Crediton Killings

by Michael Jecks

  “Could it have been produced locally?”

  Margaret gave him a feeble smile. She knew that the knight had no interest in cloth or materials, even though they were so important to the town. Anybody else living in Crediton, could have given the price, and told who produced the fabric and who stitched it together. Some would claim to know almost which sheep the hair came from. “Take it to Tanner. He will be able to tell you where it came from. Why, does it matter?”

  “Perhaps not, but I would like to know where it came from,” Baldwin said, taking it back and giving it a cursory look before shoving it into his purse again.

  Stapledon needed Roger’s help that afternoon, so the others left without him. When they reached the jail, the Constable was sitting on a stool in the doorway, a wide-brimmed straw hat on his head and jug of cool ale by his side.

  As soon as he was away from his wife, Baldwin saw that the bailiff recovered a little of his evenness of temper, and the observation worried him. In his experience, when a man had a devastating loss, he turned to those in whom he could trust. In Baldwin’s terms that meant his man-at-arms, Edgar, who had been with him for so many years he was a close friend as well as a servant. Other similarly destitute Knights Templar had helped him to survive after the fall of the Order, giving him the aid he had needed, until he had been able to overcome his initial sense of despair; and his cure had been made complete once he had caught the man who had been responsible. In his case, he had been able to forget his grief once he had avenged his companions. With Simon, he feared there could be no similar cure. The bailiff had no enemy to catch, for it was a disease which had stolen his child. It was hard to imagine how he could find peace when he would not talk to his wife and try to make sense of their life.

  Frustration at his inability to help his friend made him irritable, and when he recognized the snuffling sound as being the snores of the Constable, his anger flared. Kicking the chair, he sent Tanner sprawling.

  “You are supposed to be guarding Cole, not sleeping, oaf!”

  Blinking, and stifling a yawn, the Constable set his stool upright and grinned apologetically. He was surprised by the knight’s mood, having always found him even-tempered in the past. “My apologies, sir. I just dozed a little.”

  “Never mind that. How is he?”

  “I gave him some food for lunch, and he looked fine. It’s good and cool in the cell at this time of year; I expect he’s more comfortable than you.”

  The knight had to agree with that. Overhead the sun felt as hot as a charcoal brazier, and under his tunic and shirt he could feel the sweat slowly dribbling downward. He tugged the patch of cloth from his purse. “Have you seen anything like this before?”

  Tanner was a massive block of a man, tall and broad, with a face that reminded Baldwin of the wrinkled bark of an ancient oak tree. His mouth was a thin line in his face, and the lips always seemed to be pursed in disapproval, but the brown eyes were quick to smile and held a kindly light. Now he took the piece from the knight and studied it. “This is good quality cloth,” he said tugging at it and pulling free a thread, rolling it meditatively between his fingers. “And a good color, too.”

  “It’s from the dead girl’s tunic,” Baldwin said, and the constable frowned at it.

  “You want to know where it might have come from? There’s only one place I can think of round here, and that’s Harry Fletcher. All the women go to him. He has the best dyes usually, but I’ve never seen anything this good even from him.”

  “I know his place,” Edgar said without thinking.

  His master turned slowly and stared at him. Under the astonished gaze, Edgar reddened. “Perhaps you would like to lead the way, then,” said Baldwin suavely.

  The shop was little more than a narrow shed, out toward the eastern end of the town, and Baldwin realized he must have passed it often, but he rarely took notice of this part of the road. He only went along it when he was on his way to Exeter, and when he returned he usually had other things on his mind, such as how he would survive the remaining miles to Furnshill.

  Edgar stood a short way back, and Baldwin looked at him, intrigued. A brief glance was enough to show him that this shop was not the sort to provide a servant with the clothing he would require. Cloths of many types were displayed on the trestle table on the street, but almost all were brightly colored, and the other items for sale were designed to attract women—nets for hair, wimples, ribbons and flower-embroidered kirtles. Edgar had apparently developed a fascination in a heavy rounsey on the other side of the road. Charitably, Baldwin preferred to assume that his servant was interested in the intricately carved leatherwork of the saddle, or the gleaming blue-black coat of the heavy horse, than simply avoiding his eye.

