Marked to Die

by Sarah Hawkswood

  Reginald’s eyes flickered, but he answered smoothly.

  ‘I have been sent by the Brothers of Gloucester to oversee their salt houses, in these troubled times.’

  ‘So you have been staying with Aelnoth or Samson, then?’

  ‘With Samson, yes.’

  The delay had been but a heartbeat.

  ‘Good fellow, Samson, hard-working. The Brothers need never have concerns about his labour.’

  ‘Oh no, I am sure that is not the case. It is more to offer support in the current, er, unpleasantness.’

  ‘Will the Brothers be paying for the services of my lord de Malfleur’s men-at-arms?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Reginald tried to sound undecided, and took a languorous swig from his ale. ‘It depends upon what service is owed to the abbey.’

  ‘True enough.’ Walter, very cleverly, he thought, did not press the point. ‘Now, do let me buy you a fresh jug of best ale. I feel beholden.’

  ‘If it means so much to you, then thank you, yes.’

  Reginald wondered whether he might slip out whilst Walter fetched the replenished jug, but decided against it. After all, he was at least two steps ahead of this blundering reeve. He waited, and Walter returned, bearing his gift. He pushed his cup across the table with a murmur of thanks, and watched Walter pour himself a cup to overflowing. He nearly laughed. What did the pathetic sot think he was doing, outwitting him?

  He was so sure of himself he did not actually notice that although Walter raised the cup to his lips frequently, he took very little, or that he was not nearly as inebriated as he made out. After what Walter considered a suitable interval he began to babble, suitably incoherently, about the undersheriff being led astray and the ire of the lord de Lasson. Reginald could not conceal a smirk, brief as it was. Then the reeve started to talk about the pack train for Shrewsbury, and how important it was. Reginald lapped up the information, and, instead of making his excuses, decided to linger. Walter, in an expansive gesture, knocked over the jug, sending the remaining ale to soak into the floor. Such a waste, he thought, but in a good cause. He belched, and got unsteadily to his feet.

  ‘Come, friend, and I will walk home with you,’ Walter beamed vacuously, ‘and make sure you are all right.’ Walter negotiated his way with some difficulty round a stool, nearly tangling his legs in it, as Reginald waited patiently. ‘Come, let us go home, my Gloucester friend.’

  Taking Reginald’s arm, Walter headed for the door. He was thinking, and thinking fast. This man had nothing to do with the Gloucester salt houses, for Samson had been dead these five years since. He thought to take him to that end of the town, though, since his cousin lived and worked in another of the cluster of salt houses belonging to Gloucester, but had taken his wife to her mother’s deathbed in an outlying village that very afternoon. The salt house would be empty, and there he could show this man he was no fool and perhaps even get information from him. They made their way, arm in arm and with Walter a little unsteady and friendly in the manner of the drunk. They were clearly not aiming for the reeve’s house, and Reginald, beginning to realise they must be heading for the house of Samson, tried to make his excuses. After all, this Samson would look at him blankly, having never seen him before. They walked along a line of salt houses, Reginald becoming more vociferous, when Walter, with an amazing change of demeanour, suddenly bundled him through a door into a house in darkness. There was little light at all and Reginald was taken off guard.

  ‘So tell me, my tall friend, who most certainly does not reside with the long-dead Samson, how long did you think it would be before you were discovered?’

  Reginald, getting his bearings, replied in his normal voice.

  ‘Why, never.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  The sheriff’s men arrived in Wich early in the next forenoon, and headed to the reeve’s house, but instead of encountering Walter Reeve, found his highly agitated wife, wringing her hands and near hysterical. Her husband had not returned home after visiting his favoured tavern, and she was already mourning him as one dead.

  ‘Oh my lord, he said his name would be on everyone’s lips and he would make me proud this day. I fear he has been foolish, and lies dead in a ditch. He has been cast down by all that has afflicted our town and last night there was something odd about him. He was not himself,’ she wiped her eyes with the edge of her veil, ‘not at all.’

  ‘He went to the tavern, Mistress Reeve. But do you know if he left it?’ Hugh Bradecote spoke calmly, and with gentle authority. ‘And did he leave alone?’

