The Crediton Killings

by Michael Jecks

  “No, I will go now.”

  “Really? What could be so urgent, I wonder, that would make you leave so much money behind?”

  “My silver is with those two bastards, and I want it back! There is nothing so pressing for me as getting it back again.”

  “Then I ask you to remain, Sir Hector,” Baldwin said sternly. “I have no doubts as to your honor and truthfulness, but I must stress that others may suspect your reasons for taking so hurried a departure, when for only two days’ delay you will probably be able to recover your silver.”

  “‘Probably,’ you say! How ‘probably’ will I get my silver back? What is the likelihood that they will have gone to Exeter? Or they might have gone in another direction completely. What if they are heading to Bristol? I’d never get them then.”

  “Neither would you if you were to go on with your journey. Sir Hector, Exeter is a matter of miles away, some ten or so. If they have not been here before, save the once, they will not know any other direction to take. In Exeter, there are many roads and alleys with silversmiths. For you to cover them all would be difficult, and you would have to locate them first. Stapledon knows them all. He can use persuasion to make sure that if your men have been there, the silver is recovered. It has to be the best chance there is of recovering it. Do you have any reason to suppose that they might be aiming for Bristol?”

  “No. It’s just the only other large city I know of.”

  “It was badly devastated after the siege some years ago; I don’t know if there are any smiths there who could afford to buy the quantity of plate that Henry and John took from you. And being that much further away, they would risk being robbed themselves—do you realize how far it is to the north? If you were to wait here for two days and then leave, sending fast riders on ahead, you could easily overtake two men on horseback.”

  “Their horses might be fleet.”

  “They might,” Baldwin agreed. “But they have a heavy weight of silver with them. It will be a burden to them and slow them down.”

  Sir Hector stared at him. He could think of no sensible excuse which would carry conviction as to why he must quit the town. From all Baldwin had said, he was right and it would be better to remain a little longer. He considered the alternatives, but he knew full well that too much suspicion must lie on his head if he were to lead his men away. Slowly, and with great reluctance, he nodded his agreement.

  16

  Sniffing disdainfully at the mess, Hugh trod carefully along the alley. There was no idea of cleanliness here. Even when he lived with his parents they had enforced the rules of keeping to their midden and not just peeing against the doorposts of the house. Here, the people didn’t care. The sewers and middens were so far away that people used whatever was nearest. At least to a farmer, the nearest object was usually a tree, Hugh thought to himself, avoiding a pile of excrement, and not his neighbor’s house.

  Hugh turned into the side-alley with a set frown of concentration. The woman’s body had been removed during the night, and there was nothing to show of the horror of the previous night. This little branchlet from the main thoroughfare faced east, and the light in the misty morning was charitable to the dirty buildings, hiding streaked and worn limewash, and dissipating the harsh light of the late summer sun so that cracks and holes could not cast such strong shadows.

  He stood with his hands on his hips and squinted round the space. He had observed Baldwin often enough when the knight was investigating the site of a tragedy, but the quick eye for details that the knight possessed was not transferable to Hugh, and he knew it. Where Baldwin might have seen a dozen hints for finding the boy, Hugh only saw a mess.

  Folding his arms, he leaned a shoulder against a wall and peered at the ground. His master had said that the boy had been in front of his mother, and had seen the attacker coming up behind Simon as the bailiff called the boy to him.

  Casting his mind back, Hugh noted where the bodies had lain the night before. He was sure that Simon, having been unconscious for so long, all through the night, must have fallen where he had been hit. Hugh stepped to the spot where, as far as he could tell, his master’s feet had been resting. There were a pair of scuff-marks, and he thought they might have been caused by the bailiff’s feet jerking as he was coshed.

  Nodding grimly to himself, Hugh crouched down and stared before him. The dirt had been flattened in some patches. All around there was a light coating of ash, from the many wood fires which had driven off the night’s chill for the townspeople. Though behind him it had all been disturbed by the passage of the men collecting the two figures, and there were clear footprints where the man appointed to stand guard over the woman had waited, Hugh thought he could see where she had lain. As he bent lower, he caught his breath.

