[Stephen Attebrook 10] - The Corpse at Windsor Bridge

by Jason Vail

  “Please sit down,” Father Bernard said. He indicated a bench to his left. He was a tall man of about twenty-five, as Stephen expected, with light brown hair that fell in curls from his tonsure about a high forehead, amiable eyes and mouth, and chiseled cheeks and chin. Altogether he was a strikingly handsome man.

  “What can I do for you?” Father Bernard continued.

  “Are you the Father Bernard who is a friend to Father Giles de Twet?” Stephen asked.

  “I am,” Father Bernard said, frowning slightly. “We were acolytes together and took our vows at the same time. Why do you ask?”

  Stephen sighed. “There’s no way of softening the blow. But your friend has died.”

  If Stephen expected Bernard to suffer an outburst of grief, he was disappointed. Bernard frowned and pursed his mouth in thought.

  “How did this happen?” Father Bernard asked.

  “His body was found a few days ago in the Thames. It had been there two weeks.”

  “Foul play?”

  “We suspect so.”

  “Two weeks, you say?”

  “Just after he returned to Windsor from London.”

  “Ah.”

  “Do you have any idea why he came to London?”

  “What is your interest?”

  “Prince Edward has asked me to find his killer.”

  Father Bernard ran long fingers on the arm of his chair. “Giles did come to see me.”

  Stephen waited to see if Bernard would elaborate, but he did not.

  “For what purpose?” Stephen asked.

  “I took his confession.”

  “It is odd that he came all the way from Windsor for that, when he could have had it done there.”

  Bernard was silent for a few heartbeats. “He was troubled. The matter was difficult for him.” He sighed. “I don’t think he trusted anyone else. It was a highly sensitive matter. Very sensitive.”

  “Troubled you say. What, exactly, was his mood?”

  Again there was a long pause. “Desperate, I would say.”

  “And you can’t tell us what this matter was?”

  “Of course, not.”

  “He did not seek your counsel outside of the confessional?” Stephen asked.

  Bernard did not speak. The tip of his tongue touched his upper lip and withdrew.

  “He did, didn’t he,” Stephen said.

  “I cannot speak of it,” Bernard said. “Lives hang in the balance.”

  “Not merely Giles’?”

  “Not merely Giles’.”

  “The knowledge may help us find who killed him,” Stephen urged.

  “I cannot.” Bernard shook his head; the curls rocked back and forth. “I will not.”

  Stephen waited a moment to see if Bernard would change his mind. When Bernard remained silent, he stood up.

  “I see,” Stephen said.

  Bernard looked up at Stephen, eyes anguished. “I do not know you,” he said. “I do not know what you would do with the knowledge.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Stephen said.

  “People could die!”

  “So you said.”

  Stephen stepped away, but Bernard caught his arm.

  “There is a man in the city who may be able to help you more than I have done,” Bernard said. “Giles asked me to recommend a man who could perform a certain service. I come across such people now and then, and I gave Giles his name.”

  “What sort of service?”

  Bernard shook his head. “I cannot say much more. I won’t be a part of this. And I don’t want my name connected with it.”

  “Who was this man, then?”

  “Lambekyn le Gathard. People call him Lamb, but he’s anything but a lamb. You’ll find him most likely in the Red Candle on Thames Street. That’s where he holds court.”

  “I don’t know it.”

  “It’s by Douegate in All Hallows in the Hay. Be careful around him. He’s dangerous.”

  All Hallows in the Hay was one of London’s many parishes. It lay along the waterfront, where the Douegate wharf could be found. The wharf was one of the small and narrow ones, although ocean-going ships tied up at the end of it, where the water was deep enough. The Guildhall of German Merchants lay just down Thames Street from it and Hanseantic League ships were licensed to moor here. So, even though it was a small wharf, it was busy and always clogged with vessels.

