01 - Murder in the Holy City (16 page)

They arrived back at the citadel and saw the horses settled for what remained of the night. Geoffrey’s inclination was to go immediately to his room to interview Marius, but Wolfram reappeared breathlessly to tell him that one of the men was ill. Always in fear of a contagious fever that would spread through the garrison like wildfire, Geoffrey went to investigate and found young Robin Barlow groaning and holding his stomach pitifully.

Geoffrey was no physician, but he was able to put the strong smell of cheap Arab wine together with the symptoms of vomiting and dizziness to diagnose that Barlow was suffering from the effects of too much drink. His inclination was to abandon the lad to his misery and assume he had learned his lesson. But the young soldier clearly thought he was going to die, and since it seemed he had never been drunk before, Geoffrey took a few moments to reassure him and to send a comrade to the kitchens for eggs and vinegar.

Roger was waiting for him in the bailey, standing at the well and gulping great draughts of cool water. Geoffrey drank too, for no soldier passed up the opportunity to eat or drink—who knew how long it might be before such an opportunity came again? Together, they walked across the dark bailey toward the torches that flared either side of the entrance to the Tower of David, and climbed the stairs.

Geoffrey’s room was stuffy and in darkness, and he imagined that Marius and Hugh had grown tired of waiting for him to return and had gone to sleep. The dog snuffled wetly around Geoffrey’s legs, and followed Roger back down the stairs in search of a candle. Geoffrey realized that the room was so stiflingly hot because someone had closed the window shutters. He was picking his way across the floor in the dark to open them, when his foot contacted with something soft and sent him sprawling forward. He landed on his hands and knees and felt something cool and sticky that had spread out across the tiles. He had been a soldier long enough to know the unmistakable texture of blood when he felt it.

As he climbed to his feet, Roger arrived back with a lamp, and light flooded the chamber.

“Holy Mother!” swore Roger softly.

Hugh lay facedown on the bed, the back of his head dark with blood, while Marius was huddled into the corner with his knees drawn up to his chest. And underneath him was a great puddle of gore that glistened black in the light of the lamp.

After Helbye and Wolfram had been summoned to remove Marius’s bloodied corpse to the chapel, and after Fletcher had scrubbed some of the stains from the floor, Geoffrey flopped onto the window seat and eyed Hugh’s white face with concern.

“You should let me look at that cut. I read that Arab physicians use a poultice of herbs …”

“You tried a so-called Arab poultice on Sir Aldric of Chester after the capture of Antioch, and he died.”

“His wound was fatal anyway,” said Geoffrey, stung. “The poultice was to ease the pain, not to cure him. But there may be dirt in the wound. It should be cleaned.”

“Roger has done a perfectly adequate job,” said Hugh. “I feel better already.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes,” said Hugh crossly. “For heaven’s sake, Geoffrey! All of us have suffered wounds ten times more serious than this in battle, but because I was struck down in a bedchamber, you think I am dying!”

Geoffrey raised his hands. “All right, all right. Tell me again what happened, then.”

Hugh sighed heavily. “I was talking to Marius, just as you told me to do, when I saw that hound of yours stand up and wag its tail. I assumed it was looking at someone behind me, but before I could turn, whoever it was hit me on the head. And that is all I remember. The next thing I knew was that you two were hovering over me like demons from hell, and I had a tremendous headache.”

“And you saw and heard nothing else?” insisted Geoffrey.

“Nothing!” said Hugh, becoming exasperated. He put a hand to the bandage that swathed his fair head, inexpertly tied, but impressively large to make up for it, and winced. “That dog is worthless,” he said in calmer tones, watching it sitting obediently at Roger’s feet, and attempting to lay its head on his knee. “A murderer comes into your room in the depths of the night, and all that thing does is wag its tail! Did you ever train it to do anything worthwhile? Can it hunt? Can it retrieve? Can it do anything other than lie around and eat?”

Geoffrey thought for a moment. “No. What did Marius tell you before he died?”

“Very little, I am afraid. The man was shaking like a leaf, so I went to fetch some wine to calm him down. By the time he was less frantic, some time had passed. I asked him to relate to me what happened, and he was telling me when the murderer entered.”

“What exactly had he said?” asked Geoffrey.

Hugh rubbed at the bandage. “That he went looking for Dunstan, but could not find him. He went to look in the scriptorium as a last resort, but did not really expect to find him because there were no lamps lit. Then he saw a dark shape slumped over Dunstan’s desk and found that Dunstan had been murdered.”

“How could he tell Dunstan had been murdered if there were no lamps? The scriptorium was pitch black, and we had to light Wolfram’s lamp,” pounced Geoffrey.

“I am only repeating what he said,” replied Hugh waspishly. “I am not attempting to defend it. He saw the rope that he assumed had been used to strangle Dunstan, and came running as fast as he could for the safety of the citadel.”

“Good choice,” said Roger.

“Why here?” said Geoffrey, thinking aloud. “Why not claim sanctuary with the Patriarch? Daimbert was angry at Dunstan’s death, and I feel he would have at least tried to protect Marius. How could Marius feel that a journey through the streets at dusk to claim help from men he did not know was safer than remaining with the Patriarch?”

“I do not know,” said Hugh wearily. “He must have had his reasons.”

“And when we know what they were, we will be closer to solving this,” said Geoffrey. He watched his dog pawing adoringly at Roger, who kept pushing it away.

“What is the matter with this thing?” Roger snapped, glaring at it.

