Paul Doherty - The Darkening Glass

‘Hush, hush.’ Isabella lifted her hand.

‘I will certainly answer that,’ I replied. ‘You were in the friary library. You told me you were studying Anselm’s Cur Deus Homo — Why God Became Man . That was a lie; it was nothing of the sort. The archives of the library clearly described the manuscript you borrowed, a copy of Hildegard of Bingen’s Causae et Curae .’ I paused. ‘You had also consulted that before we left for Tynemouth. Such a treatise is a rich source of knowledge you could use against your enemies, be it Kennington, Middleton or the wells of Scarborough Castle. You learnt what sleeping potions or powders to buy, which you undoubtedly did at some apothecary or herbalist here in York. Now, during those early hours of that morning, you slipped as stealthily as a hunting cat into Duckett’s Tower. You quietly mounted those steps. As you passed each door, you slipped the hook into its clasp, sealing anyone within. Oh, they could eventually get out, but it would take time and alert you. You reached the top of that windswept tower-’

‘And Kennington and his retainers welcomed me like the prodigal son?’ Dunheved sneered.

‘Undoubtedly! Why should they fear the kindly Dominican who could not sleep? Who’d brought up a wineskin to share with them during their lonely, cold, bleak watch? At Scarborough I glimpsed you do the same, edging along the parapet giving the defenders a drink from your wineskin. On Duckett’s Tower you would be most welcome. You’d seal the door, slipping the hook into its clasp, then offer these trusting, tired men a gulp of rich claret, blood-warming and comforting. They’d drink, and within a short while, be fast asleep. How long would it take to hurl those bodies over the battlements? A strong man like you, Dunheved — not long? You callously lifted each wine-drugged body over and let it drop.’ I paused. ‘What, in no more time than it would take a scholar to count to ten.’

‘I could have been discovered.’

‘How, Brother? Each door was clasped, as was the one at the top of the tower. If anyone saw you come up, you would have changed your plan. If anyone disturbed you, you would have enough time to pose as the innocent who’d climbed to the top of Duckett’s Tower to find that all were gone. If you were seen as you went down, you could so easily dissemble, an innocent Dominican who’d climbed Duckett’s Tower to discover its guards had disappeared. Naturally,’ I added, ‘there was danger, a risk in that short space of time when you hurled those bodies to their death. Reflect, Brother Stephen! What real danger did you face apart from that brief killing time? Everything else could be so easily explained away.’

The sound of Isabella’s squires politely requesting one of the brothers not to enter the garden made me pause.

‘Kennington’s death,’ I resumed, ‘broke the spirit of the Aquilae. They looked for protection from their lord, but Gaveston himself was under threat from the earls. Middleton was your next victim. A superstitious, scrupulous young man, hounded by guilt, he received little comfort or sustenance from either Rosselin or Gaveston. Subject to all forms of soul-disturbing fancies, he took to visiting the Chapel of Our Lady in Scarborough Castle very early in the morning. You noticed that and, once again, assumed the role of the sympathetic friar, the trusted priest, the ascetic confessor. One morning you were waiting for him. You moved the mercy chair round — which you never put back — you drew him into conversation even as you decided on his death, whatever regrets Middleton confessed. The rope was ready, whilst beneath your cloak you carried that small wineskin of tainted claret.’

‘The door was locked from within.’ Dunheved’s interruption was more of a jibe than a question.

‘Patience,’ I retorted. ‘You locked the door. You gave the agitated Middleton words of comfort and a few gulps from that wineskin to calm his humours. I doubt if Middleton had had a good night’s sleep since Tynemouth. He was agitated. The wine and potion you’d distilled would soon soothe him, and a drugged man is easy to hang. The noose was slipped around his neck as his body slumped in the chair. You climbed the ladder, looped the other end of the rope round the beam and hauled him up slowly but surely. If Middleton revived, what hope did he have? If he did wear a war-belt you removed that, hid it under your cloak. Whatever, he had no dagger, nothing with which to cut himself down, whilst any struggle would only tighten the noose further. You mentioned the locked door, Brother?’

