‘Have you heard any rumours about who the killer may be?’
‘The town says he is from the castle, and the castle says he is from the town. However, I can tell you that Margery’s family would never have hurt her, no matter what you might have heard about the lack of affection between them. Ella and Thomas are scamps, but there is no real harm in them, while Marishal loved her, even if he was always too busy to show it.’
‘Michael thinks that Nicholas might be the culprit,’ confided Langelee in a low voice. ‘It is outrageous, I know, but–’
‘Nicholas?’ interrupted Anne, shocked. ‘Do not be ridiculous! He is a priest. The villain is more likely to be one of you scholarly types. We never had any trouble before you lot arrived.’
‘Yes, you did,’ countered Bartholomew, unwilling to let her get away with that one. ‘Starting with Roger, and followed by Talmach, Charer, Wisbech and Skynere.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Anne. ‘I had forgotten about them. Do you want me to keep an ear out for pertinent confessions then? I will do it in exchange for a seed cake and a bottle of lavender water.’
‘Speaking of confessions,’ began Bartholomew, ‘I met Katrina de Haliwell yesterday. She told me that Suzanne–’
‘I provided a valuable service,’ interrupted Anne angrily. ‘As I told you before. And my skills are badly missed. Take Isabel Morley, for example. She is carrying Quintone’s child, but he refuses to marry her. I could have helped, but now she is condemned to bear a bastard and be shunned for the rest of her life. What a waste!’
‘I was going to say that Katrina claims it was the paroquets who screamed, not Suzanne,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She only whimpered.’
There was a short silence as this information was digested.
‘Then I am sorry for all the bad things I said about her,’ conceded Anne eventually. ‘Still, life in here has its advantages. I am warm, dry, well fed and people revere me. I cannot complain.’
They met Nicholas as they were leaving the church. He was bringing his breakfast to share with Anne – a pan of coddled eggs, good white bread, dried fruit and a dish of stewed onions. It was a good deal better than what was usually served in Michaelhouse on a Sunday, and Bartholomew saw that Anne was right to claim she was well looked after.
‘Two warriors together,’ said the vicar with an approving smile when he saw Bartholomew and Langelee. ‘A veteran of Poitiers and a soldier from York. How are you this fine morning?’
‘I am not a warrior,’ objected Bartholomew. ‘I am a physician.’
Nicholas patted his arm. ‘You can be both, and there is no need to be modest on my account. I am all admiration for the number of Frenchmen you slaughtered single-handed.’
‘There are three enquiries into the murders of Roos and Margery now,’ said Langelee, changing the subject quickly before Bartholomew could berate him again for telling lies. ‘Run by Michael, Lichet and Albon. The last two are unlikely to succeed, but our Senior Proctor is a remarkable man, and no killer has bested him yet. I should warn you that he has you in his sights.’
‘Me?’ blurted Nicholas, startled. ‘But I have not killed anyone! Well, not in Clare, at least. And I try to stay away from the castle, on the grounds that it is full of folk who I do not like.’
‘Well, do not tell him that when he questions you, or he will assume that you took the opportunity to dispatch a couple,’ advised Langelee. ‘Apparently, two Austins entered the castle at the salient time – Heselbech and one other. He thinks the mystery priest might have been you.’
‘Then he is wrong,’ said Nicholas firmly, ‘as Anne will attest. Brother Michael cannot doubt the word of a holy anchoress.’
Bartholomew knew he could.
‘Well, just be on your guard,’ said Langelee, and glanced at Bartholomew. ‘Do not look so disapproving. You remember what I was telling you about loyalty earlier? Well, that extends to telling fellow ex-warriors that they may be unjustly accused of a nasty crime.’
‘Michael will have a job to waylay me today anyway,’ said Nicholas, ‘as I shall be very busy. Not only do I have all my usual Sunday offices, but there is the scaffolding to dismantle, and Margery is due to be buried later.’
‘Buried here?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Not in the castle?’
‘The chapel is reserved for the Lady and her kin, so yes, Margery will come to me. I shall put her in the chancel – the best spot in the whole church, right in front of the altar.’
‘That is good of you,’ said Langelee. ‘But why? Because you are an Austin, dedicated to keeping the peace? Your strategy may well work: the town will be glad to see Margery in such an auspicious place, while the castle will be grateful to you for treating her remains with such respect.’
Nicholas regarded him stonily. ‘I do it because I liked her. If it had been any other castle resident, they would have gone on the boggy side of the churchyard. Prior John does not approve of my partiality, but it is the town that pays my stipend …’
‘Will there be trouble at the funeral?’ asked Langelee. ‘The town objecting to a lot of the enemy pouring into their parish church?’
‘They will overlook the outrage for Margery’s sake,’ said Nicholas. ‘She was loved by all.’
Bartholomew and Langelee returned to the priory just as Michael and the friars were emerging from their more extensive devotions in the conventual chapel. The monk’s fine voice had far outshone the manly rumbles of the Austins, and he was modestly accepting the praise they were lavishing on him for his exquisite rendition of the Gloria.
‘They should hire someone to sing for them if they cannot do it themselves,’ Michael muttered, as they traipsed towards the refectory to break their fast. ‘Because they sound like what they are – a lot of old soldiers more used to bawling tavern songs than psalms.’
‘God will not mind,’ said Langelee. ‘He likes ex-soldiers. It says so in the Bible.’
‘I am sure it does not,’ countered Michael, ‘and besides, I am not sure they are ex-soldiers. They are all wearing some form of armour under their habits, while Weste has a cudgel and Heselbech would chop off his fingers if he tried paring fruit with that great big knife in his belt.’
‘Of course they are armed,’ said Langelee impatiently. ‘Keeping the peace here is dangerous.’
‘I do not equip myself with weapons when I patrol Cambridge,’ argued Michael. ‘Their precautions are excessive. Besides, I have never been comfortable with men who take holy orders to atone for violent pasts. You never know when they might revert to type.’
Langelee glared. ‘In other words, you think that one of the Austins killed Margery and Roos, just because some watchman thinks a second friar followed Heselbech and me into the castle.’
‘I do. John, Heselbech, Weste – all look as though they would be happier in mail than a habit, and their priory is more like a barracks than a House of God. I wish I had suggested staying somewhere else.’
But he revised his opinion when he saw the Sabbath breakfast table. There was bread, plenty of meat, a whole cheese and butter – the kind of spread he loved. As a sop to health, there was a tiny dish of dried figs, although Bartholomew was the only one who ate one. It was old and stale, leading him to conclude that they had probably been making an appearance every Sunday for months, and as the friars shunned them, would continue to do so for many more to come.
As conversation was permitted that day, it was not long before the subject turned to murder. John asked for an update on the investigation, and Langelee provided him with one, ignoring the warning kicks that Michael aimed at his ankles under the table. The monk did not want to share everything they had learned.