Leper's Return

by Michael Jecks

  “Tanner, you found the man just as he is? You didn’t see anything moved?”

  “No, Sir Baldwin. He was lying just as you see him now. It was obvious he wasn’t going to get up again, not with a hole in his head like that.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I was at the inn when the neighbor’s servant came running for me. Well, not really a servant—Coffyn, the man next door, has been nervous recently, and he’s hired some lads to protect his house. They’re all hard types, and this was one of them. I came back with him, and found Godfrey here, as he is now.” He pointed at the marks near Baldwin. “Just there was where his daughter had been. Feet near the door, head pointed at the window. She’d been thumped as well and was taken to her room before I got here.”

  “Was she struck on the back of the head like this one?”

  “No—punched, I reckon. Her mouth was all bloody. This here,” he said, indicating the flattened area nearer the door, “this here was where Putthe the servant was lying. He was unconscious too. He had been struck on the back of the head like his master.”

  “Was anyone else here when you arrived?”

  “Only the neighbor, Coffyn. When he’d seen what had happened, he’d sent his man straight for me, as he should, staying here himself to guard the place.”

  “Where is this Coffyn now?”

  “I let him go home. He was a bit green in the face, sir, and I didn’t want him spewing all over the room. It’s in enough of a mess as it is.”

  “And his man?”

  “Sent him back too. He’s not a local man, and I didn’t want a foreigner mucking about in here while I waited for you, sir.”

  “Good. The two who were hurt, then, the servant and the daughter: are they all right?”

  “She should be fine with a rest, sir, and Putthe’s got a head like moorstone. Whoever hit him will be lucky if he can use the same club again. Clobbering Putthe hard enough to knock him out would break most cudgels.”

  Baldwin gave a fleeting grin. “We should leave the girl to recover a little, but what about this bottler: do you think he will be ready to answer some questions? Is he up and about yet?”

  “He’s come to, sir, but he’s pretty confused.”

  “So would I be if I’d been laid out. Anyway, before we see him…That sideboard looks more than a little empty, doesn’t it?”

  Tanner glanced at it in some surprise and followed the knight as Baldwin walked over to it.

  It was an excellent cupboard, Baldwin saw. This was not made of cheap wood knocked together by a carpenter; this was well constructed by a joiner in good elm. There were four shelves, with doors underneath, and Baldwin gazed at it speculatively for some time. He opened the doors and peered inside. Both sides had pewter pots, jugs and plates stacked neatly, but hardly filled the space given. He shut it up again. On the shelves were some plates, of good quality, four on the bottom shelf and three on each of the others. A solitary jug stood next to a drinking horn of silver. Baldwin picked them up one at a time.

  “Good silverwork, this,” he said.

  “What is it, sir?” Tanner asked after glancing at Edgar in some confusion.

  “Hmm? Oh, only that Master Godfrey must have been a very wealthy man,” stated the knight with sudden resolution. He clapped his hands together. “Now, let’s see whether Putthe is ready to answer some questions.”

  6

  The servant was resting on a cot almost hidden behind two massive barrels. He was pale, and opened his eyes with apparent pain, grimacing as he tried to focus on the three men standing in his buttery. The single candle was inadequate, and Baldwin sent Tanner to fetch more.

  “Stay there, Putthe, I only want to ask you a few questions,” Baldwin said gently, holding up his hand. As he did so, he noticed that the gesture gave him the same pose as Godfrey’s body next door. If a man was holding up his hand, he wondered, would he fall to the ground in that same position if he was struck dead in an instant? And if so, could he have been holding up his hand to tell a thief to stop?

  Putthe sank back with a grunt. He was a short man, with a grave, round face. Baldwin saw that he had thin lips, which opened and closed as he spoke with a strangely mechanical action that put Baldwin in mind of a helmet’s hinged vizor; opening only reluctantly, and snapping shut when allowed to. For such a ruddy complexion, Putthe’s eyes were a curiously pale, watery blue, making him look as if he was somehow incomplete; an unfinished mannequin. Above his eyes a band of dirty cloth encircled his brow.

