Deadly Inheritance Page 19

  He heard footsteps and turned to see Durand, wrapped in a thick, well-oiled cloak and wearing a hood to protect his golden mane. He looked angry.

  ‘Baderon has the manners of a peasant,’ he snapped. ‘He has just informed me that manors in Suffolk are inferior to those in Gloucestershire.’

  ‘Did you goad him?’

  Durand glared. ‘I said Suffolk is fertile, and my land is worth three times his.’

  ‘Then it is not surprising. No man likes to be told his estates are worthless.’

  ‘But it is true,’ said Durand sulkily.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Geoffrey, not wanting to argue with Durand, either.

  ‘You seem preoccupied,’ said Durand after a while.

  Geoffrey nodded. ‘Did I tell you I met Margaret’s husband on the Crusade?’

  Durand shook his head, and his spiteful face softened. ‘I know people do not respect me – I am different from other men – but Margaret was always kind. If I can help you to catch whoever snuffed out her life, ask. I promise I will not use it as a lever to persuade you to help me with other investigations.’

  Geoffrey stared at him in surprise. It was not often his old squire was sincere, and even more rare that he liked someone enough to be touched by a death. ‘I think she saw Jervil killed, and was murdered in her turn, so she could not tell anyone what she had witnessed.’

  ‘Perhaps she saw the villain placing the knife in Jervil’s dead hand – his non-dominant hand, as you so quickly established. That must have been what happened. She would have run to raise the alarm, had she seen the culprit actually strangling Jervil.’

  ‘So, to find out who strangled her, I need to know who killed Jervil. But he was wary and suspicious – and would have been even more so after receiving a purse of coins. Why did he relax his guard? I looked at his hands, and there were no marks on them. Why did he not fight back?’

  ‘Perhaps he was hit on the head and stunned first.’

  ‘I saw no bumps, but it is possible.’ Geoffrey smiled: it was good to have someone of Durand’s intelligence and insightfulness to talk to, because it helped clarify his own thoughts. ‘We are right to assume Jervil was killed first, are we not? It is not possible that Margaret was strangled, and then Jervil dispatched to ensure his silence?’

  Durand shook his head. ‘She was worried about Isabel. I imagine she went to the stables looking for her and surprised the culprit while he was covering his tracks.’

  Geoffrey supposed he was right. He told Durand all he knew about the deaths, and then outlined his thoughts about Henry. Unfortunately, however he presented the facts, it was difficult to see how Baderon could be innocent. It was a pity, because Geoffrey liked him more than the other suspects.

  ‘I do not see Baderon strangling his victims in a dark stable,’ he said, somewhat lamely.

  ‘I am not so sure.’ Durand was thoughtful. ‘He is smug, opinionated, vacillating and weak – exactly the kind of character who kills in the dark. And ask yourself why he was prepared to pay Jervil for this ruby dagger. There is only one conclusion: Baderon stabbed Henry, and left the knife behind in his panic. That is the only reason he would have been prepared to buy it.’

  Geoffrey was forced to concede that Durand’s deductions made sense.

  The clerk continued. ‘Then, not trusting a thief to keep his silence, Baderon followed Jervil to the stables and strangled him. It was a good opportunity to retrieve his money, too. Then, as he was placing the knife in Jervil’s hand – to make the murder look like self-defence – Margaret came in.’

  ‘Damn!’ muttered Geoffrey, although he had reasoned much the same himself. ‘This scenario fits the facts. It is a shame: Baderon cares about his people and is not a bad man.’

  ‘Not all killers are cold-hearted,’ said Durand. ‘I have met enough – mostly through dealings with you – to know they can be charming. And if Baderon had stopped with your brother, I would have advised you to look the other way – no one seems to have liked him and it is generally agreed that Goodrich is better off without him. But he has struck three times now.’

  ‘I cannot accuse Baderon with the “evidence” we have. It is mere speculation.’

  ‘You may never get it,’ warned Durand. ‘He is clever, and has Seguin and Lambert to help him. You must be careful, or you may find you are next in line for a death without witnesses.’

  ‘I am under the King’s protection. His agents will investigate if I am murdered.’

  ‘But that will not do you any good. You must not be complacent. I am glad Roger is here: you need your friends around you when you do not know your enemies.’

