The Lord Bishop's Clerk (18 page)

Miles FitzHugh rolled a panicky eye at Catchpoll and then Bradecote, and stammered a request for the question to be repeated. Bradecote wanted to know if the squire had ever come across Eudo before, perhaps in communication with Earl Robert. The young man not only denied any previous knowledge of Eudo the Clerk, but became quite agitated.

‘I would have no truck with men like him. He was a spy, I heard it said so, and a man of honour has … should have … no dealings with him.’

Bradecote did not pursue this antipathy to spies, but sought rather to trace FitzHugh’s movements since his arrival and elicit any information about the other guests and the lord Bishop of Winchester’s man. There was not much to be gleaned, for the squire had only arrived late in the morning on the day of the murder. He had only seen Eudo the Clerk twice, once passing the two nuns from Romsey, and the second having speech with the widowed lady d’Achelie, which had struck him as a most unlikely encounter.

‘Do you know what their meeting was about?’ Catchpoll was keen to show he had a part to play in the interview, and that failure to answer questions could prove unpleasant.

FitzHugh attempted to look disdainful, but in his current position merely looked ridiculous. ‘I am no eavesdropper, Serjeant.’

Catchpoll’s eyes narrowed, and the squire continued in a rush.

‘But for certes the lady was agitated, her face very mobile and her hands also. The clerk appeared,’ he pondered a moment, ‘well, to be pleased with himself.’

‘Did they speak for long?’ Bradecote sought to re-establish his control of the situation.

‘I could not say, my lord, because I only saw them as I walked from the gatehouse to the guest hall.’ FitzHugh felt happier talking to Bradecote. ‘I do not believe so, because I heard the lady d’Achelie in her chamber only a few moments later, chastising her maid.’

‘Chastising her?’

‘Shouting a lot in a loud voice. I could not make out words but she was very angry.’ FitHugh felt he was being helpful and cheered up.

‘Very well, messire. Now can you tell us why you arrived late to supper at Abbot William’s table and how it is that you were you described to us as,’ he paused, ‘“dishevelled”, was it not Serjeant Catchpoll?’

‘Indeed, my lord. “Dishevelled” and with dirty hands and boots.’

Bradecote raised his brows in mock surprise. ‘I cannot believe Earl Robert permits his squires to show such discourtesy.’

Miles FitzHugh’s brief improvement in spirits collapsed. He squirmed. Earl Robert would have more than just something to say if such information filtered back to him.

‘I had forgotten the invitation.’ He glanced nervously at Catchpoll, who was making a growling noise in his throat. ‘Forgotten because I had been called here to the stables. My groom feared that my horse had strained a hock.’

‘This horse? The one you were about to ride out upon tonight?’ Bradecote pointed at the showy chestnut that was lisping at hay in a disinterested manner and had sacking tied inexpertly round three of its hooves. His voice was disbelieving.

‘The groom was mistaken, as I told him myself when I saw the animal.’

‘Mighty unhealthy, this stable,’ commented Catchpoll, apparently to his superior. ‘Messire FitzHugh’s fine beast has a suspect hock and Eudo the Clerk’s mule has something sharp and nasty driven into the frog of its off hind.’ He shook his head. ‘Both on the same evening, too. Strange, that.’

FitzHugh glanced from one law officer to the other. He was aware that they were toying with him now.

‘All right, all right. It was me.’ His voice was weary, sullen and dispirited, with no trace of the arrogant lordling. ‘I came and lamed the mule. I wanted to do something to take the smile off that nasty little spy’s face. He had upset the lady d’Achelie and the mere sight of him had upset old lady Courtney. I heard her with the Weaver woman, who said he was a spy. It was known in Winchester. Spies are underhand and dirty. I wanted to stop him going about his trade for a bit, that’s all. I swear, my lord.’

The squire had had enough. His head hurt, he was cold, demoralised and disgraced, and the odour of ordure clung about him.

