Brother Walstan had been cellarer for some ten years, and had become increasingly tetchy under the burden of his responsibilities. The room where he worked was near the almonry, and accessible to the priory’s tenants, but there were few who would willingly interrupt him.
Will was saved from his anger by the fact that Brother Walstan, a man with a long nose and a quick, harsh voice, had known and respected his father. Even so, walled in as he was by three centuries of cobwebbed account books, and with his tonsured head bent over page after page of figures, the monk was reluctant to waste time. He nodded an acknowledgement when Will commiserated over the priory’s loss of the bailiff, and frowned when he heard that Gilbert Ackland had been charged with the murder. But when Will explained that he was endeavouring to clear his brother’s name, the cellarer began to drum his fingers on the table.
‘The charge is a grievous matter for your family,’ he agreed. ‘But what has it to do with me?’
‘By your leave,’ said Will, ‘I need to know if the bailiff took the rent rolls with him when he set out for Bromholm?’
‘Certainly.’ But then the cellarer stilled his fingers. ‘In truth I was angry, believing he was wasting his journey, for the rent rolls were returned to me later that same day. I thought the bailiff had carelessly dropped the saddle bag containing them, and had ridden on without it. But as we now know, he was dead before he left Castleacre.’
‘What of his horse? Was that found at the same time?’
The cellarer shook his head impatiently. ‘Walter Bostock’s horse is no concern of mine. It is one of the very few items within this precinct for which I am not responsible.’
He took up his quill with a dismissive flourish, but Will persisted.
‘Who was it who found the rent rolls and returned them to you?’
Brother Walstan sighed, his irritation ill-concealed.
‘It was Jankin Kett, the simpleton who was put in the priory’s care by your father. He burst in here just before Vespers on St Matthew’s Eve, carrying a saddle-bag and mumbling that he’d found it near the river. He pulled out the Bromholm rent rolls, dropped them on this table, and ran away with the bag.’
‘He said nothing more?’
‘Nothing. He has since drowned, as no doubt you know. And the dead, I am glad to say, are not my responsibility either.’
The cellarer dipped his pen in the ink with an air of satisfaction. Almost as an afterthought, he crossed himself and added a hasty God have mercy on his soul, before bending again over his account books.
Will joined Ned Pye, who was waiting with the horses, and they had a swift discussion before parting. Ned fastened the reins to a post and strolled off to the stables in search of idle conversation. Will took the servants’path round the east end of the priory church, and fetched up once again in the laundress’s yard.
Today, after the busyness that had followed St Matthew’s feast, there was no sign of linen, wet or dry. Doll Harbutt was alone, and in good spirits. Queen of her kingdom, she sat at ease in the late afternoon sun refreshing herself from a foaming pot.
She greeted her visitor with eager surprise, awed by the quality of the clothes he was wearing. ‘Why, ’tis Master Will again! Shall you join me in a drink of beer, sir – the priory’s finest brew?’
‘Gladly, Mistress Harbutt. Though I must not come here so often, or we shall be the talk of the precinct.’
Doll gave a great guffaw, but the crimson of her face deepened with pleasure and her broad hips swayed from side to side as she went into the laundry-house to fetch another pot. Will drank to her health, enjoying the flavour of hops as a change from hopless ale. Then he made to seat himself companionably on the edge of an empty washing-trough, but she hastily dusted a place for him on a bench out of consideration for his finery.
The week had been an eventful one at the priory, he commented, what with the feast, and Jankin Kett’s death, and the news that it was the bailiff who had been murdered.
The laundress shrugged. ‘In truth I never liked the man. There’s none I know who’ll mourn him, Mistress Bostock included. But I’ll not believe,’ she added fiercely – less, Will thought, from conviction than from a desire to assure him of her support – ‘that your brother, Master Ackland, would ha’murdered him.’
‘What makes you think Mistress Bostock does not mourn her husband?’ Will asked.
‘Why, because Walter Bostock beat her sorely. Knowing they had no servant, and seeking work for my youngest daughter, I sent her to their house early this summer to offer her services. But she heard the bailiff chastising his wife, and took to her heels for fear o’ being beaten too.’
