City of Fiends

by Michael Jecks

  Since the death of Alice, Gregory had been blinking a lot. It was surely because he missed her too, but his demeanour was not that of a bereaved man, but rather of a child who’d lost a favourite toy. Lazy, ineffectual and unbusinesslike, he was not the man Henry had hoped he would become. Henry had wanted a strong son, one who was dedicated to the family and the business. Instead, he had a boy who was spendthrift, and possibly worse.

  ‘She was a good maid, I suppose. You were very fond of her, weren’t you?’ His tone was pointed, his manner accusing, and Henry felt a sudden anger.

  ‘Don’t speak to me like that! At least I grieve for the poor girl.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I suppose we all do in our own ways. Even you’re quieter than normal, Father.’

  ‘Don’t insult me, Greg. I can still take a belt to you,’ Henry snapped. ‘She was a good maidservant, that’s all.’

  ‘Yes, Father. That’s all,’ Gregory said slyly. ‘You’ll need another maid soon. We can’t have the place getting into a mess. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?’

  Henry ignored his sarcasm. There was a lot to forgive just now. Gregory was almost nineteen years old, and when he was younger he had been as affectionate and warm-hearted as Thomas; it was only in recent years he had grown into this peevish youth.

  ‘Perhaps I should feel remorse at the way I raised you, Gregory,’ Henry said heavily. ‘I haven’t, perhaps, served you well. You’ve always had a good brain, just like your sister, like Thomas too. I should have ensured that you had more opportunities to use it.’

  ‘I use it all I want.’

  ‘For what? Gaming and drinking?’

  Henry set his jaw. It was Claricia who had failed them, as usual. It was the way she’d cosseted Greg that had spoiled him. She should have forced him to work more. Instead she had indulged his whims, and it was her fault that the fellow had turned out like this: more interested in his clothing than in the business that gave him the money for his fripperies.

  ‘I enjoy gambling and drinking,’ Gregory smiled.

  There was a malicious gleam in his eye. Henry saw it, and rage heated his blood.

  ‘I never sent you with the ships, did I? Because I knew sailing was dangerous, and I didn’t want to lose you. There are always ships sinking, because of shipmasters’ incompetence, or piracy, or sometimes the monsters of the deep which break ships apart. There are many perils on the waves and below. That was why I never sent you abroad.’

  ‘You never bothered to ask me for my opinion, but as it happens I didn’t want to go. I have no desire to learn your trade. What is it to me that wine comes from Bordeaux? Send your agents to find it and bring it back, but don’t expect me to do so.’

  ‘It was the ships that persuaded me to move into other ways of making money. A little loan here or there at good interest rates, purchasing properties and renting them out again… There are any number of ways to make money if you are bold. I had hoped you would see that. I had hoped you would learn a new trade to bring to the business.’

  ‘What do I want with a trade? I’m happy as I am.’

  Henry bit back an angry response. Gregory needed an occupation. That was the reason for his ill-humour. He had a good mind and needed to use it more. And Henry could use a good brain. His son was not adept at pewter-working, but he might still have a financial brain suitable for importing wine, or for negotiating with sellers and buyers.

  ‘You spend too much time in idleness and in frivolity. You should spend more time with me.’

  ‘Father, I have no desire to do so.’

  ‘Desire has nothing to do with it, boy. This city is a place of wildness and danger. You don’t realise how lucky you are! As my son, you’ve been protected. Most men and women go through life worried to death about where their next meal will come from; about their work, and whether they will earn enough to keep them in their house. Look at the Marsilles. Once they were almost as wealthy as us – but now? Nick died, and his family have to scrape a living as best they might. Emma de Coyntes has told me that they have been upsetting her and her daughters. They haven’t paid the rent for weeks either, so I may have to evict them. The Marsilles’ lives are teetering, and can soon fall into ruin.’

  ‘They are so lucky they have you to protect them,’ Gregory said.

  Henry shot him a look, seeking cynicism or deceit, but couldn’t be certain. He resorted to a bland, ‘Yes. It could be worse for them.’

