas walking hand in hand in the bailey? What if it was not a dream? What if she actually saw them?’
Michael opened his mouth to tell the physician that he had lost his grip on reality when he saw someone hurrying towards them. ‘Oh, Lord! Here comes Langelee. Now what?’
The Master had changed his muddy clothes at the priory, but as he had no spare cloak, he had borrowed the one that Albon had given Bartholomew. Aware that it might be recognised by someone who would take umbrage, he had turned it inside out, so that the black silk was on the outside and the red wool was on the inside. He was sombre-faced, subdued and pale – the revelations in the cistern had taken their toll on his customary jauntiness.
‘I know you ordered me to stay put,’ he began before Michael could berate him, ‘but I have important information. When I arrived at the friary, Jan was demanding to return to his hermitage. Weste asked me to escort him there, because he could spare no one else. I did not like to refuse, not when the Austins have been so hospitable …’
‘Too hospitable,’ muttered Michael tartly. ‘If they had been less free with their ale …’
Langelee went on hurriedly. ‘It was the first time that I had been alone with Jan, and I found him eager to talk. He confided that he had dared not speak while Weste was with me, because of the oaths of loyalty the friars have sworn to each other.’
Michael regarded him anxiously. ‘Are you about to tell us that one of them is the killer?’
‘He is,’ predicted Bartholomew. ‘And it will be Nicholas – Anne’s good friend.’
Langelee gaped at him. ‘How did you guess?’
‘Later,’ said Michael tersely, before Bartholomew could embark on a lengthy explanation. ‘What else did Jan tell you?’
‘That the reason he left Clare in such terror was because he had watched Anne poison Mayor Godeston – her and Nicholas together. They are lovers, apparently.’
‘So we were both right,’ said Michael, acknowledging Bartholomew’s look of triumph with a nod. ‘I thought from the start that there was something amiss with that vicar, although neither of you believed me. But is Jan sure about what he saw?’
Langelee nodded. ‘He also spotted Anne and Nicholas out on the nights that Wisbech and Skynere were poisoned, as well as shortly before Talmach and Albon came to grief. They had no idea he was watching them then, but they saw him when Godeston died – hence his abrupt flight.’
‘He could not have confided in someone first?’ asked Michael crossly. ‘To protect the town that feeds him? He might have saved lives if he had. So much for the selfless holy man!’
‘He did not think anyone would believe him. Anne is supposed to be walled up, and the whole town is convinced of her sanctity.’
‘Suzanne de Nekton saw Ja
n trail Bonde to the Cistern Tower on the night that Roos and Margery were murdered,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘Did he tell you about that?’
Langelee nodded again. ‘But he assured me that it was just coincidence – neither of them saw or heard anything pertaining to the murders. However, Bonde’s first interviews with Michael and Lichet convinced him that he might be blamed anyway, so he decided to disappear until the fuss had died down – at Anne’s instigation, of course.’
‘But he did not go far,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Just to the woods …’
‘Where Jan watched Anne feed him hemlock,’ finished Langelee. ‘Afterwards, Nicholas hid the body, although not very well, as Weste and I unearthed it without too much trouble.’
‘But why would she kill Bonde?’ asked Michael, still sceptical. ‘He liked her well enough to wish he had married her.’
‘He ran all manner of errands for her apparently, including tampering with saddle straps. As he lay dying, she calmly informed him that his death was to ensure that he did not interfere with the plan that will swing into action tonight.’
‘What plan?’ gulped Michael in alarm.
‘Jan did not hear that bit. However, remember that Bonde’s first loyalty was to the Lady, which means he would have baulked at any plot to harm her—’
At that moment, Grym waddled up, his plump face creased in agitation. ‘Quintone has just informed me that Anne told the squires to cut off his ears,’ he announced. ‘Pain must have driven him out of his wits, because no anchoress would do such a terrible thing. Do you have any medicine to calm him, Matthew? I dare not dose him with hemlock, as—’
He stopped at the sound of angry footsteps, and turned to see who was coming. It was Cambrug, saddlebags slung over his shoulder. The architect addressed him with sneering contempt.
