‘Or perhaps he fled because he was responsible for letting the culprit into the castle in the first place. Anne says he is easily bribed. I do not like the fact that the hermit is missing, either – a man who was in the castle alone at the salient time. Perhaps Jan is the killer.’
‘True,’ agreed Michael. ‘So shall we visit his lair before tackling the Marishals? He may have returned and be ready to confess.’
The hermitage had been built against one of the castle’s outer walls, in a pleasant spot that boasted nice views across the river. Most men in Jan’s profession were happy with very basic amenities, but Clare did nothing by halves, and had provided its holy man with some very sumptuous lodgings. There was a lovely little shrine containing a good supply of devotional candles and a comfortable place to kneel, and a small but cosy cottage with a stone hearth, good furniture and plenty of warm blankets.
‘He left in a hurry,’ remarked Bartholomew, taking in the unmade bed and the pot of burned stew that was suspended over the dead fire. ‘But he took his fur cloak and good boots with him.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Michael.
‘Because they are not here,’ replied Bartholomew, ‘and I know what they look like, because I remember thinking that they were better than my own. I suspect the stew was for his breakfast, but he never had the opportunity to eat it. Which means one of two things: first, that he is the killer or second, that he witnessed the crime.’
‘And if the latter, then he has either fled or he has been dispatched to ensure his silence,’ finished Michael. ‘We may well find that Clare’s body count has risen from seven to eight.’
* * *
As they walked to the castle, they became aware of a commotion emanating from a nearby house. It was one of the more magnificent ones, stone-built with a tiled roof and elegant plasterwork that must have been very costly to produce. The door was new and painted purple.
‘Godeston’s colour,’ noted Bartholomew. ‘And his litter-bearers are doing all the wailing.’
Curious, they joined the crowd that was gathering outside, although they wished they had kept their distance when they found themselves to be the focus of much hostility. This was thanks to Paycock, the bailiff who had been so free with his opinions in the Bell the previous day.
‘Look here,’ he sneered, speaking loudly enough to make people turn towards him. ‘Two toadies, come to Clare in the hope of winning some of the Lady’s money. Scholars will take against us in our dispute with the castle, and so should be considered our enemies.’
‘Then we should trounce them,’ declared one of the litter-bearers. His face was swollen from the tears he had shed, and his eyes were mean. ‘Because someone from the castle murdered poor Mayor Godeston, and this pair might have done it to please her.’
‘Godeston is dead?’ asked Michael, unfazed by the threat, although Bartholomew suddenly felt vulnerable, and his hand dropped to the bag where he kept his surgical knives.
‘You know he is,’ spat the second litter-bearer, who was even more distraught than his companion. ‘Because you did it.’
There followed a furious clamour, as the crowd demanded to know why the scholars should want to deprive Clare of its most prestigious citizen. The loudest voice was Paycock’s.
‘This means war,’ he howled. ‘The castle has gone too far this time, and we will stand for it no longer. I say we send them a message – they can have these two back in pieces.’
The horde surged forward. Bartholomew whipped out a knife, although it was a puny thing, and would do nothing to make anyone think twice about attacking. Michael, however, was used to hostile mobs. He stepped forward, one hand raised in proctorly authority.
‘Stop!’ he commanded with such force that the angry charge faltered uncertainly. ‘I assure you, we have no reason to harm Mayor Godeston or anyone else in Clare. Now tell us what–’
‘Murderers!’ screeched Paycock. ‘Why pick on poor Godeston, a man who could not walk? Well, let us see how you fare with us, because we will not be such easy meat.’
There was another enraged roar, and the assault might have resumed, but suddenly the Austins were there, insinuating themselves firmly but gently between mob and scholars.
‘What seems to be the problem?’ asked Prior John, his voice full of quiet reason.
‘The castle has arranged for Mayor Godeston to be slain,’ shrieked Paycock. ‘Because he was our leading resident and they knew it would hurt us. His death cannot be allowed to pass unchallenged. We agreed not to avenge Skynere on your recommendation, Father Prior, but all it did was encourage them to slaughter someone else. Well, we will not sit quietly by a second time.’
There was a growl of agreement from those who clustered at his shoulder. Again, Bartholomew braced himself for an onslaught, but the Austins merely reinforced their cordon by standing closer together. No weapons were drawn, but it was clear from the way they stood that they would be more than capable of repelling any would-be attackers with their fists.
‘Take a deep breath,’ John instructed Paycock. ‘And then tell us what has happened properly. And quietly, if you please. We are not deaf, so there is no need to howl.’
‘They found Godeston dead this morning,’ replied Paycock, pointing at the litter-bearers with a finger that shook with passion. ‘Obviously, he was poisoned. Just like Skynere.’
‘Just like Wisbech, too,’ put in the larger of the two litter-bearers accusingly. ‘Although the priory does not care. Well, we will not ignore what has been done. The Mayor was good to me and my brother – gave us work when no one else would look at us.’
‘Because dressing up in purple and toting him around is all you are good for,’ muttered Paycock unpleasantly. ‘Idle buggers.’
‘Even if Godeston has been poisoned, why blame the scholars?’ asked John. ‘And do not say they did it to please the Lady, because she deplores bloodshed. She told me so herself.’
‘You stepped inside her filthy lair for a chat?’ demanded Paycock, angry all over again. ‘And then you come from there to here? How dare you!’
‘I dare because it is time this foolish feud was over,’ replied John sternly. ‘It is dangerous and unnecessary, and it diminishes everyone concerned. And I do not mean just physically – it endangers your souls as well. Now, let us have no more of this nonsense. Go about your business like God-fearing folk, and I shall find the truth about Godeston’s death.’
‘Why should we trust you?’ snarled Paycock.
‘Because I tell you that you can,’ replied John shortly. ‘We have never taken sides in this dispute, and nor will we – you know we are impartial. Now go away, before God loses His temper with you for breaking His peace.’
Paycock opened his mouth to argue further, but John treated him to a sharp glare, and whatever the bailiff started to say died in his throat. Without another word, he turned and slouched away. Most of the onlookers followed, although the litter-bearers and a smattering of folk with nothing else to do lingered to see what would happen next.
‘May we come inside with you, Father Prior?’ asked Michael. ‘Matt will know how Godeston died, and I mean no disrespect, but I trust his opinion more than anyone else’s.’
‘By all means,’ said John amiably.
Mayor Godeston’s fondness for purple extended all the way through his home, and virtually everything in it was of that colour. It dominated the tapestries that covered the walls, the cushions on the benches and the rugs on the floor.