The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

by Michael Jecks

‘Like who?’ the young man scoffed, but then his expression took on a nervous look when the Coroner continued:

  ‘What about your woman?’

  Chapter Ten

  When they left the glum Jolinde, Coroner Roger led the way to the gate and out to the High Street. They were walking along in the direction of Sutton’s Inn where Jolinde’s woman worked, when the Coroner suddenly saw a man he recognised. He called out and waved, and the man crossed the road to join them.

  ‘Bailiff, Sir Baldwin – this is the city Bailiff, William de Lappeford. It was he who found the dead glover’s body.’

  ‘Oh?’ Baldwin said, turning to the man with interest.

  ‘That’s right, sir. I found him when his apprentice Elias had murdered him.’

  De Lappeford was a large, slow man with a heavy forehead and a fixed frown of concentration. He looked the sort of person whom Baldwin would trust to obey an order entirely honestly, but who should never be put in a position of authority where independent thought was needed.

  Sir Baldwin asked mildly, ‘What do you think of the apprentice?’

  ‘Elias? A fool, if he thought he could get away with killing his master.’

  ‘Did you find any money in Elias’s belongings?’

  ‘No, nor jewels. He must have hidden them somewhere already.’

  ‘How old was the corpse?’ Simon wanted to know.

  ‘Oh, it was fresh. Still quite warm to the touch, and the blood hadn’t congealed.’

  ‘So it’s not likely the lad had much time to run away and hide things, is it?’ Simon pointed out.

  ‘Perhaps not. But Ralph was up early.’

  ‘Ah, Bailiff Puttock,’ the Coroner smiled, ‘you don’t know the people of this city that well, obviously. It happens that Ralph was up well before dawn each day, when it was his habit to leave his home for a walk. The apprentice could easily have waited until his master had left the house, before going to the strongbox, taking the jewels and money, then dashing off to hide them somewhere. His master must have returned, realised what had happened, so his apprentice killed him.’

  ‘Would the glover have gone to his parish church each morning?’ Baldwin enquired.

  ‘He went to the Cathedral for the Lady Mass at first light every day. He always used to say it was the most pleasant of all the services, standing there before the statue of the Virgin. He said She reminded him of his own wife.’

  ‘The lady is dead, I assume?’ Baldwin asked gravely.

  William nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Mistress Glover and their daughter died when a wagon overturned in the street. They were smothered with barrels of stores.’

  ‘An accident?’

  ‘Oh yes, Sir Baldwin,’ the Coroner confirmed. ‘A wheel came off and it rolled over. Nothing suspicious in it.’

  Baldwin continued, ‘So Ralph was out of the house that morning and Elias meantime could have taken his money and hidden it elsewhere. Is there anywhere that seems likely?’

  ‘I wondered about his woman, young Mary at the baker’s, but she denies it,’ William said. ‘She admitted that Elias had been there that morning, but as for giving her anything, she just said no. Said that he had seen her almost every day for the last few months, but that morning he arrived and they stood chatting for a long time. Nothing more. They were in her father’s shop, and he was there. He confirmed her story, and in fact he said that Elias ran out, realising he was late.’

  ‘Was his master cruel to him?’ Simon interrupted. ‘I’ve seen plenty of cases where a man was so scared of being beaten that he took action first to protect himself. Could this Elias have attacked his master in self-defence?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Roger answered. ‘The bread was still quite warm in Elias’s hands, so he had hurried back from the baker. And Ralph Glover was the kindest of men.’

  Baldwin asked, ‘Has he confessed?’

  ‘No, murderers rarely do,’ William said off-handedly. ‘But Ralph himself had asked me to call on him, saying he’d discovered a theft. I daresay the apprentice was the culprit.’

  ‘Ralph spoke to you that morning?’ Simon asked.

  ‘No, the day before, but it was in the street and he said it was a matter to be discussed in private. Obviously because it was embarrassing that his own apprentice was robbing him.’

  ‘So it was a theft that had already happened – yet you say the boy took the stuff and killed his master before going to hide it!’ Baldwin smiled. ‘This sounds inconsistent.’

  ‘Look, the main point is, the apprentice is a fool. He stabbed the glover with his own dagger then admitted it was his own.’