Acting under-sheriff and serjeant exchanged glances. They needed no more tonight. Catchpoll instructed Reynald and another man-at-arms to escort Miles FitzHugh to the guest hall, and dragged him to his feet. He staggered, and Reynald took his elbow and led him away.

Bradecote called after him. ‘I may choose to see you again, in the daylight, Messire FitzHugh, so do keep yourself in your chamber.’

The squire looked back over his shoulder, wincing, and threw him a look of dislike. Catchpoll grinned.

‘That should keep him out of everyone’s way, though I expect he’ll be glad of the chance to nurse his head. You don’t really think we will need him again, my lord?’

‘No, I do not think so, Serjeant. I think we have discovered all we need about that puppy who wanted to run away with his tail between his legs.’ He yawned. ‘Now, I am for my bed again, and hopefully nothing else will disturb me till Prime. Goodnight.’ He turned and headed back into the warm summer night, which was airless and oppressive. He hoped the weather would break soon.

The dawn brought glowering, slate-grey clouds massing like a besieging army on the western horizon, but the sun rose with a defiant and unabated glare in the east. There was a storm brewing, but there were some hours yet before release from the stultifying air would come. It was a tension that arose from nature rather than the misdeeds of man, but the two combined within the abbey walls. Hugh Bradecote awoke feeling jaded and sticky, his bruised upper arm aching, and with the seeds of a headache germinating in his brain. A wash in cool water lessened the former discomforts, but he wondered whether he should put a brave face on things and ignore the headache, or find the herbalist and take some easing draught before it took hold. He decided against it, fearing that if Catchpoll found out he would sink even further in his estimation. Pride overcame discomfort, and he headed out for the day’s investigation.

The bags under Serjeant Catchpoll’s eyes appeared heavier than usual, but otherwise he looked none the worse for a disturbed night. He acknowledged Bradecote with a nod and a report on FitzHugh, who was apparently still sleeping off the night’s disruption.

‘And Reynald has a stunning black eye, but is none the worse for it. In fact, I told him it suited him, and if ever I find him asleep upon his watch again I will give him one to match it.’ He smiled, grimly. ‘I take it we will finish speaking to the guests this morning, my lord. Do you wish to see the noble lord or the lovely lady first?’

Bradecote smiled. However disrupted his sleep, Catchpoll seemed in good spirits.

‘Well, since our stable interview produced knowledge of a meeting between Eudo and the lady d’Achelie, perhaps we should start with her. But Catchpoll, restrain your natural inclinations to leer at the lady. We don’t want to distract her from the events around the murder.’

Catchpoll’s eyes twinkled as he turned to go. ‘Might find me just too attractive, my lord? Wouldn’t be the first.’

‘Not quite what I meant,’ Bradecote choked.

The only response was a sharp bark of laughter.

A short while later Isabelle d’Achelie preceded Serjeant Catchpoll into the abbot’s parlour. She had graced the occasion with a different gown, neither grey nor blue, but somewhere in between. A lapis cross lay on her breast and her wimple was dazzlingly white. She presented a peculiar mixture of nun and siren. It was clearly the siren that Catchpoll appreciated.

Bradecote was less impressed. She had dressed with excessive care, and for a reason, which made him think. He wondered whether she was simply trying to captivate him on the premise that she liked all men to adore her, or whether it was to keep the investigators from finding out something she would prefer to keep hidden. If she thought to distract him then she was in for a bitter disappointment.

She seated herself with care on the chair provided, arranging the folds of her gown becomingly, and positioning herself so that Bradecote was treated to a beguiling mix of the profile of her curvaceous body and the full impact of her charming face. A provocative smile lurked in her limpid, violet eyes.

‘I have come as you desired, my lord. I am sure there is nothing I can recall that will help you, but …’ She waved her hands in a vague gesture, and thereby wafted a rich and exotic perfume towards him. It was quite a performance.

‘Thank you, my lady. It may be that there is something which appears quite insignificant to you, but will be meaningful to us. I would like to start by asking why it is that you are journeying to seek audience with the king? These are not safe times for a lady to travel needlessly.’

