01 - Murder in the Holy City (24 page)

He approached cautiously, aware that if Abdul had imbibed too much of his own wine, he might prefer to sleep off his indignities in private. But Geoffrey strongly suspected Abdul was not foolish enough to drink the sour wine he served the knights, and that there was another reason why he should be prone on the floor. Geoffrey glanced around quickly to make sure it was not some kind of trap to catch him unawares, and quickly knelt next to the rotund brothel-keeper.

Abdul stirred when Geoffrey shook his shoulder, and then he groaned softly.

“What happened to you?”

“Jerusalem is not the city it was,” bemoaned Abdul, clutching at a lump on the side of his head, already turning dark with the beginnings of a bruise. “Between you and me, I preferred the Saracens to the Christians. They were not so greedy and not so aggressive.”

“Did you see who hit you?”

Abdul shook his head and tried to struggle to his feet. Geoffrey helped him. “But it is not the first time I have been robbed in my own house. At least I still have this.”

He raised a hand, and in it Geoffrey saw the chain and locket that the Patriarch had given Roger in payment for his spying services. Abdul inspected it carefully in the light from a torch on the wall.

“That villain!” he exclaimed. “This is not even silver! Look! It is nothing but base metal!”

Geoffrey smiled grimly. Perhaps there was justice in the world after all. Roger had been paid for his traitorous services with imitation jewelry, and the scheming Abdul had been duped by his own greed. Abdul grunted and put the necklace in his purse. “I will give this to Maria. She will not know it is of poor quality.”

“Did Roger hit you?”

“Oh lord, no. The attack came from the direction of the back stairs. Sir Roger was already ensconced in a room with Eveline. Eveline is …”

He stopped in midsentence as another tremendous crash came from below, accompanied by shouting. Abdul groaned anew.

“It is not my night, Sir Geoffrey. First I am hit on the head, and now your comrades riot.”

“Do they often riot?” asked Geoffrey as Abdul braced himself to enter the fray.

“They most certainly do,” replied Abdul with resignation. “And from the noise, I see tonight they are in earnest.”

He hurried away, while Geoffrey crouched down to peer at the scene below from the top of the stairs. A table flew past his line of vision, smashing to pieces against a wall. Men ran here and there in various stages of undress, while women screamed. Abdul’s voice rose in a reedy shout above the chaos, appealing for calm, but either the knights did not hear or they did not care. From the rooms upstairs, more knights and women emerged, jostling past Geoffrey to join in the chaos.

Geoffrey had expected Roger to be one of the first to rally to the call, since the big knight was never one to pass up the opportunity for a fight—armed or unarmed or, Geoffrey imagined, clothed or unclothed—but there was no sign of him.

A Lorrainer was weaving down the corridor toward Geoffrey, and took a swing at him as he passed. Geoffrey ducked it with ease and heaved the Lorrainer head over heels down the steps. He saw the tumbling knight knock over two more who were attempting to climb the stairs, and then he headed toward the room that Abdul had said Roger had hired. He knocked softly and called, but there was no reply. He hesitated, wondering whether to abandon Roger and slip away—fights between knights were notoriously violent, and he had no wish to become involved in a brawl that was none of his making.

The shouting from below was growing louder and sounded as though it might be spreading to the street. Geoffrey knew he had to make up his mind quickly, or he would end up fighting whether he liked it or not. He turned the handle, pushed open the door, and gasped in horror.

The room was very much like the one in which he had seen Maria, except that its decor was green not blue. And the covers on the bed were stained a deep crimson.

Two people lay there, and Geoffrey edged forward, his heart thudding. Eveline lay on her back, her eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling, while a blossom of blood oozed from a wound in her chest. Next to her, also on his back, was Roger, his mouth agape as he snored lustily, an empty wine goblet in his hand. Geoffrey felt sick. For a moment, all sounds receded, and he was aware only of Roger’s snores and the dead woman on the bed. Then a particularly loud bang from downstairs brought him to his senses. He edged away, but as he moved, Roger opened his eyes, groaned loudly, and called Geoffrey’s name.

Geoffrey froze as Roger lifted his head from the pillow.

“I feel awful,” the burly knight slurred. He raised himself a little higher. “What is happening? What is all that noise?”

“A fight,” said Geoffrey tersely. “I am leaving.”

“Wait for me. God’s blood!”

