01 - Murder in the Holy City (22 page)

He backed away from it, bewildered, looking from the stone in his hand to the hole in the wall. Then he took a candle stub, lit it, and peered into the little cavity, half-expecting that he was mistaken. But he was not, and the hole was empty. He backed away a second time and sat heavily on the bed. It was impossible! No one knew of that hiding place but himself! He caught his breath, and his stomach churned so violently that he clutched at it. A clammy sweat broke out on his forehead and down his back as he recalled putting the parchments in the hiding place. Hugh had been sprawled across the bed, sleeping deeply after his knock on the head, but Roger had seen him! When Geoffrey had turned from replacing the stone, Roger had been awake and stretching and had made some comment about him keeping his wine there!

Heart thumping painfully, Geoffrey tried to bring his tumbling thoughts into order. He was being unfair and ridiculous! Roger would never steal from Geoffrey’s room! And even if he did, he could not read, so how would Dunstan’s scribblings be of any value to him? Perhaps he had stolen them to give to someone else, came the unsettling response to his question. But that was even more ludicrous. Firstly, Roger knew what was in the parchments, because Geoffrey had told him, so why would he need to take them? And second, who could Roger have given them to? His friends in the citadel were Geoffrey and Hugh.

Geoffrey stood abruptly and began to pace around the room. His movements woke the dog, which eyed him with malevolence at the injustice of being woken at the hottest point of the day, and growled softly. Another thought sprang into Geoffrey’s mind. The dog was an unfriendly creature, yet no one had reported it barking or causing a disturbance when Marius had been killed and Hugh injured. Which may well have meant that the killer was someone whom the dog knew, and did not perceive as a threat. Someone like Roger. He recalled Hugh’s words. “I saw that hound of yours stand up and wag its tail.”

But that was impossible, Geoffrey told himself sternly. He had been with Roger all that night, and they had entered his room together to find Marius dead. Geoffrey closed his eyes and felt sick. But that was not true either. Geoffrey had been called to tend to young Barlow, terrified by his first experience of poison by alcohol. Roger had not been with Geoffrey then; he had waited in the courtyard, or so Geoffrey assumed. He recalled vividly Roger’s massive frame etched against the dark night sky as he drank water from the well.

Was that the answer? That the killer in the citadel was Roger? Geoffrey sat down again and turned the stone over in his shaking hands as he thought. On the way back from the Patriarch’s palace, he and Roger had discussed the case in detail, and Roger had questioned the validity of trying to understand why Marius should disguise Dunstan’s suicide when Marius would tell them what they wanted to know anyway. Geoffrey recalled thinking that Roger had been right and that such speculation was pointless when they would soon have answers. But perhaps Roger knew that they would not have answers, or was afraid that they would. When Geoffrey went off to tend Barlow, a godsent opportunity presented itself: Roger could slip up the stairs to Geoffrey’s room, knock Hugh unconscious, and stab Marius. He could easily have been back outside drinking at the well by the time Geoffrey returned from Barlow’s tent.

Or could Hugh have killed Marius? But that really was ludicrous, for Geoffrey had seen the blood oozing from the back of Hugh’s skull from the blow that felled him, and it was difficult for a man to hit himself on the back of his own head. And anyway, Hugh had an intense loyalty to Bohemond stretching back over many years: they had been friends since boyhood, and Hugh would never consider doing anything to betray him.

But Roger, although in Bohemond’s service, owed no such loyalty: he had simply been available and had joined up with the first Crusade leader he had met. Geoffrey squeezed his eyes tightly shut and remembered the many conversations he had had with Roger, in which the big knight had confided that he did not like Bohemond and did not approve of many of his tactics. The conversations were never in front of Hugh, of course, and Geoffrey had put Roger’s confessions down to too much drink and a tendency to consider all things not English, including the French Bohemond, as suspect. But now it seemed there might be more to them than Geoffrey had possibly imagined.

