The Canterbury Murders (20 page)

Chapter Thirty-two

“So you believe there are two murderers, working in concert?” the castellan exclaimed after Bascot told her of the conclusion he had reached.

“Yes, lady, although I only have supposition as to the motive, I am certain there were two people involved in the killings, and that one of them is the queen’s attendant, Marie.”

Nicolaa had been sitting alone in the hall when the Templar and Gianni had entered, staring meditatively into the fire, a goblet of hot cider on a table at her elbow, the contents untouched. She had looked immensely weary, and Bascot had hesitated for a moment before disturbing her, recalling the king’s restriction and wondering if he should send Gianni back upstairs. But he decided not to; it had been the lad’s intelligence that had led him to the solution and he deserved to be present while it was explained to his mistress.

When he told Nicolaa that he believed Marie was involved in the crimes, her expression lightened, and was replaced by a resurgence of the determination that was an integral part of her personality. She leaned forward expectantly as he related how Gianni’s fresh perspective had led him to realise that their previous interpretation of Molly’s words had been too limited in scope.

“If we consider as valid the premise that the washerwoman heard two people speaking in
langue d’oc
, then not only does it confirm the tale the bath attendant told us, but also our impression that Marie was lying when she claimed that she knew of no one else in the royal household that spoke the dialect.”

Nicolaa nodded. “I remember that the young girl, Yvette, seemed puzzled by Marie’s answer. She, like the washerwoman, must have overheard her using it in conversation with someone else.”

The castellan leaned back, reflecting on the information. “And there is also the fact that Yvette saw Marie going into one of the rooms on the ground floor about the time when the poison was added to the flavouring mixture. Yes, de Marins,” Nicolaa agreed, “you have convinced me that Marie could be responsible for the death of Inglis. But as to her accomplice—do you suspect that she aided an intruder to enter the house?”

“No, lady. That possibility is ruled out by the fact that the person Marie was speaking to must have been known to the washerwoman, else she would not have taken note of the conversation. It has to be someone in the household.”

He paused, and then related to her the steps, with Gianni’s help, that had led him to the identity of Marie’s accomplice, and his name.

The castellan listened intently, and when he was finished she looked shocked. “May God forfend us, de Marins, you are right. But unfortunately, there is no firm evidence, only supposition. The king will want proof.”

“I know, lady, and I fear I have little chance of getting any unless one of the two grooms that are in the castle gaol can help us. They have not yet been questioned as to whether or not they overheard anyone, besides the queen and her two companions, speaking
langue d’oc
. Because their native tongue is French, they are far more likely than any of the English-speaking servants in the royal household to recognise the dialect and, if it was used it in their hearing, might have noticed it. But even if they cannot help, I feel the suspect should be questioned, and if his answers are not satisfactory it may convince the king to look further into his culpability.”

The castellan stood up, her expression grim. “Yes, it will, but if you need to take him into custody to do so, you will need a weightier authority than mine to sanction his arrest.”

She pondered on the matter for a moment and then said, “I would prefer not to inform the king of our suspicions until every effort has been made to find evidence to substantiate them, so I will send Miles to William Marshal at the cathedral guesthouse with a request that he come to the castle bail directly. The earl has the power to authorise whatever action you deem necessary and will, I am certain, understand the reason we have asked for his help.”

“And Marie?” the Templar asked. “She also needs to be detained, and as soon as possible. Remember that the younger companion, Yvette, might have proof of her culpability with regard to the lie she told to us at the nunnery, when she claimed not to have spoken to anyone else in
langue d’oc
. If Marie discovers we have arrested her accomplice, the girl could be in danger.”

Gianni’s face went white at the thought that the pretty young maid might be harmed, and his fear was not allayed when Nicolaa shook her head.

“That might not prove such an easy matter. The queen is too protective of both her attendants to take heed of a warrant issued by Marshal, and she has the power to overrule it. We must wait until after the suspect has been questioned in the hope that he will reveal some detail of Marie’s involvement, something Isabella cannot refute. I will instruct Miles to accompany the earl when he goes to the bail and await the outcome of your actions. If you find any evidence against Marie, he can then return to the cathedral guesthouse and tell John, so that the king can issue a writ for her arrest. He is the only one that Isabella will not dare to disobey.”

After giving a brief nod of his acceptance of the arrangements, Bascot departed. As Gianni hurried away to find Miles de Laxton, Nicolaa sank back in her chair, firmly suppressing the quaver of apprehension that assailed her. Even though she believed Bascot’s identification of the murderers to be the correct one, he had, as yet, not been able to discern their motive with any certainty. It was most likely that, as he surmised, they were agents for King Philip, and her fear that the reason for the crimes might be connected to Arthur was groundless. But until it was proven otherwise, she would not rest easy, and was fearful of the consequences to herself and her family if John’s dark secret should be revealed. As these murders so aptly portrayed, one secret often led to another, and could become a snare of intrigue that was both dangerous and repellant.

