Passing his daughter to Hugh, Simon went to the little boy, holding him tightly in his arms, trying to control the crying with the strength of his own body, as if he could pass on a little of his own self-restraint by doing so. Gradually the sobs faded until, shaking and groaning with his misery, eyes streaming with tears, the little boy allowed himself to be taken by the rector.
But Simon did not feel his anguish dissipate. His wife had been here, and now she was gone. Stapledon, who was moaning to himself as he tried to sit upright, had been knocked down with as little compunction as Simon would expect in a man swatting a fly, and not treated with the respect accorded to a man of God.
“Roger, what in God’s name has happened?”
“Bailiff, I—”
“Where’s Margaret? She was here, wasn’t she? Where’s she gone?”
“Bailiff, it was the butcher, Adam. He struck the Bishop, then took your wife—”
“Where, man! Where did he go?”
A hand shot out, pointing the way. “There, toward the church. I saw him take her that way. To the church.”
“Daddy!”
He heard the terror in his daughter’s voice. “Come here, Edith. It’s all right.”
She rushed into his arms and he held her close for a moment, but then he lowered her to the ground. “You stay here, my love, you understand? I’ll go and get Mummy. We’ll come back here.”
Simon set off at a run. He was unaware of the others, of the way that Hugh thrust Edith into the arms of the dumbfounded Peter Clifford before chasing after him, or how Baldwin made haste to follow; he was only aware that Margaret was in mortal danger, in the clutches of a murderer who appeared able to kill without compunction and for no reason. Simon was determined to save her.
Up the garden he pelted, then into Peter’s hall and along the screens, his boots slapping hard on the flags. If Adam was heading for the church, this was the quickest way there. Out into the yard he ran, scaring a horse and making it rear so that the ostler cursed as he tried to bring it back under control. He skidded over the cobbles of the outer yard, and across the grass of the old graveyard, toward the scaffolding which encompassed the new building like a haphazard fence.
Vaguely he was aware of figures running behind him, but his concentration was fixed on the red stone edifice in front. He pounded over the turves and rubbish of the works, until a pair of figures up at the top caught his attention, and he stopped dead.
One he recognized immediately. With her golden hair, strawberry-tinted in the late sun, streaming behind her, her cap dangling from a string, Margaret was carefully ascending one of the topmost ladders. Behind her, as nimble on the slender planks, as sure-footed as a cat, a long dagger in one hand, was the butcher.
This would make them regret their corruption. They would know from now on that if there was one man they could not cheat, that man was him. He would make them realize that they could not avoid their duties. They would have to arrest the captain of mercenaries. He was obviously guilty. Adam had made sure that the evidence pointed to him, and they could not possibly have missed the proofs.
At the top of the highest ladder he halted, breathing deeply. It was strange that he felt so little fear. Usually he would be nervous standing on top of a small stool, but today he was up here, on top of a tall scaffold, with a view over the whole of the county, as far as he could tell. To the west were the hills rolling toward Barn-staple and the sea, while eastward the road disappeared on the way to Exeter.
He sighed with contentment. This was wonderful: marvellous! He felt superhuman, capable of anything. The dagger was as light as purest down in his hand, his feet were assured on the narrow boards which the builders used as flooring, and his mind was perfectly clear. He was rational and more aware of himself than ever before.
A workman sauntered round the scaffolding from the other side and stopped, open-mouthed, at seeing the two. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, but then he saw the knife. Snapping his mouth shut, he turned and fled.
Smiling at his captive, Adam tied her hands tightly, then motioned vaguely with the knife toward the men below. “Do you know who they are?” he enquired. “They know who I am, but I have only met a couple of them before now. Curious, how lives can become intertwined. Theirs and mine, and all because of a man who was prepared to steal my wife. There was no reason for him to do that; he just took her because he could. Why did she want him? She didn’t fight, you know, she just accepted him into her bed—my bed!—when she thought I was out. But I surprised them.” He gave a chuckle. “Oh, yes. I surprised them.”
