The Butcher of St Peter's: (Knights Templar 19)

by Michael Jecks

  Everyone else would think he’d done it. Well, they all knew he was the one who used to nip into their houses and watch the kids. Some men didn’t want him doing that, and they beat the shite out of him. The fathers were the ones who got most worried by him. There was something about an innocent sort of man who only wanted to look at the children – it scared them. He scared them. It’d be better if he was a real murderer, or a thief, to listen to the way some of them spoke about him, poor old Est. He never did anyone any harm, but they talked about him as though he was a madman, ready to pull a knife and cut the throats of their children just for a trophy.

  The mothers were more sensible, most of them. After all, they knew Est, and knew what had happened to him. Perhaps the women just understood that dreadful loss, losing his wife and child in the same short period. All women grew used to the idea of miscarriage and failed birthings and dead infants. They were just a fact of living. No matter how good or clever you were, how much money you had, how well you tried to live your life, there was always that risk. So many children died young, it was a miracle not more mothers and fathers went mad with grief. Some did, of course, but many simply shrugged, wiped away the tears, and got on with their lives again.

  Ach! What was the point of running over all that again. Everyone knew that Est couldn’t really have done for Daniel … except that they knew Est had been there. And quite a few – not all, but many – would be happy to see Est die anyway. They would have a poor fellow removed just because he unsettled them. They wouldn’t see him executed because of his difference necessarily, but if he was accused and convicted of murder, they’d accept that judgement and go to watch him swing. Good sport, watching the felons dance their last jig.

  But Henry wouldn’t see Est hang for a murder he hadn’t committed.

  He was at the door to the old cottage now, and he glanced about him before sidling in, whistling. ‘Est?’ he hissed. ‘You here?’

  The place was a tumbledown old cottar’s home, and it had been deserted long ago when the walls started to collapse. Now just the spars of the roof stood out like the ribs of some enormous animal which had swallowed him. The idea made his scalp tingle. A low cloud swept past, and he felt a chill enter his bones with its passage. ‘Est?’

  He should be here. They’d agreed that he wouldn’t go anywhere, do anything stupid, until Henry had come back to talk to him and give him some more food. Est wasn’t going to show his face for a while, that was all, and hopefully the row’d calm down and he’d be able to return to the city without too much grief once they’d caught the real murderer. That was the plan Henry had elaborated to his friend, but now Est had gone.

  Ralph was furious. As soon as his throat felt as though it was healed, which took a couple of large mazers of burned wine, he left his house and strode along the road in a rage to think that he, Ralph of Malmesbury, could be treated in such a cavalier manner. It was a disgrace that the man should think he could get away with bullying a physician. How dare he? Ralph knew some of the best men in the city – some who were as capable of violence as Jordan. Jordan should have realized that, Ralph thought, and suddenly a deeply unpleasant idea took root and began to grow.

  Jordan must certainly know that Ralph knew many of the influential men in the city. It was hardly a secret. With his access to people like the Sheriff (a dangerous man in his own right!), surely Jordan should have been more anxious not to upset him.

  The more he considered it, the more he grew to believe that Jordan was fully aware of Ralph’s position and the sorts of friends he had. Yet he had had no qualms about attacking him in the street, where anyone might have seen the assault. That seemed to show that Jordan knew full well that he was safe, no matter who saw the attack. In fact, he didn’t care whether Ralph reported the assault or not.

  Well, it wasn’t actually a murderous affair, so the most Ralph could gain from it would be a fine levied on Jordan, and as he remembered the look in Jordan’s eyes Ralph began to realize that the man cared not a ha’penny for him or his friends. Jordan was convinced either that he’d win any case, or that Ralph couldn’t proceed with it.

  This wasn’t Ralph’s city. He’d lived here some years, yes, but he wasn’t under the skin of Exeter yet, and it was one of those places where it took time to get beyond the apparent bonhomie and friendliness of the inhabitants to the real characters beneath. There was corruption there, of course. That was no surprise; a certain amount of greasing of palms was essential in any profession in any town, and it was hardly surprising that in a city like Exeter, which was so far from the King’s government, there should be a permissive attitude to all kinds of business. Some laws were very laxly enforced when they affected members of the city’s Freedom …

  Ralph was not a member of that exclusive club. He hadn’t been born here, so had few rights other than those he could claim as the due of a man who had provided services to the men who controlled the city. That meant little power, in reality, although surely he was safer than someone with no influence at all.

