A murmur of satisfaction rippled through the onlookers. All were delighted that Lichet’s investigation had been assessed and found lacking – and relieved that their Lady had finally started to question his opinions.
‘So who did kill Margery?’ called Ereswell.
Before Marishal could reply, there was a groan, and the pavilion suddenly collapsed in on itself, the sodden material too heavy for the inexpertly assembled poles. The squires regarded the mess in dismay, although the smirk exchanged between Thomas and Ella suggested that they had seen it coming, and may even have helped it along.
‘I want that cleared away at once,’ Marishal told them shortly. ‘And Albon taken to the chapel. Can you manage it alone, or shall I send a scullion to supervise?’
‘You should,’ said Quintone, revelling in the role of a man who has been publicly acquitted. ‘Because they are useless.’
Not surprisingly, one man was particularly outraged by Quintone’s release. Within moments, Lichet hurtled from his quarters in the Cistern Tower, where Ereswell had taken great pleasure in breaking the news to him, and stormed across the bailey towards the steward.
‘Are you mad?’ he demanded. ‘To release the villain who slaughtered your wife?’
‘Quintone is not the culprit,’ replied Marishal, eyeing him in rank disdain. ‘I should have known that the only way to find the truth was to investigate for myself.’
‘Quintone is guilty,’ said Lichet between gritted teeth. ‘And you will look a fool when you are forced to recant.’
The argument swayed back and forth, and Quintone prudently took the opportunity to slink away, no doubt afraid that Lichet would win, and he would find himself with a noose around his neck again. Bartholomew went in search of Michael and found him in the hall, grazing on the cakes that had been set out for the few retainers who had time to eat one.
‘Did you learn anything helpful today, Brother?’ Bartholomew asked. ‘I did not, other than that Margery and Roos could have screamed at the tops of their voices from inside the cistern, and no one would have heard them, not even if they were right by the door.’
Michael shuddered. ‘That is an unpleasant thought – that they howled for rescue as the killer attacked them in that terrible place. And I am afraid the only new thing I discovered came from Isabel Morley, whose father was a soldier.’
‘Not an old comrade of Prior John and his cronies?’
Michael nodded. ‘Apparently, something happened to make the whole lot of them decide to end their brutish lifestyles, although he never told her what. Unfortunately, he is dead now, so we cannot ask him.’
Bartholomew frowned. ‘So this is useful how, exactly?’
‘It proves that the Austins are men with dubious pasts, and three of them – John, Nicholas and Heselbech – are on our list of suspects. When we know what they did to necessitate them taking holy orders, we may have answers about the murders.’
Bartholomew regarded the monk uncertainly. ‘I am not sure that follows. And besides, how can we find out, if the source of the information is dead? By asking the friars themselves? I do not see that taking us very far.’
‘It will not. However, according to Isabel, John kept documents about it, so we shall engage in a little burglary tonight. Or rather, you will. I shall stand outside and keep watch.’
‘No,’ said Bartholomew, unwilling to employ that sort of tactic against ex-warriors with deadly pasts. ‘You can do it while I keep watch.’
Michael shot him a sour look, but his reply was drowned out by the burgeoning quarrel between Marishal and Lichet.
‘You will not have the Lady’s hundred marks,’ Marishal was informing him sharply. ‘Not for Quintone. If you want the money, you must produce a credible suspect and proper evidence – not the brazen forgery you presented yesterday.’
‘It was not a forgery,’ declared Lichet, outraged. ‘It was genuine. But I would not expect a man of your low intellect to–’
He stopped speaking abruptly when Marishal took a threatening step towards him. Realising that he had gone too far, he bowed curtly and stalked away. Several courtiers gave a spontaneous cheer, but it petered out when Marishal glared at them as well, and they hastened back to their duties before he could load them with more.
‘So who is the killer?’ asked Michael, catching the steward’s arm as he strode past. ‘Have you solved the case, and I am wasting my time by persisting with my questions?’
Marishal smiled thinly. ‘I have my suspicions. All I need is the evidence to prove them.’
‘We have suspicions, too,’ said Michael. ‘And I am afraid they include your son and daughter, who cannot prove where they were at the time of the murders. Are they on your list, too?’
Marishal regarded him steadily. ‘If Thomas and Ella conspired to murder Margery, I will hang them myself. You seem shocked, Brother. Why? Margery was my wife, and I loved her more than life itself. The twins … well, she gave birth to them, but neither looks like me.’
Michael raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Is this a new thought, or one that has been festering for a while?’
Marishal glanced around to ensure that no one else could hear. ‘Ever since they were born, which was roughly nine months after Roos had been especially persistent with his attentions. She never said anything, but I knew my wife …’
Bartholomew regarded him askance. ‘Are you saying that Roos was their father?’
Marishal shrugged and looked away. ‘It would explain why they have yellow hair, just like his when he was younger. Mine was – and still is – black.’
‘Margery had gold hair,’ Bartholomew pointed out gently. ‘Perhaps they got it from her.’
Marishal’s face was impossible to read. ‘Well, we shall never know, now that both of them have gone. The Lady wants to see you, by the way. She is in the Oxford Tower with her birds. Do not keep her waiting.’
‘He does think they killed Margery,’ murmured Michael as they hurried across the bailey. ‘Lord! I should not like to be in his shoes. He must be a soul in torment.’
‘Is he? There is no love lost between him and the twins, and he told us himself that he was too busy to bother with their upbringing. Now we know why: the sight of them was a constant reminder of the suspicion that his beloved had been with another man.’
The Lady was disappointed when Michael confessed that he had made scant progress with his enquiries that day, although it was difficult to converse, as Grisel was flying between his perch and her head, which she found far more entertaining than anything the monk had to say. Katrina was laughing, a sound that the bird mimicked with disconcerting accuracy. Bartholomew found himself wondering why no one had offered to marry her. She was pretty, intelligent and had a sense of humour, which were advantages that far outweighed her lack of money, in his opinion.
‘I had high hopes when Master Donwich bragged to me about the Senior Proctor’s superior investigative talents,’ the Lady scolded. ‘And I was sure Michaelhouse was going to have my hundred marks. Indeed, it was why I offered such an enormous sum – so it would go to a worthy cause. You have let me and your College down, Brother.’
‘Do not give up on me just yet,’ said Michael stiffly, disliking the censure. ‘These matters cannot be rushed. And if you do not believe me, then look at Lichet: he made a precipitous announcement, and now he must live with the ignominy of being wrong.’
‘Yes and no,’ said the Lady. ‘He continues to swear that the document he found is genuine, and has promised to bring additional proof of Quintone’s guilt tomorrow. So you must hurry, Brother, because I do not want him to have my money.’
‘Why not?’ asked Bartholomew, bemused. ‘I thought you liked him.’