At this, Will gave a puzzled frown. “You think Sir Hector killed her, then moved her to my bed in the hay? He can’t have, he was in his rooms all night.”
Baldwin stared at the confused mercenary, then at Wat, who was grimly studying the floor. “Is that true?”
“I had someone outside his door all night,” Wat admitted ungraciously, mentally cursing Will. He had no wish for Baldwin to hear about the attempted assassination. “It seemed a good idea after I heard about Judith being found. If he had tried to collect this woman and hide her, he’d have been seen.”
“Ah,” said Baldwin quietly, and Simon wandered to a seat and dropped into it, gazing up at Wat.
“That, Wat, was rather what I expected,” he said. “Unless we can prove that Sir Hector had an accomplice, I think we might be forced to assume he is innocent.”
Wat stared from one to the other, mouth open in astonishment. “You’re both mad!”
Simon rested his chin on his fists. “No,” he said tiredly. “But I think someone is.”
He was suddenly exhausted. The day had begun so hopefully, with their questioning of the woman in the alley, and then had taken a positive turn when they discovered the identity of Sir Hector’s lover…but now their hopes had been dashed. That was the bewildering thing about these killings; as soon as they felt they were getting close to seeing a pattern and could put their hands on the killer, something else happened to throw them off. The robbery had at first appeared to be a simple affair, and then they had found Sarra; Judith’s murder had apparently placed suspicion firmly on Sir Hector’s shoulders; finding Mary under the hay had initially appeared to confirm the guilt of the captain.
The door banged as Wat and his companion left. The older mercenary strode out angrily, probably, Simon thought, because he could see his independent command being stolen from him even as he tried to grasp it.
“Could it have been him?” he wondered.
“Who? Wat? Possibly. He wants his master ousted hard enough, that is for certain,” Baldwin said, stretching and groaning before slumping back in his seat. “His whole ambition is tied up with getting himself the leadership of his group.”
“It’s strange how everything seems to point to Sir Hector. Wat could have killed the woman, then tried to make it look as if his master was guilty, so that he could take on the captainship.”
“Yes. But there are so many others in the band—did one of them do it?”
“Wat was Sir Hector’s servant when Sarra was killed. He might have given her the dress and stabbed her, hiding her in the chest to make it look as if his master was responsible.”
“It is possible, but I find it hard to believe. Wat could have told her to wear the tunic, and made sure that Sir Hector saw her in it, relying on his master’s anger to cause her death, but I doubt that he himself killed her and hid her. Why should he take the risk? And the second woman, Judith. How could Wat have known about her? I suppose Sir Hector might have mentioned seeing her that day, but it seems unlikely. Sir Hector never struck me as being the sort to require a confidant, and in the mood he was in that day, I doubt whether he would have wanted to more than bark at his men for looking sloppy after being, as he saw it, stood up by Mary for some hours.”
“If what he said about her being supposed to meet him there is true…I must confess, I believed him when he said that.”
“Yes, so did I.”
“Was she avoiding him, do you think? Sir Hector might have made himself so much of a pest to Mary Butcher that she kept away from him. That in itself could have angered him so much that when he did get her alone, he did away with her.”
Baldwin eyed the body on the table before them. “It is possible,” he agreed. “But anyone can see that he is sorely affected by her death.”
“True. I thought the same. His pain was all too apparent.”
Slamming a fist into the palm of his hand, Baldwin stood irritably. “This is ridiculous! Three women are dead, a serious robbery has been committed, and yet we are nowhere near resolving any of it.”
They made their way from the room, leaving instructions that the body should be kept until the priest could arrange for its collection, and paused outside, staring toward the butcher’s shop. Baldwin frowned. “We should see if Adam is back yet. It would be best that one of us speaks to him before he hears of his wife’s murder from another.”
Simon agreed. They walked to the shop, but the apprentice, who was preparing hams now, said that his master still had not returned. Baldwin asked him to make absolutely sure that the butcher went to Peter Clifford’s house the minute he got back, then they fetched their horses and carried on to Peter’s.
He rubbed vigorously at his temples. It was incomprehensible. They had found her, but he was still free. Surely they could see that he must be the guilty one? Who else had any kind of an attachment to all three of them? The Keeper and his friend must be blind or incompetent.
Then his eyes cleared, and the fog in his brain began to dissipate as he realized at last what it must mean. Slowly, he raised his head and stared at the wall opposite. They had been bribed.
It was all too common. All over the country, men involved in the legal system were taking money to line their own pockets; sheriffs, bailiffs and reeves were regularly purged in order to control their worst excesses. For a fee, the right witnesses could be found to bolster any dispute, and if the price was high enough, an entire jury could be guaranteed to provide the right result.
That must be it, he thought, and his eyes glittered with righteous fury. To be denied justice was an insult—and after so much planning, too. His lips set into an indignant sneer. And it was all because the Keeper was corrupt.
