Hugh stared. “I…What?”
“Cole’s a fool, from what I saw. He trusted them two.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Those two bastards, they always needle till they know everything about everyone, then they put the screws on. Cole had some money, but he refused to give them any, and the same afternoon, he’s discovered stealing—by those two.”
Roger stared open-mouthed. Edgar was sitting stock-still as if unconcerned, but he was listening to every word and nuance as Hugh stuttered, “But what…I mean, how could they…”
“Everybody coming to a troop like this has a story, right? A past. Some can’t stay at home because of something that happened, like a fight where someone got hurt, or they have a girlfriend who’s already married to another man—whatever. Those two bastards, they make sure they find out what a man’s secret is, and then they threaten to let everyone know. ”Why’re you here?“ they say, all friendly-like, and ”Everyone tells us why they come here,“ or, ”Nobody’ll trust you unless you tell what you’ve done.“” He spat again and gulped ale, as if to wash away a sour taste. “And then they say, ”We need some money; we don’t seem to have what we thought, and we want a drink. Why don’t you give us some?“ And if the new boys won’t cooperate, their story gets all over the troop—and later, news might just get back to their homes.”
“And they got Cole like that?”
“No, he got them. He lied when they asked why he was here, so when they tried to squeeze him, he told them what they could do with themselves.”
“Come on, Wat, you’ve talked enough,” said one of the other men at the table, squirming uncomfortably. “You’ll get yourself in trouble—they can see you talking.”
“What do I care?” The older man stared truculently at John Smithson, who was watching with hooded eyes. “They can’t do anything to me, and they know it.”
Edgar slowly turned in his seat, hitching a leg over the plank that formed the bench, and faced Wat. “Are you saying you think it was those two who robbed Sir Hector and killed Sarra?”
The older man took a tremendous gulp and finished his ale. “I don’t know who robbed Sir Hector, and I don’t know who spiked the girl.” Edgar shrugged, and with a half-smile, began to move back to watch his master. Stung by his patronizing air, Wat set the pot down hard on the table. “You ignorant puppy!” He leaned forward aggressively, his voice low and coarse. “You think I’m just some old fool who’s drunk too much on a summer’s morning, don’t you? You think because you work for an educated master you can look down on plain folk like me, because we’re just dregs and unimportant. We’re fools and can’t know what goes on, aren’t we? Well, I don’t know what happened in that room, but I know that those two went into Sir Hector’s chamber in the early afternoon, right? Then they went back later, and both times they were in there for some time.”
“You’re talking rubbish,” sneered the other soldier. “You’ve been drinking sour ale! There were men in that hall, and they’d have seen—”
“Those drunken sots wouldn’t have noticed if the King himself had passed by! I’m telling you what I saw: Henry and John went in—twice. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe they didn’t do it. Maybe they just went in and got lost in all those rooms. Maybe they didn’t steal the silver, and they might not have killed the girl—but I reckon they had as much chance as poor young Cole.”
“But why would they put the blame on Cole? They’ve hardly had time to grow to dislike him,” asked Edgar superciliously.
“You pathetic little man!” Wat sputtered contemptuously. “What about Cole’s brother? You know he was in this band, and that he died in a battle—just after he’d won a hostage? And after he died, Henry and John managed to take over his prize and keep the money. If Cole hasn’t found that out already, he soon will. Maybe he ain’t as bright as you, little man, and maybe he’ll begin to wonder whether the pair of them might have seen his brother Thomas with his hostage and decided that the profit was too much for a youngster. Maybe he’ll wonder whether his brother died from a knife in the chest or a dagger in the back; maybe he’ll wonder whether his new friends were lying when they said they liked his brother. And just maybe, the two of them thought their lives would be easier without him in the way.”
“And maybe Cole did steal the silver, and maybe Cole was interrupted halfway through by the girl, and he did the first thing that came into his head and killed her.”
