‘While the real killer goes free,’ Bartholomew whispered back, ‘because I suspect Quintone was with Isabel. Katrina told me that she carries his child but he declines to marry her. What better way to avenge herself than by refusing to provide his alibi?’
‘Give me the rope, Langelee,’ ordered Lichet imperiously. ‘We have wasted enough time on this murderous villain.’
‘Wait!’ ordered the Lady irritably. ‘And be quiet, while I confer with my steward.’
There followed an obedient silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of clothes as some of the senior courtiers eased forward in the hope of catching what was being said. At first, Albon was able to drive them back with his basilisk glare, but as time ticked past this grew less effective, obliging him to draw his sword. He was openly relieved when Marishal eventually stepped away from the Lady and addressed the crowd in a clear, ringing voice.
‘Jan’s claim must be verified before Quintone is executed,’ he announced. ‘My Lady is wise. God knows, I want my wife’s killer dead, but we must ensure that the right culprit pays the price.’
‘But Jan’s claim is verified,’ objected Lichet indignantly, and brandished the document again. ‘He left written testimony of Quintone’s guilt. What more do you need?’
‘Execution is not a matter to be rushed,’ said the Lady curtly, clearly annoyed at having her decision questioned. ‘Besides, I have seen Quintone and Isabel making moon eyes at each other, so perhaps they did lie together that night. Where is she?’
There followed a brief hunt, after which Isabel was propelled forward, dragging her feet with every step, and her face streaked with tears of shame.
‘Now tell the truth,’ ordered the Lady harshly. ‘Or you will join your lover on the scaffold.’
‘He is not my lover,’ gulped Isabel in a feeble attempt at injured defiance. She swallowed hard when the Lady scowled. ‘Although he was with me that night. But we were not lying in sin.’ She flailed around for an alternative explanation when the Lady’s eyes narrowed, and relief lit her face as one occurred to her. ‘We were reading your new Book of Hours.’
‘Of course you were,’ said the Lady flatly, her acid voice cutting through the titter of amusement that rippled through the onlookers. ‘And I am a fairy.’
‘You “read” all night?’ demanded Lichet, all open incredulity. He came to loom over Isabel in an obvious attempt to intimidate her. ‘You did not part even for a moment?’
‘Well, he went to fetch some ale,’ conceded Isabel, her face scarlet with mortification. ‘We were hot and thirsty after … He was gone longer than he should have been.’
‘The jug was empty, so I had to broach a new cask,’ squawked Quintone, pale with fright. ‘But it only took a few moments. Please, Isabel! I will marry you if you tell the truth.’
Albon stepped forward, his noble visage troubled. ‘You did not mention fetching ale when I interviewed you on Friday, Quintone. Why not?’
‘Because I knew what you would think,’ whispered Quintone, slumping in defeat as his world crumbled around him. ‘But I was not gone long enough to kill anyone – just the time it takes to go to the cellar, grab a cask, roll it up to the kitchen, find a hammer to knock out the bung …’
He trailed off miserably when he saw what everyone was thinking – that there would have been ample opportunity to slip to the cistern and plant a dagger in the chests of two victims.
‘Lock him in the dungeon,’ ordered Marishal briskly. ‘Lichet, Albon and Michael will continue their enquiries, and we shall assess their findings when they are all complete.’
‘Mine are complete now,’ declared Lichet haughtily. ‘Quintone is the guilty party, and I do not need to explore the matter further. The only reason these scholars challenged my conclusions is because they want the reward.’
‘The day after tomorrow,’ said the Lady to Michael. ‘Before the Queen arrives. That is when I shall decide Quintone’s fate. So, if you really think he is innocent, you had better have another culprit ready or I shall have to accept Master Lichet’s testimony.’
Quintone howled his innocence until he and his captors entered the Oxford Tower, and were out of earshot. Then Marishal clapped his hands, ordering everyone back to work. They went reluctantly, disquieted by what had happened and not sure what to believe. Lichet was on the receiving end of angry glowers from Quintone’s friends, and there were more tears shed for Margery.
‘Lichet should watch himself,’ muttered Langelee. ‘The servants do not appreciate outsiders accusing one of their own, and he has made many enemies today. In fact, perhaps we should go home. Clare has grown far too dangerous.’
‘It is unlike you to run from trouble,’ said Bartholomew, taking in the Master’s wan face and unsteady hands. ‘Has something happened to unnerve you?’
‘Other than watching a man almost executed for a crime he did not commit?’ asked Langelee archly. ‘No, nothing at all.’
‘And what makes you so sure that Quintone is innocent?’ demanded Michael, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. ‘He lied to me as well as Albon – said he spent the night with friends in the stables. Moreover, he was one of the first to arrive when Adam raised the alarm. I do not approve of Lichet’s tactics, but it is entirely possible that he does have the right culprit.’
‘Quintone has no reason to kill Margery,’ argued Langelee. ‘No motive.’
‘How do you know?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps she tried to force him to marry Isabel. She was a good woman, and would not have condoned ungentlemanly conduct towards a vulnerable girl. Roos might have supported his kinswoman, so Quintone killed them both.’
‘No one commits murder for so paltry a reason,’ snapped Langelee.
‘Marriage is not paltry,’ averred Bartholomew fervently. ‘Believe me.’
‘Perhaps not,’ conceded Langelee, ‘but I still do not see Quintone dispatching Margery and Roos. It does not feel like the right solution. And you two agree, or you would not have helped me to prevent his execution.’
‘I do agree,’ said Bartholomew, although Michael made no reply. ‘However, if Quintone is hanged, the crime will be declared solved, and all the other suspects will be deemed innocent. That is why Lichet wants him executed without delay – so that no one will ever accuse him, even though he is likely to be the real culprit.’
‘I suppose we can continue our enquiries,’ said Michael wearily, ‘although I sense we will not have the hundred marks anyway. If you want the truth, I think we should spend the remaining time recruiting more benefactors. We have a few, but not nearly enough.’
‘I will do that,’ said Langelee briskly. ‘While you see what you can find out about the murders. And at first light tomorrow, I shall resume the hunt for Jan.’
When the Master had gone, Bartholomew saw Isabel slinking past. She was older than he had first thought, and had disguised the fact with a careful application of face paints. Her clothes were too big, clearly handed down from someone else, and there was a bitterness in her expression that suggested she knew there was no good future for her, regardless of whether or not her erstwhile lover was hanged. Michael intercepted her.
‘You and I have spoken twice now,’ he said sternly. ‘You informed me both times that you were with the Lady’s other maids at the time of the murders. You lied.’
‘So did Quintone,’ she snapped back, unrepentant. ‘He claimed he was in the stables.’