‘Of course – they were accidents, and anyone who claims otherwise is just trying to encourage trouble between us and the town. Roger was killed by a falling plank, Charer fell in the river, and Talmach tumbled off his horse. There was nothing suspicious about any of them.’
‘I see,’ said Bartholomew flatly. ‘Where were you between nocturns and dawn?’
‘Me?’ asked Lichet warily. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Because you live above the cistern,’ explained Michael, before Bartholomew could say something more accusatory – there was no point in alerting the Red Devil to the fact that he was high on their list of suspects. ‘You may have seen or heard something.’
‘And I probably would, had I been there,’ replied Lichet haughtily. ‘Because I am an extremely observant man, and very little escapes my attention. But I was in the palace all night, watching the Lady sleep.’
‘Why would you do that?’ asked Bartholomew, suspicious all over again.
Lichet smiled superiorly. ‘Because I have taken it upon myself to ensure that she has eight hours of undisturbed rest every night. I was with her until daybreak.’
‘No, you were not,’ countered Bartholomew, disliking the fact that Lichet considered them fools who would swallow his lies without question. ‘You were one of the first on the scene when the bodies were found. You “appeared from nowhere” according to one witness.’
‘Well, obviously a man must slip to the latrine on occasion,’ shrugged Lichet, so smoothly that Bartholomew suspected he had been preparing his defence ever since the bodies had been found. ‘I took care of business, and was on my way back when Adam raised the alarm. Naturally, I went to see if I could help.’
‘Who else was there?’ demanded Bartholomew, with the sole intention of catching him out.
Unfortunately, Lichet was too clever to make such a basic mistake, and his reply was flawless, even down to the detail of Marishal covering Margery with his own cloak.
‘So your alibi for the time of the murder is the Lady,’ said Bartholomew, unwilling to let him off the hook, ‘who was fast asleep at the time, so cannot verify it.’
Lichet smiled serenely. ‘Who knows? Perhaps she will remember the guardian angel at the foot of her bed, but perhaps she will not. You may ask her tomorrow, when she wakes, although phrase your question with care. She will not appreciate insinuations made against esteemed members of her household, and may respond by excising you from her will.’
‘He is our culprit,’ determined Bartholomew, once Lichet had strutted away. ‘He cannot prove where he was at the salient time, and he wants us to believe that the other suspicious deaths were accidents. He would probably have insisted that Roos and Margery died of natural causes as well, if no one else had been in a position to examine the bodies.’
‘Possibly,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But he is right about one thing – the Lady will resent her favourites coming under suspicion, so we must proceed with care.’
‘It will take a powerful dose of medicine to make someone sleep until tomorrow,’ Bartholomew went on in disgust. ‘One that not even a dubious practitioner like Lichet would dare use on an old lady in indifferent health. Ergo, there will be an opportunity to question her today. Of course, we all know why he wants us to stay away from her.’
‘We do?’
‘So that when she wakes, he can convince her that he was watching over her all night.’
‘Or perhaps he knows that one of the Marishals is the killer,’ mused Michael, ‘and aims to use the time coaching them on how to evade justice.’
‘Why would he do that? He wants them out of the way, so he can run the castle instead.’
‘He can pose as Acting Steward temporarily, but the post is hereditary, so must revert to the family eventually,’ explained Michael. ‘However, the Lady will not want to lose Marishal, and Marishal will not want to lose his brats. Ergo, Lichet could earn their undying gratitude by making inconvenient accusations go away – gratitude that could be permanent and lucrative.’
Bartholomew glanced at the dais. ‘Albon seems to have finished interrogating everyone now, although how he managed to work his way through upwards of two hundred people in so short a space of time is beyond me. Perhaps Langelee can explain.’
As they walked towards the front of the hall, Albon stood and nodded to the guards, who opened the doors, allowing bright daylight to stream in and people to stream out. Langelee was shaking his head in stunned disbelief.
‘He pressed no one for details,’ he said. ‘Mostly, he just asked one question: did you stab Mistress Marishal? Not surprisingly, no one said yes, and then he was beckoning his next “witness” forward. He seems to think that no one will lie to a man of honour.’
Michael laughed. ‘So what will he do now?’
‘Kneel in the chapel, next to Margery’s coffin, and reflect on all he has learned. I told him that would not take long, given that he has uncovered virtually nothing to ponder, but he said he expects to be there for the rest of the day.’
‘He is out of his depth and he knows it,’ surmised Michael. ‘So we shall corner him in a moment, and offer some friendly advice – and ask him a few questions into the bargain.’
‘Good,’ said Langelee, ‘because it is possible that he is going to the chapel in order to reflect on the crimes he committed – to devise a way to exonerate himself.’
‘We should speak to the hermit when we have finished with Albon,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Bonde mentioned him prowling around, so we should find out what – if anything – he saw.’
‘I will fetch him,’ offered Langelee. ‘Watching Albon has given me a headache, and I need some fresh air.’
When the Master had gone, Bartholomew and Michael went to the chapel. It was a pretty building, although only large enough to hold about fifty people, so it was no surprise that the Lady aimed to stake a claim on the parish church. The chapel was full of her ancestors’ tombs, and was a dark, silent, intimate place.
Heselbech was there, praying in the nave, although his nodding head and bowed shoulders suggested that his sleepless night was beginning to catch up with him. He turned at the sound of footsteps and heaved himself to his feet, yawning hugely as he did so.
‘Have you come to examine the bodies again?’ he asked. ‘Or to pay your respects?’
‘Neither,’ replied Michael. ‘We have come to talk to Albon. Where is he?’
Heselbech led the way past the rood screen to the chancel, where the knight was on his knees before the High Altar, hands clasped reverently in front of him. On one side stood an ornate casket draped in green silk; on the other was a bier with handles, suggesting that Roos would not lie there for much longer. Albon was so still and poised that he might have been a statue, but then he sneezed, and spoiled his attitude of elegant piety by wiping his nose on his gauntlet.
‘He has come to pray for guidance, given that his first stab at identifying the culprit was unsuccessful,’ explained Heselbech. ‘I have been instructed to keep the place quiet, so he can concentrate. Of course, that may prove difficult, given that so many folk want to pay their last respects to Margery.’
Bartholomew and Michael left him to it and approached the kneeling knight. Albon sneezed again, sniffed loudly, and this time it was his sleeve that cleaned his running nose.
‘How are your enquiries coming along?’ asked Michael, striding up behind him and catching him mid-scrub.
‘Slowly,’ replied Albon, blushing with mortification at being caught in the act of doing something so unmannerly. ‘But that will change once I have spoken to God. He will tell me what to do next.’
‘Of course,’ said Michael. ‘But what are your preliminary conclusions?’