‘Who knows? Next was Talmach, who fell off his horse and on to his dagger. He was elderly and the track was slick, but his saddle strap was later discovered to be defective. Again there were no witnesses, but his young widow and her twin were quickly on the scene.’
Bartholomew tried to concentrate. ‘The Lady’s servants were not surprised when Badew bawled his accusation. I saw them nodding agreement. And Marishal was not surprised either, although the Lady seems sure they are innocent. At least, she gave that impression …’
‘After Talmach came Wisbech, poisoned by hemlock, then Charer the coachman, who drowned while staggering home along a familiar path. And finally Skynere, also fed hemlock. So what do they have in common? Three hailed from the castle, one came from the town – and we are not sure about Roger … What do you think, Matt?’
‘That I am glad it is not our responsibility to investigate. Goodnight, Brother.’
Bartholomew was not sure how long he had been asleep before he was jolted awake. It was still dark, but he sensed dawn was not far off. He sat up, and saw Langelee and Michael sitting by the fire they had stoked up. Langelee was rumpled and seedy, and his red-rimmed eyes suggested he had yet to retire. By contrast, Michael was shaved, dressed and ready to go about saving Michaelhouse by recruiting new benefactors.
‘Something woke me,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Did you hear it, too?’
Michael snorted his disbelief. ‘I imagine the rumpus is audible in Cambridge! The friars are stampeding about like wild horses, shouting their heads off. Perhaps the French have invaded.’
Bartholomew was an unusually heavy sleeper, and could doze through the most frantic of nocturnal crises. It was not a good trait in a physician, and it was fortunate that his friends knew how to rouse him when there was a medical emergency, or there might have been all manner of tragedies. He climbed out of bed and went to peer through the window.
The sky was dark, although there was a faint glimmer of light in the east, so it would not be long before sunrise. Lamps blazed in the refectory, dormitory and Prior’s House, and pitch torches bobbed by the gate. Shadows flitted everywhere, and hammering footsteps sounded in the night.
‘Should we find out what is happening?’ he asked.
‘Best not,’ advised Langelee. ‘It is priory business and none of ours.’
Bartholomew glanced at him. ‘What time did you get back? I did not hear you come in.’
‘I did,’ said Michael wryly. ‘Less than two hours ago. Good night, was it, Master?’
‘I was working,’ replied Langelee stiffly. ‘Acquiring information about potential donors.’
‘Then you must have an enormous list for us,’ remarked Michael, smothering a smirk. ‘Given that it took you six hours or more.’
‘I do – all the names are tucked away up here.’ Langelee tapped his temple, which made him wince and told his Fellows that he would probably have trouble accessing most of them. He changed the subject before they could quiz him further. ‘Yet perhaps I was over-hasty in saying we should stay out of the priory’s affairs. I cannot sleep through this commotion anyway.’
‘Maybe there has been another murder,’ suggested Michael, then blanched as an unpleasant thought occurred to him. ‘Lord! I hope it is not the Lady. People might think we killed her, to avoid making a second journey for her funeral.’
‘No one knows we came here for that,’ said Langelee, and closed his eyes suddenly, one hand pressed to his stomach. Wordlessly, Bartholomew handed him a bucket, thinking the Austins would not appreciate vomit on their nice clean floor.
‘I think Marishal has guessed the truth,’ countered Michael. ‘He is no fool and–’
He stopped when there was a rap on their door. It was opened before they could answer, and Prior John strode in. He was bright-eyed and fresh-faced, suggesting that he had either been more abstemious than Langelee, or was better at handling large quantities of ale.
‘There has been an unexpected death,’ he announced without preamble. ‘And I am sorry to say that the victim is one of your scholars.’
‘Badew,’ predicted Michael grimly. ‘Because of the accusations he levelled against Thomas and Ella. It was a reckless thing to have done and–’
‘It is Roos,’ interrupted John. ‘The bad-tempered one.’
‘All of the Swinescroft men are bad-tempered,’ remarked Langelee. ‘But how did Roos die?’
‘A dagger, apparently,’ replied John. ‘In the castle, although no one knows why he was there. The squires think a townsman did it, and Mayor Godeston sent a frantic plea for us to intervene, to prevent them from retaliating in kind. Unfortunately, we were all a bit addled from ale, so we were rather less efficient than usual. You may have noticed the racket as we rallied.’
‘Racket?’ asked Michael flatly. ‘What racket?’
‘I am sorry, John,’ said Langelee unhappily. ‘I should not have kept you up so late.’
John smiled. ‘We are grown men: it was our own decision to drink ourselves silly. Besides, we intercepted the squires before any harm was done, so there is no need for recriminations.’
‘We had better go to the castle then,’ said Michael, standing and reaching for his cloak. ‘Roos was a scholar, so his death comes under my jurisdiction. And my Corpse Examiner’s.’
Bartholomew held this particular post, and was paid three pennies for every case he judged – money he then spent on medicine for the poor. It was a job he would lose once he resigned his Fellowship, as other University physicians were entitled to a turn. He would miss it, not just for the additional income, but because he felt that studying the dead had taught him much about how to help the living. Yet again, he reflected on all he would lose when he married Matilde.
Langelee and John decided to go too, lest Bartholomew and Michael needed their protection, and the four of them hurried across the precinct towards the bridge.
‘Apparently, Roos died in the cistern,’ the Prior said, and crossed himself. ‘Thank God he was found, or his rotting cadaver might have killed everyone. Do you remember how we used a dead sheep to oust those illegal tenants from the Archbishop’s manor, Langelee? It worked like a charm, although I was sorry that some of the culprits died.’
‘I had forgotten.’ Langelee was as white as a ghost in the light of John’s torch, and Bartholomew hoped they would not have to wait for him to throw up again. ‘Lord! Does this mean the folk at the castle will sicken from bad water? I cannot say I should want to drink from a well where a corpse has been floating.’
Before Bartholomew could reply, they met Heselbech, who was reeling along in the opposite direction. The chaplain seemed much more the worse for wear than his fellows, and in the dim light looked vaguely demonic with his curiously pointed teeth.
‘You should be at Mass,’ admonished John sternly. ‘Not even murder should distract you from your religious duties, and there will be Hell to pay if the Lady decides to attend and discovers that you are not there.’
‘I bring more bad news,’ slurred Heselbech. ‘Namely that there was a second body in the cistern with Roos, also stabbed. By all accounts, it belongs to Margery Marishal.’
Chapter 5
The castle was in turmoil. Servants scurried in every direction, although to no apparent purpose, while their masters stood in huddles and whispered in low, frightened voices. The atmosphere was thick with fear and confusion. Marishal should have taken charge, but he stood in shocked immobility, clutching Ella’s arm. It would have been a good opportunity for Thomas to prove his worth, given that the post of steward was hereditary, but he only lounged by the stables, watching events unfold with a peculiarly blank expression.