by Mel Starr
“Rabbit skins, and a few of otter,” the man said. “Show ’em to you, if you doubt.”
“Why speak falsely of your business?” I said.
Alan shrugged. This was no good answer.
“Why should I care if you traveled seeking fox skins or rabbit or otter – or squirrel for that matter?”
The fellow shrugged again. A reason came to me.
“The skins of lesser creatures are easier to come by than fox,” I said. “Such skins may be had but a few miles from London’s walls. But fox… such a wily creature is not easily trapped. You might be required to visit many villages before you could collect enough skins for a gentleman’s coat, whereas you could purchase rabbit skins aplenty and return the same day to sleep in your own bed.”
The skinner did not dispute this assertion, but chewed upon his lower lip and glanced over my shoulder as if seeking some diversion to distract me from my charge.
“Your wife said that your parents abide in this house also, in a chamber above.”
“Aye.”
“I will see it.”
Did Alan hesitate before stepping back and inviting me to enter, or did my imagination see reluctance where none was?
“This way,” the man said and led me and the valet to the stairs opposite his door. I saw Mary peer from around the opening to her kitchen as I crossed the room. She hesitated for a moment, then followed.
’Twas as the woman had said. Two aged folk occupied this upper chamber. A man lay upon a bed, his frail form barely lifting the bedclothes which covered him. I wondered if such a feeble-appearing fellow yet lived. His covering rose and fell in answer.
A crone sat upon a bench beside the bed. Her grey locks were long and tangled, although some time not long past someone, likely Mary, had attempted to arrange the woman’s hair under a wimple.
The skinner’s lass had purchased six pies. Mary might consume one, her children another, and she had purchased two, she said, in the expectation that her husband and his apprentice might return that day and be hungry. This left two pies for the aged parents.
I studied the pair again. I doubted that between them they could eat one of the pies. This left a pie unaccounted for. Was it divided and consumed? Did it rest in a cupboard to be consumed this day?
“What villages did you visit seeking skins, and what men sold such to you? Are the suppliers men with whom you have dealt before?”
The skinner’s throat constricted again and he swallowed deeply.
“Poachers, eh?” I said. “Prince Edward has little interest in tenants who have taken their lord’s rabbits. But he will take interest in a man who will not answer my questions.” The time had come to impress upon Alan Tonge the grim nature of my business. “Prince Edward seeks your brother because a knight of his household was slain two days past. The prince thought much of this knight, and has required of me that I find the felon who slew him.”
“Thought you was seekin’ Arnaud,” Alan said.
“I am.”
Silence followed. Mary’s mouth opened and she exchanged a glance with her husband.
“Does the prince believe whoso murdered the knight slew Arnaud also?” the skinner said.
“Nay.”
“Then Arnaud must know who did murder and has fled Kennington Palace to escape the man,” Alan concluded.
“Not quite,” I replied.
All this time I was becoming certain that the skinner had hidden his brother in the cart, departed the city, and visited villages where he had in the past purchased skins so as to justify the journey. I thought it likely that Arnaud had disappeared to some northern town, where under a new name he would invest the profit of his felony to set himself up in some new trade.
“But ’tis true Arnaud knows who did murder.”
Alan and Mary exchanged puzzled glances.
“But he…” Mary began to speak, but fell silent when her husband glared at her.
“He what?” I said.
The silence which followed was interrupted by the elderly man’s gentle snore. I looked from Alan to Mary, awaiting a reply. I received none, so repeated the question. This was no more successful.
Perhaps the woman could not resist glancing above her shoulder. Guilt does strange things to folk unaccustomed to speaking falsehood, or attempting dissimulation. Above Mary’s head was a plastered ceiling which featured a small opening covered by two sawn boards. The aperture allowed entrance to the attic. The boards were in place. There was no sign that they had been recently moved. Nevertheless I decided to view this attic. I did not expect to find Arnaud there, being convinced that if the valet had sought his brother he had been taken to some village to the north of London.