  The owner was a short, dumpy man in his late twenties. He wore a constant smile, and his twinkling blue eyes, Baldwin was sure, increased his trade significantly. They appeared to flatter and invite confidence, and the knight could well understand how Harry Fletcher managed to tempt the women of the town into his little emporium.

  It appeared that he viewed himself to be the best advertisement for his goods. His tunic was voluminous, reaching down almost to his knees, and was of good quality velvet. On his head was a fine woollen coif, tied under his chin, and the cowl hanging down the back of his neck had fur lining and a long point. It matched his boots, which had the fashionable lengthened toes which were now so popular.

  For all his chubbiness, the man had remarkably nimble fingers, long and narrow, and as he spoke, he toyed with the measuring string which dangled from his neck, pulling and squeezing the knots which he used for measuring like a woman playing with the beads of her necklace.

  “Sir Baldwin, Godspeed. Hello, Edgar. How can I help you both?” Fletcher asked, his voice at its most servile as he looked from one to the other. “Is it something rare you are—”

  “Just listen to my master and answer his questions,” Edgar interjected, and Baldwin decided that henceforth he would take more interest in any illegitimate children in the area. It appeared likely that he might be able to find their father not too far from his own home.

  Baldwin enjoyed the amused surprise on the man’s face and the urgent flush on Edgar’s before smiling and saying, “You must have heard of the death of the girl at the inn?”

  “Poor Sarra? Oh, yes. Very sad. A great shame. Such a nice girl, I always thought.”

  “Did you see her often?”

  The bright eyes dimmed a little. His eyelids had drooped, and Baldwin could see that he was assessing whether he was in any danger. It was all too common for an innocent man to be put on trial, and with ill-educated people on juries, many assumed a man accused must be guilty. It was better to be careful and ensure one was not arrested in the first place. Fletcher considered, and said, “Only occasionally.”

  “She came here for her clothing?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I do not think you had anything to do with her death, but I wanted to know whether she bought any of this from you recently.” Baldwin passed over the fragment of material.

  “This?” Fletcher smiled and shook his head incisively. “Definitely not. Have you any idea how much this costs? No, Sarra, when she came here, mainly came just to look. She never had any money, and she already had a couple of tunics anyway. Why would she spend good money to get another? She wasn’t a lady of importance.”

  The man’s casual attitude toward the girl’s death irritated the knight, and his voice took on an abrasive edge. “She may not have been a ”lady of importance,“ as you put it, but she did not deserve to be murdered, either. Is there anyone else in Crediton who might have sold her cloth like this—or a tunic made from this cloth?”

  “No, sir. There is nobody else in the town who could have sold such material. I had it brought here all the way from Lincoln. It is too fine for the weavers here, no matter what they say, and look at the color! Could anybody think it could be produced here? Cloth like this is only made by the F
lemings, and you have to search even among them for this quality if—”

  “Yes, yes, yes. All right, you have made your point. In that case, who have you sold cloth like this to? How could Sarra have got hold of a tunic like this?”

  “I don’t know how she got it, but I have sold one tunic. To Sir Hector, who’s staying at the inn.”

  “Did he say whom it was for?”

  “No, sir. Perhaps he bought it for Sarra. I understand he liked her.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  The shopkeeper’s smile broadened. “Here. I have many women come here for their wimples and so on, and as soon as Sir Hector and his men arrived, the gossip increased tenfold. Everyone knows how taken he was with poor Sarra at first—until they had their quarrel, anyway.”

  “What quarrel?” Baldwin was not keen on inane chatter, but he knew how sometimes elements of the truth could intrude even into the malicious chitchat of an alewife.