But the Keeper had a reputation for honesty, he knew, and a puzzled frown overtook his petulance. All in the town spoke of his determination to seek justice for plaintiffs, and if he were so corrupt, surely he would have given himself away before now? The Keeper was involved with almost every important case, and yet there were no slanders about his character or fairness. He was always considered reasonable and wise, finding the common ground and resolving issues often before any lawyers could get involved. Why should he suddenly have become dishonest?
Then he drew in his breath with the realization of who must have betrayed him. The Keeper was fair and honest, a kindly man known for fair dealing, but perhaps he was too gullible. A devious and unscrupulous man might be able to pull the wool over his eyes with great ease, especially a man who was used to manipulating the system and other people. A man who was himself involved in the law, who knew how to alter the facts, or, at least, could change how those facts were perceived, could easily make the Keeper confused enough to leave free the wrong man.
His face was white now as he saw his error. It was not the Keeper who was his enemy: it was the Keeper’s friend—the bailiff of Lydford Castle.
Quickly now, he ran through how Simon Puttock must have deliberately misinformed the Keeper. First he must have taken money from the captain, for no one deliberately changed the outcome of a trial for nothing. Sir Hector must have bribed him, then, and the bailiff accepted the money to protect the mercenary. From then on, he would have prompted people to change their evidence, making them think they were helping justice as they tried to please him, lying…no, not necessarily lying. Some of them probably thought the bailiff was right and they had been mistaken. It was so easy for an uneducated man to be confused with legal prattle.
No doubt some had been bribed to lie. That Wat was untrustworthy; he had always thought so. The mercenary looked like a friendly old man, until you stared hard into his eyes, and then you could see how the resentment flickered and burned. Of course, the man was safe from most, but not from someone who understood how dark the soul could be; not from someone who had learned how evil even those whom one had trusted completely might become. For nobody could be trusted; only oneself and one’s dagger were certain.
But what could he do about it? His eyes were haunte
d as he considered his awful predicament. Clearly the main obstacle to justice was the bailiff. Simon Puttock must be forced to admit his complicity with the captain, or suffer.
Then his mind, with a wonderful clarity of insight, focused on how he might force the duplicitous bailiff to confess his guilt.
And he smiled.
Peter Clifford watched as the two men were helped from their horses. Bound at the wrists, they were uncomfortable and peevish, but though both sulked, neither attempted to deny their guilt. The packmule loaded with its three heavy sacks told its own tale.
Sighing, Peter went back inside to wait. Baldwin and Simon had arrived a little earlier, and the bailiff was out in the garden with his wife and daughter, while Baldwin was ensconced in a large throne-like chair, his fingers steepled together, head bowed as if in prayer.
Hearing the priest enter, he glanced up. “They’re here?”
“Yes.” Peter crossed the room to another seat. He had just settled himself when Stapledon’s men entered with their prisoners. Others trailed along behind and dumped their sacks with a merry clanking that sounded like hundreds of horseshoes clattering on the rush-covered stone floor.
Baldwin studied the two men for a moment, then gestured at the sacks. “Do you deny the theft now?”
Henry looked up sulkily. His eye was blackened, and his hair was matted over his forehead where he had been struck with a cudgel when he tried to make a run for it. He met the Keeper’s gaze with as much dignity as he could muster. “Look at us, sir. We’ve been beaten, bound, and hauled back here against our will, and—”
“Silence! Don’t think you can brazen this out. You were caught with the stolen goods on you, trying to sell them for the best possible price. I am sorely tempted to throw you to your captain for him to mete out justice, for I think he would be keen to exact his own price on you for your disloyalty. Tell me now, what happened on the day you stole all this plate.”
It was at this point that Simon entered. He walked in with Hugh, and they moved quietly along the wall to seat themselves at a bench a little way behind Baldwin.
Simon was surprised at the anger in his friend’s voice. He had often seen Baldwin interrogating people, but never had he witnessed the knight in such a state of complete cold fury. From where he sat he could not see Baldwin’s face, but the chilling tones obviously reflected his temper perfectly.
It was rare for Baldwin to feel like this, and he was himself a little shocked by his mood, but to his way of thinking, the robbery had sparked off the series of murders. He had an urge to blunt his bitter rage at so many pointless killings on the two men who had begun the chain of events.
“Sir, all we have done was take some things from our captain because he owed us money.”
“You robbed a man of his own possessions. And killed a girl, an innocent little girl who had done you no harm—”
“That’s a lie!” John Smithson declared hotly. “We never hurt her. She was just—”
“Shut up, you idiot! Do you want to wear a hemp necklace?” Henry snarled.
“You shut up. I won’t swing for what Hector’s done!”
“Tell us what happened, I am sick to death of the lies and innuendos I have been given by you two and the others in the gang. There have been three deaths now, and I want to know what’s been going on.”
“Three deaths?” Henry repeated. He was quieter now, his eyes wide with horror. “But we’ve had nothing to do with them.” Then, a little bolder, “They must have been after we left. You can’t say we did them.”
