The Lord Bishop's Clerk (28 page)

‘Ah, there you have it, my lord. A very fair reason, and, if the clerk found out and threatened to tell both lady and king of the planned change of allegiance, neither would respond well. There is your motive for murder.’ Catchpoll nodded to himself, content.

Bradecote was ahead of him, though, and was puzzling over practicalities rather than motives.

‘This is all very well. Catchpoll, and we know that he really was the killer, but how did he manage to commit the murders? The evidence does not make it clear. How, for instance, did he get into the church, with Sister Edeva in St Eadburga’s chapel, without being heard? The west door is in clear view of anyone coming out of the guest hall and the courtyard much frequented; the door to the masons’ workshop would be barred from the inside, and even if it was not, then Brother Porter would have seen anyone. He swore none had entered, and we have absolutely no reason to doubt him.’

Catchpoll sniffed, set his face working, and scratched meditatively under his left arm. Bradecote, addressing the same mental problem, merely frowned in concentration. Eventually it was Bradecote who brightened.

‘It could be done, and only by de Grismont, if I have it aright. We know he found out about Eudo the Clerk’s threats to his lady-love before Vespers, and reassured lady d’Achelie, so it would be safe to assume that he had words with the clerk around the end of Vespers, but could not speak his mind where others might see. Eudo, ever wanting to be in control, and having another meeting already set for the workshop after supper, then suggested the Lady chapel, expecting capitulation rather than violence.’

He paused, awaiting Catchpoll’s agreement. It came simply as a nod, and he continued. ‘De Grismont hears the masons talking about their unexpected evening out on the town, and sees the chance to prepare his crime. He probably expects only to have to threaten or at worst mistreat Eudo a little, but if the worst comes to the worst, well, using his sword would really cut down the number of suspects, whereas a mallet could have been used by anyone. In addition, he decides he could get into the church without being obvious. He sends his groom out to exercise his horse, remember. I have no doubt that if we asked the groom, he would say he had strict instructions to be back just after supper. Brother Porter sees nothing unusual, especially as the groom has been out some time and is expected to come back. While he is letting him in, and making a little polite conversation, de Grismont lets himself into the workshop and bars the door from the inside.’

Catchpoll smiled. ‘Which was how the apprentice comes into it. He was bribed to leave the door open, no doubt fed some story of a tryst, and after the murder the lad works out he might have information we want. He sees Waleran has all the trappings of a rich man and takes the opportunity for a little “threatening” of his own.’ The smile twisted. ‘He hadn’t enough sense to see that a man who commits murder once will find it easier a second time, especially if threatened. Fool of a boy. That mistake cost him his life.’

‘Yes, but we are ahead of ourselves, Catchpoll.’ Bradecote was trying to be methodical. ‘We have a method by which de Grismont enters the church, and picks up the murder weapon, without passing St Eadburga’s chapel, so the footsteps Sister Edeva heard were Master Elias’s.’

‘Indeed, and de Grismont was already in the Lady chapel with the clerk. The lady Courtney cannot have known anything, because she came and went almost certainly before de Grismont arrived. Which gives us a puzzle of sorts. We don’t of course know how early in the meeting de Grismont killed Eudo, but it is of no importance. Since he is most unlikely to have called out, there was nothing to hear.’ Catchpoll’s face performed one of its thinking manoeuvres. ‘By now he was dead, because de Grismont had just put the mallet back and must have heard the mason’s footsteps approaching. He slips back to the Lady chapel, up the side of the choir stalls and waits, and nothing happens. He could leave the body where it is, and I for one would have done so, but he is a bit of a risk taker and has a very dry humour, thinks himself very witty, so he drags the body on its scapular to the high altar and puts it in the penitential pose, both to distract us and to show Eudo needed to be penitent. He can hear the mason still in the workshop, so disappears down the nave to the porch. He can make sure nobody is in view before slipping out.’ The serjeant grinned. ‘We didn’t consider that, did we?’

