I poured us some thin beer. ‘Well, we can do little to obviate Isaac’s suffering but we have three days before judgement. Let us hope nothing else happens in that time to make matters worse.’
Jocelin looked at me sheepishly. ‘Th-there have b-been more m-miracles.’
I groaned. ‘Tell me.’
He glanced at the reader at his lectern: Brother Nicholas today, a quiet, self-effacing monk too immersed in the text he was reading to notice anything else.
‘It seems that during the trial a woman was cured of a lump in her b-breast. Unbeknown to her, she was leaning against Matthew’s grave in order to remove a stone from her shoe as the judgement was read. The stone miraculously swelled and jumped out of her shoe leaving her free of both pain and lump. It is being seen as a sign of God’s favour for Matthew.’
‘Leaning against what?’ I snorted. ‘There’s nothing to lean against. The grave is but a flattened pile of earth. Another fabrication.’ I closed my eyes and shook my head. ‘What else?’
‘A carp hauled this morning from the river near the fuller’s mill. The fisherman opened up the b-belly and found a silver penny with the cross of Saint Matthew the Apostle.’
I was bewildered by man’s seemingly unquenchable thirst for self-delusion. ‘It is only a matter of time before one of the chapels gets re-dedicated to this new saint.’
‘Oh, I doubt that,’ said Jocelin. ‘You know, one of the reasons I wr-rote my Life of Saint Robert was because he was being neglected. I had hoped the work might reignite some interest. Alas, to no avail. You still have it, by the way? My treatise?’
‘Hm? Oh yes,’ I smiled reassuringly. ‘Safe and sound.’ I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d lost it.
Jocelin nodded and drank some beer. If only I’d examined Isaac’s testament when I had the chance – as Jocelin counselled I should have done - his treatise might not have been stolen and an awful lot of what happened since might have been avoided. I was sure it was somehow critical to the whole case. The one person who knew what was in it, of course, was Isaac and he was saying nothing. I wanted to visit him again in the abbey gaol to try one last time to persuade him to tell me. I also wanted to see Sir Richard de Tayfen again. He was another who knew more than he was saying. As I toyed with my pot I reflected again that with just three days before Isaac’s final judgment there was still much to do.
*
Sir Richard’s house was a grand two-storey affair fronting directly onto a narrow avenue in the centre of the town in that area known to Mother Han as ‘pennypinch hill’. Built of flint stone with a wattle-and-daub frontage, it stood out from its neighbours in its lush livery of a lime-wash mixed with ox-blood to make that deep, rich reddish-pink pigment so typical these days of town houses in Suffolk. The house was no less than six mullioned-windows in length with a vast gateway at ground level to allow the easy passage of carts into the yard at the back, one of which was just driving in as I arrived nearly knocking me down in its haste. The top floor was one large hall running the full length of the house where Sir Richard conducted his business of buying, treating, sorting and selling cloths of all descriptions.
Sir Richard’s dwarf, Ruddlefairdam, answered the door when I called the next morning. I’d seen him before on my several visits when I was treating his master’s eldest daughter.
‘Ah, good day to you my man,’ I smiled my most professional smile. ‘Remember me?’
He nodded mechanically.
‘Good. I, er, was wondering about the health of your master’s daughter, erm - Marian.’
‘Miriam.’
‘That’s the one. I was wondering how she was, erm, faring.’
‘Well, thank you.’
I nodded. ‘Good, that’s good to hear. I, er…that is to say she, erm… Look, is your master available?’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘Do I need one?’
‘He’s a very busy man.’
‘I know, but I happened to be passing and…’
Just at that moment, Deo gratias, Sir Richard entered the hallway behind Ruddlefairdam who was fortunately small enough that I could see and be seen over his head.
‘Oh, Sir Richard!’ I called waving furiously. ‘What a lucky coincidence that we should meet thus!’
Sir Richard, who had been engrossed with an employee discussing what appeared to be fabric samples, stopped and squinted.
‘It is I,’ I said smiling broadly and stepping back for the sun to illuminate my face. ‘Master Walter. From the abbey?’
