‘Of course I do not like him,’ barked the Lady impatiently. ‘I keep him at my side because my courtiers had started to take my largesse for granted, and I wanted to shake them out of their complacency by feigning fondness for a grasping stranger. It worked – my people have never been more attentive. I shall be able to dismiss the Red Devil soon, and good riddance.’
Bartholomew stared at her, stunned that she should be so calculating. Then he reconsidered. She had ruled a large estate for decades, which she could not have done without a certain degree of ruthlessness. Old and ailing she might be, but there was still a core of steel in the Lady of Clare.
‘Bring the hold down van,’ suggested Grisel. ‘God save the Queen.’
‘So what will you do now?’ asked the Lady. ‘Other than wait to see if Master Langelee can bring the hermit and Bonde home to answer your questions?’
‘We have a number of leads to follow tonight,’ lied Michael, ducking as Grisel swooped past his tonsure. ‘And a wealth of information to sift through. Be assured, madam, we are a long way from being defeated yet.’
‘Then let us hope your hubris is not misplaced, because I want this killer caught before the Queen comes. I intend to enjoy her arrival and the rededication ceremony without worrying about murderers popping out of the woodwork to spoil everything.’
‘Down the van bring hold,’ said Grisel. ‘Ha ha ha.’
The Lady stroked the bird’s soft feathers. ‘Perhaps we should have let you investigate instead, Grisel. You have more sense than all the rest of them put together.’
It was pitch dark by the time Bartholomew and Michael ran out of people to interview, and with a sense of bitter frustration, they began to make their way back to the priory. Lights spilled from the houses they passed, and as many owners were wealthy enough to afford glass, the two scholars could see inside to where families and servants were settling down for evening meals and entertainment. Paycock was holding forth to a table of nodding men in one, his fierce expression suggesting that whatever he was saying, it was nothing temperate.
Bartholomew was uneasy, wishing they had done what Langelee had ordered and asked the watchmen to escort them back to the priory. Michael had demurred, wanting to use the time to discuss what they had learned without interested ears flapping.
‘And what have we learned?’ Bartholomew demanded, weariness turning him curt. ‘Nothing, despite our best efforts. And now time has run out, because we leave tomorrow. We have failed – failed Michaelhouse, failed the Lady, and failed Margery and Roos.’
‘Not yet,’ said Michael stubbornly, although exhaustion edged his voice, too. ‘There are a few hours left to us, and I am not giving up until every last one of them has expired. Besides, we might strike gold tonight, when you search John’s house for these documents. I hope he does not keep a servant, because we cannot afford to have you caught.’
‘I will not be caught,’ replied Bartholomew firmly. ‘For the simple reason that I am not going. You can do it. Do not worry – I will distract John while you are inside.’
‘But I do not trust you to keep him busy,’ objected Michael, alarmed. ‘And what if it entails squeezing through a window? I might get stuck, and where will that leave us?’
‘In a very embarrassing position,’ acknowledged Bartholomew. ‘So you had better stick to using doors instead.’
The monk did his best to persuade him to change his mind, but Bartholomew was adamant, so in the end it was Michael who crept through the shadows to the Prior’s House. The physician went to the refectory, where he gave the Austins an account of the investigation to date. Unfortunately, as he had little new to report, it was difficult to keep their attention, and he lost count of the times that John stood to leave, obliging him to gabble like a lunatic to make him sit down again. By the time a lamp went on in the guesthouse – the sign that Michael was back – Bartholomew was ready to weep with relief.
‘You are no raconteur,’ said John, eyeing him balefully. ‘I could have summarised your discoveries in a few short sentences, and your loquaciousness does not say much for the University’s rules on brevity.’
Bartholomew aimed for the door, eager to be away from him, but bumped into Heselbech on the threshold. The chaplain was returning from the castle, where he had just recited evening prayers.
‘Weste and Langelee are still out,’ he reported worriedly. ‘I hope they have not run into difficulties. They should have been home by now.’
‘If they are not back by morning, we shall send out a search party,’ determined John. ‘There is no point in doing it now, not in the dark. Shall we pray for their safety?’
He led the way to the chapel, leaving Bartholomew to return to the guesthouse alone. The physician’s head ached from tension and his hands shook. He opened the door to their room, where he saw that Michael had washed, shaved, changed into a nightgown, and set his damp clothes by the fire to dry.
‘Oh, I see,’ he said heavily. ‘You finished your search ages ago, but did not light the lamp until you felt like it. That was unkind.’
‘I forgot,’ lied Michael airily. ‘But we both wasted our time, I am afraid. I did find the documents, and they were about past misdeeds, but they pertain to illicit relationships with married women – it seems the Austins sired half the children in the county before swearing their vows of chastity.’
Bartholomew was disgusted that he had put himself through such an ordeal for nothing. ‘I suppose it explains why they are so keen to redeem themselves with pious behaviour, but you are right – the discovery does not help us.’
‘I did find one thing of note, though,’ the monk went on. ‘A recent letter from Margery, in which she expressed a wish to leave a large manor to the priory and promising to amend her will accordingly. Unfortunately, she died before she could do it, which makes it unlikely that the Austins killed her – including Nicholas, who was to have been paid a princely sum for drafting the deed of transfer.’
‘Then why did they not tell us?’ demanded Bartholomew, exasperated.
‘Probably because none of them realise how close they are to the top of the list,’ sighed Michael. ‘I imagine they would have done, if they had.’
‘Nicholas did,’ argued Bartholomew. ‘You told him.’
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But I have a feeling that he dislikes me as much as I dislike him, so he is perfectly happy for me to waste my time barking up the wrong tree. He is the kind of man to care more about spiteful vengeance than catching a killer.’
‘Well, look on the bright side,’ sighed Bartholomew. ‘Our suspects are now down to four: Bonde, Lichet, Thomas and Ella. We shall concentrate on them tomorrow. Or were you telling the truth when you informed the Lady that you had plenty of leads to follow tonight?’
‘We had one,’ said Michael gloomily. ‘The documents in John’s house. So let us pray that one of us has inspiration about how to proceed before morning, or your earlier gloom about us letting everyone down may transpire to be prophetic.’
Chapter 12
It was still raining the next day – their last in Clare – although not as hard. It was, however, falling on already sodden ground, so there were muddy puddles everywhere, while the river was a swift brown torrent. Bartholomew had neglected to put his clothes to dry the previous night, so had to force his feet into wet boots, while his cloak was cold and damp around his neck. He looked longingly at Albon’s, but decided it was not worth the risk.
He and Michael ate a hasty breakfast, both anxious about the fact that Langelee and Weste were still missing. Michael eyed the Master’s empty bed anxiously.