Gilbert hastened away, and Ned manoeuvred his horse so as to dissuade the crowd from running after him. Will mounted his own horse and approached them with an easy smile, knowing that they had not assembled out of any particular hostility towards Gilbert. They had been drawn, as always, by the excitement of a happening; any happening. There was no malice in their hope that it might lead eventually to a hanging.
‘Friends!’ Will addressed the gaping, upturned faces. There was some hooting in response, but no real disrespect for none had reason to dislike him. ‘You deserve to be told the truth of what has happened. Walter Bostock has indeed been murdered.’ He was forced to pause by a swelling murmur of satisfaction that the rumour had been right, and a cheer or two from the disaffected. ‘And whoever did the foul deed must be found.
‘My brother Gilbert has just appeared before the justice of the peace of his own free will. True, he has in the past been heard to utter threats against the prior’s bailiff’ – jeers, laughter, and cries of hang him! Will raised his voice – ‘but can there be any man among us who has never made an alehouse threat? Gilbert Ackland has pleaded not guilty to the charge of murder.’
Will paused to allow them time to vent their ribald disbelief. It occurred to him that one or other of them might be aware of something that would lead him to the murderer, and he wondered for a moment whether to offer a few groats for the information. But Castleacre folk could be endlessly inventive if they thought it would be to their advantage, and it would be wiser not to tempt them.
His horse, confronted by the noisy crowd, was stirring restlessly. He reined it in and raised his voice again. ‘Hear me out! For my brother has sworn a sacred and binding oath by the Holy Cross of Bromholm that he is innocent of this charge.’
The noise abated instantly, as he had known it would, for there was no one who did not respect that oath. Indeed, there was a muted murmur of Aye, aye.
‘I am standing surety for my brother,’ Will continued, ‘and I do it gladly. Though I have urgent business in London, I shall remain here until the Quarter Sessions, if need be. My intention is to discover the real murderer before then. In the meantime, friends’ – he looked down at them with a wry affection – ‘since you have known me all my life, I hope you will still greet me when we meet, for I do not expect to stay in Castleacre long!’
Will and his servant sat in the parlour of the Woolpack inn, where the other customers were travellers rather than townsfolk.
‘I thought you’d forgotten our dinner,’ complained Ned, drawing his knife from his belt and attacking a lukewarm mutton pie. ‘I was near to eating my horse – except that the poor old nag would be too tough … What do we do next, Master Will?’
‘We give our attention to Thomas Gosnold the constable. As a tenant of the priory, he has as much reason as my brother to hate the bailiff. And then, there are other pointers to his possible guilt.
‘First, he told me he had no complaint against the bailiff. But we’ve both heard from townsfolk that he has spoken ill of him. Secondly’ – Will paused to chip some cinders out of the piecrust before attempting a bite – ‘when I went with Justice Throssell to view the corpse, the constable was over-anxious to declare the man a vagabond and to have him buried unknown. True, he might merely have wished to save himself trouble. But the injuries he’s said to have will strengthen the case against him, if – as we think – the murderer was Sibbel Bostock’s lover.’
‘One of’em,’ said Ned, lowering his pot of ale.
‘Aye, one of’em. It’s beyond belief that both Gilbert and the constable should have been thrown from their horses on the same day. If it seems likely that they fought each other, I’ll confront Gib and find out more.’
‘Ah – so we ride to Southacre after dinner, to discover what the constable’s injuries are?’
‘Not “we”. You must go without me, for I’m known there.’
‘Good – I’ll do better on my own!’ grinned Ned, relishing the prospect. ‘I’ll present myself at the kitchen door with a tray of ribbons, and tease the information out of the women servants …’
‘Do as you will, as long as you arouse no suspicion.’ Will pushed aside his half-empty trencher and wiped his knife clean with bread. ‘And while you’re at Southacre, I’ll find out more about the shirt the bailiff’s corpse was wearing.’
Will rode to the northern side of the churchyard and collected the scrap of shirt that he had concealed in a chink of the wall. Stained as it was, there was no mistaking the fine quality of the linen, and the delicacy of the sewing. And the reason he had saved that particular scrap from the neck of the shirt was that a letter N was elaborately embroidered on it.
