by Mel Starr
I turned and saw Arthur gazing intently at the pillow.
“What have you found?” I said.
“What it is I don’t know. But there be a stain upon this pillow.”
He held it out to me in such a wise as the light from the window could best illuminate it. I looked closely at the stain – it had an unpleasant yellowish tint. Small dried particles clung there where the fluid had soaked in. I took the pillow and tentatively held it to my nose. The smell was repulsive. Oswald had indeed retched up part of his dinner as he died.
“What is there?” Sir Thomas asked.
“Oswald vomited as he died.”
“Will a man commonly do that when death is near?”
“’Tis not uncommon, I think.”
“I’ll tell you what’s uncommon,” Arthur said. “When I picked the pillow from the rushes, that stain was upon the bottom. A man ain’t gonna lose ’is dinner on the nether side of ’is pillow, I think.”
I had been about to attribute Oswald’s death to some natural affliction, of which there are many that will bring death. But Arthur’s discovery dispelled that notion.
“There is another way to slay a man in his bed,” I said. “If a pillow be held against his face he will soon perish.”
“And there will be no bruise upon his neck, or anywhere else,” Sir Thomas said, “if he is smothered, not strangled. Will such a death cause a man to spew up part of his last meal?”
“I doubt it not,” I said.
“Murder, then. But who would slay Oswald? He was incompetent, ’tis true. But men are not murdered for their inadequacies. If they were, I should have done away with him long ago.”
“He died, I think, because he knew too much.”
“Too much about what?”
“He knew of the felons who have brought havoc to the shire.”
“Oswald? How could he have exerted himself enough to have discovered them when you have not?”
“I think he did not need to exert himself, for he was one of them.”
“My bailiff? A felon? But who then slew him, and why?”
“The brigands with whom he did the felonies slew him, I think.”
“But why?”
“Somehow they discovered I was on my way here to demand information of him. And they guessed of my questions for him.”
“You knew when you appeared at my door this day that Oswald was associated with a group of felons?”
“I did not know of a certainty, but I thought ’twas likely.”
“And his companions did murder so he could not name them?” Sir Thomas concluded.
“I believe it so.”
“Who are these men? Let me fetch the priest! We shall pursue them and send them to the scaffold.” He departed the house and strode directly to the church. I thought it unlikely the knight would be so hot-blooded about this if he knew who I thought responsible for the deaths and thievery which had plagued the shire. I waited, with Arthur and Uctred and Oswald’s staring corpse, for him to appear with the village priest. My reason for visiting Stanton Harcourt lay cold upon the bed, but gave me another reason for lingering in the village.
Men, or a man, had slain Oswald, this was sure. But how had they quit the house leaving both doors barred? For that matter, how had they gained entry? Invited, no doubt. If so, my suspicion that the bailiff was slain by men he knew and trusted would be confirmed.
Whilst the priest said the words of Extreme Unction over the corpse I prowled about the exterior of the house. I inspected the windows, looking for any sign of oiled parchments lifted and moved back into place. No such indication met my eye. It was clear that whoso did murder wished other men to believe that Oswald had died in his sleep, with no other involved in the death.
Grass flourished beneath two of the windows. No footprints would be found there, and the vegetation seemed vigorous, not flattened as if some man had recently stepped upon it. How long would grass crushed under a man’s foot remain so before it became again upright? This was not taught in surgery classes at the University of Paris.
Soil, undisturbed, was under two other windows. The dirt was soft enough that, had men put foot upon it, an imprint would be made. None was there. No man had escaped the house through its windows.
I stood before the rear door, puzzled. It was as if felons had become angels and flown through the roof. The roof! I stepped back from the rear of the bailiff’s house to examine the thatch. At first glance I saw nothing amiss, but closer examination showed a place near the chimney where the thatching reeds seemed to be turned. Elsewhere the thatch kept a uniformly gray tint, but a small section had a lighter shade, as if the place had usually been shaded from weather and sun.
Arthur and Uctred followed me about the house while I examined the windows and the sod and soil beneath them. When I stepped away from the dwelling to view the roof, so did they. And they saw what I saw.
“S’pose Oswald had a bundle of new thatch put up there aside ’is chimney?” Arthur said.
“Mayhap ’e ’ad a leak,” Uctred added.
The off-color thatching was above the loft. “Come,” I said, and led the way into the house.
A crude and apparently seldom-used ladder was propped against the daub. I moved it so that it rested at its top against the beam which supported the loft, then tested the first few rungs. They were tied to the uprights with hempen cords which were dry, brittle, and of great age. The loft was barely above my head when I stood under it. If a cord broke, my fall would not be great, and the rushes upon the floor would soften the impact. So I hoped.
I climbed to the loft and Arthur grasped the ladder to follow. I bid him remain below.
“Look to the cords which bind the rungs,” I said. “They may support me, but you will tumble upon your head if you test them.”
Arthur glanced at the cords, agreeing with my estimation of his near future if he began the climb, and stepped back.
