The blustering mercenary had to be bound and led away, furiously rejecting all responsibility. It took the combined efforts of Stapledon’s men and Tanner—Hugh gave encouragement from the fringes of the melee, but managed to avoid participation—to restrain him, but at last he could be removed by a gleeful Sir Hector. While Baldwin went with them to the jail, Simon and his wife retired to their chamber.
“How are you?” he asked as she sat on the edge of their mattress. She looked dreadfully pale, and her eyes were half-closed, though the room was dark with the shutters barred against the cold darkness outside. He squatted by her and gently held her hand to his face.
“I am fine, now. Honestly.”
“You are safe, and that’s all that matters to me.”
“I thought I was going to die, for a while.”
“So did I. I hated standing there. Baldwin wouldn’t let me try to help you, and I—”
She shut his mouth with a finger. “It is over now.”
“I thought I wouldn’t be able to hold you again. I thought I was going to lose you. I love you.”
She smiled at the whispered words. “I love you too. I promise I will not leave you until you have a son.”
“I do not care about that right now. All I want is to see you well again.”
Margaret’s eyes closed, but then she remembered the conversation in the garden, and she sighed.
“What is it?”
“The Bishop was talking to me about Rollo when that man attacked us. Simon, I want us to have our own boy, not another’s. Is that selfish?”
“Selfish? Perhaps—but if you think I want any reminder of this afternoon, you are wrong. I couldn’t bear to have him in our household either. Don’t worry, I shall tell the good Bishop.”
When he returned to the hall, Baldwin was already there, seated near a frowning Stapledon. Peter was at the church exhorting the workmen to continue, and the three were alone for a while. After sitting in silence for some minutes, the Bishop peered at them. “Sir Baldwin, Simon, I must be more dense than I had realized, for I still cannot see how you have arrived at this conclusion.”
Baldwin smiled at the peering bishop. “It is a great deal more simple now, dealing with the matter in retrospect, because we actually have the sequence of events.”
“It’s hard,” Simon said, pouring himself more wine, “when you begin an investigation like this. At first everyone is trying to help, but all that means is you’ve got to try to isolate what is important from the mass of details which are uncovered. All too often there is so much which is irrelevant.”
Baldwin held his hand over his goblet as Simon offered more wine. He had already drunk far more than usual. “As you know, it looked bad for Cole from the first,” he began. “A new man joining, who was found after a couple of days with silver on him when Sir Hector’s plate had all been stolen, and then the girl was discovered…It was apparent that he must have been discovered in the course of this theft, and had killed Sarra before she could raise the alarm.”
“But,” Simon interrupted, waving his goblet so freely that wine slopped on to the floor, “How could Cole have known that he would have time to rob Sir Hector? He was too new to be trusted by most of the men there. And how could one man have carried off so much metal? If he was involved, he would have needed an accomplice.”
“Simon is correct. It was obvious to me that others should be sought. Another thing was that the girl had been stored in the chest unconscious, and killed later. That indicated to me that the murder and the robbery were not necessarily connected. Thus, although Sir Hector could hardly be implicated in stealing from himself, he might have had a hand in killing Sarra.”
“Then there was the question of whether Cole would have robbed the mercenary.” Simon smiled.
Stapledon put his head on one side. “What do you mean?”
“If you were desperate, would you steal from a mercenary warrior? From a captain, at that?” Simon asked, then, seeing the Bishop’s rueful shake of his head, pounced triumphantly. “No, of course not! Why? Because a man like that would scare any but the most hardened warrior. Is it likely that a youngster fresh from a farm would dare to challenge him?”
“Perhaps he was too unworldly…?” the Bishop murmured, but Baldwin smiled and shook his head.
“It will not do, Bishop. He had seen Sir Hector at close quarters for more than a day, and in any case, he knew of such men—his brother had died, and one who had known him had returned to tell Cole how he had died. Cole could not have been so stupid or naïve as to have missed how dangerous Sir Hector was. It was one final piece of evidence which convinced me though.”