  There were taverns and inns all about the wharf to serve the sailors and anyone else seeking the comfort of women for a price, ale and wine that wouldn’t choke you, and a bit of gaming for money. In one spot seven in a row sat side by side on one side of the street and five in a row on the other, each with a man or woman before the door crying out the virtues of their particular establishment in a cacophonous attempt to lure in customers from those hurrying by. Now and then, one of the criers would grasp a sleeve and make the plea. Sometimes this was successful; other times it earned them a shove and a curse. But they were persistent and kept up the harangue.

  The Red Candle stood out less than any of the others. In fact, it was easily missed, for it inhabited a cellar beneath a warehouse. The only thing giving away its presence was a wooden sign, with a red candle crudely painted on it, on a post by the stairs. Someone had given the sign a hard knock. It hung from the post by only a single hinge that creaked as the wind pushed it back and forth. There was no crier out front.

  Gilbert paused at the top of the stairs, the steps slimy with moss and puddles of water.

  “It’s a risk of life and limb just to go into the place,” he muttered, as a woman emerged from an alley to the right carrying a wooden bowl used to piss in. She made her way around Gilbert to a trough where in due course a tanner’s boy would be along to collect the urine. A passing urchin stuck out a foot and tripped her. She fell headlong, the bowl tipping and covering the front of her dress with urine as she went down and then mud when she hit the ground. The woman shrieked and lunged for the urchin, who stood by laughing and pointing at his triumph for the admiration of passers-by. But he was as agile as a deer and leaped away, disappearing into an appreciative crowd.

  Gilbert added, “Ah, life in the big city.”

  “I imagine it’s worse coming out when you’re drunk,” Stephen said, just as worried about the stairs. “After you?”

  “No, you first. That way if I slip, you’ll cushion my fall.”

  “Not if I see you coming.”

  Despite the hazard, they reached the bottom without injury, only to be knocked backward when two large fellows threw open the door and pushed into the tight space.

  Stephen rubbed a shoulder jolted by an impact with the stone wall. “Sorry to get in your way.”

  “You should be,” one of the men said. They climbed the stairs two at a time, heedless of the treacherous footing.

  “They must come here often,” Gilbert said, admiring their agility.

  The interior of the Red Candle was dark but for a few candles and oil lamps about; no fire; the dirt floor strewn with old rushes that had been churned to mush in many places — the whole cold, dank and cheerless. The taps were to the left, behind a bar, and there were a half dozen tables with benches. Only one of the tables was occupied by two men and a woman of about twenty or so, her brown hair falling in disarray from beneath a linen cap. The woman held a large padlock in one hand and was probing in the key portal with a strip of metal. At Stephen and Gilbert’s entrance, one of the men muttered, “Away with that, Dot.”

  The woman dropped the lock into her lap, and took up a mug.

  “Looks like someone got lost,” Dot cracked.

  “What’ll you gentlemen have?” asked the man behind the bar who was wiping wooden mugs.

  “Ale,” Stephen said.

  “Sure you won’t have wine?” the barman asked. “I’ve a wonderful Bordeaux. It’s just off the ship!”

  “Go on!” one of the men at the table called out. “Go for the wine! It’s like nectar.”

&nbs
p; “Maybe you’d like some of the Rhenish if your gullet’s too soft for Bordeaux,” the woman said.

  “It’s too early in the day for me,” Stephen said.

  “Oh, you are a dull boy,” Dot said.

  “People keep saying that,” Stephen said.

  The barman produced mugs of ale and handed them to Stephen and Gilbert.

  “You didn’t come to my fair establishment for my fine ale,” said a grey-haired man with a broad jaw rimed with white stubble and muscular shoulders. “What brought you here?”

  “I’m looking for someone,” Stephen said.

  “Why would that be?”

  “I have questions. I hope he has answers.”

  “And who is the fellow?”

  “I’m told his name is Lambekyn le Gathard.”

  The room fell silent. Stephen could hear the straw crinkling under his feet. The people at the table, with the exception of the grey-haired man, looked into the corners.

  The grey-haired man drummed his fingers on the table that were surprisingly long and delicate to be at the end of his knotty forearms, eyes narrowed in thought.

