‘It is too late now to protect Madame Eglantine’s life,’ the priest told me, ‘but at least I can still guard her reputation.’
‘Could you explain what you mean by that?’ I asked.
‘No,’ the nuns’ priest said. ‘I could not.’
*
The summoner strode into the room with all the swagger of a man knows that both through his official position, and through his cankered face, he can inspire fear in most of those who see him. The pardoner, in contrast, trailed him at his heel, like a small uncertain dog.
The knight watched their progress with obvious distaste. ‘We will talk to you one at a time,’ he said. ‘I do not care which one we start with.’
A look of panic crossed the pardoner’s face.
‘But … but were together when both the miller and the nun were killed,’ he bleated in his thin voice.
‘Together?’ the knight repeated. ‘How came you to be together at such an early hour of the morning?’
I wondered if he really did not know, or if this were no more than a cunning ploy to knock the summoner and pardoner off their guard. But cunning ploys were not within the knight’s range of strategies. He was, if truth be told, a man who would rarely have had to counterfeit ignorance!
‘How came you to be together?’ the knight repeated.
The summoner looked at the pardoner, and the pardoner looked at the summoner. They had been lodged together the previous night – the reader may take that expression as he chooses! – and the big blotch-face oaf looked well prepared to state as much, more as a boast than as a confession. But the pardoner, though in appearance he was almost as grotesque as his partner, had more inner refinement.
‘We had church business to conduct, and the early morning was the only opportunity which presented itself,’ the pardoner told the knight. ‘We were about our business when the miller screamed in Dartford, and also when the nuns screamed here.’
Images of just what kind of business they had been conducted formed in my mind, and I was forced to shake my head vigorously to rid myself of them again.
‘So you heard and saw nothing?’ the knight asked the other two men.
‘Nothing.’
The knight frowned. ‘But surely, since unlike most of the other pilgrims you were both fully dressed and awake, you should have been the first ones to reach the gallery?’
The summoner laughed, and breathed out a cloud of foul-smelling garlic which all but threatened to envelop us.
‘It is true that unlike most of the others, we were awake,’ he said. ‘But we were deeply engaged in discussion.’
I found myself wondering which of the repulsive pair had been deeply engaged, and which had been deeply engaging in, but soon decided that I would much rather not know.
‘Very deeply, if you understand what I’m saying,’ the summoner added, in case we had missed the point.
I glanced quickly across at the knight. From the bemused expression on his face it was clear that even if the summoner had written his confession in letters a league high, he would still not have been able to read it.
*
It was Harry Bailey’s turn to answer our questions. He sat opposite us, his large backside spilling over the edges of his stool which, by some miracle, was managing to take his weight. He looked far from comfortable, but I sensed that he would look no happier were he sitting on a throne.
‘Were there any spare rooms at the Tabard the night we all stayed there?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And did you try to persuade some of the pilgrims who were planning to share to take a room of their own?’
‘Yes, I did. There’s nothing unusual in that, is there?’ Bailey asked defensively.
‘No, I’m sure there is not,’ I agreed.
‘It’s what all landlords do. There’s no money to be made out of an empty room, so we offer a special price to people who don’t really need a room of their own but might be persuaded to take it if the cost is low enough.’
I sighed. He must have been aware of the direction my questions were leading in, I thought, but he seemed most unwilling to meet me halfway.
‘Was the prioress one of the people who you offered a special price to?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And what did she say when you made the offer?’
Bailey shrugged and the stool beneath him groaned.
‘She said she didn’t want to take me up on it.’
‘Did she give a reason?’
‘It was a busy night, with all of you suddenly turning up like that,’ Bailey said. ‘You can’t expect me to remember her exact words with all that was going on.’
‘But you can remember roughly what she said?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Then tell me.’
‘She said that in the priory all the nuns had their own cells and slept alone. So it would be rather a pleasant change to have company while she was on the pilgrimage.’
But that feeling hadn’t lasted long, had it? I asked myself. By the second night of the pilgrimage she was sleeping alone again.
‘Is there anything you can tell me which might help us to catch whoever killer the prioress and the miller?’ I asked.
Bailey shrugged again. ‘I don’t think so.’
He was not the same man we had known in Southwark and on the road, I thought. That Harry Bailey had been loud and open – always willing to give an opinion or join in an argument. This Harry Bailey was sullen and secretive.
Perhaps, like the man of law, he was sulking, I thought. That would certainly make sense, for hadn’t the murders meant that he had lost his place as the centre of attention on this pilgrimage?
Yes, that was what I thought then.
Now, of course, I know different.
*
Once the host had left the room, I glanced down at the list of names lying on the table in front of me.
‘The only pilgrims still left to question are your son and your yeoman, Will,’ I told the knight.
‘There would be little point in talking to Will,’ the knight said. ‘He has been my strong right arm for many years, by my side in all manner of trials and tribulations. I have absolute trust in him, and had he known anything of use to us, he would have told me at once.’