“What was that?”
“When I thought about it, there were two pairs of assaults. Cole and Sarra were struck by someone with a club or similar weapon, both hit in about the same place; Judith and Mary both had stab wounds in the back. The only different wounds were young Sarra’s: stabs to her chest from having a knife thrust down at her—so forcibly that the knife penetrated the cloth behind her. Cole and she had both been knocked out with blows to the left side of the head. It was not proof on its own, but it was quite conclusive when all the other points were taken into account.”
Simon rested his elbows on his thighs. “Cole was unlikely to have been the thief, and equally unlikely to have killed Sarra. If we accept that people would prefer to rob anyone other than a mercenary leader, who would have dared? Surely only another mercenary!”
“It is clear now what happened,” Baldwin said. “Henry and John knew Adam from the last time they were here. When they met and drank again, the two told the butcher how sick they were of their master’s overbearing manner. They had worked out the details of their theft in advance, and asked Adam if he would help them, but he refused. However, they knew something he didn’t: his wife was having an affair with their captain. Maybe they told him, maybe they didn’t; but he assuredly went home and found his wife in bed with Sir Hector, and that sealed the pact. He went back and saw Henry and John once more, and agreed to help them.”
“I expect they thought he’d just beat his wife, which was no more than they believed she deserved for her whoring around, and would agree to help them just so that he could get even with their master,” Simon said.
“Sir Hector trusted them most of all,” said Baldwin. “He told them he had an assignation with Mary that afternoon, and they made their plans accordingly. He went out, as they saw, and they visited his chamber a little later, on the pretext of seeing him about a horse. They unlocked the back shutters—it was more private than the front—and then left. Once they were outside again, while John stood guard, Henry climbed inside, opened the front, and began passing the plate out to the others. Adam was needed to repel unwelcome witnesses, and he managed it by eviscerating some animals. That, in the heat of the afternoon sun, was enough to scare everyone away. People in the streets tend to keep moving. They do not hang around in one place too much; they have errands to run, messages to deliver, or some other purpose. The men could pass the silver out, stow it in the wagon under sacks or something, and remain undiscovered.”
“And when they were done, John helped Henry out again,” said Simon, “before they went inside once more to lock up the shutters.”
“Meanwhile, Wat had given the dress to Sarra to try on. He was hoping it would anger his master so much that Sir Hector would kill her—his rages were known well enough—but she arrived too early. Henry knocked her out and stuffed her into the chest to hide her.”
Simon nodded. “But while they were outside, before they could get back in to lock the last shutter, Wat entered. He was hoping Sarra would be dead. He had given her the dress, taking it to her room and letting her think it was a present from his master, knowing it would enrage Sir Hector to see it on another. Wat was sure the captain would do for her.
“He was acting as servant to Sir Hector, so he was often in and out of the solar, fetching things from chests. That day, he went to the chest and there he
found the girl. I suppose he must have been confused at first, staring down at her and wondering what she was doing there, but I imagine he quickly thought that his master had put her there for some reason. It was a heaven-sent opportunity. Sir Hector had not killed her—but everyone would think he had! Just to make sure, Wat was prepared to spread the story of how angry Sir Hector would have been to find his dress on another woman. So he stabbed her, and slammed the lid down.”
Baldwin continued: “All this time Adam was outside, keeping an eye on things for his friends to make sure they were all right. He heard Wat in the room before Henry and John closed the shutter at the back, and assumed it must be Sir Hector. When he heard about the murder, he was sure Sir Hector had done it.”
“But in that case, why did he not merely tell you?” Stapledon frowned.
Baldwin shrugged. “I think he saw a way of disposing of his wife at the same time. How else could he get rid of the woman who had cuckolded him? It must have seemed an inspired plan to kill Mary and put the blame onto Sir Hector.”
“When did he kill his wife?”
“I have no idea. Probably during Tuesday. He was heard rowing with her then. She has certainly been dead some days.”