It seemed that the message he had given the crowd outside the justice’s house had already spread, for he was greeted in the usual friendly way as he rode across the market place. The priory bell was ringing to signal the ending of the monks’ early afternoon service of Nones as he cantered along Priorygate, but it ceased as he turned in through the gatehouse. Giving the porter a nod, he dismounted and tied his horse’s reins to a tree behind the building. Then, instead of taking the wide path that led down to the great west front of the priory church and the prior’s lodging, he struck off instead to the east, along the way used by day-servants and beggars.
This way led first to the almonry, from where the daily dole was distributed, and then to the pilgrims’lodgings. It continued past the lay folk’s cemetery, round the east end of the church and the monks’cemetery, and on past the infirmary to the domestic buildings of the priory.
The morning’s rainclouds had blown over, and the lay-brethren who worked at the laundry were busy on the drying green, spreading the last of the day’s wet linen on racks to take advantage of the wind. The laundress herself, alone in her yard now that the great washing troughs had been emptied, rested on a bench in a sheltered corner, her large red hands in her lap, her legs stretched out wide under her old gown.
Doll Harbutt looked weary. Her linen cap was awry, her plait of greying hair had tumbled down on one shoulder, her skirts were soaked with washing water. But it was not only weariness that had overtaken her. She seemed subdued, very different from the vigorous woman with the lecherous laugh who had offered to strip him on his previous visit.
Will gave her good day. Startled, open-mouthed, she raised one brawny red arm and clutched her bosom in surprise.
‘Master Will Ackland – I had not thought to see you here again!’ A wave of colour mounted her throat, only to be lost in the everyday crimson of her face. She half-rose to her feet. ‘Had I recognised you yesterday, sir,’ she apologised, ‘I would not ha’spoken so … But there,’ she added with a touch of her former spirit, ‘’tis not every day a young gentleman walks into my yard, soaked to the skin and bold as you please!’
Will laughed. ‘I took no offence, as you see, for I’ve come again to ask your advice.’ He sat down on the bench beside her and handed her the scrap of linen. ‘This was part of an old garment – do you know who it belonged to, Mistress Harbutt?’
‘Old indeed.’ She grimaced, holding it at arm’s length, either to keep it from her nose or to see it more clearly with weakening eyes. Then, ‘Aye,’ she announced, ‘that I do! I cannot read, but that letter stands for Nicholas. ’Tis from a shirt that once belonged to my lord prior. His linen is always of the finest, and always marked so.’
‘What happens to the prior’s linen, after it’s no longer fit for his own wearing? Does it go to the almonry for distribution to the poor?’
‘I faith it does not!’ The laundress was indignant. ‘My lord prior’s garments are too good for them!’ She hesitated, then gave Will a defensive sideways glance. ‘What with all the important guests, and the household linen and church linen – not to mention all the monks changing their shirts and drawers in honour of St Matthew’s Day, even though they’d been worn little more than a month – my work is never-ending. Can you wonder if garments sometimes get lost in the wash?’
‘I shouldn’t wonder at all,’ Will assured her, straight-faced. ‘You work hard for the priory, Mistress Harbutt, and are entitled to some perquisites – as is your husband.’
She was shocked. ‘My George is but a poor herdsman – I would never let him wear what my lord prior has worn! No, sir: I allow the best garments to go to none below the rank of yeoman. I have an arrangement with all the tenants’ wives – excepting Master Ackland’s, of course,’ she added hastily.
Will thanked her for the information, and rose to go. Doll Harbutt planted her hands on her knees and heaved herself to her feet, her expression subdued again.
‘We’ve had a sad event here at the priory today, Master Will.
Young Jankin Kett, one of the lay-brethren – you and your family know him of old –’
‘Jankin?’ Will felt a lurch of alarm somewhere deep within him. ‘What has happened?’
‘He’s dead, sir.’
She gave a long, heartfelt sigh. Shaken, Will crossed himself and murmured a God ha’mercy … ‘How did he die?’
