The Bartholomew Fair Murders

by Leonard Tourney

  “He was to blame, to blame!” Juliet shouted hysterically, still clinging to Pullyver, as though drawing the strength for her hysteria from his wiry frame.

  “I neither excuse nor extenuate his responsibility for your husband’s death,” Matthew said after Juliet stopped shouting. “I only declare that you had motive, even as you admitted. You deeply resented your father. You wished to see him fail in his business. You held him accountable for your husband’s death.” Juliet now seemed more frightened than enraged at Matthew. .She stared around her, a pitiful, shaking figure in black, as though seeking a character witness among the present com-«pany. Then she said, “You said the murderer also killed Stubbs. Sirs, how could I have done such a thing, being the small woman that I am—hoisted a hale and hearty fellow of twice my weight into a malmsey butt? And how, even with my hatred,

  1 have treated my father as he was treated, bludgeoned, stabbed, cruelly scarred?”

  For a painful interval her question was answered only by a perplexed silence, as though each one in the room was searching his own conscience to determine the malignity of his motives. Meanwhile Juliet’s expression of defiance changed. Panic flickered in her eyes and her lower lip began to tremble. With a loud sob, she hid her face in her hands.

  The gesture, pathetic as it was even in so unlikable a person, moved Joan to pity. Pullyver also was moved. He said, “Surely Mrs. Beauchamp speaks reasonably. What daughter could so detest her father? You’ve set your mousetrap next door to the cat in this instance, Constable Stock. Juliet is too small a woman to heft the likes of Stubbs, especially if he were uncon-scious and dead weight. She’s also too good a woman to murder her father.”

  Chapman agreed, and Justice Baynard said he thought it a very unlikely thing indeed that Juliet Beauchamp murdered either her father or Gabriel Stubbs. As for Juliet, hearing Pullyver’s words, she took her hands from her face and looked at him gratefully.

  “Well, I’m inclined to agree with you,” Matthew said after a moment’s thought. “Unfortunately the same cannot be said for you, Mr. Pullyver.”

  “What?” protested the greengrocer, flushed of face, trembling with indignation. “How dare you accuse me.”

  “I dare very easily, sir,” Matthew said, frowning. “You did not hate Ned Babcock, but you happily saw him out of business. Not only for such reasons as your future wife may have, but a desire to reap more than you deserved from your investment. ”

  “What do you mean, more than l deserved?”

  “What I have said,” Matthew returned sharply, leveling a steady gaze at the man. “I have examined Ned’s records. For all his faults, he was a scrupulous record keeper. It’s all in his ledger. His income, his outgo, a summary of his debts. How much he owed to each of you. Also the terms of his agreement for repaying his debt. It’s all spelled out.”

  “As it should be,” Pullyver snapped. “Record-keeping’s no crime. I was the principal investor. The terms were easy, and he was in a fair way of repaying. On schedule, I might add.” “Indeed, on schedule,” Matthew said. “Bearbaiting is a profitable business, as the crowd that flocked to see it may attest. Too profitable for it to remain in the hands of Babcock.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The terms of your agreement are made plain in your con-tract with him, a copy of which I found among his papers.” “But as you say, he was in a good way of paying the debt,” interjected Chapman. “We would have had our money.”

  “Yes, but you wanted more than your share,” Matthew said sternly. “If the partnership was dissolved—as it might be by agreement of the operators, Babcock and Crisp—then the debt was due and payable. Babcock would have paid off eventually, but you wanted to see the enterprise collapse so you could have the benefit of future profits as sole owner and proprietor.”

  “I never had any such intent,” Chapman said, looking askance at the greengrocer, as though wishing to avoid associa-tion with him.

  Juliet too seemed confused by Matthew’s accusations. She said to Pullyver, “I thought it was for me that you endeavored to persuade my father to give over the baiting.”

  “There’s no proof of any of this,” said Pullyver.

  “Oh, there is proof, sir,” replied Matthew calmly. He turned to where the fortune-teller stood and beckoned her to approach. “You have something to add here, don’t you?”

