The Medieval Murderers - House of Shadows

York regarded him uneasily. ‘What are you going to do now? I refuse to be part of any rash plan, so do not expect any heroics from me.’

‘We shall just listen and watch – and leave as soon as we have enough evidence to put an end to this mischief.’

York was deeply unhappy. ‘Very well. But if anything goes wrong, you are on your own.’

Chaloner had never doubted it.

Chaloner and York were descending the stairs to the hall when Margaret intercepted them. She was wearing a scruffy mantua – a loose nightgown – of faded pink velvet, and the inevitable pipe was clamped between her yellow teeth. A grey wig and a pair of substantial military-style boots that looked as though they belonged to a large man completed the outfit.

‘That was good tobacco you gave me earlier,’ she said to York. ‘Got any left?’

The captain fumbled for his pouch. ‘I must have left it in my room. I will fetch it for you.’

Suspecting he intended to escape, the spy put out a hand to stop him. York’s flight would warn the conspirators that something was amiss, and then Chaloner might never acquire the information he needed to convict them. York would just have to control his fear – after all, he was a sea captain, paid to defend king and country.

‘No matter,’ said Margaret, not looking as though she meant it. ‘It keeps me awake, and I am reaching the age where a bit of beauty sleep does not go amiss.’

‘It would not go amiss for me, either,’ mumbled York, when she went to straighten a painting that hung at an odd angle. It fell from the wall when she touched it, causing her to leap back smartly. ‘I would give everything I own to be at sea right now. I wish I had never brought Browne here or introduced him to the man who sold him that cargo…’ He trailed off, aware that he had said too much.

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, unimpressed. ‘You injured Browne on two counts. Your plan to include him in the glory of unmasking traitors saw him killed, and the commercial opportunity you arranged has resulted in his family losing everything. No wonder you feel guilty towards Hannah!’

‘I will give her what I can,’ cried York. He looked as though he might cry; Chaloner sincerely hoped he would not. ‘I promise! In fact, if you find me a priest, I shall swear on the Bible to make amends for my…poor judgement. Mrs Castell! Do you know any priests?’

It was an odd question to yell at someone out of the blue, but Margaret took it in her stride. ‘Parr is a priest,’ she replied, abandoning the ancestral art and coming to talk. ‘However, I would not trust him if he was the last man on Earth. He is a fanatic and will stop at nothing to get what he wants.’

‘And what does he want?’ asked Chaloner.

‘His vision of a perfect England,’ Margaret replied rather wearily. ‘A country ruled by religious maniacs, where God will be used to justify the bigotry of small, mean minds. I am a bit tired of their breed, if you want the truth. Religion and politics make for uneasy bed-fellows and should be kept apart. And men like Parr should be kept in dark cellars, where no one can hear their poison.’

York frowned at her. ‘Are you saying Preacher Parr cracked Browne’s skull with the rock, to further his dream of a Puritan government?’

Margaret was bemused in her turn. ‘No, I am not! Fool! Indeed, he is the one man who cannot have murdered Browne, because I was watching him through a window. I would have seen if he had thrown anything – and he did not. I am talking about his unpalatable godliness, which-’

But Chaloner was more interested in what she had witnessed than in her views on religion. ‘You did not mention this when we were talking about it at dinner.’

She shrugged. ‘You did not ask me, did you? You were more interested in what Hay and his silly henchmen had to say, and not once did you solicit my opinion on the matter.’

‘We offended you by not consulting you?’ asked Chaloner, a little taken aback.

She regarded him coolly. ‘Actually, you did. I live here and know far more about what happens than occasional visitors like Hay, Strutt and Parr. Yet you dismissed me as though I was nothing. Still, it is what I have come to expect from youngsters. You have no respect for the wisdom of age.’

‘ Do you know who killed Browne?’ demanded York. ‘He was my friend and – as Garsfield here said earlier – we navy men do not like the notion of villains lobbing rocks at us senior officers.’

Margaret’s eyes narrowed. ‘“Villains”?’ she echoed sharply. ‘Not “sailors”? Can I assume from that description that you do not think Walduck was the culprit, then?’

‘Yes, you may,’ said York, before Chaloner could warn him to be wary of confiding too much. ‘I said from the start that his guilt was far from obvious, but no one took any notice of me.’

‘Will you tell us what you saw, ma’am?’ asked Chaloner, keen to encourage her to talk. If York was allowed to babble, he might inadvertently reveal that unmasking the killer was the real reason for their presence there that night.

She sniffed huffily. ‘If I must. Hay, Strutt and the other plotters were too far away or in the wrong place to have lobbed missiles hard enough to have killed Browne. There were only three people who could have done that: the two sailors and Preacher Parr.’

‘But you just said Parr was innocent,’ said York. ‘I do not understand what you are telling us.’

Margaret tutted irritably. ‘Yes, I did say Parr could not have thrown the fatal stone. So what does that tell you?’ She clicked her tongue again when York did nothing but stare. ‘Think, man! It means one of the sailors is the culprit. It is a matter of simple logic.’

‘But Tivill was struggling with Browne’s horse, and Walduck would have used his sword,’ objected York. ‘And neither was drunk.’

Margaret looked superior. ‘Are you going to hear my opinion or regale me with your own theories? I thought you would have learned by now that I am worth listening to.’

‘Go on, then,’ said York with a long-suffering sigh. ‘Tell us what you think, woman.’

Margaret inclined her head, though Chaloner would have told York to go to the devil had he been in her shoes. It was hardly a gracious request. ‘I suspect Walduck claimed he was drunk, because he thought it might see him acquitted. Not responsible for his actions. I would have done.’

York sneered his disdain. ‘He was not that dim. He would have known inebriation was no defence, although…’ He paused, and some of the irritable arrogance faded.

‘Although what?’ demanded Chaloner.

‘Although, as a non-drinker himself, he despised men who let ale control them,’ continued York thoughtfully. He turned to Chaloner, speaking in a low voice and rudely trying to exclude the old lady. She promptly stepped forward, head cocked. ‘But it was the one thing Browne was lax about at sea – he was usually forgiving of men who transgressed while intoxicated, perhaps because he liked a drink himself and was no hypocrite. Perhaps Walduck did assume that his crime would be overlooked if he put it down to beer.’

‘Well, there you are, then,’ said Margaret with satisfaction. Her hearing was better than York had supposed. ‘I was right: his experience aboard Rosebush told him he might be exonerated if he blamed ale. The ruse failed, but I imagine he was desperate, and desperate men resort to desperate measures.’

Chaloner watched her walk away. ‘Her testimony tells us the killer was either Walduck or Tivill,’ he said to York. ‘No one else was close enough. We know Tivill had his hands full with weapons and horse, because several people have said so. That leaves Walduck. You said he bore Browne a grudge over prize money, and we know he was violent. It takes a lot of force and a deadly aim to hurl a stone with enough power to kill – something that has struck me as odd from the first. Ergo, I suspect no one threw anything.’