“Where could he have hidden her?” Stapledon wondered. “It is not easy for a man to conceal a corpse for long.”
“It is easier for some than for others,” Baldwin smiled dryly. “For example, Adam had a cool room to store his meats and carcasses. His apprentice has been refused permission to enter it just lately. I think we can assume that her body was secreted there for a few days.”
“The only question remaining is, who killed Cole’s brother?” the Bishop said.
Baldwin allowed himself to sink down further in his seat. “I am glad I have no jurisdiction over that matter. The death—if it was a murder—happened over the sea.”
“But do you know who did kill him?”
“I have little doubt it was Henry and John. According to others, they profited by his demise, but equally he may well have fallen in the battle. I fear I do not care: he was a mercenary himself, and knew the risks of joining such a company.”
“So,” the Bishop sighed, “we are left with the poor victims of this series of tragedies.”
“You are thinking of Rollo?” Simon asked tentatively.
“Yes. The poor lad needs to be looked after.”
Baldwin frowned. “I suppose we might find a place for him.”
“But we have a solution here,” Stapledon exclaimed.
Simon drew a deep breath. “I am afraid not, Bishop. Much though I’d like to help, I fear I cannot take the lad with me.”
“But—”
“No, we have lost a son, and it would be cruel to expect an adopted boy to take Peterkin’s place. He would upset us whenever he misbehaved or got something wrong, and if he was good and obedient, he’d be doing no more than what we’d expect. His life would be a misery, with no comfort or joy.”
“Simon, I think—”
“And I wouldn’t be prepared to allow Margaret to suffer it. Every time she looked at his face she would be reminded of her ordeal today, and that’s a slow torture I’m not going to expose her to.”
“Bailiff, if you would let me speak,” Stapledon smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of forcing the lad on you. I had thought of a much simpler solution—I shall take him to Exeter with me. He may be useful in the kitchen or stables, and if he shows an aptitude I can teach him. Who knows? If he shows any promise, in years to come he might be able to go to my college at Oxford. He can be assured of food and drink and shelter in any case.”
Simon sagged with relief, “Yes, yes. That would be perfect.”
Stapledon nodded happily, but then a small frown crossed his brow. “I wish I knew why that murderous fool had to kill Judith in the first place. It was such an evil act! How could he deprive Rollo of his mother, purely to create a spurious connection with Sir Hector in the hope that it would lead us to arrest him?”
“I think it might be simpler than that,” Sir Baldwin said gently. “You recall I said that people tend to hurry along a street? Well, there is one class which does not.”
“What do you mean?”
Baldwin took the jug and topped up his goblet. “One group in particular will stand in a certain place for a long time every day: beggars. Judith may have spotted something odd on the afternoon of the robbery, and when she heard of the theft, realized that she actually knew someone who had been involved. We shall never know for certain, but she may have mentioned the butcher to Sir Hector when we saw him knock her down. He might have thought she was threatening him. I have often noticed that guilty men hear what they expect to, rather than what is actually said. In this case, any mention of his lover’s husband would very possible make him leap to the wrong conclusion. Yet all Judith was doing was trying to curry a little favor after so many years of neglect by him—especially since most people believe Rollo was his son.”
“Talking of Rollo, didn’t you tell me he screamed when he saw the knight, when Hugh brought him here?”
Baldwin smiled. “Certainly. But then again, right next door to the inn is the butcher’s and Adam was there at the time. I think Rollo saw Adam as he came into the street. For Sir Hector, it was simply the first time he had ever noticed the boy, and he was a little shocked to be confronted with a son who shrieked like a banshee at the sight of him. I don’t know but that I wouldn’t blanch myself if that was to happen to me. Anyway, to return to Judith for a minute, I think it is fair to assume that any loyalty or softer feelings she may once have held for the knight dissipated quickly after he struck her. I expect she went to Adam to ask him for money afterward. What could be more natural than that after her attempt to help Sir Hector had been so publicly scorned, she should go to the other protagonist and demand compensation from him? From Adam’s point of view, killing Judith was not merely useful in forming a link in the chain of evidence against Sir Hector, it also removed someone who could have proved to be an embarrassing witness.”