Geoffrey watched as Roger came face to face with the body of Eveline. The Englishman started violently, and his big brown eyes widened in horror. Slowly, he reached out a hand and touched her on the shoulder, as though she might waken if he shook her. Then he snatched his hand away, lurched from the bed, and was violently sick. Geoffrey was impressed. It was quite a performance from a hardened killer.

Eventually, Roger turned to look at Geoffrey, his face ashen.

“What happened?” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Who did this to her?”

“It looks very much as though you did,” responded Geoffrey coolly.

“Me?” said Roger. “I barely remember coming here.” He gestured helplessly. “I do not even have my dagger—I left it downstairs as instructed by her. By Eveline.” He looked at the dead woman again, his face a mask of pity.

“Are you saying someone waited until you fell asleep, and then murdered your whore?” asked Geoffrey incredulously.

Roger nodded. “I hope you believe me.” He grinned weakly, but the smile faded as his eyes fell again on Eveline. “Oh God, Geoffrey! Who would do this?” He looked up at Geoffrey, still standing in the door. “You do not believe me, do you?”

He looked so hurt that Geoffrey was cut to the quick. He remembered Abdul, struck by someone coming up the back stairs as he was returning from showing Roger to his room. Was Roger innocent? Could the scenario Geoffrey had outlined with such sarcasm actually have occurred? Eveline had demanded that Roger leave his dagger behind. Was that because she was already nervous about him? Or had she been so instructed by whoever wanted Roger found in these compromising circumstances?

There was shouting in the corridor now. Any moment, someone would burst in and find them. Roger might not have a dagger to implicate him in Eveline’s murder, but Geoffrey certainly did, and he was not going to wait around to be caught in the net that was tightening around Roger.

He went to the window and saw that it overlooked a narrow alleyway. He dashed over to the bed and grabbed Eveline’s arm, gesturing for Roger to take the other one. He did not relish what he was about to do, but the shouts and crashes from outside were coming closer by the moment, and he was running low on ideas.

“Drop her out of the window.”

“What?” Roger was aghast. “Are you insane? Whatever for? That is desecration! You can go to hell for that!”

“Just do it,” grunted Geoffrey, as he struggled to manhandle the limp body to the window alone.

Roger stood in front of him. “I will not let you do this,” he said quietly. “It is not right.”

“Listen,” snapped Geoffrey, pausing in his battle with the whore’s body. “Did you kill her?” Roger shook his head. “Well, you will hang for it unless you take steps to prevent it. We have very little time. I propose we get Eveline out of this room and abandon her on the street somewhere. Then it will be assumed that she died during the fighting. If we leave her here, then Abdul will say, quite truthfully, that you were her last client, and you will be blamed, innocent or otherwise. Eveline is quite dead. Whatever we do now cannot hurt her. Help me drop her out of the window.”

Ashen-faced, Roger complied, turning quickly and covering his face with his meaty hands as a soggy thump came from below. He moved toward a jug of wine that stood on the table, and poured himself a goblet with shaking hands. Geoffrey knocked it away and shoved him toward the window.

“Roger! There is no time for that. Quick! Jump!”

As Roger walked morosely to the window, Geoffrey gathered the bloodstained sheets into a bundle. He noticed wine on his sleeve where it had spilled as he had knocked it from Roger’s hand, and saw that the stain was surrounded by a fine white residue. But there was no time for speculation, and Geoffrey pushed past Roger to throw the covers into the street below. The big knight clambered inelegantly out of the window and let himself fall, and Geoffrey glanced quickly around the room. There was nothing to indicate that a violent death had occurred. Roger had no knife with him, and there was not one in the room. Unless he had had the foresight to hurl it out of the window, there was a possibility that he was telling the truth, and the whole episode was some bizarre plot to land him in a horribly compromising position. But why? Was it Melisende, realising that Roger was a dangerous ally and that she would be safer without him?

There was a heavy thump on the door, and Geoffrey saw the thin wood bow inward. Any moment now, the men outside would enter, and if Roger truly were innocent, then they would know exactly what they would find, and they would pretend to be aghast at the sight that confronted them. Geoffrey considered remaining, so that he could see who burst through the door. But he had visions of Roger being discovered under the window clutching the body of Eveline, and decided against it.