  Esmera seemed at first disposed to say nothing, then she apparently reconsidered. “He paid me,” she said, pointing to the greengrocer, “to warn your wife of great danger to her and you. ” Joan was amazed at this revelation, but she realized that Esmera’s confession suddenly explained a great deal—the fortune-teller’s strange insistence, Pullyver’s appearance at her tent, the conspiracy between him and Juliet Beauchamp that she had somehow felt without being able to reason it through.

  “When my wife first told me of Esmera’s warning, I thought it merely a trick to have money of her,” Matthew said. “But when the warnings became more insistent and touched upon the both of us, I suspected a more sinister motive. Joan saw Pullyver at Esmera’s tent. You, sir, paid her as she claims, to warn us off.”

  Pullyver laughed derisively. “Now why should I do that, Mr.

  Stock? I don’t care whether you stay in Smithfield or leave. It’s all one to me.”

  “It’s not all one, if our presence strengthened Ned’s intent not to dissolve his partnership. You made capital of his fears that Samson would be destroyed and suggested he quit. You pressed the point upon him just last night. I heard you. This young woman,” Matthew said, indicating Juliet, “thought it was for her sake you pressed her father, but it was your own greed. When Joan and I arrived in Smithfield and you became aware that we might give some support to Ned’s resolve, you decided to frighten us off with the aid of Esmera, your associate.” “He’s no associate of mine!” Esmera declared, glaring at the greengrocer.

  For a moment all was still in the room while Pullyver bit his lip and glowered all around him. But soon it was evident that the case against him was too strong. “Very well,” he said, “I confess that I paid the woman. She gulled a friend of mine. I threatened her with arrest if she did not do as I told her. I meant no harm, however, to Ned Babcock. My sole purpose was to get him to sell out. The business was worth more than he was getting for it. Why, the bearwards of Southwark make a fortune, and here he was, content to show Samson at fairs, refusing to blindfold him out of some overdelicate concern for the bear’s dignity. As if animals possessed any such quality.” “But how did you know I consulted Esmera?” Joan inter' rupted to ask.

  “I saw you speak with her the first day of your visit. I remem' bered your face when we met in the inn that night. I meant you no harm, Mrs. Stock. I only wanted the partnership dissolved. I didn’t kill Ned Babcock either, or the boy!”

  “We’ll see,” said Matthew. “You were one of the search party last night; you saw the wine seller’s body and therefore knew Stubbs’s way of marking his victims.”

  “But Mr. Chapman was constantly in my company,” Pullyver said.

  “That’s true, Mr. Stock,” answered the scrivner. “He was

  never out of my sight. We went directly from the tent to the patrol and spent a long evening walking the fair looking for Stubbs. We were together too when at ten o’clock the booth was assaulted by the sergeant and his men.”

  “And afterward?” Matthew asked the greengrocer. “Afterward?”

  “After the assault on the wine seller’s booth. I remember you lingered to discuss business for some time. Then when we hid good-night, where did you go?”

  “I went home. To my lodgings.”

  “And who can serve as witness that you arrived there and remained there during the night?”

  “My servant can.”

  “A servant!” Grotwell laughed. “A fine witness indeed. Ser-vants say what their masters will.”

  “And you went out again?” asked Matthew.

  “At six o’clock in the morning
or thereabouts. Chapman came by for me.”

  “Did he? What hour was that, Mr. Chapman?”

  Chapman thought. “It must have been nearly seven o’clock. I heard Paul’s toll as I knocked at his door. We were to go to the fair to see the morning baiting.”

  “In what condition did you find Mr. Pullyver?” “Condition?”

  “Was he dressed and prepared to go with you or no?”

  “He was still in his nightshirt,” Chapman said. “He looked as though he had just awakened from sleep.”

  “And since that early hour you never left his side?”

  “I waited while he dressed,” said Chapman. “We went directly to Smithfield, breakfasted at a booth, and then came to the bear garden, where we learned Mr. Babcock had been murdered.”

  “What was to prevent Mr. Pullyver from returning to Smithfield under cover of darkness, killing the bearward, and then making fast home to his bed?” asked Justice Baynard, regarding the greengrocer suspiciously.