“And maybe pigs will sprout wings and fly like rooks! If he did that, why did he bother to join the band?”
“To find out what had happened to his brother, like you said.”
“So why did he steal the silver before he had done anything about it?”
“What?”
“You’re so bright, little man, you tell me,” Wat sneered. “If you’d been wondering what had happened to your brother for years, just when you had a chance to find out, would you immediately rob someone else?”
“Maybe he had found out.”
“So he put himself outside the law before he wreaked vengeance on them. He’s obviously not much brighter than you, is he?”
“So you think it couldn’t have been Cole? Are you saying it was Henry and John?” Edgar demanded.
“That’s for your master to decide, isn’t it?”
Eyes slitted as he surveyed Wat, Edgar nodded slowly.
10
Simon was bored. The men were cautious in their answers, and Baldwin was having to work to tease every detail he could from them; for the bailiff, it was dull. There was no verbal interplay, just a detailed questioning, with the knight checking their story and the two giving noncommittal, one-word replies.
The bailiff found his attention wandering. At the nearest bench he could see Hugh and Edgar talking to an older man, while others looked on suspiciously. The men polishing armor had gone. The armorer was still whetting his sword with his stone, but it was a listless motion; his mind was not on the metal before him, and with the sun at its hottest, Simon was not surprised. Even under the elm it was stiflingly hot, with not a breath of air to stir the leaves.
Standing, he made his way over to the inn, intending to ask for a drink, but when he peered into the buttery, he found the innkeeper’s wife asleep in a chair, head back, and mouth wide open, issuing small snores and gasps. He smiled, then left her in peace. Wondering where her husband was, he walked to the hall and glanced inside. Three men sat at the dais, playing dice. They had been placed there by Sir Hector, and would allow no one to pass.
Simon did not attempt to test their resolve. He walked out, past the pantry and leaned on the doorframe which gave out onto the street.
The sight of Crediton High Street never ceased to give him pleasure. He had visited many other towns, even been to the city of Exeter twice, and in comparison, Crediton, he thought, was perfect. It bustled, without intimidating visitors by its size. Other places were too large, and their alleys and streets were potential traps to the unwary, but in Crediton everyone knew everybody else, and it was safe to mingle with the crowd. As he watched, young merchants and tradesmen rushed past, going about their business; canons walked by, disdainfully avoiding the manure in their path; a hunter with rough shirt and leather jerkin strode proudly with dogs at his heels; the wife of a rich burgess strolled past, her maid carrying her heavy blue cloak. Simon smiled and nodded at them, but the wife ignored him, thinking he might be drunk. The maid gave him a twinkling smile from the corner of her eye which made up for her mistress’s rudeness.
He crossed his arms. At first he had thought that the killing and theft would be enough to keep his interest, but already his mind was turning from the fate of the man in the jail and moving back to his wife.
Margaret had always been all he had ever wanted in a wife. She was attractive, intelligent, and a calming influence on him in his more angry moments when he had been locking horns with the miners who had colonized the moors. He had loved her from the first moment he had seen her, and
had never regretted their marriage. She had given him the two principle joys of his life: Edith and Peterkin. But now Peterkin had gone, so had much of his zest for life. He no longer had the patience he once had when Edith played in the house, and could not even speak to Margaret about his sense of loss.
It was easier, he felt, to keep his emotions locked away. He preferred to avoid discussion of Peterkin because he knew it would entail her talking and him being evasive. It would be different if they had many children, but it seemed difficult for them: two children with some years between them, and a series of miscarriages. He was not sure that she would be able to bear him another son, and it was that which hurt: not that he wanted a new wife, but he was sad not to have a son with whom he could play, whom he could educate and train.
Hearing a high-pitched scream, he sprang forward, then forced himself to relax. It was only a boy laughing. For some reason, Simon felt his scalp tingle with anticipation. When another cry of delight rang out, he followed the sound, almost unwillingly.
