The Crediton Killings

by Michael Jecks

  Simon shrugged. “There might have been two men there; one was seen by her, the other hit her. The second one tied her up, but the first knew he’d been seen, so he killed her later.”

  “That supposes that one of them was already there, and the second came in later and gave away their intention…it is possible, but I find it hard to swallow.” Baldwin frowned.

  “Why?” asked Simon.

  “One man goes into the room, then the girl enters. A second man goes in, and hits her.” He meditatively swung an imaginary club with a fist. “He knocks her out, and that gives him a chance to truss and gag her. Then he lifts her…have you ever tried to lift an unconscious body on your own? It is like a sack of wheat; it goes in all directions. I would think that both lifted her up and set her into the chest. But then one of them goes back and kills her.”

  “I wonder…”

  “What, Simon?”

  “It may be nothing, but that tunic…It was of exceptional quality, and very expensive. I wonder—”

  “Sir, can I serve more ale?”

  Simon turned a dazzling smile on the innkeeper. “Paul, thank you. Yes, we’d like more ale, but why don’t you join us?”

  Paul was flattered. For two days now he had been running around after the mercenaries, without a single word of gratitude. It took him little time to fetch a fresh jug and a pot for himself, and then he sat comfortably, sighing with the relief of it. His legs ached and his feet were sore from standing too long, his back was stiff from bending to pour jugs, and he had an almost overwhelming desire to shut his eyes and doze off. Margery has gone to bed; she had not been able to sleep until the early hours because of the noise from the hall, and partly from her fear of the men themselves.

  “It’s a shame about Sarra,” Simon said.

  “Yes. She was a good girl, really. Pretty, too. She never deserved to die like that.”

  “She was getting on all right with Sir Hector, wasn’t she?”

  “I think so. She was with him on the very first night, when this lot arrived, so she must have caught his eye. At the best of times she was hard enough to keep working, but after meeting him, she was impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “She didn’t want to be like the other girls, I suppose. Wanted to get married, have children, the normal things, but with a rich man for a husband. Sir Hector was ideal for her. Money, power, the lot. He was exactly what she needed—or so she thought.”

  “Did she have any good clothes, like the tunic she was wearing when she died?”

  “That blue one? No, I’d never seen it before. What would a serving-girl want with something like that? No, that wasn’t hers.”

  “Where did it come from then?” asked Simon. Baldwin leaned forward, his dark eyes intent.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It wasn’t your wife’s—or one of the other girls’?”

  “No. I’ve never seen it before.”

  “Tell me, innkeeper,” Baldwin said, resting his elbows on the table. “Was she popular normally with your…clients?”

  “Very—when she was interested.” Paul smiled as his eyelids drooped with tiredness. It was hard to keep alert in the elm’s shade. “She was very pretty, and she knew it. Well, it’s not surprising. With looks like hers, she had all the men after her like rams after the ewe, and she could pick and choose. Why, the night before this lot got here, she had been trying to snare an apprentice to a goldsmith! He was too scared, though, from what I saw.”

  “Perhaps one of her more appreciative clients gave her the tunic, then.”

  “Could be. Poor lass. Always wanted money and marriage, and just when she got the kind of tunic she always craved, she gets herself killed.”

  “Was she keen to get money, then?” asked Simon.

  “Oh, yes. She saw all her friends working themselves into the ground, and she was determined to be free, to have a husband who had money, so she wouldn’t have to work any more.”

  “Do you know if she was friendly with Cole?”

  “Him? No, not at all. I saw them only yesterday, arguing.”

  “What about?”

  “Something to do with Henry and John. I don’t know what.”

  Simon picked up a large twig and toyed with it thoughtfully. “And she was succeeding with Sir Hector.”

  “On the first night. Not after that.”

  “What happened?” Simon’s ears pricked up.

  “Didn’t you hear? Oh, they argued. They woke up Margery, and I was really furious. It was the first proper sleep she’d had since they got here, and then just as she dropped off, there was all that shouting, and doors slamming and so on, and—”

  “When was this?”

  “On the day she died. She had gone to the captain during the first night, but the next afternoon, he had dropped her like a hot brick. Then yesterday they had a row!”

  “What happened? Where were you, for example, when you heard them?”

  “Me?” he said, his eyes opening a little at Simon’s obvious eagerness. “Oh, I was out in the buttery, filling jugs. Cristine came through and told me something was going on, but I decided to ignore it. The last thing I’d do is stand between two soldiers in a fight—they’d probably turn on me! No, it wasn’t until Margery came and told me it was him and Sarra, and how much row they were making, that I decided to go and speak to them.”

  “How was she? Worried? Nervous?”

  “My wife? No, just irritated to be woken up, and it made her cross with me for letting them carry on. I went through the hall, and I could hear doors slamming as I got in—”

  “Where? Were these doors out at the back, where Sir Hector had his room?” Simon queried.

  Paul stared, forcing his mind back. “One was, I think. But the other was out at the back. It was probably the door to her room.”

  “That’s over there?” Baldwin confirmed, jerking his head toward the block across the yard.

