by E R Dillon
“There’s nothing more for me to do here,” John said. “I should go on to the garrison now to take a look at the―”
“You do that,” Kyle said, cutting him off. He practically shoved John from the room. “Thanks for your help. I’ll join you later.”
John, who was no fool, clearly understood without being told the need for discretion where the French envoy was concerned. “I’ll see ye there, then,” he said, before hurrying out of the room.
Inchcape remained just inside the doorway. His only reaction to the odd exchange between Kyle and John was to lift a dark eyebrow. If he was at all curious, he kept it to himself. “Any idea who did it?” he said, glancing over at the dead man on the bed.
“Not at the moment,” Kyle said. “Send for a wagon with an escort to take the body to St. John’s.”
After Inchcape limped away, Kyle gazed slowly around the room, his pale blue eyes intent on every detail. He thought it peculiar that Sweeney’s belongings were nowhere in sight. If the man undressed there, then his gear must be somewhere nearby. On a hunch, he knelt down to look under the bed. He was rewarded with the discovery of a black leather jerkin, a worn leather belt with scabbard and sword attached, and an empty sheath of a size to fit the dagger he found earlier. He inspected each item before laying it on the bed beside the body. The only thing he learned was that Sweeney was remiss about the upkeep of his sword, the blade of which was pitted with rust.
He perused the long smears in the dried stain on the wood floor. It looked as if the murderer skidded in the blood as he came around the bed to get to the doorway. The dark smudges on the casing and the handle most likely came from his bloody hands as he attempted to open the door.
For a moment, he pondered how the murderer got out of the locked room. He toyed with the idea that the man might have, indeed, slipped away after Inchcape left the door unlocked and unguarded. He dismissed the notion because of the significant question it raised: if the door was locked from the inside, which meant Sweeney used the key to lock it, why didn’t the murderer simply use that same key to get out of the room?
He peered into the pitcher on the table beside the bed, as if the answer might be found somewhere in its hollow depths. “Empty.”
That, too, was significant. Without water, the murderer could not wash off the blood. In order get to the street, he must go down the steps and through the tavern, which put him at risk of being seen with blood on his clothing.
He went over to the window, which was the only other feasible avenue of escape. He inspected the sill, inside and out. Under the lip outside, he found a shred of common homespun caught on a jagged splinter of wood. He extricated the threads and tucked them into his coin purse.
He stuck his head through the cramped opening of the window to consider the murderer’s options. Above him, the eaves extended out too far to permit access to the roof. Below him was a twelve-foot drop to the ground. There was another window directly beneath his, with a casing around it that offered a two-inch toehold halfway down the face of the outer wall. It seemed improbable to go that way, but not necessarily impossible.
He looked down into the alley, but the early morning light was still too muted to clearly see the ground below. He left Sweeney’s room, closing the door behind him. He descended the stairs and went out the back door of the tavern, intent on examining the alleyway for prints or other evidence left from the night before.
A tiny walled courtyard in the rear separated the wooden tavern from a stone structure housing the kitchen. The only way in or out was through the alley. Vendors and merchants unloaded food goods and other supplies in the courtyard for the cook, though they barely had room to turn their pony-carts around because of the clutter of old barrels, discarded boxes, and firewood stacked against the outer kitchen wall.
Smoke rose from the kitchen’s wide chimney, and the scent of baking bread drifted in the air. He noted that anyone standing in the kitchen doorway, the cook for instance, could look straight into the alley, and at night, light from the windows on the tavern’s ground floor would enable him to see along the entire length of it.
He caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye as a heap of rags stirred inside a fallen barrel beside the kitchen wall. He dismissed it as a rat or some other scavenger looking for scraps of food, until the rags began to crawl from the barrel.
It turned out to be a beggar swaddled in tattered clothing, reeking of body odor and stale ale. The man climbed stiffly to his feet, which were shod with ill-fitting felt shoes. An empty sleeve, where his arm was missing, hung down from his shoulder. He appeared to be an old soldier, thin from want of regular meals. The gray streaks in his grizzled beard put him in his fifties.
Kyle stared at the beggar for a moment, uttering a silent prayer of thanksgiving that the scar on his face was the only reminder of his years as a mercenary. “Have you been here all night?”
“Who wants to know?” the beggar said in a gravelly voice.
Kyle introduced himself. “There’s been a murder in the tavern,” he said. “Did you hear anything unusual last night?”
The beggar shrugged his shoulders, his expression vague, as though unsure of either the question or the answer.
“Never mind,” Kyle said. He dug a silver penny from his purse and pressed the coin into the beggar’s grubby hand. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for the man to buy his bread with dignity, rather than to beg for it.
“God bless,” the beggar said. He wandered toward the kitchen door, as if drawn by the smell of baking bread.
Kyle turned into the alley, from which came the stench of urine. It was a common practice for men to relieve themselves against the stone wall along the alleyway before going back into the tavern to drink more ale.
He walked down the alley until he stood directly beneath the window to Sweeney’s room. The dirt should have been pitted from foot traffic and churned from the wheels of carts and the hooves of ponies. The ground was smooth as far as he could see in either direction, except for the imprint of his own boots coming from the kitchen courtyard.
