01 - Murder in the Holy City (32 page)

“I can see you do not believe me,” said Roger quietly. “But I can also see that you have had your suspicions. Believe me, I wish I was wrong!”

Geoffrey looked from the burned parchment, to Guido’s letter, to Roger. Now what? he thought wearily. “When Hugh comes back with the goose grease …”

“You will see no goose grease,” said Roger with certainty. “Hugh will be off to find that incriminating scroll in Akira’s shop.”

Geoffrey did not believe him for an instant.

“And what about that dagger and the pig’s heart?” he asked. “I suppose Hugh put them in here too?”

Roger scowled in thought as he sifted slowly through the evidence. Eventually, he pulled a face and admitted defeat. “No, lad. You have me there. I asked around the kitchens to see if Hugh had brought them a pig, but pork is expensive here, and only Courrances eats it regularly.”

Geoffrey stared at him. “Courrances?”

Roger nodded. “Aye. Pigs are not common here, as you pointed out earlier, but Courrances often gets a pig delivered because the Advocate is fond of a bit of pork …”

Geoffrey snapped his fingers. “Courrances left the dagger and the pig’s heart! Of course! It was after the so-called warning that Courrances asked me to investigate these murders for the Advocate. And Courrances not only knows where to buy a pig, he knows the style of weapon used on the murder victims. He described one to me after the riot near Melisende’s house. He did not intend it to be a warning at all! He hoped it would make me curious enough, or frightened enough, to comply with the Advocate’s request that I investigate.”

“I do not understand why he wanted you involved at all,” said Roger. “He does not like you in the slightest.”

“But that is exactly why,” said Geoffrey, thinking quickly. “He already had his suspicions that a knight might be involved in all this, and he did not wish to put himself at risk by investigating, so he recruited me instead.”

“You must have made his day then,” said Roger, “when you agreed to do it almost immediately.”

Roger was right, thought Geoffrey. The reason he had agreed so readily was because Tancred had already asked him to investigate, and the Advocate’s request actually made the situation simpler for him. But Courrances had not known of Tancred’s charge, and far from being relieved that he had passed the dirty work to a much detested comrade, his suspicions would have been roused. He must then have wondered whether Geoffrey was responsible for the murders; hence, Courrances’s attempt to kill Geoffrey in the burning barn.

He stood abruptly, pushed past Roger, and headed for Hugh’s room on the floor above. It was, as always, meticulously tidy, with his clean shirts piled neatly on one shelf and some carefully washed goblets on another. Geoffrey began to poke around.

“Nothing!” he said to Roger eventually. “There is nothing here to indicate that Hugh is responsible for what you are suggesting.”

“Well, he is hardly going to leave it in full view, is he?” said Roger reasonably. He elbowed Geoffrey out of the way and made for the locked chest on the floor. Here, Geoffrey knew, was where Hugh stored the booty he had collected along his arduous journey from Germany. Before Geoffrey could stop him, Roger had drawn his sword and was levering off the locks.

“He will be furious …”

“He will not be back!” snapped Roger. “He has gone after bigger prizes than these tawdry baubles.” The locks broke, and Roger threw up the lid. Both knights peered inside. The exquisite cups of silver, the heavy gold coins, and the wealth of rings, bangles, and necklaces that they knew were stored in the chest had gone. All that was left were some old shirts.

Geoffrey watched as Roger rummaged. Then Roger’s shoulders slumped. Geoffrey leaned over him and saw what the shirts had concealed: three long, curved daggers with jewelled hilts, two of them still stained dark with blood. And although they were certainly similar to the one Courrances had left in Geoffrey’s room, they were not identical.

Geoffrey sat down on Hugh’s bed with a thump, and swallowed hard.

“Hugh?” he said, meeting Roger’s eyes. “It was really Hugh?”

Roger nodded. “I wish I was wrong. But I put things together—the burnt parchment; the fact that he would not let you see to his wound; the fact that the blood was still warm on Marius when we got back, but Hugh claimed Marius had not had time to tell him anything; and the fact that although he would not go out to investigate with you, he still wanted to know what was going on. He wanted to know how long he could let you live before he was forced to kill you too.”