Bradecote wondered if the ‘we’ really meant both of them, but on balance of recent history, thought not.

‘He then,’ concluded Catchpoll, who had warmed to his theme, ‘leaves the porch just before the bell for Compline, biding his time until nobody is in sight and nipping out to head back in through the cloister like a devout member of the community.’

Bradecote was satisfied. It all fitted neatly enough, even if it was a bit convoluted and time dependent. After all, if it had been obvious, they would, he told himself, have seen it all earlier.

‘I see why the apprentice needed to be got rid of, Catchpoll, but surely we have a greater problem with that killing than the first one. The north transept is clearly visible from the gatehouse, which is risky, and Brother Porter reported nothing out of the ordinary.’

‘Yes, my lord, but the weather is the major accomplice. It was raining so hard, and had been doing so long enough, that those who had gawped when it began had lost interest, and everyone was finding tasks to do inside. I think de Grismont wasn’t sure how he was going to get rid of Wulfstan. Perhaps he had arranged another meeting. Anyway, he sees him by chance, running to fetch the pitcher of beer. Coming up behind someone in that downpour would be easy, and a man like him could have broken the lad’s neck in a trice.’

‘But de Grismont would be wet, very wet.’ Bradecote was perplexed.

‘And so he was when we saw him.’ Catchpoll noted the frown, and could not resist feeling smug. ‘He came out to see what was going on, which none of the other guests did, remember. No, he came out because he would not be noticed as he approached, not with a body lying there, and by the time he got to us he would he soaked anyway. Clever move, I have to say.’

‘And he took the pitcher back to his chamber, and “discovered” it because, logically, no murderer would keep it. Therefore it must have been planted on an innocent person.’ Bradecote shook his head. ‘The more we delve, the more we find out how devious de Grismont could be.’

‘Aye, but the last killing was not up to his standard. Lady Courtney gave herself away at break of fast and so he had to act swiftly. Luckily for him, he was able to catch up with her outside, on her way to the abbot’s lodging, bundle her through the wicket gate, drop Ulf with a good blow and strangle her. I suppose she was too stunned to scream. He then went back and packed for his escape, because we would be running out of suspects.’ Catchpoll sucked his teeth. ‘He very nearly made it too.’

‘But what on earth could lady Courtney have remembered that would implicate de Grismont? We know she entered and left the church before the murder.’

‘We only know for certain, my lord, that she lit her candle and left before the body was moved to its position in front of the altar. We are assuming de Grismont had not already entered, but he might, and I only say “might”, have already been in the Lady chapel with his victim dead at his feet.’

Bradecote made an indecisive noise. ‘But that would not have given her anything to remember, and whatever it was had something to do with being cold in church.’

Both men set themselves to ponder this problem. Eventually a slow and particularly evil grin spread over Serjeant Catchpoll’s weathered face. ‘I think I may have the answer, my lord. She said she always wore a cloak in church. I wonder if de Grismont wore one that afternoon? I dare swear he wasn’t wearing one for Compline. Can you recall, my lord, for I do not?’

Bradecote tried to envisage the scene on that first evening, when he had studied all those present with the eyes of a stranger. He remembered Sister Edeva, so cool and calm; Sister Ursula, pale and shocked; the lady Courtney with the fluttering hands and next to her Isabelle d’Achelie, who had eyes only for de Grismont. These were people he did not know, about whom some of his first impressions had been right and some so wrong. Yes, now he could see the man in his mind. He had looked slightly puzzled, but calm, and he had been the only person Bradecote had recognised at all. What had he worn? Nothing that stood out, just the garb of a well-to-do lord, which was a deception in itself. A cloak, though, no. There had definitely been no cloak.

‘He wore no cloak, Catchpoll, of that I am sure.’

‘Well then, it would be nice to have it, but since we cannot get proof positive of her suspicion from the lady Courtney, it matters but little.’ Catchpoll was about to continue when a thought hit him, and it was as obvious to Bradecote as if he had been struck by something tangible.