  Who had less than him, though? It was a sobering thought. He slowed in his hasty march.

  It was an unpleasant reflection, but he had little in the way of real power. He was a stranger, a ‘foreigner’ as they liked to say about here. A man like him, who wasn’t born in Devon let alone Exeter, had infinitely fewer rights than a man like Jordan. Jordan’s word would always be taken rather than his.

  Jordan’s word … suddenly he saw things clearly. ‘My whores’ he’d said, hadn’t he? He’d told Ralph to look after ‘my whores’ but to leave big men alone …

  There were plenty of men here in the street, and Ralph gazed about him with a sudden sense of his own vulnerability. He could as well have been a woman in this place, he reflected, and had a sudden thought. Turning right, he went over to the Southgate Road, and was soon outside Betsy’s brothel.

  A girl opened the door, her face pale and red-eyed this early in the morning, and she let out a little cry as Ralph pushed by her. ‘Where’s Betsy?’

  She pointed, and he marched through the screens and out to the lean-to rooms at the back. The sound of giggling came to him from one of the rooms, and he threw open the door to find Betsy and a man in a large wooden barrel steaming with warm water.

  ‘Ralph? What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Betsy, I want to talk to you.’

  ‘You can’t, Ralph. I’m busy.’

  ‘Not too busy to help me now. I need to talk to you about Anne.’

  The man in the bath with her was gazing from one to the other. ‘Who’s he, Bets? What’s he after?’

  ‘I am helping the King’s Keeper and Coroner investigate a murder,’ Ralph said.

  ‘Go and investigate somewhere else, then,’ the man sneered. ‘We’re busy.’

  ‘It’s Jordan, isn’t it, Betsy? It’s him owns this place,’ Ralph said.

  Simon was feeling more than a little confused as they strode back along the lanes towards their hostelry. It had transpired that he too was putting up at Talbot’s Inn. He said nothing as Baldwin went up to his room.

  ‘Jeanne?’

  She was on their bed, and sat up in a hurry. ‘Are you finished?’

  ‘I wish I was,’ Baldwin grunted. He went to her side, sitting and twisting his fingers into her own. ‘Jeanne, this will probably take another day or two.’

  ‘I thought we were going home to Richalda,’ Jeanne said. ‘I want my little girl.’

  ‘So do I. But the Dean has asked me …’

  ‘The Dean is more important than me and Richalda?’

  Baldwin looked over to the window where Edgar stood gazing out. ‘Edgar, Simon’s in the hall.’ He waited until Edgar had left. ‘Jeanne, I want to go home too. My shoulder is giving me gip, the city is too loud and raucous, and all I want is you happy again and the freedom of my own manor.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I have responsibilities. I am the Keeper, and if the Dean asks me to help, I think I have to
. He’s anxious because this could develop into a fight between the chapter and the friars, and wants to avoid it if possible.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I want to go home with you. You are the only woman I love, the only woman I have ever loved; but just now there is a murderer wandering the streets of the city. I think that this man Jordan is involved, and if I can capture him, I should do so.’

  ‘So my feelings don’t matter?’

  ‘Of course they do. But so does duty. I am a Keeper. I have to investigate murders and catch the killer if at all possible.’

  She nodded. ‘But I want my husband, not a King’s Officer. I want you to myself.’

  ‘And you shall have me. Soon. I shall try to find out what has happened here, and do so as quickly as possible. Then we shall leave Exeter.’

  Sir Peregrine avoided the place for as long as his will allowed him, but then, in the late afternoon, he found himself unable to keep away.

  ‘Is Mistress Juliana here?’ he asked at the door.

  Gwen eyed him speculatively. ‘No, she’s back in her own house now. Why, Coroner, you thinking of capturing her?’

