The Leper's Return

by Michael Jecks

  “So now you think John wasn’t involved?”

  “No, sir. He couldn’t have been.”

  “But John hated your master because Godfrey found him in the garden?”

  “Well, I don’t know, sir,” said Putthe thoughtfully. “Maybe I was wrong and my master disliked John more than the other way around, if you take my meaning. I think Martha Coffyn reminded the master of his own wife, and perhaps he didn’t want to think of someone like John … well, you know.”

  “Godfrey’s wife is dead, isn’t she? How did she die?”

  “A cart in the street. The horse bolted, and she was caught by a wheel. Didn’t look as if it had touched her, but she was bedridden almost at once, and just faded away over the next couple of days.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Eight or nine years, sir.” Putthe stirred the drink with his wooden spoon. Eight years! It hardly felt that long. It seemed as if it was almost yesterday when Godfrey had come out of the bedchamber with his face working like he was going to burst out sobbing. “It was after that my master decided to leave London forever and retire to the country.”

  “What has he been doing since he came down here?”

  “He has a small estate toward Exeter, sir, and that brings in enough money for his household. Then he also had stocks of gold and silver. I might as well tell you, he was helping people here in Crediton. He lent his money to people who needed it, people like Coffyn. He didn’t really need to keep himself overly busy. I think he was content.”

  “And you said he found John in his garden and realized the Irishman was carrying on an affair with Mrs. Coffyn?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s no surprise—the little git’s known for messing about with the women of the town.”

  “I know,” Baldwin said dryly. “I’ve spoken to him about it before.”

  Simon shook his head with a look of consternation. “It doesn’t make sense. If he thought John was making merry with another man’s wife—his neighbor’s wife, for God’s sake!—why didn’t he just tell the neighbor and let him sort it out?”

  “Because he could never do that, sir. My master loved his wife, as I said, and I think Mrs. Coffyn reminded him of her, just a little, and he didn’t want to hear her being beaten or whipped, let alone killed. No, he thought it was better to stop John. Well, that was why he was out there each evening, to make sure the little sod didn’t get up to his old tricks.”

  12

  Matthew Coffyn stood at his table and glowered out over the fields behind his garden. The view from here was stunning, for now, in the middle of the morning, the sun was low over the hill, and every tree and bush stood out in relief against the green fields, each with a stark shadow like a warped copy of itself, creeping slowly across the landscape as the sun traversed the sky.

  William’s news of the night before had kept him from sleep as effectively as his distrust of his wife. The idea that lepers could have invaded his land—could have polluted it with their obscene presence—made him feel physically sick. It wasn’t only that strangers had been into his garden, it was the fact that they were lepers.

  Coffyn knew much about the disease. He sold cloth at every major market in the south of England, and often supplied bolts of cheaper material to priests and monks for them to give to lepers and other more worthy beneficiaries. It was while he had been staying at Winchester that he had heard from the almoner there how people contracted leprosy.

  He was hazy about the details—he was no physician or priest—but the main principle he understood only too clearly. Lepers were afflicted because of their moral degeneracy; it was a physical manifestation of the sufferer’s wickedness. And that meant they were all evil.

  Coffyn had spent his life unaffected by significant hardship. Throughout his apprenticeship he had enjoyed a good relationship with his master. When he had qualified and started out on his own, he already had enough expertise to be able to hold his own against almost all his competitors, and had never known want, not even when the famine had struck. Food had cost more than before, but he had not suffered as badly as some; he had merely to borrow more money. Although it was true that it was a lot more.

  Many men who enjoyed such ease were prone to look on their poorer counterparts with sympathy and attempt to mitigate their worst hardships, but Coffyn was not of that stamp.

  Just as someone who has never known want of food cannot comprehend starvation, Coffyn, who had never experienced a day’s illness, could not believe that those who were struck low with so debilitating a disease hadn’t brought it upon themselves. Life was God-given, and the condition of a man’s life was a reflection of the way he lived: someone with disease had committed a sin. To deny that would be to allow that God could make an error—and that was unthinkable.

