‘Not the part where I found Hurso. I would have missed him were it not for the creak of the rope as he swung in the wind. I investigated the sound, because I thought it might be another “accident” in the offing.’
‘This is dreadful!’ Gwenllian felt weak with horror for the evil that was unfolding around them. ‘We will lose Carmarthen for certain!’
‘Then we shall live in Normandy. It is not so terrible.’
‘How can you even think of leaving our friends at the mercy of one of John’s creatures?’ cried Gwenllian, distressed. ‘Besides, who is to say that he will let you leave the country? He might consider you a traitor and order your execution.’
Cole blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘He might, I suppose. He certainly prefers his enemies dead to living, and he does not like me. So ask your questions in the servants’ quarters, while I try to make sure no one else dies before you have exposed the culprit.’
Unfortunately, Gwenllian learned nothing useful. The foul weather had kept their retainers indoors, while Cole had sent the labourers home long before Hurso had taken his final, fatal stroll. She persisted with the castle’s residents regardless, hoping one would remember Hurso walking – and someone watching or following him.
‘You cannot have stayed in the entire time.’ She felt near to tears, terrified of what would happen if she failed to unmask the killer. ‘Some of you must have gone to the latrines, or to fetch water from the well.’
‘None of us did,’ explained the cook, ‘because of Norrys. We remember when he was constable here, see, and when he left… well, suffice to say there was great rejoicing and he is a man for grudges. We kept out of the bailey on purpose, in case we met him.’
She returned to the hall to find Gerald and Foliot on one side of the hearth, and the Canterbury men on the other. Cole, Archdeacon Osbert and Burchill were standing between them, to keep them apart. Norrys’s hand twitched over his sword, and Luci’s face was pale and drawn. Foliot was gripping Gerald’s arm, as if he thought his bishop elect was on the verge of leaping up and launching an attack on their adversaries.
‘You murdered Hurso,’ Robert was snarling to Gerald. ‘Because you believe – without cause – that one of us hurt Pontius. But you will pay. I liked Hurso. He was kind to me.’
‘I cannot imagine why,’ said Gerald disdainfully. ‘You are a vile little worm.’
Red with rage, Robert lunged at him. Cole shoved him back. Dunstan objected to an Austin being manhandled, Gerald applauded it, and then a nasty altercation was underway. Gwenllian took the opportunity to study her suspects. The only dry one among them was Osbert – and the bald archdeacon was not on her list of suspects! She caught his eye and made a desperate sign that he should say something to quell the spat before it turned violent.
‘I am going to the chapel to pray for Hurso’s soul,’ Osbert obliged. It was a clever ploy: Dunstan and Gerald could hardly continue to bicker after such a pious suggestion.
‘So will I,’ said the prior. ‘He was my secretary, after all. Robert, come with me.’
‘I would rather do it here,’ said the lad, not moving. ‘It is still raining, and I do not want to get wet.’
Even Dunstan seemed taken aback at such selfishness, while Gerald and Luci shook their heads in disgust. Norrys only smirked.
‘I still cannot believe it,’ said Foliot shakily. He looked at Cole. ‘Are you sure Hurso is dead? You cannot be mistaken?’
‘No,’ replied Cole gently. ‘I am sorry.’
‘You will be,’ said Norrys coldly. ‘It will mean the end of you. King John will certainly not overlook two murders in as many days.’
There was nothing Cole could say to such a remark, so he turned and led the way to the chapel, where he had set Hurso on a bier and covered him with a blanket. Unceremoniously, Prior Dunstan hauled off the blanket, and did not seem particularly dismayed as he looked at the man who had been his secretary.
Meanwhile, Gwenllian noticed Foliot watching his bishop elect intently. Then Foliot looked at Osbert, who shook his bald head, a stricken expression on his face. She could only assume that Foliot had shared his suspicions with a fellow priest. She clenched her hands to prevent them from shaking. She did not want the culprit to be Gerald – a Welsh candidate for the See of St Davids, and a man – a kinsman – she liked.
She studied the others. Norrys’s eyes flashed with vengeful satisfaction, and it occurred to her that he was certainly the kind of man to kill a member of his own party in order to harm Symon. Luci was quiet and shocked, and she thought she saw the glitter of tears.
‘We should establish who was where between four and six o’clock,’ said Cole. ‘It is-’
‘Then let us start with you,’ interrupted Norrys. ‘Did Gerald pay you to kill Hurso? Or did Hurso find out that you dispatched Pontius, so had to be silenced? Perhaps that was what Hurso was doing all afternoon – not reading, but investigating murder.’
‘I hardly think that Sir Symon-’ began Archdeacon Osbert angrily.
‘It is Cole’s castle.’ Norrys rounded on him. ‘He will know where to lure a victim, so there will be no witnesses to the foul deed.’
‘Symon has an alibi in half the town,’ said Gwenllian sharply. ‘He was quelling riots when Hurso was killed, and dozens of people can testify to that fact.’
‘You are familiar with the castle too, Norrys,’ said Gerald when the Hospitaller had nothing to say. ‘You were once its constable. And personally, I think it is suspicious that you are so eager for Cole to be blamed. So tell us where you were when Hurso died.’
Norrys scowled. ‘Learning the role of King Nebuchadnezzar – on my own. I could not concentrate with all that jabbering in the hall, so I came to the chapel.’
‘Can anyone vouch for you?’ asked Cole.
Norrys regarded him with open hatred. ‘No, but I have no reason to kill Hurso. The archbishop hired me to protect him.’
‘Which you failed to do,’ Gerald pointed out. ‘Luci? Do you have a better story?’
Luci nodded. ‘I went out briefly – a moment, no more – when I saw Hurso in the bailey. But it was cold and wet, so I hurried back inside and did not leave again. Lady Gwenllian will confirm that I am telling the truth.’
Gwenllian nodded, and Cole turned questioning eyebrows on Dunstan.
‘I was in many places,’ replied the prior unhelpfully. ‘I am an active man, and I dislike being pent up indoors. I walked around both baileys, to stretch my legs.’
Gwenllian was dissatisfied with this explanation, and so was Gerald because his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
‘I went out, but Archdeacon Osbert was with me,’ said Foliot before Gerald could speak. ‘We practised our roles for “Jonah and the Whale” in a room near the kitchens. God help us, but we laughed together while a man was being…’ He trailed off, unable to continue.
‘When we finished, I walked with Foliot to the hall, then came to the chapel to say my offices,’ added Osbert. ‘I did not see Norrys here, though.’
‘You must have missed me in the dark,’ said Norrys. Then he realised the chapel was far too small for that, so added, ‘Or I left a few moments before you arrived. Regardless, I am not the culprit.’
‘I also spent time alone,’ said Gerald. ‘In my room. I was praying, so my alibi is God. However, no one can possibly suspect me of this crime. I am bishop elect.’
It was some time before Gwenllian and Cole were able to steer their guests from the hall to their quarters, because neither party wanted to sleep. Prior Dunstan, Gerald and young Robert were the most vocal, while Norrys watched the efforts of Foliot, Luci and Gwenllian to calm them with spiteful satisfaction.
‘It is late,’ said Cole, loudly and with finality. ‘And time for us all to rest.’