  It was this bandage that was giving him the most pain now. His head felt as if it was splitting in half, the top being squeezed off by the pressure. Putthe grimly noted that whoever it was who had belted him hadn’t intended him to get up again in a hurry. As his skull touched the cloth of the bolster, he winced and the breath hissed through his teeth. His assailant had succeeded. He would be lying here for quite some time to come. “Sir, how can I help you?”

  “You know your master is dead, Putthe—do you know who could have done this?”

  “It was that mad Irishman!”

  “Did you see him?”

  “Tonight, sir, yes. Out in the yard. He’s been found here in the garden before. My master saw him there only a few weeks ago. Let him off, at the time, but said if he was ever found here again, he’d be—”

  Baldwin held up a hand again. “What were you doing this evening?”

  “Me? I was in here.”

  Baldwin glanced about him. There was the usual paraphernalia of the bottler’s place of work: barrels, jugs, pots and tankards. Two stools sat near each other at one cask. Beside them were a pair of large jugs. Glancing at Putthe, Baldwin saw him wince.

  Putthe had to close his eyes: the pain was like a dagger thrusting in at his temple. And his head was spinning—the world had gone mad! Godfrey’s behavior; the mistress’s weird determination to look after a common smith and permit the servants a free evening—and now this! Someone had broken in and the master was dead! Clutching at his head, Putthe moaned.

  Baldwin spoke gently. “I am sorry, Putthe, but I have to ask these questions. I assume you ran from here straight into the hall?”

  “That’s right.” Putthe tried to sit up, but settled himself back against the bolster. A thin dew of moisture shone on his forehead, making it glow in the candlelight. “I hurried along the screens and in through the door, and saw them lying there. I was about to go to them when I was tapped here”—he gingerly indicated his bruised skull—“and down I went. Next thing I know, I’m in here, lying on my palliasse.”

  “Was there anyone in the room in front of you when you entered? Obviously someone was behind you, but did you see anyone near the window?”

  “I ran straight for the hall. As you can see, I had to turn into the screens passage from here, facing the door to the garden, and turn right into the hall itself.”

  “So what did you see?” Baldwin asked impatiently.

  “Sir, as I ran through the passage, I had a clear view of the yard beyond. John of Irelaunde was out there.”

  “You saw someone out there?” Tanner scoffed, returning with more candles and setting them on barrels. “From how far? Across a darkened courtyard, and at night too? Your brains are addled, man!”

  “I know what I saw.”

  Baldwin studied his obstinate face. “I wonder. How can you be so sure it was him?”

  “I know John well enough. He hurt his ankle recently, and this man was limping a bit, but for another, there was light in the yard. The master was nervous about the men from Coffyn’s place, like I said, and had a torch burning so no one could get at the horses or equipment without being seen.”

  “You are seriously suggesting that a weak little fool like John could kill your master?” Baldwin asked, and picked up his cup once more.

  Putthe could see that he wasn’t convinced. The knight settled back in his chair, peering at him over the top of his drink with a magisterial air. He looked like a benign cleric giv
ing absolution for a minor sin. Shaking his head, Putthe knew he would have to provide the last clue. “Sir, you don’t understand: John of Irelaunde was known to my master.”

  “Speak plainly—I am no mindreader.”

  “My master found John crossing the garden—his garden. He thought John was using it as a covered shortcut through to somewhere else.”

  Now Putthe could see he had the knight’s attention. Baldwin slowly set the cup down again and leaned forward with both elbows on his knees. “Why should he pass through here to another garden?”

  “There are rumors about the man’s liking for women—especially those who are young and bored,” Putthe said, looking away.

  “You mean Martha Coffyn?”

  The servant nodded. “That’s what I think. That’s what my master told me.”

  “I too have heard this,” Baldwin murmured, and shook his head. “Why should he come in here and beat you, your mistress and your master? The fact of his adultery is no reason to murder. But you may not be aware of the other thing—did you notice the sideboard tonight?”

