The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

‘If so, then he cleaned it well, because there was no blood. And something else occurred to me as he spoke, although it is not something that points to his guilt – or lack thereof, come to that. It was fine yesterday – we have not had rain in days.’

‘For more than a week. What of it?’

‘The marks at knee level on Daniel’s habit were muddy. Muddy , Symon, not dusty. The surface of the ground is dry, although it will be damp deeper down. The stains on his chest were powdery, consistent with him falling face forward on to the hard ground. But what of his knees?’

He regarded her blankly. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

‘Then think! He was not on his knees because he stumbled on to them when he was hit, as I first thought – he was already on them.’

‘Praying?’ suggested Cole tentatively.

‘Digging!’ Gwenllian failed to understand why he could not see what was so obvious. ‘His knees came into contact with soil from deep within the ground – muddy soil – but his chest was only dusty. Moreover, he died at Merlin’s oak. And what was buried at Merlin’s oak?’

‘Arthur’s bones. But they are no longer there. Or are you saying you were careless and did not look as closely for the wretched things as you might have done? You overlooked them?’

‘I was careful – they had certainly gone. But that was two years ago, and now we find Daniel in possession of a relic that almost certainly came from Arthur’s chest.’ Gwenllian began to stride towards the gate. ‘So I suggest our first port of call this morning should be the place where Daniel was murdered.’

Bewildered and hopelessly out of his depth, Cole turned to follow her.

The questioning of a clerk at an hour when he was usually abed did not go unnoticed. The castle was a small community, and very little happened in it that was not soon common knowledge, so they had not reached the gate before Renald de Boleton intercepted them. Cole beamed a welcome at the knight he regarded as a brother, although Gwenllian’s greeting was rather more restrained.

‘What has poor John done that you felt compelled to haul him from his slumbers at such an ungodly hour?’ Boleton asked. He was wearing a fine new tunic that Gwenllian had not seen before. ‘The poor man is still shaking.’

‘Gwen asked him some questions,’ replied Cole, giving his friend the kind of look that said that should be explanation enough. It was not unknown for the princess to home in on some aspect of castle management that did not meet her approval and interrogate someone about it.

‘Questions about what?’ pressed Boleton. ‘The fact that he spends more time on personal matters than on his duties?’

‘Does he? I had not noticed.’ Cole’s shrug suggested he did not care either.

Gwenllian did. ‘What personal matters?’ she demanded.

‘He talks of taking the cowl,’ explained Boleton. ‘But decent clerks are hard to come by these days, so we should all try to dissuade him – for the good of the castle.’

‘John a monk?’ asked Cole, startled. ‘Will anyone accept him? He is such a quiet mouse.’

Boleton laughed. ‘He wants to join a monastery, not an army, brother! Quiet mice are no doubt highly prized in abbeys, especially ones who can write so prettily.’

Cole pondered the notion of anyone yearning for a monastic existence for a moment, then dismissed it as incomprehensible. ‘We were asking him about finding Daniel’s body.’

Boleton’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Investigating crime is my job. Are you telling me I am relieved of my responsibilities?’

‘Just Daniel’s death,’ replied Cole. ‘Gwen is going to solve that. But it is good news for you – it will leave you more time to deal with the burglaries that have the town in such an uproar.’

‘True,’ agreed Boleton. He frowned. ‘But surely you do not suspect John of killing Daniel? The monk was a large man, and an unfit scribbler like John could never have bested him.’

‘It takes no great strength to hit someone from behind. Especially if he is kneeling.’

Gwenllian winced, and wished Cole had not shared this particular piece of information, although she could not have said why.

‘Kneeling?’ pounced Boleton. ‘You mean he was killed while he was at prayer? But he was struck down under the tree in Priory Street. What are you suggesting? That he was dabbling in some pagan rite that had him on his knees under Merlin’s oak in high summer?’

‘Of course not,’ said Cole, before Gwenllian could stop him. ‘He may have been digging for something. In fact we are going to see what can be learned from the scene of the crime now.’

‘Intriguing,’ mused Boleton, rubbing his chin. ‘May I come with you? I am bored with looking into these dull thefts, and this sounds like an amusing diversion.’

‘Hardly a diversion,’ said Cole reproachfully. ‘Or amusing either. My friend is dead.’

Boleton, unrepentant, snorted his disdain. ‘A man who liked you for fine wine and chatter about horses, brother. I would hardly call him a friend .’

Gwenllian knew Boleton had resented the easy companionship between Cole and Daniel, but the knight’s words made her consider the fact anew. Was he jealous enough to take steps to put an end to it? He had gone out on the night in question – to hire a prostitute, he had said – and she had not heard him return. So he would have had the opportunity, while his fine hilt would almost certainly match Daniel’s injury. She wondered how she could question him without Symon realizing what she was doing – Cole would never entertain the possibility of one friend harming another and would try to stop her.

‘I should have walked home with him,’ Cole was saying quietly. ‘He would not be dead if I had done my duty.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Boleton. ‘Have you considered the possibility that you have had a narrow escape? That you might have suffered a blow to the head, too, had you accompanied him?’

Cole regarded him in horror. Clearly the possibility had not occurred to him.

‘Are you saying Daniel had enemies?’ asked Gwenllian, not sure what to make of the remark.

‘Well, he was unlikely to have been killed by someone who wished him well,’ drawled Boleton, regarding her steadily. She found his expression impossible to interpret.

‘But who would mean him harm?’ asked Cole. His face was pale, and Gwenllian could tell the notion of the monk having enemies disturbed him deeply – in his code of honour, friends were supposed to protect each other from those.

Boleton shook his head slowly. ‘I do not know. No one relieved him of his purse, so he was not the victim of a robbery. And do not tell me the thief was disturbed before he could complete his grim business, because the body lay under a tree all night. When no alarm was raised, any self-respecting villain would have returned to finish what he had started.’

It was a good point, although Gwenllian declined to acknowledge it. ‘Then what would you say was the motive?’

Boleton held her gaze. ‘I really do not have the faintest idea. But I am sure that if anyone can find out, it will be you.’

Wondering why she felt as though she had been insulted, rather than complimented, Gwenllian followed the two knights towards the gate. She found herself staring at the hilt of Boleton’s elegant sword. Was it wishful thinking, or was it a better match for the imprint on Daniel’s skull than Cole’s more robust one? She edged closer, but a thread of cloth suggested it had enjoyed a recent cleaning. Was that significant? Boleton was usually lax about weapon maintenance, and Cole was always berating him about it. She was not sure what to think, but Boleton was firmly at the top of her list of suspects.