Bonde struggled to pull himself together. ‘I was in the gatehouse when I heard a commotion. I hurried over and watched Marishal, Quintone and a few others go down the cistern to investigate reports of a body – Roos. A short while later, they climbed back up to say that there was not one corpse, but two. The other was Margery Marishal …’
‘I see. So where were you all night? Can someone verify your whereabouts?’
Bonde’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why should that be necessary? I never harmed Margery or the scholar. And if you must know, I was not even in the castle for most of the time. I was in the town, watching the squires. Albon asked me to do it, because he heard them say they were off to a tavern, and they can be disorderly when they are drunk.’
‘Why you?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘Surely he should have done it himself? They are supposed to be under his command, after all.’
Bonde regarded him insolently. ‘He delegated the matter to someone he trusts instead. He is a very busy man.’
‘I am sure he is,’ muttered Langelee. ‘It takes time to look that gorgeous.’
‘So you can give the squires alibis?’ pressed Michael ‘And vice versa?’
‘I am afraid not. I kept myself hidden, so they did not know I was there. And there are eight of them, so one was always off at the latrine or frolicking with a lass. I could not possibly monitor them all on my own.’
‘Then what was the point of you being there?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘To prevent fighting. And I did – the moment a spat looked set to erupt with some merchant boys, I hurried forward and ordered our lads home.’
Michael regarded him coolly. ‘I hear nothing in your testimony to convince me of your innocence.’
Bonde sneered. ‘I suppose you have been listening to gossip about the man I killed in Wixoe. Well, the Lady got me off that particular charge, so I am free of all blame for it.’
‘We heard she bribed the judge,’ countered Michael, ‘which rather suggests that you were guilty and she interfered with the course of justice. The Wixoe victim was stabbed, and now we hear that the same has happened to Roos …’
‘Anne warned me that the Wixoe affair would result in me being accused every time there is a suspicious death,’ muttered Bonde bitterly. ‘She is a clever lady, and I wish I had wed her. I should have done it when she was a nurse here – then she could not have been forced into an anchorhold, and I would have been in bed with her last night, not out doing Albon’s dirty work.’
Bartholomew tried to envisage the sullen killer and the opinionated woman living in married bliss. He could not do it – they were entirely unsuited to each other, and the match would almost certainly have ended in tears. Or worse.
‘So tell me why we should not accuse you,’ suggested Michael.
Bonde shrugged. ‘Well, for a start, when the squires and I came home at about midnight, Margery was still alive. I saw her chatting to some of her friends outside the hall. Then the lads staggered away to their quarters, while Thomas went off alone. I followed the squires, and saw them fall into their beds.’
‘Then what?’
‘I went to the main gate and stood watch for the rest of the night with the other guards. I saw Margery again a bit later, tiptoeing along with a lamp. I assumed she was aiming for the Constable Tower, where she lives. Lived.’
‘When was this?’ demanded Michael. ‘Exactly?’
‘I cannot say for certain. Two o’clock perhaps, or a little before.’
‘Did you see Roos?’
‘No, but I spotted the hermit. Jan often comes here of a night, when it is quiet.’
‘For a recluse, Jan is remarkably mobile,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘Hermits are supposed to stay away from worldly distractions, not wait for cover of darkness to sample them.’
‘Even holy men need to stretch their legs, Brother, and the castle is lovely at night – silent, still and interesting. It is when I like it best.’
‘It was not silent and still last night,’ remarked Michael drily. ‘Although I concede that it was interesting. You, eight squires, Roos, Margery and Jan were busily wandering around it – and those are just the ones that we know about.’
Bonde smirked challengingly. ‘True, so this crime will not be easy to solve. Perhaps you should give up and go home before you embarrass yourself with defeat.’
Michael smiled back, coldly. ‘I have never failed a murder victim yet, and I do not intend to start now. I will find Roos’s killer.’
‘But all your other cases were in Cambridge,’ countered Bonde. ‘And this is Clare. Things are different here, and you have no authority. But I had better fetch the key, given that so much time is passing and Lichet is nowhere to be seen. We cannot keep you waiting for ever, can we?’
‘He is your culprit,’ growled Langelee, as the henchman strode away. ‘I know a killer when I see one, and he is callous enough to dispatch two victims, then stand guard over their corpses.’
Unfortunately, Marishal was in no state to hand the key to Bonde or anyone else. He stood slack-mouthed and stunned, oblivious to the concerned fussing of his wife’s friends. Bonde glanced at Michael, and indicated that the monk would have to wait for someone else to ask for it, because he was not about to oblige. Michael was not overly concerned by the delay, content to pass the time by monitoring the reactions of those who might become suspects.
Ella was talking to Thomas near the palace, although the other squires had made themselves scarce, no doubt to avoid being seen by Lichet, who strutted around like a peacock, issuing orders to anyone he met. His instructions were superfluous in most cases, and downright ridiculous in others, but the contemptuous glances he received did nothing to deter him, and he was clearly relishing the power he had been given.
‘What an ass,’ muttered Michael. ‘I am surprised at the Lady. Surely he cannot be the best she has to offer? I suspect even Albon would be better – at least he looks the part. Or another member of her council, perhaps. Let us hope that someone has had the sense to send for Jevan.’
‘Give Marishal a potion, Bartholomew,’ begged Langelee, troubled by the steward’s anguish. ‘You must have something that will ease him.’
‘There is no remedy for grief,’ replied Bartholomew soberly. ‘Other than time.’
‘His children should be at his side,’ Langelee went on unhappily. ‘I am surprised Lichet does not tell them so. Of course, if he does, it will be the first sensible instruction he has given all day.’
While Langelee and Michael discussed the Red Devil’s ineffectual leadership, Bartholomew looked around him. Dawn had broken, and it had started to rain. Servants still scurried about to no or little purpose, more intent on gossiping than completing their chores. The courtiers had not stayed long in the chapel, and had gone to the hall, where they stood in small clusters.
The news had encouraged droves of townsfolk to come and see what was happening. Several carts had arrived, ostensibly to make deliveries, although the eyes of their owners were everywhere, and all tried to strike up conversations with those who came to receive their goods. Mayor Godeston was toted in on his purple litter, aiming to convey his sympathies to the bereaved. Grym was at his side, clad in a large yellow robe that made him look like a lemon.
‘You are not welcome,’ Lichet told them coldly. ‘Go away before I have you thrown out.’
‘Our business is with Marishal, not you,’ Godeston flashed back. ‘Tell him we are here.’
In response, Lichet clicked his fingers at the castle guards, and indicated that the pair were to be forcibly removed. Godeston opened his mouth to argue, but his bearers knew when it was wise to beat a retreat. They left at a run, jostling their passenger so violently that he was obliged to cling on for dear life to avoid being spilled out. Unwilling to stay on his own, Grym waddled after them.