‘Drownded, poor simpleton. One of the monks took a walk by the river after Chapter Mass, and saw him afloat. ‘A must have fallen in and could not swim.’
‘True, he could not,’ said Will slowly, through lips that felt numbed. ‘I tried to teach him when we were young, but his limbs were all awry.’ He shook his head. ‘Poor Jankin – he loved the river. We used to tickle trout together. That was what he was doing when I first saw him yesterday. I tried to speak to him, and followed him through your yard, but he would not stay.’
Doll Harbutt snuffled, wiped her nose with the back of her hand and sat down again, suddenly overcome. ‘That was when I last saw him. ‘A was harmless, sir, harmless … and yet I shouted at him and beat him round the ears. We all did it, servants and some of the other lay-brethren as well … When they brought him up from the river this morning, I was so grieved for the poor mooncalf that I laid his body out myself.’
‘Had he been dead long?’ asked Will. ‘Had he begun to stiffen?’
‘No, sir.’ She paused, then added in a broken voice: ‘The bruises we gave him were plain enough, all round the back of his neck …’
‘I must go and see him,’ said Will. ‘Where is he lying?’
‘In the nave, sir. He’s to be buried after Vespers.’
Her helpers were returning from the green with baskets piled with dried linen. The laundress still had the remainder of the day’s work to do, but evidently she had a greater burden. She caught Will by the sleeve and looked up at him with haunted eyes.
‘Do you think, sir,’ she whispered hoarsely, ‘that Jankin took his own life because we made him wretched? If so, he’s gone straight to hell, and his sin will be on our heads too.’
Will sought to reassure her. ‘No, Mistress Harbutt,’ he said firmly.
‘I do not believe that Jankin would have taken his own life.’
Chapter Eighteen
The priory church was never empty. At this time of the afternoon, when the monks were engaged elsewhere in meditation, reading or study, there might be no one there at all. But a benevolence of saints was always present, their carved and painted images looking down from every altar, niche and corner; and silence was never complete, for the walls seemed to encompass the echo of centuries of plainchant and prayer.
The great candles that were used to light the church during High Mass, revealing the vivid colours of the wall paintings and the brilliance of the gold and silver and jewels with which the statues were adorned, were now extinguished. The carved and painted bosses, distantly high in the roof of the nave, were lost in the gloom. But Will could see two candles burning in the north aisle, beyond the pillars that separated it from the nave, and there he found the body of his boyhood friend.
Jankin was at peace, there was no doubt about that. Lying on a bier in his white shroud, with only his face visible under his shock of dark hair, he looked little older than when he had first been put into the care of the priory. All the fear and anxiety had been smoothed from his moon-flat features by the hand of death.
But even though Will had some idea of Jankin’s wretchedness, he refused to believe that he had drowned himself. Self-destruction was a sin so great that the thought of it could not be borne. Whatever private misgivings they might share with the laundress, everyone at the priory, monks and lay-folk alike, would prefer to attribute Jankin’s death to an accident.
What concerned Will, however, was not misgivings but guilty knowledge. The bruising on the back of the neck that the laundress had observed suggested a different cause of death. And if that were so, the truth would be kept hidden somewhere within the priory.
He was just finishing a heartfelt prayer for the repose of his friend’s soul when he heard the swift approach of sandalled footsteps, and saw from the corner of his eye the swirl of a black habit. He knew at once, without looking up, that its wearer was the sub-prior. But the nave of the church was the one part of the priory that was always open to laymen, and there was no need for apology.
‘An untimely death, Father Arnold,’ he said as he rose to his feet. ‘And a grief for my family – Jankin’s mother was our nurse, as I think I told you.’
The sub-prior inclined his head fractionally by way of acknowledgement. His cowl was pushed back, revealing his gaunt face, but his deep-set eyes were lowered. ‘Jankin idled by the river when he should have been at work,’ he said in his austere voice. ‘No doubt he fell in and was unable to swim.’
‘Perhaps so,’ said Will. ‘But he was mistreated by the other servants, I saw that for myself when I was here yesterday. I understand there is bruising on the back of his neck. Could he have been held under water in some incident – some horseplay – do you think?’