Doll Harbutt grimaced. ‘Well, there,’ she added. ‘The common law allows a husband to chastise his wife. Some men are quicker to take advantage of it than others, and some are heavier-handed. But there’s various ways a wife can have her revenge …’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Will agreed, with a lugubrious air that hid his eagerness for more information. ‘Tell me, are you well acquainted with Mistress Bostock?’
‘Not I! She takes pride in being the bailiff’s wife, and holds herself aloof. I did hope at first that she might become a good customer o’mine. She sought me out, on the recommendation of the miller’s wife, and I let her have one of the prior’s shirts at a very reasonable price. But I think she had too high an opinion of herself, for she never came again.’
‘Mistress Bostock is a handsome woman,’ said Will. ‘To those who have a liking for a dark complexion,’ he added dismissively, for the laundress had sniffed her distaste. ‘No doubt she has many admirers?’
‘Ha!’ said Doll Harbutt. ‘Men will always make fools of themselves, hankering for what they can’t have. I’ve seen many a burning glance being cast in her direction when she appears in the precinct – and not only by the lay-brethren.’
Will gave her a swift look, and she chuckled indulgently. ‘Well, well – a monk is but a man, when all’s said and done. Keeping the vow of chastity must often be a struggle. Who shall blame them if their thoughts are no purer than any other man‘s, eh, Master Will? But I’d best say no more on that subject!’
Knowing her to be a loyal servant of the priory, Will would not press her. ‘How does Mistress Bostock conduct herself within the precinct?’ he asked.
‘Very seemly, to my knowledge. I’ve never heard of her giving an encouraging word or smile to any man. Excepting Jankin Kett, may God ha’mercy on his poor troubled soul.’
‘Jankin?’
‘Aye. It seems that Mistress Bostock had some business at the almonry, a month or so ago, and as she left she met Jankin face-to-face. He stood gawping at her, and she gave him a smile – out o’charity, what else? But Jankin, poor fool, found himself in love.’
Doll Harbutt paused to pour beer thirstily down her throat, and then wiped her mouth with her brawny forearm.
‘After that, it seems, he began to go looking for her. The next I knew of it, the bailiff came rampaging after Jankin, saying he’d been spying on his wife. He chased him round these buildings – such a hue-and-cry you’ve never heard – caught him just over there, on the drying green, and gave him as good a whipping as I’ve ever seen. Aye, the poor mooncalf.’
Subdued, Doll wiped a single tear from her eye and comforted herself with another gulp of beer. Will was suddenly hopeful on his brother’s behalf, but uneasy on his old friend’s.
‘Jankin was hobbling when I followed him through your yard t’other day,’ he said. ‘He was wearing a pair of riding boots that were too small for him. Do you know how he came by them, Mistress Harbutt?’
‘They were too good to be his own, for sure. I’d never seen him in them before. They were well worn, but made of good leather – as I have cause to know, for I pulled them off him when I laid out his body. It was a tussle to get them off, but there: it caused him no pain.’
‘Could you not have cut them off?’ said Will, regretting that such indignity had been visited on h
is friend’s corpse.
‘Cut them off, sir?’ Doll Harbutt was astonished by the suggestion. ‘What, ruin a yeoman pair of boots, with years of wear still left in them? Indeed not! I shall take them home – they’ll fit one or other of my sons, give or take a pinch.’
Will drained his pot and stood up. ‘Would you lend me the boots for an hour, Mistress Harbutt? I’d like to know how Jankin came by them. The cobbler in the market place once told me that a wrinkled boot is like a face, he can always put a name to its owner.’
‘Borrow them and welcome, sir.’ Doll fetched them from her laundry-house, and Will put a final question.
‘When I was chasing Jankin, all the other servants were shouting Hog at him.’ Doll had shouted it herself, as he remembered, but he would not remind her of it. ‘Why was that, do you suppose?’
‘Because’a drank pig’s blood,’ she answered promptly. ‘Not every day, you understand, nor yet every month. But once or twice a year, when he heard the squealing and knew the blood would be foaming hot, he’d steal into the slaughter-house with a jug.
