Bad Money (A Stephen Attebrook mystery Book 6)

by Jason Vail

  Stephen should have pressed further; in fact, duty required it. But the problem of the kidnappers had so taken over his thoughts that the questions died on his tongue.

  “I think I’ll show it to Mistress Bartelot. Perhaps she will recognize it.”

  Thumper scowled, but did not protest.

  “If it’s not her trinket, you can have it back.”

  “All right, then,” Thumper said. “I’d like to avoid trouble, if I can.”

  Stephen weighed the chain in his hand, his mind making more sluggish headway than usual owing to his lack of sleep. “There is something you can do for me, I think, that will make your trouble go away.”

  Harry was at breakfast when Stephen arrived at the inn by Wydemarsh Gate. A thoughtful soul had even provided Harry with a pillow to sit upon and he looked satisfied with his bacon and hardboiled eggs as Stephen slipped onto the bench opposite him.

  Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What have you been up to?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Of course. All that commotion at the castle last night — you had nothing to do with that, I’m sure.”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Did you get them?”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “I will take your sour mood for a confession. How’d you do it?”

  “Shut up, I said.”

  “Well, at least tell me about this terrible fire. Was anyone killed?”

  “No, the watch got out, although they had to jump over the wall. One fellow broke a leg, I heard.”

  “A pity.”

  “What, that no one was killed?”

  “No, that the fellow broke his leg. See? I am not without compassion for the unfortunate. Have an egg. You’ll feel better. It’s too early to get drunk.”

  Stephen took up one of the eggs from the bowl in front of Harry, who waved at a servant to fetch some more.

  “You’re not troubled by your conscience, are you?” Harry asked as Stephen chewed the egg.

  “I have no conscience. Not any more, anyway.”

  “That’s a good thing. They are such a burden. But what’s bothering you?”

  “Nothing. I said it’s nothing.”

  Harry shrugged. “All right. But Father Harry will have this nothing out of you eventually.”

  “You are becoming irritating.”

  “Wouldn’t be doing my job if I wasn’t.”

  Harry paid the remaining bill while Stephen went out to tack up the other horse. Harry emerged and two servants kindly lifted him upon the mare. Harry grandly gave the servants a farthing.

  “Shall we be off, my good man?” he said as Stephen secured him with the leather thongs they had brought for that purpose. “It is a long way home and I like to get an early start.”

  “It is a long way home,” Stephen murmured, wishing that he had a home. He was unlikely to find a lasting one any time soon other than that wretched inn of the Wistwodes’.

  He led the horses out to the street. Instead of going left toward the gate, he turned right into town.

  “What is this, man?” Harry called. “You’re going the wrong way!”

  “No, this is the right way. Shut up and enjoy the ride.”

  “I do not enjoy riding any more than Gilbert does. It is far too dangerous an activity for the ordinary man.”

  “You only say that because you’re too poor to own a horse. If you had one you’d think differently.”

  “If I had legs to hold on with perhaps I’d think differently.”

  They reached Jews Street. Harry rubbed his chin in thought but said nothing. They came to Theo and Sarah’s house. Stephen stopped and dismounted. He knocked on the door. The elder daughter answered.

  “Could you get your mother, please?” Stephen asked.

  “Right away, sir,” the girl said and ducked back into the house, leaving the door cracked.

  Sarah arrived, wiping her hands on her apron. “I didn’t think we’d be seeing you again, sir.”

  “I’ve an errand to run,” Stephen said. “I’m leaving my horse and Harry with you for safekeeping.” He handed the reins to his mare to the daughter and led Harry’s horse through the doorway. “Mind your head, Harry.”

  “What are you doing?” Harry sputtered as they passed through the main room. “You didn’t —”

  He got no answer until they reached the back garden and Stephen untied the thongs holding Harry in place.

  “It was Theo’s price,” Stephen said softly. “Don’t let Sarah know. She thinks Theo’s given up the business.”

  “You’re leaving me here?” Harry asked as Stephen eased him to the ground.

  “I’ll be back for you and the tack once I’ve got Gilbert back.”

  “Don’t get killed doing so. I don’t want to be stuck here. Beggars’ licenses are expensive in Hereford and I’ve just about run out of money. Although, you know, with a bit of silver we could make our own!”

  Stephen straightened up. “Harry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Chapter 17

  Edith Wistwode spotted Stephen crossing the yard of the Broken Shield. She leaned on the window sill and drew a breath, hand at her throat, wanting to call out, but her voice failed.

  By the time she emerged from the house, Stephen had gone in the stable with his remaining horse. She thought it was odd that he had only the one — and no Harry in sight, either — but those thoughts left her mind as she hurried to catch up with him.

  He was removing the saddle, the horse in one of the empty stalls, when she reached him.

  “Do you have them?” she demanded. She noticed that he looked haggard, but she put that down to strain and the exertions of the journey.

  Stephen did not answer. He put a finger to his lips, and went first one way down the stable and then toward Harry’s stall to make sure there was no one within listening distance. He even climbed the ladder to the loft in case one of the boys was up there shirking work.

  He nodded when at last he confronted her. “Do not speak of this again. Has anyone been by asking about me?”