Margaret stared at him. “Did you…kill them?” she managed.
“Kill them? No, that would have been foolish. I would have had my revenge, but where would the justice have been? No, I wanted him to suffer for what he had done. I could have stabbed him there, while he lay in my bed, but he wouldn’t have had the expectation of his agony; it would have been a quick and easy death, and I didn’t want that for him, not for the man who ruined me and my Mary. Poor Mary.” He broke off and frowned at his long knife, and when he continued it was with a contemplative quietness. “She was my life, my whole life. All I ever wanted. I would have done anything to make her happy, yet she betrayed me; I gave her presents and toys, but she went to another man. She never hinted that I had failed her, there was not an angry word between us, but she preferred this mercenary.”
Below, Margaret could see the small knot of men swelling as others joined, all pointing up at her and chattering. She could just make out her husband, and imagined his stark horror, almost convinced she could see the expression on his face. He would be terrified in case he lost her too. Peterkin was bad enough, but to lose her as well, she thought, would be likely to unbalance his mind. She wanted to kiss him, to smile once more into his serious gray eyes and hug him, and wondered whether she would be able to ever again.
“Down there, they all think I simply went mad. They think I killed the women for no reason. What do they know of love, of loss?” he sneered, gesticulating, then shouted, waving his blade derisively. “What are you all staring at? Come up here, if you wish to talk, you cowards. I’m not corrupt. I’m not false or devious. I’m not a lying official lining my own pocket at the expense of justice!”
Margaret remained silent, staring down at her husband with a strange sense of serenity. Her hands were bound, and she could not try to run from this odd little man with his terrifying prattle, inconsequential yet deadly. There was no point in trying to escape, since if she were to keep from his clutches, she would surely fall in the attempt. The planks up here on the highest level were thin boards of split timber, roughly cracked away from boughs in lengths by wedges hammered in with the grain of the wood, and they had all warped and twisted in the sunlight as they dried. Some had been lashed to the scaffolding, but much of it was loose, the workers relying on their own skill and sure-footedness for their safety.
She let herself slide down until she was crouched on a plank, hands gripping a vertical scaffold pole before her, and began praying. Her only regret was, if she were to die here this afternoon, that she had not been given a last chance to tell her husband how much she loved him.
Baldwin put a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “My friend, come away. There’s nothing else for you to do here. Why not—”
“Leave me be, Baldwin. You would not have me desert my wife while there’s still a chance I might be able to do something.”
“It would be better if you were to go.”
“Why?” Simon shrugged the hand from his shoulder, but when he turned, his face was not angry, only sad and anxious. “So that if she were to die, I would be spared the sight? Come now, what about her? Do you think she would be happier to see me leave her all alone, or would she be better pleased to know that I am here, and will do all in my power to save her? She may not want me to see her die, but she’d be devastated if I was to disappear. It would be the last indignity, to see me run when I might be able to help her.
”
Baldwin felt the unfamiliar sting of dampness at his eyes, and he wordlessly rested a fist on his friend’s shoulder and nodded.
“In the meantime,” Simon muttered, “tell someone to get all the workers away from the place. The last thing we want is the bloody fool to become scared by them and kill Meg and himself.”
“Master?” Hugh came and stood beside them, squinting up at the figures high above. His voice was calm and quiet. “There’s a second set of ladders on the other side of the church. I think I could get up there.”
“Are you sure?” Simon’s face showed his desperate hope, and Hugh nodded.
Ever since Simon had rescued him from the tedium of life as a sheep farmer on the northeastern limits of the moors, out at Drewsteignton, Hugh had been devoted to Simon. When he married, Hugh had quickly grown to adore Margaret, and his feelings for Edith and Peterkin had bordered on adulation. It was impossible for him to stand by and watch the woman die and then, as must inevitably happen, the ruination of his master: the idea was unimaginable. “I can do it,” he said confidently.