So, Roger had had the opportunity to kill Marius. He had known Geoffrey was about to question the scribe, and knew that it would only be a matter of time before Geoffrey had the answers to his questions. So, Roger had decided to kill Marius before he could speak. But that was risky. First, how could Roger know that Marius had not already told Hugh everything he knew? And second, what would he have done if Hugh had not been sitting so conveniently with his back to the door? The answer, again, was unpleasantly clear. Roger had not intended to stun Hugh, he had intended to kill him, so that Marius’s secrets would remain untold. The room had been dark—Geoffrey had later waited while Roger fetched a lamp. Roger must have assumed, because there was plenty of blood from the wound on his head, that Hugh was dead, and the room was too dark and time too short to check further.

Geoffrey recalled with a sickening clarity that Roger had tried to persuade him to go for help while he, Roger, stayed with Hugh. Geoffrey, anxious and guilt-ridden that his friend had been injured while doing him a service, had refused, and Roger had gone instead. And in so doing, Geoffrey had probably saved Hugh’s life, as Roger had been unable to complete the job he had started. Then, when Hugh awoke and revealed that Marius had been far too jittery to tell him anything, Roger’s anxieties would have been over. He would have had no need to kill Hugh. What if it had been different, and Hugh had claimed that Roger had struck him and killed Marius? Geoffrey could imagine Roger declaring Hugh’s story the invention of a fevered mind, a man rambling and out of his wits. And at some point, Roger would have been left alone with Hugh, who would then simply have “died in his sleep,” or become raving and “killed himself.”

Sleep now seemed out of the question. Geoffrey leaned back against the wall, stretched his legs out on the bed, and began to go through his analysis again step by step to see if there was some way in which he might have been mistaken. But he was not, of course, and the more he thought about it, the more it seemed to make sense. Roger could also have left the replica dagger and the pig’s heart in his room. No one would have questioned Roger if he had been seen entering or leaving: he and Geoffrey were good friends, and were constantly in and out of each other’s quarters to borrow wine. But why should Roger have become involved in such treachery? Roger, like most of the Normans, was acquisitive, and had come on Crusade with the sole intention of making his fortune. A chest of booty looted from cities all across Asia Minor stood in his room—not as large as Hugh’s, but bigger than Geoffrey’s. So, was that his motive? Was someone paying him to kill?

Could Roger also have killed the priests, and Guido, and John? Geoffrey decided that he could. None of the knights had many regular duties, and it was easy to leave the citadel for hours at a time without being missed. Geoffrey had no idea where he had been himself when the first murders were committed three weeks before, and it would be impossible to prove whether Roger had been at a particular place at a specified time so long after the event. Many of the knights who lived in the citadel were drunk half the time and would probably not recall where they were the previous day, let alone weeks before. Geoffrey studied the fireplace stone in his hands gloomily. No wonder Courrances had been so gloating in the chapel the morning Geoffrey had fought Warner. Perhaps Courrances had already surmised that Roger was involved, and had recruited Geoffrey out of sheer malice.

Geoffrey looked from the stone out the window to the brilliant blue of the sky. What should he do now? He was reluctant to involve Hugh any more than he had to—Hugh had already risked his life for this business. And he certainly could not confront Roger with his findings until he was certain where they led—he did not want Roger to warn any accomplices he might have that Geoffrey was coming close to the truth. And if Roger had already tried to kill Hugh, he would have no compunction at all in killing Geoffrey.

But even the knowledge of Roger’s role in the affair did not clarify matters. There were still many unanswered questions—what was the link between Dunstan and Melisende? Did she send him the poisoned cakes, or did Dunstan poison them ready to send to someone else? If the latter, then to whom? Roger? Why were the monks and knights killed? Who was Dunstan blackmailing? And perhaps most vital of all, who was behind all this? Roger himself? Melisende? Courrances? Warner and d’Aumale? Or was it Bohemond, whom Roger served and whose knights were being killed, or the Patriarch, whose devious ways were notorious all over Christendom?

Geoffrey had planned to go to Abdul’s Pleasure Palace that night to try to ascertain the whereabouts of Warner and d’Aumale, but in view of his discovery about Roger, this seemed unnecessary. Yet Geoffrey supposed that Roger must have accomplices, and knew that he should determine whether Warner and d’Aumale had left the brothel the night of Marius’s murder—unlikely though an alliance between Roger and the Advocate’s knights might seem.