  “Yes. Anyway, I went into the hall, and a few minutes later Sir Hector came out. He apologized, said that she had annoyed him, and that was that.”

  “Did he say how she had irritated him?” Baldwin said.

  “Not really, no,” frowned the innkeeper. “He said she had gone on about something to do with one of his men, saying Sir Hector was in danger, something along those lines.”

  “Which of his men?”

  “I really don’t—”

  “Think, Paul! This could have something to do with why Sarra’s dead.”

  The innkeeper recalled how he had gone to the door of Sir Hector’s bedchamber, but before he could open it, the captain had emerged, shaking with rage, his face mottled. Seeing Paul he had spoken with fearsome control, as if each word was weighed carefully. “That strumpet Sarra has had the goodness to warn me that my men are plotting against me. Me! As if I were a puny baron! I’ve told her to leave my sight and not return, and I’d be grateful if you would make sure she does not come near to me again while I stay here.”

  Paul had nodded in astonishment, and turned to go, but he had heard the knight mutter one more word under his breath “Henry!”

  As he told the others, Simon rolled his eyes skyward in disbelief while Baldwin closed his. Edgar winced.

  Hugh looked from one to the other. “What’s the matter?”

  “So let me understand this, Sir Baldwin. You are accusing me of stealing my own silver and murdering a serving-girl, is that right?”

  Baldwin sighed. He had known that speaking to Sir Hector again would be difficult, but he had hoped to explain himself before the captain flew off the handle. “I am not accusing you of anything, Sir Hector, but we have been told that you had an argument with Sarra on the afternoon when she died, and it might help us to find her killer if we know what you argued about.” He dropped into a chair.

  They were once more in the hall. Thankfully most of the mercenaries were outside. Only a few men sat nearby to protect their master. Simon lounged against a wall, idly swinging his twi
g. Roger was beside him, his arms crossed as he listened. The servants had remained outside at the bench.

  “What has this to do with finding my silver?”

  “Did you argue with her?” Baldwin continued doggedly.

  “What if I did?”

  “If you did, what was it about?”

  “She had a stupid notion that some of the men were planning to mutiny, that’s all.”

  “Who?”

  “What has this got to do with—”

  “Sir Hector, I am trying to the best of my ability and skill—”

  “Which is limited.”

  “Perhaps. But I am trying to find out where your silver is and who killed Sarra.”

  “Then go and demand the truth of Cole. He must have done both,” Sir Hector suggested with exasperation.

  Simon drew his dagger and began shaving flakes from his stick. “If we question him, he could lie, especially if we were to use any force to get him to confess. He might have an accomplice, in which case even if Cole knew where it was stored, the silver might already have been moved. Cole might not know where it is now. Far better if we learn a little more about everything which happened yesterday, so we know when he lies.”

  Sir Hector eyed him with distaste. “If you are incapable of persuading him to tell you the truth, you don’t know how to ask. If he has an accomplice, make him tell you who it is. You’ll soon find out where my plate is stored when you have both of them locked up, and if you don’t I can lend you men who know how to extract such facts from recalcitrant captives.”

  “That will not be necessary,” Baldwin said sharply. His friends and colleagues had been tortured when the Knights Templar were destroyed by the French King, and the sight of their twisted, agonized bodies had persuaded him forever that torture was no assistance in an enquiry. Torture only made people answer what they thought their questioners wanted to hear; it did not force them to give the truth. “But it is important that we understand what happened yesterday. I cannot believe that you are trying to hide something, Sir Hector, but your refusal to answer what seems to me to be a very simple question must make me wonder what motivates your reticence.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “No. But I will not be trying to discover what happened to your silver until I feel I have your cooperation.”

  “Then perhaps I should investigate the matter myself, with my men.”

  “I think,” Simon interrupted, taking on a judicial air, “that would not be useful.”

  “Really? Well, I am beginning to think it might be the only way of learning what happened to my plate.”

  “What of the girl? You argued with her, threw her out, told everyone to keep her away from you, and then she is found dead in your room,” Baldwin thundered.

  “It has nothing to do with this.”

  “God’s teeth! We will judge that, not you! I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace for this town, and you are deliberately hampering my investigation. Are you aware that you are, so far, the only person we have found who has argued with her? That makes you the only man with a motive to kill her!” Baldwin paused. “Now—was it Henry whom Sarra warned you of?”

  Simon looked at his friend. The knight’s outburst surprised him, for he had known Baldwin to remain calm under vastly more irritating meetings than this.

  “Yes,” Sir Hector admitted.

  Baldwin frowned. “What exactly did she say?”

  “She accused him of trying to set the men against me; she thought he was a danger to me.”

  “You didn’t believe her?” Simon asked.

  “In God’s name, no! She hated Henry. On the night we came here, he tried to rape her—he would have done so, too, if I hadn’t intervened—and from then on she clearly wanted to get her own back. She made up this story to discredit him, and I wasn’t in a mood to listen.”

  “So you ignored it?”

  “Yes. I told her to get out and not to bother coming back. Henry the Hurdle is one of my best men.”

  “Did it not occur to you that he might be the man who stole your plate?”