The merest flicker of annoyance pursed her full lips, then she smiled.

‘I would prefer to keep my affairs in all forms private, my lord, naturally, but in the circumstances I suppose I have no choice. I am travelling to put forward my supplication to King Stephen. I am the widow of a loyal lord, not without wealth, and I may be able to persuade him that if I am to wed again, it should be to a younger and more,’ she paused, ‘able man than my first husband.’

She dabbed at the corner of her eye with a delicate forefinger, and explained how she had been a loyal and loving wife to the elderly, and latterly incapacitated, Hamo, dropping the heaviest of hints about finally having her ‘needs’ fulfilled. Bradecote could almost see Catchpoll imagining.

‘I am hopeful that King Stephen will be swayed by my argument.’

Swayed by the swing of her hips and drooping of her lashes more like, thought Bradecote, but it seemed in keeping with the lady that she should seek to influence her future in this way. He remembered the Winchester widow’s words.

‘Have you anyone in mind to fill the vacancy left by your bereavement?’

‘Are you putting yourself forward, my lord?’ She blushed, but looked archly at him.

‘No.’ He ignored the lure.

The bald statement and uncompromising tone gave her pause for thought. Last night she had thought he would be easy to handle, but this morning he was as on the evening of the murder. She was perplexed, while Bradecote’s temper frayed at the game of flirtation she was playing.

Catchpoll, while listening carefully, was letting his eyes feast on the prettiest thing to be seen within Pershore Abbey. He was a man many years married, and faithful enough of body, but he thought it a natural thing for a man to enjoy the visual temptations of a comely female. He might have a grizzled beard and crow’s feet, but he considered that if his blood stirred at beauty then it proved, at least to himself, he was not yet old.

‘Are you perhaps contemplating an alliance with Waleran de Grismont?’

‘Why should you think so, my lord?’

‘Because I have seen the way he looks at you, my lady d’Achelie, and I do not think he stopped at your door last night because of me.’

‘That was mere chance, and you will find that the way he looked at me is the way most men look at me, if they have red blood in their veins.’ She tossed her head, and there was a hint of sharpness in her tone. ‘I am acquainted with the lord of Defford, it is true. He was a friend of my dear Hamo. He doubtless wished to see that I was safe.’

‘And did Eudo the Clerk look at you in that way?’

Her eyes widened in genuine surprise. ‘I doubt it very much, my lord, but then I had no contact with him to find out.’

Catchpoll reluctantly put his interest in the fall and rise of the cross upon the lady’s bosom to the back of his mind, and concentrated on her words.

‘No contact? Then why is it that you were noticed in agitated discussion with him before Vespers on the day of his death?’

Bradecote was pleased to see the effect of his question. The lady dropped her eyes and began to rub a fold of the skirt of her gown between finger and thumb. There was a short silence, and then she laughed, though it was false and mirthless.

‘Oh, that. I had forgotten that. He had trodden on the hem of my gown as he passed behind me, and torn it a trifle. It is a good gown, and I was most displeased.’

‘May we see it?’

She looked flustered. ‘I … well … it was too badly damaged and I had to give it to the almoner for some destitute.’

‘You are not a very good liar, my lady. You just said that it “is” a good gown, not “was”.’

Catchpoll nodded approvingly. This time the new man had grasped the important detail.

Isabelle d’Achelie was unsure what to do, so she did what women often do to gain time; she burst into tears.

Both Bradecote and Catchpoll were taken unawares, and stared at each other over the lady’s bent, sobbing head. Bradecote mouthed, ‘Now what?’ and Catchpoll pulled a face which Bradecote interpreted as, ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

Neither man said anything for a few moments as the lady wept softly. When she raised her head, Bradecote noted that her eyes were not an unsightly red, but softly wet, with tears glistening on the ends of the lashes. So it was all part of the act, then. Whenever Ela wept, her eyes grew puffy and pink, and she sniffed a great deal, and also her nose ran. The lady d’Achelie sniffed, but it was a delicate affair, an affectation not a necessity, and her perfect little nose was dry.