‘Master Walter,’ he nodded courteously but briefly. ‘Did you wish to see my daughter?’
‘Yes, yes indeed I do - erm – well actually, no. Might we have a word?’
I was fearful that he might still be harbouring resentment over my discourteous behaviour at our last meeting outside the abbey church when I brusquely dismissed him. But he seemed in genuine preoccupation with his work.
‘I am extremely busy, brother. Can it not wait until the end of the week?’
Four days away? Isaac would be dead by then.
‘Sir Richard, truly, it cannot.’
He spoke confidentially to his employee and handed the pile of fabric samples to him before turning back to me. ‘Very well.’
*
We were sitting in a plush parlour that I imagined was normally reserved for entertaining important clients. I was not surprised to find myself there. Sir Richard had never struck me as a man especially swayed by the trappings of rank or formality, except where it was necessary in the furtherance of his business interests. Ruddlefairdam had just put down a silver salver on which were a flagon of wine and two silver goblets, and then he left closing the door quietly behind him.
‘This is not about my daughter, is it?’ said Sir Richard when we were alone. ‘It’s about that Jew.’
I smiled non-committally. ‘Sir Richard, when we met outside the abbey church the other day you told me some things that may be of extreme significance in this case. I was taken rather by surprise at the time and was not quick-witted enough to grasp what you were saying.’
‘Yes, you did seem somewhat preoccupied.’
I inclined my head apologetically. ‘I was on my way to see Isaac ben Moy and in some trepidation as to what I was going to say to him. Please accept my apologies, I did not mean to be rude. The thing is, I have now had time to digest your observations and would like to follow up one or two of them.’
From his manner I got the impression he had been thinking about our previous conversation too and was not entirely surprised to see me. He poured wine into the two goblets and handed me one. After swallowing a mouthful he studied the bottom of his goblet.
‘You know, I was there yesterday. At the trial.’
‘Yes, I saw you,’ I lied. ‘Were you impressed?’
‘To be truthful, I was bored out of my wits. Lawyers!’ he snorted. ‘They could skin a fart with their nitpicking. And it was hellish hot in that place. I didn’t stay till the end. Better things to do back here.’
‘So, you missed the, erm…business…in the yard afterwards.’
He drew himself up. ‘I wouldn’t have stayed for that in any case. I’m no ghoul. But I know what happened. There’s been talk of little else among my people today. And that’s another thing that infuriates me, people taking leave to gawp when they should be working. It’s worse than cock-fighting.’
I could feel my pulse quicken a little. I had been right about the man. Beneath that gruff manner beat a humane heart. I could only hope he would do as his conscience bade him and tell me what he knew. But he would not be hurried despite my urgent need that he should.
He poured himself some more wine and studied me carefully before looking away again. ‘I’ll be open with you Master Walter, I don’t like Jews. They’re parasites. They pay no taxes, they charge exorbitant rates on their money-lending, and they make – nothing.’ He took a mouthful of his wine. ‘My father was a journeyman tailor. He worked
hard all his life and paid his taxes. No-one ever gave him anything. When he died he left me the little he could and with it I built this business and was honest in the doing of it – not many can say that with a clear conscience. So when the Abbot threw the Jews out back in ’90 I was pleased. Good, I thought, that’s what they deserve. They plead for special protection, let the King protect them now.’ He took another large gulp of his wine, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced sheepishly at me. ‘That was barbaric what they did to that man yesterday.’
‘Sir Richard,’ I said quietly. ‘As you know, I have been given the duty of investigating the death of the murdered boy, Matthew the fuller’s son. Anything connecting him and the accused man may be of significance even though it may not appear so at first sight. You intimated the other day that you saw Matthew entering and leaving Isaac ben Moy’s house. May I ask how you saw it?’
‘I wasn’t spying. My work-room is on the upper floor above most rooftops. I can easily see into surrounding gardens, the Moys’ included.’
‘You’ve seen the boy entering the Moy house?’
‘He’s been there several times.’
