The Night Wanderer

by Alys Clare

  She lay on her side, her carefully laundered and starched headdress awry, her fine wool veil crumpled beneath her head. Her eyes were wide open, and her face bore a look not of terror but of surprise. Her throat was a dark, gaping gash.

  I bent right down over her, turning my cheek so that I would have felt any breath. There was none. Gently I felt for the beat of life beneath her ear. Nothing. Her flesh was still warm but she was dead.

  ‘She’s gone,’ I said quietly.

  Jack reached for the veil and spread it out over Mistress Judith’s head and neck. ‘We must move her inside,’ he muttered. He glanced up and, following his eyes, I saw that people were once more creeping out to look.

  ‘I’ll take her feet,’ I said, getting up. He looked doubtfully at me. ‘She’s tall but she’s not fat,’ I added impatiently. ‘I’ve carried far heavier weights, and it isn’t far.’

  He nodded. Between us we bore Mistress Judith’s body back inside her house, and laid her down beside the hearth. Jack closed the door – very firmly – and I went to sit beside Adela, whose sobs were escalating again at the sight of her mistress’s body.

  Jack came to kneel in front of her. He took both her hands and, looking straight into her eyes, said, ‘Now I need you to help me – what’s her name?’ he demanded, turning to me.

  ‘Adela.’

  ‘You can provide one last and very important service for her, Adela,’ he went on, ‘by telling me everything you can recall about what happened this evening.’

  Adela’s spine straightened a little. ‘I – I can help?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ Jack assured her. ‘You’re the only one who can.’

  It was the right thing to have said, for who doesn’t like to feel important in an emergency? ‘Well, let me see,’ Adela began slowly. ‘We’d had a busy day, with a load of new supplies to sort and store, and I was a bit late with the meal, and the mistress was short with me. She had every right to be!’ she insisted, as if her mild criticism had breached some rule of correct behaviour regarding the recently dead. ‘Anyway, we’d eaten, and I’d cleared up, and I was settling for the night out in my place behind there’ – she indicated a small cubicle beside the storeroom – ‘when I heard the mistress get up and open the door.’

  ‘Had somebody come to call?’ Jack interrupted. ‘Did you hear a knock?’

  Adela slowly shook her head. ‘I don’t believe I did,’ she said, ‘although I might have missed it. I was that tired,’ she added, ‘and I reckon I might have already been pretty nearly asleep.’

  I met Jack’s eyes. ‘It’s quite likely someone did come knocking at the door,’ I said softly. ‘You may not know, but Mistress Judith sold herbs and other apothecaries’ ingredients, and although she wasn’t really a healer, people tend to visit in an emergency to ask advice, purchase supplies and make remedies up for themselves.’

  Jack nodded. He had a way, I was noticing, of absorbing information without comment. Turning back to Adela, he said, ‘So your mistress opened the door. Then what happened? Did she go outside?’

  Adela frowned. ‘Yes, she did. She stepped out into the square, just there’ – she pointed – ‘where the roofs overhang and make that colonnade, and I heard her … heard her …’ Her frown deepened.

  ‘Heard her what?’ Jack only just had his impatience under control. ‘Did she speak? Cry out?’

  Adela looked up at him. Slowly she shook her head. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘She laughed.’

  I waited in Mistress Judith’s house while Jack went for help, and sat with my arms round Adela as we watched a trio of Jack’s men put the body on a hurdle, cover it and bear it away. A quick inspection of Mistress Judith’s shelves provided what I needed to prepare a second, stronger sedative for Adela, and I left her warm, snug and snoring in her little cubicle. Jack set a man to watch the house for the rest of the night and then took me home.

  He saw me safe inside, then hurried away, calling softly over his shoulder, ‘I’ll come back in the morning. I need to talk to you.’

