01 - Murder in the Holy City (17 page)

Geoffrey was becoming sleepy himself, lulled by the soporific flicker of the amber light of the lamp. Then he jolted back into wakefulness when he realised what he had just read. The text was incomplete because the parchment had been torn, but there was enough left to give him the gist of what had been written. And it was in Greek, and so was probably incomprehensible to most, if not all, the other scribes in the Patriarch’s service.

“… you will agree … not … for others to know … damage … be irreparable … but … minimal sums … left … of the Holy …”

Geoffrey rubbed his chin. It did not take a genius to grasp the essence of the letter. It was informing the recipient that the sender was aware of some fact it was better that others should not know, and that would cause or allow some permanent damage to occur. But for a price, the secret could be kept, providing “sums” were left at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. So, was this a note written
to
Dunstan, or
by
him? And if by him, was it for another or on his own account? Was it an original or simply a rough copy to be written out more tidily at a later date? Geoffrey rummaged in the pile for the parchment on which Dunstan had practised his handwriting, and compared it to the blackmail note. At first, he thought he must have been mistaken, but there, at the bottom, was a line in which the writing was made to slope a little to the right, and some letters were given distinctive ornamentations. Dunstan had been practicing Roman letters in Latin, but the style was as distinctive in Greek.

Geoffrey peered closer, almost setting the parchment alight as he came too near to the lamp, and he saw that there must have been some kind of notch in the nib, for there was a strange irregularity in the writing that would have been invisible to all but the most intense scrutiny. When he looked at the practice sheet, he saw the same irregularity, which suggested that the identical pen had been used. Rummaging in his pockets, he found the scroll that Tancred had given him, containing notes made by Dunstan and Marius on their investigation. It was written in two different hands: one had clear, rounded letters written with a thick-nibbed pen, while the other was a hurried, spiky script with randomly shaped letters. But the telltale irregularities were there that showed that the second section had been written with the damaged quill.

Geoffrey leaned his elbows on the table and stared down at the elusive clues. So one of the two who had written the scroll of findings had also written the blackmail note, and had been practising alternative handwriting styles. Since the note and the practice sheet were in Dunstan’s desk, it stood to reason that he was the culprit. In which case, he had sent, or intended to send, the note to someone else. But was Dunstan a blackmailer or simply a scribe? Was the rough note in front of him a dictation? And if so, from whom? Daimbert? Tancred? Bohemond? Geoffrey closed his eyes: if it were a dictation, virtually anyone in the city with the means to pay a scribe might have commissioned Dunstan.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He would need to return to the scriptorium later that day and question Dunstan’s colleagues about any private clients he might have had, or any mysterious meetings. And whether he regularly received or bought parcels of Greek cakes.

Hugh shifted in his sleep and murmured something. Geoffrey turned to look at him. Perhaps he should be concentrating on who in the citadel had murdered Marius and almost killed Hugh. Helbye swore no one had gone in or out of the citadel, other than Geoffrey himself, after sunset, and Helbye had no cause to lie. He rubbed harder at his nose and tried to think. The obvious candidate who came to mind as villain was Courrances, because Geoffrey detested him and knew the feeling was mutual. The Hospitaller would love to see Geoffrey fall from grace, and might well instigate some unpleasant plot to harm him. But would he kill a monk like Marius, a fellow man of God, to ensure its success? Or harm a knight like Hugh, a colleague from the citadel? Geoffrey decided that he would.

Then there were Warner de Gray and Henri d’Aumale, both of whom had fallen foul of Geoffrey’s quick wits from time to time. Geoffrey tried hard not to use his learning to make fools of people, but Warner and d’Aumale sorely tested his good intentions with their bigotry and arrogance. Warner, by dint of his superior talent in swordplay and horsemanship, was the acknowledged leader of the Advocate’s knights, backed by the slightly more intelligent, but lazy, d’Aumale. They poured scorn on Geoffrey’s academic pursuits, and he despised their proudly maintained ignorance.