  ‘Anyway, I have no interest in the business,’ Gregory declared. ‘I cannot run the place.’

  Henry had to clench his jaw to stop the bellow of rage that threatened to burst from him. At last he forced a grin to his features. ‘Really? You have no interest. That is good. So, when I die, I should leave it all to your brother? Leave you destitute, perhaps? You would prefer that?’

  ‘There is more to life—’

  ‘Don’t speak to me like that! You try to tell me about life?’ Henry shouted. ‘You think I’m a fool? You have no idea about life, or the world. It is nasty, it is dangerous! You have to fight every day, you have to grab what you can, snatch it from your enemies if possible, pry it from their dead fingers if necessary, but you must take it while you can! I grew up in poverty, and I’ve come all this way as a result of my efforts, boy! You sit here, pandering to your desires at my expense, and you have no concept of the cost of it, all. This house is expensive. If you want to remain here, you need to learn to help support it.’

  ‘No. I think I don’t want to know any more. Be damned to the business! What good does it do us?’

  ‘It keeps you fed, it maintains your wardrobe, it—’

  ‘It’s just pointless! I’d rather give it all up, and travel to London. Maybe go on pilgrimage.’

  ‘Pilgrimage? You?’

  ‘Why not? Everyone should take up the pilgrim’s cross.’

  Henry sneered, ‘Well, of course, if that’s what you want, there’s nothing I can say to prevent you. It’d do you good to trudge through mud and rain for a hundred miles or more.’

  ‘I wish you could pass the business to Agatha. She’s more interested in it.’

  ‘I wish I could too. Your sister is keen, but she’s not a man. I have to pass it on to a man. And you are my oldest son.’

  ‘And I want nothing to do with it! Let her have it – she would be more successful than me or Thomas,’ Gregory threw at him.

  ‘Then it is fortunate I may have a different plan for you,’ Henry said, all of a sudden.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Henry eyed his son. He had not mentioned the plots to return King Edward II to his throne, but if the plans were as successful as he and Sir Charles believed, there would be rewards for all those who assisted Edward. A knighthood for a son was little enough to ask.

  ‘I am negotiating a deal, Gregory. If it comes good, you may be knighted.’

  Gregory gaped, and then laughed derisively. ‘You think I could be a knight? A man needs money and friends to win such a prize.’

  ‘Listen, you fool! You may have cloth between your ears, but when I speak to you of such matters, you will pay attention! If you will achieve nothing else, you will have to accept what I can do for you. And this, I swear I can arrange. In a short time, if all goes well.’

  Gregory nodded. ‘Yes, of course you can,’ he said sarcastically, then marched out of the room.

  Henry stood a while, chewing the inside of his lip.

  It was possible that Gregory would come to his senses. It was possible that he would learn to love the business as Henry did, even that he could eventually bring new ideas to it and increase the family’s wealth. But for now, all Henry was convinced of was the desire to take a whip to Gregory’s backside and beat some sense into him.

  * * *

  The summons came just as Joan was helping old Sal in the Paffards’ kitchen. Sal was ancient, wrinkled, and fat as lard, with small, piggy eyes that watched Joan like a hawk. She believed that all were in her kitchen only to filch her best
pies or meats, and she eyed all visitors with a suspicion that was searing. Every time her eyes lighted upon Joan, the maid felt her face flush, a reddening that began at her breast and rose inexorably until her whole face was as bright as the sunset on a clear day. It drove her mad to think that a mere glance could do this to her; she knew it only served to make her look guilty, but she could do nothing about it.

  She was unused to being called to the hall. There were other rooms into which her duties often brought her, but the hall itself and the merchant’s counting-house, plus his small chamber beyond, in which he stored the choicest prizes from his foreign expeditions – rich tapestries, cloth of gold, even some ingots of silver – all were denied to her. Only John, the elderly bottler, was permitted to enter them.

  Her legs were leaden as she walked along the passage from the kitchen to the hall. What had she done wrong, to be summoned like this? She could not afford to lose this job. There would be no more for a girl like her before the next fair.