  Her tone of voice made him flush, especially when she started cackling like an old fishwife.

  Crossing the road, he went to Daniel’s house and knocked loudly. There were some steps, and soon Agnes stood in front of him.

  ‘Hello, Coroner. Who do you want here?’

  ‘Is your sister here, maid?’

  Agnes gave a sharp nod and stood back to let him pass.

  Sir Peregrine followed her pointing finger into the main hall. A fire was lit against the chill of the evening, and its welcoming glow threw a warmth over the room. There were two children in there, the boy playing among the reeds, chuckling and snorting to himself, while the girl, who was a little older, stood anxiously and went to her mother’s side. Her eyes were wide with terror, and it struck Sir Peregrine that she held on to her mother so tightly, she might have thought he was there to take Juliana away. She had lost her father, and her terror was all too plain.

  ‘Mistress Juliana, I came to see how you were. I hope I find you well?’ he began clumsily. Behind him he could hear a low snigger, and he knew Agnes had walked in after him to listen to his attempt at courtesy.

  Juliana sat still in a large carved chair of elm. She put a hand to her daughter’s, and slowly forced the child to relinquish her grip. ‘It’s all right, Cecily, this kind knight is here to help us, aren’t you, Sir Peregrine?’

  ‘With all my heart.’

  ‘Agnes, would you fetch us some wine?’

  ‘Please, do not bother for me,’ Sir Peregrine said. He felt stilted and nervous, like a young man at his first wooing. Juliana was so beautiful. It was not pure lust, but rather a delight in her physicality. There was something about her, as though there was an aura that gathered all light to her and focused it on her features. Fine, wonderful, magnificent … they must belong to a woman who was perfect in spirit too. Sir Peregrine was certain of it.

  Juliana looked away. Agnes had not moved, and he could see that Juliana was uncertain what to do or say.

  Agnes gave an angry exhalation, and flounced from the room. ‘If I’m not wanted, just say so. I’ll be off home,’ she called over her shoulder and slammed the door.

  Walking to the cathedral close, Simon could see how distracted Baldwin was. It was unlike him, and Simon had a shrewd guess that it was more than a little because of Jeanne. To bring Baldwin’s mind to the present, he said, ‘So this Jordan is a local fellow, then?’

  Baldwin glanced at him, then showed his teeth in a smile. ‘Yes. Jordan le Bolle is an important man in the city, and now we know he has something to do with Gervase’s gambling den. He seems to have employed the pander, Mick, to entice in gullible fools like Gervase, and Mick was responsible for several whores, among them Anne. Anne and Mick are dead. Betsy, the woman who helps run the whorehouse, knows who is in charge of the place, but won’t say. I doubt she dares. Any man who runs a gambling and whoring place like that is unlikely to be gentle and considerate.’

  ‘And with all his other ventures, he’s also trying to harm the cathedral?’ Simon said. ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. But there is a man who may be able to help us,’ Baldwin said. He led the way to the deanery, and told the servants what he needed. A man nodded, and hurried off. Soon he returned with Thomas, who looked up at them enquiringly. ‘Yes?’

  ‘When we spoke earlier, it struck me that you were very tolerant of gamblers and gambling,’ Baldwin said. ‘I suddenly thought, there must be several canons here who must enjoy a game themselves.’

  ‘I dare say. Some of the men here would hate to think of gambling, but others would put money on how long it would take a snail to cross a path,’ Thomas said with a chuckle.

  Simon nodded. ‘We were wondering which of your canons would be the most ardent gambler?’

  Thomas shrugged. ‘I couldn’t say.’

  Baldwin said quietly, ‘Come, Master Thomas. We know that one canon has been frequenting the gaming dens down by the river. You may have reasons for not wishing to denounce a brother from the cathedral, but we have to know. It may have a bearing on this nonsense between the cathedral and the friary, and, more, may have some relevance to a murder.’

  ‘You mean Daniel?’ Thomas said with a quiet gasp.

