The Butcher Bird

by S. D. Sykes

  She bowed her head to me and cleared the plates from the table. When she returned to sit next to me, there was a larger gap between us than before. ‘Tell me what you’ve discovered so far,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I can help?’

  I wiped some crumbs from my chin, and took a last slurp of wine. ‘I know so little. Only that Catherine disappeared while her mother Mary Tulley was working in the field. The poor child was not seen again until Geoffrey Hayward found her dead body the next morning in a blackthorn bush.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  I puffed out my lips and looked to the rafters.The butterfly that I had seen at my last visit was once again fluttering its wings against the crude thatch of the roof. ‘Nobody saw anything. Or knows anything. Or so they say.’ Then I gave a wry laugh. ‘Other than one neighbour who heard the beating of bird wings.’

  ‘Which neighbour was that?’

  ‘Agnes Salt. But she’s a liar.’

  Joan raised an eyebrow. ‘She makes a good potion. Most use her.’

  ‘That’s only because she’s cheap.’

  ‘No. It’s because her methods work.’ Joan then threw me a sideways look. ‘There has been something flying over the fields, Oswald. My boys have seen it circling. High over the priest’s glebe.’

  ‘It must be a buzzard.’

  She laughed. ‘A very big one. My boys wouldn’t lie.’

  ‘Have you seen it yourself?’

  She hesitated. ‘No. I haven’t.’

  ‘And have you asked the priest if he’s seen it?’

  Now she laughed. ‘That skulking jack snipe? He never leaves his house.’ And then she sighed. ‘And I’m still not welcome in his church, so our paths don’t cross.’ She looked up. ‘Perhaps you should ask him yourself? He may be able to shed some light upon this murder.’ Then she laughed, a little bitterly. ‘A priest hears all sorts of secrets.’

  ‘Are you suggesting I ask Father Luke to break his vows and tell me what somebody has said in Confession?’

  She frowned. ‘Of course not. But he might give something away. You never know.’

  I shrugged at this suggestion.

  ‘Do you have any better ideas?’ Joan asked me.

  I puffed out my lips. ‘No. I don’t.’

  Father Luke had only joined the parish of Somershill recently, as we had been without a priest for many months since the departure of our last incumbent – Father John of Cornwall. While I was pleased to see the back of Cornwall, a man who had led the baying mob to Leofwin and stoked the fire about the boy’s feet, his departure had left an obvious gap. Without even a chaplain in Somershill, my remaining villagers had been forced to travel to Burrsfield or even Tonbridge to take communion. The journey was long and difficult however, and over the winter the churches had noticed a decline in attendance.

  When rumours spread of the return of the Plague in the east of the county, nobody would leave the village at all. And though I received letters from the bishop threatening to try the whole village for non-attendance at mass, I could not persuade them to travel. In the end I wrote back to the bishop and demanded a new priest be provided or I would appoint a travelling Franciscan to take Sunday services. The Bishop, having no time for the Franciscans and their supposed vows of poverty and abstinence, promptly sent Father Luke – a boy so young and hairless about the chin that he made me look like an old boar. Installed at St Giles, Father Luke mumbled his way quickly through the Sunday services and made sure to collect his tithes. Other than that, the village saw little, if anything, of him.

  Crossing the glebe field to reach Father Luke’s cottage, I thought back to my last visit here, when I had thrown John of Cornwall from the parish. When searching his home we had found a collection of fine ermines and embroidered capes, the type of clothing no priest could afford, or would even be allowed to wear. Clothes that had been financed by the selling of relics and indulgences during the months of the Pestilence, during which time the people of Somershill clung to his bits of bone and slips of paper in the desperate hope of some divine deliverance.

  When Father Luke first came to Somershill I had forbidden him to sell anything to anybody – for I would not countenance a resurgence in this trade. Father Luke had simply looked bewildered at this order, seemingly with no plans, not even an inclination to start trading with his parishioners. For, unlike the ambitious and bullish John of Cornwall, our new priest was a timid rabbit, happy to scuttle back to his burrow at the slightest opportunity. He would no more sell a relic than he would make an impassioned popular sermon.

