Cathedral of Bones

by J G Lewis

  “Should we arrest him?” One of the guards, a dark, stocky man with a northern accent, spoke up quite loud.

  Ela frowned. “I think we should let him drive his cows home.” She had no further proof that he was Katie’s killer, and she could hardly imagine he’d rush out and strike one of his nearest neighbors dead. Everyone would immediately suspect him, for one thing. “And return to the castle.”

  Chapter 11

  “Why didn’t you arrest him?” Will accosted her as soon as they rode out of earshot.

  “We have no proof that he killed her. It’s a grave responsibility to lock a man up in the dungeons, remove his cattle and let his unmanned farm run to ruin.”

  “You’re too soft, Mother. He’s a brute beast. A man can see that from looking in his eyes.”

  “We deal in facts and reason, my son, not gut feelings. His wife was his only helpmate. Killing her would be like cutting off his right arm.”

  “The facts point to him. Everyone says he beat her. You know as well as I do that a man will cut off his own arm if he’s in enough of a passion.”

  Ela raised a brow. “Name one man who’s cut off his own arm.” She didn’t like Will arguing with her in front of the other men.

  “If she was so important to him, why didn’t he report her missing?” asked Will.

  “Young Will is right,” murmured Houghton, riding closer. “Morse is dangerous.”

  “To who? His wife is dead. Brice already knows to watch his back.”

  She heard a harrumph of discontent behind her. It stirred some misgivings. Why didn’t she arrest him? She set out here with that intention lodged firmly in her mind. But something inside her, something intangible, told her that he wasn’t his wife’s murderer. And if she didn’t trust herself, who could she trust?

  Back at the castle, she devoted the afternoon to spending time with her family and was drawn into an intense game of chess with her mother’s husband, Jean. She won the game, and Jean was a good enough sport to be beaten by a woman without sulking all night.

  They’d all just eaten their evening meal and Will was loudly wishing for the end of Lent and imagining the roasts and stews they would enjoy—while Petronella and Richard scolded him for impiety—when the hall door flung open on a blast of cold evening air that guttered the fire.

  Deschamps strode into the hall, brows lowered. “A word with you, my lady.” Ela rose and walked away from the table. Deschamps ushered her out of the great hall and into the passage that led to the armory.

  Ela’s heart pounded as he closed the heavy wood door behind him.

  “Brice is dead.” She thought she heard a note of triumph in his voice. She must be mistaken.

  “How? When?”

  “His wife came back from the dairy with the cows this evening and found him murdered by their hearth.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s at Widow Lester’s being treated with medicinal herbs. She managed to reach the town to raise the hue and cry, then had a fit of fainting.”

  “I must go to her at once. Send the guards to arrest Morse and bring him to the dungeon.”

  “I already did. Giles Haughton went with them.” Again, that disconcerting suggestion of victory.

  Deschamps and her coroner had discussed the situation and formed a plan without consulting her? Fury tightened her chest. She wanted to scold him, but now was not the time for a fight. She had a new murder hanging over her head, one for which she might bear some blame.

  “I shall attend the scene and examine the body with Master Haughton in the morning.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’ve already sent bearers to bring body to the castle mortuary.”

  Ela fought the urge to growl with exasperation. “You should have spoken to me first before disturbing the scene. Did the coroner not ask to keep it intact?”

  Deschamps blinked, and she thought she saw some of the arrogance slip from his bearing. “My apologies.”

  Ela asked Sibel to come with her to Widow Lester’s, along with two guards for security. Deschamps stayed behind to wait for Morse to arrive in custody.

  The journey to Widow Lester’s house was a short walk through the streets inside the fortified walls, but the moonless night teemed with unspoken threats. Burning braziers lit the walls around the castle, throwing moving shadows in their path. Soldiers from the garrison lolled here and there, some at their posts and some just passing the time. Once they realized who she was they hushed and stood straight to show respect, which was something.