  ‘Can I count you among my friends?’ asked Geoffrey.

  Durand smiled. ‘We have not always seen eye to eye – you consider me a coward because I abhor violence, while I think you are a lout. Yet there is a bond between us, and you can rely on me. But I must go. We are invited to hear the “singers with balls” at Bicanofre, and I must fetch a clean tunic and scarlet . . . what does he want?’

  It was Bale. The squire saw Durand and Geoffrey standing together, and his heavy features creased into a scowl. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded jealously.

  ‘Talking,’ replied Durand stiffly. ‘Not that it is your affair.’

  Bale took a threatening step forward. ‘I am his squire now, and he does not need you wriggling around. Clear off. If I catch you near him again, I will slit your throat.’

  Durand turned to Geoffrey, outraged. ‘Will you let him talk to me like that?’

  ‘What is the matter, Bale?’ asked Geoffrey, declining to take sides.

  ‘Lady Joan says to tell you that people are getting ready for Bicanofre. She wants you to go, too, so you can have a good look at Douce.’

  ‘I had better go, or they will leave without me,’ said Durand, pushing past Bale more vigorously than necessary. Geoffrey reached out to stop Bale from retaliating, feeling the raw strength in the man’s arm as he did so.

  ‘Do not listen to anything he tells you, sir,’ said Bale venomously. ‘He is a snake, and you can never trust a snake. Would you like me to slip into his room tonight and slit—’

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey firmly. ‘Not tonight and not ever. I do not want a squire who murders people while they sleep.’

  Bale looked suitably chastised. ‘Very well,’ he said stiffly. ‘But if you change your mind . . .’

  ‘Mother Elgiva thinks you may have murdered Henry,’ said Geoffrey to Joan, as they sat with Olivier in the hall that evening. He wore the green tunic she had given him, and was translating an Arabic text, afraid that he would forget the language unless he practised – as he had forgotten much of his Welsh. He supposed it would not matter unless he returned to the Holy Land, but he had nothing better to do: Roger had disappeared with Helbye, and the other guests were at Bicanofre. Geoffrey had declined the invitation.

  ‘Many people do,’ said Joan, unperturbed. ‘I even received messages saying I had done the right thing.’

  ‘But Henry was not murdered,’ said Olivier wearily. ‘He killed himself. Men do odd things when they are soaked in drink.’

  Geoffrey watched his diminutive brother-in-law. ‘Did I tell you about the dagger?’ He saw the reaction he had expected and felt a twinge of satisfaction tempered with unease.

  ‘What dagger?’ asked Joan, concentrating on her sewing.

  ‘I hardly think daggers are a subject to discuss before we retire,’ said Olivier primly.

  ‘The dagger that killed Henry,’ said Geoffrey to Joan. His discussion with Durand had helped him clarify more than Baderon’s involvement in Henry’s death, and he felt it was time to put some of his suppositions to the test. Olivier regarded him with wary eyes.

  ‘What about it?’ asked Joan, squinting at her work.

  ‘It had a ruby,’ said Geoffrey, still looking at Olivier. ‘The one Father Adrian sold in Rosse – that had been under his altar these last three months – had an emerald.’

 
Joan was puzzled. ‘But the dagger we found in Henry had a red stone.’ Suddenly, her hands flew to her mouth, and she gazed at her husband in horror. ‘Oh, no! Once I had made up my mind to get rid of it, I wanted it gone as soon as possible. I opened the chest and took out the cloth without looking inside. Oh, Olivier! I gave Father Adrian the dagger you inherited from your father. That had an emerald in the hilt.’

  She looked stricken, but Geoffrey did not think she should be. ‘It was not a mistake. You took the right cloth to Adrian.’

  She looked at him, then turned back to Olivier, who would not meet her eyes. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘I exchanged them,’ said Olivier in a low voice. ‘I did not think you would notice. I tore Adrian’s holy cloth in half, and put the ruby dagger in one part and my emerald knife in the other. I left the green knife behind and removed the red one.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Joan, bewildered.

  ‘You kept a suicide weapon in our bedchamber,’ said Olivier with a shudder. ‘It was evil, tainted, and I hated having it near us. I did not want the servants accused of stealing if I removed it, nor did I want you to think me a weakling for itching for it to be gone. So I substituted my father’s for the real one.’