Geoffrey felt sick. “How could I have been so wrong? And all the while, you were working things out so easily!”

“Hardly that, lad,” said Roger with a rueful smile. “It took some hard thinking, I can tell you, and I gave myself aching wits in the process!”

“I warned him,” said Geoffrey, remembering his conversation with Hugh earlier that day when he had been so exhausted. “I told him I was close to solving the murders, and that it was someone in the citadel. I meant him to beware of you, but instead I probably told him it was time to kill me!”

“I saw him!” exclaimed Roger suddenly, sitting back on his heels. “When you were asleep, I saw him outside your chamber. He told me he had lost a coin, and we looked about for it, although we both knew we would find none.”

Geoffrey regarded Roger soberly. “You are right, of course,” he said. “Marius’s body was still warm when we found it, yet Hugh said Marius had only just started to talk to him. And we were gone a long time. Marius’s story as told by Hugh had inconsistencies—he said Marius claimed to have seen from the door that Dunstan had been strangled, but the scriptorium was far too dark for him to have seen that far, even with a lamp.”

Roger nodded slowly. “Hugh was simply repeating Marius’s gabbled story that he gave when he arrived.”

“Which must mean that he and Hugh had said a great deal to each other before Marius was killed. And it explains why Hugh volunteered to stay with Marius in my chamber.”

“But you said it was that other monk—bald Brother Alain—who made Dunstan’s death look like murder instead of suicide,” said Roger. “So, what did Hugh and Marius talk about?”

Geoffrey thought, watching Roger play idly with one of the daggers. “When Alain thought he would make Dunstan’s suicide appear as murder in a feeble attempt to protect the popular Marius, his plan had exactly the reverse effect. Marius must have believed that Dunstan had been murdered because of what he knew of the deaths of Guido, John, and the monks—and Dunstan certainly knew more than he had written down for Tancred, because he was using the information to blackmail the killer. The reason Dunstan’s and Marius’s investigation met with so little success was that they knew the identity of the killer from the start—or perhaps had discovered it, and were persuaded to go along with his plan. So Marius fled the palace and came to the citadel in terror, because he thought Dunstan had been killed for this knowledge, and he imagined he might be next.”

“And Hugh talked to Marius to lull him into a false sense of security,” said Roger. “Then Hugh stabbed him because Marius running here—on the surface of it to you, but really to Hugh—was a liability. And Hugh is not a man to allow a panicky monk to upset his plans.”

Roger was right there too. There was a ruthless streak in Hugh that would have no compunction in dispatching a weak-willed monk in order to carry out his own business. While on desert duty, Geoffrey had once seen Hugh kill a small child to ensure it did not cry out and reveal their hiding place. They had later quarrelled bitterly about it.

Roger took a deep breath. “What a foul business! He was our friend. What do we do now?”

Geoffrey sat back on the bed and tried to think. Of all the knights at the citadel, Hugh was the very last one he would have imagined to be the killer. They had been friends for more than three years and had saved each other’s lives on so many occasions that Geoffrey could scarcely recall them all. And of Roger and Hugh, Geoffrey had far more in common with the literate, intelligent Hugh than with the ignorant, slow-witted Roger. He found his hands were shaking, and he felt weak and sick. Perhaps there was some other explanation for all this. Perhaps Courrances had taken the loot from Hugh’s chest and put the daggers there, much as someone—Courrances again, no doubt—had tried to have Roger found in bed with a dead prostitute.

“Come on, lad,” said Roger, standing up suddenly. “If
your
wits are failing you, mine are still working. It is obvious where we go next. Hugh thinks the scroll from Brother Salvatori is hidden in Akira’s house. He will be searching there for a while, because obviously we have it here. If we hurry, we might catch him in the act. And who knows, perhaps we can talk some sense into him.”

