by Mel Starr
Dinner was finished when we entered the hall. Grooms and valets had already completed their meals and departed, and Lord Gilbert and Lady Petronilla were standing at their places at the high table. Lord Gilbert saw us enter the hall, saw the lampstand in Sir Roger’s hand, and raised an eyebrow. The bodkin in my hand was too small to be seen across the hall.
The others who yet remained at the tables had stood when Lord Gilbert did so, and I watched the squires to see if one would flinch to see the sheriff holding forth the lampstand wherein he had hidden a murder weapon.
Conversation in the hall faded as first Lord Gilbert, then the others watched us enter and approach the high table. The squires also fell silent, curious expressions upon their faces as they saw Sir Roger approach Lord Gilbert with a common lampstand which must have seemed similar to the one they had last seen in their chamber. Neither youth showed any sign of fear or apprehension. Their expressions were bland; no furrowed brows, darting eyes, or chewed lips. One of these squires, or both, I thought, should be a traveling player.
“What is this?” my employer asked when Sir Roger stood before him.
“Master Hugh has discovered…”
“A lampstand, m’lord,” I interrupted Sir Roger. I did not know what more than that the sheriff might say, but thought the less others in the hall knew of the stand, where it was found, and what was discovered within it, the better.
“I can see that,” Lord Gilbert sighed, “but why have you brought it to the hall in the middle of the day when no light is needed?”
“We will explain in the solar, m’lord,” I said.
“Very well. Come.”
Lord Gilbert left his place and strode toward the stairway which led to the solar and adjacent chambers. As I passed the high table I saw Lady Margery’s eyes fall to my hand and the slender shaft of iron I held. Neither of the squires had shown any dismay at the appearance of the lampstand, but the Lady Margery seemed to stagger back a step when she saw what I carried, before she steadied herself with a hand against the linen covering of the high table. Her eyes lifted to mine, she fixed me with a brief, haughty glare, then turned to speak to Lady Petronilla.
“Whence came this lampstand?” Lord Gilbert asked when we had entered the solar and closed the door behind us.
“’Twas in the squires’ chamber,” the sheriff replied. “And ’tis no common lampstand.”
Sir Roger upended the stand, pointed to the base, and said, “Look there.”
Lord Gilbert did so, looked to Sir Roger, then to me, and said, “What am I to see? Is there something remarkable about the thing?”
“Do you see the hole in the center of the stand?” I said. “We drew this from it.”
I held out the iron bodkin and Lord Gilbert took it from me. “Too fine to be a nail,” he said, “and no head. Why was it in the stand?”
“’Twas hid there,” Sir Roger said. “Show Lord Gilbert the message again that put us on the trail.”
Reading is not a task which comes easily to Lord Gilbert, although he does possess a most excellent book of hours to aid his devotions. He once read well, but many folk of his age must hold a document at arm’s length, or admit the frailty of age and seek spectacles in London. And the note was written in a poor hand. As my employer scowled at the parchment I repeated what words were there.
“Was this used to slay Sir Henry?” he said, peering at the tool with some distaste.
“It may be,” I replied. “If so, ’twas wiped clean when the deed was done. There is no trace of blood upon it.”
“Plenty of blood on the cloth that was stuffed up the chimney,” Sir Roger said.
One of Lord Gilbert’s eyebrows lifted. “A bloody cloth?”
“Aye. Hidden above the fireplace in the squires’ chamber,” I said. “A corner of it fell free, so ’twas visible.”
I withdrew the cloth from my pouch and held it forth for Lord Gilbert’s inspection. He studied it intently, but would not take it from me.
“So one, or both, of these squires is guilty of murder?”
“Likely,” Sir Roger replied.
Lord Gilbert peered at me. “How will you discover which has done this felony?”
“Take ’em both to the dungeon at Oxford Castle, ’til they confess the deed,” the sheriff advised.
“What say you, Hugh?”
I dislike contradicting my betters, but it seemed to me such a course would not be effective.