He racked his brain for other suspects, but they all fell far short of Courrances, d’Aumale, and Warner. Geoffrey would need to discover where they had been on the nights of the five murders. It should not be difficult to do, since the citadel was crowded to the gills, and it was almost impossible to keep any kind of secret. Doubtless even the story of how his dog had been poisoned would be common knowledge by now, a story that would be related with some glee, since Geoffrey’s dog was not a popular resident in the citadel. The unprotected ankles of many knights had fallen foul of its ready fangs, and it had several unendearing habits, chief among which were its penchant for the refuse pits and its ability to seek out edibles that any knight brought to the citadel. Geoffrey leaned down to pat the dog on the head, but withdrew his hand quickly when it sneezed on him.

He stood, walked to the window, and leaned out, breathing deeply of the warm, richly scented air. The sky was now much brighter, although the sun still had not risen. A bird sang a loud and exotic song from the huddle of rooftops below the citadel. People were beginning to stir, and he could hear the rumble of carts as they were allowed through David’s Gate for the day’s trading. In the far distance, he could hear the wail of the muezzins calling the Moslems to their mosques.

The bell on the citadel chapel began to chime, and Geoffrey decided to go to mass. Courrances was sure to be there, and Geoffrey thought he might be able to elicit some information from him. Geoffrey reconsidered: he would not be able to solicit anything from Courrances without arousing his suspicion, but he might be able to goad d’Aumale or Warner into some indiscretion that would reveal their guilt.

Before leaving, he gathered up the scraps of vellum and went to the fireplace. Some months before, he had discovered a loose stone at the back, behind which was a small crevice. He rammed the parchments into the crevice and replaced the stone so that no intruder should see them and ascertain how much he had learned.

“Is that where you keep your wine? No wonder it tastes so foul!”

Geoffrey smiled at Roger, who was easing the stiffness out of his joints in a series of cracks and grunts. Hugh was still asleep, sprawled across the bed, with his mouth open.

“I am going to mass,” said Geoffrey. “I might be able to find out where Courrances, d’Aumale, and Warner were last night.”

Roger nodded toward Hugh. “We should let him sleep,” he said in a stentorian whisper that was almost louder than his normal voice. Hugh stirred, but did not waken. He had lost the pallor of the night before, and Geoffrey imagined resting would do him more good than any of his or Roger’s fumbling ministrations. The dog opened a bleary eye and closed it again with an irritable growl that rumbled deep in its chest.

The two knights walked across the bailey toward the chapel. The citadel was already heaving with life. The great ironbound doors were opening and shutting continuously, allowing a stream of carts through, although each one was allocated a soldier who would stay with it until it left. The Advocate was only too familiar with tales of great fortresses falling to treachery, and he had no intention of allowing his wells to be poisoned, or weevils put in his siege supplies, for the sake of some basic security.

Roger strode into the chapel, blithely ignoring the rule that all weapons should be left in the porch. He bared his big brown teeth at the monk who stepped forward to remind him, and the man cowered back, uncertain as to whether the gesture was friendly or hostile. Geoffrey unbuckled his sword, but kept his dagger under his surcoat.

Mass was just beginning, with monks in the black habits of the Benedictines chanting a psalm. Geoffrey tipped his head back and studied the ceiling as he listened to the rhythmic rise and fall of the plainsong. The mosaics here were fine, too, he thought, depicting scenes from the Bible in brilliant golds, greens, and blues that shone vividly, even in the dull light of early morning.

A group of knights entered noisily, their spurs clanking on the stone floor. Among them were d’Aumale and Warner. The monks, used to such interruptions, did not falter in their singing, even when two Lorrainers began a noisy conversation about horses. Courrances, wearing his robe with the cross that glimmered whitely in the gloom, stood to one side, also chanting, although his pale blue eyes darted here and there, noting who was present and who stood next to whom.

While the monks sang and the celebrant went through the ritual movements of the mass, the knights fidgeted and shuffled. Some chatted, one hummed a folk song loudly to himself, and others sighed and whispered. All stood, although one or two lounged against pillars. D’Aumale and Warner talked to each other, laughing helplessly at some joke, their mirth sufficiently loud to draw disapproving glares from the celebrant. At last it was over, and the knights trooped noisily toward the hall for breakfast. Geoffrey approached d’Aumale and Warner and greeted them cheerfully.