‘Nicholas does not have the good manners to spare me a moment of his time before I leave, so I am forced to deal with you, Acting Mayor. The cracks in the ceiling are ugly. Roger should have reported them to me, so I could tell him how to mend them. Where is he?’
‘Dead,’ replied Grym, and raised his eyebrows at Cambrug’s start of surprise. ‘You did not know? Nicholas promised to write and tell you. Roger was killed by a piece of falling scaffolding back in April.’
Cambrug regarded him in disgust. ‘Then of course there will be unsightly gaps in the stone. Only experienced masons – like Roger – know how to join blocks seamlessly. You should have—’
‘The anchorhold,’ interjected Bartholomew urgently. ‘You built it for Anne. Were you given any particular instructions?’
Cambrug scowled his indignation at being interrupted. ‘Just to make it comfortable,’ he replied shortly. ‘Which I did not need to be told, given that someone will spend the rest of her life in it. I included a stone floor for hygiene, two windows with—’
‘Did you include an emergency exit?’
‘I did, as a matter of fact, and it is a very sensible precaution. Churches catch fire, condemning their anchorites to terrible deaths. So I installed a tunnel that leads to the vicarage. It is a very clever solution on my part: Anne can escape in the event of a disaster, but only her priest can open the trapdoor. It means she cannot abandon her vocation for paltry reasons.’
‘No wonder Nicholas does not want to move house,’ muttered Michael.
The church was now dark and full of shadows, as the lamps had been very cleverly placed so that most of their light shone upwards. Their beams were not strong enough to reveal the cracks or unpainted sections, but they certainly illuminated the intricate stone lace of the fan vaulting. Once Cambrug had stamped away, full of hubris and foul temper, Michael turned to Grym.
‘There will be trouble for certain if the ceremony goes ahead tonight. As Acting Mayor, do you have the authority to cancel it and impose a curfew?’
‘Yes, in theory,’ replied Grym unhappily. ‘But no one will obey it. Go and look out of the window, and you will see why the situation has gone well beyond my control.’
The three scholars did as he suggested, and saw that an enormous crowd had gathered in the churchyard, lit by dozens of flickering torches. It comprised not just the residents of Clare, but folk from the surrounding villages as well. And its mood was ugly. Most were armed with sticks or knives, and were yelling abuse at a contingent of soldiers from the castle, all of whom had drawn their swords and were bawling back.
‘They are quarrelling over Quintone’s ears,’ explained Grym. ‘And there are twice as many of them now as there were when I came in, with more flocking to join them as we speak.’
‘Then do your duty and order them to disperse,’ said Michael curtly. ‘They are your people.’
‘They are not! I do not know most of them, so why would they listen to me? Look – you can see Paycock over by the gate, and even he senses the situation is out of control. You can tell by the anguished expression on his face.’
It was true. The feisty bailiff was watching the howling crowd with an expression of open horror, and it was clear that he had not anticipated such a vigorous reaction to his rabble-rousing.
‘It is very convenient for Anne that Paycock has been agitating,’ mused Michael. ‘And making sure that no slight to the town is overlooked. Are they friends?’
‘Not friends exactly,’ replied Grym, ‘but she saved his daughter from an embarrassing pregnancy, so he has always been in her debt.’
At that moment, there was an especially angry roar from the crowd, which made the barber turn a sickly green colour. He turned abruptly and aimed for the back door.
‘Where are you going?’ demanded Langelee, moving to block him.
‘Kedyngton,’ replied Grym shortly. ‘Clare is too dangerous for a man who is not very quick on his feet, and I shall be an obvious target if the castle attacks. You must excuse me.’
‘You will stay and shoulder your responsibilities,’ countered Langelee sternly. ‘Or your town will be ablaze before the night is out. You cannot abandon it now.’