  No, someone who was so evil that God had smitten him with this most appalling punishment must be deserving of it.

  With the righteousness of the frustrated, law-abiding citizen, he punched a fist into his hand. He knew it was wrong that lepers should be provided for. If they were evil, then why should they receive charity? It was nonsensical! They ought to be evicted; turfed out of the town and forced to wander somewhere else. All the time they remained in Crediton they must blight the town. How could God look favorably on a place where His chosen victims were harbored?

  His eyes slitting with the intensity of his concentration, he slowly eased himself into his chair, and gradually a smile spread over his face.

  “What do you think, Baldwin?” asked Simon as they left Godfrey’s hall. Edgar had already been dispatched to the inn to see what his charming spy could tell him, and the two were alone as they made their way up the hill toward John’s house on foot, leading their mounts by the reins.

  “I don’t know what to think, quite frankly. It seems strange that Putthe should be so keen to transfer our attention from John to the smith, but I must admit I find it hard to believe the Irishman could have murdered Godfrey.”

  “It was strange that Putthe should want to bring Jack into it,” Simon mused.

  “That struck you too, did it? Yes, Putthe might have seen John out in the yard, as he first said, but if he did, someone had already knocked out Cecily and killed Godfrey. It could have been the smith, Jack, of course, but equally it could have been John. What I don’t understand is why John should have stepped back in to strike down Putthe if he had already knocked down the other two and was about to make his escape.”

  “Maybe John didn’t realize Putthe had seen him? Or maybe he thought it was the only way to silence Putthe so he could run off.”

  “But he hasn’t run off, he is still here,” Baldwin pointed out, stopping near the Irishman’s open gate. Inside they could see the man sitting comfortably on a stool with his back to the wall, sipping from a great jug of ale. “So why should a man attack someone like Putthe unnecessarily, and then not make a run for it?”

  “He didn’t realize he would get found out,” Simon offered.

  “After a murder, I tend to find most men prefer not to gamble on a thing like that—not when the stake is their own neck,” Baldwin said caustically. “A killer would have bolted. This man hasn’t.”

  “By the same token, neither has anyone else from the town, have they?” pointed out Simon reasonably. “What’s good logic for John is surely good for another as well.”

  “I take your point: whoever was responsible is brazening it out—and of all the people in this town, I can think of none better qualified than him. He lives by deceiving people.”

  “You almost sound as if you admire him, Baldwin.”

  The knight threw him a quizzical glance. “Do I sound so? I suppose I do, really. He is gloriously unashamed. All he does, he does to please himself, without embarrassment. Yet such a hedonistic attitude can be dangerous, especially in a small town like this. It’s too easy to make enemies.”

  “As he appears to have done.”

  “Yes, although I confess I believe that most of his de
tractors are inclined that way more as a matter of principle than from any genuine dislike for him. He just isn’t unpleasant enough to upset many people, and in fact most people like him precisely because he is cheeky and irreverential. There is something attractive about a man who treats you as an equal when you both know he is not.”

  As they watched, John lifted his jug in salute, as if offering them a drink. Baldwin groaned. “Ah well, we might as well hear what he’s got to say for himself.”

  John watched the two approach with a fixed smile on his face. There was no point being nervous, he knew, for any officer of the law would be likely to construe that as a sign of guilt. John had not survived the last few years by being incautious. He treated danger with great respect; it was just that his variety of respect was sometimes regarded by others as excessive flippancy.

  “Sirs, I’m your servant. How can I help you, now? Are you thinking about buying something from me?”

  “I think you know well enough why we are here, John,” Baldwin said mildly.

  “Now, there I suppose you’re right. So could I tempt the pair of you to a little ale, gentlemen? You’re on my property, after all, and I consider hospitality to be one of the cardinal virtues.”

