“Alone?”
Sigvald shook his head almost arrogantly and said, “Only a pathetic man drinks alone.”
“Kindly tell me then, who were you drinking with?” Winston asked politely.
“Well, first I ate with Sigurd—that’s my son,” he said with a smile, “but you already know that, don’t you? Then he went off to the market with the two womenfolk, and I sat by myself for a while until Herward came in. We shared a few pitchers.” He hiccupped. “And Bjarne was there, too. Or he came at some point,” he was thinking out loud. “Yeah, he came. Along with Alwyn, who at first said no to a drink, but then he sat down anyway.”
Winston and I listened in silence and then exchanged a glance.
“Did he say why he didn’t want to drink?” Winston asked, sounding casual.
Sigvald furrowed his brow and asked, “Who? Oh, Alwyn? Yeah, he said he had some thinking to do.” Sigvald chuckled deep in his throat. “And that’s definitely not something Alwyn does very often.”
“Did he say what about?”
“Nah. Then he sat down to drink with the rest of us after all.” Sigvald looked up at Winston triumphantly.
“So you drank together, the four of you. What about your son and the women? They were in the tavern when Halfdan and I got here a little bit ago.”
“They . . .” Sigvald thought it over for a while. “They came in at some point, I don’t remember when. But they didn’t drink anything.”
“Did any of you leave the table?” Winston asked.
“Yeah, sure. We all went out for a piss, of course. And Alwyn has never been able to hold his liquor. I guess that’s why he didn’t want to sit with us to start with. He gets drunk so fast. So he went upstairs.”
“And you?”
Sigvald snorted and said, “I stayed in the tavern.”
“Did you go upstairs?”
“Nah. Well, yeah, I came up with Alwyn. He had a hard time with the stairs.”
Winston gave me a look. As if I couldn’t think for myself.
“And?” Winston prompted.
“And what?” Sigvald said. “Then I went back down again, after I got him onto his bed.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Say anything? Yeah, he muttered something about how he’d figured it all out.”
Winston straightened and then pressed, “And what was it that he’d figured out?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“And then you left him? Was he alright?”
“As alright as a drunk man can be.”
“And you haven’t seen him since?”
“Nope.” Sigvald shook his head, then he stopped midmotion. “Well, actually . . . He was suddenly standing on the stairs.”
“On the stairs? When, later?”
“Yeah, the rest of us had probably drunk another tankard or two,” Sigvald said.
“And then he was standing on the stairs? Did he say anything?”
I leaned forward in anticipation.
“Yeah, he said that thing I told you about how he’d figured it all out.”
“He said it again? Who was he talking to?”
Sigvald laughed. “No one. Everyone. He was drunk.”
“But then he went back to his room?”
“Yeah, well, I helped him. We’re sharing a room you know.”
I looked at Winston, but he didn’t notice because he was already asking his next question: “You went upstairs with him again?”
“Yeah, he was drunk, you know?”
“And then?”
“And then I came back down and kept drinking,” Sigvald said.
“Did anyone else leave the table and go upstairs after that?”
“Yeah, Herward left for a while.”
“Why?”
“How should I know? Maybe to get something. When he came back down, he’d grabbed his tunic. He was cold, he said.”
The temperature had dropped with the rain, I remembered.
“And was he gone for a long time?” Winston asked.
“How should I know?” Sigvald asked again, shaking his head. “Listen, what’s all this about?”
“Alwyn is dead,” I said.
“Dead?” Sigvald stood up, but then sank back down again.
Neither Winston nor I had taken our eyes off his face. He looked appalled.
“Murdered,” I continued.
Sigvald took a deep breath. “Stabbed?” he asked.
I nodded.
“And you think . . . that I . . .” Sigvald began.
“Was it you?” Winston asked without raising his voice.
“No, but . . .” Sigvald looked up. “That’s why you wanted to know . . .”
I nodded again and asked, “Did Bjarne go upstairs at any point?”