‘Oh, yes, I can,’ declared Grym, lowering his head and charging for the door again; his bulk was such that even Langelee was unequal to preventing his escape. He called over his shoulder as he went, ‘It is every man for himself tonight. I shall return when all this nonsense is over.’
‘In that case, we should leave, too,’ determined Langelee, staggering in the barber’s wake. ‘I do not see why we should risk our lives when Clare’s leaders are unwilling to do so. I have seen some serious disturbances in my time, but none involving quite so many people.’
‘But the castle will win,’ predicted Michael. ‘Its warriors have proper weapons.’
‘They do,’ acknowledged Langelee, ‘but the town has the benefit of reinforcements from the villages. I should not like to hazard a guess as to who will emerge the victor. Neither, probably – both will have lost too much.’
‘Anne,’ said Bartholomew urgently. ‘She started all this, so she can stop it. People listen to her. If we can force her to tell everyone to desist …’
He hurried to her cell and peered through the squint. He could not see her, but the screen covered the far side of the chamber. A carefully aimed stone thrown by Langelee knocked it over. Behind it was a very comfortable bed, but no one was in it. The cell was empty.
‘Do you see what lies on her pillow?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘A length of purple silk.’
‘Mayor Godeston’s,’ breathed Michael, watching Langelee hook it towards them with a broom. ‘Discovered missing when his body was found. Give it to me. It will serve as evidence against her – assuming we live to produce it, of course.’ He shoved the filmy material into his scrip.
‘You will not need it,’ predicted Bartholomew, ‘because she will not be here. You can see for yourself that most of her things have gone, and she was quite open about the fact that she sells all the gifts she cannot use. She has plenty of money to start a new life somewhere else, once her evil work here is done.’
‘With Nicholas,’ surm
ised Michael. ‘Or without him, depending on whether her affection for him is sincere. I know we have no authority to meddle here, but I could not live with myself if I did not at least try to prevent a massacre. Will you help me?’
‘I will,’ said Langelee keenly. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Fetch the Austins. Thomas was supposed to do it, but I have a bad feeling that he is under Anne’s influence, too, and the message may not have reached them. I know some of the friars are still out looking for you and Weste, but bring as many as you can.’
‘Very well.’ Langelee raised the hood on Albon’s cloak to hide his face. ‘What will you do?’
‘Find Anne and Nicholas,’ replied Michael grimly, ‘and see if we can put an end to what they have ignited. Nicholas’s house is as good a place as any to begin our search.’
The atmosphere outside was poisonous, and a steadily strengthening wind did nothing to help. It made the trees roar, and it whistled through the gravestones, an agitated, unsettling sound that made the crowd more jittery. Bartholomew and Michael were jostled and shoved mercilessly as they hurried to the vicarage, careful to keep their heads down lest even a wrong look should encourage someone to swing a punch. When they arrived at the vicarage, Marishal was just coming out.
‘If you want Nicholas, you are out of luck,’ he reported tersely. ‘He has abandoned us, taking most of his belongings and all the church’s silver with him. I suppose he is offended, because Heselbech was chosen to take tonight’s ceremony.’
‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Michael. ‘You are meant to be looking for the squires.’
‘We found them – they are safely back inside the castle. And I am here because Ereswell could not find the church silver in the vestry, and it is needed for tonight’s ceremony. I came to ask Nicholas where he had stored it.’
Bartholomew pushed past him and gazed around the handsome room in which he and his colleagues had been entertained only a few nights before. It had been stripped of anything portable, and because the floor was devoid of rugs, he saw the trapdoor near the hearth. He pulled it up to reveal the tunnel. A closer inspection revealed fresh boot prints – Anne had donned footwear suitable for travel. He hurried back outside, where Michael was trying to reason with the steward.
The Habit of Murder: The Twenty Third Chronicle of Matthew Bartholomew (Chronicles of Matthew Bartholomew Book 23) Page 37