“We didn’t know, Adam.” Simon cried, aware of the desperation in his voice. “We thought the first girl died during the robbery, and the second we just weren’t sure about. Then, when we found your wife, we were right to think it wasn’t him, weren’t we? It was you all along, after all. But this has nothing to do with my wife, has it? Why not let her go?”
“NO!” The scream made the blood turn to ice in Simon’s veins. “Why should I, eh? Why should I let you have a life again? Why should I let you enjoy your woman again, when mine has been taken from me? Why should you deserve her when my own angel, my precious darling, is dead? Why should I let her live when you have ruined my life?”
“But I haven’t,” Simon protested desperately, his hands held out. “All I did was try to help my friend seek out the truth. It wasn’t a deliberate attempt to hurt you, just a seeking out of the facts—”
“Liar! You took his money to protect him, you can’t fool me!” To Simon’s horror, he began to edge his way nearer Margaret. “The Keeper is known to be fair and decent, I can’t believe he’d have tried to cheat me of justice, so who else could it have been, eh? Who else was with him day after day, investigating the affair, poisoning his mind by lies and treachery? There was nobody else—but you! You made him believe Sir Hector was innocent, that he was not the killer, that he hadn’t enjoyed my wife. It was all you!”
“Adam, look, why don’t you let me explain, let me tell you how it really was?” Simon pleaded.
“You—explain? But you’re a liar! How could I believe a word you told me?” Adam jeered. “The only one I could believe is the Keeper. He’s at least honorable, and maybe he should know the truth, so he can hold you in…” His voice faded as he surveyed the area before the church. “Where is he?” he screamed suddenly. “Where is he, the Keeper? He was here before, I saw him. Where’s he gone?”
“Nowhere. He just went to—”
“Now you’re lying again! You always lie—you’re corrupt! He’s gone, hasn’t he—but where to? Is he false too?” The tone of his voice had risen, and now he was screeching like an alewife. “Is he corrupt as well? He is, isn’t he?”
With mounting despair Simon saw his wife give him a wan smile as the butcher got behind her, and put the point of his knife at her throat.
“Please, please don’t hurt her! Look, I’ll come up myself—take me instead, don’t hurt her. She’s done you no harm, it’s me you want, so take me! Let me come up, I’ll bring no weapon, and you can do what you want with me. I’ll—”
“No! No! No! I want to see you grovel, I want to see you in agony. I want you to realize what my life has become, to suffer like I’m suffering. My wife is ruined and dead, and the man responsible is free still, and it’s your fault—all your fault! Well, watch this, Bailiff. Let’s see how bravely your own wife dies!”
From the bottom of the ladder, Hugh heard the conversation. Ignoring the others, he rushed up it; reaching the planking, he sprang forward, his dagger grasped firmly in his fist. He took in the situation at a glance; the butcher stood with his back to him on the opposite wall. Hugh sprinted to the corner, and then approached along the shorter wall. He was too far to attempt to throw his knife yet, so he grabbed his purse, sliced through the cords which bound it, and hurled it with all his might at the butcher’s back.
Adam snarled like a terrier distracted from its prey, and turned, his teeth bared. He shook a fist, and was about to turn back to Margaret, but Hugh now was close enough. He tossed his dagger up lightly, catching it by the very tip of the blade, then hurled it, roaring as he pounded along the ramshackle planking.
Dropping his own knife, Adam stared angrily at the bone handle which protruded from his breast. He muttered, and caught at the handle, as if to tug it free, but a thin dribble of blood spat from his lips, and he seemed to have lost all energy. His fingers were heavy, so very heavy, and it was hard simply to grip the knife. He gibbered in impotent rage, letting his arms fall as Hugh came closer, and took a step back. With a hideous screech of blind terror, he stumbled too far and fell over the edge.
Margaret watched his body fall. It took a long time to strike the ground, she noticed unemotionally, and his cry went on for ages until it suddenly stopped with a dull thud.
She was aware of Hugh at her side, his hands taking her by the shoulders and turning her to face him, while he studied her throat anxiously, giving a huge sigh of relief when he saw that there was no damage. She stared up at him lethargically, wanting to stand, but the effort was too much, and even when he offered her his hand, she could hardly grip it. He had to heave her up to her feet, and even then she found her legs simply could not support her. She had to lean against him for fear of following Adam over the edge.
Soon Edgar and Baldwin were there with them. Baldwin cut the thongs binding her wrists, and between the three of them they managed to get her to the ladder and gradually helped her down with the aid of a rope.
At the bottom, Simon groaned as he caught her up in his arms and buried his head in her shoulder. Baldwin and the others left the couple to themselves.
25
“As to why he killed them, I suppose we’ll never know,” Baldwin said.
They were back in Peter Clifford’s hall, drinking Hippocras. The strong fumes of the wine, mingled with the ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves, gave off a scent which dispelled their fears and calmed their nerves.
Simon needed it. He sat by his friend, but still held the hand of his wife firmly. Right now he felt that he would never dare leave hold of it. He had learned in a very short space of time how much he adored her. The events of the afternoon had nearly shattered his mind, as the butcher had hoped. Glancing at Margaret and squeezing her fingers affectionately, he noted the lines on her brow, the heavy bruises under her eyes and the paleness of her face. It was only with an effort that he stopped himself kissing her.