‘Are you sure it was the same boy.’
He nodded. ‘I told you the other day that I know him. He supplied me with scouring earth from time to time. We don’t use a lot of it - we don’t really deal in that sort of cloth. I didn’t like the lad but the clay he supplied was good quality and in business you have to deal with all sorts. But I never trusted him and I made sure he was never left alone in the house especially after he – showed interest in my daughter.’ He took another mouthful of wine. ‘I believe he also supplied the Moys.’
‘Illegally if he was,’ I commented without thinking.
Sir Richard scowled defensively. ‘I assure you my business with him was entirely above board. I have all the receipts.’ He made to rise.
‘Sir Richard,’ I said quickly. ‘Please do not stir yourself. My concern is with the murder of a child, not with the sale of a few illicit bags of clay.’
He grunted and sat down again.
‘You say he’d been to the house on several occasions,’ I continued gently. ‘Why did you mention this particular occasion?’
‘Because this time he didn’t have his barrow with him. That seemed odd to me and as I say, I have never fully trusted that boy so I took note. Plus they left the house together.’
I leaned forward. ‘By “they” I take it you mean the murdered boy and Isaac?’
‘No, I mean the son, Jacob. That too struck me as odd. Jews generally don’t like their children to mix with ours. Besides, I’ve known Jacob Moy all his life. He is a quiet sort of lad, quite different from the fuller boy who as I say was canny beyond his young years.’
More years than he thought. I felt a pang of excitement over the news.
‘What day was it you saw them together, Sir Richard? Can you remember?’
He considered for a moment tapping his jaw with a finger. ‘It was a week or two ago. It would have been the day after the King arrived. Yes,’ he nodded. ‘We’d just had a delivery of Genoese velvet. Excellent quality.’ He went to his desk and opened a drawer. ‘Yes, here we are. It should have arrived the day before but the town gates had been locked for the King’s pageant. I was concerned it might not arrive at all. Would have cost me a lot of money if I’d lost it.’
‘So no fuller’s mud that day,’ I mused aloud.
He looked at me with pity. ‘Not for velvet, brother.’
‘Nor for the Moys, either,’ I suggested.
‘As I said.’
I nodded thoughtfully. ‘Well, thank you Sir Richard,’ I said putting down my goblet and rising. ‘That was extremely helpful.’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t see how. Two lads out for a bit sport. Lassie-baiting, I shouldn’t doubt. That’s all right, so long as it’s not my lassies they’re baiting.’ He smiled evidently relieved his own ordeal was over and I wanted to ask no more. I had the impression he could have chatted on but I was in a hurry to leave. He saw me personally to the door where Ruddlefairdam was waiting.
As the dwarf opened it to let me out Sir Richard said, somewhat apologetically, ‘I did not speak of this before when you asked, Master Walter, because in my view it’s no-one’s business what a man does in the privacy of his own home. Even a Jew is entitled to that.’
*
My mind was in a whirl. The implication of what Sir Richard had told me was devastating but unavoidable: That it was Jacob Moy and not Isaac who was Matthew’s killer. It certainly would explain Isaac’s refusal to defend himself for a father’s natural instinct would surely be to protect his child even at the cost of his own life. But was it possible? Could Jacob truly have been Matthew’s killer? I’d seen Jacob Moy in the flesh and had examined Matthew’s body. There was no doubt which was the bigger and stronger. And by Sir Richard’s judgement Jacob was by far the less worldly of the two – a conclusion I would be inclined to as well. Would Jacob have been able to overpower Matthew? It didn’t seem likely.
But I was forgetting, there were two murderers. So could Isaac have been the other? Try as I might I couldn’t imagine a circumstance where Isaac and his fourteen-year old son Jacob would want to kill Matthew – unless it really was a ritual killing after all. But I refused to believe the suggestion for all the reasons of timing and character that had made me dismiss it before. Nor was I ready to act as though I did. I couldn’t in all conscience put another member of the Moy family through what Isaac had been through on a mere suspicion. I needed more concrete answers first and if Isaac was unwilling to provide them then there was only one other person who could - Jacob. I presumed he was still with his mother at the Moy house so that was where I headed after I left the house of Sir Richard de Tayfen.
