‘Did you see anyone else in the bailey when you went to the cistern the first time?’
Adam shook his head. ‘And I have been thinking about it ever since. Poor Mistress Marishal. Killing her was a terrible sin, and the culprit will roast in Hell for ever.’
‘So, we can cross the squires off our list,’ said Michael, as the baker hobbled away to hide under a table. ‘Adam would have implicated them if he could – it pained him to provide their alibi. However, Thomas has gone right to the top, along with Marishal and Lichet. I find it suspicious that both were to hand when Adam raised the alarm.’
‘I wonder if Albon has interviewed them yet,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We should ask Langelee before we tackle them ourselves – to avoid covering the same ground.’
‘Albon will have learned nothing of use,’ predicted Michael disdainfully. ‘And I hate to say it, but do not expect much from Langelee either. He is an admirable man in many respects, but he is hopeless at identifying liars.’
‘Then why did you charge him with monitoring Albon?’
‘Because Roos’s killer will only be caught by cunning, and Langelee will be more hindrance than help, if he insists on looming over my shoulder with one hand on his sword. Listening to Albon will keep him busy without doing any harm.’
It was a valid point, as the Master was not known for his tact, patience or subtlety.
‘We had better find Bonde next,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Adam thinks he allowed Roos through the castle gate, so perhaps he let the killer in, too. Maybe it was a townsman, and Roos and Margery are just two more deaths in this vicious feud – the culprit targeted Margery because she was popular, and Roos just happened to be in the way.’
‘Or Bonde might have stabbed them himself,’ countered Michael. ‘We know for a fact that he is a murderer, and he said and did nothing to convince me of his innocence earlier.’
‘He cried for Margery,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘Although he tried to hide it.’
‘That does not mean he did not stab her,’ said Michael soberly.
When they hailed Quintone, to ask if he knew where Bonde might be, they were given some interesting news.
‘I just saw him through the window – leaving,’ replied the servant. ‘I called out to ask where he was going, and he said he was off to London on the Lady’s business. But that is a lie, because she is still in bed, so how can she have given him new orders?’
‘Fleeing the scene of the crime,’ mused Michael. ‘Perhaps he was willing to brazen it out as long as he thought Lichet or Albon would investigate, but wisely decided to disappear when it was announced that I would be exploring the matter.’
‘Possibly,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘Although he cannot be familiar with your reputation as a solver of crimes.’
‘He does not have to be, Matt. It may be enough to know that I am neither Lichet nor Albon – men who can be hoodwinked, predicted and manipulated.’
‘Well, we will not forget about him, no matter where he goes,’ determined Bartholomew. ‘We cannot hare after him on our poor old nags, so if we do uncover evidence of his guilt, it will be the Lady’s responsibility to bring him to justice. Of course, she may choose to ignore his crime, which will be easier – and cheaper – than corrupting a second judge.’
‘The murder of her steward’s wife is not the same as some faceless neighbour. If Bonde is the culprit, she will have no choice but to act.’
In Bartholomew’s experience, the rich and powerful had a rather flexible attitude regarding what constituted the right thing to do, so he was rather less sanguine about justice being done. He turned back to Quintone.
‘I do not suppose Bonde mentioned letting anyone – other than Roos – into the castle last night, did he?’
‘He would not have let Roos in,’ averred Quintone. ‘Roos was a stranger, and Bonde is particular about things like that.’
‘But he did let Roos in,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘The body in the cistern proves it.’
Quintone shrugged. ‘Then Roos grew wings and flew over the walls, because he could not have got past the Lady’s favourite henchman. You met Bonde – the man is an animal.’
Next, Michael decided to speak to Marishal. However, when they reached the hearth, the steward had gone. There was no sign of the twins either. Lichet saw their bemusement and came to explain.
‘I sent them to bed with a potion to ease their minds. They are grieving, you see.’
‘So are we,’ said Michael coolly. ‘Roos was our colleague, do not forget.’
‘Yes, but he is not nearly as important as Margery,’ said Lichet dismissively. ‘She was the steward’s wife, whereas he was just a scholar.’
Michael regarded him coldly. ‘Roos’s murder is just as grave a crime as hers, and will be treated as such. Now, take us to Marishal at once.’
‘I shall not! You may apply to me tomorrow, when I shall decide whether he is equal to an audience. Until then, he and his family are off limits. And do not think you can circumvent me – I put guards on the door to their quarters with orders to skewer anyone trying to sneak past.’
‘What kind of potion did you feed the Marishals?’ asked Bartholomew, while Michael gave the Red Devil the kind of look that suggested he had just replaced Bonde as prime suspect.
‘One that brings healing sleep,’ replied Lichet shortly. ‘All three will be dead to the world by now, so even if you do manage to slink past my security arrangements, they will not be in a position to answer questions. Ergo, I advise you not to bother.’
‘Where is the Lady?’ demanded Michael, deciding to see what she had to say about such high-handed tactics, while Bartholomew mused that drugging the steward was one way for Lichet to ensure he was not deprived of his new-found power. However, while it might be acceptable to dose a grieving family with a mild soporific, it was definitely not good practice to give them one that rendered them ‘dead to the world’. Again, he wondered if Lichet was deliberately sabotaging Michael’s enquiry.
‘She was also distraught, so I gave her a draught as well,’ Lichet informed Michael loftily. ‘They will all feel better in the morning.’
‘What was in it?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Exactly.’
‘It is a secret recipe, although I can tell you that it includes hemlock and honey. It is not one you will find in any of your medical tomes, though, so do not waste your time trying to look it up.’
‘You used hemlock to promote natural sleep?’ Bartholomew was horrified. ‘Is that not akin to using a mallet for cracking nuts?’
‘It is perfectly safe for those of us who know what we are doing,’ retorted Lichet. ‘It is only the inexperienced or stupid who make mistakes in dosage.’
Manfully, Bartholomew ignored the insult. ‘Did you ever feed any of this “secret recipe” to Wisbech or Skynere?’
‘No, because Skynere was Grym’s patient, while Wisbech took his medical problems to the priory.’ Lichet gave a superior smile. ‘I do not believe those two were poisoned anyway. There is no evidence to say they were – just a lot of unfounded speculation by an uneducated barber.’
‘What about the other deaths?’ asked Michael, before Bartholomew could indulge in a piece-by-piece demolition of Lichet’s own medical skills. It was unnecessary, as they had already surmised that he was a charlatan with no university training. ‘Roger, Charer and Talmach. Do you have an opinion about what happened to them?’