“It’s a long way up,” Baldwin said uncertainly. He knew only too well that Hugh was terrified of heights, and had only recently overcome his fear of being as high as on horseback.
“I can do it,” Hugh repeated stubbornly.
“Very well,” Simon said. “Show me where it is. I’ll—”
“Simon, no!” Baldwin interrupted. “You mustn’t! You must remain here and talk to Adam, try to distract him so he doesn’t see us approaching.”
“I must do something. Hugh here can show me how to get up there, then I can try to save her.”
“Master, Sir Baldwin is right,” Hugh said urgently. “You have to be here where she can see you. Like you said, how will she feel if she sees you going?”
“And how will I live with myself if I do not try?” Simon asked, but he was cut short by the butcher, who began waving his arms and bellowing. Simon watched, hardly heeding as his wife slipped down to sit, exhausted from exertion and fear.
“Bailiff? You can hear, can’t you? How do you feel about your wife being killed, eh? How would you like to see her down there with you right now? Shall I push her, make her fall? Or should I stab her first, so she’s dead before she lands? Which would you prefer?”
“Baldwin,” Simon muttered, “I have to go up there.”
“You cannot. I shall go in your place. No, Simon, no arguing. You must remain here: the man clearly knows you and is trying to get at you for some reason. Listen to him—he is mad, but not stupid. If you disappear even for a moment, he will notice, and what then for Margaret’s chances? This is not a matter of honor, any more than disputing a path with a rabid wolf is honorable. Both are situations which call for serious actions. With a wolf one must kill it or die; here we must kill Butcher before he can harm Margaret…
“Simon, you must stay here! Occupy him—keep him talking. Hugh, you come with me,” Baldwin commanded. He made his way back toward the road, Hugh and Edgar following. Once in the street, they went a short way west, until they were hidden by a tall hedge. “Now, Hugh, lead on. But remember, be quick!”
24
She shivered. It was not because of any inclemency in the weather, for she could feel the warmth of the late-afternoon sun on her right shoulder. Ahead of her was a high hill, for Crediton and the church lay in a valley, and all she could see was the tips of the trees rising up the hillside and over its summit. This late in the year, their leaves were yellow, brown or red, and the gold of the dying sun’s light tinted them with a roseate hue. Each individual plant seemed to glow with an inner glory, and she found herself wondering in awe at such beauty. It was as if she had gone through her life without noticing such things before, and seeing these colors for the first time made her appreciate how precious such simple sights were. The rich gorgeousness of the picture pulled at the strings of her heart, and a quick sob surprised her, as unexpected as a sudden sneeze.
Squaring her shoulders, she looked away. She refused to allow the butcher to think her scared.
But Adam was paying her no heed. Leaning over the low railing, he leered down. “You thought you’d fooled me, didn’t you, Bailiff? Thought the wool was pulled over my eyes. But I’m not a cretin, I can see things when they face me, and I could see you’d taken the mercenary’s money to prevent him being arrested.”
“I have taken no money from him,” came the bewildered protestation from below, and Adam snarled in disbelief.
“No money? No bribe? You, an official, refused to take a bribe to defeat justice? You must be an honorable, virtuous man, Bailiff, a truly perfect gentleman. You expect me to believe that, when after all the proofs you refused to have him arrested? He was guilty of adultery, of murder, and all the women who died were associated with him, weren’t they? Who else could be suspected?”
Simon stared up at the man. The little rotund face which the bailiff had previously thought to be practically comical in its good humor, was strained, and the features worked uncontrollably. “Please, God, hear my prayers. Let Baldwin reach him before he can hurt my Meg,” he breathed.
The wall led round the perimeter of the church, and out to an alley behind, and it was here that the three men paused. They could discern shouting from the front, but there was no sound from here, at the back. With a short nod, Baldwin led the way at a run. They crossed beneath some huge trees, to the yard behind the church.
