At that moment, Weste hurried up to report that Nuport and his cronies were in the market square, where they had entered the shop of a vintner and removed a cask of wine.
‘They say they will pay later, but we all know they will not,’ said Weste. ‘They have heard that the Mayor is dead, and think the town will be in too much disarray to take issue with them. But the likes of Paycock will not stand by meekly …’
‘No,’ agreed John, his face creased with concern. ‘We shall have our hands full today if we are to prevent a bloodbath.’
‘I hope our peace-keeping duties will not interfere with our religious obligations,’ muttered Weste unhappily. ‘I have a lot of atoning to do. I cannot afford to miss offices.’
‘I know,’ said John kindly, then addressed the scholars. ‘So if anyone asks you about Godeston, please keep your suspicions to yourselves. Lives and immortal souls depend on it.’
‘But someone did kill him,’ argued Michael. ‘An old man who could barely walk. Feeding him the kind of poison that takes hours to work was despicable and cannot go unpunished.’
‘Leave vengeance to the Lord,’ ordered John. ‘He knows what he is doing – more than you.’
‘Is that why you chose to ignore what happened to Wisbech?’ demanded Michael. ‘If so, it was a mistake. It left the killer free to claim other victims, which has made the situation worse. How many more people must die before you act?’
‘We are acting,’ growled Weste, his one eye cold and angry. ‘We are busily ensuring that eight deaths do not become eighty.’
John rubbed a gnarled hand over his shiny pate and sighed. ‘Yet you have a point about stopping the killer, Brother, so investigate if you must. However, I recommend that you stay away from Godeston’s death – first, because the town will not appreciate you meddling, and second, because you may put yourselves in danger.’
‘And we may not be on hand to rescue you next time,’ added Weste, a little threateningly.
‘If you want my opinion about Roos and Margery,’ said John, more conciliatory than his cofferer, ‘it is that someone from the town killed them. That means the guards let the culprit through the gate, so speak to them about it.’
‘Unfortunately, the guard was Bonde,’ said Michael harshly, ‘who has now disappeared.’
‘Bonde did not watch the gate on his own,’ said John. ‘Others would have been with him, so talk to Richard the watchman. He has a keen eye for detail, which I know because he was once one of my patrolmen. He will answer your questions if you tell him that I sent you.’
Richard the watchman was just finishing work when the scholars arrived, and was enjoying a meal with his friends. He was a solid, dependable man with a neat beard, an ancient but well-maintained leather jerkin, and weapons that were carefully honed. He refused to speak to Michael and Bartholomew at first, but capitulated immediately when they said they had been sent by Prior John. He set down his spoon and took them to a stable, where they could talk in private.
‘Good man, John,’ he declared. ‘I would follow him anywhere. Well, other than into holy orders. A number of my comrades have found solace along that path, but it is not for me. I prefer to take my comfort in the arms of a woman. And do not suggest doing both, because John disapproves of those who break sacred vows. He considers it the worst of all sins.’
Michael changed the subject quickly, as his own views on chastity were rather more fluid than his Order allowed. ‘We came to ask who visited the castle on Thursday night. We know money exchanged hands, but we do not care about that. We just want a list of names.’
‘The squires and Bonde came in at about midnight,’ replied Richard, so promptly that it was obvious that he had already given the matter some serious thought. ‘Most trooped off to bed, and Bonde joined us at the gate a bit later. Then there were the two priests. The first was Heselbech, with Langelee holding him up. The second came in a few moments later, on his own.’
‘Which priest?’ asked Michael. ‘Nicholas?’
‘He had his hood up, so I never saw his face. It was definitely a friar, though. Not only did he wear an Austin’s cloak and cowl, but I could tell he was a priest because of the way he walked. They tend to glide when they are on their way to holy offices. You must have noticed.’
‘Not really,’ said Bartholomew, sure Michael could not ‘glide’ to save his life. ‘Who else?’
‘Just Jan the hermit, who likes to prowl the castle after dark. And Philip de Jevan, of course, but you already know that. I wondered how long it would take before you made the connection.’
Michael and Bartholomew exchanged a blank look. ‘What connection?’ asked the monk.
‘The connection between Saer de Roos and Philip de Jevan – that they are one and the same,’ replied Richard, then frowned. ‘You mean you did not know and I have just blurted it out?’
‘Of course we knew,’ lied Bartholomew, struggling to mask his surprise as realisation dawned. He turned to Michael. ‘Because of Weste and the Devil he painted in his Book of Hours. He told us it was Jevan, but the face was oddly familiar. Of course it was – it was Roos.’
And Roos had prevented him from studying it more closely by throwing it on the fire. Bartholomew had managed to pull the book from the flames, but not before the incriminating page had been burned out. The moment he saw it was safely destroyed, Roos had calmly walked away.
‘That cannot be right, Matt,’ said Michael doubtfully. ‘Someone would have addressed Roos as Jevan or vice versa. But no one did, and everyone here claims he was a stranger.’
‘But we have already guessed why no one recognised him,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘He donned a disguise. White whiskers probably, if Weste’s picture was anything to judge by.’
Richard nodded. ‘They were total opposites. Jevan was always immaculate, with snowy hair and a nice bushy beard. Roos was scruffy, with a nasty old cap and dirty clothes.’
‘But you saw through the ruse?’ Michael asked, still far from convinced. ‘How?’
‘I am a watchman – it is my business to see people for what they are. I knew Roos was Jevan because of the eyes. I recognised him when you arrived together on Wednesday, and I recognised him again when he came to the gate the night he died and paid us to let him pass.’
‘Who else knew?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Bonde?’
Richard nodded. ‘And the other guards. The Lady and Marishal are in on the secret as well, of course, as was Mistress Marishal. It has been going on for years – fourteen, in fact. I remember because Jevan … I mean Roos joined the council at about the same time as I became a watchman.’
‘Roos pretended to be another person for fourteen years?’ breathed Michael in disbelief. ‘But that is impossible! The truth would have leaked out long ago.’
‘Why?’ shrugged Richard. ‘He was Jevan here and Roos in Cambridge. It was perfectly straightforward – until this week, when Roos arrived in “Jevan’s” domain.’
‘Do you remember the purple silk that “Jevan” brought for Godeston?’ asked Bartholomew of Michael. ‘He told him that it came from London, but you pointed out that my sister sells it at home. We shall ask her when we get back, but I wager anything you like that she sold a piece to Roos.’
‘But Roos hated Clare and the Lady,’ objected Michael. ‘And now you expect me to believe that he donned a wig and a false beard and sat on her council? With her connivance?’
Richard shrugged again. ‘It is what happened.’
‘Do you know if Roos and Margery Marishal were kin?’ asked Bartholomew.
Richard considered. ‘Well, they shared some bond, because she was always the one who came to greet him when he arrived.’