“I can say a lot,” Baldwin said pointedly. “I can say that one happened during your robbery, another on the night you left town. We don’t know when the third murder took place, but it was quite likely while you were still here.”
“Who? Who were they?”
“Sarra you know of. The night you left, a poor beggar woman called Judith was murdered in an alleyway, and today we have found the body of Mary Butcher.”
“Why would we kill a load of women we knew nothing about?”
“You knew Sarra,” Simon interjected. “You tried to rape her the night you all got here.”
“That wasn’t rape! We thought she was just a tavern-wench; we never thought she’d be worried. Anyway, we left her alone when Hector told us to.”
“But you wanted her, didn’t you?” Baldwin continued. “And you killed her later—from jealousy, maybe, or perhaps just because she was there and saw you stealing the plate.”
Smithson shot a look at his confederate. “No,” he said wearily. “That’s not how it was.”
His quiet tones were in contrast to Henry’s outraged protestations, and Simon breathed a little easier. While Baldwin had been examining the men, Simon had been unsure as to how the two would react, but John Smithson’s change of temper heralded a change in the wind for the pair.
“That’s not how it was at all,” he said again, his head downcast. “We had nothing to do with the killing. It was like this. We were here five or so years ago, staying in the same inn for a while. Me and Henry met Adam then, and we all got on. He was a bully man, keen on a joke and having fun, and had a good stock of comic tales. It was fine to sit up with a jug of strong ale with him of an evening. Of course, then he had been apprentice to his old master, who still has his shop in the shambles with the other butchers. Adam managed to get his new place three or four years ago.”
“Do you know how he managed to afford it?” Simon interjected.
“No, sir. But I could guess. Adam was never one to quail from risks if the money was good. He was always prepared to take a gamble if he could see profit, and I expect he won the money.”
“Or fooled someone into giving it to him,” Baldwin guessed.
“Maybe, sir. Anyway, Henry and me have been with Sir Hector for many years now. Earlier on it was fine, with good profits and the chance to rule ourselves as we liked, but things have been getting slack recently. Sir Hector’s become too easygoing. He used to be a strong man, able to bend anyone to his will, but times have changed. For the past year we’ve not won a single contract, and the money’s been hard to come by. It was late last year that we decided there was nothing worth doing in Gascony. We’d heard there were good sums to be gained out in Morocco, fighting with the Moors to protect their lands from their Eastern neighbors, but Sir Hector was against the idea, and others backed him up. So we set off to return to England.
“The grumbling began almost as soon as we landed at London. The prices there are insane! It’s a wonder that anyone can afford to live there, the way that the citizens have tied everyone into their guilds and clubs. Anyway, it wasn’t long before we heard about the war in the north, and the King’s new army, so we set off to join him.
“But even the King turned us down. For experience, for training, for determination, he could not ask for better troops, but Edward did not want us.”
“Perhaps,” Baldwin remarked, “he had heard tell that you had changed sides before.”
John stared with open astonishment. “But anyone would do that when his side begins to lose! It’s only common sense.”
Baldwin said nothing, eyeing him grimly, and the man continued defensively: “When Edward’s commissioners rejected us, the complaints became near to outright rebellion. Some of the lads were suggesting that the captain should be chucked. It was his responsibility to keep the men together, his job to find us new contracts, for there is no point to our way of life if we have no one who wants us, no one to pay for us. We might just as well be villeins in another’s army. And the trouble was, we were always seen to be loyal men of Sir Hector’s. None of the others trusted us because they thought we were with him.
“It came to a head some miles from Winchester, on our way back to the coast. We approached Wat to join his side. The last thing we wanted was to be killed for being too loyal to Sir Hector. But he refused to listen—denied any scheme to oust Sir Hector. So it was obvious we no longer had any safety in the company. We thoug
ht we’d better run—and the silver would make life easier for us.
“When we got back here, and met with Adam again, the idea of getting away seemed like the best one for us. If we stayed, we would get killed; if we left, we could find another company or do something else. Try farming, make a new assart: anything.
“We saw Adam on the way into town, and later that afternoon, he came to us at the inn and suggested we should meet the next night, when all the men would be a bit quieter. We couldn’t see him that night, because Sir Hector was set for a good banquet. As you know, our captain went out next morning, told us later he’d met with his woman again—”
“Mary Butcher,” Baldwin observed.
“Yes, sir. Like you say, Mary, Adam Butcher’s wife. We were horrified.”
“And you told Adam?”
“God’s blood, no!” The exclamation was too emphatic to be false. “Don’t you know what his temper is like? If we’d done that, Adam would have been in there straight away with a cleaver. No, we didn’t mention her at all.”
“But I suppose your master was pleased to hear you would be drinking with his lover’s husband?”
John bit his lip sheepishly. “He asked us to take Adam away for a bit, said we’d be well rewarded if Adam could be made to have an accident, but we refused.”
Crediton Killings Page 26