  Baldwin studied de Lappeford a moment. ‘You are telling me that the boy left his knife in the body?’

  ‘No, he had dropped it.’

  Simon and Baldwin exchanged a glance. Simon said doubtfully, ‘Was he drunk?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you’re saying he was stupid enough to kill his master and steal his money, intelligent enough to conceal the money where you can’t find it, but thick enough to drop his own incriminating dagger there on the floor by his master?’

  ‘Felons often make mistakes.’

  Baldwin tilted his head to one side. Addressing the Coroner, he asked, ‘Did the boy’s blade match the stab wound?’

  ‘The wounds were about half an inch wide, while his blade was an inch at the base.’

  ‘Is the body . . . ?’

  ‘It’s buried, Sir Baldwin,’ Coroner Roger admitted apologetically.

  ‘Well, at least tell me how many wounds there were.’

  ‘Seven at the front of his torso, all about the heart; another four in his back.’

  ‘So it was a frantic attack,’ Simon mused.

  Baldwin was trying to calm himself but the excitement was almost overwhelming him. ‘Coroner, if a man is stabbed so many times, I’ve always found it was a berserk attack, not one committed by a rational person. And the dagger is always thrust in up to the hilt – bang, bang, bang. That would mean the wounds should be at least an inch wide. How long was the blade? Would it have gone from one side through to the other if forced hard?’

  ‘The glover was a big man, Sir Baldwin. No, the blade couldn’t have gone all the way through.’

  ‘Nonetheless, the lad’s blade was surely not the murder weapon. Did the apprentice show any sign of being wild? Did he appear ferocious? Enraged or mad?’

  William de Lappeford cleared his throat. ‘There was no one else to arrest. Who would kill a happy-go-lucky fellow like Ralph for no reason? It makes no sense. At least we know that the apprentice was aware of the money. He must have wanted to steal it, that’s what we . . .’ He threw a glance at his Coroner. ‘It’s what I think, anyway.’

  ‘And you think,’ Simon pressed him, ‘that the death of the Secondary in the Cathedral ties up with Ralph’s murder?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He was saved from further interrogation by the Coroner’s dry chuckle. ‘Enough! William, you may leave us now.’ While the sulking man stomped off, Coroner Roger said nothing, clearly amused by the discomfiture of the city’s Bailiff. Then: ‘I think that shows the standard of the local investigation. You heard, Sir Baldwin, how that fool of a Bailiff – saving your presence, Master Simon! – said the glover was stabbed? Well, his body was in the shop. If Elias was acting on a sudden whim or killing his master out of fear, having already robbed him, why should he have stabbed Ralph there, when the money box was in the house? Did Ralph tell Elias to go to his shop, then, when the robbery was discovered, did he accuse his apprentice, who was by then so petrified with terror that he stabbed his master?’

  ‘It is feasible,’ Baldwin commented doubtfully. ‘Yet I think the apprentice may well be innocent.’

  The Coroner answered briskly: ‘Let me just say that I would appreciate a second opinion of the matter. I find it difficult to imagine that a weakly looking twerp like Elias could attempt to murder his master. Most people were fond of our Ralph, Elias amo
ng them. And there is another thing.’

  ‘I rather thought there might be,’ Baldwin smiled.

  ‘Put simply, Sir Baldwin, I have to wonder whether there is a connection between the death of the glover and the Secondary. And, if the two deaths are connected, how should I explain the fact that Elias was in gaol at the time of the second death? That is my difficulty.’

  ‘And you would like our assistance in investigating it?’

  The Coroner smiled innocently. ‘If the Dean can ask for help with his dead Secondary, why shouldn’t I request your advice on Ralph Glover’s demise?’

  A short while later the three men were seated at a table in Sutton’s Inn near the Shambles. Simon caught the eye of a girl and beckoned but she carefully turned from him to serve another man, presumably a local. It took the Coroner’s hoarse bellow to persuade the girl to deign to acknowledge them.

  ‘Sirs? Ale or wine?’

  ‘Wine for me,’ said Roger. Baldwin asked for a thin ale, while Simon ordered a strong winter brew and a meat pie. When she returned, Roger took his wine and eyed her contemplatively. ‘So you’ve taken to young clerics now, have you, Claricia?’