Stapledon frowned. “From what you say, it was all done in an attempt to frame the mercenary.”
“Yes, as far as we can tell. From what he said, it was in order to put the blame directly on Sir Hector that he murdered the women, including his own wife.”
“A hideous act.”
“As you observe, an appalling deed. By all accounts he was very much in love with Mary, and when he discovered she was having an adulterous affair—and there appears to be no doubt whatever on that score—he went quite mad. To kill two innocents, and his own wife…Well, it beggars belief.”
Simon nodded. The little butcher must have been quite demented. He picked up his goblet and sipped, then froze. “Baldwin, have you given any instructions for releasing Cole or Sir Hector?”
“Oh…” Baldwin met Peter Clifford’s eye shamefacedly and decided not to curse. It always offended the priest. With a slight grin, he continued, “No—thanks, for reminding me.”
“I should send someone to invite them both here for a celebratory drink. Wat is still holding Sir Hector, isn’t he? Let the message go to him. Ask Wat to bring his master under guard.”
“Simon, are you planning something?” Baldwin asked suspiciously.
“Me? Of course not. The very idea!”
Stapledon watched them bemusedly. What were they planning now? It was hard to tell, but he thought he could discern something in their bantering tones, though they were too far away for him to see their expressions.
He was staggered that Margaret Puttock had been prepared to remain with her man. If he’d been her, he would have retired immediately to his room and slept, he was sure, for the story of how she had been captured and hauled aloft had been told and retold many times already, and all the servants in the house were treating her with huge respect after her ordeal. He was surprised that she had not lost her sense after such a trial, and was uncomfortably aware that his own conduct in similar circumstances might not have been so praiseworthy.
Now the two men were talking in undertones, nodding as each confirmed points with the other, and Stapledon strained his ears. They
were not being quiet to hide anything, but more because their speech was an extension of each other’s thoughts. For these men, talking to the other in a low voice was indistinguishable from carrying on a sequence of logical mental processes, Stapledon thought to himself. They were almost as close as a husband and wife in the way that they appeared to be able to anticipate the words of the other and counter an argument before it had been fully expressed.
Accepting a fresh goblet of Hippocras, he wearily sank back in his chair. His head still hurt abominably, but he had suffered no long-term damage, as the surgeon had assured him. There was no loose bone where he had been struck, and for such an old man, the surgeon had implied, it was a miracle that he had suffered no worse injury. He curled his lip wryly as he recalled the highly un-Godly words he had used to drive the skinny medico from his room bawling the man out for his nerve.
The first of the two men to arrive was Cole. He looked dreadful, with his greasy hair flat on one side, and almost vertical on the crown where he had run his fingers through it. His complexion was pale and he looked as if he had been suffering from a fever, his skin was so waxy, and the general impression of illness was added to by the nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth. Tanner stood behind him, waiting for confirmation from Baldwin that he was permitted to free his prisoner, and he cut the thongs that bound Cole’s hands as soon as Baldwin nodded to him. Thankfully, and for the first time in many days, Cole dropped onto a stool, wondering what had happened to cause his miraculous release.
Less than a quarter of an hour later Sir Hector arrived with Wat and another guard. His appearance was in every way the reverse of Cole’s, making the distinction even more marked. His face was ruddy from exercise, his eyes clear and steady, his stance firm and assured.
“You asked me to come and celebrate. I understand you have ended this unhappy affair, and that Adam Butcher is dead?”
“Yes,” Baldwin smiled. “He fell from the church’s scaffolding…” He glanced at Margaret, and chose to forego a more precise description of the afternoon’s events.
“It is good to hear. I will drink to celebrate with you. Here’s to the end of a murderer!”
Simon watched him speculatively. “Would you drink the same toast for any murderer?” he enquired.
“Of course. Anyone like that is a loose brick in the wall of our society; they can bring the whole building down around us all. Society needs protection from such as they.”
“Hmm.”
“Do you know why this madman decided to kill the women? Did you discover it?”
“Ah, yes,” Simon cleared his throat. “I forgot you wouldn’t have heard. Basically, he was trying to set you up as the scapegoat.”
“He intended that?”
Baldwin nodded. “Very definitely. He wanted to ensure that you were arrested, and hanged.”
“You see,” Simon continued, before his friend could carry on, “he knew you were having an affair with his wife, and he wanted revenge.”
“He would kill all those women just to get at me? It seems hard to believe!”
“Nonetheless, it is true. He killed Judith because he knew you had…er…been her lover when you were last here.”
“It is true,” Sir Hector admitted. “She even alleged that her boy was my bastard!” He laughed, but nobody joined in.
“Quite,” Baldwin said. “Anyhow, Butcher saw you having your altercation with her, we think, and could see that we had witnessed it as well, so he stabbed her, knowing that this second murder would be bound to make us think you were the guilty party. After all, most murders are committed by men who kill their lovers or their wives—just as Butcher himself did with his own wife.”