The loft admitted little light, but enough for me to see where two straps had been freshly snapped between a rafter and the wattles and daub of the end wall. These breaks had been cleverly fitted back together so the fracture would be hidden by the shadows to any but those who might search the place. The discolored thatching was directly above these broken crosspieces, if I judged correctly.
The man, or men, who had departed the house in this manner must have been young and agile to do so. The ladder had been replaced against a wall, so they had mounted to the loft by seizing the beam and pulling themselves up. The hole made in the thatch was large enough for a slender youth, and once outside the house, upon the roof, there would be a drop of no more than a foot or so greater than the height of a man to the ground – nothing to inconvenience a slender youth. I am past my youth and not so nimble now, but even I could manage the descent without injury.
I climbed down the ladder – carefully – and departed through the back door of the house. I stood close under the eaves below the discolored thatch and studied the soil there. I saw heel prints where men had dropped from roof to ground, striking the earth heavily. Some of these footprints had been brushed away, but a few remained. The men who dropped from the roof had done so in the dark and had not seen by moonlight all the prints they had made in the earth, so failed to obliterate all.
These indentations were unalike. The heels of two men had imbedded themselves into the soil. One of those who had made imprints wore a shoe, or mayhap a boot, which was missing a part of the heel. A semi-circle was absent from the heel print. I made a mental note of this, thinking the information might lead to a murderer. It did so, and sooner than I expected.
We three returned to the front of the bailiff’s house to see the priest and his clerk removing Oswald’s corpse. They struggled under the burden, and the coppiced poles of the litter flexed alarmingly.
Sir Thomas stood by the ruined front do
or and watched as priest and clerk labored to transport their load to the church. I wondered who could be found in the village to wash the corpse and keep vigil by candlelight through the night until Oswald could be properly planted in the churchyard. The death of a bailiff is rarely the occasion for weeping and mourning within his bailiwick. Mayhap Bampton will be different. I have tried to perform my duties to make it so.
As the blanket-covered corpse was carried to the church, Edmund Harcourt appeared from behind the manor house. He stopped to watch as the corpse passed, crossed himself, then strode rapidly to his father.
“Oswald has died in the night, so William said.”
I wondered who William was and how he had discovered the information. Neither I nor Arthur nor Uctred had spoken to any man of Oswald’s death. Perhaps when Sir Thomas hurried to fetch the axe he had spoken to a servant. But at that time no man knew that Oswald was dead. Did Sir Thomas surmise it was so? When he hastened to get the axe he had thought Oswald ill. I had suggested death, but Sir Thomas seemed to scoff at the thought.
“Murdered in the night,” Sir Thomas replied.
“Murdered? Surely not! In his bed? How could such a thing be? Were his doors not barred?”
The lad was young and unskilled at guile. He was of an age and lineage which believes all will be well, no matter what mistakes are made along the way, until adulthood arrives to prove not every blunder can be brushed over.
How could Edmund know Oswald was found dead in his bed? He had a house in which to die, and could have done so anywhere. He might have been attacked before he had gone to his bed, before he had barred his doors. If Sir Thomas was puzzled by this he kept his peace.
“Oswald was a poor bailiff,” Edmund pressed on. “We have not lost much with his death. You wished him away by Whitsuntide, anyway. And he had no success in discovering who slew my brother.”
Sir Thomas listened to his son with a face that expressed no emotion. Seeing he would not be drawn, the lad finished lamely, “Well… dinner will be served soon… the cook asked me to tell you.” After another moment’s uncertainty, he turned back toward the manor house and the imminent meal. As he went, I – and Arthur, and Uctred – looked at his boots. They were of good quality, but not new; quite worn, in fact. As he walked away we saw the track of one boot left an ovoid breach in the dust where a part of the heel had been sliced or broken away.
So I explained to Sir Thomas how men had managed to slay Oswald and leave the house though the doors were barred from within. He listened with widening eyes, and asked to be shown the discolored thatching. I led him there, pointing out the depressions in the dirt where the murderers had descended from the roof and failed to obscure their footprints in the night. I wondered if he would notice the distinctive heel print. He did, but showed no knowledge of its source.
“You will not gain Bampton in time for your dinner,” Sir Thomas said then. “Please dine at my table. There will be food enough, and places at the benches for your men.”
I felt much conflicted over when and how much I should say to Sir Thomas of his son’s complicity in the wickedness which had come to the shire. I decided to show him, and allow him to reach his own conclusions.
We departed the bailiff’s house walking toward the manor house, then I stopped. Sir Thomas, Arthur, and Uctred continued for a few paces until they realized that I was no longer with them. They halted and turned to see what had caught my attention. When I knew I had Sir Thomas’s attention I squatted and pointed a finger at his son’s boot print in the dirt. I said nothing.
The knight bent to examine what I had pointed out. He said: “Why, ’tis the same as was behind Oswald’s house. The same man has walked here.”
And then he fell silent. His shoulders drooped. “It was my son walked here but a few moments past,” he said. His words were a cry of pain from a wounded man. In truth, he had suffered a wound which would never heal.
There was no dinner served that day at Stanton Harcourt manor house. Sir Thomas stood from examining the boot print, his back stiff as a poker, and stalked toward his house. We followed, aware of the thunderbolt about to strike, and unable to turn from it.