  ‘Joan, come here,’ Henry said as she peered round the doorframe.

  She walked in, her head downcast.

  ‘Do you know why we’ve called you in here?’ he said.

  She looked up, trying to think of any unintentional crime she might have committed, but could think of none. Then she noticed that Claricia was beside her husband. There was no anger in her eyes, only a deep sadness. She was always a timid woman, and the death of Alice had sapped the spirit that remained.

  ‘No, sir.’

  He gave a gesture of irritation. ‘Child, do you have a brain in your head? How old are you now? Fifteen? You should be able to think for yourself. Our rooms here need a maid to keep them clean. John cannot do all on his own. Alice used to help me in here, but now she is gone – so what is to be done with all the tasks she had? There is nothing for it, but to have you fill in. You will take on her duties as well as your own until we resolve this situation. Soon we must manage to find another to take her place.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said reluctantly. ‘But…’

  ‘There is nothing more to be said. What, would you expect my wife to do this work? For shame!’

  ‘I have many duties, sir.’

  ‘I am aware. We shall attempt to ensure that the additional work is not onerous.’

  Not onerous, she thought. Yet she was already busy all week. And he wanted her to take on Alice’s duties!

  ‘Well?’ Henry demanded. ‘Do you have an objection?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Good, because I would not like to lose you as well as Alice. She was an asset to the house. Be sure that you will be too. You know her duties, I think? In here, in our solar, you are to keep all clean. Make sure that the fire’s lit, that the candles are all trimmed and ready… You will know. Now, you may go.’

  She almost tried to object again, but in the face of his unflinching stare, she managed only a second flush, and with her head hanging, she hurried from the room, heart thudding painfully.

  ‘These idiots!’ he muttered. ‘God knows where we got them.’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ Claricia spat suddenly, and walked from the room.

  He was still in the hall a few minutes later, in shock, like a man who had stroked his pet pup only to have a finger bitten off, when there came a firm knock at the door and he heard old John answer it, then announce.

  ‘Sir Baldwin de Furnshill and Sir Richard de Welles, sir.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Paffards’ House

  Baldwin and Sir Richard had told Simon about the inquest results and that a man had been heard running away from the area.

  ‘So, Simon, with luck we should be able to leave here very soon,’ Baldwin concluded. ‘Tomorrow morning, I hope to be able to advise Precentor Adam that either the murderer has escaped, or that he remains in the Cathedral and his name is Father Laurence.’

  ‘What is the point of coming here to the Paffards’ house, then?’

  Baldwin waited while Peter knocked at the door. ‘We are merely completing the task. Collecting facts. As you know, it is my belief that a murder is a story like any other. If we can understand what the dead are trying to tell us, we can uncover the truth.’

  ‘But you know the truth, surely. The priest was there: he admits it.’

  ‘Yet he does not confess to murder – even though he would suffer little punishment, for his robes protect him. Why did he admit to being there? If he were the killer, surely he would lie about that?’

  ‘So you think he’s innocent?’

  ‘I do not know, but I would like to be convinced that there was nobody else in the alley that night. Did the maid have a lover? Gregory Paffard was convinced she did not, but she did lie with a man the day she died. And then was killed.’

  ‘Priests have taken women before now.’

  ‘Possibly, yes,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘But that would involve the priest being with her quite some time. How would that be, when he has already told me that he was only free for a short time? Perhaps that was a lie, and Father Paul will expose him. We must speak with the good Father.’

  He was still musing on these matters when the door swung open and John the bottler allowed them inside. He led them along a corridor, past a business chamber and a parlour, and out to a large hall beyond.

  As they walked, a door opened, and Baldwin saw Claricia Paffard standing there. She was a tall, well-built woman. Outside, Baldwin had scarcely noticed her because his attention was fixed on the witnesses and Alice’s body, but now he saw Claricia more closely, he was struck by her appearance.