Sir Hector sipped his Hippocras, nodding. “I see. And he knew I was not at the inn because I was waiting to meet his wife. He must have found out we had planned to meet. The evil devil must have forced her to tell him where and when, so that he could make me look suspicious.”
“Very likely,” Baldwin agreed. “The murder of his own wife was intended, I think, to be the sweet glazing on the fruit, the crowning proof which would lead us to arrest you. It was meant as the final evidence, and it certainly was compelling. Yet we had doubts, for she must have died some days before, and we had seen you waiting for her. You might have been trying to establish your innocence, but it did appear odd. You would have been better served to make sure that everyone knew where you were all the time.”
“I am glad you realized,” said Sir Hector gravely. “Knowing I was suspected of killing my Mary made a bad situation even harder to bear.”
“What about me?” Cole demanded. “I’ve been locked up for days, held under suspicion of murder as well as theft. What happens now? Am I truly free?”
“Oh, yes,” Simon smiled. “Our apologies for your confinement, but the evidence was extreme against you. You were new to the group, and at first all we knew of you was that you had been found with incriminating items on your person. It was natural to suspect you. Then we learned that the men who had found you were the two whom the company generally mistrusted and despised, and it was better, it seemed to us, to leave you in the jail for your own safety. You had been picked out, if you like, by two who were capable of stirring up others against you and causing your death.”
“And, of course, we had to wonder whether you might have killed Sarra,” Baldwin murmured, pouring more drink into his goblet. “There was no reason to suspect you in particular, except we had heard about you arguing with her. The only evidence, likewise, against Sir Hector at first was that he had argued with Sarra and forced her from his presence.”
Stapledon felt his brows rise. Being too myopic to see people’s expressions, he often had to rely on his impressions…and the feeling he had now was that there was a certain stillness in the room after these words. He had no idea what had caused it for a moment, but then he stared at Sir Hector. The implication of Baldwin’s words was that there was other evidence, surely.
“There was the matter of the blue tunic, for example,” Simon said easily, taking up the baton again. “Wat always said that you had an evil temper, and that you might kill her if you saw Sarra wearing it when you had not given her permission. We thought he might have tried to oust you from leadership by sending her to you wearing it. He had been planning to supplant you for some time, according to Henry and John.”
“He would have been capable of it,” Sir Hector agreed, glancing at his guard. Wat shrugged.
“But even if he did, you would have been wrong to react to it by murdering her. No, this is what happened. The two men, Henry and John, stole the silver. Henry was inside, and Sarra arrived when he was in the middle of the robbery. He heard her approach, concealed himself, and then knocked her down. There being no other place to hide her, he shoved her into the chest, and got on with his task. Later, he left.”
“We thought,” Baldwin reflected, “that Adam then managed to climb in through the window and kill her before Henry and John could return to lock the window, but there is another possibility.”
Simon leaned forward, elbows on his knees, smiling, his goblet held negligently in one hand. “It’s this: someone else returned to the room, and Adam, waiting outside, heard him. He heard the chest lid being lifted, the murder taking place.”
“If he had, he would have told you,” Sir Hector objected.
“No, possibly not. After all, he had a dislike of officials that was close to a madness. He distrusted any man in a position of authority, as we discovered. And I suppose he might well have thought that it would be easy for you to accuse him of bad blood because of your affair with his wife. You had the perfect response to any accusation he made. I think it was that, more than the adultery itself, which unhinged his mind. The knowledge that there was no one who would look after his interests made him seek a more drastic means of redress. He killed his wife—well, he was going to anyway—and perhaps it was during a flash of rage that he regretted later. But he murdered Judith simply to add
weight to our suspicion of you. The sad part is, he wasted a life for no good reason. All he achieved was to divert attention from you. When we found the body of Mary as well, it was clear that some devious scheme was in progress.”
“Do you mean to accuse me?” Sir Hector thundered, standing suddenly. “Do you dare to suggest that I killed the tart?”
Baldwin eyed him coldly, then meditatively refilled his pot. “Adam was sure you went back in and stabbed the girl. Why? He would recognize you on sight, wouldn’t he? But if he was outside, Henry and John had barred the shutters giving on to the road. Adam could not have seen in. All he knew was that someone was there, and he had heard that only you, Sir Hector, and your most trusted men were allowed into your private rooms. He heard a noise—Henry and John had gone and were not yet inside—so whoever it was, it must be you.”
“But that’s rubbish!”
“Yes, it is,” Simon agreed.
“What?”
“Adam didn’t know that someone else could also get in—the man who had to fetch the salt for your meal. Your servant, Wat.”
Sir Hector’s mouth fell open, then he turned to face his guard.
Wat was immobile for a moment. He wetted his lips, whirled, and took a half-step toward the door, but his way was barred by three of Peter Clifford’s men, all with stout cudgels in their hands. Tanner stood with them, grinning, his hands in his thick leather belt.
“Wat,” said Baldwin solemnly, “I accuse you of the murder of Sarra, a worker at the inn. You will be taken to the jail until you can be tried. If you resist…Well! I almost wish you would!”
Crediton Killings Page 29
