Donwich shrugged. ‘Marishal, his wife, the guards at the door, us, the castle chaplain hauling on his bell rope – all awake in the dead of night. Marishal retorted that Clare folk work for a living, not like the layabouts in Cambridge.’
‘So we have decided to move back to the Swan for the rest of our stay,’ sniffed Pulham. ‘The Lady and Marishal are unlikely to notice our absence, not now there are murders to snag their attention. We shall pay our respects to the Queen on Tuesday, then travel home with you and the rogues from Swinescroft the following morning. Well, not with Roos obviously …’
‘When did Marishal visit, exactly?’ asked Michael. ‘Before or after the bell for nocturns?’
‘Before,’ replied Pulham promptly. ‘But he only stayed for a moment and then he was gone. So the answers to your unspoken questions are yes, Brother – yes, he was out and about at the same time as his wife, and yes, it is possible that he killed her and Roos.’
‘Perhaps she and Roos arranged a lovers’ tryst and he killed them in a fit of jealous rage,’ suggested Donwich, but then shook his head. ‘She would never have chosen Roos when she could have had one of us. Roos was a vile individual, whereas we are handsome, wealthy and charming.’
‘And modest,’ muttered Bartholomew.
‘Personally, I think Badew killed them,’ said Pulham. ‘He allowed hatred to overwhelm his soul, and would certainly sacrifice a friend to strike at an enemy. Marishal will be weakened by the loss of his wife, and what hurts him, hurts the Lady.’
‘You think he is that low?’ asked Bartholomew doubtfully.
‘I do,’ said Pulham firmly. ‘He has become a bitter, twisted old man who will do anything to avenge himself on the woman he thinks stole his College. He travelled here with the express purpose of harming her, and if he did kill Margery, he has succeeded in that aim.’
Michael lowered his voice. ‘He came because he thought she was dead. We all did.’
Pulham reflected for a moment, then raised a forefinger triumphantly. ‘Then think about who opened the letter that contained the “news” of her demise. Roos! No one else saw it, so how do we know he did not lie about the contents – and Badew killed him for falsely raising his hopes?’
‘That is possible,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘Badew does claim to know some secret that he will only reveal when the Lady is dead, so I imagine his disappointment was great indeed when he learned it would have to wait again.’
‘Especially as he is older than her, and might die first,’ put in Pulham. ‘Of course, it will transpire to be a lot of lies, saved for a time when she can no longer defend herself. He can bray this secret all he likes, but no one will believe it.’
At that point, Lichet began to stride towards them, so he and Donwich beat a hasty retreat before they could be lumbered with more work. Moments later, they emerged from the Oxford Tower, still bundling their belongings into saddlebags. They all but ran to the gate and were gone, although they need not have rushed, as Lichet had been intercepted by Ereswell, who was demanding instructions about some aspect of the Queen’s visit. The learned man quickly became flustered, especially when Adam approached with a question about supplies.
‘He had better hope Marishal does not sleep too much longer,’ remarked Michael. ‘Because even he must realise by now that the post of steward is beyond him.’
But Bartholomew was thinking about their suspects. ‘We can cross Donwich and Pulham off our list. We will check their story with the guards, but I believe they are telling the truth. However, I do not like the suggestion of a romantic tryst between Roos and Margery. Both Donwich and Langelee said she was not that sort of woman, and I agree.’
‘But what about the rings?’ Michael pulled them from his scrip and stared at them. ‘They look like lovers’ tokens to me. And Roos did home in on her very quickly after we arrived, while Adam claimed he strutted around as if he owned the place, suggesting that he had been here before …’
‘Well, there is only one way to find out – by asking Badew and Harweden.’
The rain had passed, and the day had turned pretty, with fluffy white clouds dotting a bright blue sky and a warm sun drawing steam from the wet ground. Bartholomew and Michael left the castle, and walked along Rutten Row to the Bell Inn, an attractive establishment with black timbers and pink plasterwork. The appetising scent of frying eggs wafted from within, which perhaps explained why Badew had chosen it – the Swinescroft men liked their victuals.
Inside, the tavern was busy with traders from the market who had sold all their produce and were rewarding themselves with jugs of frothing ale. Bartholomew could not help but overhear snippets of conversation as he wove through the tables to where Badew and Harweden sat. Most revolved around the double murder at the castle, and there was a general feeling that someone had done it to avenge Skynere.
‘The wife of the steward,’ crowed one man. ‘What a coup!’
‘Not a coup, Bailiff Paycock,’ said a butcher, a man identifiable by his bloody apron. ‘She was the only decent person in the whole place, and anyone who revels in her death is a pig.’
‘Then what about the death of the scholar?’ asked Paycock archly. ‘Can I revel in that? The University will not let that crime pass unremarked, and it will bring the Lady a raft of trouble.’
Although the tavern was crowded, Badew and Harweden had a table to themselves, perhaps because they were strangers, but more likely because they positively radiated hostility. They scowled when Michael perched on the bench next to them, an expression that deepened when he began to help himself to their food – bread, cheese, eggs, fried pork and apples. Bartholomew sat as well, but the events of the day had deprived him of his appetite.
‘When you have finished gorging yourself, Brother, perhaps you will tell us what happened to Roos,’ said Badew acidly. ‘Who lured him into that terrible place and slaughtered him? I assume the Senior Proctor has the matter in hand?’
‘Our enquiries are at a very early stage,’ replied Michael, reaching for more meat. ‘So I have no answers for you yet. Rest assured, though, I shall do my utmost to bring his killer to justice. And you can help by answering some questions. When did you last see Roos?’
‘At vespers,’ replied Badew. ‘We went to church together, then returned here. Harweden and I share a room, but he has one to himself, because he snores … snored.’
‘Did he say he might go out again?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘Of course not, or we would have stopped him. The Lady has never liked us, and would leap at the chance to do us harm. It was recklessness itself for him to have ventured out alone.’
‘Especially to the castle,’ added Harweden soberly. ‘Her lair.’
‘She is the Devil Incarnate,’ hissed Badew, looking rather demonic himself with his narrowed eyes and spiteful mouth, ‘skilled in deceit and falsehoods. She will delight in pulling the wool over the eyes of a gullible Senior Proctor, so do not believe a word she says.’
‘I am not gullible,’ said Michael stiffly. ‘I have outwitted more killers than you can count.’
‘But she is in a league of her own,’ whispered Badew, eyes blazing. ‘She is a politician, and we all know they are consummate liars.’
‘Right,’ said Michael briskly, and brought the discussion back on track. ‘Now, we have discovered that Roos and Margery shared a close connection. What can you tell me about it?’
‘Do not talk nonsense,’ spat Badew. ‘Roos met her once – fourteen years ago, when she was in the deputation that came to Cambridge to steal my College. That is not a “close connection”.’