“The squires will protest their innocence,” I said, “but after a few days in the dungeon, or perhaps a week, they will confess all.”
“See,” Sir Roger said. “Your bailiff agrees. I’ll send my sergeants to arrest the fellows.”
“They will confess,” I continued, “that the other is guilty. It is unlikely that any man will admit himself a felon when to do so will send him to a noose. Each will deny the crime and try to entangle the other in it.”
“Mayhap they are both guilty,” Sir Roger said. “The King’s Eyre may find it so.”
“It may be, but our only clues are insubstantial.”
“What?” Lord Gilbert said. “A bloody cloth, a murder weapon, and a note which told Sir Roger where these might be found. These are insubstantial?”
“Evidence enough,” the sheriff growled.
“What if this iron pin was used for some other purpose and did not slay any man? And who left the message under your door? One of the squires?”
Sir Roger shrugged.
“If one squire had informed against the other, he would, I think, write of which was the felon and which was not, else he would know that his own life was at risk.”
“Mayhap someone saw them approach Sir Henry’s door in the night,” Lord Gilbert offered.
“Why not say so? Why send this riddle to Sir Roger in the night? What harm could come to a man who would tell of what he saw?” I said.
“Perhaps he feared that someone might ask what he was doing prowling about the castle so late at night,” Lord Gilbert said.
“The garderobe is not far from Sir Henry’s chamber.”
“Ah,” Sir Roger said, “just so. What then, are we to allow a guilty man to escape a just punishment?”
“Nay. But we must be careful that the punishment is meted out to the guilty and none other.”
“Innocent men often suffer for the deeds of others,” Sir Roger said. “Why so troubled about perhaps one more?”
“If the innocent are afflicted because of the deeds of evil men, or because of God’s choice, then I am free from censure. But no blameless man, nor woman either, should suffer because you, or I or Lord Gilbert, are too slothful to do justice.”
Sir Roger was not pleased, I think, with my words. He frowned at me silently for a time, then spoke. “Very well… we will seek justice. How? We have clues. Three of ’em. What more?”
“A clue is a mistake,” I said. “Most of the time.”
Lord Gilbert’s eyebrow lifted again. “How so?” he asked.
“Felons seek to obscure their guilt,” I said.
“Aye,” Sir Roger agreed. “But those squires, one of ’em, anyway, made a mistake.”
“And someone knew of it and sent the message under your door,” Lord Gilbert said.
“I am not convinced of the mistake,” I said.
“Oh, why so?” the sheriff asked.
“I watched the squires when we entered the hall. You had the lampstand in your hand. There would be no reason for you to have it but that it was evidence of the murder. Neither of the squires seemed troubled, as one, at least, should have, had he hid a murder weapon in the lampstand. He would know he had been found out. This clue is too simple. A man cunning enough to slay Sir Henry in the manner he chose would not be so stupid as to leave evidence of his guilt where it might be readily found.”
“What then of the message?” Lord Gilbert asked.
“Someone, I think, wants to point suspicion at a squire, or both of them.”
“To turn us from
his guilt?” Lord Gilbert said.
“Aye. What other reason, if the squires are blameless?”
“Mayhap the squires are guilty but skilled at deception,” the sheriff said.
“’Tis possible,” I agreed. “But everything falls to place too readily for my liking.”
“Bah,” Sir Roger scowled. “Scholars! Want to complicate matters which are simple. We’ve found a felon, or two, and you protest ’twas too neatly done.”
“Would two youths devise so devious a way to slay a man, then be so careless as to leave evidence of the felony where it might be readily found?”
“Wouldn’t have been,” the sheriff said, “but for we being told where to search.”
“And that’s another riddle,” I said. “Would the squires, one or both, be so careful to plot a hidden murder, then be so indiscreet that some other learned of their crime?”
Lord Gilbert scratched at his bearded chin. “So you believe some murderer hopes we will send one or both of the squires to a scaffold in his place?”
