“I can see that,” Lord Gilbert sighed, “but why have you brought it to the hall in the middle of the day when no light is needed?”
“We will explain in the solar, m’lord,” I said.
“Very well. Come.”
Lord Gilbert left his place and strode toward the stairway which led to the solar and adjacent chambers. As I passed the high table I saw Lady Margery’s eyes fall to my hand and the slender shaft of iron I held. Neither of the squires had shown any dismay at the appearance of the lampstand, but the Lady Margery seemed to stagger back a step when she saw what I carried, before she steadied herself with a hand against the linen covering of the high table. Her eyes lifted to mine, she fixed me with a brief, haughty glare, then turned to speak to Lady Petronilla.
“Whence came this lampstand?” Lord Gilbert asked when we had entered the solar and closed the door behind us.
“’Twas in the squires’ chamber,” the sheriff replied. “And ’tis no common lampstand.”
Sir Roger upended the stand, pointed to the base, and said, “Look there.”
Lord Gilbert did so, looked to Sir Roger, then to me, and said, “What am I to see? Is there something remarkable about the thing?”
“Do you see the hole in the center of the stand?” I said. “We drew this from it.”
I held out the iron bodkin and Lord Gilbert took it from me. “Too fine to be a nail,” he said, “and no head. Why was it in the stand?”
“’Twas hid there,” Sir Roger said. “Show Lord Gilbert the message again that put us on the trail.”
Reading is not a task which comes easily to Lord Gilbert, although he does possess a most excellent book of hours to aid his devotions. He once read well, but many folk of his age must hold a document at arm’s length, or admit the frailty of age and seek spectacles in London. And the note was written in a poor hand. As my employer scowled at the parchment I repeated what words were there.
“Was this used to slay Sir Henry?” he said, peering at the tool with some distaste.
“It may be,” I replied. “If so, ’twas wiped clean when the deed was done. There is no trace of blood upon it.”
“Plenty of blood on the cloth that was stuffed up the chimney,” Sir Roger said.
One of Lord Gilbert’s eyebrows lifted. “A bloody cloth?”
“Aye. Hidden above the fireplace in the squires’ chamber,” I said. “A corner of it fell free, so ’twas visible.”
I withdrew the cloth from my pouch and held it forth for Lord Gilbert’s inspection. He studied it intently, but would not take it from me.
“So one, or both, of these squires is guilty of murder?”
“Likely,” Sir Roger replied.
Lord Gilbert peered at me. “How will you discover which has done this felony?”
“Take ’em both to the dungeon at Oxford Castle, ’til they confess the deed,” the sheriff advised.
“What say you, Hugh?”
I dislike contradicting my betters, but it seemed to me such a course would not be effective.
“The squires will protest their innocence,” I said, “but after a few days in the dungeon, or perhaps a week, they will confess all.”
“See,” Sir Roger said. “Your bailiff agrees. I’ll send my sergeants to arrest the fellows.”
“They will confess,” I continued, “that the other is guilty. It is unlikely that any man will admit himself a felon when to do so will send him to a noose. Each will deny the crime and try to entangle the other in it.”
“Mayhap they are both guilty,” Sir Roger said. “The King’s Eyre may find it so.”
“It may be, but our only clues are insubstantial.”
“What?” Lord Gilbert said. “A bloody cloth, a murder weapon, and a note which told Sir Roger where these might be found. These are insubstantial?”
“Evidence enough,” the sheriff growled.
“What if this iron pin was used for some other purpose and did not slay any man? And who left the message under your door? One of the squires?”
Sir Roger shrugged.
“If one squire had informed against the other, he would, I think, write of which was the felon and which was not, else he would know that his own life was at risk.”
“Mayhap someone saw them approach Sir Henry’s door in the night,” Lord Gilbert offered.
“Why not say so? Why send this riddle to Sir Roger in the night? What harm could come to a man who would tell of what he saw?” I said.
“Perhaps he feared that someone might ask what he was doing prowling about the castle so late at night,” Lord Gilbert said.
“The garderobe is not far from Sir Henry’s chamber.”
“Ah,” Sir Roger said, “just so. What then, are we to allow a guilty man to escape a just punishment?”
“Nay. But we must be careful that the punishment is meted out to the guilty and none other.”
“Innocent men often suffer for the deeds of others,” Sir Roger said. “Why so troubled about perhaps one more?”
“If the innocent are afflicted because of the deeds of evil men, or because of God’s choice, then I am free from censure. But no blameless man, nor woman either, should suffer because you, or I or Lord Gilbert, are too slothful to do justice.”
Sir Roger was not pleased, I think, with my words. He frowned at me silently for a time, then spoke. “Very well… we will seek justice. How? We have clues. Three of ’em. What more?”
“A clue is a mistake,” I said. “Most of the time.”
Lord Gilbert’s eyebrow lifted again. “How so?” he asked.
“Felons seek to obscure their guilt,” I said.
“Aye,” Sir Roger agreed. “But those squires, one of ’em, anyway, made a mistake.”
“And someone knew of it and sent the message under your door,” Lord Gilbert said.
“I am not convinced of the mistake,” I said.
“Oh, why so?” the sheriff asked.
“I watched the squires when we entered the hall. You had the lampstand in your hand. There would be no reason for you to have it but that it was evidence of the murder. Neither of the squires seemed troubled, as one, at least, should have, had he hid a murder weapon in the lampstand. He would know he had been found out. This clue is too simple. A man cunning enough to slay Sir Henry in the manner he chose would not be so stupid as to leave evidence of his guilt where it might be readily found.”
“What then of the message?” Lord Gilbert asked.
“Someone, I think, wants to point suspicion at a squire, or both of them.”
“To turn us from his guilt?” Lord Gilbert said.
“Aye. What other reason, if the squires are blameless?”
“Mayhap the squires are guilty but skilled at deception,” the sheriff said.
“’Tis possible,” I agreed. “But everything falls to place too readily for my liking.”
“Bah,” Sir Roger scowled. “Scholars! Want to complicate matters which are simple. We’ve found a felon, or two, and you protest ’twas too neatly done.”
“Would two youths devise so devious a way to slay a man, then be so careless as to leave evidence of the felony where it might be readily found?”
“Wouldn’t have been,” the sheriff said, “but for we being told where to search.”
“And that’s another riddle,” I said. “Would the squires, one or both, be so careful to plot a hidden murder, then be so indiscreet that some other learned of their crime?”
Lord Gilbert scratched at his bearded chin. “So you believe some murderer hopes we will send one or both of the squires to a scaffold in his place?”
“I do not believe it so,” I replied. “But I believe it possible. Is there a lock upon the squires’ chamber door?”
“Nay. You think some man entered while the squires were away and placed in their chamber the bodkin and bloody cloth?”
“It could be done.”
Sir Roger puffed his cheeks, frowned, then spoke. “How could that be proved? If ’tis so, what mistake did the murderer make which will be a clue for us?”
“The bodkin and fragment of linen stained with blood came from somewhere,” I said. “If we can discover their origins we may find who has slain Sir Henry. And no man pushed an iron point into the lampstand with the palm of his hand.”