  Putthe threw him a glance of blank incomprehension. “The sideboard? What do I care about that?”

  “Putthe, the sideboard looks empty to me,” Baldwin explained. “Could you tell me what should be displayed, so that I can verify what is left there.”

  The bottler grimaced in concentration. He recalled: “On the top shelf there was a pair of silver plates and a drinking horn; on the next was a row of six pewter plates and a silver salt-cellar, shaped like a swan; on the next was another row of six plates, but there were two large flagons as well…and on the last shelf was a row of eight smaller plates.”

  “And you are quite sure of that?”

  “Of course I am!”

  “Much of it has gone, Putthe.”

  “What?” The injured man started up from his recumbent position, winced, grabbed at his forehead and slowly eased himself back. “That just proves it, then! It was that miserable Irish bastard. He knocked us out to steal all the stuff, and now he’s got clean away!”

  “Before we assume anything like that, do you know of anyone else who might have wanted to kill your master?”

  “No,” said Putthe with conviction. “My master was a quiet man. He only ever helped other people. You speak to anyone, they’ll all tell you about Master Godfrey of London.”

  “Yet you say John did hate your master enough to kill him.”

  “And you are certain it was John you saw out in the yard?” Tanner asked again, dubiously.

  “Why don’t you ask him! John was found in the back by the master some while ago; John was carrying on with Martha Coffyn; John needs money. If you’re right and the plate has gone, you can be sure it’s John has got it! And now, if you don’t mind, I need to get some rest. My head feels as if it’s going to fall off my shoulders!”

  “It’s too late to see the girl now,” Baldwin said as they left the bottler. Tanner, could you go to her and ask if she will talk to us in the morning? Then go next door and tell the neighbor—Coffyn you said his name was, didn’t you?—well, say the same to him. And put a man on guard in the room with the body. I’ll want to study it again in daylight, in case I missed something. For now, I need to think.“ He went back along the screens and out through the door to the yard. Tanner and Edgar exchanged a glance before following him.

  “What is it, sir?” Edgar asked as he joined his master.

  “Hmm? Oh, it’s just that I was thinking if someone had killed Godfrey and run away immediately, he would not have gone straight through the front door. There are always too many people out there on the main street. No, I was wondering whether that someone might have come out here, through the back. And the more I stare out this way, the more I feel certain that the killer made off through the garden.”

  “Ah,” said Tanner. “But he’s not the sort, Sir Baldwin.”

  “You think so? He was willing to defraud the people of the town about losing his sight, wasn’t he?”

  “Oh, that’s very different.”

  “And what if he was trying to steal the plate and got interrupted? He might have knocked Godfrey down without meaning to kill him.”

  “Do you want me to arrange for someone to keep an eye on him?”

  Baldwin grimaced doubtfully, then shook his head. “No. If he was to run away, we’d soon catch him.”

  “He’s no murderer, I’m sure, and I don’t think he’d break into a house either.”

  “Neither do I, but that’s not what other people will think, Tanner,” Baldwin said softly, still staring out toward the little shack that lay only a few hundred yards up the hill. “Let’s just hope no fools take it into their heads to assume the worst of him, eh?”

  As the trio turned away, Baldwin and his servant retrieving their horses and making their way home, John sat on his bed rubbing his sprained ankle.

  The palliasse was thin now, and the rope mattress beneath was painful through the straw filling, but the little Irishman hardly noticed. In his mind’s eye he could still see that room, the two men on the floor, the girl lying near the window.

  His heart was still beating furiously. The effort of stealthily making his way home had exhausted him. Especially since all the way he could hear the cries of the men searching for him; the men who would hold him to be hanged because of the sack on his back.

  He was very scared; he had to make sure he wasn’t searched—not until he had managed to remove the sack of pewter concealed beneath the hay in his little barn and had placed it in a safer cache.