  ‘And, a few weeks later, Joan donated the false one to Father Adrian,’ concluded Geoffrey. ‘By then, it was too late to exchange them, or you would have done so. So what did you do with the red one?’

  ‘It was cursed,’ said Olivier in a whisper. ‘I did not want it near my wife.’

  ‘I understand that,’ said Geoffrey impatiently. ‘But where—’

  ‘You do not understand!’ cried Olivier, uncharacteristically irate. Geoffrey was startled: Olivier had never shouted at him before. ‘I mean it was cursed. Literally. By a witch.’

  ‘Eleanor?’

  Olivier nodded. ‘I heard her. My horse threw me when I was out riding one day, and I was looking for it when I stumbled across her. Because I was embarrassed about losing my mount, I decided to hide until she had gone. She knelt at the Angel Springs and uttered incantations.’

  ‘Over the ruby-hilted dagger?’ asked Geoffrey.

  Olivier nodded again. ‘She dripped blood over it while she spoke some diabolical language.’

  ‘A Black Knife,’ said Geoffrey, recalling what Torva and Jervil had told him.

  Olivier took a hearty gulp of wine and continued in a shaky voice. ‘Quite so: a Black Knife. I was curious, so when she had gone I crept forward and had a look. There was a dead frog with it, and blood everywhere. I ran for my life.’

  ‘You were afraid of a dead frog?’ asked Geoffrey incredulously.

  ‘It was more than that!’ cried Olivier. ‘You have not been to the Angel Springs, or you would not say such things. While she was muttering, there was a wind . . .’ He faltered, and Joan hugged him.

  ‘Olivier and I have few dealings with witchcraft,’ she said quietly. ‘It is to his credit that he was frightened by what he saw.’

  ‘Not frightened,’ objected Olivier with as much dignity as he could muster. ‘Unsettled. And that is why I did not want that ruby knife in our bedchamber. I sensed it was dangerous – especially after Henry killed himself with it.’

  ‘Did you know there are dead birds hanging in our stables?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘In the stall where Henry died. There is blood, too – his, I suspect.’

  Both seemed surprised. ‘I ordered the place cleaned,’ Joan said. ‘But I never checked to see if it was done.’

  ‘The stables unnerve me, too,’ acknowledged Olivier. ‘Ever since Henry. But I will order it all removed tomorrow. I expect the servants bought counter-spells to ward off Henry’s restless spirit.’

  ‘Who collected the Black Knife from the Angel Springs?’ Geoffrey asked, noting the way Olivier would still not meet his eyes – the little knight had known about the dead birds and condoned their presence, although he would not admit it in front of Joan.

  Olivier shrugged. ‘The next time I saw it, it was in Henry’s corpse.’

  ‘So, that is why you were so shocked at finding the body!’ said Joan. ‘You had seen the dagger before and knew it was cursed. I wondered why you were so horrified. Why did you not tell me?’

  ‘It did not show me in a good light,’ said Olivier stiffly. ‘I had abandoned an evil thing in the forest, and it killed your brother.’

  ‘What happened after you took it from your bedchamber?’ asked Geoffrey.

  ‘I did what I should have done the first time. I destroyed it – not long after Henry’s death, we rode to Bicanofre, and on the way I dropped it in the ford.’

  ‘You did dally by the river,’ recalled Joan. ‘I assumed you were nervous about going to confront a possible murderer.’

  ‘Did you think it might be Ralph, then?’ asked Geoffrey.

  Joan shrugged. ‘He and Henry had argued the day Henry died. But speaking to him was a formality at the time, because I believed Henry had been killed by Bristol merchants. When I finally learnt he had not, there seemed no point in stirring up the matter.’

  ‘Henry was a vile man,’ said Olivier vehemently. ‘Not worth the trouble.’

  ‘He broke Olivier’s arm,’ elaborated Joan. ‘I was not there when it happened, or a Black Knife would not have been necessary.’

  ‘He did not break it,’ argued Olivier. ‘It was bruised. And I could have bested him, but he was drunk and imbued with a diabolical strength.’

  Geoffrey sincerely doubted Olivier could have done anything of the sort. Henry was strong and had been trained to fight, while Olivier was better with military theory than its practice.