26
Paul woke to the sound of shuffling feet and banging, and rolled over wearily. After the late nights and forced early mornings of the last few days, he was unwilling to leave the warmth of the bed. Cuddling his wife, he screwed his eyes tight shut and let the noise wash past him, determined to grab a little extra peace before beginning a new day.
Though he sought sleep, it evaded him, and he was forced to lie half awake, his brain meandering indolently. It was typical, he thought, that the mercenaries should not only expect him to continue serving them until past midnight, but that today they should be determined to wake him before dawn as well. It was a measure of their ungenerous attitude to others, he thought sourly. They held the world in contempt.
A loud thud made the building tremble, and young Hob, on his truckle bed nearby, grunted and whimpered in his sleep. Paul swore and got up resentfully. He could not rest with that row going on. Scratching, he made his way to the window, tugging the knotted string free from its notch to let the shutter fall.
Below him the road was clear. The sun had not risen high enough to chase away the shadows, and only an occasional passer-by strolled in the darkness. Two hawkers stood sorting items in baskets ready for the day’s trade. Beyond, over the roof of the jail, he could see the long coils of smoke rising from freshly lighted fires. Soon the town’s women would be warming their pots and making breakfast for their families.
Beyond the bulk of the new church, the mist lay like a sheet of snow, hiding the valley in the chill morning air. He could only tell where the river lay from the trees which lined the far bank, and from the view he knew that the weather was changing at last; winter was approaching. A sudden gust blew along the street and Paul shivered, drawing back into the room. He pulled the cord, yanking the flat wooden board up until the knot met the notch in the timber above and he could let it hang. Only a small gap remained, and the draft from that should not wake his wife.
Pull
ing on his hose and a jerkin against the cold, he slowly negotiated the ladder to the buttery. When he opened the door, he stopped, his mouth gaping. The hall and screens were the picture of bedlam.
Mercenaries swore their way past him, stumbling under the weight of chests. Others dragged sacks out to the yard. Paul had to wait in the doorway as a pair of soldiers strained by, grasping leather-covered polearms tied in thick bundles. Behind them another trooper wheezed along in their wake, querulously complaining about the pain in his head. Paul was not surprised that the soldier should feel fragile—it would have been a wonder if none of the men had felt sickly. Almost all of Margery’s ale was gone, most of it over the last two days, since the arrest of Wat and the thieves.
Spying a gap in the stream of porters, the innkeeper stepped quickly into his hall. He was determined that Sir Hector would not leave before the bill was settled.
There were fewer men leaving the solar now. Most of the valuables and stores had already been taken to the yard and loaded on to the wagons. From the clattering of iron on stone, the horses were skittishly expectant as they stood by, knowing they would soon be leaving and anticipating the exercise. In his mind’s eye, Paul could see the massive black beast Sir Hector had arrived on, and he gave an involuntary shudder. Proud and arrogant, the horse terrified him.
“You rise early, innkeeper.”
Paul smiled and ducked his head. To Sir Hector he looked at his most obsequious, and the captain was sickened, convinced that, like all innkeepers, all he wanted was his money. Curtly he asked for the reckoning, and the two of them began to negotiate. Paul gave his figure; Sir Hector registered shock and suspicion. Evidence was proffered in the form of empty barrels in the buttery, and rejected on the basis that they might have been half-empty when the mercenaries arrived. Eventually they settled on a sum which satisfied both. If Paul was convinced it gave him only a little profit, at least there was some.
The knight too was content. It had cost him more than he would have hoped, but the charge appeared fair. He carefully counted the coins, sniffing at the expense, then left, striding out to the yard. Ignoring the men standing all round, he stepped onto the mounting stone, and swung his leg over his horse’s back. Once there, he studied his men.
Crediton Killings Page 30