The sub-prior raised his eyes and gave Will a single, burning glance. ‘How should I know that?’ he said with disdain. And turning abruptly, he swept away towards the Quire.
Will rode back to the castle and found Ned Pye waiting for him, sitting astride the parapet of the bridge over the ditch with his back against the outer wall of the gatehouse. He was juggling with pebbles to pass the time, and looking pleased with himself.
‘Here’s news to hearten you!’ he cried, jumping down and taking the horse’s bridle. The castle dogs, accustomed to Will by now, came rushing out without much barking and fawned round his legs as he dismounted.
‘The constable’s servants,’ Ned went on, ‘tell me that he came home yesterday with a fine black eye! Mistress Gosnold was so angry with him that she hasn’t spoken to him. And he hasn’t left his yard since then, for he’s too ashamed to be seen.’
‘Excellent news! What else do they say about the constable?’
Ned grinned. ‘They say he has a whore somewhere, for he sometimes rides out o’nights. And no one knows where he might be during the day…’
It could be nothing more than servants’gossip. What with his flocks and herds and his duties as constable, Thomas Gosnold had reason enough to absent himself from Southacre. But the black eye certainly suggested a brawl, and perhaps a rivalry with Gilbert Ackland.
‘My brother’s at home, I hope?’
‘Aye, and comforting himself with ale. He shambles about the yard like a caged bear, and snarls at everyone he comes across. That’s why I’m here, out of his way. Old Jacob has gone into hiding.’
‘He’s a wise man. And we’d best stay here too, if we’re to talk without interruption.’
Ned hitched the horse’s reins to a rusted hinge that had once supported one of the castle’s great outer doors. ‘The servants aren’t best pleased with you, Master Will,’ he said, evidently agreeing with them. ‘They think you should ha’let your brother be clapped into gaol, guilty or no, to give them a few weeks’peace.’
Will let that pass.
‘Keep your fleas to yourself, sirrah,’ he commanded an over-friendly hound, pushing the animal aside with his boot and slapping his bitten calf. He joined Ned
on the parapet, drew up his heels out of the dogs’way, and rested his arms on his knees in thought.
‘I must persuade Gib to tell me the truth about the brawl. But even if we know that they’ve both enjoyed Sibbel Bostock’s favours, we need more than that to connect the constable with her husband’s death.’
‘I could start by finding out what happened to the bailiff’s horse,’ suggested Ned. ‘It can’t ha’disappeared – I’ll wager it’s been sold. I’ll visit the farrier before supper and ask him to describe it.’
‘Do that,’ Will agreed. ‘And what of the other possessions the bailiff had with him when he set out? All I’ve found so far are his clothes – except for his riding boots. There’s his saddle and harness to find, and his saddle-bags, and the rent rolls for the priory’s lands at Bromholm. If we can trace any of them to Southacre, we’ll have a good case against the constable.’
‘We?’ objected Ned in an injured voice. ‘Who is this we? It seems that I’m expected to do it all myself, since you are riding out on pleasure tomorrow …’
Will had almost forgotten that he was invited to dinner at Oxmead. Almost, but not quite, for the image of Julian Corbyn had come to mind, delightfully unbidden, on several occasions during the day.
‘I do not go on pleasure,’ he informed his servant austerely. ‘Sir Ralph Corbyn is one of the Members of Parliament for Norfolk. He could be of assistance to me when I become a barrister.’
‘Ha!’ crowed Ned. ‘You needn’t try to deceive me. I’ve heard how you pestered the womenfolk to deck you out in finery for the occasion! You’re going a-wooing – and without my approval …’
Will repaid him for his impertinence by tipping him off the parapet, though he took care to dump him on the bridge rather than down into the ditch.
‘Enough of your grumbling,’ he said. ‘And you need not grin like an ape, neither. As for the tasks – you told me not two hours ago that you’d rather do them alone than in my company. Besides, it’s in your interests as much as mine to discover the murderer. The sooner my brother’s name is cleared, the sooner we can return to London.’
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