Free The Lord Bishop's Clerk by Sarah Hawkswood Page B

him from a mixture of weariness and mischief, as he well knew, but even in jest his overlord would not have picked a fool. So here he was, faced with a murder, and no clear indication of how to proceed, beyond letting Serjeant Catchpoll ferret around. That was not enough. He must think, clearly and logically, about exactly what they had discovered, and what linked together. If Catchpoll could do this, Bradecote told himself he was quite capable of doing it too. After all, it was surely not some form of necromancy.
    He cleared his mind and began again, considering the victim, and how he was found. There was still a question in his mind about the positioning of the body. Had it been left in the Lady chapel it might not have been discovered until the next day, possibly after the murderer had left about their business. Was it that the murderer was making a point, something about the clerk owing penance? He could not see how the problem could be resolved without the motive of the killer. They did at least know where the murder had taken place, and how, although the exact nature of the weapon was unknown. There was also the matter of time. The man had been alive at Vespers and dead by Compline, only a couple of hours later, but they needed to find out if anyone had seen him during that period. Perhaps he had been in the refectory or at the abbot’s table; he must check that. If he had been at neither, then what had been more important than filling his belly?
    It was almost impossible that a stranger had walked into the church and committed the murder, and it was certainly none of the townsfolk who had attended Compline. He could not see the old lady’s walking stick as a murder weapon. He smiled to himself. No, it had been someone within the enclave. How many of the brethren could be vouched for during the entire period? Bradecote groaned, and offered up a fervent prayer that the majority had chosen to be sociable, for the thought of interviewing upward of thirty choir monks, and Heaven knew how many lay brothers, and at length, left his brain reeling. There would also be the guests and their servants, not forgetting the masons. Once the list of suspects had been reduced to reasonable proportions, he supposed he had best start by interviewing the master mason who had discovered the body. Having made his plan of action he arose to break his fast, and found his presence had a very dampening effect upon the guest hall occupants. Hugh Bradecote was an open sort of man, quite serious, but not without humour, and to be greeted with cautious looks and a cessation of conversation as people looked cautiously at him over their bread, was a new experience for him. He consoled himself with the thought that he must look as if his new role suited him, and so it was a cheerful and apparently confident acting under-sheriff who soon afterwards strode purposefully, but with a long-legged grace, across the abbey courtyard to where Serjeant Catchpoll was in quiet conversation with Gyrth, the man-at-arms, who was reporting a peaceful watch.
    Catchpoll turned at the sound of the footsteps, and watched his unwelcome superior stride towards him. Bradecote was a tall man, fighting fit but inclined to the lean, and Catchpoll judged him to be but a few years over thirty, but the watchful expression that was natural to him made him appear older. Last night, the situation had kept his features serious, but this morning he was in good humour, and the vestige of a smile lengthened the line of his mouth. He looked younger, and far too keen for Catchpoll’s liking.
    ‘You’ll be all right if there’s any old crones to speak with,’ ventured Gyrth, grinning.
    ‘You keep your tongue still in your head, lest his lordship hear you,’ growled Serjeant Catchpoll, his thin lips scarcely moving.
    Gyrth shut up, but the broad grin remained. It had been the one light moment during the hunt for the outlaws of Bredon Hill. Catchpoll, conscious of his position, and