  ‘Who told you that?’ she demanded, a flush rising in a steady tide from her neck upwards.

  While Roger questioned her, Baldwin studied her dispassionately. Claricia Cornisshe was pretty, in a very simple way: her pale-featured, oval face had high cheekbones and slanted, almond-coloured eyes under delicately curving brows. Her nose was slender and slightly tip-tilted, and her lips were full with a faint upward lift, as though she was considering sharing a joke.

  But her humour was apparently in short supply as Roger spoke.

  ‘Your lover boy: Jolinde. His friend Peter, did you know him at all?’

  ‘Peter? He wasn’t the sort to come to an Inn. I wouldn’t want to entertain him anyway.’

  ‘But you’re happy to entertain this other one, this Jolinde?’ Simon asked. He had sunk a good half of his ale and suddenly the world was looking and feeling better as he took up his pie and bit into it.

  She looked at him without interest. ‘Jolly’s different. He’s not all holier-than-thou. I doubt whether he’d manage to stay on at the Cathedral until he gets anywhere – not that he cares. He’s too grand to remain a cleric.’

  ‘Too grand?’ scoffed Roger. ‘What’s so grand about a pissy priest?’

  ‘He’s the son of Vincent de Berwe, didn’t you know? Jolly’ll be worth more than you when his father dies, Coroner,’ she stated tartly.

  Claricia instinctively liked the look of both strangers with the Coroner. The older one, the one with the beard, had interesting features, with a jagged scar that reached from his jaw almost up to his temple, giving him a slightly rakish appearance. Apart from that, when his attention was on her she could feel his utter concentration, as if everyone else in the place could hang; he had ears only for what she herself had to say. It was immensely flattering.

  The other, the Bailiff, had a vulnerability about him. His face had a rugged, lived-in look. Grey eyes returned her frank study with a hint of amusement, as if he was challenging her, but there was a lot of sadness in his face, too.

  It was the bearded one who spoke first, while the Coroner sat back, grumbling.

  ‘Claricia, I wanted to ask you just a few more questions. Would you mind helping us?’

  ‘Don’t see why not. Depends. Are you trying to hurt Jolinde? I won’t see Jolly stuffed just to find a scapegoat for the Dean.’

  ‘There’s no risk of that. No, I just wanted to hear what you thought of the two boys.’

  ‘Jolly’s fun. That’s all. We’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks.’

  ‘You say he will inherit Vincent’s money?’ Simon asked.

  She glanced at him, nodding slowly. ‘Vincent’s promised him. Jolly couldn’t make it as a priest. He hasn’t got the learning – or the willpower, to judge by what he’s been doing with me! And le Berwe hasn’t got any other children, so who else would inherit?’ There was a pride in the way she lifted her chin, as if daring them to condemn her. All trace of her flush was gone, and in its place she wore a knowing smile that made Simon grin and Baldwin cough with faint embarrassment.

  ‘And he was friendly with this Peter?’

  ‘They had lived together for many years. They were comfortable with each other.’

  ‘Sometimes even the closest friends can kill when tempers flare,’ Simon murmured.

  ‘Not Jolly. He’s not the sort to turn to a blade. He wouldn’t want to risk someone hurting him,’ she chuckled, then saw their expressions. ‘What?’

  ‘This Peter,’ Baldwin said slowly, ‘was killed with poison – if he was murdered. A man who fears attacking another might well use such a weapon.’

  ‘Not Jolly,’ she repeated with conviction. ‘He wouldn’t kill a man. Why’d he want to?’

  ‘Why would anyone want to?’ Simon shrugged. ‘Do you know of someone who might have had a grudge against Peter?’

  ‘No. Why should someone want to harm a man who lived in the Cathedral and only came to the city to help merchants? How could he offend people? He was hardly ever here.’

  ‘Peter and Jolinde delivered money and gems to the glover who died,’ Baldwin told her. ‘And when the glover was killed, the gems not already stitched to gloves were missing. It has been suggested that Jolinde or Peter killed the glover, that Jolinde wanted the money and took it, killing his friend in the process . . .’