Sir Thomas threw open the door and called out for Edmund. The lad awaited his father in the hall; a valet was placing a dish of pork in egurdouce upon the high table as we watched.
“Take off your boots,” Sir Thomas roared.
“My boots?” the lad said. “’Tis time for dinner. Why…?”
“Take off your boots,” Sir Thomas shouted again. Edmund heeded the tone of his father’s voice, sat upon a bench, and pulled off his footwear with no further delay.
Sir Thomas seized the boots, then grasped Edmund by the collar of his cotehardie and dragged him from the manor house. He said no more until he had hauled the lad to the rear of the bailiff’s house. I watched as he held the misshapen heel close to Edmund’s face, then pointed to the boot print in the soft earth and said, “Explain this.”
The lad swallowed like a carp cast up on the bank.
“Uh… uh, I heard something in the night and came to see what had made the noise.”
“Why then was your back to Oswald’s house?” I said. “See how the footprint faces.”
“Uh, I uh, heard another sound, so pressed myself against the house to – to hide from whoso might be about after curfew.”
“Who was with you?” I said.
“With me?”
“Aye. Two men made footprints here. Who accompanied you?”
Edmund’s reaction was telling. I might have swatted his skull with a barrel stave, so stunned was his expression.
“Who is this fellow Master Hugh speaks of?” Sir Thomas demanded.
“Uh… a friend… uh, from Queen’s Hall.”
“And he was here in the night? With you? Why did I not meet him?” Sir Thomas asked.
“Because,” I said, “he did not arrive in Stanton Harcourt before dark. I inquired yesterday of the provost of Queen’s Hall who Edmund’s friends are. He gave me three names. One of the fellows somehow learned of it, and came here in the night to warn your son.”
“Warn Edmund? But warn him of what?”
“That I was likely to press Oswald about his alliance with your son and his friends.”
“What alliance could Edmund have with Oswald?”
“Will you tell him, or shall I?” I said to Edmund. The lad was silent.
“Your son and his friends are goliards. They found theft more appealing and profitable than study.”
“What? My son and his companions have done the felonies in the shire these past months?”
“They have.”
“But what of Oswald? How was he a part of the wickedness?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “’Tis my belief that he was not so stupid or inept as he seemed. Somehow he learned who the rogues were, and that Edmund was one of them, and demanded a price for his silence. This is why Oswald conveniently lost the green woolen fragment whereby we might have identified one of Edmund’s felonious friends. ’Twas less troublesome to dispose of the wisp and feign ignorance of its disappearance than for the fellow to purchase a new cotehardie. They might have slain Oswald anyway, to relieve themselves of the cost of his silence, but when they learned I meant to visit here this day, and that from Queen’s Hall I had learned their names, they conspired to slay Oswald. They feared I might question him so strictly he would fear the noose and give evidence against the miscreants.”
Sir Thomas listened intently to this, and let it sink in. Then, “You slew your own brother?” he demanded in horror of his son.
“Nay, Father. Not so. I’d no wish to see him dead.”
“If he knew you were among the villains who took him,” I said, “he would have to die. If he lived he would name you as one who seized him.”
“Aye. That’s why only John and I
vo took him. And they were to be careful to speak no names. Henry did not know them, nor did he know I was in league with them.” Edmund turned from me to his father, and his face changed. “Had you supplied me with funds so that I could live decently in Oxford I’d not have needed to extort shillings from you!”
Resigned to his situation, the lad accepted he had been caught out. I believe he considered further lies to be useless. He spoke more freely than I had thought he would.
“Why, then,” I asked, “was he slain?”
“’Twas not our intent,” Edmund said. I heard his throat tighten on the words and thought he was about to cry. “We would free him when Father paid ten pounds. We held him in the forest, in an old swineherd’s hut abandoned there. But one night, when it was Ivo’s turn to stay up and keep guard, he fell to sleep. Henry worked free of his bonds and ran, but crashing through the forest in the dark he made so much noise he awakened John. John roused Ivo and they gave chase. We didn’t mean Henry to die. Ivo is fleet, and had armed himself with a cudgel. When he caught up with Henry he hit him – but only to halt his flight, not slay him. The blow caused Henry to stumble headlong into a stone wall, John said. They left Henry dead where he lay, beside the wall, unwilling to carry him away and perhaps be seen crossing the hayfield.”
“And Hubert Shillside?”
“Who?”
“The man you robbed and struck down upon the Windrush Bridge.”
“We slew no man upon the Windrush Bridge.” Here was an unexpected claim.
“What of the man found slain near to Abingdon, his cart and oxen taken?”
“He knew Ivo. Had seen him about Oxford. Ivo would not allow him to live and bring a charge against us.”
“And the man you slew and left in the forest near to Wytham? What of him?”
A puzzled frown came upon Edmund’s countenance. “We slew no man there.”
I believed him. Edmund had spoken freely enough of his other felonies when he understood that he was found out that I could find no reason for prevarication regarding one more murder.
“What of my surgical instruments and the book you stole from me?”