“No doubt you have a ladder to gain entrance to your attic,” I said to Alan.
“Broken,” the skinner replied.
“Fetch it. We will make do.”
Alan spoke true. One rung was cracked, but this did not prevent the ladder from being used as intended. I inspected the ladder to be sure only one rung was suspect before trusting myself to it and thought then that the split in the lowest rung seemed new, the broken wood not darkened with age.
The attic door was near to the center of the chamber, so the boards closing it had to be pushed aside by the ladder itself. No dormer with a skin window illuminated the attic. I demanded a cresset of the skinner, and when he brought it I cautiously climbed to the attic, one hand to the ladder, the other holding the lighted cresset.
The roof had been recently renewed. The thatch was clean. Vermin had made their home there, for in the flame of the cresset I saw droppings. I also saw something else upon the dusty boards which caught my eye.
A path had been recently swept through the dust, leaving a track upon a joist the width of my hand. I studied this dust-free mark and in the close light of the cresset saw yet another anomaly. I could not be certain, for the flame of a single cresset did not provide enough light, but it seemed to me crumbs lay upon the wattles of the attic floor and joists. I gathered a few of these tiny specks and retreated back down the ladder. The decline was precarious, for I held cresset in one hand and the particles between thumb and forefinger of the other.
I handed the cresset to the valet who had been holding the ladder steady, walked to the window, and inspected my find. The window was of oiled skin, but split thin and smooth and well-oiled so that nearly as much light passed through as if it had been glass.
There was no doubt. I held crumbs in the palm of my hand. They had not been deposited in the attic long before, else vermin surely would have found the morsels and consumed them. Who would consume a loaf or pastry in an attic? Or a pie?
Alan Tonge and his wife stood transfixed, mouths open, hands opening and closing involuntarily.
“Not a very pleasant place to eat a pie,” I offered. Neither the skinner nor his wife replied. I glanced to the dark square in the chamber ceiling. “Where is he?” I said.
The voice that answered this question surprised me. The aged man in the bed had awakened. He squinted with milky, red-rimmed eyes at the opening in the ceiling and said, “Why’s Arnaud sleepin’ up there?” in a voice so weak I could barely make out the words. “Tell ’im to come down.”
“A good question,” I said. “Why did you hide Arnaud in your attic, and where is he now?”
The skinner stammered for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts and arranging them in some order that I might believe. “Said ’e’d been in a fight with another of Prince Edward’s valets, a favorite of Lady Joan’s. The man threatened to slay Arnaud, an’ ’e feared the fellow would do it. An’ bein’ a toady to the prince’s lady, Arnaud thought the man would escape the noose if he did slay ’im.”
“So he fled the palace to save his life? Is that what he told you?”
“Aye. Feared the rogue would seek ’im out, so come to me for aid.”
“Where did you take him?”
“Not far. Said ’e wished only to be past the city walls a
few miles. Said the knave would not follow, even did he discover where Arnaud had fled. You going to tell the prince of this?”
“What of his badge and livery?”
“Oh, couldn’t be seen in that. I gave ’im chauces and a cotehardie of my own.”
“What of Prince Edward’s livery? What became of that?”
“I waited ’til I heard curfew ring from St. Mary le Bow, an’ took the tunic to St. Paul’s, where poor folk do gather in the night. Nights become cold, and an extra tunic will warm a man.”
“Why did you not tell me this yesterday?”
“Thought you was the mate of the valet what sought to slay Arnaud.”
“It is true that when Arnaud is found he will likely soon after die,” I said. “But no valet seeks him to slay him. In Prince Edward’s hall three days past a knight of the prince’s household, a man he held in much esteem, was poisoned. ’Tis sure that Arnaud delivered the poison in the knight’s wine as he sat at table.”
“But why would Arnaud do such a thing?”
“Why did you hide him in your attic and then hire a horse and cart to carry him from the city?” I asked.