He scrambled onto the windowsill and let himself fall, landing lightly on his feet and rolling to one side. Roger stood immobile, and Geoffrey had to punch him hard on the arm to get him to pick up the body and walk with it, while Geoffrey carried the covers rolled into a ball. They kept to the shadows. He was aware that the door to Roger’s room had been smashed open, and that someone was looking out of the window into the alley below. They did not have much time.

“I will create a diversion,” he whispered. “You must use it to dump Eveline’s body in the road and escape. You must not be seen. Can you do it?”

Roger was grey with shock. He stared dumbly at Geoffrey, who began to wonder if he was capable of doing anything at all.

“Roger! Can you do it?”

“I did not kill her, Geoffrey!”

“I know,” Geoffrey lied. “But we can discuss it later. Now we must act. For Heaven’s sake, man! Pull yourself together! This is not the first time you have encountered violent death.”

“It is the first time I have encountered it in my bed!” muttered Roger. “I feel sick.”

Geoffrey was heartily wishing he had left while he had had the chance. Now, here he was helping a man—of whose innocence he was by no means certain—to escape justice. He looked down the alleyway and wondered if he should run and leave Roger to sort out his own muddle.

“What are you going to do?”

Roger seemed to have pulled himself together somewhat. Geoffrey peered into his face and saw a resolution there that had been missing before. Perhaps Roger would manage after all.

“I am going to set fire to that stable over there …”

“What about the horses?” interrupted Roger in horror. A knight was of no use without his mount, and like all Normans, Roger had a healthy respect for horses.

“They will be fine. When you hear the alarm, dump the body in the road, and go straight to the citadel. You must not wait for me, or you might be caught. Your best chance to escape all this is to be as far away as possible.”

Roger nodded understanding, his usual bumptious bonhomie gone. Geoffrey had never seen him so morose, and he wondered if that was how all murderers acted within moments of their crime.

While Roger watched from the shadows, a pathetic, hulking figure in a shabby surcoat and an incongruous pale blue brothel shirt, Geoffrey made his way across the street toward the stables. The main road outside Abdul’s Palace was now a seething mass of fighting men, some armoured, others not; some using swords, others daggers. Geoffrey watched curiously for a moment, wondering how the noisy but amicable evening could have erupted so quickly into violence. There were more knights than the thirty he had seen earlier, and he imagined a rowdy group of Lorrainers must have entered and picked a fight with the Normans already there.

He reached the stable unnoticed and slipped inside to the warm smell of damp hay and manure. A horse snickered at him, shifting uneasily in the straw, and Geoffrey patted its nose to soothe it. Like Roger, he was fond of horses, and he would certainly avoid roasting the beasts alive. A quick survey told him that there were only three of them—two destriers that probably belonged to knights intending to spend the night at Abdul’s, and an ancient nag with sad eyes.

The destriers were restless, made nervous by the commotion outside. Geoffrey slipped the bolts on their stalls and began to kindle a fire in some lose straw. As the fire caught and white smoke poured out, he pushed the bundle of bloodstained covers on top and watched them smoulder. As the acrid stench of burning filled the stable, the horses began to panic, kicking back against the stall doors. Finding themselves unexpectedly free, the destriers bolted out, crashing among the fighting men and adding to the havoc. Nonchalantly, and with admirable panache, the nag followed, backing sedately out of its stall, and even finding time to snatch a mouthful of hay before ambling at a leisurely pace into the road, and heading not for the fighting, but for the freedom of the city streets.

By now, Geoffrey’s fire was well under way, and the stable was filling with a choking smoke. Geoffrey’s eyes smarted as he kicked the burning hay to make it burn faster. He turned to leave just as the stable door slammed firmly shut. He was not overly concerned, imagining the wind had caught it—until he heard the sound of a bar being dropped into place on the other side. He gazed at it in disbelief, before beginning to yell at the top of his lungs and hurling himself against it with all his might. It held fast. It was becoming difficult to breathe, and he dropped to his knees to inhale the clearer air near the floor. As he knelt, he glimpsed a flutter of material caught against the door at waist level. It looked like material from a knight’s surcoat, torn when someone had leaned his weight against the heavy doors to close them. Behind him, a timber post, well and truly alight, crashed down in a shower of sparks, and he had to hurl himself backward to avoid being hit. It fell sideways, blocking the door. Geoffrey regarded it in dismay. He would certainly not be leaving the burning stable that way!