‘Not that Jankin was the only one to drink it,’ she added fairly. ‘I’ve known slaughter-men who made their breakfast of it. But Jankin always tried to hide what he was doing. He wouldn’t stand there and drink it down like a man, but sneaked off to sup it in private. That was why folk shouted at him, to let him know we knew.’
‘Can you recall when he drank it last?’ asked Will.
‘Why yes – a day or two afore he died. A lot of hogs were being slaughtered then, as well as other beasts, on account of the number of guests and pilgrims to be fed. It must ha’been the squealing that tempted him, poor simpleton.’
The bell had begun to ring for Vespers from the great tower overhead, insistent in its calling. Will mouthed his thanks, dropped a silver groat into his empty beer pot and strode off, dead man’s boots in hand, in search of Ned Pye.
Chapter Twenty Two
By the time the bell stilled, the two men had walked their horses almost as far as the priory gatehouse.
Ned’s news was that he had learned why Jankin Kett had been disliked by the day-servants and the other lay-brethren. It was not merely that he was set apart by being simple. Jankin had been the sub-prior’s messenger, and he was suspected – rightly or wrongly – of spying on his fellows.
‘I thought he must be under Father Arnold’s protection, even though he feared him,’ said Will. ‘The priory is my mother, he told me, the sub-prior is my father.’
‘But from what I’ve heard,’ said Ned, ‘the others mistreated him more for enjoyment than out of suspicion. They didn’t wish him dead. They think he drowned himself out o’ wretchedness, and now they’re feeling the guilt of it.’
‘And so they should,’ said Will sternly, ‘for they gave him reason enough to be wretched.’ He paused. ‘But Jankin had reason to hate the bailiff, after the whipping he got. Loath as I am to believe it of him, I begin to think he could have been Walter Bostock’s murderer.’
Ned’s response was enthusiastic. He was eager to have done with all this mystery and set off back to London.
‘Aye, you’re right! I’ve heard how Jankin was strong in the arm, and how he’d lash out viciously when he was tormented too far. No doubt about it,’ he concluded cheerfully. ‘It was Jankin Kett who murdered the bailiff – and then drowned himself on account of it.’
Will made no reply. They mounted their horses at the gatehouse and turned towards the town, but he was absorbed in thought and would ride no faster than at walking pace.
‘The bailiff set out on his journey before dawn on St Matthew’s Eve,’ he said, half to himself. ‘We know that Jankin returned the Bromholm rent rolls to the cellarer later that same day. Most likely it was Jankin who returned the bailiff’s horse to its stable, at the same time.
‘True, this could have been mere chance. Perhaps Jankin really did find the horse, saddled and running loose. But if so, knowing it was the bailiff’s, why did he not raise an alarm?’
Ned had no patience with lawyers’reasoning. ‘By the Mass, we know why – because he was guilty!’
‘But where’s your proof, you knave? I cannot go to the justice of the peace and tell him that Ned Pye says so! No, our best hope lies with the boots Jankin was wearing. If the cobbler knows them to be the bailiff’s, they must have been pulled off his corpse when his clothing was exchanged. The most likely man to have done so was his murderer. It’s not proof positive, but it should be enough for Justice Throssell to make a posthumous declaration of Jankin’s guilt.’
Ned Pye thrust out his paw impatiently. ‘Then let me take the boots to the cobbler, and have done!’ His voice took on a hopeful croak as he added, ‘As I recall, his shop is next to the Woolpack inn.’
‘Aye, I’ll meet you there. Be off with you, for I still have some thinking to do.’
Ned set off along Castlegate at a gallop, the dust-clouds obscuring his horse’s heels. Will followed slowly, his spirits tugged between relief at clearing his brother’s name, and regret that it had to be at the expense of their boyhood companion. Besides, nothing was ever as simple as Ned imagined.
Will had no doubt that Jankin had the strength to pull the bailiff off his horse and knife him. And then, when his blood was up, he might have battered the bailiff’s face in revenge for the whipping he’d been given. But, knowing Jankin, Will could not believe that the whipping would have caused him to commit murder.
Jankin Kett was not violent by nature. Nor was he cunning. This murder had been planned: first to coincide with the bailiff’s absence, and then to prevent identification of the corpse, should it be found. Jankin was capable of none of this. He might well have struck the blows and changed the garments, but the guilt was not his alone.
