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Day Three
Catrin
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Rhys and Simon weren’t gone very long, a matter of an hour at most, and when they returned to the castle, they found Catrin in the great hall, where she’d been lurking. Truth be told, more than watching John/Rolf, she’d been making an inventory of the diners to see who held his knife in his left hand when he stabbed his vegetables. There were more than a few, and she could draw no conclusions.
The surviving twin sat at one of the long tables near the head of the hall, his head in his hands. It hadn’t been very hard to keep an eye on him because he hadn’t moved in that hour except to lift his cup from the table to his mouth. She didn’t know for certain how long he’d been drinking steadily, but it appeared he had begun at least from the moment Guy told him his brother was dead.
Earlier, the king himself had come down from the high table to express his condolences. Others had come up to him at various times, including Guy, who’d broken the news to him in the first place. This second time, Guy had pressed John/Rolf hard about his whereabouts while his brother was dying, but he appeared to have come to the same conclusions as Simon and Rhys: unless John/Rolf had found a secret way out of the castle, or an effective disguise, they had to look elsewhere for the murderer.
And then there was the matter of the incomplete hexfoil, the presence of which at this latest murder scene did not seem to be common knowledge amongst the residents of the castle, even if it must have spread throughout the town already.
“The dead twin’s neck is bite-free,” Rhys said as he slid onto the bench next to Catrin. “How about you?”
“You can see for yourself this Strange has it. He’s definitely the man I spoke to this morning. I still think he’s John.”
Simon had found a spot to stand against the wall, not yet ready to sit, and his arms were folded across his chest. “The lateness of the hour means that little is going to be accomplished outside the castle until tomorrow.”
“What do you need to do that you haven’t?” Catrin asked.
Simon ticked the items off his fingers. “Discover where the mason laid his head at night, find the missing possessions of the victims, though Guy has sworn to do that himself starting tomorrow, and return to the inn for further questions.”
Rhys put out a hand to his friend. “At least we could speak to the surviving twin. Should we do it here in the hall?”
“My quarters would be better.”
“I’ll bring him.” Catrin stood. “He’ll come with me.” Without further ado, she made her way to where John/Rolf was sitting and settled herself on the bench beside him, though with her legs towards the room instead of underneath the table.
She nudged him. “John.”
He was a good enough mummer that he didn’t rise to the bait, but he didn’t look up from his drink either. “I’m Rolf, as well you know.”
“I’m sorry, Rolf, for your loss. Would you come with me? I would like to talk to you in private.”
That was an unusual enough request, even if he was Rolf, that he actually turned his head and showed interest. “Where?”
She rose to her feet. “Just come.”
He stood, refilled his drink, and followed her out of the hall, still carrying the cup. Every eye in the room was on them, but that couldn’t be helped. Simon and Rhys had already departed, which was good because she didn’t want to put John/Rolf more on his guard than he already was, if he really was John. Calling him John should have put him on alert—but then, he was drunk.
They crossed the bailey, and though John/Rolf hesitated when she opened the door to the guardroom, he followed her inside. “I’ve already been questioned by Guy. I had nothing to do with my brother’s death.”
“We know that.”
The guardroom itself was empty, indicating Simon had ordered everyone away moments before. She led John/Rolf through it and then gestured for him to precede her into Simon’s quarters.
Now John/Rolf finally did balk, frowning at the sight of the two men waiting for him. “What do you two want?”
Simon was sitting behind his table, and Rhys was leaned against the side wall in a relaxed stance, his arms folded and his ankles crossed. If he’d been eating an apple, he would have resembled John when Catrin had seen him that morning. Thankfully, the two men otherwise looked nothing alike.
“Please, sit down, Rolf. Reese and I were the ones to care for your brother in death, and I thought you might want to hear about it.” Simon put out a placating hand, gesturing across the table to a chair.
“We thought, as well, that you might prefer not to talk in the hall.” Rhys had brought another chair for Catrin, which he moved to hold for her. “Catrin was kind enough to assist us.”
John/Rolf looked around the room, but then sighed, set down his cup, and sat in the chair opposite Simon as he’d been bid. For a moment he didn’t speak, and then he said. “Did he suffer?”
The question was not one Catrin would have thought a soldier such as John/Rolf would have asked. It made him more human and approachable. Of course, he’d just lost his brother, had too much to drink, and his guard was down. She had little experience questioning suspects or victims in an investigation, but she had plenty of experience with drunk men. Sometimes drink made men angry. Other times it made them despondent. Likely John/Rolf had been despondent before he’d started drinking. Drink made few men happy.
But it always made them uninhibited.
Catrin could see in the men’s faces that John/Rolf’s dead brother had suffered as he was dying, so again it was she who answered, putting a gentle hand on his arm as she did so. “I’m sorry to tell you that he was stabbed three times, just like the others.”
Even deep into his cups, John/Rolf recoiled. “What does my brother’s death have to do with those—those—others?”
“Something, clearly,” Simon said. “An incomplete hexfoil was carved on the door next to where he died.”
John/Rolf’s mouth genuinely fell open. “He wouldn’t have been involved in anything like that!” He could have been overly protesting, but his surprise looked genuine to Catrin.
Then he collapsed forward, his forehead on his right hand and his elbow resting on the table. With his left hand, he scratched his neck. The bite was truly inflamed now. If he scratched it much more, it could suppurate.
