‘Margery’s,’ said Langelee softly.
Quintone nodded. ‘Yes, God rest her sainted soul. Marishal was distraught. He ordered everyone away, so that he and Thomas could pay their respects without an audience. It was not long before Thomas brought him out, though. I suspect Marishal was too upset to say many prayers.’
‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘Does anything look different to you now than it did earlier?’
‘In other words, did Marishal or Thomas tamper with the evidence?’ surmised Quintone astutely, and stepped forward to look. ‘Not that I can tell, which is a pity, as it would be nice to see Thomas in trouble. I am sick of his nasty pranks. He is old enough to know better.’
While Michael plied him with more questions, Bartholomew examined Roos, watched by Langelee. The old scholar was on his back, still leaking water. He was cold to the touch, and there was a single stab wound in his chest, made with an average-sized blade. It would not have been instantly fatal, and when Bartholomew pressed on his ribs, froth bubbled from Roos’s mouth, suggesting that he had been alive when he had entered the water. Technically, the cause of death was drowning, although the knife wound would have killed him eventually anyway.
There were only three other details of note. First, one of Roos’s boots was missing. Second, there were some faint bruises on his chest and arms. And third, his old woollen hat, which was secured very firmly under his chin to prevent it from slipping off, concealed a heavy bandage.
‘He had earache,’ said Langelee, lest Bartholomew had forgotten.
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Which explains the hat, but not the bandage – it is not the way such ailments are usually treated.’
He began to unwind it. Then blinked his surprise at what was revealed.
‘His ear is missing!’ exclaimed Langelee, shocked. ‘Did he fall foul of Simon Freburn, do you think? But Freburn just haunts the area around Clare, and I cannot imagine that Roos has been here before – not when it is the acknowledged stronghold of the Lady.’
‘Harweden said Roos regularly visited kin in Peterborough,’ shrugged Bartholomew. ‘So perhaps Freburn ranges further than we know. Yet I am surprised Roos did not tell me about this injury. I could have repaired it much more neatly, and given him a remedy for the pain.’
‘When did it happen? Can you tell?’
‘Roughly three to five weeks ago, judging by the degree of healing.’
Langelee was thoughtful. ‘Which means that last night was not the first time Roos was involved in a violent incident. We should bear that in mind when we investigate.’
While Quintone and Langelee manoeuvred Roos up the narrow stairway, Michael indicated that Bartholomew was to examine Margery. Lichet had ordered them not to, but her body might hold clues that had been missing from Roos, and the case would be difficult enough to solve without making it harder still by complying with needless strictures.
‘Besides, who will ever know?’ he whispered conspiratorially.
Bartholomew pulled away the cloak that covered her, sorry when he saw the kindly face stilled by death and blood staining the pretty rose-coloured kirtle. It was unfair, he thought, that a good woman should have come to such an untimely end.
It did not take him long to ascertain that she had also been stabbed, although her wound was clean, deep and would have killed her instantly. When he pressed on her chest, what flowed from her mouth was clear, telling him she had been dead when she had gone into the water. He was just covering her up again when Langelee arrived back, whispering an urgent warning that someone else was coming. It transpired to be Heselbech, who was an unnerving presence in the eerily dripping chamber with his sinisterly filed teeth.
‘Lichet ordered me to collect her,’ the chaplain explained, nodding towards Margery. ‘Which will be damned difficult on my own. Will you help?’
Michael nodded. ‘But first, tell us if you noticed anything unusual last night. The Cistern Tower is not far from your chapel.’
Heselbech indicated Langelee. ‘I was in the priory for most of it, drinking with him. The party broke up when John said we should celebrate nocturns, but I could barely walk, so reciting a holy office was out of the question. Langelee helped me into my chapel, where I managed to ring the bell, but that is all. Tell him, Langelee.’
‘Oh, Christ!’ gulped Langelee, pale again. ‘I did give you a shoulder to lean on while you staggered home. It had clean slipped my mind.’
‘You were so drunk, you cannot recall where you went?’ Bartholomew was unimpressed.
Langelee winced. ‘We had a lot of ale. But I remember now my memory is jogged. Heselbech and I left the priory and lurched to the chapel together. I left him lying on the floor, and returned to the priory alone.’
‘So did either of you see anything that might help us?’ pressed Michael.
Both men shook their heads. ‘But we did not know that a killer was at large at the time,’ said Langelee defensively. ‘If we had, obviously we would have been more observant.’
‘I suppose we should be grateful that he did not dispatch you, too,’ said Michael sourly.
‘He could have tried,’ said Heselbech grimly, ‘but he would not have succeeded. No sly killer could dispatch two bold warriors from the north, even ones who were drunk.’
‘Close your eyes,’ Michael ordered. ‘Try to visualise the castle as you saw it. No, do not smirk at each other like errant schoolboys. I am serious.’
Chagrined, they did as they were told. Heselbech shook his head fairly quickly, but Langelee persisted, his face screwed up tight as he struggled with his memory. But eventually he opened his eyes and gave a regretful shrug.
‘All I can tell you for certain is that I delivered Heselbech to the chapel, where he rang the bell. But then he fell over and went to sleep on the floor, so I removed his boots, covered him with a blanket, and returned to our quarters in the priory.’
‘But that is untrue,’ said Michael. ‘If you had gone straight back, you would have arrived while I was saying nocturns. But you did not appear until at least half an hour after I had finished.’
Langelee blushed and his eyes were furtive. ‘If you must know, I had to stop to be sick, but please do not tell anyone – we cannot have the world knowing that Michaelhouse’s Master cannot hold his drink. Our recent economies mean I am no longer used to large quantities of ale.’
Michael turned back to Heselbech. ‘You know this castle and its people. What do you think happened here?’
Heselbech stared at Margery’s cloak-covered form. ‘I really have no idea. However, I can tell you that she was the sweetest, kindest lady in the world, and whoever killed her will be damned for all eternity. I cannot tell you anything about Roos, because I had never met him before yesterday.’
‘There are faint marks on Roos’s arms and chest,’ said Bartholomew, ‘which suggest he may have been involved in some sort of tussle. However, it was not with Margery – her only injury is the single stab wound.’
‘Which means what?’ asked Michael.
‘That she was killed quickly and cleanly, but he was not,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It appears that he tried to fight his – or their – attacker off.’
‘Did she have any enemies?’ asked Michael of Heselbech. ‘Anyone who was jealous of her popularity, or who resented her kindly nature?’
‘Margery was loved by all,’ stated Heselbech firmly. ‘So you will find that the motive for this horrible crime lies with Roos, not her. He was a member of Swinescroft Hostel, for a start.’
‘What does that have to do with anything?’