“I do not believe it so,” I replied. “But I believe it possible. Is there a lock upon the squires’ chamber door?”
“Nay. You think some man entered while the squires were away and placed in their chamber the bodkin and bloody cloth?”
“It could be done.”
Sir Roger puffed his cheeks, frowned, then spoke. “How could that be proved? If ’tis so, what mistake did the murderer make which will be a clue for us?”
“The bodkin and fragment of linen stained with blood came from somewhere,” I said. “If we can discover their origins we may find who has slain Sir Henry. And no man pushed an iron point into the lampstand with the palm of his hand.”
“Used a hammer, you think?” Sir Roger said.
“Or some such device. A rock would serve, or a small block of wood, such as would have been used to thrust the bodkin into Sir Henry’s brain.”
“Lady Margery wishes to return to her home,” Lord Gilbert said. To Sir Roger he continued, “What shall we tell her? When she leaves she will take the guilty with her.”
“Good riddance,” the sheriff said. “But tell her that if she wishes for her husband’s murderer to be discovered she must remain until the man is found out.”
I saw Lord Gilbert’s lips draw tight at the thought of Lady Margery remaining longer in Bampton Castle. Sir Henry was, at first, a welcome guest, but my employer had found his wife to be a greater burden even than Sir Henry had become. Little could please her. Her loaf was stale, or there was not enough wood delivered to her chamber to take away the morning chill, or the musicians and jongleurs Lord Gilbert provided for entertainment were unfit.
I produced the bloody scrap of linen from my pouch and displayed it before Lord Gilbert and the sheriff. Before it became so stained it had been purest white.
“To what use was this put, you think, before it was used to mop up a dead man’s blood?”
Sir Roger took the cloth from me and examined it. “Could be some fellow’s kirtle,” he said.
“Or some woman’s,” Lord Gilbert replied.
If this was so, the murderer was likely some gentleman in Sir Henry’s household, for grooms, or even valets employed by one so impoverished as Sir Henry was said to be, were unlikely to wear linen. Plain wool must do for such folk.
Next I held the bodkin before me. “To what purpose was this first put? Or was it made for the purpose of murder?”
Both men shrugged, being unfamiliar with tools. Men in their employ might know better the answer to that question.
“The farrier might have made such an object. Or Edmund,” Lord Gilbert said.
Edmund the smith is not a friend. His past behavior has required that I speak to him firmly, even threaten the fellow upon occasion. This was not a task I enjoyed, as the smith, like others who follow his craft, is a beefy sort while I am shaped like a reed along Shill Brook.
“Your farrier has already seen the thing,” Sir Roger said. “If he knew of it, seems to me he would have said, it being found in an odd place, where it was not needed to be.”
Lord Gilbert nodded approval of this theory. So it was left to me to seek Edmund Smith and learn what I could from him. I placed awl and bloody cloth in my pouch, bid Sir Roger and Lord Gilbert “Good day,” and set off for the castle gatehouse. As I left the solar I heard Lord Gilbert direct John Chamberlain to bring wine. The sheriff, whose duty this should be, would enjoy a cup of malmsey, or perhaps claret, while I sought enlightenment from a strapping man who dislikes me. His wife cares little for me, as well, but I have already written of that tale.
Being in no hurry to seek a favor of the smith, I lingered at the bridge over Shill Brook to watch the bubbling stream make its way to the Thames. How long, I wondered, would it take a twig to float to London? I picked up a bit of broken branch the size of a finger and tossed it into the stream. Would I discover Sir Henry’s murderer before it drifted past the Tower? I would not do so gazing into the brook. Pleasant things are oft unprofitable. Were it otherwise, all men would be prosperous.
For all his great strength Edmund must have feeble nostrils. The power of his odor is as great as his arms. The man does strenuous and filthy work, ’tis true, but seems not to mind the accumulation of grime and sweat which he seldom scours away.