  Edgar rose before the dawn, as was his habit. He was a little light-headed from lack of sleep, but he ducked his head in the bucket by the well, puffing and blowing with the cold as he towelled himself dry. Pulling on his tunic, he stood awhile watching the eastern sky as it lightened.

  Ever since his time with the Knights Templar, he had enjoyed this early part of the day. It gave him a sense of serenity, as if he was alone in the world, and to enjoy it all the more, he sat on the old oak stump on which the logs were split. From here, by gazing along the length of the house, he could see the sky changing its color, tingeing the clouds with silver and purple, before suffusing them in peach. Almost before he realized, the darkness of the night sky was gone, and in its place was the clear, fresh paleness of the new day.

  Only when the sun was beginning to rise above the hill did he stand and make his way into the buttery to prepare his master’s meal. Like most houses, Baldwin’s had a separate kitchen so as to prevent any accidental fire threatening the hall itself, but Edgar knew his master well: Sir Baldwin would want only cold meats and bread for his first meal.

  The servant sought out a good quality loaf, and brought it together with a cold roasted chicken, a large ham and a joint of beef. These he distributed at Baldwin’s table in the hall, then he checked the fire. Wat, the cattleman’s son, had already been in and blown the embers into flame, stacking a small pile of twigs and tinder above. These were now blazing merrily enough, and Edgar carefully rested split logs on top, squatting beside it to keep an eye on it until the logs should catch. When there was enough heat, he would set the pot above on its stand. The knight might not like too much alcohol, but he enjoyed his cup of weak, warmed and sweetened ale with his breakfast.

  While resting, Edgar found his thoughts turning to his master. Baldwin had been a kindly and loyal knight, but all that was about to change. Edgar knew he was looking forward to the visit of Lady Jeanne de Liddinstone, the widow he had met the previous year in Tavistock, and Edgar was convinced that he was set on wooing her. There was no surprise in that—the lady was very attractive, with her red-gold hair and bright blue eyes. Edgar contemplatively nodded his head. She was not the sort of woman he would necessarily select for himself, for he was nervous of women who were too independent, preferring those who were more amenable to his will, but he could understand how his master could become enamored of her.

  And a wife about the place would ne
cessarily mean change. She would want to keep an eye on her husband’s affairs, would want to ensure that he was properly looked after—and that might not mean in the same way that Edgar had looked after Baldwin for the last few years.

  Then there was Cristine at the inn in Crediton. Edgar was aware that his feelings were drawn more and more toward her, although he had no idea why. She was pretty enough, it was true, but she was hardly the compliant, quiet type of woman he had always looked for before. Cristine was strong-willed and powerful, a serving girl with a quick line in repartee, and rather than being irritated and looking upon her as a harpy, Edgar was finding himself attracted to her as an equal. It was an alarming concept.

  And if he fulfilled her expectation (and, he suspected, Baldwin’s as well), and married her, it would mean a total alteration to his life. Surely Jeanne de Liddinstone would view her with doubt, a courtly lady like herself. She would expect to have a young maiden to see to her sewing and mending, a girl who had been raised quietly, rather than a wench whose education had taken place in the taproom, and whose store of small talk related to raucous jokes told at the inn’s hall.

  He gave a sigh as he gazed into the flames. When his master married, he would have to leave and start a new life in the town. There were surely going to be many changes soon.

  “What’s the matter, Edgar? You’re mooning at the fire like a lovesick squire!”

  “Sir Baldwin, your food is ready, but the fire is still too cool to warm your ale.”

  Baldwin threw a sour glance at the tiny flames licking up from the wood. “Kick the lad who laid the damned thing and tell him to prepare it better next time, or we’ll use him as firewood to warm my drinks!”

  “Yes, sir,” Edgar said, smiling as his master walked to his chair and sat down. Baldwin was one of that rare breed of men: someone who awoke with an easy, light-hearted demeanor. Although he sounded gruff, Edgar knew he was speaking loudly to make sure his voice carried out to the yard behind, where Wat should be stacking logs.