The Crediton Killings

by Michael Jecks

  “You are sister to Mary Butcher, who lives in Crediton?” Simon asked, once the preliminary greetings had been offered and received.

  “Yes, sir.”

  She had the rosiest complexion, Simon thought, that he had ever seen. Hazel eyes with green flecks sparkled in the sun, and auburn tints in her hair glittered like gold. “Is she here? We would like to speak to her.”

  She smiled at him, a little puzzled. “No, Mary’s not here. Why—isn’t she at her home in Crediton?”

  “No,” Simon said disconcertedly. “We were told she was here.”

  Baldwin asked, “Was she due to visit you here this week?”

  “No, not especially. She usually turns up when she feels like it. I don’t know in advance. It’s not so easy to send a message from Crediton to here.”

  “She often comes here, then?” Simon asked.

  “Oh yes, fairly often. I don’t get to see her over there, mind, as I have all these to look after.” She waved a proprietorial hand at the animals and children all round. “She likes to get away from the smell and noise of the town and back to the country every so often, so she walks out here when she has the time. Her husband doesn’t mind.”

  “That’s Adam Butcher?”

  “Yes. Adam married her four years ago, just as his business was growing. It was a relief to us, I can say. We were beginning to think she’d never get a husband. She was already twenty-three by then. Now, me, I got wed when I was eighteen—a much better age. I had four children by the time I was twenty-three.”

  “We were told she had come here on Tuesday, but you say you haven’t seen her?”

  Her eyes became anxious. “You mean she’s disappeared? No one knows where she is?”

  “I doubt it,” Baldwin said reassuringly. “I expect the apprentice—it was he who told us she was here—got confused. He did not strike me as being of the brightest. Do not worry. She will have gone to a friend, or maybe another sister?”

  “No, sir. I am her only sister,” Ellen said, and her eyes held a haunted look.

  “I can see why she would want to come here,” Baldwin continued. “It is a good little estate you have here.”

  “Not bad, sir. The beans are good, and the peas did well. Better than last year, anyway. And my husband, he’s a good worker, and he’s often busy with the manor, mending carts and barrels. It keeps us in wheat and barley.”

  Baldwin nodded. Peas and beans were plentiful at this time of year, and the chickens scratching in the dirt at his feet were all young, most looking only a few months old. They were fresh this year, so she and her husband were surviving well as free people. “Tell me, Ellen, how long has Mary been living in Crediton? Someone told me she was there some five or six years ago, before she married.”

  “Yes, sir. She used to work in the cloth trade, weaving and doing some needlework. She stopped all that when she married, of course.”

  “Of course. So she was living in town for more than six years?”

  “Nearer eight, I should say. Since she was eighteen or nineteen.”

  “How did she come to meet Adam?” Baldwin was watching her face intently, Simon noticed, and he wondered what the knight was driving at.

  Ellen clearly felt she had no secrets. She gave a loud guffaw. “She didn’t; he came to meet her! The way she tells it, she was walking along the road one day, when he threw out some offal from his shop and spattered her all over. Well, she went mad, and stormed inside, and gave him a piece of her mind, threatening him with all sorts, saying she’d get the Constable on him, and the Keeper of the Peace, and just about threatening him with the posse of the county. She can be hard when roused, can young Mary, but glorious in her rage. Poor old Adam was smitten: never stood a chance. He was infatuated from the first.”

  Smiling, Baldwin said, “He is more madly in love with her than she with him, you mean?”

  “Oh yes,” she said absently, her mind still on the whirlwind romance and wedding, and then her eyes sharpened, and she gave him a quick look that he could not read.

  “Does she love him, do you think?”

  She gave this consideration, the smile still playing round her lips, but it had faded, and there was a touch of sadness as she nodded. “A little. But not enough. No, it would have been better if he didn’t love her so much. Then at least there would be some equality in their house. The trouble is, she’s not the sort to be excited by living with a man like him. He adores her, but she was always the sort to bore easily, and that leads to nagging.”