  I closed and bolted the door. I went down to tell Gurdyman I was back, and found him fast asleep on his cot down in the crypt. I made a warm, calming drink for myself – I kept seeing Mistress Judith’s terrible wound – and, at long last, went up the ladder to my little attic and fell into bed. As I fell asleep – I’d put a pinch of valerian in my drink and it was quick to take effect – I wondered for at least the twentieth time what on earth had made Mistress Judith laugh …

  Gurdyman’s whistling woke me early in the morning. I hurried to wash and dress, then went down the ladder to join him.

  ‘Another death,’ he remarked as he handed me a bread roll still warm from the oven. ‘I’ve been out,’ he added, smiling, ‘and it’s all they’re talking about.’

  ‘I was there,’ I said quietly. ‘Oh, not when she was killed’ – his face had paled in shock – ‘but soon afterwards. Jack and I were in the inner court, and we heard her servant scream when she found the body.’

  Gurdyman quickly recovered himself. ‘Same method as the other two, I understand.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it was Mistress Judith?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I’d forgotten that Gurdyman knew her, but of course he did: before I’d become his pupil, and during the times I was back home in Aelf Fen, he would have to do his purchasing of supplies for himself.

  ‘Jack’s coming here this morning,’ I said after a moment.

  Gurdyman gave me an enigmatic smile. ‘Naturally.’ Before I could ask him what exactly he meant by that, he went on, ‘Unless either of you needs me, I’m off down to the crypt.’

  ‘Very well.’

  He picked up another couple of bread rolls and shuffled away. His mind already caught up in whatever he was working on down in his cellar, he resumed his whistling, Mistress Judith, apparently, forgotten.

  Well, I thought, trying to excuse his callousness, he didn’t know her very well.

  I put more water on to heat and set out the ingredients for a stimulating, reviving drink. There were a few of the rolls left, so I organized them on a platter and took them into the courtyard. I didn’t think I’d have long to wait for Jack and I was right.

  ‘So,’ he said a little later, when he had put away two mugs of my drink and the rolls were no more than a memory, ‘what do we know?’

  ‘Three deaths in a week, two women and a man,’ I began. ‘Two wealthy, or at least relatively so, and one an impoverished orphan in a whorehouse. Two connected to the river; one because his business was river transport, the other because she lived and worked beside it. One—’

  ‘Mistress Judith could also be said to be connected with the river,’ Jack put in, ‘because she bought supplies which arrived by boat.’

  ‘So do many people,’ I replied. But then something struck me: ‘Adela said they’d had a delivery yesterday.’ A load of new supplies to sort and store.

  ‘Indeed she did,’ Jack mused.

  ‘Do you think her goods were brought in by one of Robert Powl’s boats?’ I felt a rising excitement; had we found a link between the deaths?

  But Jack shook his head. ‘Robert Powl’s boats are all lined up on the quayside,’ he said. ‘I’ve just checked.’

  I had already leapt up. ‘But one of them could have come in yesterday!’ I cried. ‘Who would know?’ I was reaching for my shawl, slinging my satchel over my shoulder. ‘Who’s running his affairs now?’

  ‘He was a widower, and childless’ – Jack had also got to his feet and was following me along the passage – ‘but he had a household of several servants and employees.’ We were out in the alley now, and I slammed the door. ‘Who, it seems,’ he said, laughing softly, ‘we’re about to go and talk to.’

  From habit, I turned right outside the house, to head for the marketplace as I usually did, but Jack stopped me. ‘I think we should stay away from the square,’ he said quietly. ‘If you can show me how we can get out of this warren of litt
le streets and into the fields to the west, between here and the river, that would be very helpful.’

  I did as he asked, thinking on my feet, utilizing my sense of direction, and, more by luck than anything else, soon emerging in roughly the right place. ‘Good,’ said Jack with a smile, striding off towards the river, ‘now we’ll be able to make our way round to Robert Powl’s house without anyone seeing us.’

  ‘Why,’ I asked as we hurried off, ‘did you want to avoid the square and make sure nobody sees us?’ You’re a lawman, I might have added, surely you go where you like?

  He didn’t answer immediately. Then he said, and it sounded as if the admission was painful, ‘I’m not investigating the murders, which of course means I have no business going to Robert Powl’s house, or even, come to that, being out and about in the town, and I don’t want any of my fellow officers reporting what I’m up to.’