“He’s me brother, an’ ’e paid me… Ah, some man paid Arnaud to slay the knight?”
“Likely. Arnaud had no reason we know of to dislike the knight, but others did. How much did Arnaud pay you to take him from the city?”
“Twenty pence.”
“Did you not ask yourself where your brother found twenty pence and why he was willing to part with such a sum?”
Alan shrugged. “A man who fears for ’is life will pay much to save it.”
I could not argue with the skinner’s point.
“You took your brother beyond the city walls, you said. Where? And did Arnaud say where he intended to go from there?”
“Took ’im to Hornsey.”
I had not heard of the place, and no wonder. When I did visit the hamlet I found half of the houses fallen in, the population much reduced. The village was but a few miles to the north of Aldersgate so those who had survived the plague found it easy to move to London. Plague in the city had reduced the supply of laborers, so a man with a strong back found himself much in demand, and landlords had few folk eager to lease their houses, so lowered the rents to attract custom.
“How far north is that?” I asked. “May a man travel there and return the same day?”
“Aye. ’Tis but eight or nine miles.”
“But you did not?”
“Nay. I sought skins, as I said. That was true enough.”
The morning was far gone. To return to Kennington Palace, acquire horses, then set off through London streets to Aldersgate and the road north would consume another hour or two. I might gain Hornsey before dark, but a return to London before the sun set was impossible. I would travel there on the morrow.
But what if in the intervening hours Alan Tonge took it upon himself to hurry to Hornsey, find his brother, and warn him of my search – if Arnaud had not yet fled farther north? I must not permit this. I told Alan that one of Prince Edward’s grooms would remain on guard while we others returned to the palace. His duty would be to see that no man, or woman, left the house ’til I returned next morn on the way north to Hornsey. I chose Maurice to stay. He is constructed much like Arthur and seemed content with the duty given him.
We broke our fast on the morrow with wheaten loaves fresh from the palace oven, and ale. The marshal had our beasts ready, and we set off for London Bridge before the second hour. Arthur and two of Prince Edward’s grooms accompanied me, one of the grooms leading a palfrey for Maurice.
A few miles north of Aldersgate the road divided. A stone at this junction pointed the way to London, but made no mention of Hornsey or villages to the north, as if to say that folk leaving the city had no need to know their way. Only those bound for London needed guidance.
I chose the dexter road. This was a mistake, but we discovered soon enough that little time was lost before returning to the proper road. We came upon a village but a mile from the junction. ’Twas too soon to be already Hornsey. I saw a man patching the daub of his house, preparing for winter, and asked what place this was and how far to Hornsey.
“This be Stroud Green,” the man said, tugging a forelock, “but you’ll not get to Hornsey followin’ this road. Return the way you come, an’ take the other way. Hornsey be three miles, thereabouts, from where the road from London do split.”
I thanked the fellow, who in deference to my tunic and badge tugged again upon a forelock. Little more than an hour later, upon the right road, we came to Hornsey.
As we approached the church – dedicated to St. Mary, I later learned – I saw a small band of men draw near from the opposite direction. Two of these carried some object between them and as we closed the distance between our parties I saw that they bore a pallet with a black-shrouded corpse. Two others carried spades over their shoulders. They were bound for the lychgate and churchyard.
The village priest and his clerk led the small procession. I thought to wait until the corpse was interred, then ask the priest of any new face in the village. A priest would know of any recent arrival in his parish.
The priest, his clerk, four others, and the corpse halted under the lychgate. No women. I wondered at that. Would a dead man have no female relatives to mourn his death and accompany his corpse to the churchyard? And why so few men attending the dead man? I assumed the form under the shroud was male as only men attended the corpse. A man known to villagers would attract more than four mourners, even if the spectre of plague had ravaged the place. Most folk, on the other hand, would see no need to march behind the corpse of a man they knew not.