  “Is she a nag, then?”

  “With poor Adam, yes, though I daresay he’d deny it. He always was a poor fool. I expect he thinks she’s just being precise, and he isn’t. She tells him where to put his things—even his tools in his shop—and he won’t argue. He doesn’t want to upset her.”

  “Not a solid foundation for a marriage,” Baldwin observed.

  “No, sir. Not at all. But, to be fair, they both seem happy enough.”

  “Yes, of course. Tell me, are you good friends with your sister?”

  “There is none better. Whenever we have troubles, it is to each other that we turn.”

  “Rather than your husbands,” Baldwin guessed conspiratorially.

  “Certainly rather than them!” she laughed gaily. “There are some things which only a woman can understand.”

  “And some secrets which can only be shared with another woman.”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Such as men.”

  She was suddenly quite still. Though her hands carried on, carefully turning and kneading the dough, the whole of the rest of her body was unmoving.

  Baldwin stared at the ground pensively. “Ellen, have you heard about the company of mercenaries in Crediton?”

  She looked up. Her smile did not alter one jot, Simon saw, but there was a fixity in her face now as she looked at his friend. Some of the friendliness had gone. “Mercenaries?”

  “Yes. The same troop which your sister noticed so many years ago. The same captain, Sir Hector de Gorsone, the same men in the band. She knew them, didn’t she? She knew him, Sir Hector, better than any, didn’t she?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do. It was because of her that Sir Hector threw out another wench, Judith. She’s dead now, you should know that. So is your sister’s latest replacement, another poor girl called Sarra. Both dead, and neither for any good reason.” Baldwin sighed heavily. “If your sister comes here over the next few days, send a message to us, Ellen. We have to speak to her. Otherwise, I think she might be in danger.”

  “Danger!” she scoffed. “What sort of danger?”

  Baldwin looked at her long and hard. “Did you not hear what I have been saying? This knight has had three lovers in Crediton: the first is dead, the third is dead; the second is your sister. Tell me when you hear from her.”

  21

  On the ride back to Crediton, Baldwin was deep in thought. When they reached the top of the hill leading down to the town itself, Simon turned to face him.

  “You said her sister could be in danger, Baldwin—but why? Why on earth should this bloody man want to kill all the women he has known in this town?”

  “That’s not necessarily the way to look at it, Simon,” Baldwin said. He patted his horse, then irritably waved away the small swarm of flies he had disturbed before continuing, “This knight may not have harmed any of them. It is startling how clear the links are to Sir Hector, isn’t it? Two women die, and both were short-term lovers of this knight. Both times there happen to have been arguments or rows with him. Sarra at the inn had a shouting match with him, and was shortly after found in a chest in his very room; Judith bumped into him in the street, and got herself stabbed.”

  “Yes, so there’s a clear link to him.”

  “True, but then, if you reverse the perspective, who would benefit from these women being found and their attachment to Hector being discovered?”

  “Nobody, surely?”
>
  “I can think of several. The mercenaries themselves. Take Wat: he wants to get rid of his master; I think that is plain enough. Otherwise he would not have been so forthcoming about Sir Hector’s relationship with Judith.”

  “Maybe he wanted to see justice done.”

  Baldwin gave him a long, intense stare. “Justice done—Wat? I think you mistake him for a pleasant man, for a gentleman, Simon. He is not; he is a mercenary—a ruthless, dedicated killer and despoiler. A knight should fight for Christianity, for the greater glory of his name and reputation in this world and the next. He should defend the weak and unfortunate, showing courtesy and largesse. Have you noticed any of these attributes in Hector or his men—Wat, for example?”

  “I’m sure they—”

  With an uncharacteristic burst of anger, Baldwin reined in his horse. “Simon, don’t try to be their apologist. They are evil, nothing more. Men like them ride where they will, offering allegiance only to those who pay them, and no one else, but even that is only for as long as it suits them. They have no conception of honor or largesse; all they want is the next sum of money, and they are casual about how they receive it.”