  ‘You’re not investigating the murders?’ I screeched. I could hardly believe it. ‘Why on earth not?’

  He smiled wryly. ‘Because Sheriff Picot is extremely angry that I’ve allowed two of the town’s citizens to be brutally slain.’

  ‘Three,’ I corrected.

  He turned to look at me, no longer smiling. ‘Sheriff Picot only counts the wealthy and well-known ones. He doesn’t concern himself with the deaths of prostitutes.’

  I opened my mouth to shout my protest, but there was no need; Jack’s expression told me that.

  ‘So who is in charge now?’

  ‘Gaspard Picot.’

  Sheriff Picot’s nephew. I knew him; I’d met him. He was a bald man, tall, slim, habitually dressed in black, and not long ago he had sent a man to kill Jack. Jack had got the better of him and left him tied up on the fringes of the ferns; clearly, he had escaped.

  ‘Him,’ I breathed.

  ‘Yes, him,’ Jack agreed.

  ‘So – so he’s trying to find out who’s doing the killing?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘And he now has all your men at his disposal and you don’t?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it’s his uncle’s doing, of course.’

  ‘It is.’ Tiring finally of his monosyllabic answers, Jack added, ‘Sheriff Picot has had the brilliant idea of forcing people to stay indoors unless they have permission to go out, apparently in the belief that this will prevent any further killings, which of course it won’t since people with businesses to run and lives to get on with will find ways to circumvent the sheriff’s commands, and, since by definition the killer has no respect for the law, he’ll ignore the order, go out and about just as he pleases, and if he wishes to strike again, he will.’

  ‘That’s absurd,’ I said dismissively. ‘Making everyone stay in, I mean. Apart from what you just said about people disobeying, such an order means all the lawmen and deputies will be fully engaged trying to make people stay inside their houses, whereas what they should be doing is trying to find out who’s doing the killings.’

  ‘Succinctly put,’ said Jack, ‘and distressingly accurate.’ Then he grinned down at me. ‘Come on, let’s see what we can discover at Robert Powl’s house.’

  SEVEN

  We trudged on across the wet grass. The fields looked very beautiful in the soft mist that was slowly rising off the ground as the sun rose and a little heat warmed the air. There was nobody about. Maybe the townspeople, frightened and uneasy at the latest brutal murder, had been only too willing to obey the sheriff’s new dictate.

  Presently the last of the buildings stretching along the south side of the river came into view. Quite a few were churches, endowed by the rich merchants, and some of them had been there for decades. In pride of place, however, closest to the water and with gently sloping grass-covered banks leading to the river, was a row of new houses. It was, I reflected as we drew closer, a beautiful place to live. We were only a short walk from the town – the Great Bridge and all the busy, noisy commerce of the quays were only about half a mile ahead – yet here it was peaceful and quiet, the area possessing that indefinable quality of aloofness that is typical of rich men’s dwellings. Jack pointed to the second-to-last house, and muttered, ‘That’s it.’

  I studied Robert Powl’s house. It was timber-framed and thatched, with a solid-looking oak door and windows either side, both tightly shuttered. Set against the left-hand wall, and built in the same style as the house, was a large barn, its tall doors barred. For a widower, it seemed an unnecessarily large amount of space.

  ‘Why did he need that huge barn?’ I asked. ‘It’s not as if he was a merchant, needing space for his goods. Robert Powl only provided the transport for other people’s stuff.’

  Jack stood staring at the barn. ‘I wondered the same thing. Perhaps he had occasionally to store cargoes until they could be collected?’

  ‘But surely he’d have had a warehouse down on the quayside for that? Why bring boatloads of goods out here to his house?’

  ‘He did have a warehouse,’ Jack said slowly. ‘We’re going there next.’

  He marched up to the house and banged on the door. Quite soon, it opened a crack, to reveal the long, cadaverous, pale face of an indoor servant, well past the first flush of youth. ‘Yes?’ the man said in a faint voice.