  The Justice’s tone seemed quite sufficient for the sergeant, who moved forward as though to seize Pullyver. Matthew or-dered him to stop. It was still too soon to talk of charges and arrests, he said. “Besides, Ned Babcock wasn’t killed in his sleep, as you all suppose. He was quite awake when he died, already dressed and about his work. If Mr. Chapman tells truly, Mr. Pullyver could not have killed the bearward and therefore did not kill Stubbs either.”

  “How so, Mr. Stock?” Justice Baynard asked in bewilder^ ment. “Babcock was found in his sleeping garment.”

  “He was so dressed after he was killed; the murderer wanted it to appear that he had died during the night and not in the morning, say, about seven o’clock. Not long before his body was discovered by Francis Crisp.”

  • 23 •

  “How can it be that you know exactly when my father was murdered?” asked Juliet, her voice rich in incredulity. She had recovered now from her earlier distress and seemed as caught up as the others in Matthew’s unfolding disclosure.

  “If my wife had not undermined my confidence that Stubbs was the murderer by noting the incongruity of his leaving his weapon behind,” Matthew said, “I would never have thought of it myself.” He paused and cast an appreciative glance at Joan. She smiled back, and Matthew proceeded, turning his attention again to the dead man’s daughter. “Two things puzzled me about your father’s death. The first, that Samson had not mo' lested the body.” He paused again. Juliet had winced at the phrase; the thought was dreadful. “The second, that the sleeps ing gown appeared to have been put on him after his death.” Matthew raised his hand to allay the inevitable questions from Juliet, Pullyver, and Crisp on this point and immediately explained. “Even a tame beast, a cat or dog, has been known to gnaw upon his dead master’s corpse. According to the cruelty of their nature. But here, wonder of wonders, we are to think that Ned Babcock lay dead in a bloody nightshirt half the night, in the same cage with Samson—a creature, I remind you, prac^ ticed in the eating of human flesh—who did nothing more than contemplate his corpse. It’s a thing hardly to be credited.” “What do you make of it, Mr. Stock?” asked Justice Baynard. “Why, sir, I make of it that the bear had either a marvelous respect for the dead or a full stomach.”

  “A full stomach!” exclaimed Francis Crisp, concerned deeply about anything touching upon his bear.

  “What time was the bear normally fed of a morning?” asked Matthew.

  “At dawn or shortly thereafter. Samson is very punctual about eating,” said Crisp, with pride. “Why, a man can set his clock by the rumble in his stomach. At dawn, Mr. Stock, or very shortly thereafter—or he growls and claws at his cage fiercely.”

  “There you have it,” said Matthew. “Samson didn’t touch Ned Babcock because he had already eaten. Babcock was there' fore killed after he had fed Samson—at six o’clock or there-abouts, surely no earlier.”

  “But what if he had fed the bear earlier?” suggested Pullyver, still skeptical but obviously relieved that the finger of suspicion had been directed elsewhere.

  “Not impossible,” said Matthew. “But highly unlikely, given the habits of bear and his master.”

  “But what about his sleeping garb?” asked Juliet.

  “Which brings me to my second point,” Matthew said. “We all saw to our sorrow the condition of Ned Babcock’s body. The garment he wore was soaked in his blood and yet even I did not notice at first that there were no puncture holes in his shirt. After Stubbs’s death was discovered and he ruled out as murderer of Ned Babcock, I had the bloody shirt Ned was wearing fetched. A wondrous weapon it is that makes no holes in cloth—or cloth that repairs itself. I searched Samson’s tent again and found Ned’s shoes and hose and other coverings for his lower body upon the pallet. But where, I asked, were his lace-fringed shirt and doublet? These were not to be found in the tent. And why? Because he had been wearing the same when he died and the murderer was careful enough in his duties to carry the bloody evidence off and dispose of it. It was a serious error on the murderer’s part to forget about the puncture holes. Yet murderers are not always as clever as they think themselves.”