  From the corner of his eye, he had caught a glimpse of the guard’s footprints. Viewed from this low angle, he discovered he could see them more clearly. To test it, he rested his hands on the ground and held his head almost at floor-level, and found he could see the prints much more distinctly. Wriggling, he squirmed until he was staring excitedly at roughly where the woman’s head had been, and gave a short exclamation of delight. He could see a series of small barefoot prints.

  The ones nearest were surprisingly clear. He could make out the individual toes as if the lad had waited there for some time, and perhaps he had, Hugh reflected. After all, Simon had appeared after hearing the boy crying. He could have been there, standing beside his dead mother for an hour or more. People from the houses all round would not leave their dwellings after dark, he was sure, not to go to the aid of a brat they might not know, not when there were the sounds of misery to hint that some danger lurked.

  He thought he could make out a scuffle, as if the child had retreated, then shuffled as he began to run away. More marks seemed to lead toward a wall. Rising, he followed after, every now and again lowering himself to make sure of the direction, until he came to a large patch where the muck and dirt had been flattened and dispersed. Going down on one knee, he studied it with bafflement. It was just before the wall, near a hole. Feeling a quick excitement, he dropped by the hole and gazed inside. It was dark and small, and he reached in with a hand, lying heedlessly on his back in the stinking filth. He could feel the sides and roof, and, stretching to his uttermost, he could just touch the furthest extreme. There was no child.

  Standing and brushing the dirt from his shoulders, he felt a pang of compassion as he wondered whether it was here that the boy had been caught by the attacker. Maybe, he thought, the flattened patch was caused by the struggle between the two, the man catching hold of the boy who was the only witness to the attack on the bailiff, and possibly the cruel murder of his own mother.

  If that was the case, he thought, resting his hands on his hips with a new determination, the people who lived closest must have heard the poor lad’s screams. He stared at the walls all round. There was no doorway on which to bang, but in the alley there were several. Striding out, he turned right and beat upon the timbers of the nearest.

  The latch was slipped and the door creaked open; a small, dirty, anxious young girl peeped round it. Seeing Hugh’s fierce glower, her eyes widened in a panic and he realized that the door was about to be slammed. Immediately, he smiled. He also took the precaution of shoving his heavy boot into the gap. “Hello,” he said.

  The grubby child looked at his boot with perceptible alarm, and her mouth opened to scream, but before any sound could come out, Hugh squatted reassuringly.

  “I want to speak to your mother. Is she here?”

  Casting a glance behind, the small face nodded, and soon, to his relief, there was an adult with them.

  She was a little under his height, but with the sallow, gray complexion of the poor. Standing in the doorway, she could have been the sister of the murdered woman, and the apron and wimple which she wore in an attempt to appear respectable only added to the impression of sad dilapidation that permeated the buildings of the little a
lley.

  “There was a woman killed here last night.”

  “I know. Poor Judith.”

  The name meant nothing to Hugh. “She was killed down that alley, which runs beside this place. Did you hear anything?”

  “There’s always noises round a place like this. We heard lots of things.”

  “A scream?”

  “Only her boy. We never heard her.”

  “You heard her boy?”

  “Rollo? Yes. He was making enough noise to bring the roof down on our heads,” she said.

  “You heard him, and you did nothing?” he asked, aghast. “That child might be dead; the same man who killed his mother probably took him and killed him. If you’d gone to him when he cried you might have saved his life!”

  “Yes. And I might have got myself killed,” she said, wiping a grimy hand over her forehead. There was no remorse Hugh could perceive, only a weary acceptance. “What good would that have done the lad? Or her, come to that? I have five little ones to look after, now my husband’s dead. What do you expect me to do? Run out and get myself killed at the first alarm?”