  “Calm yourself, Baldwin,” Simon said soothingly. “I accept that you understand more about such men than me; I’ve never come across them before.”

  “My apologies, Simon. This whole affair is starting to make me smart, and like a bear baited at the pole, I turn on whoever I can reach.”

  “When we came out today, you were thinking that the matter could be resolved by looking at the local situation. Surely that has worked, in the main? Now we have learned that the butcher’s wife was also known to Sir Hector. It seems fairly clear that he threw over Judith for her, and quite probably the same thing happened to Sarra when he met Mary Butcher again in town.”

  “Yes. And now she too has disappeared,” Baldwin said grimly.

  “She may not be dead, Baldwin. Think on this; if she was intelligent, as soon as she had heard about Sarra and Judith dying, she might have put two and two together. Maybe she’s run off to protect herself?”

  “It is possible, certainly.”

  “In terms of this whole affair, though, let’s just hope that Stapledon’s men catch the two thieves. At least they might be able to shed some light on the thing.”

  Bishop Stapledon wandered out into the garden with Peter Clifford and expressed his delight at the mixture of plants. Peter, he knew, was very keen on his herbs and spices. Several plants he had arranged to be delivered from far afield.

  Irises were among Peter’s favorites. As he explained—at some length—the plant was an almost perfect example of God’s bounty. The roots could be crushed for ink, the flower yielded a juice which could be used as a salve for teeth and gums, the leaves thatched for mats or patching roofs, and if it was needed for none of these purposes, the flowers were both beautiful and sweet-smelling.

  The Bishop smiled and nodded as Peter led him round the garden, keen to avoid hurting his host’s feelings by letting his boredom show. Lilies and roses were pointed out to him—they filled a bed near the house—while further on, toward the orchard where the apple, pear, cherry and nut trees grew, was the herb garden. Rue, whose smell the Bishop cordially detested, flourished here, but there was also sage, chamomile, lavender and other attractively perfumed plants. After an hour, even the enthusiastic Peter began to observe the Bishop’s attention waning, and they walked over the lawn, full of daisies, violets, primroses and periwinkles to create an aromatic and attractive cover, to the shelter of an oak where there was a bench.

  Here they found Margaret and Hugh. Edith was a short distance away, playing a game with Rollo which seemed to involve pulling flowers from the lawn. Hugh stood as the two approached, but the Bishop waved him back to his seat. “May we join you?”

  “Of course, my lord.” Margaret moved along the bench and Hugh stood again resignedly and went to station himself behind her. From here he could see the children. Rollo had frozen at the sound of men’s voices, but seeing two men he recognized, and after a brief confirmatory glance at Hugh, he resumed his game. Hugh suspected he was so used to seeing the priest dispensing charity that he knew he had nothing to fear from men in holy garments.

  The men sat, and Stapledon looked at Margaret. “I hope you do not mind me noticing it, but you look very refreshed. Are you feeling somewhat better?”

  She could not hide her pleasure from him. “It is not just me,” she confided. “My husband was very sad over the death of our son, but he has almost recovered from it. These last weeks have been difficult, but I think we have got over our pain. Peter’s kindness has helped so much.”

  The Bishop nodded gravely. “Your husband was extremely upset. I know how hard it can be. I suppose all of us in the Church are aware, for we see so many tiny coffins being interred, and death can strike the richest as well as the poorest in the land.”

  “We shall have another son, God willing,” Margaret said.

  “Yes.” Stapledon was watching Rollo. “That young fellow likes playing with your daughter.”

  “Edith likes his company too. They are not so very different in age, and where we live she does not have many friends. It is pleasant for her to find someone with whom she can enjoy a game.”

  “Yes,” he repeated, then frowned, lost in thought.

  “Bishop? Bishop!”

  Stapledon looked up, jerked back to the present, to see Roger running over the lawn. The Bishop forced down a sense of annoyance. At last he had begun to relax, and Roger’s bursting in on his pleasant mood of calm was vexing. By the time the rector had approached, however, the Bishop had managed to dispose of the exasperation and had regained his equanimity. “What is it, Roger? Is the house on fire?”