Sigvald shook his head and sighed.
Winston suddenly asked, “Did you kill him together?” I stared speechlessly at Winston, but then understood what he was getting at. Unlike Sigvald, who stammered, “Together?”
Winston leaned forward and clarified, “You and Herward were coming down the stairs when we came into the tavern earlier.”
“Oh, then.” Sigvald flung up his hands in a gesture that suggested that wasn’t important. “We were . . . We had decided not to drink more. But when we got halfway up the stairs, we decided there really wasn’t much else to do.”
“So you came back down again?” Winston didn’t sound like he believed Sigvald any more than I did.
Sigvald nodded.
“So you . . .” I began, but was interrupted by a shout.
Winston was at the door in one step and flung it open. An angry male voice thundered at us, followed by Alfilda’s protests.
I beat Winston to the door that concealed the body, getting there just as Herward pushed Alfilda aside and placed his hand on the latch.
32
I was just going to . . .” Herward began, looking at Sigvald, who came down the stairs behind Winston. “Aren’t you . . . ?”
I grabbed Herward’s arm and pulled him away.
“You were just going to what?” Winston asked, holding Sigvald back with his arm.
Herward turned to Winston and said, “Talk to Sigvald.”
“What about?” Winston’s voice was gentle.
“That’s no one else’s business,” Herward said, looking at Sigvald. “We were drinking together, right?”
“I’ve drunk my fill,” Sigvald said, tugging uneasily on his beard. “Like I said.”
“You did? Yeah, but then . . .” Herward began.
Winston nodded to me, and I opened the door. A faint whiff of ale mixed with the dull scent of blood hit us. Sigvald looked down at the floor, apparently not wanting to see. Herward stared first at me, then into the room. The fly buzzed over the dead man’s chest.
“That . . .” Herward swallowed.
I pushed Herward through the doorway and followed him in. Just behind me was Sigvald, whom Winston pushed into the room.
“That is your neighbor.” Winston’s voice was anything but happy. “Murdered.”
I didn’t take my eyes off them. Sigvald gulped, glanced over at the body, and then turned to look at Herward. Herward had sucked his upper lip into his mouth and was biting it so hard that a drop of blood trickled out. He licked off the blood.
Their faces reflected fear, horror, revulsion, and uneasiness. I detected no trace of guilt.
Alfilda spoke. The four of us jumped since we’d all been focused on the body.
“People say the blood flows from a murdered man when his killer lays a hand on him. Would you both go place your hands on Alwyn?” she said.
That’s an old wives’ tale. I’ve seen plenty of men handling bodies they’ve killed without blood flowing. After a battle, a raid, or any kind of combat, only the survivors are left to clean up. Even I have carried the bodies of men I had just stuck my sword into a few moments before. Their bodies did nothing more than drag over the ground.
Still,
I watched the two farmers in anticipation.
Sigvald clenched his teeth and stared at the air above the dead man as he stepped over to him. He put his hand on the corpse’s chest so quickly that it was as if it didn’t happen and then stepped back again.
Winston gave Herward a look of encouragement. Herward cleared his throat, the spit rumbling deep in his chest, and then he too walked over to the body, put his hand on its chest, and then hurried back over to the door.
“Herward.” Winston’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “Alfilda is right that that’s what people say. Is it true? Who knows. But I need to ask you a few questions.”
“You?” Herward’s voice was raspy, as if he were trying to suppress some emotion. Grief, anger, or indignation at being subjected to this?
“What business is the killing of our companion to you?” Herward asked.
“It is very much my business. Believe me, Alwyn was killed to shut his mouth about what he knew, which is why the other two men were killed. And I promised to solve those murders, so this one has also fallen into my lap.”
Herward looked at Winston expectantly. Winston paused for a moment and then continued, “Did you kill Alwyn?”
Herward looked over at Sigvald and said, “No.”
“Do you know who killed him?”
