‘Do you think Fulk saw Phoebe’s murderer?’
‘I think he did but Fulk was tight-lipped. I asked him but he just stared at me in that strange way of his. You know, out of the corner of his eye, just like his father does when he makes a profit with that golden thumb of his.’
‘So why do you think Fulk came back to the castle?’ Eleanora’s eyes shifted.
‘Why should he come back?’ Ralph persisted. He got up and moved towards her. ‘Did he tell you?’
Again a flicker of the eyes.
‘Come on, did he? Why should Fulk the miller’s son be interested in a murderer? He came here to extort money, didn’t he? He didn’t return, so you put it about in the Pot of Thyme tavern that he was on some innocent errand to the castle and didn’t come back.’
‘I will tell all,’ Eleanora declared defiantly, ‘when the King’s men come. I wish to be alone. Sir John Grasse promised I wouldn’t be troubled.’
Ralph left the dungeon. He walked up into the keep looking for Father Aylred but the chapel was empty. He stayed for a while, kneeling in the entrance to the rood screen, staring up at the cross.
‘I am not a prayerful man,’ he murmured. ‘In fact, I don’t know what I am. But, Lord, I am very frightened. And I miss Beatrice.’
Ralph closed his eyes. In a week his whole life had been shattered, like the wine vat Beardsmore had sliced in the Pot of Thyme tavern. He made himself more comfortable, with his back to the rood screen, and stared up at the corbels on the roof. He noticed the gargoyle, a grinning jester with his fingers in his mouth. In his imagination the face became that of the killer, quietly mocking him from the shadows. Ralph looked away. He had been so engrossed in trying to find out who the killer was, how these deaths and attacks had occurred, he had not asked why the peaceable life of this castle had abruptly changed. True, there was unrest in the countryside but the attacks, apart from that on Phoebe, had been directed at him. Ralph wondered what Beatrice would have thought and said. She had a sharp mind. If only she was here, sitting next to him.
The sunlight was now streaming through the window, the dust motes dancing, and he wondered if they were angels. He felt warm and relaxed.
He heard a sound down the church and whirled round, peering through the rood screen, then he remembered locking and barring the door behind him. He got to his feet and stared round the little sanctuary. The cross on the altar was dazzling in the light of the sun. He felt alert but not distraught, as if he had woken from a refreshing sleep. He looked at the gleaming cross.
‘The treasure,’ he murmured. He knelt on the prie-dieu, eyes fixed on that cross. ‘The only thing anyone else would want is Brythnoth’s cross but I haven’t got it yet.’
He recalled the May Day celebrations, the castle officers assembled on the green. Ralph repressed a shiver and bowed his head. He had thought of this before, and now he was forced to accept it: his boasting had caused all this. Someone at that meal had decided to intervene, someone who had been following his search most closely. His chamber was often unlocked, with manuscripts left on the table. Never once had he suspected that someone would take up the hunt with him.
Ralph broke out in a sweat. He had to face the truth. He was supposed to have been on the parapet walk. He was supposed to have died in Devil’s Spinney. And Phoebe? She had been a pert-faced, sharp-tongued wench with a nose for mischief and an ear for other people’s conversations. She must have seen or heard something and been brutally silenced. But how had her corpse been taken out of the castle? Ralph remembered Beardsmore, crossed himself and almost fled from the church. His mind was all a jumble as guilt pricked at his grief. He strode across the castle bailey. Beardsmore was waiting for him on the steps of the barbican guardhouse.
‘Are you well, Master Ralph? You look pale.’
Ralph grasped him by the elbow and took him out on the drawbridge.
‘I know why Beatrice died,’ he said in a rush. ‘Because of Brythnoth’s treasure – you know, from chatter, my interest in it. They think I am close to finding the cross.’
‘They?’
‘Whoever killed Beatrice and attacked me in Devil’s Spinney. That’s why Phoebe died, she saw or heard something.’ He led Beardsmore even further away, out of the shadows into the full sunlight. ‘The killer must be one of the castle council, that’s why Fulk came here. He was going to blackmail him or her. He wanted silver for his silence.’