‘Wait there a moment, my lord, and we could have the last element in the puzzle.’ Without saying anything more, Catchpoll strode to the west end of the church and disappeared inside the porch beneath the tower. Bradecote disobeyed his instruction, and walked slowly towards the door, with muffled groans and a grimace. Catchpoll was nowhere to be seen, but the door to the tower was open. Bradecote did not fancy climbing a spiral stair.

Nothing happened for a while, and then Catchpoll re-emerged with something clasped tightly in his right fist and a look of triumph on his face. He held out his prize before Bradecote’s nose, and gazed at him in the manner of a hound expecting praise on completion of a command.

‘There it is, my lord.’

‘It’ was a crumpled piece of fine olive cloth, that when shaken out resolved itself into a man’s short cloak. It was dusty and marked by several dark stains.

‘Blood, for sure, my lord.’ Catchpoll’s voice was authoritative. ‘I reckon he used it when he found he had blood on his hands, or else to wipe the mallet. He hadn’t bargained for quite so much blood flowing around. He should have known, though, having seen battle. A little blood goes a fair way, and there was more than a little, aye, and brains too.’

‘And where did you find it?’

Catchpoll smiled. ‘Once we thought about him leaving through the nave and porch, it was a likely place. There’s a stairway up to where they ring the bell for the offices. Up there I found some sacks in a corner. I don’t know exactly why they were there, perhaps to have something to stand on when the tower is cold and their feet get chilled. I neither know nor care. Anyway, under the sacks I found this.’

Bradecote inhaled to sigh, and groaned, clutching his chest. For a moment he said nothing, then he pulled a face worthy of Catchpoll and said, ‘I am convinced. It will convince de Beauchamp, won’t it?’

‘Oh, yes, my lord. The lord sheriff will be very content.’

‘Then tomorrow we will take de Grismont’s mortal remains to Worcester, and I shall go home. Tell the men, Catchpoll.’ Bradecote felt suddenly very weary.

Serjeant Catchpoll could see his superior wanted to be left alone to ‘enjoy’ his aches and pains in private. He nodded, and went off to make whatever preparations were necessary and to see the guestmaster.

Bradecote eased himself up straight, left the church, and walked slowly and deliberately towards the guest hall, but changed his mind when he saw Miles FitzHugh emerge and try to attract his attention. The last thing he wanted to hear was the squire’s plaudits or excuses. He went instead back into the church, via the cloister, and headed towards the crossing. He wondered where they had laid lady Courtney, for the mortuary chapel was occupied, unless the apprentice had been interred with some speed. As he passed the south transept he sensed, rather than heard, someone in St Eadburga’s chapel. He felt he knew who it would be, and for all that he had no wish to disrupt her prayers or face an impossibly difficult interview with her, he realised it might be his only chance to apologise.

Sister Edeva did not look up immediately when she heard the footsteps, but finished her prayer, the Latin sounding mellifluous and otherworldly to Bradecote’s ear. She then raised her head and half-turned to look at him. There was a prolonged silence, then, with an easy gesture of her hand, she invited him to kneel beside her. It was, he thought, an appropriate position in which to beg forgiveness, but one which his wound made extremely uncomfortable to adopt. He winced as he lowered himself, and the nun put out a hand in case he needed support, though he did not take it.

‘I am sorry, my lord, I should have considered your injury. Does it pain you much?’

‘I would be lying if I denied it, lady, but not as much as my conscience. I had to speak with you. This morning I behaved unforgivably, and my explanation …’ He had called her lady again, and it felt right.

She put up the hand to silence him. ‘No, my lord, there is no need for explanation; at least not on your part. It was not something that was planned. It just happened.’

‘I thought you were going to admit to lady Courtney’s murder.’ It sounded ridiculous now, as well as insulting, and he looked at the floor, guiltily, not wishing to meet her gaze, but knew he owed it to her to face her. He raised his eyes to hers, in which he saw compassion. ‘And suddenly I couldn’t bear you to do that. I could see the consequences, and they were too grim. I did not mean to insult you.’