It was probably true, I thought. For yeomen like the solid reliable Will, serving their masters was what gave a purpose to their lives. They would have no secrets which their masters did not share in. They would not even think a thought without checking first that it was permitted. But the squire was quite another matter – he was beginning to emerge from his father’s shadow and starting to take shape as his own man.
‘Shall I then go and fetch your squire?’ I asked.
‘That will not be necessary,’ the knight replied. ‘He will be able to tell us no more than Will could.’
I was shocked by the change in his tone. There was suddenly a new tightness to his voice, which, though I could not identify it at that precise moment, seemed oddly familiar.
‘I am not sure that I would agree that your son cannot help us, sir knight,’ I said.
And now I shivered, for I had isolated the tone and was travelling back in time to the France of my youth – to the cold misty mornings when we stood at the edge of what was soon to become a battlefield, and wondered if we would live to see the end of the day.
The knight, who had faced death himself a hundred times, was afraid. And the thing he was afraid of was my talking to his son. I found myself wondering what hideous secret lay buried in the young man’s bosom.
*
The knight and I still sat in the common room, waiting for the franklin to return. We had not spoken for quite some time, but I had no doubt that we were at least thinking about the same problem.
It was I who finally broke the silence.
‘Even if we do not actually question your son, we must at least call him to this room and appear to be questioning him,’ I said, hoping
to reach a compromise.
The knight shook his head. ‘I will not lie.’
‘Nor am I asking you to do so,’ I argued. ‘We do not need to say we actually questioned your son.’
‘But we will give the impression that we have. Though we speak not a word to them, we will still be deceiving to our fellow pilgrims. I am a knight who has knelt before the old king and felt him place his broadsword on my shoulders. I will not dishonour his memory, nor tarnish my own reputation, by such trickery.’
‘If we do not call him in as we have called in all the others, they will complain that we are giving him special treatment,’ I pointed out.
‘And does not the rank in society which he holds merit special treatment?’ the knight countered.
‘Others of higher rank than his have already submitted.’
‘Then if his rank will not protect him, the protection shall come through mine,’ the knight said angrily. ‘Nor should such protection even be necessary. He is my son, and if the tree be sound, why should not the fruit be also?’
‘You are saying that if you are innocent, then he, as your heir, must also be innocent?’
‘Yes, that is indeed what I am saying,’ the knight replied. ‘Is it not logical, my learned friend?’
Logical enough for most people, I thought - especially when it was argued by a man of some stature, like the knight. Yet I found myself wondering how we could accept the squire’s innocence when we had not even established the innocence of his father.
For that was the problem, you see. The knight, the franklin and I had instinctively and confidently shrouded ourselves in the cloak of those above suspicion. But who or what had given us the right to make that assumption? To be sure, I could vouch for myself - but could I also vouch for the others? Of course not! And while I did not consider the knight and the franklin as likely murderers, it would be a foolish man indeed who ruled out the possibility immediately.
‘If your son has nothing to fear, why do you wish to prevent me talking to him?’ I asked the knight.
The old warrior gazed down at his battle-scarred hands.
‘I did not say he had nothing to fear,’ he admitted quietly.
‘Then you do suspect him of the murders?’
‘Of course I do not.’
‘Then what?’
‘I suspect that he is guilty of a lesser sin.’
‘And what sin might that be?’ I inquired.
The knight had begun to colour. ‘I asked that woman of Bath – that whore of Bath – if any of her husbands had died a violent death. You may have taken that to mean that meant I suspected her, but I did not. In truth, she is perhaps the last person to suspect, for I am almost sure that, should she choose to, she could account for all her movements for the last two nights.’
‘She … she was with your son!’ I gasped, wondering why I had not seen it before.
‘Have you never asked yourself how I came to be the first man to reach the miller’s bedchamber on the morning of his murder?’ the knight said.
‘No, not specifically,’ I admitted.
But I had certainly wondered how he had had time to put on his boots! ‘You, I imagine, were awakened by the miller’s scream, but I had been astir for some time before then,’ the knight said. ‘I awoke well before dawn to find my son’s bed empty. I dressed and stepped out onto the gallery just in time to see him leave that woman’s chamber. I took him back to our own room, and was just beginning to rebuke him when I heard the miller’s scream.’
Now I understood why the widow had been sitting at the knight’s table in Dartford – and why she had clearly been banished from it here in Rochester.
‘You said you thought she could probably account for her movements for the last two nights,’ I pointed out.
‘That is correct,’ the knight agreed mournfully.
‘Which I take to mean that despite your having voiced your displeasure, your son visited the widow last night as well.’
‘Both as his father and as his master, it shames me to admit it. But yes, that is what he did.’
‘So you caught him leaving the widow’s room again this morning?’
‘No. I did not have the opportunity, for he did not tarry with her last night, but came into our chamber just as I was awakening.’
‘So you cannot say with any certainty that he had been to see the widow at all?’
