Cathedral of Bones

by J G Lewis

  Chapter 13

  “Alan Morse,” said Ela, wishing her voice sounded steadier. “Do you know the reason you’re here?”

  “I know the reason.” He stared at her through narrowed eyes.

  “Do you admit to killing John Brice?”

  He thrust forward, straining against the chains, which clashed and startled her into taking a step back. “I didn’t kill John Brice.” His voice rasped and his eyes now bulged like a madman’s as he stared at her. “I never killed no one! I’m innocent.”

  Ela’s throat tightened. “Then who killed John Brice?”

  “How would I know? I was at home in my own house.”

  “Was anyone there with you?”

  He stared at her like she might be simple. “Who’d be there? My wife is dead. I was alone.”

  She hadn’t really expected him to deny it utterly. She looked to Giles Houghton. As coroner, he had more experience in these situations.

  Houghton cleared his throat. “When did you last see John Brice?”

  Morse blinked. “I dunno. I don’t see him at the dairy. His wife drives the cows there most mornings and evenings. He didn’t show his face there yesterday.”

  “So you’re saying you hadn’t seen him in months?”

  “Not months, no.” Morse frowned. “Weeks, though.”

  “Did you know your wife was having a…liaison with him?”

  “Never! Do you think I would have just let it go on?” He raged again, eyes popping. “If I’d known, why I’d have—”

  “Killed her?” suggested Houghton.

  “No! Of course not.” Morse realized his mistake.

  “You’d have just beaten her more than usual, perhaps?” said Ela.

  “I didn’t beat my wife.”

  “That’s not what you said yesterday.” Ela disliked Morse intensely. She felt quite sure he was capable of killing both his wife and Brice. She just wasn’t entirely convinced that he had.

  Her eyes adjusted to the gloom, and she studied his clothes for signs of blood. Given the amount of dried blood on Elizabeth Brice’s tunic and sleeves, the victim must have bled profusely when he was stabbed. But she realized with a chill that she didn’t see any bloodstains on Morse’s clothing.

  No doubt he had time to get home and change. “Did the soldiers retrieve any bloodstained clothing from Morse’s house?” She asked Giles.

  “Not that I’m aware of. I’ll ask two of the jurors to search the property.”

  If he’d cleaned himself up it would have to be in a stream on his property. He couldn’t scrub away that much blood with just a bucket and brush. She couldn’t remember seeing a stream in his fields, but how else did he water the cows? Dairy cows required a lot of water. She wanted to ride over there herself to examine the place. Soldiers were apt to trample or ignore useful evidence. “I’ll go with them.”

  “You won’t find anything because I haven’t killed anyone.” Morse yelled loud enough to make himself hoarse. “Doesn’t anyone hear me? Is there no justice in England?”

  “You’ll be tried at the assizes,” Ela said coolly. “Before a justice and jury.”

  “Then hung for something I didn’t do! Don’t you even care who killed my wife?”

  “If you cared, perhaps you’d have reported her missing,” said Ela. “You as much as said you thought she’d taken off with a man. There was clearly no love lost between you.”

  He stared at her, perhaps realizing the truth in her words. He blinked and his lips worked before he spoke again. “My wife and I had a practical arrangement. She knew I couldn’t give her children but I could give her a home of her own and a livelihood. She was a hard worker had hopes to open her own dairy in the new town. How many people marry for love in this day and age?” His voice was hoarse with something like desperation.

  Ela couldn’t claim to have married for love. Nor could anyone she knew. She’d believed it was different among the working people because they weren’t bound by obligations to their titles and manors but maybe she was wrong. Perhaps, with limited means, they had even more cause to make their choice for practical reasons.

  “She cooked and cleaned for me, drove my cows to the dairy, talked with me, lay with me. My life was a thousand times better with her in it than without it.” Morse’s voice took on a plaintive tone and Ela found his words affecting her. Who was she to judge him for his lack of poetic ardor?