  “I’m Lamb le Gathard,” he said at last.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Stephen said.

  “I’m sure. What do you want with me?”

  “I understand you’re acquainted with one Father Giles de Twet, and that you met him a couple of weeks ago.”

  There was that crypt-like quiet again.

  “Father Giles de Twet.” Gathard seemed to roll the name around in his mouth as if getting a taste for it, one he did not care for if his sour expression was any guide. “Why’re you asking about him?”

  “He was found dead in the Thames at Windsor Bridge a few days ago. I’ve been asked to help in the inquiry into the cause of his death.”

  “By whom?”

  Stephen almost said Prince Edward. But an instinct stayed his tongue. London had thrown its support behind Montfort and the rebellious barons. Only two weeks ago, the king and Edward had trapped Montfort and his closest supports in Southwark, but Montfort escaped when the people of London threw open the bridge gates for him. People here were unlikely to help someone associated with their enemy.

  “The coroner of Berkshire asked me to make inquires while I am in the city on business. It is known that Father Giles returned from London the day before his death. There are concerns about what he was doing here before he died. Some connection, perhaps. I don’t know.”

  “Never heard of the man.”

  Gathard met Stephen’s gaze, but the others kept their eyes averted.

  Stephen drained his mug and put it on the bar. By the emphatic way Gathard had spoken, he was sure he wasn’t going to get anything more out of the man. “That’s that, I suppose. Good day to you, then.”

  Stephen turned to the door and went up the stairs.

  “You lie better than that Gathard fellow,” Gilbert said when they reached the top without falling to their deaths. “I really like that bit about the coroner of Berkshire. Inspired.”

  “Thank you, Gilbert. Your encouragement is a balm to my flagging spirits.”

  “Just don’t get used to it.”

  “I know you too well for that.”

  It was getting close to noon, which meant it was time to think about dinner if there was no other business taking precedence. Gilbert had said nothing about his appetite so far as they strolled up Thames Street, but Stephen noticed him sniffing at the aromas from the cook shops lining the street — scents of baked meats, roasted meats, fried meats, and the mouthwatering smell of fresh bread and pastries. Not even the competing stench of horse manure or the fresh contributions from dogs and the piss troughs along the way could overpower the beckoning delights of the cookhouses.

  Stephen was not in the mood to patronize a cookhouse, however, since that meant eating in the street in the cold. He wanted a fire to warm his hands and feet in the hopes that the thaw would extend to his head, where his thoughts had frozen.

  They came to a tavern near the Queenhuthe wharf that went under the sign of a Blue Heron, one spindly leg on the head of a fat man peeping from a barrel.

  “What about that place?” Stephen asked. “It looks several cuts above the Red Candle.”

  “A tent filled with shit is a cut above the Red Candle,” Gilbert said.

  “Gathard would be disappointed to hear that opinion. I’m sure he takes pride in his establishment.”

  “I have the feeling that running a tavern isn’t his main business.”

  “Whatever made you think so?”

  “Just a feeling.”

  “I thought we weren’t supposed to rely on those.”

  “I am a mere clerk. My job is to make sure you don’t rely on them. It does not work the other way around.”

  Since Gilbert’s objection to Stephen’s dinner choice was not forthcoming, Stephen went in. As he hoped, there was a good fire burning and even a place by the fireplace close enough to enjoy some of the warmth. The floor was dirt, but at least it had been swept clear of rotting straw. Bundles of herbs sat in vases on each table to lend fragrance to the air. Stephen settled on a bench, feeling for drafts, a constant problem in any house, but he did not detect any. One could only hope that the quality of the food and ale was up to the surroundings.

  A servant hurried over. “What will you have, my friends?”

  “Ale for the both of us, and whatever is in the stew pot,” Stephen said.

  “What would that be, by chance?” Gilbert asked.

  “It’s beef with leeks, carrots, and turnips, and a good helping of beans thrown in.” the servant said

  “That should do nicely,” Gilbert said.