  Once she would have been beautiful. Her hair was restrained decorously beneath her wimple, but her face was well-featured and very pleasing. She wore a long tunic of green velvet, bound about her waist with a belt decorated with enamelled panels. There was rich embroidery at her throat and hem, and the overall impression was of a comfortable, wealthy woman, but for the expression in her large, lustrous eyes. In them, Baldwin saw a despair that reminded him of something.

  That expression nagged at him as he followed the steward into the hall. There, John stood aside to let them all in.

  ‘Ah, Peter! To what do I owe this pleasure?’ Henry said, rising from his chair.

  Baldwin studied him. He saw that Paffard was under a strain. He tried hard, but could not hide his tension. ‘We met this morning, Master Paffard. At the inquest.’

  ‘Of course. Apart from you, I think?’ he said, looking at Simon, who introduced himself, and when he had done so, Henry continued, looking from one to the other: ‘I am at a loss, I confess. How may I help you?’

  ‘How long had Alice been living here?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Some two years, I suppose – no, three. She was seventeen, and I recall she came here when she was but fourteen.’

  ‘She was happy?’

  ‘She was assiduous in the tasks given to her. I think she found satisfaction, yes.’

  ‘Did she have many friends?’

  ‘All the servants here would have been happy with her,’ Henry said quietly. ‘I am sure she wouldn’t have lacked companions.’

  ‘But what of men? She was young and attractive. Was there no one wooing her?’

  ‘If there was, I’d have had him thrashed, and if she had encouraged him, I’d have had her thrashed too, and thrown her from my door. I have a daughter of her age. I wouldn’t have an incontinent maid under my roof fornicating with all and sundry!’

  ‘You take a strong line on such behaviour?’

  ‘There are many who relax their rules. I do not. It is not merely prurience: I have to consider the security of my house. If my maids were to bring young lemans here, any one of them could be the first of a gang of picklocks who sought to steal in under dead of night to rob me. I will not have promiscuous wenches working here.’

  ‘That is very clear, I thank you,’ Baldwin said.

  Simon could see from his friend’s expression that he disliked this merchant. Arrogant, bullying in manner, he was the archetype of the modem
rich men whom Baldwin so detested.

  ‘So, you never saw her bring a friend into the house?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  There was a kind of suppressed fury in his manner that intrigued Simon. Something Baldwin had said must have struck home, but he had no idea what that might be.

  ‘Did you see her in the company of a priest?’ Baldwin asked. ‘A vicar from the Cathedral?’

  ‘I said to you—’

  ‘A vicar is hardly the same as a young apprentice draw-latch, Master Paffard,’ Baldwin said bluntly. ‘Not many would attribute to a priest the same imperfections you attribute to others.’

  ‘I saw no priest here. No. And she had no need of a vicar from the Cathedral. She was well served by the vicar at Trinity Church.’

  ‘Do you know of a Father Laurence?’

  Henry shook his head quickly. ‘He’s from the Cathedral?’

  ‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. ‘He actually found the girl before Joan – but he denies killing her.’

  ‘The bastard! He denies it? You should question him most vigorously. Put him to the peine forte et dure until he confesses!’

  ‘We cannot do that, as you know. I shall definitely tell the Precentor of your suggestion, however. I am sure he will be pleased to do as you suggest,’ Baldwin said suavely.

  Combe Street

  Joan was glad to be out of the house when she was sent to empty the washing barrel. She carried it laboriously down to the street, and gazed into the gutter. There was a dead rat and a dog blocking the way, and she carried the water a little further, tipping the heavy bowl beyond them so they wouldn’t dam the flow.

  It was hard, doing all this work. Still, it was good to be out in the open air, even if the daylight was dying.

  ‘Hello, Joan. How are you?’

  ‘Peg – hello. I’m all right, but you’re about the first person to ask me. My own household are so bound up with the trouble Alice has put them to that they don’t give me a thought.’

  ‘It must have been awful. Anastasia’s been desperate to get any bloodthirsty clues she can. I’ve told her to stop playing the ghoul, but you know what she’s like.’