With questions buzzing around in his mind like the flies that cruised around his head, Geoffrey did not think he would fall asleep. But the room was hot, he had slept very little the past few days, and the basic need to rest finally overwhelmed him. He slept fitfully, his dreams teeming with visions of Roger stalking through Jerusalem’s streets with hands that dripped blood.

When his eyes opened and he saw Roger leaning over him, he gave a yell of shock and reached for his dagger. But he had removed his belt to sleep, and belt and dagger hung over a hook on the wall. He was defenceless! Roger leaned closer, and Geoffrey watched him in horror, acutely aware of his vulnerability while Roger towered over him. He felt the stone underneath his leg and reached for it, wondering whether he would be able to crack open Roger’s skull. Just as Roger had attempted to dispatch Hugh—with a hard blow to the back of the head.

“Easy, lad!” Roger said, concern etching his large, blunt features. “Are you fevered?”

A heavy, sweaty hand clamped down across his head, and Geoffrey tried to prevent himself from cringing. His heart thumped more loudly than it had ever done in battle, and he wondered when he had felt so afraid. Now! Do it now! A voice clamoured inside his head, and his fingers tightened on the stone.

“Aye, you do seem a bit hot,” said Roger, removing his hand. “I will nip down to my quarters and bring you some wine.”

He saw Geoffrey’s hand clutching the stone, his fingers white with tension. Roger looked puzzled.

“What have you got there? Is this the latest warfare technology from you southerners?”

He guffawed with laughter, and stood upright. Still laughing uproariously at his own joke, he left the room. Sweat-soaked and shaking, Geoffrey watched him go.

CHAPTER EIGHT

G
eoffrey did not want Roger’s company when he went to Abdul’s Pleasure Palace, but Roger had set his heart on going and was not to be deterred. Geoffrey was reluctant to raise objections that were too strong, lest he arouse Roger’s suspicions, and he considered asking Hugh to go too. But Hugh was too fastidious to take his enjoyment from a place like Abdul’s, and Geoffrey decided the less Hugh had to do with the whole affair, the safer he would be. The dog had tried to follow them out, but Geoffrey had shut it in his room, ignoring the outraged howls that issued forth as they left. So Geoffrey and Roger set out together later that night, moving quickly down the silent streets, their swords clanking and their boots stirring up the dust from the baked ground.

Roger was in a buoyant mood and hummed as he walked. He had been to some trouble to render himself more desirable: he had shaved; his hair had been hacked short with a knife; and the rim of greasy dirt that usually encircled his thick neck was almost gone. He wore his best shirt too, under his chain mail, a fine garment of pale blue silk that he had rescued from the corpse of a merchant after the siege of Antioch. There was a crudely mended rent in the back, surrounded by a sinister dark stain, but Roger considered the shirt a fine thing and nearly always wore it when visiting brothels.

Next to him, Geoffrey trudged along laden down with his doubts and fears. The one thing that had been constant during the three-year Crusade to Jerusalem—through intense heat, freezing cold, debilitating diseases, flies, and continuous shortages of food and water—had been his friendship with Roger and Hugh. Now one had tried to kill the other, and Geoffrey was thoroughly sick of the Holy Land and the Crusades, and of the politics that caused a good man like Roger to turn traitor.

Since it was already late, activities at Abdul’s were in full swing. Even from the end of the street, high-pitched squeals of delight, men’s laughter, and the thump of loud music could be heard. Abdul saw Geoffrey and Roger enter, and he hurried over to greet them himself, welcoming Roger, in particular, like an old friend. Roger, eyes darting in all directions at the women who draped themselves across elegant couches or danced provocatively to the sound of drums and rebecs, was off in a trice. Geoffrey was relieved. He did not want to question people about Warner and d’Aumale while Roger listened. He watched Roger weave his way across the room with surprising grace for a man of his size, and then he found a stool at the edge of the room from which he could observe the scene for a while before beginning his enquiries.