‘Surely,’ the Dominican turned back, joining his hands, ‘Leygrave would be suspicious, especially after the death of his close comrade Lanercost?’
‘Why should he be, Brother? Lanercost trusted you; so did Leygrave. Perhaps Leygrave knew all about the ghostly comfort you’d given his comrade. I cannot say how you sprang the trap. Did you tell Leygrave you wanted to see him privately — the same reason you gave Lanercost — in a place where the crowded court could not learn what was going on? Why should Leygrave suspect the holy-faced Dominican, so earnest in his help, so comforting in his words? An innocent invitation, a visit to the place where his comrade died, perhaps to search for something suspicious?’ I studied that hard-hearted priest, who betrayed no shame or guilt, not even a blink or a wince. ‘You lured Leygrave to that belfry. You killed him and arranged the corpse as you did Lanercost’s. You made one mistake. To create the impression that Leygrave might have committed suicide, once you had killed him with a blow to the back of his head, you pulled off his boots and made a muddy imprint on that ledge. You then put the boots back on the corpse and left it as you did Lanercost’s. At the next peal of bells the corpse would slip over silently like a bundle of cloth. That’s how the fire boy described it: no scream, no yell, just dropping like a bird stunned on the wing.’ I turned and gestured at that fateful tower rearing up against the evening sky. ‘My good friend Demontaigu, much to the surprise of Father Prior and the brothers, took up a man of straw clothed and cloaked. He left it on that ledge.’ I smiled thinly. ‘Eventually, during a bell-tolling, it fell, confirming my suspicions. Indeed, it’s the only logical explanation. As I said, who’d fear an innocent unarmed Dominican? But of course, Brother, you weren’t always that, were you?’
Dunheved grinned as if savouring some private joke.
‘You told me how you performed military service as a squire. You are as much a warrior and a killer as any of those you murdered.’
‘You said I made a mistake,’ Dunheved asked, ‘about Leygrave?’
‘I never told you,’ I declared, ‘about the muddy imprint left by Leygrave’s boots on that ledge, not in such minute detail. Yet when I discussed his death with you and Demontaigu, you mentioned it. How did you know?’
‘I. . I think you did. .’
‘Mathilde.’ Isabella’s voice held a sharp rebuke. ‘Finish what you have begun.’
‘And so to Duckett’s Tower at Tynemouth,’ I declared. ‘A place of intrigue and terror. I always wondered, Brother, why the king’s confessor should accompany us. Undoubtedly you persuaded the king that his queen needed you. His grace was so distracted, he would have agreed to anything.’ I paused. ‘I understand your concern, but murder was your principal motive. Undoubtedly at Tynemouth the Aquilae, unbeknown to any of us, had been in secret, treasonable communication with Bruce’s raiding party. They were responsible for those signals sent from the night-shrouded walls of the castle, as they were for loosening the postern gate. They looked shamefaced enough on that war-cog, and so they should have been. They’d plotted to be safely aboard when the Scots launched their ambush. You had already moved against those malignants. You would have loved to have killed them all, but that was not possible. So you struck at Kennington, one cold, windswept morning long before dawn. Rosselin and Middleton had completed their watch; they’d be cold and tired, even fearful. They and their retainers would be fast asleep.’ I shrugged. ‘God knows if you drugged their drink and food.’
‘I tell you. .’ Dunheved seemed angry, not so much at being accused but more that it was by me a woman. I recognised that arrogance in his soul. I’d glimpsed it before in men who regard women as the weaker in every respect. ‘I tell you,’ he repeated, ‘I know nothing about your potions and powders.’
‘Hush, hush.’ Isabella lifted her hand.
‘I will certainly answer that,’ I replied. ‘You were in the friary library. You told me you were studying Anselm’s Cur Deus Homo — Why God Became Man. That was a lie; it was nothing of the sort. The archives of the library clearly described the manuscript you borrowed, a copy of Hildegard of Bingen’s Causae et Curae.’ I paused. ‘You had also consulted that before we left for Tynemouth. Such a treatise is a rich source of knowledge you could use against your enemies, be it Kennington, Middleton or the wells of Scarborough Castle. You learnt what sleeping potions or powders to buy, which you undoubtedly did at some apothecary or herbalist here in York. Now, during those early hours of that morning, you slipped as stealthily as a hunting cat into Duckett’s Tower. You quietly mounted those steps. As you passed each door, you slipped the hook into its clasp, sealing anyone within. Oh, they could eventually get out, but it would take time and alert you. You reached the top of that windswept tower-’
‘And Kennington and his retainers welcomed me like the prodigal son?’ Dunheved sneered.
‘Undoubtedly! Why should they fear the kindly Dominican who could not sleep? Who’d brought up a wineskin to share with them during their lonely, cold, bleak watch? At Scarborough I glimpsed you do the same, edging along the parapet giving the defenders a drink from your wineskin. On Duckett’s Tower you would be most welcome. You’d seal the door, slipping the hook into its clasp, then offer these trusting, tired men a gulp of rich claret, blood-warming and comforting. They’d drink, and within a short while, be fast asleep. How long would it take to hurl those bodies over the battlements? A strong man like you, Dunheved — not long? You callously lifted each wine-drugged body over and let it drop.’ I paused. ‘What, in no more time than it would take a scholar to count to ten.’
‘I could have been discovered.’
‘How, Brother? Each door was clasped, as was the one at the top of the tower. If anyone saw you come up, you would have changed your plan. If anyone disturbed you, you would have enough time to pose as the innocent who’d climbed to the top of Duckett’s Tower to find that all were gone. If you were seen as you went down, you could so easily dissemble, an innocent Dominican who’d climbed Duckett’s Tower to discover its guards had disappeared. Naturally,’ I added, ‘there was danger, a risk in that short space of time when you hurled those bodies to their death. Reflect, Brother Stephen! What real danger did you face apart from that brief killing time? Everything else could be so easily explained away.’
The sound of Isabella’s squires politely requesting one of the brothers not to enter the garden made me pause.
‘Kennington’s death,’ I resumed, ‘broke the spirit of the Aquilae. They looked for protection from their lord, but Gaveston himself was under threat from the earls. Middleton was your next victim. A superstitious, scrupulous young man, hounded by guilt, he received little comfort or sustenance from either Rosselin or Gaveston. Subject to all forms of soul-disturbing fancies, he took to visiting the Chapel of Our Lady in Scarborough Castle very early in the morning. You noticed that and, once again, assumed the role of the sympathetic friar, the trusted priest, the ascetic confessor. One morning you were waiting for him. You moved the mercy chair round — which you never put back — you drew him into conversation even as you decided on his death, whatever regrets Middleton confessed. The rope was ready, whilst beneath your cloak you carried that small wineskin of tainted claret.’