  He was not surprised when the Keeper refused his offer; Baldwin’s views on alcohol were odd enough to have become a minor talking point in Crediton. Hearing Simon’s approval, John walked inside and was soon back with a small bench for the two of them, another jug in his free hand. “I’ll admit it wasn’t made by my own hand, sir, but you’ll not reject it on that account, I’m sure. It was made by a delightful widow over at Tedburn, who was grateful that I’d take away her surplus in exchange for some little favors I had on me at the time.”

  Baldwin nodded sourly. He had no wish to hear what kind of favors had been so happily received.

  John grinned, seeing his expression. “Only old clothes, Sir Baldwin. Nothing else.”

  “It was about Godfrey’s death we wanted to see you.”

  “Ah yes, a terribly sad thing, for a man to die like that in his own house.”

  “You know how he died?” Simon cut in quickly.

  John smiled gently, as if apologetic that a potential snare had been carelessly evaded. “And doesn’t all the town know by now? The man’s groom has told everyone at the inn, and that means there can be no secret about any part of it. He was found on his belly, his head stove in like a crushed egg, his servant on one side of him, his daughter on the other, and no sign of another person in the house except the girl’s young maid.”

  “Were you there that night, John?”

  The Irishman paused, the jug almost at his lips. Shrewd eyes met the knight’s. “Why would I be up there?” he asked innocently.

  “As to that, you might have been trying to see Mrs. Coffyn, knowing her husband was away again; or perhaps you were trying to see someone else? Or hoping to remove Godfrey’s plate?”

  While he took a long draft of ale, John recalculated quickly. Somehow the Keeper had guessed a great deal in a short time, but he obviously couldn’t have arrived at the truth or he’d not be asking such indirect questions. He carefully set the jug at his side and folded his hands over his belly. “Well now, you seem to have unearthed some things I’d have preferred to have kept quiet, but I’ll not blame you for that. No, I wasn’t on my way to see Mrs. Coffyn. She’s not my sort of woman. Even if she was, I’d not have tried to get to see her, not with all those damned guard chappies to protect her. I wouldn’t want to meet them on a dark night! Nor was I on my way to rob Godfrey. I’m no thief, and if I was, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to steal from my own neighbor.”

  “Why were you there, then? You were seen.”

  “Me?” John raised his hands, palms uppermost, in a gesture of frank unconcern. “Who could have seen me?”

  “Two men, John,” Simon lied blandly. “Not all Godfrey’s servants were allowed out for the night. Two men stayed put.”

  “Come along, now,” John said, but the bailiffs assertion had thrown him. He knew Putthe had caught a glimpse of him through the open door to the yard; the bottler had warned him that he’d already told the knight as much—but another? John upended his jug and waited, curbing his impatience.

  “John, I know you were there for some reason,” Baldwin declared. “If you don’t tell me why, I’ll have to assume the worst. Perhaps I might wonder whether you were trying to see Mrs. Coffyn, you understand? The only way I could verify that, if you won’t talk, would be to see Matthew Coffyn and ask him whether he knew you were out that way that night, and could you have got up to his wife’s room without his knowing. And then, I suppose, he might decide to come here and have a talk to you himself.”

  “I do understand your drift, Keeper.” John grinned mischievously. “Could you warn me before you see him, though?”

  “John, this is no laughing matter. I must know what you were doing there.”

  The smile didn’t leave the Irishman’s face, but it became hard, like a statue’s, and his voice was cold as he said, “You have come here suspecting me of murder, and threatening me with exposure as an adulterer, something that would get me killed, and then say I have no right to behave as I will?” Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, his anger left him. “Let me tell you a little story about an Irishman before I answer your other questions, Sir Baldwin. Then you’ll understand why I make light of anything that happens to me.