Rhys and Simon simply watched, completely silent. After a moment, John/Rolf arrested his motion and looked up. “What?”
Simon canted his head. “That bite on your neck, Rolf, or shall I say, John, is distinctive. Catrin noticed it when you spoke to her this morning.”
He was ready to be irate. “I don’t know what—”
“I almost mentioned to you then that you should see the healer for a salve, since it was so red.” Catrin spoke gently. “You were John, then.”
“What we want to hear from you is why you switched identities with your brother, and which brother you actually are,” Simon said. “Our guess, as I said, is that you are John, and it is Rolf who is dead.”
“From how easily you are currently pretending to be Rolf, we suspect you and Rolf switched identities often,” Rhys said.
Yesterday’s John/Rolf would have sneered at Rhys just for speaking in his presence, but today he was subdued by his brother’s death—and newly discovered in fraud. Even with that, he kept his head bent and didn’t answer. They settled in to wait him out. Even as a novice investigator, Catrin knew enough not to fill the silence.
Finally, he looked up. “You’re right. I’m John. My brother and I switched identities often, from a very young age. I can’t ever remember a week where I wasn’t Rolf for at least a few hours, except for the times we were apart on campaign. I was the better leader, but he was the better fighter. Sometimes we switched places just so I could give a speech to the men.
“When we were younger, we always could campaign together. It is only in recent years that we have spent weeks at a time apart. Our father is in direct service to King Edward, but it fell out that Rolf and I both served Edmund, so we could continue to wear the same colors.”
“Why did you switch identities today?” Simon’s voice was even and calm, despite the magnitude of this revelation. It was what they’d expected, though on a grander scale than Catrin herself had imagined.
“I didn’t know we were doing it today until I happened to glance into the bailey to see Rolf leaving the castle wearing the blue chevron. It was odd. He wasn’t in mail armor but in gear more like you wear.” John was looking at Rhys. “I was currently wearing my blue chevron, so I quickly switched it out.” He reached into the purse at his waist and pulled out the blue chevron of John. It was really two chevrons, with a thin band linking them together. Pinned to his shoulder, the badge would show front and back. Catrin had always assumed it was sewed permanently.
Simon glanced at John’s badge and then back to his face. “Do you know what Rolf was doing at that inn?”
“I questioned my manservant as soon as I returned to our room, and he said Rolf opened a message intended for me. It was from one of my—” he glanced quickly at Catrin.
“She knows you spy for Edmund,” Simon said. “You can trust her.”
John ducked his head, not looking at Catrin anymore. “One of my people wanted to meet me in that inn. Rolf helps me in my work, in large part because he can’t help it, since we are easily mistaken for one another.”
“So it was usual for him to read messages addressed to you?”
“And vice versa.”
The trust the two brothers had in each other was humbling, thus the magnitude of John’s loss. “Your manservant knows you switch identities?”
“Of course. He couldn’t serve us and not know. Vincent has been with us practically since we were born. He could always tell us apart. Even if he hadn’t helped Rolf dress and switch his chevron, he would have known I was John.” He bit his lip nervously. “Please don’t tell the prince. I will do it myself.”
“Oh, we don’t want anyone to tell the prince or king, not yet,” Simon said.
John gaped at him. “What? Why not?”
“If the killer intended for you to die, we want him to think he succeeded,” Rhys said. “At least for now.”
“What does that mean?” John said, and there was a bit of an aghast tone to his voice, as if he’d already guessed what Rhys was thinking.
“In case we decide to set a trap with you as bait,” Simon said.
John’s eyes narrowed. “I would gladly participate. Anything to catch my brother’s killer.”
“Who sent the message?” Catrin asked.
“I don’t know. Rolf held it to a candle and did not tell Vincent what it said.”
The obvious next question formed on Catrin’s lips, though she glanced at Rhys before she asked it. He raised an eyebrow and nodded. She didn’t know if he was reading her mind or realized, as she did, that John responded better to her questions than to his or Simon’s.
“My lord, how many people could it have been from?”
John looked at her for a heartbeat, confusion in his face, and then he laughed. “How many spies do I have, you mean? I consider everyone a possible informant.”
“Yes, but how many can write?”
“Oh.” He nodded. “I see. Many fewer have that ability, but you must see my problem: I could have an informant who cannot read but knows that I can and asked someone to write the message for me.”
“Who delivered this message?” Catrin said.
“A guard at the King’s Gate, but it was a girl from the town who brought it to him. And before you ask, he wouldn’t know the girl again. It could be anyone. It could have been you.”
“I can read.”
John actually laughed. “Of course you can.”
Rhys grinned too. “Her father was Prince Llywelyn’s steward, required to have the ability to read and write. He taught his sons, so any one of them could take his place upon his death, and he included Catrin because it was easier than leaving her out. With her, that’s usually the way of it.”
“Odd of the killer to expose himself by sending a note,” Simon said thoughtfully.
“Unless the one who asked him to come to the inn isn’t the one who killed him and genuinely wanted to meet with John,” Rhys said.
“How many knew about your particular service to Prince Edmund?” Catrin asked.
They all looked at John, who shrugged. In the last quarter of an hour, he’d sobered considerably. “More than you might think.”
Rhys nodded. “And as we realized quite some time ago, all it takes is one.”