“Good morning,” he said, fishing around for a noncontentious subject with which to draw them into conversation. “Helbye informs me that you plan to hold an archery competition. It is an excellent notion. I hope my men will be allowed to compete?”

“I heard your dog was ill last night,” said d’Aumale irrelevantly, exchanging a look of amusement with Warner. “I cannot think why you keep that wretched thing. It is wholly devoid of redeeming features.”

“Your kindred spirit,” said Warner to Geoffrey, and he and d’Aumale howled with laughter. Geoffrey fought not to reply with one of a tide of biting responses that rose unbidden into his mind.

“Poor Hugh was not well either,” put in Roger. “Nor was the monk who came to seek the safety of our citadel.”

“Probably went too near that dog,” said Warner, and laughed again. Geoffrey looked away. It might be easy to beguile them into betraying themselves, but it would not be pleasant.

“The monk, Marius, was not quite dead when we returned,” lied Geoffrey. “He described his killer to us.”

Warner and d’Aumale exchanged a glance. “Really?” said d’Aumale. “And what did this killer look like? We are all concerned about a murderer within our walls.”

“A Lorrainer,” said Roger heartily. Geoffrey cringed. Roger was not the right person to be indulging in these kind of games. He was far too indiscreet and brutal. Hugh, on the other hand, would have understood Geoffrey’s intentions instantly, and thrown himself into the game with consummate skill.

“You lie!” exclaimed d’Aumale, looking from Roger to Geoffrey. “You slander us all!”

“Do we? Then where were you last night?” demanded Roger. Geoffrey closed his eyes in despair. He could see the way this discussion would end.

“Well, we were not here!” growled Warner. “We were out and did not return until after you did.”

“How did you know when we returned?” asked Geoffrey quickly, “if you were not here to see us arrive back?”

Warner spluttered with rage, although whether because he had been caught in a lie, or because he resented being questioned, was not easy to guess. “We were out!”

“Can anyone vouch for you?” asked Geoffrey with quiet reason.

“Vouch for us? What do you think we are, common soldiers?” shouted d’Aumale, bristling with indignation. “We do not need to discuss our whereabouts with a Norman!”

“True. You do not,” said Geoffrey. “But you will save me a good deal of time if you do, and time wasted on investigating a false trail might lead to the death of another man.”

“I care nothing about your trails!” snarled Warner. “You are like that fat dog of yours, sniffing around in the garbage, looking for murderers! Call this villain out for a fair fight, like any decent knight should do!” His chest heaved with emotion, and flecks of spit gathered around his buff-coloured moustache.

“You are welcome to try that tactic,” said Geoffrey. “But I doubt it will work. Where were you? At a brothel?”

It was not an unreasonable suggestion. There were several institutions where knights were more than welcome, and which formed a mechanism whereby the plunder taken by the Crusaders from the hapless citizens after the city’s fall gradually trickled back to its original owners.

Warner was incensed, and the mounting colour in his cheeks told Geoffrey that he had guessed correctly. But that still did not mean that he or d’Aumale had not killed Marius, for the guard on the citadel gates had been a Lorrainer and would never reveal to Geoffrey the exact time when Warner and d’Aumale had returned. In the citadel, most things could be bought and sold, but not a soldier’s loyalty to his lord. Not if he wished not to be killed in a weapons’ drill by his comrades, or to have his throat slit while on night manoeuvres, or to be selected for every dangerous mission until his luck ran out.

“You are being ridiculous,” said Roger glibly to Geoffrey. “What self-respecting whore would sleep with a Lorrainer?”

Warner leapt toward Roger, his face a mask of fury. Geoffrey stretched out a hand, intending it to be a pacifying gesture, but Warner misunderstood, and in an instant, his sword was drawn. D’Aumale’s was out too, and so was Roger’s. Geoffrey’s lay on the pile in the porch, with those of the other law-abiding knights of the citadel.

“Not in a church!” he cried, grabbing Roger’s arm and trying to pull him away. “No violence in a church!”

“Are you afraid to fight, Norman?” hissed Warner, advancing on Geoffrey with a series of hacking sweeps of his sword that cut the air as cleanly as a whistle. Geoffrey retreated hastily.

“I will not fight in a church!”

“You will if you do not want to die!”