  “I am more than a little confused by all this reasoning, Mr. Stock,” said Chapman. “What exactly is it you’re telling us?” “I’m telling you that Babcock was killed in the early mom-ing, after Ned was dressed and had fed Samson. Not long before Francis Crisp walked in and found his partner’s abused body.” “This is truly a wonder, Mr. Stock,” said Justice Baynard, who now turned his attention to Francis Crisp. “Am I mistaken in thinking that the finger of suspicion now points to Francis Crisp?” “At me!” declared Crisp, taken by surprise at the accusation, for he seemed still in a deep contemplation of what Matthew had earlier said about the bear’s feeding. He quivered a little and spoke haltingly. “1 never . . . killed him. He was dead when I came this morning to the pit. I loved the man like a brother. Oh, I never would have raised a finger against Ned Babcock, no, not on my life.”

  The much frightened bearward now looked appealingly at Babcock’s daughter, but the young woman’s expression showed no sign that she had taken the Justice’s accusation seriously.

  “I believe you, Francis,” said Matthew, walking over to him and placing a calming hand on his shoulder. “Whoever killed Ned Babcock knew something of the need to provide himself with an alibi, perhaps, or to place the death as early as possible should the body of Stubbs be discovered before he could dispose of it himself. But he did not know much of the eating habits of bears. As Stubbs did, or as you, Francis, do. No, Francis would not have made this mistake,” said Matthew, turning his attention back to the au-dience as a whole and away from the still nervous bearward. “Besides, Ned’s death meant the partnership was dissolved, and all debts due and payable, 1 doubt Francis wanted that. ”

  Crisp looked up at Matthew gratefully and said that he surely did not.

  “If not Pullyver or Crisp, then who?” Justice Baynard wanted to know, obviously nettled at having been so easily proved wrong. “The time is short. Can we not come more expedb tiously to the conclusion of this business?”

  “I grant this inquiry is taking time,” Matthew answered mildly, ignoring the implied rebuke. “But the time is well spent. We are ever learning, and that is to the good. Consider

  how terrible a thing it is that an innocent man be accused— why, it’s as bad as if the guilty were to go free.”

  Now Matthew turned to the sergeant, who had been standing all this time following the proceedings with considerable interest, but who was obviously surprised to find himself addressed.

  “Mr. Grotwell, when you formed your party to search for Stubbs, which of your fellows of the watch went singly on his mission?”

  Grotwell thought for a moment, then said, “None, sir. All were paired. You and your good wife together. Mr. Chapman here and Mr. Pullyver. Then Mr. Babcock, who is dead, and Francis Crisp.”

  “Have you not forgot yourself, sergeant?” asked Matthew. “Myself? Why, I see
I have, sir. Yes, I was alone, sir, there being no partner for my watch. We were an odd number.” “Which worked out most conveniently for you—odd or no.” “I don’t know what you mean,” Grotwell said with a forced smile. “I never missed company, if that’s what you’re saying. I often do my rounds alone.”

  “What I mean, sergeant, is that it was convenient for you to kill Stubbs without a witness. You found him on your rounds, I don’t know how or exactly when, but surely before the lot of us gathered again and Rose Dibble discovered Stubbs’s hiding place to us all. That was no news to you, his hiding in Talbot’s booth, although you feigned surprise and professed your disbelief like an accomplished play actor. You found the lad earlier yourself. Found him, bludgeoned him, drowned him. My only question for you is this: had you planned earlier to kill Babcock too, or did that wicked thought leap into your brain the instant you stuffed Gabriel Stubbs head first into the malmsey butt?” During Matthew’s speech, Grotwell’s square, stolid face had begun to twitch nervously. Now his hand rested on his own dagger. “That’s a filthy lie, and filthy is he who gives it to me,” he said menacingly. “I never killed a soul, save in the line of

  my duty. And why should I want the bearward dead? He was nothing to me, neither friend nor enemy.”

  “Oh, he was more,” Matthew said. “And he did hurt you.”

  Matthew motioned to the sergeant’s men to seize their leader; they hesitated a moment, unsure of their loyalties, then obeyed. Grotwell was grasped from both sides, his arms pinioned behind his hack with such force that he winced with pain.

  “Prove the lie if you can, Stock,” said Grotwell between clinched teeth, his eyes fixed on Matthew and full of hatred. “I care not who you know or what you know. A lie is a lie. And damned is he who gives it. Prove what you say.”

  Matthew signaled to Joan and she brought the ledger forward, which she had been holding since before the meeting began. Matthew took the book and began to thumb through the pages.