  “Only one of Henle’s men. They’ve arrested Herb Jamesson. He passed bad pennies two days ago. Henle wanted to talk to you about it.”

  “Did you tell Henle’s man where I’d gone?”

  Edith nodded.

  “At least you said it was to investigate the bad money, I hope.”

  “Yes. Although people have been talking. You and Harry were seen leaving together.”

  “What have you said about that?”

  “What you told me to: that he has a sister in Hereford he wanted to visit. People thought it odd that you of all people would be the one to take him there.”

  “They’ll just have to continue to wonder. We’ll say he paid me to do it, I suppose, if further explanation is required. I’m going to bed. I’ve been up all night. Oh, and I suppose I should tell you, since everyone will expect it, there was a terrible fire at Hereford Castle. The tower on the motte burned to the ground, or the buildings within it did, anyway.”

  “I hope you had nothing to do with that,” Edith said.

  “Of course I didn’t. I only watched.”

  As much as Stephen desired the luxury of catching up on his lost sleep, the opportunity eluded him. No more than an hour passed before an insistent pounding on his door awakened him. The annoying person at the door would not desist despite Stephen’s shouts for him to go away.

  When it was clear he would not be left alone, Stephen rose and crossed to the door, mindful of the roof beams on which he was prone to knock his head if he was not careful.

  “What do you want, John?” Stephen asked, unable to suppress a snarl, when he cracked the door.

  “Sorry to bother you, sir,” said John, one of the hired guards at the castle. “Sir Walter would like to see you.”

  “Right now? I’m very tired. I was up all night. There was a great fire at Hereford Castle. Nobody could sleep through that.”

  “We
’ve heard, sir. Can I tell him you’re on your way?”

  “In due time.”

  “Well, sir, Sir Walter wants to subject Jamesson to questioning, but he wanted to consult with you before he did so. I’m afraid that if you tarry . . .” John shrugged. “You know how impatient he is.” John was one of those who frequented Jamesson’s establishment, an inn at the Corve bridge popular for its bowls, so he and Jamesson were acquaintances.

  Questioning . . . that could only mean the thumbscrew or some other device to encourage the disclosure of information that someone wished to conceal. “I’ll be right down.”

  Herbert Jamesson was chained to a post in the castle’s jail. Stephen noted that it was the same post from which Jamesson’s brother had hung himself only the month before. Stephen wondered if Jamesson realized this, but he said nothing. The poor man’s plight seemed bad enough without adding that tidbit for him to think about.

  “Got yourself in a pickle, eh, Herb?” Stephen asked from the doorway. He had no desire to get any closer. A toxic ooze of shit, piss, the pungent reek of unwashed bodies, rotting hay and a hint of boiled cabbage was choking enough just at the doorway.

  “Get me out of here!” Jamesson demanded. “Why is it the Wistwodes are let off scot free? Favoritism, that’s why! The law works for those who have connections and against those who don’t!”

  “You know that isn’t it. The Wistwodes washed their money and turned in the bad pennies they found. You apparently couldn’t be bothered with that precaution from what John here tells me.”

  “This is how the Wistwodes will get rid of their competition. They passed some of their bad money at my inn, hoping that I’d be found out and accused of complicity in counterfeiting!”

  “Whoever spent the money at your place wasn’t connected with the Broken Shield. In the last few weeks have you had any unusual guests? A half dozen or so rough men, with the look of soldiers?”

  Jamesson’s brow furrowed as he struggled to remember. “I seem to recall such men. Kept to themselves. Didn’t even try bowls, despite being challenged. I thought that was odd, but you get all sorts of strange people in my trade.”

  “I’m thinking of one in particular. Tall, broad shouldered, handsome in his rough way, but with a harelip.”

  “I remember a man like that.”

  “You don’t happen to remember his name? Or that of any of his companions?”

  Jamesson shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

  “There you are!” a voice belonging unmistakably to Walter Henle interrupted from some distance across the bailey. “When I summon you, man, I expect you to come, not to dawdle about with the prisoners!”

  Stephen stepped away from the doorway as Henle hurried his big square body toward him.

  “I wanted to question Jamesson before I spoke to you,” Stephen said as Henle drew up, breathing a bit hard from his exertions.

  “And I wanted to speak you before you interrogated him. You have ruined my plan.”

  Stephen doubted that Henle had much of a plan; he wasn’t a man for plans beyond the straight dash at something.

  “Have you learned anything about the counterfeiters?” Henle asked when Stephen did not reply. “We’ve one of their confederates right here.” He gestured toward the gaol.

  “I don’t think that Jamesson is involved. He’s an innocent victim.”

  “Oh, come now, he had almost a shilling in bad money which he was at pains to conceal.”

  “Wistwodes discovered they had bad money and he is no more guilty than they are.”

  Henle harrumphed at this, for no doubt he wished for a reason to strike out at Gilbert. “What proof do you have of that?”

  “One of the chief suspects in the ring stayed at the Pidgeon. I have no doubt he is the source of the bad money.”

  “Chief suspect? What chief suspect? You never said anything about a chief suspect before! Did you learn anything in Hereford?”

