‘Oh, we shall go,’ said Badew grimly. ‘If I cannot dance on the Lady’s grave, then I shall dance on his. However, I am not buying Masses for his soul. The Devil is welcome to it.’
Roos had just been delivered to the parish church from the castle chapel when Bartholomew, Michael and the two old men arrived. He was dumped rather unceremoniously on Roger’s tomb, after which the bier-bearers disappeared fast, unwilling to linger in a place where they were so heavily outnumbered by townsfolk – the church was unusually full that day.
‘At least he will have some mourners,’ remarked Michael, as he and Bartholomew went to see what arrangements had been made for the ceremony. ‘I wonder why they are here.’
‘To watch the scaffolding come down in the south aisle,’ explained Nicholas, when the monk put the question to him. ‘So we can all revel in the fact that its ceiling is plain and dull, compared to the fan vaulting in the nave and chancel.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ said Michael, squinting up at it. ‘I hope they will not make too much noise while we lay our colleague to rest.’
‘If they do, he can tell them to desist,’ said Nicholas, nodding at Bartholomew. ‘A veteran of Poitiers will have no trouble with rowdy civilians, especially once he draws his sword. And while he keeps the peace, we can concentrate on the rite.’
Bartholomew excused himself hurriedly from such an alarming duty, but he need not have worried, as the townsfolk were perfectly well behaved. None joined the mourners, though, so it was just him, Michael, Badew and Harweden who attended the perfunctory little ceremony. They had to carry the body to the graveyard themselves, as the men who should have done it refused to leave the church, preferring to clamour disparaging remarks about the south aisle instead. Once Roos was in the ground, Badew and Harweden paused just long enough to spit on him, then hurried away, leaving Bartholomew to pick up a spade and back-fill the hole.
‘Stamp it down hard,’ called Anne, who was watching through her window. ‘I did not like the look of that man, and I do not want him rising up and messing about in my church.’
‘We should go back to the priory, Matt,’ said Michael when they had finished. ‘To take a leaf from Albon’s book, and ponder all we have learned.’
‘I will join you later,’ promised Bartholomew. ‘But first, I want to explore Clare. As Langelee always says, only a fool does not learn the lie of the land when a killer is at large.’
‘I have never heard him say that,’ said Michael. ‘Matt? Matt, wait! We have work to do!’
Chapter 7
In the event, Michael did not ponder the murders either, because he arrived at the priory to find Langelee in a state of gloom over his lost letter-opener. He helped the Master look again, and by the time they had finished, an invitation to dine with John and his senior friars had arrived. Michael accepted, as it had been some time since he had availed himself of the food at the Bell.
Bartholomew joined them in the Prior’s House when he returned from his perambulations. The fare was plain, but well cooked, and comprised the sort of food that was popular with soldiers and portly senior proctors – a lot of red meat, very little in the way of greenery, and plenty of bread to sop up the grease and bloody juices.
The wine was copious as well, and Michael grew merrier as the evening progressed. By contrast, Langelee turned uncharacteristically morose, fretting over his missing weapon, and grumbling about the fact that Roos’s murder was preventing them from securing the wealthy benefactors that Michaelhouse so desperately needed. Meanwhile, Bartholomew never drank to excess in Cambridge, lest he was called out on a medical emergency, but he had no patients in Clare, so he allowed John to pour him a second and then a third cup of claret, after which he lost count.
The rest of the evening was a blur, and Bartholomew awoke the next morning with a thundering headache and the uncomfortable sense of having entertained the Austins with songs he had learned while with the English army at Poitiers. He hoped it had been at their request.
‘That was quite a night,’ remarked Michael, speaking carefully, because he feared his head might explode if he did not. He was pale, too, his eyes bloodshot and puffy. ‘Prior John knows how to entertain, although it is a pity I could not persuade him to discuss Clare’s spate of mysterious deaths. Every time I tried, he changed the subject.’
‘For two reasons,’ said Langelee, annoyingly chipper, because he had exercised untypical restraint, and had retired to bed stone-cold sober. ‘First, because you were too drunk to debate anything so serious; and second, because he fears gossip will make matters worse.’
‘Analysing what we know is hardly “gossip”,’ objected Michael. ‘And one of the casualties was an Austin. Does John not want the truth about what happened to Wisbech?’
‘He is afraid of being drawn into the feud – which would break his Prior General’s orders,’ explained Langelee. ‘Not to mention the fact that taking sides will hinder his ability to act as peace-keeper. Incidentally, I asked Nicholas if he stole my letter-opener, and he said no. The culprit is probably Lichet, who I would not trust as far as I can spit. Or Bonde, perhaps, who will also have an eye for a decent weapon. He is a hardened killer, after all.’
‘So are you, if Prior John’s stories are to be believed,’ remarked Bartholomew, recalling with sudden clarity one very violent and distasteful tale involving a band of robbers.
Langelee waved a dismissive hand. ‘I did what was necessary to protect the innocent, whereas Bonde acts for the love of blood. Indeed, it is possible that he dispatched Roos and Margery, given that he has disappeared and no one knows where he has gone. I hope you bear that in mind as you go about your enquiries today.’
‘We will.’ Michael winced. ‘As far as I can bear anything in mind today. My poor head!’
They had slept through the bell for prime, and had missed breakfast as well, although Weste – his one remaining eye bright with robust good health – brought them bread and honey, along with water from what he claimed was a healing spring. It helped, along with Bartholomew’s remedy for overindulgence.
‘We are sadly out of practice with riotous evenings,’ sighed Michael ruefully. ‘We could have taken one in our stride ten years ago, when Michaelhouse was rich and we had feasts every week.’
‘I shall use your gluttony last night as the basis for my next Book of Hours,’ chuckled Weste, ‘just as I used Philip de Jevan as an example of Satan lying in wait for the unwary in the tome that now belongs to the Lady.’
‘It was his face on the Devil in the trees?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I rather thought it was someone we have met, as there was something familiar about him …’
‘Of course it was familiar,’ said Weste darkly. ‘Satan is everywhere, and we all know him better than we imagine. It is why I took the cowl – to drive him out of my soul.’
‘Why choose Jevan? It is Lichet who is called the Red Devil.’
‘I did not know Lichet when I illustrated that book – he has only been in Clare for a few months. But I would not have used him to depict Satan anyway – he is not evil, just dishonest, opinionated and greedy.’
‘But Jevan is evil?’
‘Oh, yes! I dislike his arrogant demeanour, and who knows what he tells the Lady when they are behind closed doors together. I am surprised Marishal allows it.’
When Weste had gone, the scholars discussed what needed to be done that day.
‘We must speak to Marishal, Thomas and Ella first,’ said Michael. ‘Assuming they are not dead of Lichet’s sleeping potion. Then I have a few questions for the Lady, after which we shall pursue our remaining suspects – rather fewer than this time yesterday, thankfully.’