“You don’t want to know,” Phillip said, patting her sleeve. “Really, you don’t. Trust me on this.”
“I fear he will never like you, Susannah. However, please don’t let it worry you. I like you immensely. Phillip, because he isn’t married to you, likes you less immensely than I do.”
“Ah,” Phillip said, “but there is still some liking involved. After all, you have put my friend out of his misery. That reputation you’ve so carefully nurtured has ground you down for too long, Rohan. Now it’s over, thank God.”
“But—” Susannah began.
They heard a high-pitched scream.
In a flash the men were running toward that scream, Susannah on their heels. They dashed up the stairs, even as three more piercing screams rent the air.
At the head of the stairs, they saw the young man who had greeted them lurching out of a doorway at the end of the corridor.
“My master . . . oh, my God, my master! Hurry!”
At the doorway, Rohan grabbed Susannah by her upper arms. “You will stay here.”
“Bosh,” she said, dogging his heels again. But just in a few moments she was wishing profoundly that she had reconsidered. She didn’t want to look, but she did.
Bishop Roundtree was sprawled in the center of a magnificent carpet in the middle of the room. His arms and legs were spread. He’d been struck very hard on the forehead, several times. There was blood everywhere and not much left of the bishop’s head. Susannah felt dizzy and leaned against the wall of the bishop’s study. A dark wall, she noticed. Thankfully, no blood had splattered this far. She heard a gagging noise. It was the butler, that pretty young man in his old-fashioned periwig, vomiting in the corridor. She managed to make herself look at the bishop. There was a bloody brass andiron beside the body. Oh, God, the thought of another human being bringing that andiron down on someone’s head—she couldn’t bring herself to accept it. It was a man in a rage. Or a woman. No, a woman couldn’t do such a thing. The force of the blow bespoke a man, surely. Besides, surely that pretty butler wouldn’t allow a woman in this house, much less in the bishop’s study.
She watched Rohan drop to his knees and gently search for a pulse in the bishop’s neck. Finally he shook his head. “He’s been dead for a while. He’s stiffening up,” he said over his shoulder to Phillip. Then he saw his wife leaning against the wall, heard the butler vomiting. “Dammit, Susannah, you have less color than that creamy satin chemise you’re wearing beneath your gown. Don’t you remember how I nearly drooled all over myself before you managed to pull your gown up and cover that wicked confection? Yes, now I see that you well remember. I won’t tell you again—get yourself downstairs and wait for the magistrate.” Rohan rose. He said to Phillip, who was staring blankly down at the body, “Shall you go or shall I?”
“My God, this is unexpected. All I wanted to do was build my tower, and look what you’ve got me into. Hell, I even volunteered. More than hell, I was even enthusiastic. That will teach me. I’ll go. Lord Balantyne became a magistrate just about a year ago. He lives over on Blue Boar Street. I know him. He’s not stupid, he cares, thus he does try to do a decent job. Of course, the proctors will shriek that he shouldn’t be involved in this, since in their eyes it will be a university matter. But Lord Balantyne is just powerful enough to do as he pleases.”
“This is a murder, Phillip, a very vicious murder. I hope the poor man is up to it.”
“We will soon see, won’t we?”
“Tibolt can’t be a part of this. None of us could bear it if he is. No, he can’t.” But Rohan was afraid, more afraid than he’d been since Lambie Lambert had kidnapped Susannah.
28
THE PARLOR IN BISHOP ROUNDTREE’S HOME WAS AS DULL and dim and depressing as the entry hall. Roundtree antecedents hung on the walls, a grim lot, an undoubtedly pious lot as well, all looking so self-righteous that it made Susannah shudder. She and the pretty young butler sat there as silent as statues, waiting for Jubilee Balantyne, Rohan, and Phillip to come down from examining the body of Bishop Roundtree.
“He was my master,” said the pretty butler. “I loved him.”
“What is your name?”
“Roland. I was named after Roland, Charlemagne’s foremost warrior from the Song of Roland.” Roland sighed deeply. “My father disowned me when he realized that I would never even make a decent wild young man, much less a warrior, if there is any such thing about in these modern days. Well, I was a wild young man, but not in the way he wished me to be.”
Whatever that meant. “How long did you work for Bishop Roundtree, Roland?”
“Two years now. He took me in when I was a pathetic scrap living with a woman who was about to kick me out because I wouldn’t bed her. My master gave me grand clothes from the last century to wear and this magnificent wig. He gave me three wigs, actually, each of them in a different style, depending on the occasion. The one I am wearing is designed for everyday use, but today isn’t every day, is it? It began as an every day, but look what happened.” He stared down at his clasped hands. Susannah didn’t say anything.
He raised his head finally and looked at her. A spasm of distaste crossed his pretty face. “I don’t expect you to understand. You’re only a woman. But I loved my master. He gave me everything. I would have done anything for him.”
Why, she wondered, wouldn’t she understand? She said as nicely as she could, knowing he was profoundly distressed, “You said he was writing a sermon in his study. Lord Mountvale told me he thought Bishop Roundtree had been dead for several hours—his limbs were stiffening, you see.”
Roland gulped, then nodded.
“But if he was closeted in his study, with you guarding the front door, then who could have gotten in to kill him?”
Roland gave a start. Then he leapt to his feet. “Dear God, you’re only a female, a creature offensive to my eyes, a creature the bishop castigated as a useless appendage to man save for her womb, yet it is a question that has merit. Who killed my master when he was alone? And I was always here, at my post. Two men came, but I turned them away. They were tradesmen. I merely sent them about their business. They were worth nothing.”
“But Roland, someone had to have gotten in. Someone went to the bishop’s study on the second floor. Someone struck him with the andiron. It had to be someone he knew—because he was struck in the forehead. That means he was facing the person. If he had been afraid, surely he would have called out to you, wouldn’t he?”
“Oh, yes,” Roland. “Oh, yes.” Then he buried his face in his hands. His periwig listed to the left. He straightened it without moving. He raised his head finally, tears streaming down his face. “Oh, my God,” he moaned, rocking back and forth in his chair. “Oh, my God. I did leave my post. I remember now. A boy came—from the cathedral, he said, and I was to go to the corner and meet one of the young curates. He would give me some papers for the bishop. Oh, God. I went to the corner, I didn’t even think it an odd request, but I should have. Why didn’t the young curate simply come here? He was nothing, and the bishop was the master of the cathedral. It is all my fault.”