  And if he wasn’t passionately in love with his wife, if anything it made him less likely to fly in to a rage and kill her lover.

  The stale air in the underground dungeon clogged her nostrils and she longed to quit it. It wasn’t her job to be judge, jury and executioner. They had reason enough to suspect Morse and keep him here until the assizes. Her job was done.

  But would justice be served for Katherine Morse?

  Giles Haughton cleared his throat. “I’d like to ride to the scene of the murder. I couldn’t see the details in the dark last night.”

  “Fine.” Ela was glad of the excuse to end this interview. “Morse will remain in custody until the assizes.”

  Morse’s moans and shouts of protest followed them out through the door and up the ladder, until the clanging and locking of the heavy door behind them drowned him out.

  “I’d like to come with you,” said Ela. “To learn as much as I can about the process of gathering evidence.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  If he was annoyed by the intrusion, he showed no sign of it and they agreed that Hale should come too. The more witnesses to evidence, the better for a trial, especially a murder trial like this one.

  Ela, Haughton and Hale mounted and rode the now-familiar route across the fields, four soldiers behind them. The sun shone on budding trees and new spring grass poked out through the ground beneath their feet. Morse’s fields were now empty of cattle, even the lone bull, and his house looked even more derelict and forlorn in their absence.

  “We need to find the bloody clothes,” said Haughton as they dismounted and tied their horses.

  Ela stepped over the threshold into the dim interior of Morse’s house. The hearth was unswept and the floor scattered with dirt and refuse like chicken bones. This man sorely needed a woman in his life from the looks of it. “Where might he have hidden them?”

  “If it were me I’d have buried them,” said Hale. “I’ll search the farmyard. It should be easy to see any freshly turned earth. It hasn’t rained since yesterday.”

  “I’ll search the house,” said Ela. It didn’t take long since the house only had two rooms with a few sticks of furniture. Katie Morse’s few pieces of clothing lay folded in a simple wood chest, just as she must have left them. Another set of Morse’s clothes, all well soiled, lay in a corner of the bedroom next to the unmade bed. “How many sets of clothes would a farmer like Morse typically have?”

  “One or two,” said Haughton. “Possibly more but not all that likely. We could ask the girls at the dairy. They might be familiar with his clothing since he’s had to drive the cows there every day since his wife died.

  “Good idea.” She turned over the greasy and smelly pile of clothes—a tunic and linen shirt, a pair of torn hose. She lifted the bed cover and grimaced at the stained and lumpy straw-stuffed mattress. Haughton lifted the mattress and they could see there was nothing under it except the crudely made wood bed frame.

  “Where would Morse keep his knives?” She hadn’t seen any implements except a dirty wooden spoon in the first room.

  “Perhaps in the barn? He’d need one for castrating if nothing else.”

  Ela led the way out of the dank, gloomy house and across the muddy farmyard to the larger and more recently constructed barn. “You can tell he cared more about the roof over his cows than the roof over his wife,” she said, peering up at the tight new thatch.

  The barn was also neater than the house, its clean wooden buckets, hoes, hay rakes and a rusted scythe all arranged neatly along the end wall. They found three knives inside
an old woven basket, but they were dusty and showed no signs of recent use or cleaning. Another basket contained hooks of the type that might be used to close a barn door or gate and yet another contained stones and a rasp for sharpening other tools.

  Manure on the floor indicated recent occupation by the cows, and a pile of rotten hay fenced off in one corner must be the last of the winter food supply. Houghton kicked at the hay, which released a cloud of dust but revealed no weapon hidden underneath.

  “Where’s the water source he would have washed himself in?” asked Ela, glad to leave the dust-mote filled air of the barn and head out into the fresh spring air. They roamed around the farmyard. A pond in one of the nearby fields seemed the most likely place, and they climbed a stile by the gate and walked around it. The ground was well trampled by the cows, but there were no fresh human footprints anywhere near it.

  “Morse was arrested here, correct?” Ela asked.

  “Indeed. He was roused from his bed.”