*
As I turned up Churchgate Street again I became aware of things floating in the still warm air - tiny pieces of soot-blackened straw. Fires are all too common in a town of open hearths and reed roofs and with the unseasonably dry weather of late the only surprise was that there hadn’t been more of them. The abbey has had its fair share of fires, the one that destroyed the martyr’s tomb almost exactly a year ago being just the latest. Somewhere in the distance a cow-horn was being blown which is the usual means of alert, its doleful bleat hallooing above the rooftops. I presumed the fire must be over that way. As I climbed further the smoke was increasing in thickness smarting my eyes and making me cough. I was about to try another route to avoid the smoke when I saw hurrying down the hill towards me a crouched, round figure I thought I recognised.
‘Matilde? Is that you?’
It took her a moment to focus, but then recognising me she gave me a curt nod before continuing on her way.
‘Is everything all right?’ I said catching her up. ‘You seem upset.’ She was struggling with a huge and ancient valise that looked as though it held her entire worldly possessions.
‘Non,’ she insisted stoically. ‘All is well.’
I could see from her expression that all was far from being well. Matilde was no longer a young woman and this vast portmanteau was far too heavy for her. It occurred to me that she might have been dismissed from her position or left of her own accord. Either way it would be another sad consequence coming on top of the other troubles afflicting the Moys.
I took hold of the handle of the valise. ‘Please let me help you with that.’ After a moment’s hesitation she reluctantly relinquished it. ‘Where are going with it?’
Before she could answer a gang of men rushed between us carrying pitchforks and other implements nearly knocking us down in their haste. I drew Matilde to one side.
‘It must be quite a conflagration,’ I muttered to myself, and closer than I thought as I watched the men disappear up the hill. ‘I wonder where it is.’
‘I have to go now,’ said Matilde trying to retrieve her valise from my hand. She seemed unconcerned by the fire. Unnaturally so.
I looked into her
face. ‘Something’s happened. Matilde?’
She scowled and tried to wrestle the bag from my grip again, but I held it tight. ‘Why are you in such a hurry? What’s happened? Qu’est-ce que ce pas? Tell me, Matilde. Dites-moi. Dites!’
But now she pulled ever more frantically at my fingers accompanied by a string of incomprehensible Norman French. I would not relinquish my hold. Then in sheer frustration she said something I did understand. ‘C’est le Monsieur,’ she blurted angrily. ‘He is re-tour-né.’
I was stunned. ‘Isaac’s back? You mean he’s escaped?’
‘Oui!’ she snarled into my face. ‘Es-caped,’ and with a final tremendous tug she managed to wrench the bag from my grasp and with it scurried as fast as she could down the hill as another gang of men ran up past her.
I let her go and turned looking towards the direction she had come from. Had I a moment I might have wondered why, if Isaac had returned to the house, she was hurrying as fast as she could away from it. But I didn’t have time to think about that, for despite the hue and cry it was clear now that the pall of smoke was rising from the place where I estimated Isaac’s house to be, and it was then that I started to run.
*
When I got to the Moy house the roof was already well alight and smoke was pouring out through the shutters. A little group of onlookers were standing a few feet away idly watching the flames roar upwards towards heaven but no-one was attempting to put out the fire or to try to get in - indeed, some were actively discouraging anyone who tried. I realised then that the men I had seen running with pitchforks had not been coming to put out the flames at all but were part of a posse hunting Isaac. No-one was concerned for the house or its occupants. On the opposite side of the street stood the captain who had moved away from the burning building and together with half a dozen of his subalterns were keeping others well back from the flames. But they, too, were doing nothing to get into the burning building. It seemed to me insanity for apart from anything else adjacent houses were in danger of catching alight. From inside came the sound of crashing glass and splintering wood. If there was anyone in there still alive they surely would not be for much longer.
Unholy Innocence Page 21