  “There was this Irishman, Sir Baldwin, who was as merry a little fellow as any who lived on that lovely island. He had everything he wanted: he had a beautiful wife who had been his own since they were both fifteen years old, and as fine a little family as you could hope to see. Three boys there were, and two girls, and this little man had his own farm, with livestock of all sorts thriving happily. Oh, but he was a happy fellow!

  “And then, Sir Baldwin, there came a day when this man’s lord said, ‘Little fellow, our country has been invaded. Our homes are threatened by monsters from over the sea, and we must protect our farms and our women. Come and help me, because I find I need an army,’ and the little fellow went to the blacksmith and bought himself a good long knife, which he thought might be good for cutting the hedges when he got back, and a leather hat to protect the little brain in his little head, and he went off to join his lord as a soldier. And he was lucky, Sir Baldwin, because the little fellow didn’t die with his lord. No, he managed to escape the lunatics who tried to kill him just because he was wearing the wrong badge, and got home again.”

  John was silent for a short space, and he stared out over the wall as if far in the distance he could see the scene. Continuing, he gripped his jug as if for support, but now his voice was less light-hearted. There was a low, angry tone to it.

  “Only when he got back, Sir Baldwin, he found there wasn’t a home to come home to, if you take my meaning. His little farm was wasted. All the cattle and animals were dead, or taken. His little family was still in the little house, and the little house had been burned, Sir Baldwin. And the little wife, Sir Baldwin, she was very little, for the soldiers had not left much of her once they had finished their playing with her.”

  John stood, without looking at either of them, and went inside. When he returned, his jug was filled again. “So this little fellow, he thinks to himself, Well, I’ve been a good fellow all these years, and there’s nothing to show for it. I worked hard to raise my little family, and now there’s none left; I did all I could to protect my wife, but she was murdered; I built up my farm, and now it’s gone. Maybe I’ll try to enjoy myself instead. No more hard slogging to make the land produce my food for me; in future I’ll take an easier occupation. And whatever happens, I’ll make light of it, because there’s nothing left for me to worry about. You see, Sir Baldwin, when you’ve already lost everything, there’s nothing seems that serious any more.”

  Simon glanced at his friend. The knight was frowning hard at his boot, but he looked up at John’s last words. “I am sorry. My word
s were thoughtless. If I seemed hard, you have my apologies. I can understand your feeling of loss.”

  To the bailiff, it seemed as though the two men, the knight and the Irishman, had a perfect understanding. They stared at each other for a moment with a kind of weary, mutual comprehension. Baldwin, Simon knew, had seen many of his friends burned at the stake after the French King had succeeded in persuading the Pope to condemn his most loyal troops, the Knights Templar, the body of which Baldwin had been a part. Both men had lost everything. It made Simon feel oddly apart—and it was something he was fervently glad of.

  “So you came here afterward?” Baldwin asked softly.

  “Oh, after many interesting exploits and adventures, the little Irish fellow arrived in this pleasant little town, yes. And settled as well he could, for the people generally are a nice sort of folk. They like their pleasures, and they aren’t too worried about a fellow’s foibles.” He gave the Keeper a glance from the corner of his eye, and there was a glint in it. “Even when a fellow is tempted to recover his sight, perfectly justifiably, in the middle of a church service.”

  “What of the night when Godfrey died?”

  “Well, I said I might speak after you’d heard my story, and you’ve been patient enough,” John said, and stretched his leg out. It still hurt, but only intermittently. “Sir, I was there, although how those buggers saw me is more than I could say. I had been going to see someone. Someone, a friend, who needed a little help and advice. But on my way, I suddenly heard all this shouting and bellowing from Matthew Coffyn’s place. It occurred to me that all this row could bring Godfrey’s household out, so I dodged back carefully, and in so doing almost came across two gentlemen. It made me think to myself, courage is all very well, but maybe discretion is a useful trait as well—which is something a soldier tends to learn very early on in his career, unless his propensity for learning is curtailed by a sword. So I dodged back toward the house, there being nowhere else for me to go.”