  ‘So, you see?’ said Joan. ‘It is better to let the matter lie. Henry did so much harm that I cannot find it in my heart to condemn his killer. That is between the culprit and God.’

  ‘It was premeditated,’ pressed Geoffrey. ‘Someone was so determined to have Henry dead that he asked Eleanor to provide a charmed knife.’

  ‘You still do not see!’ cried Olivier, agitated. ‘There was no murder: the Black Knife found its way to Henry, because that is what such things do. Then he used it to kill himself. Eleanor is guilty of issuing the curse, but that is all. Henry killed himself!’

  ‘Jervil heard someone talking to him,’ insisted Geoffrey.

  ‘Jervil heard Henry, and assumed someone was with him,’ corrected Olivier. ‘Henry was drunk – talking to himself. He was doubtless stricken by his sins, and was trying to make a confession.’

  ‘I was told he was cursing,’ said Geoffrey.

  Olivier smiled without humour. ‘That was a tale Jervil invented when pressed for details. Any sensible person will tell you his story became more elaborate each time. Unfortunately, now he is dead, you cannot demand the truth.’

  Later that night, not ready for sleep, Geoffrey prowled the hall, drawing uneasy glances from the servants. The torchlight was too poor for reading, and he could not concentrate anyway. He was tempted to seek out Roger and Helbye, but suspected they would be intoxicated, and there was nothing more tedious than being sober with drunkards. Meanwhile, Olivier and Joan had retired early, so were unavailable for conversation.

  Geoffrey saw Torva playing dice with the cook and his assistant. They scrambled to their feet when he approached, but he smiled to reassure them and gestured for them to sit. They did so reluctantly, and he became aware that the hall was very quiet. Everyone was pretending to be absorbed in some task, but all were paying attention.

  Geoffrey studied the dice players carefully. Peter the cook was large, fat and oily and wore an apron thick with grease, while Torva’s pinched features reminded Geoffrey of a rat. Peter’s assistant, Ynys, was thick set and fair-headed. The eyes of all three were wary, and Geoffrey recalled how Father Adrian had described Jerosolimitani. He also remembered that Henry had assaulted Torva, Peter and Jervil on the night he died. He dropped to one knee and indicated he wanted to join their game, hoping to put them at their ease.

  ‘What will you bet?’ asked Peter
, alarmed. ‘We do not have silver.’

  Geoffrey revealed a handful of raisins, part of a gift he had brought Joan from his travels. She adored them, although he thought there was little nastier than a raisin.

  ‘And there are plenty more where these came from,’ he said confidently, intending it as a joke.

  No one smiled, and he was startled to see they had taken him seriously.

  ‘High stakes, then,’ murmured Torva, regarding the raisins with some trepidation.

  Peter took a deep breath and looked Geoffrey straight in the eye – the first time he had done so. ‘In that case I wager fifty dried peas against ten of your raisins.’

  He bent his head to concentrate, and they played in silence, except for the statements necessary for the game. Geoffrey soon had a pile of peas and a horseshoe to add to his fruit, and Torva was becoming exasperated by a run of bad luck. It was difficult to cheat with their dice, so Geoffrey could not even lose to win their trust. As his winnings mounted, he realized that he was giving them even more cause to resent him.

  ‘Six raisins for these peas,’ said Torva, with such a serious expression that Geoffrey was tempted to laugh. He suspected it would be a mistake. The entire hall was now watching, and the atmosphere was tense. People stood close behind, hemming him in, and it occurred to him that his brother might have been caught in a similar situation – surrounded by hostile minions who wanted him dead.

  Ynys leant forward as Geoffrey tossed the dice, and his sheathed dagger pressed into the knight’s shoulder. Someone else took a step closer, too, pushing Geoffrey off balance, so he was obliged to use his hands to steady himself. He wished he had not dispensed with his armour. He had a knife, but so did virtually everyone else, and he could not hope to fight them all. He began to think that he had made a foolish mistake. Ynys moved forward again, and the pressure of the weapon against Geoffrey’s shoulder became painful. Was this what had happened to Henry? Stabbed in the hall, then carried to the stable? He rested his right hand on his thigh, ready to draw his knife if he detected a hostile move.