  “Not in Hereford. This fellow of whom I speak was seen in the yard of the Broken Shield the night Feyn was murdered,” Stephen lied.

  “This is the first I’ve heard about this. Who saw him?”

  “Harry,” Stephen said, mentioning the first name that popped into his head, glad that Harry was gone so this claim could not be checked.

  “I think I should speak to Harry then. I’ve had my people speak to everyone who might know something while you were gone — in case you left a stone unturned.”

  “That’s good to know,” Stephen said. “Harry, I’m afraid, is not available for questioning. He is in Hereford.”

  “What the devil is he doing in Hereford?”

  “Visiting relatives. He has a sister there. He fancied an opportunity to see her.”

  “Harry? Has a sister? In Hereford?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “How on earth did he get to Hereford?”

  “Since you ordered me to go there, I took him.”

  Henle looked at Stephen as if he were mad: as well he might, since conveying a beggar like Harry anywhere was a mad thing for a person of Stephen’s station to do. Henle waved a hand. “You are altogether too friendly with the likes of him. Well, no matter. Fellow like that can’t be believed anyway.”

  “You’ll let him go then?”

  “Who?”

  “Jamesson.”

  “I am not convinced he’s innocent. We’ll keep him in hold until we know more. Are you satisfied that you’ve got out of him all you need?” Henle glanced at the doorway, clearly glad not to have to approach it but probably yearning to apply more vigorous questioning methods than Stephen was known to employ.

  “Yes, I think so,” Stephen said. “Are we done here? I was up all night, thanks to that fire at the Hereford Castle. No one could possibly sleep through the racket.”

  “I suppose we are,” Henle said. “Keep me apprised of all developments. I say, though, tell me about this fire. I hear it was catastrophic.”

  Chapter 18

  Henle’s interest in the fire was so consuming that it was some time before Stephen could get away. He suspected he would be required to tell the story quite a few more times. Such spectacular events were rare and people wanted to know every lurid detail.

  Yet Stephen managed to reach Bell Lane without being waylaid to tell the story, although John Spicer the Younger had beckoned from the wine shop at the top of Broad Street with an invitation to stop for a cup of wine. Stephen waved him off. It was too early in the day for wine in any case.

  As he neared the Broken Shield, he looked up to see Felicitas Bartelot gazing down from her open window, as she did most days when the weather allowed it. Although Edith told him that she had not paid her rent this month, she had not yet been evicted. That could happen any day, however.

  “Good day, Sir Stephen,” Mistress Bartelot called down as their eyes met.

  “And to you,” Stephen said. “I just remembered. I have recovered your cross. You must forgive me that it slipped my mind until this moment.”

  “Nothing about my spoons?”

  “I am afraid I have not made progress on that score.”

  “Who was the thief?”

  “I’ve not established that yet. But I found by chance someone the thief had sold it to.”

  “Will Thumper,” she said with malice.

  Stephen shrugged, intending neither to confirm nor deny.

  Mistress Bartelot was not deceived. “Why would you protect that rascal?”

  “First, I have not said it was Thumper. I found the cross in the Hereford market of all places. Second, these things can require more delicacy that you might imagine at first.”

  “I don’t see why. A bit of the thumbscrew should get a confession out of him. The town would be better for it.”

  “You’ll have to settle with the return of your property, I’m afraid. That part of it, at least.”

  “That is a disappointment. I shall be right down.”

  “I have to fetch it.” Stephen
entered the inn, crossed the hall and climbed the stairs by the fireplace to his room.

  When he came down and headed back through the hall, he spotted two men he had not expected to see again. One of them rose from their table in the corner and intercepted Stephen at the door.

  “My lady would like a word, sir,” said Walter, a broad-shouldered man with a quick smile whose mistress presented him as a servant but who carried himself like a soldier.

  “She’s here?” Stephen tried to sound disinterested in the fact that Margaret de Thottenham might be somewhere within ten miles.

  Walter pointed skyward. “In the front room.”

  “I will see to her straightaway,” Stephen said. “Thank you.”

  But Mistress Bartelot could not be ignored, so he went back to her house, where Dungon was peering out the window for his approach and opened the front door before he could knock. Stephen glanced back at the Broken Shield. The windows to the front room were open, as they usually were in good weather, but no one was visible. He could call to Margaret if he wanted to, but he did not.

  “You really have it?” Dungon asked.

  Stephen showed her the cross.

  “It is the one,” Dungon breathed. “My lady will be very pleased. It is a pity about the spoons, but she put more store in this bauble, I think, even though it’s only made of bronze. I keep it polished so that it shines. People mistake it for gold because of that.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “Her husband gave it to her before he died. It is all that is left of him. He was a decent man, even if a little distracted. It’s funny, isn’t it, sir, how the memories of the dead slip away? I can hardly recall his face.”

  “Tell me something, Dungon. Why are you still here if she has no money? She can’t be paying your wages.”

  “I have been with her twenty-five years. It’s hard to go. But I shall have to eventually, I suppose. The end of the month is soon enough.”

  “You’ll deliver the cross to Mistress Bartelot?”