Dunheved just blinked and glanced away.

‘I shall tell you how you did that. You took the key from the sacristy door. You placed it on the floor as if it was from the door to the church; that one, however, you kept. You waited until Middleton was dead, placed the usual mocking message on his corpse and left, locking the door and taking the chapel key with you.’

‘I could have been discovered.’

‘When?’ I demanded. ‘You could have hastened to the door and unlocked it. You could claim you came in only to discover what had happened. Terrified lest the assassin return, you locked the door whilst you tried to assist poor Middleton.’

‘Those keys?’ Isabella asked. ‘They were changed?’

‘Oh yes. Brother Stephen, you gave extreme unction to your first two victims but you left Middleton to Demontaigu. Whilst he administered the last rites you became extremely busy inspecting the main door as well as that to the sacristy. I recall the scene distinctly. That’s when you picked up the sacristy key, which looked so much like the one to the church, and changed them over. In all the chaos and mayhem, no one would notice you slip the sacristy key back because no one really cared.’

‘I could have been seen leaving.’

‘Again a risk — but you’d open that door a crack. Peer out. The path to the chapel was a mass of pebbles that would betray sound. The morning sea mist provided a cloak of secrecy. You could slip out and lock that door in the blink of an eye.’

‘Someone might have noticed the sacristy key was missing from its lock.’

‘For the love of God, who’d notice that when all eyes were on poor Middleton? Who’d even remember there was a sacristy key?’ I shrugged. ‘After all, you returned it swiftly enough!’

‘And Rosselin?’ Isabella demanded. I wondered how much of this she knew. Had she been party to all these deaths? I decided that would have to wait.

‘Rosselin,’ I continued, ‘was by now a broken man. Gaveston had neglected him.’

‘Why?’ Isabella broke in.

‘Because Gaveston, in the last resort, cared only for himself. The best he could do was to provide poor Rosselin with one of Ap Ythel’s archers, but you, Brother Stephen, took care of that. Rosselin hid away, particularly from any high place. The night the tocsin was falsely sounded and the beacon fire lit? You were responsible for that, as you were for everything else that went wrong in that castle: the pollution of the wells and food stocks. An easy enough task. Poison in the rat runs, some oil and kindling in those bone-dry cellars.’

‘And Rosselin?’ Dunheved remained unabashed.

‘Oh, the tocsin was sounded. The alarm raised. Everyone flocked to the battlements. You acted swiftly. You called Ap Ythel’s guard away.’

‘I am not Welsh.’

‘Who said the voice was Welsh?’

‘I heard. .’

‘Perhaps you did, Brother Stephen. I am French, but I can still mimic Ap Ythel’s Welsh accent. I often do when I tease him. Her grace has witnessed that.’ I pointed at Dunheved. ‘You did the same that night. You are a good mimic, Brother. I heard you here in the rose garden imitating the troubadours and jongleurs. Indeed, you are a true mummer. You put a mask on and take it off depending on the circumstances. You called that guard away. He would not need much encouragement; after all, everyone was in high expectancy. Had the earls arrived? Had the king? Once he was gone, you hurried up the steps to Rosselin’s chamber. In your wallet you have a key. It may have been from Middleton’s chamber or elsewhere in the castle; they all look alike. You intended to pose the same mysterious riddle as you had in the lady chapel. You knocked on the door. Rosselin, sodden with drink, was befuddled. He peered through the grille and saw the kindly face of the Dominican priest. What did you tell him? Good news, that the king was approaching?’ Dunheved just smiled faintly. ‘Rosselin trusted you enough to open that door. You bustle in all friendly. You urge him to join the rest on the battlements. You pick up his cloak and war-belt as if to help him. Rosselin turns to receive his cloak, but you drop that, pluck the dagger from his war-belt and plunge it into his side, a killing blow up under his ribs, into his heart. You drag him to that open window, pull him on to the ledge and hurl his body into the night. A brief time, no more than a few breaths. You then place the false key on the table and take the chamber one. You lock the door from the outside and join us on the battlements, where you are careful to single me out.