‘I do not have any, Brother. I may be a novice in these matters, but I do know that it is unwise to begin with preconceptions.’
‘Preconceptions often serve me very well,’ countered Michael. ‘Along with hunches. Indeed, it is sometimes impossible to proceed very far without them.’
Albon gave a pained smile. ‘Then I shall confess to you that one solution does keep coming to mind: that Mistress Marishal and Roos were killed by a townsman. You may have noticed that there is a very nasty feud in Clare.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Michael. ‘So where were you between nocturns and dawn?’
‘Why those particular times?’ asked Albon curiously. ‘Is it when the murders were committed? How did you discover that?’
‘The usual way – by asking pertinent questions of relevant witnesses.’
Albon inclined his head. ‘Then thank you for sharing your discovery with a rival investigator. But to answer your question, I was here, in the chapel. I am about to embark on a holy quest to France, so I spend a lot of time communing with the Almighty.’
‘It is not a holy quest,’ argued Bartholomew, offended by the claim. ‘It is taking a lot of ruffians to join a war that we had no right starting in the first place.’
Albon regarded him coolly. ‘I was called to service personally by the King, and he is God’s anointed. Thus it most certainly is a holy undertaking, and I am honoured to have been chosen.’
‘Did you see or hear anything suspicious at all?’ asked Michael, speaking before Bartholomew could inform him that this was a lot of convoluted claptrap. ‘This building is not far from the Cistern Tower – just a stone’s throw from one door to the other.’
‘If I had seen the killer commit his foul deed, I would already have hanged him,’ declared Albon, and turned his noble visage back to the altar, closed his eyes and re-clasped his hands. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, Brother, I must pray.’
‘I have nothing against piety,’ said Michael, a short while later, after Langelee had returned to say that the hermit was out and no one knew where he had gone. ‘But Albon is blinded by it, and it is not healthy. Let us hope we solve these murders, because he never will.’
‘Perhaps he does not want the killer caught,’ suggested Langelee. ‘Because then he can stay here on his knees, instead of leading a host of unruly louts to France. He is a coward, and is frightened now that the day of his departure looms. He wants a way to avoid it.’
‘I am glad he was not my commander at the Battle of Poitiers,’ said Bartholomew, inclined to think Langelee was right.
‘So am I,’ said Langelee fervently. ‘Because then you would not have survived to bring me back that lovely letter-opener. Albon is an ass, who does not know one end of a hauberk from–’
He stopped speaking abruptly and rifled through his scrip, his face a mask of dismay. Then he pulled off his belt and began to pat himself down with increasing urgency.
‘What is the matter?’ asked Michael. ‘You cannot have lost our money – we do not have any.’
‘My letter-opener.’ Langelee’s voice was edged in panic. ‘Did one of you borrow it?’
‘Of course not,’ replied Bartholomew. ‘It is far too dangerous for the likes of us. I have told you countless times not to hone it so sharp.’
‘It has gone,’ gulped Langelee, tipping the contents of his scrip out and pawing through them frantically. ‘Someone has stolen it!’
‘Nicholas, probably,’ predicted Michael. ‘He covets the thing, and I doubt he believed your promise to send him one from Cambridge. These things have a way of being forgotten, no matter how sincere the intention at the time.’
‘Nicholas would never steal from me! We are old comrades-in-arms.’
‘No – you are both ex-soldiers,’ corrected Michael, ‘which is not the same thing at all. It would be like me saying that I share a bond with him, just because we are both in holy orders. He owes you no allegiance, just as he owes none to me.’
‘You lost it, Langelee,’ said Bartholomew quickly, disliking the notion of the Master storming up to the vicar and accusing him of theft. ‘Probably last night, when you were too drunk to notice. Retrace your steps – start with our room and the Prior’s House.’
‘I hope to God no one picks the wretched thing up and maims himself,’ said Michael, as Langelee sped away, worry creasing his bluff face. ‘You should never have given it to him.’
‘He adapted it,’ replied Bartholomew defensively. ‘It was an innocent little implement when I brought it back from France. Hah! There are Donwich and Pulham. That is convenient – I was about to suggest we speak to them next.’
The scholars from Clare Hall did not look their best. Donwich had dark circles under his eyes, while Pulham kept yawning. They were unshaven, and wore the same clothes as they had the previous day, which were rumpled and spattered with ink. It was unusual for them be dishevelled, as both were fastidious men – and likely to be more so at Clare, where they aimed to impress their benefactress.
‘No, we did not sleep well,’ snapped Donwich in answer to the physician’s polite enquiry. ‘We rashly offered to help Marishal with preparations for the royal visit, and he ruthlessly exploited our good will. First, he ordered us to provide entertainment for the whole castle – which was not how we envisioned being put to use.’
‘You sang,’ said Michael, recalling that the baker had mentioned their warbling.
‘I felt like a common jongleur,’ said Donwich sourly.
‘I rather enjoyed it,’ countered Pulham. ‘I love singing, and we performed for hours, because folk kept clamouring for more. We did not finish until midnight.’ He grimaced. ‘I was ready for my bed at that point, but Marishal had other ideas.’
‘He has a mountain of correspondence pertaining to the Queen’s visit,’ elaborated Donwich, ‘and he wanted copies made of everything.’
‘Which is work for lowly clerks, not scholars of our standing,’ said Pulham sourly. ‘But they do not have time, so he asked us to do it instead. We dared not refuse, lest he complained to the Lady. We have only just finished.’
‘The baker saw lamps burning in your room all night,’ mused Michael. ‘He–’
‘Look at my fingers,’ interrupted Pulham, stretching out his hands. ‘Filthy with cheap ink.’
‘Can anyone corroborate your tale?’ asked Michael.
Donwich eyed him coolly. ‘You mean did we slip out and murder Roos in the midst of our labours? Well, I am sorry to disappoint you, Brother, but Marishal posted guards outside our door. He claimed it was so they could fetch him if we had questions about the work, but we know it was really to make sure we did not slack. So, yes, there are witnesses to prove our innocence.’
‘That is not why I asked,’ lied Michael. ‘I was hoping you might be able to help us with Marishal’s movements. You will appreciate why we want to know.’
‘Because he is a suspect for the murders,’ surmised Donwich. ‘Well, maybe he did make an end of Roos, because he is not very enamoured of scholars, as evidenced by his treatment of us.’
‘Yet I cannot see him – or anyone else – hurting Margery,’ said Pulham. ‘She was a lovely lady. She brought us wine and cakes just before nocturns, as she thought we might need refreshment. It was kindly done, and no one else bothered.’
‘Did she come alone?’ fished Michael.
Pulham nodded. ‘She said she decided to bring us the victuals when she saw the light still shining from our window. Then, not long after she had gone, Marishal poked his head around the door to assess our progress.’ He glanced at Donwich. ‘Which was when you made the quip about no one in the entire castle bothering with nonsense like sleep.’