  “Sir Hector, on the day before she died, suddenly threw Sarra out and ordered her not to bother him again. He had lost interest in her.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “A friend of Margery—that is, Paul the innkeeper’s wife. She heard him shouting at Sarra. He said he had found a real woman, and didn’t need a cheap tavern slut any more.”

  “Who did he mean?”

  “Who knows? Perhaps you should ask him…”

  12

  Walking back, the men were quiet. Baldwin was sunk in gloom, wondering whether he would ever understand what was happening, while his servant was trying to hide his relief at leaving Fletcher’s shop. Hugh meandered behind, as stolidly uncommunicative as usual.

  The bailiff shoved his hands into his belt. They were walking up the hill now, and it was harder to push their way through the crowds teeming the roadway. The items on sale changed as they progressed toward the town center. Fish were laid out on trestles, their eyes dull, mouths gaping wide as if still straining for water, while others lay, their colors dim, in barrels alongside. The bakers were next, with loaves and rolls of bread arranged in sweet-smelling piles, ranging from good melchet, made from sieved flour to give it its pale cream color, to less fine cockets, and low-grade brown loaves made from maslin, a wheat and rye mixture for the poorer people. As they approached the shambles where the butchers had their stalls, they came to the cordwainers, with the new shoes on show. Nearby cobblers plied their trade, mending old boots. The smells increased as they came close to the tanners, who took the skins from the butchers and produced rough, dried leather which they sold to the curriers to be smoothed and shaved to an even thickness before oiling it ready for crafting. Gloves, purses, leather bottles and boxes, with patterns carved or painted on them, stood to demonstrate the skills of the craftsmen.

  Simon barely gave the goods a glance, ignoring both the stallholders’ cries and the young children trying to attract his attention by dragging on his cloak. The sights and sounds were familiar, and he had no wish to purchase anything.

  As they came to the church, his eye lighted on a slim figure waiting at Peter’s door. She turned as the four approached—it was the woman in gray.

  Giving money to the poor was an important responsibility of the wealthy, and all rich men tended to provide for those less well-off in the parish. The church had an almoner whose duty it was to see to the well-being of those who could not earn their own living. For, while it was right that those who were too lazy to work should be punished, all accepted that if a man was injured and incapable of looking after himself and his family, or if a man were to die and leave his woman and children without support, it was only right that a Christian community should aid them.

  As he watched, the almoner passed the woman some bread and meats. Peter, he knew, had always provided well for beggars. At his table, before food was passed even to guests, bread and other foods were put in a bowl “to serve God first.” The almoner saved it to give to those who had most need. The woman held the gift in her apron, walking round to the site of the new church, and there Simon saw her kneel. Her child appeared from playing near a scaffold, and they ate with no sign of pleasure, only a kind of desperate haste, peering round as if fearing that if they did not consume it as quickly as possible, someone might take it from them.

  “Simon, look—our friend,” Baldwin murmured, nodding ahead. Following his gaze, Simon saw the captain.

  Sir Hector stood with his back to them, near the entrance to the church. Every now and again he would peer at the inn, then round at the trees, as if measuring the time by the shadows, or searching for someone who could be hiding behind one of the heavy trunks. Simon looked up and down the street. “Is he out here on his own?”

  “For a mercenary captain to let himself be separated from all his men shows a distinct lack of foresight,” said Baldwin. “I suppose here in England he feels that it is safe enough. In Gascony or France he would not be so foolhardy, not with all the enemies he has there.”

  They continued on their way, and from the corner of his eye, Simon saw the woman walk out of the church with her child. She joined the street a little in front of him and his friend, and as he watched her, she approached Sir Hector, holding out her alms bowl like a supplicant.

  “What?” Sir Hector spun as she spoke, scowling ferociously. “Who are you?”