  ‘I went there, at first light, and got Alfsi, who keeps it, out of his bed. He said as how Walter left, drunk as so often, with the tall stranger.’

  ‘The tall stranger?’ Catchpoll glanced at Bradecote. ‘I think, Mistress, we too must see the landlord. Show us which tavern he visited, and in the meantime we will set men to search within the town. My lord?’

  He looked, belatedly, to Bradecote, for confirmation of what was clearly his own decision, but the undersheriff was not concerned about how things looked, and merely nodded his confirmation.

  ‘Whatever has happened, we will find your husband, Mistress. Walkelin, you are to gather what men you can and search every stable, outhouse and building. Serjeant Catchpoll will come with me and Mistress Reeve. Let us get going.’

  They split up outside, Walkelin to knock on doors and form a search party, and the others to the tavern. The tavern keeper met them with a look of concern that made Mistress Reeve burst into tears once more, and Catchpoll suggested that she remain with the landlord’s wife while the hunt continued. The men withdrew to a corner, the same one used by Walter Reeve and Reginald the night before, and spoke in hushed tones.

  ‘Master Reeve was asking about the tall stranger in the day, wondering where he sprang from. You see he had not taken any obvious work in the town, and was rarely seen except here of an odd evening. He seemed very interested in him. Poor man had—sorry, has, been worried of late, what with the responsibility and all, but he did look quite excited yesterday.’

  Catchpoll pulled at his nose, thinking.

  ‘This tall man, when would you say he first appeared?’

  ‘Why, must have been two to three weeks past. Courteous he was, quiet, tended to sit here out the way and drink awhile, then he would bid all a soft goodnight and leave. Few nights back, though, he left just after Master Reeve, who had taken more than he could handle again, and I gather from what I overheard last night, helped him home.’

  ‘And did you not hear that we needed to know about any man who has only appeared here in the last few weeks?’

  Catchpoll sounded exasperated, and the landlord shifted uncomfortably. There was something about Serjeant Catchpoll that made one keen not to exasperate him. Bradecote shot his serjeant a look that clearly said ‘Shut up’ and tried to keep the tavern keeper focussed.

  ‘What did you overhear?’

  ‘My lord, when Master Reeve came in, I let him know the stranger was here. He came over, right to this table, and sat down, thanking the man for his assistance in helping him home the other night. That is how I know. Master Reeve bought a jug of ale to share with him too, though I fear he drank too much. He even knocked the jug over, still half full. Mind you, I could almost swear he winked at me as he left.’

  ‘Did you hear what they talked about?’

  ‘I had other customers, my lord, so not really. Did catch something about Gloucester and old Samson as had a salt house of Gloucester’s, but he’s been dead some years.’ The tavern keeper scratched his head. ‘Perhaps the tall man was a relative?’

  ‘Mmm. You say the man was tall. As tall as me?’ The undersheriff was a very tall man. ‘And thin?’

  ‘Not quite of your height, my lord, and less muscled, more gangly, like a heron, I would describe him. Did not see his face clearly for he tended to stoop, like the heron fishing, you see.’

  ‘What about hair colour, or any other things that might help us spot him?’
Catchpoll was clutching at straws. ‘The more you can tell us, the quicker we can find him.’

  ‘Wore a hood, he did. Tell you what, though. Now I come to think about it, there was something odd. He had a cloak always, ordinary sort of dark cloak it was, and it hid what I caught sight of that night.’

  ‘Which was?’

  The sheriff’s men spoke in unison.

  ‘Just not what I would expect.’

  ‘Tell us, for the sake of Heaven!’ Catchpoll had to control his urge to shake the man.

  ‘Well, he did not look the soldier type, yet he had a sword at his hip, in a good and well-used leather scabbard.’

  Bradecote and Catchpoll exchanged glances, at one in thought.

  ‘Good, you say?’ Catchpoll was probing.

  ‘Good leather, and had seen long use for it was worn and the surface a little torn. But there, perhaps he was a soldier long ago and had it from habit. Some men never forget their warrior days.’

  Undersheriff and serjeant had different ideas on that. It was clear the man had no more information, so they thanked him and went outside to discuss what they had learnt.