We stood a respectful distance from the lychgate, caps in hand, while the priest prayed over the corpse. When he was finished, and the bearers were about to lift the pallet, I spoke.
“Who has died in Hornsey?”
The priest turned to me. His companions stared at me, unmoving.
“We don’t know,” the priest said.
“A man unknown to you has died in this village?” I asked.
“Unknown, aye, but died not in the village.”
It was my turn to be surprised. “If he did not perish in Hornsey why do you bury him in your churchyard?”
“A man must be interred somewhere. St. Mary’s Churchyard is the closest hallowed ground.”
“Closest to what?”
“Where Rowland found him lying dead,” the priest said and looked to one of the men who bore the pallet.
“You are Rowland?” I asked.
“Aye. Who be you?”
The priest and his companions had surely taken note of my livery and badge, but they might not have recognized the badge as that of Prince Edward. I enlightened them. A tugging of forelocks ensued, but for the priest, who made a slight bow of his head.
“Is the man a stranger? You said you do not know his name, but has he been seen in Hornsey?”
“Rohese said she seen ’im yesterday.”
“Who is Rohese?” I asked.
“She’s our ale wife. Said this fellow sat near ’alf a day in ’er ’ouse, drinkin’ ale. Waitin’ for someone, she thought.”
“Where did you find the dead man?”
“In a ditch, ’bout three ’undred or so paces to the north, aside the road to Enfield.”
Under the shroud was a man unknown to the inhabitants of Hornsey. I wondered if he might be known to Prince Edward’s grooms who stood at my shoulder.
“Draw the shroud from the man’s face,” I said to the priest.
He did so.
I turned to the grooms and asked if they recognized the dead man.
They did. “That’s Arnaud,” they agreed. “Had a wart on ’is chin, did Arnaud,” one said. “See there… just as that fellow has.”
“You have no doubt?” I asked.
The grooms looked to each other and shook their heads. “That be Arnaud,” one said. “No doubts.”
/> “How did the man die?” I asked Rowland.
“Stabbed. A thrust through ’is ’eart.”
As if to confirm the man’s words the priest drew back the shroud further so that Arnaud’s torso was visible. I saw a dark stain circling a slash in his cotehardie. Blood.
I looked to his belt and saw attached to it a leather purse. Empty. Not surprising. Who would bury a dead man’s coins?
The priest watched as I inspected the purse and perceived my thoughts.
“As we found him. Slain for his money, no doubt.”
If so, the felon may have known that Arnaud possessed a heavy purse. Surely Arnaud would not have slain Sir Giles for but a few pence. To risk both a lucrative position and a noose, a man would likely demand many shillings. Perhaps some Hornsey villager had learned of Arnaud’s wealth. But why take a man’s coins and leave his purse? If Arnaud had been paid as well as I suspected no man could carry off the coins in his hands. Perhaps the felon transferred the coins to his own purse rather than cut Arnaud’s free. But why do so? He had a dagger in hand. He had used it to slay the valet. ’Twould take less time to slash Arnaud’s purse free than fill one purse with the contents of another.
The ale wife had told the priest that the day before, Arnaud had sat for half a day drinking her ale. She had thought he awaited the arrival of some other man. I decided to visit the woman.
“Where does Rohese keep her alehouse?” I asked.
“Third house this side of the well. She has fresh-brewed ale this day, and has raised a basket upon a pole. You will find her readily enough.”
We left the priest and his assistants to bury Arnaud, and led our beasts toward the village green and well. ’Twas as the priest said. The ale wife’s house was easily identified by the pole and basket, and the folk who came and went with ewers of ale.
The door of the house stood open for the frequent customers. I entered the room with Arthur and a groom behind me. Two other grooms remained in the street with our palfreys. Our party darkened the doorway and a woman within looked up to see what new customers she had. When she saw that we were strangers her eyes widened and her face registered alarm. Perhaps her response was due to the livery that two of us wore. Men who are garbed as we were have been known to seize what they will.
