Simon Beaufort - Murder in the Holy City

He approached cautiously, aware that if Abdul had imbibed too much of his own wine, he might prefer to sleep off his indignities in private. But Geoffrey strongly suspected Abdul was not foolish enough to drink the sour wine he served the knights, and that there was another reason why he should be prone on the floor. Geoffrey glanced around quickly to make sure it was not some kind of trap to catch him unawares, and quickly knelt next to the rotund brothel-keeper.

Abdul stirred when Geoffrey shook his shoulder, and then he groaned softly.

“What happened to you?”

“Jerusalem is not the city it was,” bemoaned Abdul, clutching at a lump on the side of his head, already turning dark with the beginnings of a bruise. “Between you and me, I preferred the Saracens to the Christians. They were not so greedy and not so aggressive.”

“Did you see who hit you?”

Abdul shook his head and tried to struggle to his feet. Geoffrey helped him. “But it is not the first time I have been robbed in my own house. At least I still have this.”

He raised a hand, and in it Geoffrey saw the chain and locket that the Patriarch had given Roger in payment for his spying services. Abdul inspected it carefully in the light from a torch on the wall.

“That villain!” he exclaimed. “This is not even silver! Look! It is nothing but base metal!”

Geoffrey smiled grimly. Perhaps there was justice in the world after all. Roger had been paid for his traitorous services with imitation jewelry, and the scheming Abdul had been duped by his own greed. Abdul grunted and put the necklace in his purse. “I will give this to Maria. She will not know it is of poor quality.”

“Did Roger hit you?”

“Oh lord, no. The attack came from the direction of the back stairs. Sir Roger was already ensconced in a room with Eveline. Eveline is …”

He stopped in midsentence as another tremendous crash came from below, accompanied by shouting. Abdul groaned anew.

“It is not my night, Sir Geoffrey. First I am hit on the head, and now your comrades riot.”

“Do they often riot?” asked Geoffrey as Abdul braced himself to enter the fray.

“They most certainly do,” replied Abdul with resignation. “And from the noise, I see tonight they are in earnest.”

He hurried away, while Geoffrey crouched down to peer at the scene below from the top of the stairs. A table flew past his line of vision, smashing to pieces against a wall. Men ran here and there in various stages of undress, while women screamed. Abdul’s voice rose in a reedy shout above the chaos, appealing for calm, but either the knights did not hear or they did not care. From the rooms upstairs, more knights and women emerged, jostling past Geoffrey to join in the chaos.

Geoffrey had expected Roger to be one of the first to rally to the call, since the big knight was never one to pass up the opportunity for a fight-armed or unarmed or, Geoffrey imagined, clothed or unclothed-but there was no sign of him.

A Lorrainer was weaving down the corridor toward Geoffrey, and took a swing at him as he passed. Geoffrey ducked it with ease and heaved the Lorrainer head over heels down the steps. He saw the tumbling knight knock over two more who were attempting to climb the stairs, and then he headed toward the room that Abdul had said Roger had hired. He knocked softly and called, but there was no reply. He hesitated, wondering whether to abandon Roger and slip away-fights between knights were notoriously violent, and he had no wish to become involved in a brawl that was none of his making.

The shouting from below was growing louder and sounded as though it might be spreading to the street. Geoffrey knew he had to make up his mind quickly, or he would end up fighting whether he liked it or not. He turned the handle, pushed open the door, and gasped in horror.

The room was very much like the one in which he had seen Maria, except that its decor was green not blue. And the covers on the bed were stained a deep crimson.

Two people lay there, and Geoffrey edged forward, his heart thudding. Eveline lay on her back, her eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling, while a blossom of blood oozed from a wound in her chest. Next to her, also on his back, was Roger, his mouth agape as he snored lustily, an empty wine goblet in his hand. Geoffrey felt sick. For a moment, all sounds receded, and he was aware only of Roger’s snores and the dead woman on the bed. Then a particularly loud bang from downstairs brought him to his senses. He edged away, but as he moved, Roger opened his eyes, groaned loudly, and called Geoffrey’s name.

Geoffrey froze as Roger lifted his head from the pillow.

“I feel awful,” the burly knight slurred. He raised himself a little higher. “What is happening? What is all that noise?”

“A fight,” said Geoffrey tersely. “I am leaving.”

“Wait for me. God’s blood!”

Geoffrey watched as Roger came face to face with the body of Eveline. The Englishman started violently, and his big brown eyes widened in horror. Slowly, he reached out a hand and touched her on the shoulder, as though she might waken if he shook her. Then he snatched his hand away, lurched from the bed, and was violently sick. Geoffrey was impressed. It was quite a performance from a hardened killer.

Eventually, Roger turned to look at Geoffrey, his face ashen.

“What happened?” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Who did this to her?”

“It looks very much as though you did,” responded Geoffrey coolly.

“Me?” said Roger. “I barely remember coming here.” He gestured helplessly. “I do not even have my dagger-I left it downstairs as instructed by her. By Eveline.” He looked at the dead woman again, his face a mask of pity.

“Are you saying someone waited until you fell asleep, and then murdered your whore?” asked Geoffrey incredulously.

Roger nodded. “I hope you believe me.” He grinned weakly, but the smile faded as his eyes fell again on Eveline. “Oh God, Geoffrey! Who would do this?” He looked up at Geoffrey, still standing in the door. “You do not believe me, do you?”

He looked so hurt that Geoffrey was cut to the quick. He remembered Abdul, struck by someone coming up the back stairs as he was returning from showing Roger to his room. Was Roger innocent? Could the scenario Geoffrey had outlined with such sarcasm actually have occurred? Eveline had demanded that Roger leave his dagger behind. Was that because she was already nervous about him? Or had she been so instructed by whoever wanted Roger found in these compromising circumstances?

There was shouting in the corridor now. Any moment, someone would burst in and find them. Roger might not have a dagger to implicate him in Eveline’s murder, but Geoffrey certainly did, and he was not going to wait around to be caught in the net that was tightening around Roger.

He went to the window and saw that it overlooked a narrow alleyway. He dashed over to the bed and grabbed Eveline’s arm, gesturing for Roger to take the other one. He did not relish what he was about to do, but the shouts and crashes from outside were coming closer by the moment, and he was running low on ideas.

“Drop her out of the window.”

“What?” Roger was aghast. “Are you insane? Whatever for? That is desecration! You can go to hell for that!”

“Just do it,” grunted Geoffrey, as he struggled to manhandle the limp body to the window alone.

Roger stood in front of him. “I will not let you do this,” he said quietly. “It is not right.”

“Listen,” snapped Geoffrey, pausing in his battle with the whore’s body. “Did you kill her?” Roger shook his head. “Well, you will hang for it unless you take steps to prevent it. We have very little time. I propose we get Eveline out of this room and abandon her on the street somewhere. Then it will be assumed that she died during the fighting. If we leave her here, then Abdul will say, quite truthfully, that you were her last client, and you will be blamed, innocent or otherwise. Eveline is quite dead. Whatever we do now cannot hurt her. Help me drop her out of the window.”