  ‘Our stolen horse seller and the tall man who has only been here since the trouble started seem one and the same, Catchpoll.’

  ‘Indeed so, my lord, which does make the lord de Lasson’s cry of innocence ring true. Pity, in a way, and he’ll run to the Sheriff of Hereford like a rat down a hole, and make trouble. Our lord de Beauchamp will not enjoy having his ear bent by the lord Earl of Hereford, but there.’ Catchpoll sighed and shook his head. ‘We could do no less upon the evidence.’

  ‘And the scabbard, as we thought, sounds very much as if it is Corbin FitzPayne’s.’

  ‘Most like with his sword still in it. Yes, cocky bastard to wear the thing, mind.’

  ‘He would not expect it to be recognised, though. Chri—the lady FitzPayne said it was very ordinary, except for the slash in the surface of the leather.’

  Bradecote turned slightly pink, and hoped Catchpoll had missed the slip. He had not, but said nothing.

  ‘I think Walter Reeve suddenly put two and two together, about the man’s arrival and the attacks, and if he has a loose tongue when ale-sodden, as many are, he could easily have given the information without knowing.’

  It was at this point that a leggy youth ran up, made obeisance to Bradecote and announced, breathlessly, that the deputy serjeant had found Master Reeve and bade his superiors come right away.

  ‘Deputy serjeant?’ Catchpoll ground his teeth and muttered. ‘I’ll give him “deputy serjeant”, with the end of my boot!’

  They followed the youth, with his loping gait, which meant Catchpoll arriving at the salt house wheezing and out of breath. The youth tried to follow them in, but was told instead to guard the door, which made him feel important. The shutters had not been opened, for Walkelin wanted the public kept out, at least until his superiors arrived, and Catchpoll swore as he banged his shins upon the edge of the hollowed tree trunk that formed the ‘salt ship’ for storing brine. The expletives were colourful.

  ‘Give us some light before Serjeant Catchpoll does himself a major injury, Walkelin.’ Bradecote chuckled, though the laughter died on his lips as a rear shutter was opened enough to see what was in the chamber. ‘God have mercy!’ He crossed himself devoutly.

  Walter Reeve lay with head and chest in a lead salt pan, bent forward from a kneeling position. The vat was little more than three feet long and quite shallow, but it did not take much water to drown a man. The contents of the salt pan were not, however, salty water and scum. It had been reduced so that it appeared a good way through the process and was a white slurry. Catchpoll ran a finger through it.

  ‘Still slightly warm, my lord,’ he commented in a non-committal tone, and then placed his hand on the back of Walter Reeve’s neck. ‘Unlike Walter here.’

  ‘The salt houses are in use all the time, so … who’s house is this, and where is he, and the others who work here?’

  ‘It was a holy day, my lord, perhaps they took the day from labour?’ Walkelin offered up his idea, diffidently.

  ‘But if they did they would be here to work today, so why are they not here?’

  ‘Besides,’ added Catchpoll, ‘I would be surprised if the salt was still as warm to the touch after more than a day, and why leave a boiling part way through? And do you catch the smell?’

  Bradecote sniffed. They used urine in the making of the salt but there was another smell, slightly sweet, very faint, a kitchen sort of smell. He frowned.

  ‘Shall we lift the body, my lord?’ Walkelin interrupted his thought.

  ‘Yes. No, wait. Let us learn whatever there is from him as he lies, first. Open the shutter more, there are no onlookers there as yet.’

  Walkelin did as he was bid, but it did not make the scene easier on the eye. There was something grotesque about the position of the body, bowing to the salt.

  ‘What does he tell you, then, young Walkelin?’ asked Catchpoll.

  ‘Why nothing, Serjeant, because he’s dea … ow!’

  The cuff around the ears was unexpected on Walkelin’s part, and stung.

  ‘Bran for brains! And you calling yourself “deputy serjeant”, indeed!’ That clearly rankled, and Walkelin winced.

  ‘I had to think of something a bit official to call myself, to get the lad to obey at the run, Serjeant. Sorry, Serjeant.’