He shook his head. The two farmers looked at each other.
“You came upstairs while you guys were downstairs drinking. Why?”
Herward seemed not to have heard him. He was staring at Sigvald. After a moment he looked back over at Winston and said, “What did you say?”
“When you were drinking, you came upstairs. Why?”
“Why?” Herward didn’t seem to understand the question, and then in a voice that sounded choked up said, “I was cold. I came to get my tunic.”
“From your room?”
Herward nodded.
“And you didn’t come to this room?”
“Why would I do that?”
The answer to that question was so obvious that surely he must see it. Winston didn’t even bother to respond, but made do with looking from Herward to Sigvald. Herward stood in the doorway, his legs set wide apart, his face white with anger. Sigvald stood between the body and Herward, and looked just as pale as his companion.
Winston said, “You can both go.”
They left without looking at each other, and walked shoulder to shoulder down the stairs.
“Of course they’re lying, one or both of them,” Winston said, setting down his tankard.
Some time had passed since the farmers had been allowed to leave the dead man’s room.
First I’d been sent down to get Willibrord, who looked fearfully at the body and then told us, shivering, that this market was the worst he remembered. It was bad enough that one of his guests had been murdered, but because the murder had taken place in the inn itself, he was afraid clients would stream away from him like water through a sluice.
“Or flock here,” I suggested. “It won’t take long before this will be just a good story that will draw people in.”
The look the innkeeper gave me showed that he did not share my opinion.
It took a while to get the body carried out, after which we had to wait for the messenger who’d been dispatched to Turstan. The messenger returned later with word that the reeve would come see us in person or send his man. Until then, we were told, we mustn’t leave town.
It wasn’t until all this was done that we were finally able to leave the inn and find somewhere we could talk undisturbed. That place was an ale tent with its trestle tables set up on the grass and spaced apart nicely. There were two tables between the next closest patrons and us.
I liked this tent for another reason. It was right across from Brigit’s husband’s stall, so from my seat I had a view of her as she served their customers—virtuous as usual. Only once did she glance in my direction. I had made sure to speak loudly as we walked into the tent, and although I was engrossed in our conversation, I was still annoyed that she didn’t seem to have noticed me.
“How likely is it that they went in on the killings together?” Alfilda wondered.
I shrugged. “Not very. It’s hard to see a motive for it. But that doesn’t mean that they’re not lying for each other. Neighbors are like that. They stick together like pea straw against outsiders. Anyway”—I drank another gulp of ale—“that was brilliant, that stuff about bodies bleeding.”
She chuckled and said, “I had hoped it would work out differently.”
“Whichever one of them is the murderer wouldn’t be afraid of a body,” Winston said, tugging on his nose. “And you’re right. I don’t think they did it together. It was one of them. I have no doubt about that. But which?”
“I suppose we’d better start by asking why?” I suggested.
“Money,” Alfilda and Winston said simultaneously.
I nodded in agreement. Arnulf’s love of silver was all we had to go on. “A neighbor who owed Arnulf money?”
“Yes,” Winston said eagerly. “A debt that for some reason or other suddenly became a burden when they got to town.”
“After the Hundred Court was over with,” Alfilda said.
We both stared at her.
“Say that again, would you?” Winston’s voice was deep with surprise.
“Darwyn wasn’t killed until the court session was over with.” Alfilda looked from Winston’s face to mine and then continued haltingly. “We thought it was because of the court’s decision, that Darwyn was killed as revenge, but that wasn’t it at all.”
I thought I saw what she was getting at.
Winston continued, “That womanizing lad was killed in the hope of achieving revenge against Arnulf.”
“Exactly.” Alfilda’s voice was shrill with excitement. She cleared her throat and proceeded in a more normal voice. “The murderer figured Delwyn would assume that Arnulf had killed his son.”
“And Delwyn did,” I pointed out.