  Baldwin nodded. He had been thinking of the murder of Mick, the man involved in prostitution and the gambling dens, the man who had been working for Jordan, but if his giving Thomas the impression that he had meant Daniel led to a quicker answer, he would leave Thomas in the dark.

  Thomas was silent a short while. He looked uncertain, his glance casting about him, and then asked if he could consult with the Dean before saying any more. Baldwin nodded, and Thomas walked off contemplatively.

  It was some little while later that he reappeared. He nodded. ‘The Dean has sent someone to ask him to come. He must explain himself to you. The confessional prevents my speaking. Would you join the Dean in his hall?’

  Baldwin and Simon climbed the small staircase to the Dean’s chamber. He rose to greet them as soon as they entered.

  ‘Sir Baldwin, Bailiff Puttock, ah, thank you for coming up here. I don’t feel it’s likely that the, um, man will find it hard to explain himself, but just in case, perhaps you could, um, let me remain here?’

  Both nodded after exchanging a glance. Simon was pleased to see that his friend was apparently as baffled as he was. The Dean sniffed, cleared his throat, and seated himself again in his chair, tapping his fingers on the arms irritably, and finally bellowing for a jug of wine and three goblets, before putting his chin on his hand and staring uncommunicatively at the floor.

  It was some little while before the man they were waiting for turned up.

  Peter de la Fosse was tall and powerful-looking, compared with the frail figure of the Dean, but he had none of the strength of purpose of the older man. ‘You asked me to come here, Dean?’

  ‘These men wish to ask you some – ah – questions. I suggest you answer them honestly. Honestly, mind. On your oath!’ the Dean stated harshly.

  Simon glanced at him in surprise. The Dean was always such a calm, quiet man, it seemed odd to hear him in what was clearly a foul temper.

  ‘I will be honest, I swear,’ Peter said, his hand on his rosary.

  ‘Good,’ Simon said. ‘We wanted to speak to any canons or others who could have been involved in gambling recently.’

  Peter shot a look to the Dean, who scowled at him. ‘Answer!’

  ‘Yes, I have taken the odd wager. Not very recently.’

  ‘How much?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘A few pounds.’

  ‘How much?’ This time it was the Dean, who turned in his seat to stare uncompromisingly.

  ‘Nineteen.’

  ‘Pounds?’ Simon demanded. ‘That’s a fortune!’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault, Dean. I didn’t mean to … bu
t that nasty little man Mick kept persuading me to go back and see if my luck would change. It had to change! He kept telling me that no one was so unlucky for long, so I had to start winning again, as I always had in the beginning, but …’

  ‘It never happened,’ Simon breathed. ‘It never does. The game was fixed. It always is. Men don’t own gambling halls for fun. It’s always because they want to make money. And they do it by taking yours.’

  ‘I never thought I could come to owe so much,’ Peter said brokenly. ‘I don’t know how it grew to such a sum, but suddenly there it was.’

  ‘And you couldn’t repay it?’ Baldwin asked, thinking of Gervase’s tale.

  ‘Nineteen pounds? No, not quickly. And then this other man asked me if I could help him, and if I did, he would settle my debts for me.’

  ‘A man called Jordan le Bolle?’ Baldwin guessed.

  Peter’s hesitation said it all. Alarmed, he wondered whether this was all a game to make him accuse Jordan. Jordan would never forgive a man who betrayed him. Everyone knew that. Then he glanced at the Dean’s face and realized that there could be no collusion between these men and Jordan le Bolle. ‘Yes. How do you know him?’

  ‘Just tell us what happened,’ Simon sighed.

  ‘He said that there was a poor knight who was being held in the priory of the Shod Friars, and the man ought to be brought back to be given a Christian burial in the cathedral. I knew what he meant, obviously. A funeral without permission in the friary would be illegal, so invalid. It was obviously better for the man’s soul that he should be brought back to be buried here, in the cathedral. No one could argue against that.’

  ‘Except Prior Guibert,’ the Dean said heavily.

  ‘What else did he want?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Peter said.

  Baldwin smiled slowly. There was a shiftiness about the man’s demeanour that reminded him of a misbehaving child. ‘Think again, Canon. And this time, remember your oath.’