The Medieval Murderers - House of Shadows

They had not noticed Geoffrey Chaucer and he turned inland off the track, putting the rise of the ground between himself and the mother and son. He felt a pang at the thought of what they’d discover when they returned to the house. He debated for a moment warning them, but the fear of being the bearer of bad news for a second time that day – and the stronger fear that he might be implicated in Simon Morton’s death (hadn’t he been first on the scene following the murderer?) – held him back.

If he’d had the suspicion that the wife could have disposed of her husband by pressing the bolster over his face, then it was dispelled by what he’d just seen, mother and son returning innocently from a fishing expedition.

No woman could murder her husband and then go for a walk with her son, surely? He had thought Mistress Morton impatient with her Will, but here she was escorting him by the hand and he was singing.

Geoffrey felt guilty even for suspecting her. And with the guilt came anger. He determined he would get to the bottom of whatever it was that was happening at Bermondsey Priory. He owed that to the woman who’d lost both husband and brother-in-law within the space of a few hours. He hastened back in the direction of the priory. He would squeeze the truth out of the one man he’d talked to who seemed to know more than he’d let on.

‘You have one last chance to tell me what you know, Osbert. After that, I shall go to the justice.’

Chaucer spoke more in regret than with menace. He’d already hinted at his position at court and implied that he had the power to have Osbert summarily dealt with. He even gestured vaguely towards the other side of the river and dropped a reference to the white-towered castle which stood there, as if he had the authority to whisk Osbert across the water. He hadn’t, of course, but how useful those connections with the Savoy Palace could be!

The two men were in a kind of cubbyhole off the outer gatehouse. There was an unglazed slit of a window, which did nothing to dispel the stale, sour air. This was where Osbert lived, as was shown not only by the smell but by the palliasse in one corner and a small chest in the other, doubtless containing a spare shirt and leggings. For a deputy gatekeeper in a religious house must look presentable. Not that Osbert would be entrusted with the task of ushering in important visitors. That would be left to Brother Philip, who’d welcomed Chaucer the previous day. But Osbert would do to receive – or turn away – the flotsam who always wash up at the doors of a great institution like the priory.

Now Chaucer was attempting to put the fear of God or of the law and the royal court into Osbert. It seemed to be working. He’d said nothing about the latest death, that of Simon Morton.

‘Come on, man. Your story about Simon Morton wishing to do away with his brother was balderdash, wasn’t it? There was no such plot.’

‘I said only what I thought.’

‘You said what you’d like to think, maybe. But the truth is that you wanted Mistress Morton for yourself. You claimed you’d seen her and her husband’s brother together-’

‘Oh, I did, sir. See them, see them going at it hammer and tongs.’

‘You told her what you’d witnessed, didn’t you? You said she’d seen you. You probably said that if she didn’t, ah, do what you wanted, then you’d expose her.’

Osbert’s grudging silence showed Geoffrey that he was on the right lines. He pressed home his advantage. ‘So what was her reply?’

‘She laughed in my face. That woman has the dirtiest laugh this side of Gravesend, sir. Laughed and said that no one would believe me.’

‘So to get revenge on Mistress Morton or just to cause mischief, you insinuated that her husband had cooked up some plot to hire a killer for his brother. And then for good measure you said she might have done it.’

‘Insinuated, sir? I don’t understand the word.’

‘But you get my drift. You invented a plot where none existed.’

‘There is a plot, all right. I admit I made up what I said about Simon Morton. Fellow wouldn’t hurt a fly. But there are funny goings-on here in the priory.’

‘There are funny goings-on everywhere. You’re telling me nothing.’

‘Ask Brother Michael.’

‘The cellarer?’

‘That’s the one. He knows what’s going on. All I know is that a few days ago I was in here and heard the Morton brothers as they were passing through the gateway. They were arguing. Not about Mistress Morton but about something they’d found during their work. They stopped right outside that window there. I was lying on my bed and I heard it all.’

‘What had they found?’

‘A parchment with writing on. And something else of value. I couldn’t tell what from their words. It might have been a brooch or a ring.’

Despite the stuffy air inside Osbert’s room Geoffrey felt a chill. A ring? Like the one that still nestled in his pocket?

‘What would a parchment mean to the masons? They wouldn’t be able to read it.’

‘No, sir. But they knew it was important because it had a seal attached and it was old.’

‘So why were they arguing?’

‘Over what to do with the items they’d dug up.’

‘Dug up? You’re sure of that?’

‘They had been working in a cellar somewhere. They were having words about whether to keep what they’d found or to hand them over to one of the monks. Perhaps there’d be a reward, one of them said. It was John’s voice, I think.’

‘How does Brother Michael come into this?’

‘You’d better ask him.’

‘That’s what you were doing in his chamber today, wasn’t it? You were going to see what you could get out of him.’

Osbert shrugged. ‘He won’t talk to me but he’ll talk to a gentleman like you. All I know is that I saw Brother Michael talking to John and Simon Morton. Saw them talking in a quiet and private place one evening.’

‘Quiet and private.’

‘As the grave. They were in the graveyard.’

Osbert nodded his head in the direction of the cemetery that accommodated the lay folk, the one beyond the main gate.

‘You were spying on them.’

‘A man may be out and about for an evening stroll and see things. You can’t blame his eyes for seeing.’

‘What did his eyes see?’

‘They saw money change hands between the monk and the masons. A purse was given by him to them. Why, I ask myself? If you want to know more, you must ask Brother Michael.’

In the event Brother Michael was willing enough to tell Geoffrey why he had been having surreptitious dealings with the Morton brothers. It seemed that the cellarer of the priory had decided that it was less dangerous to reveal things than to attempt further concealment, particularly after Geoffrey told him that Simon Morton had also died. He implied that it was from sickness and not murder. He hinted, too, that he’d heard of dealings between Michael and the dead masons. Hearing of the second death, Brother Michael crossed himself and sat in silence for a moment. But it was only when Chaucer produced the ring, given him by Will, that Michael sighed, leaned back in his chair and nodded. He reached for the ring, which Chaucer held out. It was perhaps not as splendid as any of the ornaments circling his own fingers, but the monk scrutinized it for a long time.

‘Where did you get this?’

‘I believe it came from the vault beneath this place.’

‘Most likely it did. It is old, like the testament.’

Geoffrey waited. He reckoned that if Brother Michael was going to say more, then he would do so unprompted. The cellarer held the ring between thumb and forefinger and peered through it, as if it were a keyhole.

‘Most likely, this, too, belonged to Brother James.’