  “So far we have no evidence that he traveled to the Brice’s farm and killed John Brice. All we have is motive.”

  “Motive can be enough to convict a man,” said Haughton. “Especially in the absence of other suspects. And now he seems to have murdered twice—that in itself is damning.”

  “Unless he didn’t commit either of the murders.”

  Houghton’s eyes showed surprise. “You’re not thinking of setting him free? Having a suspected murderer at large will cause unrest among the people.”

  Ela felt the unspoken censure in his words. “I know people are angry that Morse wasn’t arrested sooner. They blame me for Brice’s death. But we have no solid evidence whatsoever that Morse killed either his wife or his neighbor.”

  Houghton’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Sometimes you have to make difficult decisions to keep the peace.”

  “Like sending an innocent man to his death?” She was shocked by his callous—or careless—attitude.

  “It’s up to the judge and jury to decide on his innocence.” Houghton’s face displayed no emotion. He was a handsome man of fifty or so, his features carved sharper by the passage of time. He gave every impression of being a man of experience and wisdom, someone whose advice and counsel she should heed.

  But her conscience pricked her. “Have you ever watched a man go to the gallows when you thought he might be innocent?”

  Houghton blinked and took a moment to consider. “No.” He spoke with conviction, but she didn’t entirely believe him. “I couldn’t sleep at night if I presided over a miscarriage of justice.”

  The diplomatic answer. Houghton was far too sensible of his own position to confess any professional failings. Though his readiness to throw up his hands and head for his bed last night had spoken volumes.

  “If everyone in Wiltshire believes a man is guilty,” continued Haughton, “and I think him innocent, is it my job to argue with them?”

  “Yes,” said Ela quickly. “As coroner your duty is to discover the truth.”

  He looked like he wanted to argue with her but thought better of it. “My duty is to support the sheriff, whose duty is to keep the peace,” he said quietly.

  This time Ela felt the rebuke like a slap. It stung harder because she respected Houghton. “My duty is to see that justice is served. I live my life in service to the Lord our God, and my duty to him comes even before my duty to the people of Salisbury.” The words emerged with a steel edge.

  “With all due respect, my lady, surely our Father in heaven is the true judge and dispenses final justice.”

  Ela inhaled deeply, trying to keep her temper. With that logic they might as well just let the citizens of Salisbury murder each other so they could find their way to heaven or hell faster. “That may be so, Master Houghton, but, as the prayer says. “thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven,” and I consider it our duty to further that cause here on earth.”

  Haughton’s lips moved, but he didn’t speak. He was probably considering the wisdom of arguing with God’s will. Or with the new sheriff, who also happened to own much of the land and property in the county and who was related by marriage to the king.

  “Do you intend to set Morse free?” he asked after a long pause.

  “No.” She sighed. “I can see the importance of keeping him imprisoned for now, in the absence of other suspects or evidence. And I don’t mean to browbeat you. I do respect and value your years of experience and I do truly want you to be frank with your opinions and advice. But I don’t intend to knowingly send an innocent man to the gallows, either.”

  “If Morse didn’t murder John Brice and Katherine Morse, then who did?” Haughton’s salt-and-pepper brow lifted. The wind tossed his still-thick hair, and Ela looked past him out over the trees and hills behind him. Hale returned, observing that there were no signs of fresh digging.

  “Let’s visit the Brice house—the scene of the murder—to look for evidence there.”

  Hale had found no signs of recent disturbance in or around the farmyard, so they mounted and left. Brice’s farm was only a short ride away, and they tied their horses in his yard. Like Morse’s, the farmyard was trampled with fresh footprints from the soldiers and others who’d come in the aftermath of the murder to retrieve the body.

  Ela braced herself for a scene of bloody horror when she opened the door but was surprised to find something entirely different.

  Chapter 14

  “Mistress Brice?” Ela addressed her from the doorway. Apparently, Elizabeth Brice considered the question answered by her presence because she didn’t respond. She looked up from the floor, which she was scrubbing, then returned to rubbing her bristled brush over the flags.