Someone, it seemed, saw fit to sweep the alley clean. Rather than being discouraging, the knowledge buoyed his spirits. It meant he was on the right track. The murderer did, in fact, exit the tavern through the window. Otherwise, why take the time to wipe out the telltale signs of his presence there? In addition, he now knew something about the murderer he didn’t know before: his physical description. Only a very thin man could fit through the cramped opening of the window.
He heard the sound of labored breathing behind him. He turned to find the tavern keeper hurrying toward him with a purposeful expression on his plump face. Over the tavern keeper’s shoulder, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the cook retreating behind the kitchen door. He wondered how long the cook had been watching him, and whether it was to see what he found in his search of the alley.
“I’ve something to tell ye,” the tavern keeper said, after pausing to catch his breath. “Something I remembered about last night.”
Chapter 8
“There was a young man here last night who lost at gaming,” the tavern keeper said. “A Ross retainer, I think. I remember him because of the fuss he made. He claimed he was cheated. Stormed out of the back room in a foul temper, he did. Before he left the tavern, he threatened to get even with them that cheated him. Those were his exact words.”
“How much did he lose?” Kyle said.
“I don’t know, but it must have been a lot from the way he carried on. There were others who heard him, too. His sister, for one.”
“Where can I find her?”
“She’ll be here this evening to serve the tables,” the tavern keeper said. He fixed a withering stare upon Kyle. “I don’t suppose that’s going to happen now, though.”
“Why not?”
“Because ye shut me down.”
“I’m done here. You can carry on as usual. I still need to talk to the girl, however. What is her nam
e?”
The tavern keeper seemed barely able to contain his joy at being back in business so soon. “Maize,” he said with a broad smile.
Kyle started to leave, but he turned back. “By the way, to whom did the young man direct his threat?”
The smile vanished from the tavern keeper’s plump face. “Why, Captain Sweeney, of course.”
Kyle walked up the alley to the front courtyard and went over to the English soldier stationed at the gates. He instructed the man to help Inchcape load the body into the wagon and go with him to the priory.
He rode back to the garrison, and after stabling the gelding, he crossed the courtyard to the castle. He went up to Count Jardine’s chamber, pausing outside the door to inquire of the English soldier posted there whether anyone tried to gain entry.
“Only John Logan,” the soldier said. “He’s still inside.”
“Good,” Kyle said. He entered the chamber just as John was tucking a roll of linen into his medicament pouch.
The count reclined on a raised bed, with his back propped against cushions. His maroon brocade dressing gown was open at the chest, showing the clean bandages swathing his injured shoulder. A charcoal brazier burned nearby, and blue velvet privacy drapes had been tied back against the bed posts on either side to let in the warmth.
With a nod of greeting to John, Kyle approached the count’s bed. “How do you feel, m’sire?”
“Better,” the count said. “Much better.” His face was still pale, but his voice was strong. “Master John gave me something for the pain.”
“Rest now,” John said, “for ye have lost a good deal of blood. I shall return on the morrow. In the meantime, take a little of this poppy juice if ye cannot sleep.” He set a stoppered phial on the small table beside the bed. He then took his leave and withdrew from the chamber.
“I posted a guard outside your door for your protection,” Kyle said after John left.
“Not much point now, is there?” the count said, watching him closely.
“I’ve removed the item to a safer location,” Kyle said, “if that is what concerns you. It will be returned to you at once, however, should you wish it so.”
“Where is it?”
“In trusted hands, where no one would ever think of looking for it. And to set your mind at ease, no one, including me, knows what it contains.”
“I suppose I must be content with that,” the count said with a sigh. “Forgive my undue concern. I have learned the wisdom of treading with care in the presence of friend and foe alike.” A shiver prompted the count to fumble one-handedly with the silken ties to close his dressing gown.
“If I may,” Kyle said. At the count’s nod of appreciation, he secured the ties and moved the brazier closer to the bed.
The count settled deeper into the cushions. “The young man, Upton, impressed me yesterday with his honesty, and I don’t impress easily. Can you tell me something more of his character?”
“I’ve known him for less than a week. Yet, I like what I’ve seen so far. He’s a reliable, serious-minded fellow.”
“Do you trust him?”
“I do,” Kyle said, after a moment of thought.
“I want him to return to France with me as my aide. Do you think he will accept the position?”
“That is for him to say.”
The count stifled a yawn. “I do hope he will at least consider it.” His eyelids drooped as the poppy juice began to take effect.
Kyle retrieved his own belt and put it on. He left the count’s chamber, closing the door quietly behind him. He went out into the courtyard and crossed over to the sheriff’s office, where he found Upton waiting for him out front.
“I just got back from seeing Brodie,” Upton said. “His daughter claims he was in the house with her yesterday evening and all last night. She says he never left, or she would have heard him.”
“Did you believe her?”
“No reason not to.”
“How’s Turnbull?”
“Grouchy as ever.”
“I mean his injury.”
“He’s on the mend. How is Count Jardine?”
“So far, so good,” Kyle said. “By the way, the count wants to take you to France to serve as his aide.”
