Bartholomew was sorry that his few precious days in Clare were going to be filled with the unsavoury business of murder. If he had wanted that, he could have stayed in Cambridge, where scholars died with distressing regularity. He was not looking forward to meeting the paroquets either – he knew it was only a matter of time before the Lady learned that he had dodged the assignment, and issued a second order for him to cure them. He glanced at Langelee. The Master would be a far better assistant for Michael, leaving him free to …
‘Do not even think about it, Matt,’ warned the monk, reading his thoughts with uncanny precision. ‘It will take all three of us to find Roos’s killer without ruffling sensitive feathers, so you cannot jaunt off to have fun while Langelee and I struggle on alone.’
‘Look on the bright side, Bartholomew,’ said Langelee kindly. ‘This will be your last case – you cannot be Corpse Examiner once you leave the University.’
‘Oh, yes, he can,’ countered Michael firmly. ‘I amended the statutes when I learned that he planned to get married. He will still be mine when he is joined to Matilde.’
Bartholomew was not sure whether to be pleased or angry. He did not enjoy helping Michael catch killers, but there was no question that the money would come in useful.
‘Here is Quintone with the key,’ said Langelee. ‘Thank God someone had the courage to ask for it, or we might still be waiting here tomorrow.’
‘Actually, it is the spare one from the kitchen,’ explained the servant, and glanced to where Marishal still stood in mute shock. ‘I could not bring myself to bother him.’
He bent to unlock the door. As he did, Bartholomew happened to glance across the bailey. Bonde was there, staring back furiously, which led the physician to wonder why he wanted so badly to keep them out. Was it because he had adored Margery, and had hoped to protect her body from the ghoulish scrutiny of strangers? Regardless, it was clear that his name should be included on any list of suspects they might draw up.
As Ella had told them, the Cistern Tower was one huge cylinder. Its upper half loomed over the bailey, but its lower section had been driven deep into the ground, where it formed a massive stone-lined well. Access to the water was via a very narrow spiral staircase with steep steps, which was in the thickness of the wall. Michael took one look and refused to descend unless he was sure that no one else would be in front of him.
‘I shall have to go down backwards,’ he explained primly, ‘which will allow anyone below to look straight up my habit.’
‘We will not be tempted, Brother, believe me,’ Langelee assured him fervently.
Quintone led the way, skipping down the treacherous steps with an ease that suggested he had done it many times before. Bartholomew and Langelee followed more cautiously, while Michael waited above until he was sure he could make the journey without risk to his modesty.
There were tiny landings at regular intervals in the stairwell, each with a very thick door that would open directly into the cistern. Quintone passed the first two and opened the third.
‘This is the entrance we must use today,’ he explained, revelling in the role of guide. He shone his lamp to show that the stairwell further down was flooded. ‘It has been raining for days, so the cistern is quite full at the moment. There are another five doors beneath this one – eight in all.’
‘God’s blood!’ breathed Langelee. ‘That is impressive. The tank must be vast.’
‘It is,’ said Quintone proudly. ‘Enough to keep us in fresh water for years, should we ever come under siege.’
‘So what happens if you open the wrong door?’ asked Langelee. ‘Would you drown in the inrushing water?’
‘No, because the stairs are designed to flood,’ said Bartholomew, understanding the mechanics of the system at once. ‘There will be no inrushing water here, because it will rise at the same rate as in the cistern itself. Ingenious!’
‘So the water could reach as high as the door through which we came in?’ asked Langelee. ‘I assume that is where the tank’s ceiling is located?’
‘It is,’ replied Quintone. ‘And the water has got to that level once or twice, after particularly wet spells, when it spilled out to flood the bailey. However, Lichet has now installed a device that he says will prevent it from happening in the future. Of course, if the cooks did their job properly, there would be no need for the Red Devil’s inventions.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The kitchens are lower than the bottom of the well, so the original builders fitted an array of pipes that run directly to them. Thus the cooks always have a plentiful water supply and the water level in here can be controlled by opening or closing the sluices. Ergo, the bailey only floods when the cooks do not run off the excess on a regular basis.’
‘Where does the water come from?’ asked Bartholomew, intrigued. ‘The roof?’
‘Yes – there is a big vat, which catches the rain. It has valves, too, which can either be opened to fill the cistern, or closed to funnel water away down the outside walls. So we can control the level that way as well. Clever, eh?’
‘Very,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But you say Lichet has devised an additional fail-safe mechanism?’
‘A way of making sure that the bailey door never leaks,’ explained Quintone. ‘Or so he claims – it has yet to be tested. The townsfolk think he is a warlock, and I suspect they are right. I cannot abide the man.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he is sly, stupid, dishonest and greedy,’ came the prompt reply. ‘And it is possible that he killed Roos and Margery. However, if you want my advice, look to the squires first. They are arrogant fools, who do nothing but strut around dressed like lunatics. Let us hope that peace does not prevent Albon from taking them to France.’
Still talking, Quintone led the way through the door he had opened. Once inside, they saw the cistern was essentially a deep and very wide circular well. There was a broad platform in front of the door, which tapered away to form a narrow ledge that ran all the way around the inside, so that workmen could access the walls for routine maintenance. Glancing up, Bartholomew saw that there were identical arrangements for the two doors above, and supposed the same was true of the five below. A gauge showed the water was currently forty feet deep. It appeared black in the light of Quintone’s lamp, but a ripple on the surface indicated a current.
‘The kitchen sluices also prevent it from stagnating,’ explained Quintone.
Bartholomew was all admiration for the engineers who had designed it, although his colleagues did not share his enthusiasm. Langelee was looking around with undisguised revulsion, while Michael, who had arrived with his dignity intact, declared it sinister.
‘It is,’ agreed Langelee, his face unnaturally white. ‘And the sooner we finish here, the happier I shall be. Where are the bodies?’
‘You are not going to be sick, are you?’ asked Bartholomew sternly. ‘Because if so, you should leave. People drink this water.’
Langelee took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘No, but please hurry. I do not like this place.’
The bodies lay nearby, both covered by cloaks. Marishal’s own was over his wife, while a courtier’s had been commandeered for Roos.
‘Ereswell’s,’ confided Quintone. ‘But he wants it back – I heard him say so myself. I was one of the first to come down here, see, after the alarm was raised.’
‘Who were the others?’ asked Bartholomew.
Quintone reflected. ‘Well, Lichet was the very first, but he lives upstairs, so he had a head start on everyone else. Then came Marishal and Thomas, and after them about two dozen courtiers. I helped Thomas to pull Roos from the water, but as we struggled, I noticed a second body.’