  She’d erased all traces of the blood. A bucket of soapy water and one of clean water stood nearby. A pile of wet rags, no doubt already long rinsed of blood, waited nearby for reuse.

  “You’re tampering with evidence,” said Giles Haughton. “Please put down your brush.”

  “But this is my kitchen! How can I cook in here with—with—” She looked down and seemed about to cry.

  Ela felt a wave of compassion, followed by a further wave of annoyance—at herself. She should have thought to forbid Mistress Brice from returning to her house until it was examined. “We understand your impulse to clean, but we need evidence to pursue a conviction in court. Please step aside.”

  Elizabeth Brice took a reluctant step back. Her gown was tucked up into her belt, but still the brown fabric and the linen shift beneath it were wet and Ela could see a pinkish tinge along the hem of her shift that hinted at the blood she’d scrubbed away.

  Ela peered at the stone flags. The blood was gone, though she could perhaps see a shadow of it in the cracks between the stones, or was that just water? “When did you come back here? I left you last night at Widow Lester’s.”

  “I came back early in the morn.” She swiped at her nose, which was quite red. “I couldn’t bear to think of poor John’s blood all over the floor.”

  “You’ve changed.” Ela glanced around for her bloodstained clothes. “Where’s the tunic you had on last night?”

  “Hanging outside. I scrubbed it clean.”

  “Mistress Brice had blood on her clothing last night?” asked Giles.

  “Yes, all over the front and on the sleeves.”

  “From cradling my husband’s dead body in my arms.”

  “May our Lord comfort you,” said Ela. But something wasn’t sitting right with her.

  Red-faced, Elizabeth Brice wasn’t wearing a veil right now or even a fillet or barbette. Her long, wavy, sandy-brown hair hung down past her shoulders. Ela was surprised by how much younger she looked. She was a strapping, muscular woman, in contrast to her rather weedy husband. “You’ve accomplished a lot in a very short time. Did you drive your cows to the dairy this morning?”

  “Aye, though I didn’t wait there while they milked. I ran home to clean, then went back to drive them home.”

  “Why the hurry?” aske
d Houghton with a frown.

  Mistress Brice looked indignant. “Would you want spilled blood all over your hearth?”

  “No, but I would want my husband’s murder thoroughly investigated.” Ela’s heart missed a beat as she spoke.

  Her own husband’s death had simply been attributed to a sudden and violent illness. It had all happened so fast and no amount of investigation could bring him back, but it could certainly destroy her family if it ruffled the wrong feathers. She’d buried her husband and now presided over her own scrubbed hearth.

  “We know who did it.” Elizabeth Brice gripped her brush so hard her knuckles whitened. “The man who should have been in custody already for killing his wife.”

  “But we have no witnesses who saw Alan Morse here,” said Ela. “Even you didn’t see him. By your account he was gone when you returned to find your husband dead.”

  “I saw his big, clomping footprints everywhere.” She gestured outside the door.

  “Where?” Ela turned to look, knowing that if they ever were there, they’d be long gone under all the feet that came after them.

  “Outside the door, then mud tracked inside on the floor.”

  “And you washed them away?” Ela couldn’t believe the woman was this stupid.

  “They weren’t here this morning anyway. Whoever came to get the body walked all over them.” Her tone had a touch of insolence to it. “If evidence was so important, then it should have been looked at last night, shouldn’t it?”

  It wasn’t Elizabeth Brice’s business to make that determination. “It was already dark when you raised the hue and cry. There would have been no way to see clearly until morning.”

  “What time did you find the body?” asked Houghton roughly.

  “Right after milking. It was already well dark.”

  “You’re used to driving the cows in the dark?”

  “No choice in winter, have I?”

  “What light do you see by?”

  “The moon if it’s bright. If it’s cloudy I bring a rushlight or taper to see my way. The cows are always in a hurry to go get milked. It’s not exactly difficult to get them to the dairy or even back home again.”