01 - Murder in the Holy City (31 page)

There were also, of course, Warner de Gray and Henri d’Aumale. But if Roger were responsible for killing Marius inside the citadel, then Geoffrey could think of no reason why the Lorrainers should be involved and, like Roger, neither had the cunning or intelligence to plot with such deviousness. Based on Roger’s claim that d’Aumale was unconscious after the riot at Abdul’s Pleasure Palace, Geoffrey was not yet even sure if d’Aumale was still alive. Reluctantly, Geoffrey dismissed the unsavoury pair as suspects.

And finally, there was Dunstan and Marius, scribes in the pay of the Patriarch, like Jocelyn. Perhaps Dunstan was the murderer and had then committed suicide in remorse? But Dunstan was a blackmailer, and blackmailers were not remorseful people. So why had he killed himself?

Geoffrey had to admit to himself that, even with all he knew, he was still as far from learning the identity of the killer as he had been when he started. He had a fine assembly of possible culprits, but no evidence. He could hardly go to the Patriarch or the Advocate with a list of suspects—one of whom was a trusted scribe of the Patriarch and one of whom was the Patriarch’s niece, while another was the Advocate’s most valued adviser—and tell them to take their pick. And if he did, he knew they would chose Roger simply because it would be the solution that would cause the least damage. Geoffrey took a sip of wine, leaned his elbows on the table, and began to despair of ever finding an answer.

There was a thump at the door, and the dog gave a deep-throated growl.

“Are you in there? Let us in, lad!” Roger’s peeved tones must have been heard all over the citadel. Reluctantly, Geoffrey stood to move the chest, but such an object was of no substance to Roger, who heaved at the door until he could squeeze through. He saw the chest and nodded approvingly. “Good idea, lad. You cannot trust anyone these days.”

Hugh appeared in the doorway and eased himself lithely past the chest.

“What have you been doing?” Hugh asked Roger, as he settled himself comfortably on the bed, “while the phoenix and his vile dog have been sleeping the day away?”

Geoffrey shuddered involuntarily at this reminder of his near escape from the fire, and sat down abruptly. Roger also sat on the bed, grinning smugly at Geoffrey. “Well, ask me how I got on?” Geoffrey looked blank, and Roger was disappointed. “With what you sent me to do yesterday.”

“Oh, yes.” Geoffrey had quite forgotten his ruse of the night before to rid himself of Roger while he followed Melisende. “What happened?”

“You can ask Maria yourself,” said Roger proudly. “I brought her here.”

“You brought a whore to the citadel? Are you mad? She will never get out alive!”

“Not to the citadel, to the prison.” Roger preened himself. “I have solved the mystery for you,” he said with infuriating smugness. “I know who killed those priests and knights!”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

R
oger made his announcement regarding the identity of the murderer with pride.

“But it cannot be him, Roger,” said Geoffrey patiently. “The plot is too complex, and he simply does not have the wits.”

“Now you look here, lad,” said Roger, becoming self-righteous. “Just because men cannot write and read does not mean they are stupid. You are too arrogant by half about that learning of yours. I tell you again, your murderer is Warner de Gray. And it was him who killed Marius too!”

Was this Roger’s idea of proving his own innocence, wondered Geoffrey, to blame a man he did not like to make the whole business go away?

“Tell me why you think Warner is the culprit,” he said with resignation.

“Why?” echoed Roger loudly. “What kind of question is that? Because he is a murderer, of course! Why else?”

Geoffrey wondered how he could contrive to send Roger on some spurious mission so that he could confide his fears and knowledge to Hugh. If ever he needed the quiet support, advice, and thoughtful logic of the Norman knight, it was now.

“I do hope you are right Roger,” drawled Hugh, laconically. “That would be a most fitting end to all this ugliness, and we can all get back to the real business of good, honest slaughter.”

“Hear, hear,” said Roger fervently.

“But what more can you tell to enlighten us about this miserable affair?” asked Hugh of Roger.

“It was Warner,” responded Roger with finality.