“True,” Alfilda said, “but what the murderer didn’t count on was that we would be there when Delwyn came rushing at Arnulf to take his revenge. You”—she gestured at Winston—“prevented Delwyn from killing Arnulf in revenge and then you convinced Delwyn that Arnulf couldn’t have been the murderer.”
An involuntary whistle escaped me.
“The killer must have hated you right then, Winston,” I said. “But we’re forgetting one thing.”
They raised their eyebrows at me.
“The farmers said they were together.”
Winston laughed and said, “Didn’t you just point out that neighbors stick together like pea straw? And especially against a thane.”
“So they knew the whole time which of them was the murderer?” I asked.
“Not necessarily,” Winston said. “They said they were together to help Arnulf. And maybe they weren’t even lying. Maybe they were together in the sense that most of them had stayed in the same spot together most of the time. But men need to piss; sometimes one lingers at a market stall longer than his pals, or follows a shapely backside through the crowd for a little while. Not long enough for it to be conspicuous, but definitely long enough to stab a man to death.”
“So they’re strolling around the marketplace,” I said. “One of them knows he has to do Arnulf in, and then happens to run into Darwyn.”
Alfilda interrupted me eagerly, “And voilà, the idea is born.”
“Exactly,” I said, just as excited. “He pulls Darwyn into a storeroom, stabs him to death, and is back out with his companions before they notice he’s gone.”
“You’re right,” Winston said. “Now there’s only one question left. Which one of them?”
We looked at one another.
“Sigvald,” I said hesitantly. “He knew Gertrude was going to give Rowena to Sigurd if Arnulf died. He must also have known that after the court’s decision, Arnulf wanted to take revenge by refusing to allow the two to be together. Irrational, but we know
that’s how it was. A farmer who’s had a plump inheritance for his son waved in front of his nose doesn’t look kindly on that promise being broken. With Arnulf out of the way, the situation suddenly improved.”
“And,” Winston said hesitantly, “in my opinion Sigvald is both shrewd and cold-blooded. He would know to seize an opportunity like the one that turned up when he ran into Darwyn.”
Alfilda had been listening quietly. Now she leaned forward and said, “Do you remember the morning before the court session? We were eating our porridge for breakfast and Arnulf said . . .” She was struggling to remember. “He said, A good day begins with a good meal.”
“And then he followed with, It will look lighter for us this evening than yesterday,” I continued as I recalled his words.
“Exactly,” Alfilda said. “When I think back on it, I realize Arnulf was talking to Herward specifically, and not to everyone there.”
“But why would Herward’s evening be lighter just because Arnulf won his court case?” I wanted to know.
“Because we know something else about Arnulf, besides just that he was avaricious,” Alfilda said.
Winston suddenly nodded vigorously and blurted out, “He got so friendly when he was right.”
“Exactly,” Alfilda said. “Suppose Herward owed him money. And maybe Arnulf promised to forgive the debt if he won his case.”
“No,” I shook my head at her. “When, not if. Arnulf was sure he was going to win. That’s why he reacted so strongly when it didn’t happen. Ah,” I smacked my forehead. “Arnulf said, No pact or agreement can persist when the law permits this. I used that against Sigurd, but he wasn’t the only one who understood what Arnulf was saying.”
I reached over and took Alfilda’s hand. She looked at me in surprise.
“I think you’re right,” I said.
Winston gave me a look of approval and then said, “But the proof. Both Sigvald and Herward have enough friends here in town to swear themselves free. We lack proof.”
“That will be hard with regard to Sigvald,” I admitted, “since I’m just guessing. And the same is true of Herward. Gertrude doesn’t know anything about Arnulf’s business dealings—that information went to the grave with him.”
“Well, not necessarily,” Alfilda said. “A man like Arnulf didn’t necessarily trust men at their word. What if he wrote his debtors down? Would he have come to town without bringing that list? I think it’s worth going through his effects. Does Gertrude have them?”
A Man's Word (The King's Hounds series) Page 19
