‘God the Queen save,’ cawed Grisel, bobbing up and down. ‘Down bring the van hold.’
Bartholomew and Michael found Heselbech in the castle chapel, kneeling by Margery’s coffin. It was draped in rose-coloured velvet, and surrounded by pots of wild flowers. The muddy footprints that trailed to it from the door suggested that a large number of people had already been in to pay their respects.
‘Her funeral is in an hour,’ said Heselbech shortly, glancing up at the two scholars, but declining to rise. ‘And I am ordered to conduct it, so I cannot talk now. I must prepare.’
‘Do you mind taking Nicholas’s place?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Knowing it will cause resentment among the townsfolk?’
‘Of course I mind,’ snapped Heselbech. ‘It is a stupid decision. Lichet’s no doubt, as the Lady seems to listen to every damn fool word that spills from the fellow’s mouth.’
‘Perform the rite together,’ suggested Bartholomew. ‘Then you cannot be accused of disobeying orders, and Nicholas’s pride will remain intact. It might ease the situation.’
‘Or make it worse,’ grumbled Heselbech. ‘The town will complain that he had an inferior role, while the castle will think that he refused to let me do my duty. But it is worth a try, I suppose. If we can put on a show of unity …’
‘It is worth a try,’ insisted Michael. ‘Or you may find yourself officiating over a brawl.’
‘Very well.’ Heselbech turned back to the coffin. ‘Now please leave me alone.’
‘Just one quick question: why did you lie about sleeping all through nocturns on the night of the murder? We know you did nothing of the kind.’
It was not quite what Katrina had reported, or what Bartholomew had told Michael, but the bluff made Heselbech’s eyes widen in alarm.
‘Says who?’ he demanded.
‘This castle is home to three hundred people,’ Michael told him sternly. ‘It is impossible to do anything without being seen. So what happened? You slept while Weste prayed, but then something woke you and you went outside. What was it?’
‘A call of nature,’ replied Heselbech shortly. ‘We rarely drink to excess nowadays, so I am out of practice. That is what roused me. Then I came back in and nodded off again. Your witness will confirm that I was out only for the time it took me to relieve myself.’
Michael glanced at Bartholomew, who shrugged to say it was possible – Heselbech might have snored to begin with, but had fallen silent after he had made himself comfortable.
‘So what did you see out there?’ pressed Michael. ‘Or rather, who?’
‘A shadow,’ replied Heselbech reluctantly. ‘By the Cistern Tower, although I thought nothing of it at the time. Why would I? As you said, there are three hundred souls here, and there is always someone wandering about, even in the dead of night.’
‘But you recognised the person, of course,’ said Bartholomew, watching him closely. ‘As chaplain, you know everyone here. So who was it?’
‘I could not tell – just someone in a cloak. His hood was up, because it was raining, so I did not see his face. All that I can tell you is that he ran away from the cistern.’
‘In other words,’ said Michael harshly, ‘you saw the killer and decided not to mention it. Why would you do such a thing?’
‘We cannot know it was the killer,’ said Heselbech defensively. ‘Not for certain.’
‘Of course we can.’ Michael was angry and exasperated. ‘Who else would be racing away from the scene of the crime at the salient time? So what more can you tell us about the villain, other than that he wore a cloak?’
‘Nothing. It was only a fleeting glimpse, and I was drunk.’
‘But it was definitely a man?’ pressed Bartholomew.
Heselbech nodded. ‘It was too large for a woman, and the gait was masculine. But he was too far away for me to notice anything else – and it was very dark.’
‘But you must remember something useful!’ cried Michael. ‘This is the man who slaughtered Margery and an innocent scholar, and you saw him. Surely you want him brought to justice?’
‘Of course I do,’ snapped Heselbech crossly. ‘But there is nothing more I can tell you. I wish there were – Margery was a good woman, and the castle will be poorer without her – but all I had was a quick glimpse of a cloaked figure haring away into the night.’
‘Was it Quintone?’ asked Bartholomew, unwilling to give up. ‘Or Bonde?’
‘Not Quintone – someone bigger. But I cannot talk now. I have a saint to bury.’
‘He knows more than he is saying,’ growled Michael, as he and Bartholomew left the chapel. ‘He is holding something back.’
‘Holding what back, though? The identity of the killer?’
‘I think he is telling the truth about not seeing the man’s face, but it is patently obvious that he has his suspicions about the culprit’s identity – he saw enough to be sure it was not Quintone, which means he witnessed more than he is prepared to admit. I shall tackle him again later. Perhaps the funeral of one of the victims will prompt him to do the right thing.’
‘There is another possibility,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Namely that he is the culprit.’
‘Yes,’ said Michael softly. ‘It had crossed my mind.’
The parish church was packed to overflowing and the atmosphere was tense, particularly at the front of the nave, where wealthy merchants jockeyed with courtiers for the best places. There was a buzz of agitated conversation, most of it revolving around the fact that the Lady had slighted Nicholas by refusing to let him conduct a ceremony in his own domain. The townsfolk were livid, and the castle people were smugly delighted, an attitude that promised to cause yet more bad feeling.
But Clare’s feuding factions flew from Bartholomew’s mind when he entered the church. The scaffolding had been removed from the chancel – although the nave was still full of it – allowing him his first real glimpse of the finished ceiling. It was even more glorious than he had anticipated, and all he could do was gaze upwards in admiration, until Michael brought him back to Earth with an irritable pinch.
‘You are supposed to be watching our suspects and witnesses, not gawping like a halfwit,’ he hissed. ‘Or do you want to return home and tell our colleagues that Michaelhouse will close at the end of the year, because we failed to win that hundred marks?’
Bartholomew dragged his eyes from the splendours of Cambrug’s creation, and fixed them on those who were assembling below it instead.
Albon had arrived with the squires. He removed his beautiful hat with an elegant flourish, and strode to the rood screen, his bearing regal. Paycock stepped forward with the obvious intention of preventing him from taking a place so near the front, but the squires were quick to form a protective cordon around their hero. Thomas was with them, and Bartholomew could not help but notice that the others stood closer to him than to Nuport, who alone had refused to exchange his outlandish clothes for ones that were more suitable for the sombre occasion.
Ella was with her father, whose face was pale and waxy. He was clutching her arm almost desperately, but she was more interested in nodding greetings to the people she knew. Clearly, providing filial comfort was not high on her list of priorities that day. The Lady was behind them, leaning on Lichet’s shoulder for support. When Ereswell tried to speak to her, the Red Devil shoved him back, which drew smirks from the watching townsfolk, particularly Grym, who was resplendent in robes of pale green and gold that gave him the appearance of a large pear.