‘Is that necessary?’ Crispin asked.
Owen turned to him. ‘Can you explain why he would make up such a lie?’
‘The casket is missing,’ Beck whispered.
Crispin nodded. ‘It is curious you know that, but not that Ronan had two cloaks so alike.’
Owen turned back to the weasel. ‘Well?’
‘I forgot about the other cloak,’ he whispered.
‘You forgot? You realize that the bailiff might have injured the accused had he tried to run, and all on your false witness?’ Owen tightened his grip on the man’s shoulder. ‘What else is hidden in this room?’
‘Naught that I know of. I swear!’
Owen shook him again and released him, turning back to Crispin as the weasel slumped to the floor. ‘Tell me about the casket.’
‘I know little more than that Ronan had been assigned the task of calling in promised tributes for the archbishop,’ said Crispin. ‘Merchants and churchmen who had pledged support.’
Not debts? ‘Such as Thoresby did with donations for his lady chapel?’
‘Yes, though he was vague as to what project.’
‘You would be a more likely one to receive such items.’
‘I agree. But Ronan argued that it was not seemly, the merchants might resent me.’
It was true that Crispin’s acceptance into the society of York merchants was crucial to his effectiveness as the new archbishop’s spy. ‘I heard they were perhaps not so much support as payments for debts.’
Crispin cleared his throat. ‘I have heard such rumors as well.’
‘Who gave Ronan the role of debt collector?’
‘His Grace, I presume.’
‘But you don’t know?’
Still sitting on the bed, Crispin looked down at his booted feet, thinking. A slow shake of the head. ‘As I said, I heard a rumor. I asked Ronan about it.’ A moment of thought, and then looked up with a nod. ‘I see. You are thinking Ronan wished to keep the task to himself. For profit?’
Or he had taken it upon himself to devise a way to rob his former master. Not something Owen cared to share with Crispin at present. ‘I know too little to judge whether he has kept anything for himself.’ He sensed the weasel slinking out the door behind him. Good. ‘Are you finished here?’ he asked Crispin.
‘I have a duty to the archbishop.’
‘I will wait.’ Owen leaned against the wall, crossed his arms.
Crispin narrowed his eyes. ‘Do you count me a suspect?’
The thought had not occurred to Owen until he found Crispin in the room. He considered it unlikely. Crispin was desperate to wed the widow Muriel Swann and help raise the child that might be born any day now. A man might commit such a crime in his circumstances, but not for the benefit of a master he distrusted, which was the case with Crispin and the archbishop. ‘I prefer to be alone when I search,’ said Owen. ‘I will tell you all you need to know in good time.’
‘In good time. I expect His Grace to arrive within the week. And you did not answer my question.’
‘A week? Then I must get to work.’
Crispin plucked his hat from the bed, picked up his walking stick.
‘An injury?’ Owen asked.
‘Reached out with the hand no longer attached to my arm. Though it pains me as if still there, it proved useless in preventing a fall on snowy cobbles.’
‘Has Magda looked at it?’
‘Not yet.’
‘With her skill you might soon discard the cane.’
Crispin lifted it and swung it round, stabbing out. He grinned. ‘I might just keep it with me. Not a bad thing, to pretend I cannot protect myself, and then strike.’
Owen chuckled despite himself.
‘How are the children?’ Crispin asked.
‘They have come through the worst of it. Lucie says they are out of danger.’
‘God be praised.’ Crispin pressed Owen’s shoulder as he limped past him and out the door. He moved with the weariness of a man with a burdened soul, reminding Owen of Crispin’s distaste for his lord, Alexander Neville.
‘It is too early to say you are above suspicion,’ Owen called out, ‘but I do not think you would be so inept.’
‘A compliment?’ Crispin grinned. ‘I will expect that report.’
‘You will have it.’
Once alone, Owen studied the room, then began testing the floorboards, knocking on the paneled walls. On the last wall the sound changed. He’d left it to last because to access it would require moving the bed, which appeared to be built into the wall. But he found he could move it. With his dagger he tested the edges of the wall panels until one gave way, revealing a square opening in which he found a pouch filled with jewels, small gold and silver objects, and silver coins, all representing a considerable fortune.
Two treasures in the vicar’s lodgings, one undiscovered, the other either stolen after his murder or removed by Ronan. And stolen by his murderer? Beck had known of the casket in the chest, of course, but Owen did not think him the murderer. He was a noisemaker, a complainer, not a man who took action. But someone may have come for the casket expecting far more, then confronted Ronan, demanding the rest. Or perhaps they killed Ronan first, then came to the room. If so, the murderer might return to search once he found the takings so disappointing. Owen would set a watch on the lodgings.
He considered Ronan’s remarkable cache. With such treasure, Owen could not be certain that Ambrose’s cloak had anything to do with the vicar choral’s murder. Though the confluence of events— If it had nothing to do with whoever had chased Ambrose, and drowned— No, somehow they were connected.
The sack of jewels and coins must be stored in a safer place. To whom might he entrust it? Neither the precentor nor the acting dean had much power. Nor did they seem men of great courage. The chancellor of the chapter – no, Master Thomas must remain under suspicion. And, in truth, Owen should not entrust it to any in the chapter or Ronan’s fellows in the Bedern until he knew more. Those with