Chapter Thirty-three

The colour of the sky was a louring grey as Bascot rode along Watling Street towards the castle, and as he turned down Castle Street, a drizzling mist of rain mixed with snow began to fall. When he rode into the castle ward he found it filled with an air of disgruntlement. Near the gate seven or eight men-at-arms from the castle garrison were standing in a sullen group, watching grooms bring horses out from the stable. On the other side of the bail, Chacal, stony-faced and arms akimbo, was overseeing the men of his band as they ran continuous circuits of the training ground in full armour. Criel, in company with his serjeant—a veteran soldier in his mid-forties with hands as large as horses’ hooves—stood at the foot of the steps leading up into the keep, their faces dark with irritation.

Bascot walked over to the constable. “Punishment duty?” he asked, gesturing towards the soldiers at the gate and the sweating mercenaries.

Criel nodded in disgust. “There are too many troops in the ward at the moment, what with Chacal’s mercenaries bunking in alongside my men. Last night, in the barracks, a couple of them got into an argument over a dice game and started brawling, and the rest joined in. If it hadn’t been for my serjeant’s intervention, blood would have been spilled.”

Nodding towards the soldiers at the gate, who were now shuffling into a queue behind the horses, he said, “Those are the worst offenders amongst my own men. They will march behind the horses while they go for their daily exercise, and I’ve told the grooms to keep up a good pace. By the time those troublemakers have waded through a few miles of snow and horse shit, they’ll be too tired to argue with anyone. And Chacal will keep his band at drill until they, too, are ready to drop. If any of the bastards so much as looks crosswise at each other after this, the skin will be taken off their backs, and they know it.”

The Templar gave a murmur of commiseration and stood beside Criel as the horses set out through the gate at a trot, the disgraced men-at-arms shambling behind. After they had disappeared from view, the constable turned to Bascot and asked if he had come to put more questions to the prisoners, nodding towards the row of cells on the other side of the ward.

Bascot had given the questioning of the two grooms some thought on his ride to the ward and, finding that he still did not completely trust Aquarius, asked Criel if he would remove the bath attendant to a separate cell while he spoke to them.

“Of course,” the constable replied, and instructed his serjeant to do as the Templar had asked. As the soldier moved across the ward to carry out the order, Bascot spoke again to Criel.

“I am expecting the Earl of Pembroke to be here shortly. If he arrives while I am still with the prisoners, would you ask him to wait until I am done?”

Criel assured him he would, and Bascot walked over to the cell where the grooms were imprisoned and went inside. The two men, huddled on the floor and shivering in the dank chill, looked up fearfully as he came in. They were not manacled, Bascot noticed, a mercy that was more likely due to Criel’s consideration than the king’s. The Templar surveyed them for a moment before he spoke, recalling that their names were Andri and Denis, and then said, “I have come to ask you some more questions relating to the murders of the king’s washerwoman and his steward—”

Before he could complete the sentence, both men fell to their knees in front of him and the older of the two, Andri, burst into hasty speech. “We did not kill anyone,
maître
,” he declared. “We liked Molly; she was kind to us. She repaired Denis’ tunic when it was ripped and another time she brought us
pain blanc
from the kitchen. I swear to you before God that we never harmed her.”

“And never once did we speak to the steward,” Denis added in a rush. “We did not know him at all.”

Bascot held up his hand to stem their flood of protestations. Because any witness they gave might be distorted by eagerness to prove their innocence, he gave only a broad explanation for his presence. “I am not come to accuse, but to ask if you heard something that may be related to their deaths.”

“But we already told all that we know,
maître
,” Andri said uncertainly, “to the other
chevalier
that came to the townhouse.”

“I am aware of that,” Bascot said patiently, “but there is a question that he did not ask and that I now put to you. Are either of you familiar with the dialect spoken in the south of France, called
langue d’oc
?”

Both were bemused by the question and glanced at each other in perplexity. “I do not speak it, lord,” Andri said finally, “but I have an understanding of some of the words.”

“And you Denis?” Bascot asked.

The other groom shook his head. “Only that they say
oc
instead of
oïl
, as we do in Rouen—that is all.”

“If either of you were to hear it spoken, would you be able to distinguish it from another dialect or patois?” Bascot pressed.

Andri gave a nod of affirmation, but Denis said he was not sure, but thought he might be able to because, he said, “They say some of the words like they are singing a song.”

The Templar, reasonably certain now that he could depend on their truthfulness, went on with his questions. “I want you to think back over the time since you joined the king retinue,” he said to them. “Have you heard anyone in the company, apart from the queen and her two ladies, speak in that language, either during the journey from Rouen or since you arrived in England?”

Both of the grooms pondered his question for a few moments and then, as Denis began to shake his head in negation, Andri nudged him impatiently. “Yes,
imbécile
, do you not remember? It was when we were on the boat crossing over the Narrow Sea and Molly came to help you while you were sick.”

Still Denis’ expression remained blank and Andri, with an impatient shrug, said, “He was very ill,
maître
, and perhaps did not notice.”

Bascot felt a surge of hope when the washerwoman’s name was mentioned and instructed the groom to tell him what he had heard, and when.