Although mildly surprised, Upton appeared pleased to hear it. “I’m grateful you told me, so I can give it some thought. I have family ties in England, but as a second son with no inheritance, I must make my own way in the world. The position as aide presents an opportunity for advancement in rank, which I will need to get ahead.” He laughed without humor. “It is ironic that as an English soldier, I am obliged to fight against the French, yet I may end up as aide to a French envoy who opposes the English.” An unaccustomed solemnity clouded his pleasant features. “Despite that, I am sorely tempted to accept the count’s offer. Not that I particularly want to be an aide, mind you, but it will provide the means to escape from this place.” He waved a hand at the garrison around him. “Never to return, to get as far from strife and conflict as I possibly can.”
“I don’t believe there is a country, far or near, free from either strife or conflict.”
“Anywhere would be better than here,” Upton said with feeling.
“If you do move on,” Kyle said, “I shall miss you. There are few English like you, who treat us Scots with dignity and respect.”
“There are more Englishmen like me than you think. They, too, disapprove of the abuses heaped upon your countrymen, but they, like me, lack the authority or the power to put a stop to it.”
“I would settle for one such man just now, to stand in as sergeant when you leave. Can you recommend someone?”
“You’ll have me packed before I’m ready to go,” Upton said with a grin. “If I do depart, however, I would suggest Vinewood. He’s a good man.”
Kyle made a mental note to take Vinewood along on his next outing to see if he agreed with Upton’s assessment.
****
Later that same evening, Kyle rode back to the Bull and Bear. He handed the reins to a waiting groom before crossing the small courtyard to enter the tavern. He ducked under the low-hanging lintel and stood erect in the stifling warmth inside. The murmur of voices within sounded like the hum of bees. The smell of roasted chicken reminded him that he was hungry.
Oil lanterns hung from the rafters on long chains, filling the air with a smoky haze and casting a mellow light upon chewed bones and dirty straw strewn about the planked floor. The wooden stairs on the back wall led up to the sleeping accommodations on the second floor.
A dozen or so trestle tables were situated about the room in no particular order. Most of those seated there were English soldiers, who nursed cups of brew or hunched over their supper. A black-haired young woman was serving ale to a group of rowdy soldiers, one of whom was a handsome young man with seductive dark eyes who put an arm around her waist and refused to let her go.
Kyle made his way over to her through the maze of tables. “I’d like a word with you, mistress.”
The young woman turned her face to him. Her features were regular, and her youthful complexion was fresh and smooth. Her tight bodice accentuated her full breasts, and the soft fabric of her dress showed every curve of her shapely body. Smudges of weariness under her soft brown eyes made her look older than her sixteen years, and the direct gaze that rested on Kyle held no illusions as to her lot in life. She slipped from the handsome young soldier’s grasp and stepped out of his reach.
The handsome young soldier accepted her evasive maneuver with good humor and laughed with his fellows. “Next time, Maize, you won’t get away so easy,” he said to her with a gleam of mischief in his dark eyes.
Maize flashed a parting smile at him before leading Kyle over to an empty table in a quiet corner.
He sat down, gesturing for her to sit on the wooden bench across from him.
She perched on the edge of the bench, studying his features. “I know ye,” she said. “Ye are the new dep
uty.” Her eyes lingered on the faded scar that ran from temple to jaw on his face. “I can only stay for a minute. This is the busiest time of day.”
“Tell me about your brother,” Kyle said. “The one who was here last night.”
A shadow of fear crossed her face so fleetingly, he wondered if he imagined it.
“What do ye want to know?” she said evenly.
“What is his name?”
“It is Hew.”
“Is he still in the employ of Aiden Ross?”
“I believe so.”
“A witness claims Hew went into the back room to game with the English. How long did he stay back there?”
“An hour,” she said. “Maybe two.”
“Did you see him come out?”
“I didn’t need to see him. I heard him, like everybody else.”
“Did you hear him threaten the English for cheating him?”
“I don’t recall,” she said, rising abruptly. “I must go now. They’re calling for me.” She leaned close to add, “Hew might get unruly and loud when he’s drunk, but he’s no murderer. It wasn’t him what killed that Southron.”
Kyle watched her walk away, aware that he knew no more now than when he first entered the tavern. Although she believed her brother was innocent, he would find out on the morrow what Hew had to say for himself and whether the young man was worthy of his sister’s loyalty to him.
He caught the tavern keeper’s eye and beckoned him over to his table.
“So,” the tavern keeper said as he approached. “What did Maize have to say about her brother?”
“Bring me stew,” Kyle said, evading the question with as much skill as Maize when she earlier slipped from the handsome soldier’s grasp.
“It was her brother who did it, was it not?” the tavern keeper said, a smug expression on his plump face. “I knew it.”
Kyle fixed a bland stare on the heavyset man. “I’ll take a mug of ale, too.”
“As ye wish, Master Deputy,” the tavern keeper said. He bustled away, as though bursting with the gossip he was about to spread.
While waiting for his supper to arrive, Kyle let his gaze rove about the room. The older soldiers seemed to prefer the company of others like themselves, who ate and chatted quietly together. The younger soldiers were a more boisterous lot who drank heavily and laughed heartily.