  “He’s my leading sergeant! Who else can I trust if not him? He always has access to my money and silver. I can’t imagine anyone less likely to have been the thief. And in any case, why should I think of other men when you have the thief already held in jail?”

  Baldwin stirred. “So you ejected Sarra from your room and she left immediately?”

  “Yes. She went to her own room, I suppose.”

  “When did you next see her?”

  “When I was called to look at the open chest—when we got back from the chase for Cole.”

  “So you didn’t see her alive again?”

  “No.”

  “One last point, Sir Hector. The tunic she was wearing when she died—have you seen it before?”

  The mercenary clenched his jaw. He had hoped that the knight would not have led on to that, but it was a natural question, he knew. The dress was far too good for a tavern slut like her. “No,” he said. “I’ve never seen it before.”

  Simon glanced up at him, his dagger taking another shaving from the stick. The captain’s voice had been quieter, almost contemplative, and Simon was sure he was lying.

  11

  Paul was in the yard when they got out, serving three travellers, who sat eyeing the mercenaries with such trepidation they reminded Baldwin of rabbits watching a crouching fox. Hugh and Edgar joined them by the door to the hall, and as the innkeeper passed by on the way to his buttery, Baldwin stood in his path. “Paul, do you mind if we go and take a look round Sarra’s room?” Taking his shrug for agreement, the knight led the way. They climbed the staircase to her door and tried the handle. It opened.

  “I can see why she would prefer to get herself married” Baldwin observed.

  It was a sparsely furnished little room. A palliasse lay on the floor to the right for her mattress, and a table held her few belongings. Some tunics and an apron were hooked over pegs in the timber frame of the building, but one lay as if kicked aside on the floor, and a belt rested on the bed itself.

  “She must have changed into the blue tunic here,” Baldwin murmured. “But where did she get it?”

  “Baldwin, are you beginning to think that Cole didn’t kill her?” Simon asked.

  The knight waved a hand, vaguely encompassing the inn. “I don’t know what to think. That lad Cole seems pleasant, while the two who caught him are…well, I would be happier not to have to rely on them myself. The girl could have upset them: if Henry had overheard her telling his master that he was about to try to depose him as leader, he might have lost his temper and knocked her out, put her in the chest, and then killed her, although it hardly seems likely. Why put her in the chest in the first place? Why not kill her outright?”

  “Perhaps he was going to do so, but got interrupted? Someone arrived, so he had to stuff the girl into the chest and came back later to kill her.”

  “No.” Baldwin dropped on to the palliasse and stared round the room. “That can’t be it. If he was in such a hurry to hide her away, how could he find time to bind and gag her? It makes no sense!”

  He opened the door and peered round cautiously. There was an odd feeling of anticipation as he went in, as if he expected her to hurl herself at him and attack. But she couldn’t—not now. Still, the dream would keep coming back, and even while he was awake the memory of it lurched around in his mind like a heavy rock which occasionally bludgeoned other thoughts out of the way.

  That night he had rubbed down his horse after his journey and stretched, making his muscles strain taut as he tried to ease the tension in his neck and shoulders. It was late, and he hadn’t wanted to wake his staff.

  Shutting the stable door quietly, he had made his way over the yard to the hall, but had then hesitated. Before bed, he had reasoned, a last drink would be a comfort, and he had gone through to the buttery. A cask had already been broached and, filling a pot with ale, he had tipped it up to
finish the last drop before opening the door and emptying his bladder onto the packed earth of his yard. Tugging his tunic back into position with a tired shrug, he had been unable to stop another yawn before going to his bedchamber.

  The building was old, and he must go through the hall to get to the bedroom in the small solar block beyond. Stepping quietly, he had avoided waking the men sleeping on either side. The door beyond opened silently.

  He was strong and known to be bold, but the sight that met his eyes made him stand stock-still in horror.

  The fire was dying, and only offered a dull orange glow to light the betrayal. She had not bothered to pull the bedclothes back to cover herself, and her inelegantly sprawled body gleamed with a silken sheen, while beside her the figure grunted and snored in his sleep like a hog after truffles.

  Standing in the doorway and staring at the two figures, his mind had worked with a fresh clarity. He could have bellowed, calling for his men to hold the man while he whipped the adulterous bitch, but they must already know of the treachery, for this libertine could only have got in through the hall, and he must surely have been seen by one or more of the servants.

  No, he had thought: there was a better way to punish her. And him.

  None of the servants had woken. Closing the door with care, stiff with the dread of being heard, he had made his way from the room and out to the stable. Nobody had expected him, and no one had seen him. He would ride away, and return tomorrow as if nothing had happened; no one would be any the wiser. And he could begin his revenge by agreeing to the plan proposed that evening.

  He had calmed the tired beast, speaking low to soothe it, thrown the blanket over and tightened the girth straps, but his actions were mechanical, his mind back in the bedchamber. She was his. And someone else had stolen her. They must both pay—one for the dishonor, one for the theft of his woman.

  And now they were going to pay, he smirked, drawing the dagger and resting the metal against his cheek. The blade sat against his belly while sheathed, and it was warm; just as it had been when he had pulled it free of her body.