‘I agree that Jan knows the killer’s identity,’ said Michael. ‘Or rather knew, given that I doubt he is still alive. But I am not sure the culprit is Bonde. There are still others to consider.’
‘Who?’ asked Langelee tiredly. ‘I keep losing track, because they are on and off the list like jumping fleas.’
Michael began to list them. ‘First, Nicholas. I know you are all admiration for him, Master, because he is hearty, strong and decisive, but I cannot take to him at all. There is something sinister beneath that bluff exterior.’
‘You doubtless say the same about me,’ retorted Langelee. ‘But you would be wrong.’
‘You are not artful enough to be sinister,’ said Michael, and hurried on before Langelee realised that was no great compliment. ‘Then there are Marishal, his twins, Lichet, Bonde, Albon and Grym. Not Badew and Harweden, though – they could never have gained access to the castle.’
He did not mention that Prior John was also a suspect, for the simple reason that Langelee would disagree, and he did not want to waste time arguing about it.
‘I thought we had decided that Grym was too fat to squeeze down the cistern steps,’ said Langelee. ‘You only just made it, and he is much stouter than you.’
Michael eyed him beadily. ‘He is a suspect for killing Godeston, on the grounds that he likes to dispense hemlock for medicinal purposes, which Matt says is a risky thing to do. Of course, Lichet uses it, too …’
‘He does,’ agreed Bartholomew, rather eagerly. ‘And perhaps there is a good reason why he has kept Marishal asleep for two days – namely that he killed the man’s wife.’
Langelee frowned. ‘Are we looking into Mayor Godeston’s murder now as well? I thought John told us to leave that to him.’
‘He did,’ said Michael, ‘but the Lady wants all the suspicious deaths investigated and she charged us to do it. I have no objection, though. Godeston’s curious death follows five others, and it is possible that we may only have answers when we look at the whole picture.’
‘How will we do that?’ asked Langelee helplessly.
‘By re-questioning witnesses, starting with you. You were in the castle when Roos and Margery were killed. You must remember something to help.’
Langelee looked pained. ‘All I recall is lugging Heselbech to the chapel for nocturns – which he never celebrated because he was too drunk.’
‘But he did celebrate it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Katrina was there, and she heard him.’
Langelee shrugged. ‘Then he must have managed to rouse himself after I left. I did not notice her, though. Did she see me?’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘She said you were coming out as she was going in.’
‘You must be losing your touch, Master,’ said Michael wryly. ‘You do not usually neglect to notice pretty women. Or shall we just put it down to how much you had had to drink?’
Langelee regarded him archly. ‘The strain of running a foundering College must be depriving me of the ability to enjoy life.’ He was silent for a while, thinking. ‘Perhaps Roos killed Margery because he was irked with her for dragging him to Clare under false pretences.’
‘And then what?’ asked Michael. ‘Stabbed himself and threw his own body in the water?’
‘I suppose it is unlikely. But he was a vile man. Only vermin betray their friends – Badew and Harweden trusted him, and he repaid them with treachery. You should find out when he was last in Clare – see if his presence corresponds to the other suspicious deaths.’
‘I did,’ said Michael. ‘And it did not.’
Langelee looked disappointed. ‘Then the culprit must be Lichet. He is not a good man either.’
‘No,’ agreed Bartholomew keenly.
‘The Lady’s courtiers certainly do not like him,’ said Michael. ‘They told me that he does sit with her while she sleeps, but he comes and goes at will. Thus he cannot prove where he was at the time of the murders – which took place in the tower where he lives.’
‘Albon believes Lichet’s alibi, though,’ mused Langelee. ‘Of course, he suspects that the killer is a squire, and thinks that quiet, godly patience will shame the culprit into a confession. He was still sitting in the bailey when I left last night. What an ass!’
At that moment, the priory bell began to ring, summoning the friars to prime in their chapel. Michael became businesslike, standing and rubbing his hands together purposefully.
‘Right,’ he said, glancing one last time in the mirror to ensure that every hair was in its proper place. ‘As soon as we have fulfilled our religious obligations, we will talk to Marishal.’
‘What if Lichet has dosed him with more soporific?’ asked Langelee.
‘We must prevent that if we can,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Keeping healthy patients asleep for days on end will do them no good whatsoever.’
‘When we have finished with Marishal,’ Michael went on, ‘we shall set about finding the mysterious priest who entered the castle after Langelee and Heselbech.’
‘If it was a priest,’ cautioned Bartholomew. ‘It was too dark to see properly, and while you are prepared to accept the watchman’s testimony, I think that his claim about religious men gliding to their offices is preposterous. You are a monk, but you cannot glide.’
‘Of course I can,’ objected Michael, stung. ‘I just choose not to.’
* * *
Michael attended Mass in the priory, but Bartholomew and Langelee went to the parish church instead. Langelee thought the office there would be shorter, and he hated being inactive for too long, while the physician wanted another opportunity to study the fan vaulting. Unfortunately, much of the scaffolding still remained in place, so its true glory was yet to be revealed.
‘It will never be ready in time for the Queen,’ predicted Langelee. ‘Nicholas was too ambitious, and should have given himself another week.’
‘I am looking forward to meeting Cambrug,’ said Bartholomew, but then sighed ruefully. ‘Although he will probably be far too busy to bother with the likes of me.’
‘Well, if he does deign to acknowledge you, ask about those cracks,’ said Langelee, peering upwards. ‘I do not want to be crushed by falling masonry during this ceremony, and it would be good to know if we should stand in the south aisle instead. That has a much more sensible ceiling.’
At that point, Nicholas jangled his handbell and the service began. It was not well attended, and Anne could be heard throughout, issuing instructions to him through the squint. At one point, Bartholomew and Langelee exchanged an amused grin, but soon wished they had not.
‘It is unbecoming to smirk during Mass,’ came her admonishing voice. ‘You should be heartily ashamed of yourselves.’
‘It was one quick smile,’ objected Langelee, moving towards her cell so she would not be obliged to yell. A few of the sparse congregation were men he had approached for donations, and he did not want them to think him impious. ‘And what gives you the right to berate us anyway? You are more interested in telling the vicar his job than saying your own prayers.’
‘I would be a poor anchoress if I did not involve myself in religious affairs,’ retorted Anne. ‘And advising Nicholas is how I choose to do it. But never mind that. Do you have any interesting news? It is frustrating, being shut in here with no way to find out what is going on outside.’
Langelee considered carefully. ‘Well, we are worried about the hermit – that he saw the killer, and has been dispatched in his turn.’
‘Then I shall pray for his soul,’ said Anne. ‘Although he was a worthless fellow, and Clare will be much nicer without him. He did not wash, you know. Margery was always good to him, but I do not know how she stood the stench.’