  “You will not be disappointed,” the servant said with a grin as he went off toward the kitchen.

  “I hope not, for my sake,” Stephen said. “If that belly of yours is not satisfied, I’ll not hear the end of it till supper.” He steepled his fingers. “Now, tell me, what leads you to think that the tavern is not Gathard’s sole business?”

  Gilbert pulled on the corners of his mouth. “His shifty nature, for one. And the fact that that woman was practicing picking a lock, for another. You saw it, surely?”

  “Hard to miss. A den of thieves, you think?”

  “I would put money on it,” Gilbert said. “What would Father Giles want with a band of thieves?”

  “Perhaps he wanted something stolen,” Stephen said.

  Stephen stroked his chin as the servant returned with bowls of stew, a platter of bread and cheese, and mugs of ale.

  “Let us suppose that Father Giles needed something stolen,” Stephen said.

  “Hard to think of what that might be,” Gilbert said through a mouthful of stew.

  “It is. Now, if he had access to this thing, whatever it is, he probably would have done the deed himself. But he didn’t. We can speculate that it was locked up somehow.”

  “Somewhere in Windsor?”

  “Most likely, don’t you think? In a place so difficult that it needed someone with special skills to get to. Not the sort of someone you’re likely to run across in Windsor.”

  “But in London there is no end to iniquity, and the skills to exploit it.”

  “Just so,” Stephen said. “So, Giles consulted with Father Bernard, who, as he said, runs across such people in his line of work from time to time.”

  “But how would he know them?” Gilbert covered his mouth with a hand. “Oh, dear, the confessional!”

  “I would think so. Don’t priests in the cathedral have to take their turns hearing confessions?”

  “Depends on the cathedral. It’s considered a tedious chore, so often the job goes to the newest ones.”

  “Let us suppose, however, that Father Bernard takes a turn from time to time.”

  “A bit of a suppose,” Gilbert said.

  “Perhaps. And perhaps not. It is certainly a strong suppose Giles knew that Bernard might have met such people now and then.”


  “Surely, you do not suggest that good Father Bernard shared the subjects of confession!” Gilbert shook his head in disapproval.

  “Very possibly,” Stephen said. “Even likely. Don’t priests talk shop like ordinary folk?”

  “I would not put it past them, especially if a bit of wine is involved,” Gilbert said glumly.

  “So then, Bernard gave Giles Gathard’s name. Giles hired Gathard to carry out a bit of theft.”

  “It is speculation built upon speculation — a castle of sand.”

  “Have you got any better ideas?” Stephen asked.

  “No. Give me a few moments and I will no doubt come up with some.”

  A few seconds passed in silence.

  “Do you think that two horses were part of the price?” Gilbert asked.

  “Seems plausible,” Stephen said mildly, savoring Gilbert’s surrender but avoiding the temptation to rub it in; it was a castle of sand, after all, and he could easily be wrong. “The horses would have been necessary to get Gathard’s thieves to Windsor and back. I doubt they wanted to walk. Stands to reason, they were part of the price.”

  “And the day after they get to Windsor, they burgled whatever it is they burgled for Giles,” Gilbert said.

  “Which suggests that whatever Giles wanted stolen, he knew exactly where it was and how to get at it,” Stephen said.

  “Do you think they had a falling out? Giles and Gathard? Perhaps the thieves didn’t recover the thing Giles wanted, and he refused to pay them the rest of the price?”

  “Could be,” Stephen said. “Or they demanded more. I wish I could think of a way to find out. I can see now why Gathard wanted nothing to do with any talk of Father Giles. He didn’t want to be implicated in the crime.”

  The stew was so good that Stephen and Gilbert ordered a second bowl each, along with the bread to go with them to mop the sauce, and a good hour passed in comfort by the fire. Nothing short of snuggling under a thick blanket brought as much pleasure in the winter as a good fire and a good meal.

  Toward the end of that time, Gilbert excused himself to visit the privy in the rear garden, wrapping his cloak about him in preparation for plunging into the cold.