  I came to a halt in front of the priest’s cottage to find Father Luke peeping around the door nervously, as if I might be a freebooter about to raid his tithe barn and take all his grain.

  Screwing up his eyes to focus, Father Luke’s poor sight finally informed him that it was his lord at the door and not an invader. He stepped gingerly onto the wet grass. ‘Good morning to you Lord Somershill.’ His voice quavered a little. ‘I apologise. Did you send a message that you were making a visit? I haven’t prepared for you.’

  I dismounted. ‘Good morning to you, Father Luke.This isn’t a formal visit. I simply wanted to talk with you.’

  His lip trembled a little. ‘But of course, sire.’ He stepped forward to take Tempest’s reins from me, but the horse sensed the man’s trepidation and began to shy, so I quickly produced an apple from my pocket.These days I rarely left the house without a treat for my horse.

  Father Luke gave a small gasp as Tempest settled. ‘You have a gift with horses, sire.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Oh, but you do. You have calmed the beast. As Saint Francis tamed the wolf of Gubbio.’

  I would tell you that such praise was flattering, but the compliment had been delivered with such toadying awkwardness that I felt more inclined to groan. ‘Are you an admirer of Saint Francis then, Father Luke?’ I asked, knowing this would send the silly priest into a cataplexy of nerves, since our bishop’s opposition to the Franciscan movement and its egalitarian aims was common knowledge.

  Luke stuttered a couple of words before managing to get his mouth to work. I noticed scabs about his chin where he had scratched some spots. ‘No, no my lord. I was simply reminded of the wolf when I saw you calm the horse. Francis is said to have ventured into the woods above the town and faced a wolf, which—’

  ‘Thank you. I know the story.’ This interruption was rude in retrospect, but I will admit to a fault, if only on these pages. I was uncomfortable with the gift of power and authority when it first fell into my lap. My villagers were slow to show me respect, and certain of my servants, namely Gilbert, still denied me the honour. But when I met a soul such as Father Luke, a man who was clearly as spineless as a lace of thong-weed – I couldn’t help but behave like a braggart. But it is weakness to browbeat the weak, I know that in my heart. What marks out a man is his ability to influence the strong – and not with bullying and threats, but by the weight and truth of his words and deeds. Strangely enough it was Brother Peter who taught me this, and, though he failed to live up to his own dictum, the words have stayed with me.

  Father Luke hurried to open the door to his cottage, which was a building of medium proportions, with glass at one solitary window. I followed him inside, and once the door was shut behind us, the nervous priest fussed about the chamber, calling in an old, toothless servant who set a mug of ale in front of me. When the priest saw it was a wooden mug, he chastised the man profusely, and demanded he replace it with a pewter cup.

  Once the cup mistake was rectified, Father Luke settled himself opposite me – the light that strained through the window only serving to highlight his youth. His face was blessed with a palfid complexion, and only a few blond whiskers grew from his chin to betray his sex. ‘How can I help you, sire?’ he asked. His eye twitched.

  ‘I wanted to ask you about Catherine Tulley.’

  Father Luke now blinked anxiously, a reaction that might have raised my suspicions, until it became clear
that the priest simply didn’t know whom I was talking about.

  ‘The murdered baby.’

  The relief was palpable across his features. ‘Of course, sire. I’m sorry. I am still to learn the names of all my communicants.’

  I was tempted to suggest this might never happen, if he holed himself up in this cottage and refrained from visiting the village. ‘Are you familiar with the Tulley family?’

  Father Luke now nodded, though it was accompanied by a frown. ‘Yes, sire. They are known to me.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘Thomas Tulley can be a little . . . difficult.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘His tithes, mainly. He resents giving one tenth of his harvest to the church.’

  ‘Maybe that’s because his children are hungry?’

  Father Luke stiffened. ‘The tithe shows his commitment to God. It would be a poor service to his family if he refused his contribution to the church.’ These words were said with a conviction that he immediately seemed to regret. ‘Of course I can see that a tithe is a sacrifice, sire. And times are hard for some villagers.’