  Hugh could not help taking a step back. He was not known for his courage, but he was repelled by the dour cowardice of this woman. He could understand nervous people staying in behind their doors after hearing a shriek, but not when it was a child who was being attacked! In his home village, it was the norm for all to go to the aid of a neighbor in trouble, no matter what the cause. If a man was under attack, all would help him.

  “Well?” she asked at last. “Do you want to see him or not?”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  Eyeing him with exasperation, she knocked her little girl on the head and sent her scurrying back into the house. Soon she reappeared dragging an unwilling boy, who held back in fear at the sight of a man.

  “What’s he doing here?” Hugh asked, dumbfounded.

  “I couldn’t leave the poor bugger out in the cold all night.”

  “Did you see the killer?”

  “No. All I saw was these two bodies on the ground, and Rollo with them, crying fit to break your heart, so I brought him in here and gave him some hot soup, and while I was doing that, men came and started clearing up.”

  “You could have told us you had the lad here.”

  “Don’t grumble at me! I did what I could, and that’s a lot more than many would do. I’ve even fed the child, and I’ve hardly got enough for my own, so don’t try to tell me I did wrong. I wasn’t going out again to speak to strangers after nightfall—how was I to know they weren’t men from the inn? They could’ve been friends of the man who killed poor Judith and the other one.”

  “The other one wasn’t dead. He’s my master, the bailiff of Lydford.”

  “Oh? Well, what’re you going to do with this one? He can’t stay here. We can hardly feed ourselves, let alone an extra mouth.”

  “I will take him to my master.”

  She nodded, and took the boy’s hand, but as soon as she tried to push him toward Hugh, the lad shook his head violently, eyes wide in the little face. Hugh held his hands out to him, but he stood his ground, lips beginning to tremble.

  Sitting back on his haunches, Hugh eyed him speculatively. “He’s scared of me.”

  “I wonder why that should be.” The scorn made her voice waspish. “He saw his mother killed last night, and you’re surprised he’s scared of men! Here…” She took the boy’s arm and dragged him forward. “Take him. I took him in because I thought it’d help, but he doesn’t want to stay here. He won’t even talk. You have him, and I hope he helps you.”

  The door slammed firmly, and Hugh heard the wooden bolt being pushed across. He wouldn’t be speaking to the woman again. Rollo was standing as if petrified, his eyes massive saucers of fear.

  The servant smiled ruefully. “Don’t worry. I think I got nearly as much of a shock as you. Are you hungry? You want some food?” There was no answer. The lad was as dumb as a stone carving. “Well, I think I do. Let’s go to the priest’s house and see what we can find.”

  He started off, but the child was a dead weight, pulling back like a rabbit caught in a snare, his visage a picture of terrified misery.

  “Look, I’m a friend. All I want to do is help you and make sure you’re safe. All right? Now—when did you last eat meat?”

  For the first time, the urchin’s eyes met his. The little skinny body radiated hunger.

  “I know where we can get you a thick slice of cold meat. Do you want some?”

  Hesitantly, the child allowed himself to be steered toward the main street. Hugh walked happily, confident that he would find out who had attacked his master. This little lad had seen the blow being struck. It could only be a short time before they tracked down the assailant.

  17

  At the entrance to the inn, Baldwin stood taking his leave of the captain. “I will get the messenger off as soon as possible,” he promised. “The men have had a good head start—are you aware if either of them knows Exeter at all well?”

  Sir Hector shrugged peevishly. “I’ve no idea, but I doubt it. Neither of them is from these parts. John Smithson comes from the north, somewhere near St. Albans; Henry from a village near London—Wandsworth, I think.”

  “Good. At least they will probably have some little difficulty in finding the right smith to sell the silver to. They will quickly lose any advantage they might have had from their early departure, as their head start will be frittered away while they search.”

  “If they went to Exeter—” The captain broke off as an unearthly shriek filled the air. When he continued, his face had reddened and his voice shook with a bellicose resentment. “God’s blood! Do they have to do it in the damned street!”