“So we understand,” said Hugh patiently. “But what are the reasons behind your accusations?”

“Reasons!” spat Roger in disgust. “You sound like old book-brain here. I plan to challenge Warner to a duel before God. God will strike him down because he is guilty!”

Geoffrey stared at him. Roger took the business of duelling with utmost seriousness, and although certainly not a pious man, was far too superstitious to risk calling the wrath of God down on his own head if he did not have absolute trust in his convictions. Geoffrey’s thoughts tumbled together in an impossible jumble, and he longed for Roger to be gone so he could talk to Hugh. But Geoffrey did not want Roger to leave if his intention was to accost Warner and challenge him. That would get them nowhere at all.

“Tell me about Maria,” he said, to change the subject.

“Maria?” asked Hugh. “Now who is she?”

“Maria d’Accra,” said Roger. “The whore I arrested last night.”

“You did what?” said Hugh, startled. “Whatever for?”

“I have not told you that part of my story yet,” said Roger. Hugh leaned forward on his stool and listened with fascination.

“After Geoffrey had gone after that dreadful Greek woman, Maria also left the house, so I followed her, like he told me to. She went straight to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. And she was up to no good at all, for I have never seen such a furtive mover in all my days. The Church, of course, was all locked up, but this did not stop Maria. Over the roof she went, like a monkey. I followed as best I could, although I was slower and less silent. Anyway, she ended up in this little garden, and someone was talking to her there. It was that nice Benedictine, Father Almaric. They talked for a while, and he handed her a scroll. Then she was off over the roof again and back to her father’s butcher’s shop, where I arrested her.”

“What did she do with this scroll?” asked Hugh.

“She hid it,” said Roger regretfully. “Somewhere in the butcher’s horrible premises, I suppose. I could not find it, and she would not tell me where it was.”

“And when did all this happen?” drawled Hugh with evident amusement.

“Last night,” said Roger. “But I only brought her here a short while ago. First, I took her back to that Melisende’s house, thinking to wait there for Geoffrey. But he was so long in coming, I had to bring her here instead, because I was growing hungry and there are only so many sweet cakes a man can eat before his stomach craves meat.”

“Well,” said Hugh, leaning back against the wall. “It is an exciting story, Roger, but hardly one that will convict Warner of murder. And it does not really justify arresting this Maria Akira. She is Abdul’s whore, you say? Perhaps the monk she met in the garden is one of her lovers, and she was merely taking advantage of the absence of her mistress to earn a little extra money.”

“Aye,” said Roger, suddenly deflated, “I suppose you might be right at that.”

Geoffrey was baffled. What was wrong with Roger? He did not usually give up his bigoted opinions with such ease. Geoffrey handed his cup to Hugh to fill. He had to talk to him alone.

“My hands are sore from all that business in the caves last night,” he said to Roger, displaying fingers that were multicoloured with cuts and bruises. “Do you have any goose-grease salve?”

“No,” said Roger, settling down on Geoffrey’s bed. “That bloody dog of yours ate the last of it a month ago.”

“I have some somewhere,” said Hugh, rising.

For Roger to stay and Hugh to leave was not what Geoffrey had intended at all. “It does not really matter,” he said. “But I would like some of that wine you had the other day, Roger.”

“That stuff has long gone,” said Roger, leaning back more comfortably on the bed. Hugh signalled that he would be back, and slipped out. Geoffrey cursed under his breath.

Roger was up in an instant, and had closed the door. Geoffrey reached for his dagger. Was this it? Was this how he had killed Marius? Geoffrey came to his feet in a fighting stance as Roger reached inside his surcoat and drew something out. Roger looked at the dagger with a sad, reproving expression, and held out a scroll for Geoffrey.

“I lied to Hugh,” he said softly. “Maria did not hide the scroll. I took it from her and forced her to read it to me.”

Still holding his dagger, Geoffrey cautiously took the scroll from Roger, alert for any trickery. Roger let his hands fall to his sides while Geoffrey read. It was a letter bearing the Advocate’s seal, and it was addressed to Brother Salvatori. Geoffrey looked at Roger in amazement.