There was no point in using horses to reach Akira’s shop. The streets in that part of the city were too narrow, and it would only take a lumbering cart, or an uncooperative rider, to block their passage completely. Clad in half-armour—light chain-mail shirt and leather leggings—Geoffrey set off on foot, confident that he could make better time running than Hugh could make on horseback. Hugh, like most knights, never walked when he could ride.

Roger yanked at the bar on the gate, while Geoffrey fretted impatiently.

“Off somewhere nice?” came a silky enquiry at his shoulder. Geoffrey saw that Courrances was watching their movements carefully, his sharp, clever mind considering what they might mean.

“The most salubrious establishment in the city,” replied Geoffrey, breaking away from Courrances to run after Roger, “Akira’s meat emporium.” The black-robed Hospitaller thoughtfully watched him dash away.

People scattered as the knights ran through the narrow streets. Geoffrey heard an outraged howl and saw that Roger had rushed into a fruit barrel, and oranges were rolling in every direction; a few were crushed by Geoffrey running behind, but many more stolen by quick-fingered children. Roger, ahead of him, was unfaltering, and made his way purposefully toward the butchers’ alleys. Eventually, they skidded to a halt at the corner of the butchers’ street. There was no sign of Hugh’s horse, and the street looked deserted. Breathing heavily, they walked cautiously down the road and looked into Akira’s shop.

Inside, the floor was still dark with the stains of his trade, and the flies and maggots still feasted. Except that this time, Akira had joined the ranks of the victims and hung from one of the hooks in the ceiling, slowly rotating this way and that. Geoffrey started to lean back against the wall in defeat, but thought better of it when he saw the splattered blood. Roger surged past, his sword in his hand, and thundered up the stairs.

“Empty,” he said, returning a few moments later. “And now Hugh will know I tricked him. Nothing could be hidden up there. It is bare.”

Geoffrey walked over to the dangling corpse, and looked up at it.

“Help me, Roger!” he said urgently, sheathing his sword, and grabbing Akira’s legs. “He is still alive!”

Roger lowered the hook on its chain, while Geoffrey supported the greasy bundle that was Akira. The rope, Geoffrey realised, had been passed under Akira’s arms, not round his neck as Geoffrey had supposed, and Akira’s feet were swollen, so he must have been hanging there for quite some time. The butcher began to regain consciousness.

“Whoreson!” he muttered.

“Ingrate!” retorted Geoffrey.

Akira forced his bloodshot eyes open, and fixed them blearily on Geoffrey.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said in tones far from friendly. “What are you doing here?”

“We came to see if a friend of ours was visiting,” said Geoffrey. “But what about you? Will you live? Shall I send for a physician?”

Akira struggled into a sitting position and reached out a bloodstained hand to grab Geoffrey’s shoulder. Geoffrey winced at the powerful aroma of old garlic that wafted into his face.

“You must tell the Patriarch that they tried to murder poor Akira,” he moaned.

“I will indeed,” said Geoffrey, trying to extricate himself from Akira’s powerful grip. “I am sure he will be deeply shocked to hear of your accident.”

“Accident!” snorted Akira, shifting his hold on Geoffrey’s shoulder to one that was stronger yet. “They tried to kill me. Not even quickly like that poor monk, but slowly.”

“Who?” asked Geoffrey absently, racking his brain to think of places Hugh might go.

“Maria and her vile lover. Adam is his name.”

Geoffrey was puzzled. “It was not Sir Hugh of Monreale who did this to you?”

Akira snorted. “If you mean that skinny, fair-haired knight, he was here before you, but didn’t even pause to see if I was alive. And you,” he said, turning suddenly and fixing Roger with a baleful eye, “didn’t heed Akira’s pitiful calls when you came to arrest that treacherous whore.”

“I thought you had arrested her inside the house,” said Geoffrey to Roger.

Roger shook his great head. “Outside. She was about to enter, but I got her outside. I do not like the smell of this place very much. No offence,” he added to Akira.

Akira, using Geoffrey as a crutch, heaved himself up and lunged on unsteady legs to his stool near the window.