  “No, sir. But a messenger has just arrived from Exeter. They have found and captured the two runaway mercenaries, sir, and are bringing them here.”

  “Excellent!” said Peter, and rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. “Then we should soon be able to put this sorry affair behind us once and for all.”

  “Yes,” said Stapledon, but again his eyes moved to the small figure only a few feet away. “Most of us will.”

  When Simon and the others arrived back in Crediton, they were hot and dusty. The moisture on the road from the night’s downpour had splashed and spattered their legs on the way to Coleford, and red-brown splotches marked their hose and tunics. Returning, the dampness had been driven off by the sun, and instead of soggy droplets they had been assailed by a clinging mist of fine reddish powder which had risen as their horses’ hooves had disturbed the road. Now, looking at Baldwin, Simon could see that his hair had a wiry firmness, his face had darkened, with paler streaks where the sweat had run, and his tunic was, instead of white, a dull ochre at the shoulder and dark orange-brown at the hem. It made him look as if the color had run from the top down in a rainstorm, the bailiff thought with a grin, which faded when he looked at the state of his own hose.

  The powdery dust had not only affected their clothing. Simon’s eyes felt as if they had gravel in them, and his throat was as sore as if he had swallowed a pint of sand. As they passed the inn, he croaked, “Let’s wash away a little of the road with some of Paul’s ale. His wife is a better brewer than Peter’s bottler.”

  Baldwin nodded, and they were soon out in the yard behind, gripping quarts of ale.

  Simon glanced round after taking a long pull at his drink. At another table were a group of soldiers from Sir Hector’s troop, all studiously avoiding the bailiff’s eye. He recognized none of them, and was about to turn away when he saw Wat.

  The mercenary was standing out toward the back of the yard, near the stables, talking to someone Simon could hardly see. Only two boots protruded beyond the stable wall, and a hand which rose and fell in emphasis. Wat was staring with what looked like horrified fascination, occasionally shaking his head in quick denial or nodding in grave agreement.

  “Baldwin,” Simon said, hiding hi
s mouth behind his jug, “Wat is over there, in deep debate with someone, and it looks as if it’s a serious matter.”

  “Eh?” Baldwin surreptitiously glanced over his shoulder. “I wonder what—”

  Catching their eyes on him, the mercenary made a quick gesture to silence his accomplice. He was in two minds whether to speak to the Keeper immediately about this latest discovery, but he could not see how to avoid the unpleasant revelation. It would soon come out anyway, and he saw no way to gain more capital from it. Nothing he could do would reduce the impact of the news.

  All of a sudden he felt tired, worn out from his recent planning and manipulations, from his devious trade-offs in the attempt to win the favors of the stronger elements of the troop. The stage had been set ever since Hector had failed in his bid to win a position with the King, for once his attempt to get a new contract had been summarily dismissed, it was obvious to all the others that his leadership was questionable. His fighting ability was never doubted, but the main responsibility was to find contracts and money for his men, and he had fallen short of their expectations. They could now see that he was ill-considered by recruiters. He had turned his allegiances once too often. Now even a King desperate for aid would not employ Sir Hector and his men.

  They had discussed this, the men of the band, when they had been told of his lack of success. Some had wanted to keep him on, thinking that he could lead them back to France and a new role, but others were so thoroughly disgruntled with his organization and his reputation for losing contracts that they wanted a change.

  It had been this which had prompted Wat to move, to test the water with his colleagues to see whether he could tip the balance and make them all lose their trust in Hector, but this was not how he had intended things to go. From the first, he would have preferred to save his company from any association with murder in England. It would be different if this was France, where killings were sanctioned with the full authority and severity of the power his group could wield, but in England they must live within the law without upsetting too many people, and the spate of murders was impossible for even the most incompetent and corrupt of officials to ignore. In Wat’s estimation, most officials were corrupt, but he was not sure if Baldwin was incompetent.