Giggles and squeals of pleasure issued from the alleyway down alongside the jail, and he crossed the road, shouldering people out of the way. At the entrance he stood and peered inside. Washing hung limply from tired, slack lines, and beneath, all was dark. After the bright sun in the street, he had to blink. There, a short way inside the alley was the woman and son whom he had rescued from the soldier.
Roger had seen the bailiff cross the street, and now he strolled after him. The interrogation was dull for him as well.
At the alley entrance he saw Simon hesitate. The bailiff was wondering whether to leave before the woman saw him—or to go up and speak to her. She saved him the choice. Looking up as his shadow darkened the entrance, she gave a small cry, holding out her arms, and the boy rushed to her protection, throwing his skinny arms round her neck and whimpering. Simon quickly realized that he must seem a menacing figure, with the sun behind him and his features hidden. He smiled, moving back so that the sun caught his face, and held his hands a little way from his body to show he was not holding a weapon.
She was wearing the same worn and frayed gray tunic, a cord tied round her waist to give it a semblance of shape. As his eyes began to adjust, he saw that she had a thin, ravaged face, little more than a gray skull, from which sunken eyes stared back with near-panic. Wispy strands of pale hair hung dispiritedly from beneath her wimple. Cradling her child, she stared up at him as if convinced he was about to attack her, and her fear was all too plain.
There was no reason why this woman should wish to speak to him. He had helped her during the night, it was true, but she did not recognize him. It had been dark, and he was on horseback first. Looking up at a figure some eight feet above would not give a good perspective, and she had been so scared at the threats of the man-at-arms that she might not have noticed his face.
Suddenly she leaped up, and, holding her child to her thin breast, darted away from him, pelting down the alley. He took a step forward automatically.
“Sir?”
Hearing Roger, he stopped. There was no point in chasing her; he would only scare her more if he did so. His shoulders drooped with an unaccountable melancholy, formed mainly of jealousy, as he turned to face Roger.
She ran past. It was tempting, but killing her now would be foolish. Judith must wait: he could not see to her now while the bailiff was there to hear her screams and rush to rescue her. No, he thought regretfully, and allowed his hand to relax on the knife’s handle. When he looked back toward the entrance, the looming bulk of the bailiff had gone, and the watching man felt a quick resentment.
He had nothing much against the bailiff, but he was irritated by the slowness of the knight with his investigations. Why had he only arrested Cole? The man should have realized by now who was the guilty one, and that different people had performed the two crimes: one had stolen while the other had killed. If Furnshill had half a brain, he thought, the fool would have arrested the obvious one by now.
He eyed the bright opening where the bailiff had stood. It would have been a stroke of sheer good fortune, of course, had the man not turned up. The watcher had been wondering how to deal with Judith, and this would have been the perfect occasion. He hated to miss an opportunity. While he was hidden in the doorway, the pathetic woman could have run by and met her end quickly; his arm reaching out to curl round her throat as she rushed past, halting her, the quick shock freezing her for a moment, just long enough for his hand to find her mouth and smother her cry, the knife pushing through her back, near the spine, first low down for her kidneys, then higher, reaching for her heart.
He was irritated at missing the chance, but he knew the value of patience. He was in no hurry: there would be plenty of occasions offering similar possibilities and he must take his time. Patting his knife in its sheath, he made his way to the street, and soon became lost in the crowd.
When Simon and Roger got back to the inn, Baldwin and the two servants were sitting together at a table. The two mercenaries were nowhere to be seen, and Simon felt a vague sense of relief. If he had to watch the hideous mouth of John Smithson for another second he would be sick.
Baldwin held a tankard of weak ale in his hand; he waved them toward the jug and a spare pot on the table. “I was beginning to wonder if you had gone back to Peter’s.”
“No, we were out in front.” He did not meet the Keeper’s eye. For some reason he did not want to tell his friend about the woman and her son. It felt foolish, almost, to have wanted to speak to her, and to have listened to her son playing as if it could heal the pain of his own boy’s death.
