‘Where is Marishal?’ asked Bartholomew worriedly, when they reached the wider part of the pavement and there was no sign of the steward. ‘I hope his impatience has not seen him swept away. It would be a pity for–’
He faltered when he heard voices coming towards them. One was Thomas’s and the other …
‘Oh Lord,’ gulped Michael. ‘It is Langelee!’
Bartholomew and Michael hurried towards the stairwell, but what they saw as they approached stopped them dead in their tracks. Marishal lay senseless on the ground at Langelee’s feet, while Thomas hovered uncertainly behind him. Langelee was wet and muddy, and bore the signs of having spent a night in the open. Yet he was rosy-cheeked and his eyes were bright, suggesting that he had recently enjoyed reverting to the warrior he had once been.
‘Marishal lunged at me with a blade,’ he explained, as Bartholomew eased forward cautiously to inspect the fallen man. ‘God knows why. Regardless, I reacted instinctively, and he will wish he had been less belligerent when he wakes up.’
‘He did lunge,’ said Thomas, his face creased with confusion. ‘And it took me by surprise, too. He is not usually given to brawling.’
‘Well?’ asked Langelee of Bartholomew. ‘Will he live?’
Bartholomew nodded, and scrambled quickly to his feet, feeling vulnerable on his knees with the Master looming over him.
‘You were lucky,’ Thomas told him and Michael. ‘I happened to hear the roar of water as it was released from the tanks on the roof. Knowing you were down here, I raced to open the kitchen sluices, praying that I was not too late.’
‘You were too late,’ said Michael shortly, while Bartholomew pondered the length of time it had taken, and wondered if Thomas had “raced” or strolled. ‘But we found a refuge. Did you see who went to the roof to open the taps? Or who shut the cistern door behind Matt and your father?’
‘No,’ replied Thomas, ‘because I was busy doing what I was told – spreading the word about the Queen. Everyone is milling around the gatehouse, gossiping about it, and as far as I could tell, the inner bailey was deserted.’
‘It was,’ agreed Langelee. ‘Indeed, I only came up here because I was looking for you two. Heselbech said you were worried about me, so I came to report that I am safe.’
‘Well, clearly someone was about,’ persisted Michael. ‘Someone who wants Matt, Lichet, Marishal and me dead, and who went to considerable trouble to do it. We almost drowned.’
‘Well, thank God you did not,’ said Langelee, and his eyes strayed to Marishal’s prostate form. ‘I wonder why he assaulted me. All I did was come to save his miserable life.’
‘He thinks you know more than you should about Margery’s death,’ explained Michael, and held up the letter-opener.
Langelee stared at it and the blood drained from his face. ‘Where was it?’ he breathed in a strangled whisper. ‘Not in that horrible secret chamber?’
Michael rubbed his eyes tiredly, while Bartholomew’s stomach churned, and all he wanted to do was to run up the steps as fast as he could, to avoid the revelations that were coming.
‘Start at the beginning, Master,’ said Michael in a low, flat voice. ‘We know you left Heselbech in the chapel and went back outside. What happened next?’
There was a moment when it looked as though Langelee would attempt to bluster his way out of his predicament, but one glance at Michael convinced him not to try. He raised his hands in a shrug of resignation, his face ashen, and spoke in a voice that shook.
‘I saw Roos and Margery creep into the cistern, and I was drunk enough to indulge my curiosity. If only I had been sober! Then I would have known to mind my own business.’
‘So you trailed after them,’ surmised Michael.
Langelee nodded. ‘And heard a violent quarrel over the letter she had sent him – the one where she lied about the Lady being dead. I followed their voices to that nasty chamber, and was about to ask what was going on, when Roos whipped out a knife and stabbed her. It was so fast – over before I realised what was happening.’
‘So you killed him in return,’ said Michael hoarsely.
‘Of course not! I tried to go to her, to see if she could be helped, but Roos was insane with rage. He kept flailing at me with his dagger, screeching that it was her own fault for “using” him. He was armed and I was not, but it was easy to keep him at bay even so, by pushing him back.’
‘Which explains the marks on his chest and arms,’ muttered Bartholomew.
‘I had to dodge and duck around a bit, which is probably when I lost my letter-opener. I reached Margery, but his antics made it impossible for me to examine her, so I gave him a harder shove to knock him away. I heard him stumble, but all my attention was on Margery …’
‘And?’ demanded Michael. ‘What then?’
‘There was nothing to be done for her, so I turned back to him – at which point, I saw that he had fallen on to his own knife. He was lying on his front, unmoving.’
‘Dead?’
‘I thought so. As they were both beyond earthly help, I decided to carry their bodies to the foot of the stairwell, then summon help to lug them up it. I took Margery first, then went back for Roos. Imagine my horror to discover him gone!’
‘Gone?’
‘He was not where I had left him. I did my utmost to find the wretch, and eventually I spotted him face-down in the water some distance away. He must have regained his wits, tried to stand up, but lost his balance and toppled in to drown. Worse, he had managed to knock Margery into a place where I could not reach her either. I did not know about the sill below the surface then, obviously …’
‘Because if you had, you would have been able to retrieve both bodies, and fetch help to carry them outside, as you had originally planned,’ surmised Bartholomew.
Langelee nodded. ‘But now I had two corpses that I thought were beyond my grasp. So I decided to beat a hasty retreat, and let folk make of the situation what they would.’
Michael was exasperated. ‘Why could you not have told us? We have been chasing our tails for the last five days, searching for a killer who does not exist.’
Langelee winced. ‘I was afraid it would bring Michaelhouse into disrepute, and then we would never win the Lady’s favour. How could I confess – to you or anyone else?’
‘Your secret is safe with me,’ said Thomas softly.
The three scholars turned to look at him. Bartholomew had certainly forgotten the young man was there in the strain of hearing Langelee’s confession, and he suspected the others had, too.
‘What are you saying?’ demanded Langelee sharply. ‘This had better not be a prelude to blackmail or I will–’
‘It is not,’ Thomas assured him quickly. ‘However, I hated Roos for the way he pestered my mother, so I am grateful to you for pushing him on to his own blade. He deserved it, as payment for fourteen years of harassment and then stabbing her in cold blood.’
‘I did not do it on purpose,’ objected Langelee indignantly.
‘It does not matter – the outcome is the same,’ said Thomas. ‘Here. Shake my hand.’
‘No,’ said Michael, stepping forward to prevent it. ‘That is not the way justice works. There must be a proper enquiry.’ He scowled at Langelee. ‘It will be much harder to persuade people that you are innocent now. Staying silent was a foolish decision.’
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Langelee tiredly. ‘But I was drunk at the time. Have you never made a bad choice when you were silly with ale?’