The greater part was surely Sibbel Bostock’s. She was without doubt a clever woman, one who knew how to captivate men and bend them to her will. (Interesting, he thought in passing, that she should share that ability with the woman she so much resembled, the King’s mistress Anne Boleyn.)
Sibbel Bostock had reasons of her own for wanting revenge on her husband. Knowing that Jankin doted on her, she might well have encouraged his hatred of the bailiff and persuaded him to commit the murder. Certainly she had lied with cunning, purporting to be a virtuous wife awaiting her husband’s return when most probably she knew he was dead.
And now poor Jankin himself was dead – but not, Will was convinced, by his own hand. Had Sibbel brought about his death for fear that he might reveal her part in her husband’s murder? Had she persuaded another lay-brother, one who admired her and despised Jankin, to dispose of him on her behalf?
By now Will had reached the market place, and there were greetings to be exchanged with shopkeepers looking for custom, and with drinkers outside the alehouses. He dismounted at the Woolpack, dismissing the hopeful loiterers who competed to hold his horse. In a few moments his servant emerged from the cobbler’s shop, with the boots in his hand and a great grin on his face. Will beckoned the pot-boy.
‘We were right!’ Ned crowed. ‘These are the bailiff’s boots. The cobbler has often repaired them and will swear to it.’ He seized one of the pots the boy was carrying, and took a great draught.
‘That’s your brother proved not guilty and your duty done, Master Will,’ he announced as he lowered the pot to draw breath and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘When do we set off for London? Tomorrow at dawn?’
‘Not so fast. I’m bidden to dinner by the prior tomorrow, in company with my godfather. We’ll leave here the following day – but only if the bailiff’s murder is finally resolved.’
Ned’s round face lengthened with disappointment. ‘What’s still in doubt?’
‘Sibbel Bostock’s part in it is still in doubt. I’m convinced the plan was hers, but we have no proof as yet.’
‘That we have!’ protested Ned. ‘I know for a fact that she lied over how long her horse had been back in the stable.’
‘By
the quantity of dung? That’s only your word against hers. A Jackanapes from London against the wife of the bailiff of the prior of Castleacre?’
‘By your leave!’ said Ned indignantly. ‘Besides, she’s a whore. You have only to call on your brother’s evidence to prove that.’
‘He’d give no evidence against her. How could I ask him to? It would mean admitting his own adultery, and then being called before the archdeacon’s court for punishment. No – with Jankin gone, taking the truth with him to the grave, we have nothing against Sibbel Bostock except suspicion. As long as she continues to deny everything …’
And then an almost-forgotten fact lifted his hopes. ‘By the Rood, Ned, I think we may have her yet! Leave your ale, man, and mount up.’
Fired with eagerness, Will made to vault into the saddle as he used to do. But his weaker leg, having lost some of its spring, refused the jump, leaving him to curse and scramble. Once aboard, though, he went dashing across the market place and into Priorygate street. Ned poured the remains of the ale down his throat and followed, just in time to catch the reins his master threw at him as he dismounted outside the tailor’s shop.
When Will emerged it was with a grim smile.
‘Now I have proof of her deceit!’ he said. ‘A proven lie to confront her with. Take those boots back to the laundress at the priory, with my thanks, while I return to the the bailiff’s house and get the truth from Sibbel Bostock.’
‘In God’s name, sir!’ The bailiff’s wife had changed to her workaday attire and stood in her farmstead with her skirts hoist above her bare feet, her hair flowing free and a runt of a piglet tucked under one bare arm. She held her handsome head high, her black eyes sparkled with indignation and her sun-browned cheeks glowed with rising blood. ‘Every word I’ve told you and your servant is the truth!’
Still mounted, Will looked down at her sternly. ‘Not so, Madam. I recall that we met by chance yesterday morning, outside Dickson the tailor’s shop in Castlegate. I asked when you expected your husband the bailiff to return. On Tuesday or Wednesday, you told me. And you added that in his absence you had ordered a new cap for him. I believed you, thinking it the act of a fond wife.
New Blood From Old Bones Page 18