Baldwin caught his mood, and guessed his friend had been thinking about his son again. He diplomatically poured ale and passed Simon the pot. “We have had some interesting information. Hugh, tell Simon what you’ve heard.”
Leaning forward, his face once more set in its customary scowl, Hugh related Wat’s thoughts, Edgar interrupting occasionally to correct a point.
As he gradually came to a halt, glowering at Edgar, Baldwin sat back on his bench and shot a glance at Simon. “Well?” he demanded, and finished his pot.
“It hardly helps us, does it?” Simon muttered, and dropped onto the bench beside his friend. “Surely he’s just a man with some sort of grudge against the other two, who would like to think they were guilty. It doesn’t help explain who stole the silver—or why they killed Sarra.”
“Her death is the most confusing part,” Baldwin admitted. “From the lump on her head, she must have been knocked out before she was gagged and bound.”
“So whoever took the plate found her in the room and knocked her out, then stabbed her,” said Hugh. He was rapidly getting light-headed from the ale he had drunk.
“No, Hugh,” said Baldwin. “I can easily believe that she was knocked out when the thief entered the room and that she was shut away, silent, in the chest. But why would he go back later to stab her and kill her? It makes no sense.”
Simon shrugged. “There might have been two men there; one was seen by her, the other hit her. The second one tied her up, but the first knew he’d been seen, so he killed her later.”
“That supposes that one of them was already there, and the second came in later and gave away their intention…it is possible, but I find it hard to swallow.” Baldwin frowned.
“Why?” asked Simon.
“One man goes into the room, then the girl enters. A second man goes in, and hits her.” He meditatively swung an imaginary club with a fist. “He knocks her out, and that gives him a chance to truss and gag her. Then he lifts her…have you ever tried to lift an unconscious body on your own? It is like a sack of wheat; it goes in all directions. I would think that both lifted her up and set her into the chest. But then one of them goes back and kills her.”
“I wonder…”
“What, Simon?”
“It may be nothing, but that tunic…It was of exceptional quality, and very expensive. I wonder—”
“Sir, can I serve m
ore ale?”
Simon turned a dazzling smile on the innkeeper. “Paul, thank you. Yes, we’d like more ale, but why don’t you join us?”
Paul was flattered. For two days now he had been running around after the mercenaries, without a single word of gratitude. It took him little time to fetch a fresh jug and a pot for himself, and then he sat comfortably, sighing with the relief of it. His legs ached and his feet were sore from standing too long, his back was stiff from bending to pour jugs, and he had an almost overwhelming desire to shut his eyes and doze off. Margery has gone to bed; she had not been able to sleep until the early hours because of the noise from the hall, and partly from her fear of the men themselves.
“It’s a shame about Sarra,” Simon said.
“Yes. She was a good girl, really. Pretty, too. She never deserved to die like that.”
“She was getting on all right with Sir Hector, wasn’t she?”
“I think so. She was with him on the very first night, when this lot arrived, so she must have caught his eye. At the best of times she was hard enough to keep working, but after meeting him, she was impossible.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t want to be like the other girls, I suppose. Wanted to get married, have children, the normal things, but with a rich man for a husband. Sir Hector was ideal for her. Money, power, the lot. He was exactly what she needed—or so she thought.”
“Did she have any good clothes, like the tunic she was wearing when she died?”
“That blue one? No, I’d never seen it before. What would a serving-girl want with something like that? No, that wasn’t hers.”
“Where did it come from then?” asked Simon. Baldwin leaned forward, his dark eyes intent.
“I don’t know.”
“It wasn’t your wife’s—or one of the other girls”?“
“No. I’ve never seen it before.”
“Tell me, innkeeper,” Baldwin said, resting his elbows on the table. “Was she popular normally with your…clients?”
Crediton Killings Page 12