“It is the letter that the Canon of St. Mary’s said had arrived for Guido after he died,” said Roger. “Remember the Canon saying he brought it to the citadel?”

Geoffrey nodded. He scanned through the scroll, then read it aloud.

“‘From Godfrey of Bouillon, Duke of Lower Lorraine and, by the Grace of God, His Advocate of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, to Brother Salvatori. I am much interested in what you have written, and I have passed the information to Sir Warner de Gray to deal with as he sees fit. You will know that there are many who seek my death, but I am appointed by God, and only He will decide when the time is fit to remove me.’”

He looked at Roger, bewildered, while Roger gazed back at him steadily.

“Guido warned the Advocate that there was a plan afoot to kill him,” Roger said. “He could not write himself, so he hired Jocelyn to write for him. Then they were both murdered.”

Geoffrey shook his head slowly, staring down at the letter in his hand. “Guido wrote as Brother Salvatori,” he said slowly. “Not as Sir Guido of Rimini. So of course the Advocate had no reason to associate a message from an Augustinian monk called Salvatori with the murder of Guido.” He sighed and shook his head. “But I do not understand the connections. How did this letter come to be in the possession of Father Almaric? And why did he give it to Maria?”

But even as he spoke, details were becoming clear in his mind. Maria, the spy spying on the spy, pretending to be flighty and empty-headed so that she would not be suspected. He had decided that Maria may well have arranged for John and Pius to be killed in the homes of her employer and hated father, respectively. And now she had come into possession of a vital piece of evidence that had disappeared.

Roger swallowed and looked away. “I will tell you what I think, but you have to let me finish all of what I have to say. Will you listen without breaking in?”

Tendrils of unease uncoiling in his stomach, Geoffrey nodded.

“When I mentioned Maria d’Accra, Hugh acted like he had never heard of her.” Roger raised his hand to stop Geoffrey from speaking. “Listen to me!” he snapped. “We do not have much time. Then Hugh referred to her as Maria Akira, although I called her Maria d’Accra—her whore name. And I did not say she were one of Abdul’s women, but Hugh knew.”

“So what?” said Geoffrey when Roger paused. “You know he can be a snob. He probably did not want to admit that he frequents the same whorehouses as you do.”

“Then you hid them scraps of parchment in that hole in the fireplace.” Roger rummaged around inside his surcoat and produced one that was still recognisable, but partially burned. “I found this in Hugh’s fireplace yesterday. You see, I saw he had lit a fire, and he never does that—you are the one who likes fires, not him—and I was curious. I found this scrap and thought it looked like one of the ones you stole from Dunstan’s desk, although they all look alike to me.”

Geoffrey took it, his thoughts in turmoil. Was Roger, having failed in his attempt to implicate Warner, now trying to blame Hugh?

“I saw you put them parchments in that hole,” said Roger heavily, “while Hugh looked like he was still asleep on the bed. But I happened to glance at him as you did it, and his eyes were wide open. He saw where you put them as clearly as I did.”

“But he did not knock himself on the head when Marius was stabbed,” said Geoffrey harshly.

“Did anyone?”

“You saw the blood! You bandaged his head for him!”

“Aye, lad. I saw a good deal of blood,” said Roger somberly. “It was all around poor Marius. But I saw no great gash on Hugh. He fussed and squirmed when I was trying to clean it, and would not keep still. I did not see his head clearly, because he would not let me. But I would have seen a serious wound. And use those wits you are so proud of, Geoffrey! If you were Hugh and you had a serious wound, would you rather have you tend it, with your scraps of medical knowledge and clean hands, or me, with my great clumsy fingers and ragged fingernails?”

It had been something that had rankled at the time, and that had been nagging at the back of Geoffrey’s mind ever since. He had always been the one to tend their various wounds in the past, and it had surprised him that Hugh had asked Roger to do it in his stead. Roger was rough and scarcely dextrous.