‘What about a cart or barrow?’ Marisa suggested. ‘Phoebe’s assassin could have hidden the corpse in one of them and covered it with a sheet.’
‘I doubt that,’ a voice called from the darkness.
Ralph started. Beardsmore came slipping like a shadow through the trees towards them.
‘I’m sorry to startle you.’ The soldier cradled his conical helmet in his arms. ‘I saw the torchlight and I wondered what was happening. I am not like Phoebe.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I examined the postern gate the morning after Phoebe’s murder. I also inquired about the keys of Sir John but he doesn’t even know where they are.’
‘Why are you so sure that the killer didn’t smuggle Phoebe’s corpse out in a cart or barrow?’ Adam asked, then shook his head. ‘Of course, on the night Phoebe was killed you were on duty.’
‘From three o’clock in the afternoon till nine,’ said Beardsmore
‘I played dice with the lads in the guardhouse a couple of times but I tell you this, sirs, no one left the castle that day. If they had, I would have already brought them in for questioning.’
‘And you are sure Phoebe never left?’ Ralph asked.
‘Not unless she could sprout wings and fly!’
Ralph studied the soldier closely. Beardsmore was actually much younger than he appeared at first glance. He had a thick, square face with close, deep-set eyes, and a jutting nose above a harsh mouth. He was clean-shaven, his hair closely cropped. Ralph recalled that he had served with Sir John both at sea and in Gascony.
Beardsmore put his helmet on. ‘Now, I’ve got duties to attend to.’ The sergeant-at-arms walked away into the darkness.
‘Now, there’s a strange fellow,’ Adam said softly. ‘Notice how quietly he moves.’
‘What are you saying?’ Ralph asked.
‘He was on guard the night Phoebe died yet he has just assured us that she never left. But she must have done, one way or the other. How do we know he didn’t let Phoebe run out and offer to meet her in Devil’s Spinney? Maybe they argued, he became angry…’
Ralph looked at the thin sliver of moon visible through the branches. He felt cold and lonely. He missed Beatrice dreadfully. Yet there was something else now. A deep suspicion that she had not slipped but been murdered. Was his friend right? Was Beardsmore the killer?
As if she could read his thoughts, Marisa plucked at his sleeve. ‘He was also on guard duty the night Beatrice fell. Maybe she saw something.’
Ralph sucked in his lips. ‘And where was everybody when I was attacked in Devil’s Spinney?’ He glanced at Adam. ‘Beardsmore was the first to see me. Is that because he had just returned?’
‘I don’t know,’ Adam replied. ‘Marisa and I were in the herb garden.’
‘You should take care.’ Marisa clasped his hand.
‘Oh, I will.’ But even as he uttered the words, Ralph knew he wasn’t as fearless as he sounded.
Chapter 2
Ralph sat alone in his round chamber in the Lion Tower which stood near the barbican on the north-facing wall. He’d lit a rushlight and two candles and wondered whether he should fire the brazier, for the night had turned cold. He went across and secured the shutters. He sat at his desk, peering down at the sheaf of manuscripts which had once meant so much – the fruit of his studies and searches for Brythnoth’s cross. Ralph had been born in Maldon, educated in the parish school. His father, a prosperous weaver, had secured the patronage of a local priest and sent his only son to the cathedral school at Ely before he entered the Halls of Cambridge. Ralph would always love Maldon. He had hunted wild ducks in the marshes, played outlaws with the other boys in Devil’s Spinney and gone down to the Blackwater estuary to re-enact the battle of Brythnoth against the Danes.
It was old Father Dominic who had first told him about the treasure, recounting tales he himself had heard many years earlier and showing him old and tattered manuscripts about the battle. At Cambridge Ralph had pursued his searches and learnt about the flight of the squire Cerdic and those memorable words about the treasure being hidden ‘on an altar to your God and mine’.
Ralph picked up a quill and tapped it against his cheek. What did the words mean? He stared at his chancery desk. He remembered how he had left everything this morning. He was punctilious in his work and particular about how he left his desk. The manuscript was askew and the ink horn and pumice stones had been moved. What could it mean?
He went and checked his coffer but the purse of silver and bronze coins had not been disturbed, and nor had his precious books, bound in vellum, on a closed shelf high on the wall. Ralph poured himself a goblet of wine to ease the pain in the back of his head.
‘There can be only one conclusion,’ he murmured. ‘Whoever came here did not come to rob but to search.’
The only really valuable thing he owned was this battered manuscript written in his own cipher.
‘They think I’ m close to the treasure,’ he whispered to the crucifix fastened on the wall.
A wave of nausea gripped his stomach so he went and lay on the bed. He thought of the feasting on May Day and his stupid boast about the treasure. He should have been on the parapet walk, not Beatrice. Father Aylred was right. The blow to Beatrice’s head was dealt before she fell; the assassin thought he was striking at Ralph. In the dark he would only have had a few seconds to see a shadow approach the tower door. And this morning? If he’d been killed, his corpse would have been dragged out of the mire, the result of a tragic accident. People would have thought he had been drunk, as indeed he was, distraught with grief, and wandered off the trackway. And what about Phoebe? Had she been killed because she had overheard something? But how had they taken her corpse from the castle? Unless it was Beardsmore. Ralph breathed in and started. He could smell Beatrice’s perfume, faint but still perceptible. Why was that? He heard a rap on the door, stretched across to his war belt and took out the dagger.
‘Come in!’ he called.
Father Aylred entered. Ralph relaxed and shamedfacedly threw the dagger down.
The priest shook his hand. ‘I do not blame you for that, Ralph.’ He came closer, his eyes sad. ‘There is an assassin in our castle. He or she slew Beatrice, killed Phoebe and, this morning, tried to murder you. I’ve been to see old Vavasour. He confirms Beatrice could have been struck before she fell.’
Ralph rose and led the old priest across to the bed and made him sit down.
‘You’ll have some wine, Father?’
‘Have you checked it first?’
Ralph repressed a shiver; the gentle old priest had a stubborn look.
‘For the love of God, Ralph, someone tried to kill you this morning! Don’t you think they’ll try again?’
Ralph sniffed at the wine. ‘If it’s poisoned, I’ve already drunk half a cup but I’ll heed your warning, Father.’ He sat next to the priest. ‘You really do believe someone is hunting my life?’
‘Worse than that, Ralph. Someone is hunting our souls!’
‘Oh come, Father. Old stories about ghosts and ghouls.’ He watched the candle flame suddenly dance as if a door had been opened and he sniffed the air. For a few fleeting seconds he again caught Beatrice’s fragrance, soft and warm. My wits are wandering! Ralph Mortimer, you are a scholar from the Halls of Cambridge. An eternal gulf lies fixed between life and death. This old priest, with his wild accusations, is filled with superstition.
Father Aylred blessed his wine and took a sip. ‘I am a peasant born and bred, Ralph.’ He rolled the cup between his hands. ‘My fingers are stubby and engrained with dirt. I can read sufficiently well to understand the scriptures and to preach. I put my trust in Christ the Divine Boy. I try and preach his love.’
‘You are a good priest.’ Ralph gripped his companion’s shoulder.
‘Flattery is only half the truth.’ Aylred smiled. ‘I can read your mind, Ralph Mortimer. You think I’m slightly fey-witted, don’t you? And, by the time I am finished, you may well believe it. Look around the room, Ralph.’