  His voice carried clearly over the hustle of the road, but the woman’s response was smothered. To Simon’s surprise, the knight fell back as if stunned, staring with horror. Mouth gaping, he stood transfixed. Suddenly he moved forward, struck her hand with a clenched fist, and shoved her roughly away from him. The bowl left her hand, whirling off against a wall, and clattered to the ground; a man walking by did not see it, and there was a loud crack as he stepped on it by mistake. She gave a shriek, both hands going to her head as she tried to take in this disaster. Simon thought she looked as if she could hardly comprehend such misfortune. He guessed that the bowl was not only her receptacle for gifts when begging, it was probably her sole means of gathering liquid. To lose it was an unbelievable calamity.

  She sank to her knees, touching the two pieces of wood with a kind of bewildered despair, her son wailing beside her unheeded. Sir Hector watched her for a moment with a sneer twisting his visage, then turned back to his solitary vigil.

  Baldwin pulled out some coins from his purse as he passed her, dropping them into her lap. “Buy a new bowl and some food,” he muttered.

  Seeing them, she was too awestruck to thank him, and staggered up, hauling her son with her, to the shelter of the wall. She clutched the coins to her breast, staring at Baldwin with wild eyes before suddenly darting off.

  “That was uncharitable, Sir Hector.”

  The captain jerked around at the sound of mild reproof in Baldwin’s voice; for a split second Simon thought he was going to hit the Keeper. Evidently Edgar did too, for he hastened to stand by the side of his master.

  “Sir Baldwin. You always appear just as I find myself out of spirits.” His tone was bantering, but to Simon he looked as if he was holding himself in with difficulty. The bailiff was not surprised. Beating a beggar was hardly the sort of behavior to enhance a man’s reputation—but then Sir Hector was a mercenary, a breed of man held in low esteem all over the world. It appeared odd that the captain should be ashamed of a brief loss of temper, a trivial incident, compared with some of his previous actions.

  “You bought that blue tunic: Sarra wore it when she died. Why did you not tell me you had purchased it?” Baldwin’s face was set and angry. It was not only the beating of the poor woman, he was intensely annoyed at having to find out from the shopkeeper something which the knight could have told him that morning.

  “I did not think it was something which concerned you. I still don’t.”

  “I do. When did you give it to her?”

  “Give it to her? You think I’d waste that much money on a—” Sir Hector’s voice had risen almost to a shout, and his jaw stuck out pugnaciously. His eyes moved f
rom Baldwin to Edgar, who had taken a short step forward, so that if the captain was to attack Baldwin, he would have to expose his side to the servant. Edgar smiled thinly and the mercenary brought himself under control with an effort.

  “Sir Hector, you have made me go off on a wild-goose chase when you could have told me the truth this morning. Who was the tunic for, if not for her—and why was Sarra wearing it?”

  “I have no idea why she was wearing it. She must have found it in one of my trunks. I told you we’d argued earlier. She was trying to warn me about my best men, and I told her to go…Well, I did not see her again. How she came to wear that tunic, I have no idea.”

  “Perhaps she thought you had bought it for her,” Simon suggested.

  “Why should she think that?”

  “Women do. You had argued, then she saw the new tunic. She might have thought you had bought her a gift to apologize for shouting at her.”

  Sir Hector stared in disbelief. “Are you serious? Why should I do that? She was only a—”

  “You have given us your opinion of her often enough before,” Baldwin interrupted smoothly. “There is no need for further repetition. When did you buy the tunic?”

  “Yesterday, a day after I’d argued with Sarra. I was just about to go out, and I was in a hurry, when she burst in to tell me that Henry was about to foment disorder in the troop. As if he’d dare!” He turned and began to make his way at a slow amble back to the inn, casting around as if casually, but with enough diligence to make Simon think he was alert for a threat. Or was looking for someone.

  “Isn’t it possible she was right?” mused Baldwin.

  “No,” the captain snapped. “My men are bound to me. Whether they like it or not, they know that I am a man of my word—to them at least! If I was to be deposed, the last person most of them would want in my place would be Henry. He has an annoying habit of taking on new recruits and finding out their secrets, then blackmailing them.”

  “You know about that?” Baldwin burst out, aghast.