“He can smell the cakes you stole from Dunstan’s desk,” said Geoffrey, leaving the window seat and going to sit at the table. He wanted to write their findings down so that he could consider them logically, but he was afraid that the killer, who had broken into his room twice now, might find any records he made. He remembered the scraps of vellum he had taken, and pulled them out to study them. It was unlikely a clue would emerge from such an obvious source, but he had precious little to go on, and the matter was becoming dangerous. A man had been murdered in his room, surrounded by a fortress full of knights. The killer he was hunting had shown himself to be a formidable force, and Geoffrey could afford to overlook nothing.

Roger’s face lit up, and he retrieved the package from his surcoat, smacking his lips in anticipation. The dog drooled helplessly, and its eyes became great liquid pools of temporary adoration. While Roger unwrapped and the dog slathered, Hugh hunted about for some wine.

“I cannot stomach that sweet stuff with nothing to drink,” he said. “Geoffrey, do you have no wine in this pit you call home?”

“You must have had it all already,” said Geoffrey, looking up from where he was reading.

Roger gave a dramatic sigh and stood to fetch wine from his own supply. The dog weaved about his legs in a desperate attempt to ingratiate, and almost tripped him.

“Greedy, useless beast,” he muttered. He saw the dog’s glistening eyes fixed on the unwrapped cakes on the bed, and moved them to a high shelf. Relenting, he broke a tiny piece off and dropped it to the floor, where the dog fell on it frantic with avarice.

He returned moments later holding a bottle, and hunted around for the cups without the fungus growing in the bottom. Elbowing Geoffrey to one side, he rummaged around the scraps of parchment with big, hairy hands. The sound of violent retching filled the room, and he and Geoffrey spun around to look at Hugh in alarm. Hugh, startled, stared back. The sound came again, from under the bed.

“It is that revolting dog!” said Hugh, beginning to laugh. “It has been in the refuse pits again.”

Roger disagreed. “It must have been that pig’s heart he had. Or whatever nasty item it was gorging itself on at Akira’s charnel house.”

Geoffrey rubbed his chin, and peered under the bed as the dog retched again. “I do not think so,” he said, straightening slowly. “I think it was the cake.”

CHAPTER SIX

H
ugh and Roger watched in fascinated disgust as Geoffrey forced milk down the dog’s throat. The dog struggled, but then accepted the ministrations with soulful resignation. Eventually, all the milk had been drunk or spat over Geoffrey, and the dog curled itself into a ball to sleep off its brush with death.

Geoffrey stroked its head with a caring he rarely felt for it. It had been with him so long, he could barely remember being without it, yet it was usually more a problem than a friend. He had found it eight years before as a puppy, abandoned in a ditch. He took it to young Tancred, having named it Angel due to the halo of dried mud on its head. Tancred had shown scant interest in the fawning creature and had finally tried to rid himself of it by throwing it into a well. Geoffrey had rescued it, but the dog—which had quickly and deservedly lost the name of Angel—had shown little loyalty to him except when hungry, and there was rarely much between them that could be called true affection. Since then, Geoffrey had fed and housed the dog, which had, in turn, graced him with its presence, except on those occasions when there appeared to be a better option.

Roger retrieved the parcel of cakes from the shelf and poked at them dubiously with his dagger, as if he imagined they might leap out of the wrappings of their own accord and strike him dead. Geoffrey came to peer over his shoulder.

“That should teach you not to steal a dead man’s food,” he said.

Roger shuddered. “I have never had a problem with it before. Are you sure it was the cakes, and not something else? That foul dog has always got something unsavoury in its mouth.”

Geoffrey shook his head. “There is an odd smell about those cakes, and, from the dog’s reaction, I think there must be a fast-acting poison in them. He is lucky you are mean, and only gave him a little. Had he, or you, eaten a whole one …”

“So, the mystery thickens,” said Hugh. “Were these cakes sent to Dunstan to kill him? Was he aware that attempts were being made on his life, and he became so frightened that he decided to save the killer the trouble? Or had he had these cakes prepared as a gift for someone else—Marius perhaps?”

Geoffrey took Roger’s dagger and poked at the wrappings. The inner ones were a kind of parchment specially designed to absorb grease, but the outer one was of the type used in the market near Pharos Street in the Greek Quarter. The cakes, too, were distinctive, and bore an unusual pattern of crystalised sugar on the crust. Geoffrey thought that it should not be too difficult to trace which of the bakeries near Pharos Street produced the cakes, and perhaps even when. The point at which the poison was added would be more difficult to determine, especially since it might even have been put there by Dunstan himself. But they had to start somewhere, and the bakeries seemed as good a place as any.

He glanced out of the window, and saw that the sky was beginning to lighten. It would not be long before the bakers opened their stalls for business, and he could begin his enquiries. He sighed and stretched, and then turned back to his study of the scraps of parchment from Dunstan’s desk. He wished he could have raided Marius’s desk too, but he did not know which one had been his, and it would have looked suspicious to have asked.

“What are you doing?” mumbled Roger, half-asleep in what looked to be an uncomfortable position on the wall bench. Hugh was already slumbering on the bed.

“Seeing if there is anything to be learned from the scrap vellum in Dunstan’s desk.”

“I do not hold with all those squiggles and scrawls,” said Roger drowsily. “They only serve to get you into trouble.”

Spoken like a true illiterate, thought Geoffrey. As if talking did not have its disadvantages in that way. He peered at one scrap in the yellow light from the lamp, and then put it to one side when he saw it had only been used to clean dirty quills. The next one was a list of scrolls relating to business dealings with a cloth merchant, and the next was a list of loot stolen from a house in the Jewish Quarter. Yet another contained a selection of meaningless words and phrases in a variety of styles, as if Dunstan had been seeing how many different ways he could write. Was this relevant, Geoffrey wondered? Daimbert had praised Dunstan’s writing, so perhaps the man had been able to mimic the handwriting style of others. It might be a useful skill for the Patriarch to draw upon.