‘So you were old Archbishop Zouche’s henchman,’ said Nicholas admiringly. ‘I heard a lot of good things about him.’
‘He was a fine leader,’ averred Langelee, already firm friends with the worldly vicar. It was not surprising, as they had a great deal in common – a fondness for drink, flexible views on religion, and a penchant for revelling in their warlike pasts.
‘He brooked no nonsense and knew how to deal with awkward customers,’ nodded Nicholas. ‘I respect that in a man.’
‘In a man, perhaps,’ put in Michael disapprovingly. ‘But in a prelate?’
‘Especially in a prelate,’ countered Nicholas. ‘Or sly seculars will run circles around him. Have a bit of this pork fat, Bartholomew. You look as if you need feeding up.’
‘He is all skin and bones,’ agreed Michael, while Bartholomew regarded the glistening lump in revulsion. ‘It comes of eating too much greenery, which is a very unhealthy habit. He should know better, being a physician.’
‘He should,’ nodded Nicholas, regarding Bartholomew as if he had just sprouted horns. Then he turned back to Langelee. ‘But why did you really come to Clare? If you thought the Lady was dead, was it to find out what she left you in her will?’
‘Of course not,’ lied Langelee, managing to sound genuinely indignant. ‘Michaelhouse is awash with money, and her legacy, while nice, will make scant difference to our bulging coffers. But on the subject of wills, who are her executors?’
Nicholas scratched his chin. ‘Let me think. Her steward, Robert Marishal, is one. He is her right-hand man, and she does not so much as cough without consulting him first. Then there is Sir William Albon, her favourite knight, although a duller-witted fellow does not exist.’
‘Why did she choose him then?’ asked Langelee.
‘Because she likes him, and he does cut a dashing figure at ceremonies. And finally, there is the Red Devil – Master Lichet. I cannot abide him. He has a sly tongue, and it is a pity she likes to hear him wag it, because even castle folk are leery of the rogue. So there you are: those are the three you will have to petition for your bequest when the time comes.’
‘Tell us a bit more about the townsman who was killed,’ said Langelee. ‘I heard a few snippets when I was in the taverns earlier, looking for a cheap place to … to buy a drink.’
Nicholas was happy to gossip. ‘His name was Burgess Skynere, and he was fed hemlock by someone from the castle. His body was found by Mayor Godeston and Barber Grym, who were worried when he failed to appear at an important meeting.’
‘How do you know it was hemlock?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Because Grym told you?’
Nicholas nodded. ‘Godeston ordered Grym to investigate, but the culprit was cunning – he left no witnesses and no clues. Ergo, Grym’s hunt quickly ground to a halt.’
‘So the feud between town and castle has turned murderous?’ mused Michael, wondering if it was such a good idea to stay in Clare after all.
‘It turned murderous long before Skynere,’ averred Nicholas. ‘Three of the Lady’s men have also died over the last two months – killed by the town, according to the castle. Sir William Talmach was on her council, Charer was her coachman, and Wisbech was her chaplain. Wisbech was an Austin, like me, and will be missed. Charer will not, though – he was a drunken sot.’
Nicholas expressed his disapproval of such behaviour by draining his own goblet and pouring himself another so full that there was a meniscus over the top.
‘How did they die?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking it was hardly surprising that the castle had attacked Skynere if the town had already dispatched three of their number.
‘Talmach fell off his horse, Charer drowned and Wisbech swallowed poison – hemlock, just like Skynere.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘But if one victim of hemlock was from the town and the other was from the castle, perhaps you are wrong to accuse each other of foul play. Maybe there is just a single killer – one who does not belong to either faction.’
‘Unfortunately, we will never know,’ sighed Nicholas, ‘because, as I told you, Grym’s enquiries are at a complete standstill.’
‘Is he a skilled investigator, then?’
‘He is the only one I have ever seen in action, so I am not really qualified to judge. However, I can tell you that he spent a long time with the bodies, and asked lots of questions of the victims’ friends and relations. He certainly did his best.’
‘Hemlock is not a good poison for sly murder,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is slow-acting, so its victims take ages to die – which gives them plenty of time to raise the alarm.’
Nicholas raised his hands in a shrug. ‘They may have tried, but they lived alone and they died at night. Their cries would have gone unheard. Of course, the castle accused Grym himself of the deaths, but we all know that was just them being spiteful.’
‘Why would they accuse Grym?’
‘Because he keeps a supply of hemlock himself – he feeds it to patients who need bits sawing off.’
‘Does he?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking he would never use it for such a purpose. The herb could relieve pain and promote healing sleep, but dosage was critical, and it was frighteningly easy to give too much, condemning a patient to paralysis and eventual death. He deployed it rarely – usually only on those who were dying or in such agony that the risk was acceptable.
‘What do your fellow Austins say about losing one of their own?’ probed Michael. ‘And where do they stand in this dispute?’
‘They refuse to join in, on the grounds that they would rather have peace. There is also the fact that they have friars in both places – me in the town and Father Heselbech as castle chaplain. And do not suggest that Wisbech was killed to force them to pick a side, because Prior John is not so easily manipulated, and will remain neutral no matter what.’
‘Well, it is a sorry state of affairs,’ said Michael. ‘And it is not–’
‘God’s blood!’ exclaimed Nicholas, his eyes fixed on Langelee, who was playing idly with one of his smaller weapons. ‘That is a handsome piece. Where did you get it?’
‘He gave it to me,’ replied Langelee, nodding at Bartholomew as he handed the little blade over for closer inspection. ‘It is a letter-opener.’
It had been a letter-opener originally – a small, knife-like device with a blade that could be slipped under a seal to break it cleanly. Bartholomew had bought it in France, as a gift for Langelee, and had expected him to toss it into a chest and forget about it. But Langelee had been delighted, and the physician had watched an innocent little implement become something else entirely in the Master’s warlike hands. The blade had been honed to a wicked sharpness, and the pretty mother-of-pearl handle was wrapped in leather for better purchase. Langelee was inordinately fond of it.
‘Very nice,’ said Nicholas, turning it over appreciatively. ‘I might get myself one of these – it is small enough to fit up a sleeve, but large enough to do what is needed.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Bartholomew uneasily.
‘Defending myself. A parish priest is a tempting target in these uncertain times, and while I cannot arm myself brazenly, something like this would be ideal.’