So, was the person who had poisoned Geoffrey the same as the person who inflicted the fatal wound on Godric? Or did that honour go to the person who had stabbed the already-dead Godric after his death with Geoffrey’s dagger?
Geoffrey rubbed his head, and then went to open a window, leaning out to inhale the fresh, cool air. As he leaned, he saw a deep, red stain on the outside wall that disappeared into a tapering tail on the grey stone. He inspected it closely. It was wine, and a good deal of it. Geoffrey could only suppose that it was the wine that had been in Godric’s massive jug, and that someone had tipped the stuff out of the window to make it appear as though Geoffrey had drunk it before, after, or during the murder of his father. It was also possible that the ergot-tainted brew had gone the same way.
So, that explained one mystery, he thought with satisfaction, before returning his attention to the murder of Godric.
Geoffrey knew he had dragged the chest across the floor to the door, so that anyone entering the room would have made sufficient noise to awaken him-and he would have woken had he not been drugged when the killer had appeared to kill his father. Meanwhile, his dog, which would have growled at a night intruder, had been whisked away by Stephen. During the night, someone had moved the chest back to its usual position at the end of the bed. Was Walter responsible for that, lying when he claimed to have slept the whole night undisturbed? Or was he telling the truth, and had heard nothing?
But Walter would need to be an unnaturally deep sleeper not to have been awoken by the sound of the chest being moved. Geoffrey chewed his lip. But perhaps Walter was a man who could sleep through anything-he had not woken when Geoffrey had put the box there in the first place, and there was the fact that he had been very drunk.
Or was the culprit Stephen, who had brought drugged wine for Geoffrey to drink, and who had made sure the dog would not cause a disturbance by taking it to his own room for the night?
Or was the killer Hedwise, who had provided Geoffrey with the rank fish soup? Geoffrey rubbed his chin. Not Hedwise-the chest was heavy, and he doubted that a woman of her slight build would have had the strength to move it, at least not without considerable effort.
And who else knew about Godric’s secret passage? Despite Mabel’s claim that she was the only one in the castle who knew of its existence, Geoffrey was not so sure. He suspected that once he knew the answer to that question, he would have the solution to his father’s murder. He looked around the gloomy room, wondering what he should do first. He supposed he should see to the safety of Rohese, and explore the passageway to see if she were hiding there. But even the thought of entering the slit of blackness brought him out in a cold sweat.
As soon as he had helped Mabel to wrap Godric in the grey sheet she had brought, he left her to complete the finishing touches to her handiwork, and poked his head around the room of the door opposite. This was the chamber that Enide had shared with Joan when Geoffrey had been a boy. He had assumed that Enide would have had it to herself once Joan had married Sir Olivier-although Godric had suggested that she had shared it with Rohese.
Geoffrey rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Bits of the mystery were beginning to fit together: Enide had occasionally slept in Godric’s room-in Godric’s bed-and she was said to have been poisoned, too. Therefore, it was the bed that had made both her and Godric sick. Geoffrey himself had only felt ill after he had spent some hours in Godric’s chamber-after the insidious poison had been given enough time to work on him.
No one was in Enide’s old room. Judging from the clothes that hung on pegs along the walls, Joan had reclaimed it, and was currently sharing it with Olivier. Geoffrey ducked back outside to the stairs, listened hard for a few moments, hearing the inevitable cacophony of raised voices in the hall, and felt reasonably confident that everyone else was otherwise engaged. Then he went back to Joan’s room and softly closed the door.
He looked around. Godric had apparently been to work on Joan’s room, too, because the walls were decorated with an aggressive swirl of greens and yellows. On closer inspection, Geoffrey saw that the design was a vine that sprouted vivid golden flowers and supported a veritable host of insects and birds. Joan-or someone-had made an attempt to hide some of the mural by adding new pegs for clothes, and one wall had been whitewashed. But Godric had intended his decorations to last, and the fanciful beasts could still be seen through the new paint, giving the impression that they were being observed through a heavy mist.
Realising that the longer he stayed, the more likely he was to be caught red-handed snooping in Joan’s chamber, Geoffrey went quickly to the bed. Making as little noise as possible, he heaved the straw mattresses away to reveal the bare stones behind. He crouched down, and began to poke about with his dagger. Many years ago, he and Enide had prised a stone out of the wall when they had been bored and restless one winter afternoon, and behind it they had hidden their treasures-small, childish things that they did not want Henry to steal.
Geoffrey smiled when he saw that no attempt had been made to seal up the hole again, and that the stone slipped out as easily as it had so many years before. The gathering of dust on the floor in front of it suggested that it had not been used for some time, and he began to think that he might have been wrong after all, and that Enide had discovered some new hiding place for her secret things.
He lay flat on the floor, and thrust his hand into the hole as far as it would go. He grimaced in disgust when a dead mouse was the first thing his fingers encountered, but then he felt something else-something that had the unmistakable crackle of parchment. Carefully, he drew it out, and then groped in the hole again, this time discovering a small leather pouch. When he was satisfied that there was nothing else, he slid the stone into its place, and shoved the mattresses back against the wall again. Slipping his findings-other than the mouse-down inside his shirt, he opened the door a crack, and listened carefully.
Voices were still raised in bitter dispute in the hall, some of them almost screaming. The debate was sufficiently loud that Geoffrey did not hear the soft step of a leather shoe on the stairs below. He was just closing Joan’s door behind him, when he came face to face with Hedwise.
“Sir Geoffrey!” she exclaimed, smiling impishly. “Were you looking for something particular among your sister’s belongings?”
“Nothing particular, no,” he replied, angry with himself at being caught after all his precautions. “But my father told me that I should admire the wall-paintings in Enide’s room, and I thought I should view them before Joan hides them with whitewash.”
“Yes, Joan does hate those murals,” said Hedwise, still smiling mischievously. “Sir Godric was all set to decorate the hall with his version of the Battle of Hastings, but Joan would not let him.”
That was probably a blessing, thought Geoffrey.
“Well,” he said, making to step around her, “I think she was wise.”
“I think so, too,” said Hedwise, moving slightly so that Geoffrey was obliged to rub against her as he tried to slip past. “But what is this? What do you have here?”
One slender arm darted out to grab what Geoffrey had hidden in his shirt. He was quicker, and had caught her hand before she could pluck out the documents he had discovered.
“Hedwise!” Olivier’s shocked voice echoed around the confines of the narrow stair well. “What are you doing?”
“I was just talking to the brother I have recently met,” said Hedwise, turning her seraphic smile on the diminutive knight.
Olivier melted before her onslaught of charm, and grinned stupidly at her. Geoffrey made to walk away, but Hedwise quickly stepped in front of him again.
“Perhaps you will consider a walk with me in the meadows below the bailey,” she said, smiling beguilingly at him. “It seems that the castle is always so full of arguing and fighting that we never have the chance for normal conversation.”