‘Greeted him how?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Warmly?’
‘No, not warmly, but familiarly. Like I might greet a mother-in-law if I had one.’
‘So he came here four times a year?’ asked Michael, still sceptical.
‘Yes, for council meetings, which are held every Quarter Day. The last one was in March, and he was not due again until June. However, I can tell you for a fact that Mistress Marishal wrote and asked him to come early, because she told me to expect him.’ Richard smiled fondly. ‘She could write, you know – and she taught me.’
‘Did she?’ asked Michael, astonished anew. ‘Why?’
‘Because there is nothing much to do as a watchman during long winter nights, but I love the stars and she offered to lend me books on astronomy, if I learned to read them. She was a sweet woman, too good for this world.’
Michael showed him the letters they had found in Roos’s quarters. ‘Are these from her?’
Richard took them from him, handling them almost reverently. ‘Yes – I would recognise her hand anywhere. But wait! This one says the Lady is dead! Why would she …’
‘To make sure Roos would come,’ explained Bartholomew. ‘Which means she must have had some very urgent reason for the lie. Do you know what it might have been?’
‘No, but I saw her go to Roos straight away on Wednesday and start talking. I did not hear what passed between them, but she seemed very upset afterwards, while he was angry.’
‘What about the night they died?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Was she waiting for him then?’
‘Not that I saw.’
‘Did you follow him after you let him inside?’
‘No, why would I? He was a member of the Lady’s council, and Mistress Marishal had asked him to visit. They trusted him, so I felt I could, too.’
Bartholomew and Michael left the castle and aimed for the Bell Inn, to tell Badew and Harweden what they had discovered about their erstwhile friend. The two old men had had a night to reflect on Roos’s antics, and the monk was hopeful that hindsight might have shaken loose some new information. It was raining again, although Clare’s roads were so well drained and free of potholes that Bartholomew’s feet remained quite dry inside his leaky old boots.
‘I wish we had guessed this Jevan–Roos connection sooner,’ muttered Michael. ‘We should have known that there was a reason for his peculiar reaction to Pulham’s Book of Hours.’
‘We might have done, if we had studied the illustration more closely,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But now I think about it, Weste’s Satan did have Roos’s eyes. He is a remarkable artist.’
They did not have far to go, because Badew and Harweden had joined the spectators outside Godeston’s house, all waiting to watch the Mayor’s body carried to the church. Bartholomew was glad when no one spared him and Michael more than a glance as they eased through the throng, although he was alarmed by the anger directed against the castle.
‘I hope Prior John is good at quelling spats,’ murmured Michael, looking around uneasily. ‘Because there will be one before long. The mood is ugly, and set to grow worse.’
Just as they reached the Swinescroft men, there was a sudden stir and Godeston was toted out. His litter-bearers had evidently decided that he should make his final journey in style, so they had strapped him into a sitting position and draped him with purple blankets – although not the piece of silk that he had stipulated.
He swayed alarmingly as he was borne along, and Bartholomew was not the only one who feared he might topple off. So did Grym, who did his best to steady his old friend, but even the stately pace set by the brothers was too fast for the portly barber, who huffed and panted as he struggled to keep up. A number of town worthies fell into line behind them, including Paycock, who was muttering darkly about another murder of a good man by castle rowdies.
‘You should not be out on the streets,’ Michael told Badew and Harweden, once the body had gone. ‘Matt and I were almost attacked earlier. You will be safer indoors.’
‘Then escort us back to the Bell,’ instructed Badew curtly. ‘And while we walk, you can tell us about your progress regarding the murder of … that person.’
‘Roos,’ said Harweden, willing to spit out the name, even if Badew could not.
Michael obliged, outlining as many details as he could about Roos’s double life. Badew and Harweden listened with increasing horror.
‘I do not believe you,’ breathed Badew when the monk had finished. ‘You are making it up.’
‘It is too incredible a tale for me to have invented,’ said Michael soberly. ‘Indeed, I am still coming to terms with it myself. But you knew nothing of it? No inkling at all?’
‘No, of course not,’ replied Harweden, patently stunned. ‘I suspected some affiliation between him and Margery, as you know, but him being a member of the Lady’s privy council all these years? It cannot be possible!’
‘It feels like a bad dream,’ said Badew in a small voice, and for the first time, Bartholomew felt sorry for him. ‘I keep hoping that I will wake up.’
‘Godeston’s litter-bearers hope he will wake up, too,’ said Harweden grimly, nodding to where both boys wept copiously as they delivered their erstwhile employer to Nicholas. ‘I hear that they are good for nothing else, and will avenge his murder if it kills them.’
‘Then we shall take the Senior Proctor’s advice and remain inside the Bell until it is time for us to leave,’ determined Badew. ‘With our door locked. We should never have come to this terrible place. Damn Roos for his treachery!’
When they had seen the two old men to their chamber, Bartholomew and Michael turned back to the castle, aiming to interview the Marishal clan. They took a detour through the churchyard to avoid a large throng of townsfolk, which allowed them to be hailed by a familiar voice.
‘Poor Godeston,’ called Anne, as they passed her window. ‘He was a pompous old fool, but he did not deserve to die. Personally, I think the Austins did it. It explains why they are now going around telling everyone that he died of natural causes, when his servants say he was poisoned.’
‘John has made a serious tactical error,’ murmured Michael to Bartholomew. ‘He should never have tried to hide the truth with lies.’
‘They think more about their oaths of loyalty to each other than they do about justice or truth,’ Anne went on resentfully. ‘They would certainly kill to protect one another, even if it means war between the town and the castle.’
‘I disagree,’ said Bartholomew. ‘As far as I can see, everything they have done is to one end: to avert trouble.’
Including, he thought but did not say, declining to avenge the death of one of their own – a man who certainly would have been included in their controversial vows of solidarity.
Anne sniffed huffily. ‘Dismiss my opinions if you will, but you will see.’
‘Do you believe her, Matt?’ asked Michael, as he and Bartholomew left the churchyard. ‘That the killer may be a friar?’
Bartholomew was not sure what to think. ‘It is possible, I suppose. Richard the watchman did say that he let two of them through the gate at the salient time – Heselbech, which Langelee can confirm, and one other.’
‘Well, there are John and Heselbech now,’ said Michael, nodding across the street. ‘We shall ask them which of their brethren went out. Of course, we know one who was abroad, and who probably did not say nocturns in his church as he claims – Nicholas.’
‘Yet anyone can don a cloak with a hood, and pretend to be an Austin,’ mused Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps it was an imposter, and the friars are innocent.’