  ‘Oh, rubbish! Don’t you think that if Jolly was going to rob Peter, he’d do something faster than poison? If Peter had suspected something or seen Jolly doing the deed, he could have spoken out – said that Jolly had poisoned him to steal the money. Did Peter tell anyone?’

  ‘No. Peter died in the Cathedral, but he didn’t accuse anyone,’ Baldwin said slowly.

  ‘I’d think it pretty unlikely that he was poisoned by Jolly, then. If he was, he’d have accused Jolly in front of witnesses. And if he was the accomplice of a murderer and thief, wouldn’t he have wanted to confess his sins? Surely he’d admit to having killed a man so that he could win absolution before he died?’

  ‘You met Jolinde on sixth December?’ Baldwin asked, abruptly changing the subject. ‘The Feast of St Nicholas?’

  ‘Jolly came in here to the tavern on his way back to the Cathedral after delivering the money to Ralph. Dragged Peter in after him, not that Peter really wanted to be here. He was quiet-looking – anxious, I suppose, but Jolly persuaded him to have just one cup of wine with him.’

  ‘And you liked the look of Jolinde.’

  She pushed out her lips in a moue. ‘Well, he was polite, and interested in what I said. It’s not as if many men will listen to a wench from a tavern, but he did. It was nice. And the next night he came back, and the night after that.’

  ‘Yet he manages to get back into the Cathedral when the gates are locked in order to attend his services on time.’ Baldwin mused.

  ‘He has his own way in and out,’ she agreed, her expression smug.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘How should I know? I’ve never asked him.’

  ‘When the two of them were in here, how did they seem together?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Not very happy,’ she admitted slowly. ‘They’d been having words, I reckoned. Both looked a bit warm, you know? Maybe they’d had a disagreement. But Vicars and so on are more serious about things, aren’t they?’

  ‘Did Peter lose his temper, or Jolly?’

  ‘Oh, neither really. I only saw Peter look angry the once.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘It was yesterday, early in the afternoon, when Nick Karvinel came in. I saw Peter deliberately turn his back on him. It looked really rude – a calculated insult. I’ve no idea why he did it. Jolly was left standing there gaping, with his pot halfway to his mouth. Peter wouldn’t turn around again until Karvinel had gone. Mind you, Peter didn’t stay long afterwards. He looked really ill . . . sick as well
as furious.’

  ‘But Karvinel was the merchant whom Peter helped, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you have no idea why Peter should have reacted like that on seeing his master?’

  ‘I asked Jolly a bit later, but he didn’t know. Said Peter always took things too seriously; said he had to learn that life was too brief not to be enjoyed to the full.’

  ‘What did he mean by that?’

  ‘Ask him. All I can say is, he’s had his own troubles in his time.’ Claricia eyed the two men with a hint of exasperation. ‘Go on – talk to Jolly. He’s no murderer. If he was upset with someone, he wouldn’t kill them. Anyway, if Peter had thought he’d been poisoned, he’d have told someone, wouldn’t he? He’d have called for help and accused his killer. I reckon he probably just ate a piece of bad meat or something.’

  ‘You know Jolinde has been buying food for Peter?’ Baldwin asked suddenly.

  ‘Of course I know. He’d buy it on his way here. So what? It was kind of him. Maybe you ought to go to the butcher who sold him his meat and see if any other customers have fallen ill. A few times he brought bread, sometimes meat, sometimes sweetmeats. The bread was certainly all right because we ourselves ate it. He’d bring some of it up to my room and we’d eat there in peace. I’ve not become ill so it can’t be that food.’

  ‘Did you always take the food up with you? For example, last night?’

  ‘Not always. Sometimes he’d leave the rest of it in the hall in his bag. He did so last night.’

  ‘Where exactly did he leave it?’ Simon asked.

  Claricia looked at him. He was leaning forward and staring at her like a hawk fixed upon a mouse. A swift shudder of fear went through her. ‘Just there,’ she gulped, pointing to a rough table near the door to the screens passage.

  ‘Then anyone could get to it,’ Baldwin noted.

  Simon nodded. ‘Tell us, girl. Was there anyone you recognised in here last night?’

  She shrugged off-handedly. ‘Only Nick Karvinel. It was a quiet night. Nick actually asked about Peter – but only because he said he had some business coming up soon and Peter always clerked for him, taking notes and so on.’