  ‘Indeed.’ I then heaved a sigh, for I knew I must ask the next question, no matter how foolish I felt it to be. ‘Have you seen a large bird flying over your glebe field?’

  Red patches formed on his white face. ‘No. I’ve seen nothing like that. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No matter.’

  A cat mewed in the distance, causing Luke to jump from his chair and open the door to call for it to come in. A sizeable grey cat then slunk into the cottage and let itself be fussed and stroked by the priest.

  ‘Is that your cat?’ I asked, as Luke picked up the creature.

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘No, sire. He just turned up.’ Then he tickled the cat under its chin. ‘But he’s very welcome, as he catches the mice in the barn. Don’t you, Sir Tom?’

  A knighted cat indeed? At least I had solved the mystery of why Gilbert had not yet seen Mary and Rebecca’s animal about Somershill. It had taken to living in the priest’s barn.

  ‘Can you tell me anything else about the Tulley family?’ I asked, as Father Luke returned to his seat. The cat was now planted in his lap.

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘But you conducted the funeral of the dead child?’

  He looked at the ceiling as if struggling to remember something as rare as the burial of a murdered infant. The cat purred loudly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And her baptism?’

  He nodded now, with more energy. ‘Though that ceremony was a little rushed.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  He let the cat fall to the floor and then ran his fingers through his hair, which was soft, blond and already threatening to recede at his temples, giving him the look of a balding baby. ‘Thomas Tulley sent a boy to rouse me in the middle of the night, only a day before the child disappeared. The Tulleys were anxious the child should be baptised quickly.’

  ‘What was the hurry?’

  He frowned. ‘The boy told me to come immediately because the child was mortally ill. He was insistent.’

  ‘And was she?’

  ‘No. Not really. Once I reached the Tulleys’ cottage, the infant was screaming, it’s true. But wailing is in an infant’s nature. She looked hale and hearty enough to me.’

  This was a curious turn of events. ‘Did you ask Thomas Tulley why he had summoned you so urgently, when his daughter was healthy?’

  Father Luke smiled a little awkwardly. ‘I didn’t really need to, sire. I’ve fallen for this same trick on previous occasions.’

  ‘And what trick is that?’

  ‘It is commonly played, I’m afraid. I am often called out in the dark hours for a quick baptism. It is usually with newly born infants such as Catherine Tulley.’ He hesitated for a moment, and once again drew his hands through his thinning hair. ‘The parent hopes to avoid my fee.’

  ‘And did you waive it?’

  ‘No, sire. I did not. I’d been woken in the dead of night to baptise a child who was perfectly healthy. The Tulleys were attempting to fool me.’

  ‘Did you not suspect something when the boy roused you?’ He shook his head. ‘Not initially. The boy they sent was very convincing. He had an answer for everything.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘I don’t know his name, my lord. But he’s often here, offering to write up the church rolls, or make the additions on the ledgers.’ He coughed. ‘He wants paying of course.’

  ‘Is it Geoffrey Hayward?’

  ‘As I said, my lord. I don’t know his name.’

  Then why didn’t you ask, I thought to myself. ‘Have the Tulleys paid you?’

  The priest wrung his hands, his confidence gone. ‘No sire.They have not.’ Then he let out a kind of sigh. ‘I felt it was unsavoury to demand the fee. Since their child was then murdered.’

  ‘Yes. She was murdered.’ Then I leant forward. ‘Some are saying she was taken by a butcher bird. What do you say to that story?’

  ‘I say it stands against reason.’

  ‘Will you say so. At mass?’

  ‘Indeed I will, sire. I have no time for such tales. They are dreamt up by pagans.’

  This comment encouraged me, and suddenly I wondered if Father Luke and I might become friends? We were roughly the same age, and he was an educated boy.

  ‘How do you like living here alone?’ I asked. I thought the question a harmless gambit to open a conversation, but I might as well have asked if he worshipped the Devil.