So I was prepared for the fragrance of Edmund’s forge when I entered the place; a mixture of coal smoke, hot iron, and unwashed humanity. Edmund looked up from his anvil as my shadow darkened his open door, saw who it was who entered, then returned to hammering at a slab of red-hot iron. I waited while the work cooled. Then the smith placed it back amongst the coals and turned to his bellows.
“Have you ever made such a tool as this?” I said, holding the slender, pointed rod before him and trying to breathe through my mouth. I wondered if the smith’s stench would linger upon me so that Kate would demand I disrobe in the toft and bathe before entering Galen House.
Edmund squinted at the awl and mistook it for a nail. “Aye… make nails all the time. You never see one before?” he added sarcastically.
“’Tis no nail. Here, look closely. What is its use, you think?”
“Ah, a bodkin. Made one for Bogo Tailor. That was long ago, him bein’ dead nearly five years.”
“Of what use was it to the tailor?”
“Poked holes in leather an’ canvas an’ stuff as was too tough for ’is needle to pierce.”
“Could this be the bodkin you made?”
Edmund snorted. “’Ow could I know that? They’re all alike… an’ it’s been years past.”
“You’ve not been asked to make anything similar since?”
“Nay,” he said, and turned back to his bellows.
I had not entered Edmund’s forge expecting to learn much, so was not disappointed. I left the forge and walked up Church View Street to Galen House, where I also expected to learn little. This assumption, however, proved wrong.
Kate was preparing our supper, Bessie at the hem of her cotehardie, when I opened our door. Kate was bent over the hearth, frying a dish of hanoney upon scattered coals. I had neglected my postponed dinner in a desire to be at the trail of a felon, and my stomach took the moment to remind me of its empty state.
“What news?” she said as she stood from her cramped labor.
“I have found a murder weapon, I think, and perhaps a bit of cloth used to wipe away Sir Henry’s blood when the man was slain.”
I drew the items from my pouch and held them forth. Kate shrank from the objects as from an adder.
“That bodkin was plunged into Sir Henry’s ear?” she asked.
“So I believe. I found it hidden, driven into the base of a lampstand, in the chamber where two of Sir Henry’s squires lodge.”
“One of them has slain his lord, then?”
“So Sir Roger believes.”
“You do not?”
“’Tis all too neat and simple. The sheriff found a scrap of parchment upon the floor of h
is chamber this morn. Someone slid it under his door in the night. It told him to seek for what he hoped to find in the squires’ chamber.”
“And that is the bloody cloth?” Kate asked, curling her lip in distaste.
“Aye. A scrap of linen, of the finer sort. Perhaps torn from a gentleman’s kirtle.”
Kate’s curiosity overcame her distaste and she reached for the fabric. She took it daintily, seeking to avoid the dark stained portions, and examined it closely.
“Here is no kirtle,” she said.
“What, then?”
“Men!” she smiled. “Fancy yourself a sleuth, but do not know the difference between undergarments and a table cloth.”
“Table cloth? That?”
“Aye, or napery or perhaps a portpain.”
“Why do you say so?”
“Look there,” she said, and pointed to the edge of the cloth. “I think no kirtle would be hemmed so, and the weave is twill. Who would have a kirtle woven so?”
One hem looks much like another to me, but Kate is experienced with needle and thread.
“If I seek the pantler tomorrow and ask him to search the pantry, you believe he will find one of Lord Gilbert’s napkins missing a fragment of this size?”
“Aye. And look, it has been cut neatly, with a sharp blade, not ripped or torn.”
“Hmm, ’tis so.”
This bit of linen fabric was not employed by chance, then, but sliced from some larger cloth with a purpose in mind. So it seemed to me.
As the long midsummer eve faded to night I heard townsfolk upon the street, making their way to a meadow north of the Church of St Beornwald where all the day men had gathered wood for the bonfire which signaled midsummer’s eve. Kate and Bessie and I followed the throng, but before we left Galen House Kate plaited the flowers of St John’s Wort into her hair, and into the wispy, silken locks of our daughter, to ward off evil for the coming year.