‘Where else could he have been?’ the knight asked. ‘Believe me, good master Thatcher, though my squire is capable of fornication, he is not capable of murder.’
The common room door swung violently open, and the franklin stormed into the room looking greatly displeased.
‘I have spoken to the merchant’s wife, and there is no doubt in my mind that the unholy friar – that true disgrace to his order - did spend the night with the woman, as he claimed,’ the landowner said, his voice thick with both anger and disappointment.
‘Who told you?’ I asked. ‘The woman herself? For if that is the case, perhaps she was lying in order to protect his reputation.’
‘Why should any woman put her own reputation in danger, unless she was telling no more than the truth?’ the franklin asked haughtily. ‘Besides, they were not as discreet as they may have imagined they were. After I had talked to her, I questioned one of her servants, and he is willing to swear on oath that he saw the friar leave the house just after first cock crow.’
‘So we have failed,’ I said. ‘And now, since our pilgrimage is at an end, we will never know who killed the miller and the prioress.’
‘The pilgrimage at an end?’ the franklin repeated? ‘Oh no, my friend, it must not end. It must go on as planned.’
‘But surely, that is no longer possible,’ I protested. ‘The beadle will never let us continue now that there has been a second murder. He will detain us, and attempt to unmask the killer himself. By the time he realises it is a fruitless task, and finally agrees to let us go, several days will have passed. Do you truly think that any of our companions will still have an appetite for completing our journey by then?’
‘No, I do not,’ the franklin said. ‘That is why we must leave this morning.’
‘But the beadle…?’
‘I have powerful friends living near this town, as I have powerful friends living near many other towns,’ the franklin boasted. ‘I will ask them to use their influence, and the beadle will have no choice but to let us go.’
‘But why should you even wish the pilgrimage to continue?’ I asked.
The franklin favoured me with a superior smile. ‘Because, as you have rightly stated, the beadle will never uncover the murderer. But I – but we, I should say,’ he hastily amended, ‘we may well be able to do it ourselves, if the pilgrimage is allowed to continue for a little longer and we have more time to study our suspects.’
‘Perhaps, when all is said and done, this is nothing more than a test,’ mused the knight, who had obviously not been listening to us, but instead had chosen to follow the slow and winding pathways of his own thoughts. ‘Yes, a test is just what it may be.’
‘Set by whom?’ I asked.
‘By the Lord God above,’ the knight said simply. ‘Is it not possible that he wishes to try our resolve – to discover if we have the faith to continue our pilgrimage even in the face of adversity?’
I cannot say in all honesty that I was totally convinced by the knight’s musings, but I welcomed it as another argument in favour of the pilgrimage continuing, for I was now of one mind with the franklin that it must continue if we were to catch our murderer.
Yes, on this at least the franklin and I agreed, but though we were travelling in the same direction, we were driven by quite different forces. I was interested in nothing more than serving justice, you must understand. The franklin, on the other hand, thought only of the glory which would accrue to him should he find the murderer. Thus, should he solve the puzzle through luck, he would be likely to crow about it abominably, whereas if my logical investigati
on prevailed, I would be much more modest. True, if I did succeed, I might use that success to take the franklin down a peg or two, but only, you must understand, for his own good.
*
The questioning of the other pilgrims had – as my more astute readers will already have calculated – taken all of the morning and much of the afternoon. Nor, once that unpleasant task was completed, were we free for the rest of the day, for it was necessary for the triumvirate we had formed to meet the franklin’s important local friends and discuss what action needed to be taken in the light of the prioress’s death.
What pleasure the franklin gained from that meeting! How he enjoyed demonstrating that - although a stranger who knew no better might mistake us for equals - he was a landowner with influence, while I was nothing more than a former servant of the crown. Yet since even the Devil must be granted his due, I will allow the franklin credit for persuading these local worthies to rule – in the face of all logic, both ancient and modern – that the prioress, like the drunken miller before her, had been killed by robbers.
Day the Third
Evening
It would be the grossest hyperbole to claim that the pilgrims showed the same exuberance of spirit in the Cock-on-the-Hoop that night as they had demonstrated in the Tabard at the start of our journey. Yet I should be equally guilty of straying from the truth if I were to say that a cloud of gloom hung oppressively over the common room all evening. For as food was eaten, and ale and wine were drunk, I sensed that the despondency which had been weighing down the pilgrims was beginning to float away.
It came as no surprise to an observer of human nature like myself that good cheer should slowly seep into the room. In all honesty, I had expected no other reaction from my companions - nor would I have if they had been any other collection of men and women. For is it not any more than human nature that while we mourn the passing of others, we also feel the urge to celebrate the fact that it is these others, and not ourselves, who have given up the ghost?
The knight, the franklin and I shared a table that evening. It was scarcely a matter of choice on our part, for who else would have wished to sit with the three men who had spent the better part of the day all-but accusing their travelling companions of committing bloody murder?
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