  His cheeks coloured. ‘Yes. I am always on my own, sire. Indeed I am.There is nobody here but me. Save my servant, Simon, who sleeps in the kitchen. And he is an old man with a crooked back and teeth so rotten I steer clear of his breath, lest its vapours should poison me. There is nobody else but me and this man in the house. I can swear to it.’

  I was quite lost for a response, so I moved on to some topics of conversation that Father Luke might not find so alarming. He would have read Bacon and Aquinas at the cathedral. Perhaps he was a lover of the antiquities or even the science of Galen and Archimedes.

  I missed conversation, but if I had hoped to find it here, I was mistaken.

  Father Luke sat opposite me and answered my questions on geometry and mathematics with the minimum of enthusiasm. Always he kept his head to the floor, and after a while I found myself damning his humility and servitude. He had been well educated, that much was obvious, even from the paucity of his responses. But he seemed not to think himself worthy of discussing these matters with me.

  I stood to leave with something of a frustrated sigh, which only served to make the priest wring his soft hands and tremble even more violently. ‘I’m sorry, sire. I don’t possess the skills to debate these matters. I’m afraid I have bored you.’

  I slapped my gloves petulantly against my leg before putting them onto my hands. ‘A man may still have opinions. Even if he doesn’t possess experience at debating.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sire,’ he muttered again. Such grovelling was unbecoming. ‘You must miss Brother Peter and his disputations.’

  I nearly dropped my gloves upon the floor. What did this parish priest know of Peter? The old monk had disappeared the previous July, long before this spotty sycophant had taken up his post.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ I snapped.

  Now the priest held his hands to his mouth. ‘I’m sorry, sire. I didn’t mean to trouble you. Please don’t be angry with me.’

  ‘Do you know Brother Peter?’ I asked him. The priest didn’t respond. ‘E>o you know him?’ I repeated forcefully.

  ‘I met Brother Peter at Rochester,’ he told me. ‘Though I can’t claim to know him well. He was a respected monk and I was nothing but a simple student.’

  ‘So why do you think I would miss him?’

  ‘The villagers talk of him, sire. They told me you were close.’ This explanation was rational, and yet I couldn’t imagine this shy priest having such a conversation
with his parishioners, particularly regarding such a matter. The chamber suddenly felt cold and unwelcoming, and the talk of Peter ignited an uncomfortable churn in my stomach.

  Despite Joan’s good advice it seemed I had learnt little to assist in my murder investigation by visiting this priest. I said my goodbyes, but as Tempest slugged away from the house, I heard my name being called. I halted my horse and turned to see a man running towards me with a blanket wrapped about his shoulders. It was the priest’s toothless servant, Simon. ‘May I speak with you a moment, sire?’ he said, squinting up at me with some difficulty.

  It was cold and I was anxious to be away. ‘Yes. What is it?’

  ‘I overheard you talking with Father Luke.’

  Tempest’s ears flicked. He did not like the man. ‘And?’

  ‘Father Luke hasn’t seen the bird over the glebe field, but I have.’ He pointed upwards. ‘It soars very high. But I’ve seen it. A monster so large that it scares the other birds away.’

  I looked down at this man. His eyes were rheumy and his back was crooked. I doubted he could even turn his head to the sky. ‘But your master hasn’t seen a thing.’

  ‘That’s because he don’t ever go outside.’

  I kicked my horse and galloped for home.

  Chapter Ten

  My return to Somershill that afternoon coincided with the unexpected sight of a carriage and three horses, trotting in the direction of my home. A single groom rode the first mount, with his long whip flicking at the head of the lead horse. Heavy chests hung from the rings beneath the frame and were being splashed with the thick mud that the wheels churned up on its slow progress along the track. I rode alongside and pushed at a fabric flap that had been tied down, so as not to gape open in the wind.

  A face soon appeared in a small gap, poking out with a beaky nose and a pair of sharp, suspicious eyes. ‘Who’s there? Is it a bandit?’

  ‘No Mother. It’s your son. Oswald.’

  Her face relaxed, and she untied a bow in the flap so it might open a little further. Looking inside the carriage I saw Clemence sleeping against Humbert’s arm, her mouth drooping open and her hair loose from its veil.