  ‘Jack Chevestrier,’ Jack said. ‘From the sheriff.’ Strictly speaking, it was true.

  ‘Your men were here before,’ the old man said plaintively. ‘Wanted to know if he had any enemies.’ He gave a dismissive sniff. ‘Well, of course he did. Somebody tore his throat out.’

  ‘I realize how distressing his death must be for you and the household,’ Jack said gently. ‘I would like to come in and have a look round.’

  The old man stared at him, his expression hopeless. ‘Well, you’re the law,’ he muttered, ‘so I don’t reckon I have a choice.’ He stood back, opened the door wide and beckoned us inside.

  The other servants, apparently having heard the exchange, had gathered in the room into which the door opened. Three women, a man and a youth, they were huddled together, managing to appear both shocked and keenly interested in what would happen next. The room was warm from a generous fire burning in the central hearth. Archways in walls to right and left led through into further rooms. ‘Master slept through there’ – the old servant jerked his head over to the right – ‘and saw to his business affairs in there.’ He pointed to the room on the left.

  Jack strode beneath the arch on the left into the space beyond, and I followed. Boards had been laid across trestles, and on them were many rolls of parchment, horns of ink, quills and a small silver-handled penknife. Several stout wooden chests, bound with iron, stood against the walls. A chair with carved back and arms had been placed exactly halfway along a large table, in front of it a wooden writing slope on which there was a piece of vellum: the very last document on which Robert Powl had worked, perhaps. All was neat and orderly.

  ‘Has this room been tidied up?’ Jack asked.

  The old man shook his head. ‘No. This was how the master left it. He liked things tidy.’

  Behind the table, hanging on the wall backing on to the barn, I noticed a heavy tapestry. Going over to have a closer look – it was a forest scene of huntsmen and a hart, beautifully done in vivid wools – I realized that it was in fact a curtain, covering a low, narrow door.

  I went to stand beside Jack, who was intent on the document on the writing slope. ‘There’s a door through to the barn,’ I said, so quietly that only he would have heard.

  His head jerked up and he looked round. In a swift couple of paces, he was beside the tapestry, pushing it out of the way. He raised the latch on the little door, but it didn’t open. Jack turned to the servant. ‘Is there a key?’

  The old man shook his head. ‘Master always carried it on him.’

  Jack began to say something, then, with a curse, broke off. He reached into the leather purse hanging on his belt and extracted a silver ring with two keys on it, one big, one smaller. He looked sheepishly at me. ‘
I took these from his body myself,’ he said quietly. ‘I should have remembered.’

  He fitted the larger key in the lock, turned it and the door opened. He pushed me through, following hard on my heels, then closed the door in the old servant’s face.

  ‘We need to do this without an audience,’ he said.

  We looked round the barn. It was a big space but there wasn’t very much in it: stacks of empty wooden crates and chests, standing with their lids thrown back; a handcart whose broken shaft someone was in the process of mending; a ladder with one rung replaced, in bright new wood; a stack of something beneath a cover that proved to be bales of wool of indifferent quality. ‘Perhaps someone changed their minds and didn’t want it after all,’ I remarked, looking at the wool.

  Jack was prowling round the barn, peering into corners, reaching behind bits of the wooden framework. I wandered over to the wall that I calculated must back on to the river, where I’d noticed a small edifice in stone which I thought was a shrine. It was a little over waist-height, with a door set into one side. I touched the door, and to my surprise it was cold: it wasn’t made of wood, as I’d thought, but of iron.

  ‘Have you got that smaller key handy?’ I called softly.

  I was still staring at the shrine, and sensed Jack come to stand beside me. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘It looks like a shrine, or a sort of miniature chapel,’ I said. ‘But it has an unexpected door.’ I tapped it and it rang out a low, clear note.

  ‘Why lock a chapel so carefully?’ Jack wondered. He put the smaller key in the lock, and it turned with a definite click of some hidden mechanism.

  He pushed the door open and we bent down to look inside.