‘But where’s Fulk now?’
Ralph waved his hands. ‘I don’t know. Master Beardsmore, I trust you completely. You are the only one I do trust. Anyway, you asked me to meet you here. What do you propose?’
‘A walk round the moat, Master Ralph.’ He moved to the left, walking through the long grass which fringed the edge of the moat. ‘Keep behind me,’ he ordered. ‘Study the ground, look for anything untoward. A piece of cloth, dried blood. Anything that shouldn’t be there.’
Pinching his nostrils against the rank smell from the slimy water, Ralph obeyed. He understood Beardsmore’s logic. If Phoebe’s corpse had not been carried through the barbican or the rusting postern gate, some other route must have been taken. Now and again he’d stop and stare over the heathland towards Devil’s Spinney. A merlin hovered, wings whirling, above the trees, searching for prey. Butterflies and bees moved among the clusters of wild flowers. The click of grasshoppers broke the silence. A sentry noticed them and shouted out some greeting. Beardsmore simply raised his hand in acknowledgement.
They went along the side of the castle, then round the back. Ralph rarely came here. To the north stretched moorland dotted by copses of trees; against the blue sky curled the odd plume of grey smoke from a woodcutter’s or charcoal-burner’s cottage. In the centre of the rear wall rose the Salt Tower. The masonry was crumbling, some had fallen into the moat. Beardsmore stopped before this, narrowing his eyes.
‘It’s disused now,’ he said. ‘The steps are not too safe.’
Ralph looked up at the shuttered windows though Beardsmore was more interested in the moat. The water was shallower here and fallen masonry from the Salt Tower had created a makeshift causeway across the moat. On the far side against the wall a bank of mud had formed.
‘I wonder,’ Beardsmore murmured. ‘Look at the tower. What do you see?’
‘Windows on the higher floors, a window door lower down.’
‘In former times it was used to bring stores in. A way of victualling the castle without using the barbican.’ Beardsmore warily made his way through the reeds and, splashing and slipping, ran across the makeshift causeway to the muddy bank beneath the Salt Tower. He had to hold himself against the wall, for it was no more than a narrow ledge. He eased himself down and studied the ground. With a cry of triumph he drew his dagger, dug at the mud and held up a ring which flashed in the sunlight.
‘I knew it!’ he declared. ‘This is how they took Phoebe’s corpse out.’
Re-sheathing his dagger and grasping the ring, Beardsmore splashed back across the moat and showed Ralph what he had found. The ring was one of those sold at many fairs or market booths.
‘Phoebe bought this from a chapman who came here just after the feast of the Purification. She was very proud of it.’ The sergeant scratched his coarse, cropped hair and stared back at the Salt Tower. ‘She must have been lured into the tower, beaten and strangled, and then her corpse, wrapped and tied with cords, was lowered from that door. The assassin then let himself down, picked up the corpse and hurried into Devil’s Spinney. Remember, Eleanora said it was dark. The corpse was placed in the spinney and the assassin re-entered the castle, probably by the same route.’ He gripped Ralph’s arm. ‘You know I speak the truth.’
‘You speak the truth, Master Beardsmore.’ Ralph smiled. ‘The castle walls are undefended. This is a lonely part, no one would notice. If Eleanora and Fulk had not been in the spinney, no one would have been the wiser.’ Ralph walked towards the moat. ‘We should tell Sir John about this. If the castle was ever attacked-’ He heard a sound; a creak, as if a shutter was opening, followed by a whirring noise. He looked back over his shoulder and stared in horror.
Beardsmore was swaying on his feet, hands out, eyes rolled up at the crossbow bolt which had taken him dead centre in the forehead. Ralph ran towards him. Beardsmore sighed and fell into his arms. Ralph laid him down on the grass. His eyelids fluttered; he coughed blood, jerked and lay still, his hand still holding Phoebe’s ring. Ralph stretched across to take it. The action saved his life; a crossbow bolt skimmed the air above him. Ralph looked up at the Salt Tower. One of the windows at the top was open.
He stared around. What could he do? There was no cover. The next bolt skimmed over his shoulder. Too
