Then the water rose higher than the opening to their refuge, effectively cutting them off. The sound of rushing water faded to a muted rumble, and the loudest sound was their own breathing.
‘We will not suffocate just yet,’ Bartholomew assured Michael, aware that the monk was trying not to pant. ‘There is air enough to last a while.’
‘Thank God for small mercies,’ gulped Michael. ‘Of course, we shall starve instead, because it might be weeks before we are found, especially if the cistern is kept full.’
‘I cannot stay here!’ cried Marishal, horrified. ‘The Lady needs me. The Queen may not come today, but she will arrive sooner or later, and I must be there to ensure that all runs smoothly.’
‘While I have a University to manage and a College to close,’ said the monk, and glanced sadly at Bartholomew. ‘We cannot save Michaelhouse now. Even if we do survive this terrible experience, we have not secured enough money to make a difference.’
‘It was not the wind that shut the door,’ said Bartholomew to the steward, his mind running in a different direction entirely. ‘It was the killer. He trapped Michael and Lichet first, then decided to add you and me to his tally of victims – doubtless to ensure that no one is left alive to investigate.’
Marishal regarded him with haunted eyes. ‘Then he must have been very close to hand, given that the door slammed so soon after we began our descent.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘So think. Who else was nearby?’
‘Someone who hid himself well, because I did not see a soul. Did you?’
Bartholomew shook his head, although he could not escape the conviction that Thomas might have ignored his father’s order to tell everyone about the Queen’s change of plan, and followed him back to the cistern instead.
‘I did not either,’ confessed Michael. ‘All my attention was on Lichet. He said important evidence was down here, and I was so frantic for answers that I rashly believed him.’
While they talked, Bartholomew took the lamp and explored the chamber in the hope of finding something that would allow them to escape. There was nothing, but …
‘Do you recognise these?’ he asked, holding up a white wig and a matching beard.
‘Roos’s,’ replied Marishal. ‘He must have come here to don his disguises.’
‘Lichet said that Roos liked the cistern,’ recalled Bartholomew. ‘Now we know why – and why Margery suggested it as a place to meet. It is somewhere he felt safe and comfortable.’
Marishal covered his face with his hands. ‘And she did know about this room, because I showed it to her years ago. I had forgotten about it, but clearly she never did, and she shared the secret with him – as a place he could use without fear of discovery. It is my fault that–’
‘What is this?’ interrupted Michael suddenly, leaning down to pluck something from the floor. He grimaced irritably. ‘That is a stupid question! I know what it is – it is Langelee’s letter-opener. What I should ask is: what is it doing here? We know he lost it after a night of drunken debauchery at the priory …’
‘Which was the same night as Margery’s murder,’ said Bartholomew, taking the little implement from him and peering at it in the dim light.
Marishal was looking from one to the other in bemusement. ‘What are you saying? That Langelee is the killer?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Michael irritably. ‘However, he lost his letter-opener that fateful evening, and for it to be here … Is it the murder weapon, Matt?’
‘No – the wounds on both victims were too large to have been made with this.’
Michael was thoughtful. ‘Nicholas coveted that blade, and I suspected straight away that he was the one who stole it. So what does this tell us? That he is involved somehow?’
‘He is a lout, who had no business taking holy orders,’ said Marishal. ‘Why do you think I chose Heselbech to bury Margery and preside over the rededication ceremony tonight? However, I know for a fact that Nicholas had nothing to do with killing Margery and Roos. He has an alibi.’
‘Yes, in Anne,’ acknowledged Michael. ‘But we suspect she was fast asleep in her cell at the salient time.’
‘Of course she was,’ said Marishal impatiently. ‘She would not disturb her precious slumbers for mere holy offices. No, Nicholas’s alibi is Barber Grym and two artists, who were in the church from nocturns to dawn. The work is behind schedule, you see, so they met there to see what could be done to hurry it along. All swear that Nicholas recited his office, then stayed on to pray.’
Michael stared at him. ‘Then why did Grym not mention this to me?’
‘Did you ask him about Nicholas?’
‘Well, no,’ conceded the monk. ‘I have concentrated on witnesses from the castle, because it was here that the crimes were committed.’ He glanced at Bartholomew. ‘So how did the letter-opener end up in this place? I suppose Nicholas might have stolen it later, but Langelee is sure he lost it during the night – around the time when he was helping Heselbech to the chapel.’
‘He must have dropped it, after which someone else picked it up and brought it here,’ said Bartholomew, although his words sounded unconvincing, even to his own ears, and he could think of no reason why anyone would do such a thing.
‘He told us that after leaving Heselbech, he went straight back to the priory,’ said Michael in a low voice. ‘But it was a lie, because I heard him come in much later. He claimed he had to stop to vomit, but …’
‘So Langelee did kill my wife?’ demanded Marishal, looking from one to the other. ‘Christ God! No wonder you two have failed to solve the crime!’
‘I suspect Heselbech thinks Langelee is the guilty party,’ Bartholomew told Michael unhappily. ‘He came to after Langelee had deposited him on the chapel floor, and while Weste was reciting nocturns on his behalf, he went outside to relieve himself …’
‘Where he saw a “shadow” by the cistern,’ finished Michael. ‘He assured us that it was too dark to allow identification, but we both had a feeling that he knew who it was anyway.’
‘But he would never admit it, because of the vows that the Austins have sworn to protect fellow ex-warriors.’ Bartholomew felt sick, especially when he recalled the Master’s reaction as he realised the letter-opener had gone. It was not the loss of a much-loved possession that had caused his distress, but the knowledge that it might later surface to incriminate him.
‘Langelee has been different since the murders,’ Michael went on shakily. ‘He did not drink as heavily the following night, and he has been uncharacteristically subdued and morose.’
Bartholomew was thinking fast. ‘Margery and Roos: we have assumed that because they were killed with the same weapon, it was wielded by the same hand. But what if it was different?’
‘Go on,’ said Michael warily.
‘Langelee suggested several times that Roos killed Margery, but we dismissed it. What if he is right, and Roos stabbed her in a fit of rage? We know they quarrelled that night, because Lichet just said so, and he had no reason to lie. Langelee is not a man to stand idly by while a woman is harmed …’
‘So he fought Roos, and it is obvious who would win that encounter,’ finished Michael. ‘Roos was knifed, after which he fell in the water to drown. But why did Langelee not–’
‘The water!’ shouted Marishal suddenly. ‘It is going down! Thank God! Someone must have opened the sluices in the kitchen. We are saved!’
He grabbed the ladder, fretting impatiently for the water to subside enough for him to leave. He was down it sooner than was safe, although Bartholomew and Michael were more cautious – partly because of the missing and fragile rungs, but mostly because they were afraid of what would inevitably have to happen once they were outside. Moving with care, as the water was still calf high, the two scholars eased around the ledge.