  Ela cursed herself for not arresting Morse. Why had she trusted her own instincts over the wisdom of experience and the concerned words of those around her? Was her anxiety about maintaining control of every situation interfering with the pursuit of justice?

  And now another murder. A crime committed on her own watch.

  They hurried through the narrow passages, beneath the overhanging upper stories. Candles burned in some windows, the light from fires in others. The dark streets were empty save those sauntering to and from a nearby tavern and the occasional tradesman hurrying home late from his labors.

  Widow Lester’s neat cottage was the first place Ela turned to for common tinctures, ointments and herbal preparations. She could see a light through the small windows that pierced the whitewashed surface. She knocked on the bare wood door, bracing herself for the scene she might find. A girl of about fourteen opened the door and let Ela into the small room where shelves filled with clay jars of spices and leaves and twigs rose from the floor almost to the low ceiling.

  Elizabeth Brice sat at the scrubbed table in the center of the room, face angled downward. Her tunic had a dark stain on the front on it, which might be blood but the room was too dark for Ela to see. At the fire, Widow Lester lifted a kettle from the crane and poured hot water into a cup wrapped in a cloth.

  No one looked up at Ela or even registered her presence.

  “Mistress Brice, it’s Ela Longespée. Do you remember me?”

  Elizabeth Brice looked up at her. The firelight gleamed in her eyes as she stared at Ela. “I’d hardly be likely to forget the woman that imprisoned me in the dungeon of her castle.” Her face looked craggier and older than Ela remembered, but it could be the light.

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Her eyelids fluttered, and she looked like she was about to faint again. Widow Lester rushed over with her steaming cup and lifted it to Elizabeth’s lips. “Here, sip this, it’ll fortify you.”

  Ela watched as she sipped the hot liquid. That dark stain was likely blood. But how did she get it on her? “Did you witness what happened?”

  “No.” She spat the word at Ela. “I came home from taking the cows for milking and found him there dead! Blood all over the floor.” She stopped and made a hiccupping sound, then an odd keening noise emerged from the back of her throat. She tried to go on, but hiccups came out instead of words.

  Ella felt her gut clench. Poor Elizabeth Brice. She’d been so angry with her husband only the day before, and now she was devastated by his death. She could sympathize. Her husband had infuriated her on many occasions, but they meant nothing now he was gone forever. “I’m sorry for your great loss.”

  “It’s your fault!” Brice hissed the words so hard that her spittle rained on Ela’s hands. “You told Morse that my husband lay with his wife. Did you not know this would happen?”

  Ela froze. “How did you know I told Morse?”

  “Giles Haughton told me. He came out as soon as I made it to town to raise the hue and cry. I almost lost my way coming across the fields in the dark, but I couldn’t stay there until morning, not with his dead eyes staring up at me!”

  Ela was at a loss for words. She could hardly believe that Morse would commit this crime when anyone for miles around would instantly suspect him. “I wanted to see what Morse would say or do when I told him about his wife’s infidelity. I’m still trying to learn if he killed his wife or not.”

  �
�What did he say?” Mistress Brice tilted her head and peered up at Ela with oddly glittering eyes. Her hair had escaped her twisted veil and her voice had a croaky rasp to it. “Was he happy at the news? You already had reason to suspect he was a killer, so you just gave him motive to kill again and rode merrily away?”

  Ela inhaled slowly. If Morse responded to her news by committing a violent murder, then it certainly implied guilt in the earlier murder. And made her seem foolishly ill-prepared for the consequences of this morning’s visit.

  She’d have to make sure Mistress Brice—Widow Brice she would be now—was properly compensated for her loss. Perhaps a jury would decide to grant her Morse’s farm and cattle. Morse didn’t have any heirs that they knew of and—

  Ela realized that Widow Lester was talking to her. The widow wasn’t all that old, but she was tiny and had a soft voice that could strain the hearing. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

  “Chamomile and valerian root for shock,” she said in her silvery tones. “Will you have some yourself?” She offered Ela a clay cup of the liquid.