Here massive blocks of red stone lay in orderly piles, while chips and fragments crunched under their boots, strewn all over as liberally as clitter on the moors. Tools lay all around: sledgehammers and chisels, saws and drills, buckets and ropes, windlasses for pulling heavy loads up to the highest levels, anvils and braziers, all rested where they had been dropped by the startled workers.
To their left was the first of the ladders. Baldwin looked at it apprehensively. It seemed strong and heavy, constructed to take the weight of many men and their loads. Its solid rungs were hardly worn, and he noted that it must be of fairly new construction, but as his eyes followed its path skyward, he swallowed. It was a very long way to the top.
Forcing down his fear, he cautiously made his way to its base, standing with his hands on either rail, and steeling himself, began to climb.
The first quarter of the ladder was little problem. He refused to glance down, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the wall in front, and found that the mechanical effort of lifting one foot, setting it down on a rung, then repeating the operation for the other foot, was relatively simple and painless. Then he approached the middle, and things got a great deal worse.
It was the rhythmic bumping that did it, he thought as he clung to the wobbling woodwork, eyes wide in horror. He felt as if he was moving yards at a time, in toward the wall, then away, with such force he was convinced the top of the ladder must spring from the scaffolding and hurtle away, pinning him and the other two underneath it as it fell.
“What is it?” he heard Edgar hiss, and with a supreme effort he managed to raise a foot carefully and plant it once more on a rung. He dared not look down at his servant, or speak in case his voice carried to the other side of the church. And from that moment until he came to the top of the ladder, he loathed Edgar.
At the top, he sidled sideways to fetch up on a plank, and here for a moment he allowed himself to catch his breath, still staring at the wall of the new church. He became aware of the two men coming up, and soon his heart lurched as the planks bounced under the weight of the others. Stifling a curse, he turned to motion to them to keep still, when he caught a glimpse of the scenery, and was held spellbound with fascinated terror at the height. He felt paralyzed, like a mouse freezing into immobility under the gaze of a cat. It was only when Edgar tapped him on the shoulder that he came to and prepared himself for the next stage of the climb.
This ladder was lashed loosely to the scaffolding at its base, which at least offered some degree of security to the quailing Keeper. Once more the
center section rocked and bounced, filling him with dread, convinced now that the whole structure, not merely the ladder but the entire scaffold, must collapse. He clenched his teeth as he crossed the threshold of panic and continued upward.
There was only one more ladder, and this was shorter, but smaller in size, and considerably older. Hugh was after him, and he tugged his dagger free and tested the blade meditatively while they waited for Edgar.
Hugh had never felt so cold and pitiless before. He had been involved in fights often enough, especially when thieves tried to steal his lambs for the pot when he had been a boy, but this was not the anticipation of a fight, this was the righteous determination to seek justice. Nobody had the right to take captive his mistress, yet this little man was holding her and threatening to kill her. Hugh was determined to protect her, and in so doing, the family of the master. If he had anything to do with it, Margaret would be safe, and the butcher would die for what he had done.
It was not something in his blood which made him murderous; it was the memory of what had happened to Rollo after his mother had died, and the thought of how poor little Edith would react to hearing that her mother, her devoted mummy, had died. This made him tingle with animal anticipation, pricking the ball of his thumb on the point of his blade to see how sharp it was.
Edgar looked from him to his master with a blank expression. Hugh, he could see, was in a black mood, a killing mood, while Baldwin was close to shivering with fear. He stepped so slowly and carefully he looked as if he thought he was going to fall through a plank at any moment. It almost made Edgar want to laugh—or weep with frustration.
“Why didn’t you arrest him?” The thin voice floated down in the stillness before twilight with a curious calmness. “I tried to help you, you know. I tried to show you what he had done. First adultery, then the girl in the chest. The pauper was an old flame of his, and then my wife was a lover of his as well. I mean—it could hardly have been more obvious, could it? But you ignored all the hints. He must have paid you a fortune to keep away from him! That’s what you do, isn’t it? Take money to make sure that those who can afford it, avoid the rope. How can you justify your corruption?”
Crediton Killings Page 28