  Baldwin nodded. The sound of a pig being stuck was not one which upset him unduly, being only a natural background noise anywhere in the country at this time of year, but he could see that it might be irritating. The pig was jerking in its death throes as he looked over and nodded to the butcher, who stood back watching his apprentice with his thumbs hooked into his belt. Adam nodded back happily.

  Then Baldwin was jerked round by the second high-pitched squeal of terror. At the entrance to the alley opposite, he saw Hugh clutching the arm of a small boy. The lad was keeping up a constant keening ululation as he tried desperately to free himself and escape back along the alley.

  Baldwin shot a glance at the captain, then gasped.

  Sir Hector’s eyes were fixed on the boy. His face was white with dread, and a nerve under his eye twitched as the strident wailing rose and fell. With a hissed curse, he swiveled round and marched back inside the inn.

  Standing with his back to the cool wall, he waited until his heart slowed its agonized pounding.

  The boy had seen him, had recognized him from the stabbing of his mother! He should have killed the little bastard when he had the chance. It would be foolish to let him live, when he had witnessed the murder…but before he could strike, the knight’s friend, that damned Bailiff of Lydford, had appeared, and he only just had time to hide in the doorway. The boy had proved useful then, attracting the man’s attention for just long enough…But when the bailiff fell, he had spent too long gloating at the sight of the man on the ground before he tried to catch the boy. By which time he had disappeared! He had evaporated like the dregs of wine from a goblet left overnight, except the boy didn’t even leave a residue: he merely vanished.

  He had looked. Oh yes, he had looked. He had searched through the rubbish, swearing constantly, picking about among the scraps of cloth and timber, muttering to himself in his futile rage as he tried to find that tragic face with the enormous eyes so that he could close them and put out the weak flame of life that burned so deeply in them…But he couldn’t find any sign of the lad.

  And then the noises had started. Subtle murmurings, the swish of feet, sibilant whispers, as people woken by the disturbance began to wonder at the sudden silence. He had heard a door being ten
tatively opened, and froze in quick alarm. If someone should come out and investigate, there was nowhere to hide: nowhere!

  Then a door creaked, and he heard low voices, people talking in hushed, horror-struck tones. There was a pile of torn and rotten sacking nearby, and he leapt to it without a second thought, dragging the foul cloth over himself.

  Footsteps had approached and faded, local inhabitants walking toward him, then exclaiming as they found the bodies and had turned back. People had seemed awed by the enormity of what they had discovered. Then there was a short pattering as those same people bolted for the security of their houses, and he was sure that he was alone at last.

  Cautiously peeping out from under his covering, he had seen that the alley was clear once more. He had clambered out and quickly felt the woman. She was cooling rapidly; he knew she must be dead, for he had felt enough dead bodies in his time.

  The bailiff was still alive and breathing—almost snoring, as if he had been simply snoozing after a good meal. The noise infuriated him. It was loud enough to waken the whole town! he thought angrily. He tugged his knife from its sheath, ready to stab, when the new noise stopped him. More doors opening stealthily; more voices. He had no time, he must make his escape. At least the bailiff had not seen him—he had not had the chance to spy his attacker before falling. Still holding the knife, the killer bolted, moving quietly on soft pigskin boots which made little sound on the packed earth of the alley. Only at the end had he realized he still held the dagger in his fist. He thrust it into its sheath and, with suddenly nerveless fingers, he had half-leaned, half-staggered to the nearest wall, where he stood with his hands dangling, staring over the road to where he had killed her.

  She had deserved it, and so had he, the bastard, he reflected with satisfaction. And then a slow smile broke out across his features as he considered how his plan was going.

  The same slow smile appeared now, and the thin layer of tension was banished from his face. She had deserved it, and so had he. And soon, surely, he would pay the price in full for his deeds. Unless—a frown twisted his face—unless that cretin of a Keeper of the King’s Peace should realize. He was known to be clever—what if he guessed at the truth? With a shrug, he put the idea from his mind. There was plenty of proof for the knight of Furnshill. The Keeper of the King’s Peace must realize soon what had happened.