“It was while we were on the boat crossing over to England. The weather was very rough and Denis became sick with
mal de mer
. The king’s horses—three of them, a gelding and two mares—were penned inside hurdles in the middle of the ship and they, too, did not much like the storm and started to kick and bite each other. Denis tried to help me with them, but he was vomiting badly and went to hang over the ship’s rail so he would not foul the horses’ stall. He was leaning over so far I feared he would tumble into the sea, but I could not leave the horses to come to his aid. Molly, who had been sitting a little way from us, saw what was happening and came running to help. She was
une femme très robuste
, that one, and held on to Denis all the way to England, never once letting him go, and wiped his face with the hem of her skirt most tenderly.

“It was while she was doing this that we heard one of the queen’s ladies—the old one with a face like
un citron
—talking to someone on the other side of the hurdles. We could not see them, nor they us, because there were bales of hay piled up on that side of the pen, but we could hear them, and they were speaking in
langue d’oc
. I did not listen to much of what they were saying for I was too busy with the horses, but Molly, she did, and got very upset. She said to me afterwards that the man with the queen’s attendant was
un menteur—
a liar—and she was going to tell the king about him.”

“Do you know the identity of the man the washerwoman was speaking about?” Bascot asked, his pulse quickening.

“Oïl,”
Andri replied. “I could not see him because he was behind the pile of hay, but I heard Molly speak his name when she told someone else about the conversation after we docked at Dover.”

A thrill of satisfaction ran through Bascot when Andri named the person he had suspected, but it was mingled with consternation at the groom’s claim there was another person besides themselves privy to the information. “Are you certain that she spoke to someone else about this?” he asked sternly.

“Mais oïl,”
Andri replied. “I heard her myself, as we were going into the castle with the horses, when she and the other man were walking behind us.”

“Who was it?” Bascot asked.

“
Le attaché de bain
, Guillaume Aquarius.”

***

After promising the two grooms they would soon be released, and receiving their grateful thanks, the Templar went into the cell where Criel’s serjeant had put Aquarius, which was adjacent to the one he had just left. The bath attendant was sitting on a stool in the corner and did not look well. His thin face had taken on a sallow hue and his prominent nose was blue with cold. But the Templar was angry, and squashed any pity he might have felt.

“You lied to me, clerk,” Bascot growled. “You knew all along who killed the washerwoman. Why did you not say so before?”

Aquarius looked up at him with an air of resignation. “That was foolish, I know, lord. But at the time I was frightened. I thought that if he found out I had given you his name, he would murder me, too, like he did Molly. And then, afterwards, it was too late to tell you, for it would look as though I was lying to protect myself. All I could do was to give you a little of what I knew, and hope you would piece it together.”

“If the truth had remained hidden, you would have paid a heavy price for your cowardice and so would the two grooms, who are completely innocent of any wrongdoing,” Bascot said harshly.

Aquarius hung his head, and made no attempt to defend his actions.

“Is there anything else you have not told?” the Templar asked. “Any further incriminating evidence against him?”

“Only that he came running from one of the empty chambers on the same floor as the antechamber when I raised the alarm,” the bath attendant replied. “He must have gone in there after he killed Molly, and then waited for her body to be discovered before he reappeared. I did not realise he had done so at that moment, but afterwards, during the hours the guards were searching and no intruder was found, I knew that it could only have been him who murdered her, and that he had done so to stop her telling the king about his conversation with the queen’s companion.”

“Do you know why he considered that a threat?” Bascot pressed. “Did the washerwoman understand the language enough to hear them speaking of some matter that threatened the king?”

“She knew a few words and that is all, but was sufficiently familiar with the sound of
langue d’oc
to recognise that his speech was very fluent and also to note that he used the familiar
tu
while speaking to Marie. And that was why she was suspicious. Not only did he claim to be from Flanders where the language
is practically unknown, but she had seen him and Marie, in Rouen, pass each other by without any sign of recognition. From their conversation together she knew this must have been a pretence. She was an observant woman, Molly, and very protective of the king. Why the pair wanted to keep their liaison a secret, she did not know—and nor do I—but even though Inglis disagreed with her and thought her conjecture foolish, she still felt it was worthy of mention and intended to do so the next time she had an opportunity to speak to the king.”

“And the day you were seen arguing in the townhouse yard with the steward—did you lie about that, too?”

“Only a little,” the bath attendant admitted. “I told the truth when I said we were not at odds with each other, but I did not when I related the subject of our discussion. Inglis was irritated with Molly for her persistence in saying that the king should be told of it—that is why he looked angry—and I was trying to pacify him and reconcile the breach between them, that is all.”

As Aquarius finished speaking, they heard the gateward call out and Bascot looked out into the bail through the grille in the cell door. William Marshal and Miles de Laxton had arrived and were dismounting from their horses. With them was Gilles de Laubrec. After handing their mounts into the care of a groom, they all walked over to where Criel was standing at the bottom of the steps leading up into the keep. The misty rain was still falling and all of them were well wrapped up in heavy cloaks and close-fitting quilted arming caps. Leaving the abject clerk to his self-made misery, the Templar pulled his own cloak close around him and went to join them.