  Ela’s throat closed at the prospect. “No, thank you, though I appreciate the offer. God bless you for your kindness to Mistress Brice. I shall cover all costs incurred.” She turned her attention to the distraught woman. “Soldiers are on their way to arrest Morse. Rest assured that he will hang for this.”

  Ela supposed it didn’t much matter now if she could produce evidence that he’d killed his wife.

  “If you’d arrested him sooner my husband would still be alive.” Brice’s words came out on another keening howl. Widow Lester patted her shoulder and urged her to drink more of the soothing brew.

  Ela had brought Sibel along with the intention that she could offer a bed, fresh linens, and succor at the castle. But in Elizabeth Brice’s current state of rage that did not seem like a good idea. Ela didn’t want the new widow ranting and wailing in front of her children or her mother. Yet she could hardly go home in the middle of the night to her bloodstained hearth.

  “Widow Lester, are you able to offer Mistress Brice a bed until morning?”

  “I don’t need a bed!” shrieked Brice. “How can I sleep when I’ve held my husband’s murdered body in my arms? When my children are left fatherless!”

  That explained the stain on her dress, which covered most of the front and part of the forearms. Ela resolved to have Sibel bring her a clean gown, at least. “Rest assured that Morse is likely in custody by now, and your husband’s body is being tended to properly. Where are your children?” Ela chastised herself for not thinking of their children sooner.

  “They’re with my sister.”

  “Did they witness the murder?” That would be gruesome but convenient for trial.

  “No, I sent them to my sister’s this morning.”

  “Why?”

  “John and I needed to talk about his infidelities, and I didn’t want them to hear it.”

  Understandable. “And the children can stay with your sister for now?”

  “Yes.” A big sob erupted from her chest. Ela wanted to press her with more questions—did the children know their father was dead? Who was the first person she told? But those questions could wait.

  “Jess and I shall sit with her until morning and do what needs to be done,” said the widow, in her singsong tones.

  “Morse must hang,” growled Mistress Brice. “He murdered my husband in cold blood. Why else would he have come to our house?”

  That was damning. If Morse went to Brice’s house, it wouldn’t have been for a quiet chat. “Did you see him there?”

  “He were gone by the time I got back from milking the cows. Just left my husband dead and bleeding on the floor like he were an animal.” Sobs racked her substantial frame, and she buried her face in her hands.

  Ela’s heart ached for her loss. “Justice will be served.”

  “Aye, but too late for my John!”

  Ela could see there was nothing to be gained by staying, so she bid her adieus and tactfully slipped Widow Lester a small purse of money to care for the grieving woman. She ushered Sibel out the door, and the guards escorted them back to the castle in a light drizzle.

  The guards returned with Brice’s body on a cart, and it was laid out in the castle mortuary. A much more sensible place than the armory partly because of its distance from the hall and its superior ventilation. Luckily, there were no other bodies laid out there.

  Ela knew she could leave examination of the body to the coroner and discuss the situation with him in the morning, but she felt personally responsible in this case and knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep if she didn’t see it. Dead bodies could change dramatically in appearance even in the course of a few hours, so examining a victim’s corpse as soon as possible after the crime was essential.

  Morse, however, was safely installed in the dungeon, and she had no intention of facing him on a wet, moonless night. The very idea made her skin crawl. She’d face him in the light of day with as large a retinue of soldiers as possible.

  And this time she wouldn’t let him loose again. He’d walked his last steps as a free man.

  Giles Haughton was there when she arrived. “Bludgeoned, from the looks of it.”

  Brice was covered in a large sheet of coarse linen, well stained by blood over the torso area, with only his head exposed. His face was white as tallow, eyes staring. Ela was grateful that his wife couldn’t see him like this.

  Giles pointed to the back of Brice’s head, which was turned to one side, revealing hair matted with blood. “Likely hit hard from behind.”

