‘They would,’ agreed Michael, taking the rings from Bartholomew and slipping them in his scrip. ‘So perhaps they found out yesterday, and promptly killed them both.’
‘Maybe,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Although if Roos was a regular visitor, you would think that someone would have mentioned it by now – as far as I can tell, everyone here considers him a stranger. Yet he did slip away from his cronies yesterday, to end up in a quiet room in the palace with Margery …’
‘And Badew and Harweden were irked about it,’ recalled Michael thoughtfully. ‘So I say we put them at the top of our list of suspects. Right after Nicholas.’
‘Just because he likes my knife?’ asked Langelee irritably. ‘I hardly think that is a reason–’
‘I have a nose for these things, and there is something distinctly awry about that vicar,’ argued Michael. ‘For a start, he is enamoured of his anchoress. I heard him call her “sweetest love” yesterday, which is no way to address a holy woman.’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘Even if he is smitten, there is nothing either can do about it, given that she is walled up inside a cell. Unless he owns a sledgehammer.’
Michael eyed him balefully. ‘You mock, but I am right. Marishal also goes on the list. He was Margery’s husband, and may have objected to her relationship with Roos – whatever that transpires to be – so he killed them both in a fit of rage.’
‘Then we should include Thomas and Ella for the same reason,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Along with the fact that they are no strangers to murder, if the gossip is to be believed.’
‘Which it should,’ said Langelee. ‘A frayed strap, a jaunt in bad weather, a carelessly carried blade … It is too good to be true when we have a young woman and an unwanted older husband.’
‘I agree,’ said Michael. ‘I do not suggest we investigate Talmach’s peculiar demise, but we shall certainly bear it in mind, along with the four other suspicious deaths that have occurred here since February – Roger, Wisbech, Charer and Skynere.’
‘We have been told that the squires might be responsible for some of those,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It would not surprise me – Albon does not have them under control. So they are next on our list. Perhaps they objected to Roos fraternising with the mother of one of their friends.’
‘I say we consider Donwich and Pulham, too,’ said Langelee. ‘They are frantic to keep the Lady’s good graces. Perhaps Roos’s relationship with Margery threatened that in some way.’
‘The same is true of Lichet,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He will go to any lengths to safeguard his position here, but it is possible that Roos and Margery knew something to see him ousted. Moreover, he lives in the Cistern Tower, where they died …’
‘True,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘And we shall finish the list with Bonde, who should have been hanged for murder, but was saved by the Lady’s purse.’
‘The list is not finished yet,’ said Langelee. ‘What about Mayor Godeston and Barber Grym? I did not take to them, and if you can include Nicholas on the grounds of dislike …’
‘But Godeston is carried everywhere on a litter,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He could never scale a ladder. And Grym would not fit down the shaft – it was a tight squeeze for Michael, and Grym is much fatter.’
‘I am not fat,’ objected Michael, offended. ‘I just have big bones.’
‘What about Albon, then?’ asked Langelee. ‘He pretends to be a knight, but he is all hot air and glorious finery. Such men think nothing of slaughtering old men and women.’
‘Very well,’ said Michael, although without conviction. ‘So there is our rogues’ gallery: Nicholas, Badew and Harweden, Marishal and his brats, the squires, our colleagues from Clare Hall, Lichet, Bonde and Albon. Now we must set about narrowing it down.’
‘I suspect we are more likely to expand it,’ predicted Langelee glumly. ‘This is a nasty little town, inhabited by vicious people. I wish we had never come.’
* * *
They began their enquiries in the hall, where Lichet was playing his lute. Many of the women were crying, while their menfolk stood in subdued clusters, talking in low voices. Albon had taken a seat on the dais, looking splendid but preoccupied. Lichet strummed next to him, eyes closed in rapture at the sounds he was producing, although he was an indifferent performer at best. Quintone hovered dutifully nearby, ready to run any errands the Red Devil happened to devise.
Then a door clanked, and the squires – minus Thomas – strutted in. They had used the intervening time to change their clothes, and the scholars were not the only ones who gaped at the result. They had kept their long-toed shoes, flowing sleeves and oiled beards, but had added harlequin hose to the ensemble. They swaggered to the dais, confident in the knowledge that every eye was on them. Lichet stopped playing mid-chord, while Albon was so astounded by their appearance that he almost toppled off his seat. When they had made their obeisance to him, they sat with calculated nonchalance on the bench at his side.
‘God’s blood!’ breathed Langelee. ‘Someone should tell them that they are making asses of themselves, as they seem to be incapable of seeing it.’
‘I doubt it was their idea,’ murmured Bartholomew. ‘Look at Thomas and Ella.’
The twins were with their father, who was slumped, ashen-faced and unmoving, in a chair by the hearth. Their faces were sombre, but their eyes gleamed at the shock the squires had generated.
‘I would have thought they would desist from japes today,’ said Michael disapprovingly. ‘Do they have no sense of decorum?’
‘Margery seems to have been loved by everyone,’ whispered Langelee. ‘Even I am sorry she is dead, and I barely knew her. But her children have not shed a single tear that I have seen, and now they amuse themselves by playing jokes on their fellows. It reveals a cold-bloodedness that repels me – and I was once a warrior, used to a bit of ruthlessness.’
‘They are wild because they have a father who is too busy and a mother who was too gentle,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Margery admitted that Anne was the only person who could tame them, but now she is walled inside a church. And poor proud Albon is certainly not up to the challenge.’
‘They are not children,’ objected Michael. ‘They are adults in their twenties, and Ella has been married. It is too late for Albon – or anyone else – to mould them now.’
‘I could do it,’ bragged Langelee. ‘Perhaps I should offer my services to Marishal – to turn his spawn into sensible beings in exchange for a donation. What do you think?’
‘That we do not want them in Cambridge, thank you very much.’ Michael looked around quickly. ‘All our suspects are here, except Badew and Harweden, who we will corner at the Bell later. I suggest we interview everyone else right away.’
‘Lichet will stop us,’ warned Bartholomew. ‘He will view it as an affront to his authority.’
Michael smiled thinly. ‘We shall see.’
He strode to the dais. Albon looked up questioningly, but Lichet had resumed his strumming and pretended not to notice the monk. Michael climbed on to the platform, and addressed the whole assembly in a loud, clear voice that drowned out the Red Devil’s music.
‘On behalf of the Master and Fellows of Michaelhouse, I would like to offer my condolences to you all. Our College has many priests, and Masses will be said for Margery’s soul.’
A murmur of appreciation rippled around the hall, although Lichet was indignant.
‘How dare you interrupt my playing to make stupid announcements,’ he snarled. ‘In future, you will apply to me before braying to all and sundry.’
‘I hardly think the care of Margery’s soul is “stupid”,’ countered Michael, a remark that drew a universal rumble of agreement. He turned from Lichet and addressed his audience again. ‘Her body lies in the chapel, available to anyone who wishes to pay his respects.’