Simon Beaufort - Murder in the Holy City

“I cannot,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I am stuck.”

She gave a heavy sigh and leaned all her weight against him, while he struggled more and more frantically.

“Wait,” she said, leaning down to inspect his hands. “I see. There is an old hook here. The rope is caught on it. No wonder you cannot move.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath. “So cut the rope.”

She glanced at him uncertainly, but bent, holding the knife at an awkward angle, and began to saw. The teeth-jarring sounds of metal on stone filled the air, accompanied by Melisende’s increasingly impatient sighs. “I cannot cut it,” she said eventually. “Adam did too good a job.”

Geoffrey regarded her with undisguised horror, and the walls began to close in again.

“Do not struggle,” said Melisende crossly. “You will make it worse.” She shook her head in irritated resignation. “I cannot squeeze past you, so I suppose I will have to go back for help.”

The light began to fade as she retraced her steps along the passage.

“No! Wait!”

In a distant part of his mind, Geoffrey wondered whether the agonised yell that rent the air was truly his, or whether some tormented demon prowled the sinister tunnels to give voice to his terror. Melisende came back.

“I will not be long,” she said, in a more gentle tone than she had used with him before. “Adam and the others will be able to pull you free.”

“No,” he said in a calmer voice. “Try cutting the ropes again.”

“I cannot without cutting you.”

“I do not care. Please try.”

With a shrug, she bent, and the sounds of scraping echoed around the tunnel once more. He felt his hands become slippery, although whether from blood or sweat, he could not tell. After what seemed like an eternity, she straightened.

“That might work. Try moving forward.”

He tried, but he was held fast. Melisende shook her head. “I am sorry, I cannot do it. The angle is too awkward.”

“Burn it off then,” said Geoffrey, his panic-ridden mind casting about for any solution that would not leave him trapped between the walls in the pitch dark. “Use the lamp.”

“That is a desperate measure,” she said. “It will be better, and much less painful for you, if I go back. All we need is a saw to cut through the hook, and you will be free.”

But she might be gone for ages! She might consider his release secondary to selling her cakes in the market, or seeing Uncle, or killing another knight. She might leave him there for hours or even days. That thought filled him with such terror that he strained forward with every fibre of his strength. There was a sharp snap, and suddenly he was free, stumbling forward by the momentum of his lunge. He dropped to his knees and tried to catch his breath.

“The hook sheared off. That was quite a feat of strength,” she added admiringly. “She how thick it is?”

Geoffrey did not want to look. He found the rope was loose, and wriggled his hands free. Melisende helped him stand, but he was too shaken to notice the indignity of it all.

“It is not much further now,” she said, patting his shoulder as she might a small child. “The tunnel widens in a moment.”

He began to walk again, more easily now that his hands were free, and saw she was right. The tunnel became more like a corridor, and within moments they came to a flight of steps that led upward. He began to climb, steadying himself with a hand against the wall. Eventually they reached a stout door, and Melisende handed him a key with which to unlock it. Then there were more stairs, this time of wood, not stone, and Geoffrey felt the air growing steadily warmer and fresher.

A second sturdy door led to a dark corridor, and Melisende gestured that he was to lead the way along it. A mouse darted in front of them, and Geoffrey knew he was back above ground level. The relief was so great that he felt as though he could simply lie down where he was and sleep for a week. The corridor led to a hall, where two clerks rose from a bench as they approached. Recognising Melisende, they allowed her past with smiles, and she knocked at the door outside which they had been sitting. A voice called for her to enter.

“Melisende!” exclaimed the Patriarch in pleasure, rising to greet her.

“Uncle,” she responded, with equal warmth.

Seeing them embrace, Geoffrey was surprised he had not noticed the resemblance before: the haughty expression, the olive complexion, the ruthless way in which they dealt with people. So that was it, he thought, trying to stir some life into his numbed brain. Uncle was no Greek merchant, but Daimbert the Patriarch, who stood holding his niece’s shoulders in a fatherly way as he listened to her speaking in rapid Italian. Geoffrey had spent a number of years in Italy with Tancred, so he understood the conversation.

The Patriarch became aware that his niece had not come alone, and his eyes widened in horror as he recognised Geoffrey.

“Melisende,” he said, aghast. “What have you done to my agent?”

“Your agent?” she said in confusion, looking from the Patriarch to Geoffrey. “You are mistaken, Uncle. This is Geoffrey Mappestone, a Norman knight from the citadel, who is in the pay of the Advocate.”

“And also the man I chose to investigate the murders for me,” said Daimbert, a little irritably. “Anyway, he is Tancred’s man, not the Advocate’s. I draughted him into my service recently.”

“But we have been at odds!” protested Melisende in dismay. “He might have been useful to me! Why did you not tell me?”

“I did not think you needed to know,” said the Patriarch. “Sir Geoffrey is in a dangerous position-ostensibly serving the Advocate, but also working for me. And doubtless passing information to his real master, Tancred, too,” he added dryly. “I wanted to protect him as far as possible.”

This was too much, thought Geoffrey. The Patriarch may indeed have wanted to protect him, but it would not have been for Geoffrey’s sake, but to ensure he completed the task for which the Patriarch had commissioned him.

“The ring!” exclaimed Melisende. She reached into a small pouch that dangled at her waist, and drew out the gaudy bauble. “You gave him your ring!”

“I did indeed,” said the Patriarch. “I assumed he would wear it since it is such a fine thing, and that those of my people who saw it would guess he was in my employ.”

“I guessed he had stolen it,” muttered Melisende. “That is why I brought him to you. Celeste wanted to kill him where he stood, and I was hard pushed to come up with a reason why he should be spared. You are too obtuse, Uncle.”

The Patriarch smiled and turned his attention to Geoffrey. “Well? Have you unravelled this mystery yet?”

Geoffrey felt a twinge of unease. He had almost convinced himself that Melisende and her men were the killers, aided by Roger. But in the light of the knowledge that she seemed to be a much-loved relative of the Patriarch, he was uncertain. Was this what Courrances knew? That the killer was a person close to the Patriarch? And did he know that this knowledge might cause the Advocate to turn against the Patriarch, and plunge the city into civil war? Geoffrey needed time to think, and he was certainly not about to discuss his findings with Daimbert and his niece before he had consulted with Tancred. He temporised.

“The evidence is mounting,” he said cautiously. “But I still need the answers to certain questions.” Such as what you are up to, he thought. And do you know your niece might be a killer?

Daimbert smiled paternally. “So there is some progress?”

Briefly, Geoffrey outlined his reasoning that Dunstan had committed suicide-blaming Marius, not Alain, for tampering with the evidence, since Marius was dead anyway and he had felt sorry for Alain. He mentioned his discovery that Dunstan was blackmailing someone, possibly the murderer, omitting any mention of Roger’s role in the affair, but describing how someone had locked him in the burning stable. Daimbert listened carefully, his dark eyes never moving from Geoffrey’s face. Melisende also listened attentively, her forehead crinkled in a slight frown. When Geoffrey finished, the Patriarch nodded slowly.