  Ela stared at Brice’s lifeless body. His face was frozen in shock. Had he even seen his assailant? But something struck her as odd. “If he was hit from behind, wouldn’t he have fallen forward, onto his face?”

  “Quite possibly, yes.”

  “But his face isn’t bruised or swollen like it might be if he fell forward.”

  Haughton crossed his arms over his chest. “What are you suggesting?”

  “I wonder if the fatal blow was to the front, and he hit his head hard on the floor. What position was he found in?”

  “He was found curled up like a baby in its cradle, but then he didn’t die right away. He died of blood loss from his wounds.”

  “From this head wound?” She peered at the back of his head. The blood was mostly around his torso.

  “Not just the head wound. He was stabbed as well, likely as he lay on the floor.”

  “Stabbed with what?”

  “This knife.” Haughton walked over to a scarred table on the opposite side of the room that contained embalming fluids and other items used to prepare a corpse. He unwrapped a length of linen, one of Mistress Brice’s aprons from the look of it, and revealed a large wood-handled blade.

  “What kind of knife is that? It looks like something the cook would use in our kitchens.”

  “It could be used for that. Or any purpose, really. A dairy farmer might use it to cut the throat of a cow he planned to eat.”

  Ela frowned. “Do you think Morse brought the knife with him, or do you think he found it in the kitchen?” This spoke to his motive for being there and whether he’d planned the murder before he left his home.

  “Does it matter? He’ll hang either way?” Houghton looked tired.

  “True but I do think it’s important to know how the crime unfolded. Especially since—” She hesitated for a moment, not wanting to darken her own reputation, but her role in this couldn’t be ignored. “Since I had the opportunity to arrest Morse earlier today, and I didn’t.”

  “Ah. You want to know how guilty you should feel?” His penetrating eyes looked sympathetic.

  “Nothing so sentimental. I want to know how much recompense his widow might sue me for.” She wasn’t joking, either. Elizabeth Brice had already proved herself the combative type. “I led the expedition to tell Morse that his wife had lain with John Brice. I wanted to gauge his reaction. I hoped to see the flash
of rage you might see in a man who’d beaten his wife to death.”

  “And did you?”

  She paused and drew in a deep breath. She realized she was twisting her hands together. “No.”

  Chapter 12

  Haughton lifted a grizzled brow. “He didn’t show much emotion that I could see, but I suppose if he’d already killed her he’d hardly be sad or angry. He’d wrung those emotions out of himself already.” She could hear an attempt at solace in Haughton’s voice. “If Mistress Brice blames you for killing her husband, point out that her husband dug his own grave when he climbed into Katie Morse’s bed.”

  “True.”

  Haughton had years of experience with all kinds of cases and she should rely on his expertise. Still, this was her reputation on the line and she wanted to protect it as best she could. If word got out that she was responsible—even through an act of omission—for a murder under her own jurisdiction, Hubert De Burgh could stir up opposition to her role as sheriff and even whisper against her in the king’s ear.

  There could be no more mistakes in this case. “So, if he were pushed from the front and banged his head on the floor, Morse could have stabbed him while he was lying there.”

  “Indeed, though again, it makes little difference. He’s dead and Morse is a murderer. And I’m a tired old man who craves his bed.”

  “I’m sorry it had to happen at night.”

  “These things usually do. Being roused from my bed is an occupational hazard.” He rubbed his mouth. “I’m surprised you want to be sheriff. It’s a tough job that requires a strong stomach, long, irregular hours and a lot of difficult decisions.”

  “Just because I’m a woman does not mean I wish to spend my days at needlework and weaving.” She knew her words sounded terse. “I’m sure you enjoy the challenges of your job and take satisfaction in seeing justice served.”

  “When justice is served, which isn’t always.” Houghton looked at her. “There’s a good deal of corruption in the land these days. Some might accuse you of becoming sheriff so you can fill your purse with bribes or fatten your manors with the confiscated lands of those you imprison.”