  ‘You should have called yourself “Idiot Not Yet Fit To Call Himself Serjeant’s Apprentice”, and that’s a fact. How often have I told you, the dead can tell us all sorts of things? And you have observed well enough upon the road. Have the fumes got to you?’

  ‘No, Serjeant.’

  ‘Then tell me what you see.’

  ‘Er … he must have been overpowered, because the arms are not in the salt or at the sides of the pan. A man who could, would brace his arms to prevent him being forced into the water. We should check the body for wounds in case he was stabbed first, or his neck broken.’

  ‘Sound thoughts, those, but we can go further.’ Catchpoll looked sagely at his protégé, and was conscious that the undersheriff was expecting to learn also. ‘The arms are not in the attitude of struggle, as you saw, but the right arm, look at it. It lies to his side, but also still with the palm facing back and resting on his arse. That tells me what happened was, this.’

  In a flash, Catchpoll grabbed Walkelin by his right arm, twisting it and ducking underneath to end up behind him and with the young man on tiptoe and his arm up his back. Catchpoll knocked the back of his knees, and as he went down, grabbed a handful of flame-coloured hair and pushed his head forward. It was very swift, and most uncomfortable.

  ‘Easy when you know how,’ murmured Catchpoll, not even breathing more quickly. ‘And for all he was no warrior, at least in looks, our killer knew that move.’

  ‘Impressive, and well, er, illustrated, Serjeant.’ Bradecote smiled wryly. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I think we can lift the body now, my lord,’ declared Catchpoll, rather enjoying himself. The enjoyment ended when they lifted the stiff remains of Walter Reeve from the vat. The position of the body, bent at knees and waist, looked even less natural laid upon the ground, but it was the face that repelled.

  The eyes were white opaque like the old blind, but bizarrely flat and distorted where the salt had drawn the moisture from them. The nose was filled and rimed with the crystals, and the skin of the face unlike any that even Catchpoll had seen. The skin was peeled and blistered in places from the residual heat when he had been thrust into the thick salty paste, and the salt had dried and crusted the rest of the surface. The faint kitchen smell had been flesh, slightly cooked. It was Walter Reeve in such a way as his wife would be hard-pressed to recognise him. Walkelin turned away and retched into a wicker basket.

  ‘Dear God in Heaven,’ whispered Bradecote, and crossed himself again, instinctively. His gorge threatened to rise like Walkelin’s but he fought it. ‘What a d
eath.’

  Catchpoll’s mouth was clamped into a thin slash among the stubble and when he opened his mouth he swore, low and long.

  ‘Not good, not good at all. The salt was half ready as I see it, certainly hot, from the effect on the skin, that and the salt itself. I reckon as he sort of drowned and suffocated at the same time, though the first is in a way a version of the second, but what the poor bastard was drawing in was not water but hot salt. Nasty. This lanky-heron man will dance at the rope’s end, I swear to God.’

  There was a commotion outside, an altercation between the youth ‘on guard’ and another man. Bradecote sent Walkelin, wiping his sleeve across his mouth, and glad to get the chance of a gulp of fresh air, to see what was toward. He was almost bowled over, not just by a man, but two strapping teenaged lads, and a woman with a younger girl at her skirts. Before he could stop them they were inside, shouting incoherently, until their eyes adjusted to the dim light. There was a moment of horrified silence and then the woman screamed, screamed as if her lungs would burst.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, get the woman and child out of here!’ yelled Catchpoll, angrily, and the man half turned and pushed both woman and girl back out the door.

  ‘You look after your mother,’ the man whispered hoarsely to the lads, and jerked his head at the doorway. They needed no second command. He shut the door behind them, and turned, his face a greenish tinge, even in the gloomy light.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Bradecote, baldly.

  ‘Oswald, Oswald Tuckett, and this is my house.’ The man’s voice was choked as he took in more of the scene and he fought to keep himself from retching.

  ‘Yours, you say.’

  ‘Well, it is a salt house of the Gloucester monks, but I live here, and work it with my sons.’

  Bradecote and Catchpoll exchanged glances. Gloucester was what the landlord had overheard.

  ‘Was this once the salt house worked by Samson?’ queried Catchpoll.

  ‘Samson? No, that was three houses along, and is run by Thomas now. What has happened? Some accident?’