Murder for Christ's Mass

by Maureen Ash

  Bascot glanced over at Gianni. The boy had been studying a set of questions given him by Lambert that morning and was writing down the answers on his wax tablet. When Roget mentioned King Stephen’s name, however, he looked up at his master in surprise. Geoffrey of Anjou had been married to Matilda, daughter of King Henry I and the heir her father had chosen to reign after his death. After Henry died, Matilda’s cousin, Stephen, seized the English throne before she could come to England and claim it. His precipitate action had plunged the country into a civil war between the two contenders. Matilda’s husband, Geoffrey, had always worn a sprig of planta genesta in his helm and the simple plant, which was the common broom, had become associated with him and his wife, and also with his son, who later became King Henry II. To wear such a likeness during the reign of King Stephen would indicate a partisanship for Matilda and would not have been wise.

  “And the other pieces—the chain and pendant and the cloak clasp?” Bascot asked. “Did the goldsmith say they are old, too?”

  Roget shrugged. “He made no mention of it. He only told me he didn’t recognise the workmanship, and so it wasn’t likely a member of the Lincoln guild who made them.”

  Bascot ran his fingers over the smoothness of the links in the heavy gold chain from which the pendant hung. The setting that held the jewel, like the unadorned surface of the cloak clasp, was plain and without design. These pieces, unlike the rings, would be hard to identify as to age, but could easily have been made many years before.

  “What will you do with the thief?” Ernulf asked. “If you cannot find out who owns the jewellery, he cannot be punished for stealing it.”

  “Oh, he stole it, alright,” Roget said with certainty. “Where he got the valuables from is a mystery, but I know he did not come by them honestly. I had one of my men knock him about a bit, but he will not admit to theft. He just keeps saying he found them.” Roget shrugged. “If the sheriff thinks it worthwhile, I will question Cotty further, but if no one comes forward to claim the jewellery, Sir Gerard may be satisfied just to confiscate it and let Cotty off with a good flogging.”

  Bascot looked across at Gianni and the boy surreptitiously made a circle in the palm of his left hand with the forefinger of his right, then pointed at the jewels and meshed the fingers of his hand together. The Templar nodded. The same thought had occurred to him. The coin Gianni had found atop the cliff face and the jewellery were of the same period, that of the reign of King Stephen. If Gerard Camville was correct in his assumption that the coin was part of a hidden cache, it could be the jewellery had also been in the hoard. If that was so, whoever Cotty had stolen it from would be reluctant to claim ownership because it would be impossible to prove a legitimate provenance of the items. It was a tenuous link, but it was there. Even if the coin, or the jewellery, did not have any connection to the murders of Brand or Fardein, they could prove the existence of a cache of valuables that belonged, by right, to the crown.

  “I think I would like to speak to this thief you are holding, Roget,” Bascot said.

  The captain gave the Templar a look of surprise. “I did not think you would be interested in such a simple crime, mon ami. There is unlikely to be any murder done in this theft; Cotty would never have the courage. He is just an insignificant little villain who climbs inside people’s houses and steals whatever he can find.”

  Mindful of Gerard Camville’s stricture to keep private the existence of the coin, Bascot did not want to reveal his true purpose for wishing to question the thief and so was careful with his answer to Roget.

  “This jewellery is valuable—murder has been committed for items of much less worth. Even if Cotty is not responsible for the two deaths I am investigating, he may have stolen the jewellery from the person who did kill them, and if so, I want to know who it was.”

  A smile lit Roget’s weary features as he fingered one of the rings. It was set with a large topaz and the jewel glowed like the eye of a cat. “You could be right. As soon as I have made my report to the sheriff, we will go to the gaol and question Cotty a little more zealously.”

  Sixteen

  BASCOT WENT WITH ROGET WHILE HE MADE HIS REPORT to the sheriff. Gilbert Bassett was with Camville, and both men listened attentively as Roget told of the fire and how Cotty had been apprehended. When the captain produced the jewellery found on the thief and related the guild master’s opinion that the age of the rings dated from the reign of King Stephen, the Templar could see from the expressions on their faces they had formed a similar conclusion to his own.

  Camville readily agreed to Bascot’s suggestion that he accompany Roget to question the thief, and the two men set off down into the town. The town gaol was located near to the centre of Lincoln and not far from the casket maker’s house where the fire had occurred early that morning. It was a squat rectangular building of thick stone housing four large cells and a small area furnished with pallets and a table where the guards slept or ate when not on duty. Cotty had been placed in a cell at the far end and was secured to the wall by a manacle around one leg. When Roget and the Templar entered, his face became fearful and he shrank back against the wall.

  “I’m telling the truth, Captain Roget,” he whined. “I found that jewellery. I didn’t steal it, and may God strike me dead if I’m lying.”

  “Then le Bon Dieu will save me the trouble of slicing off your toes,” Roget answered complacently. One of the guards had come into the cell with them, and the captain ordered him to fetch a stool. When it was brought, the captain grabbed one of Cotty’s legs and, propping the thief’s foot on the top, drew the short sword from his belt. The edge was sharp and reflected pinpoints of light from the flaring torch held by the guard. Cotty’s long toes wriggled as he tried to extricate his foot from Roget’s grasp.

  “No, Captain, no,” he screamed. “You ain’t going to cut off my toes, I beg of you. I won’t be able to walk.”

  “Nor will you be able to climb,” Roget replied, “and that will save me a great deal of trouble.” With these words, Roget lowered the blade until its edge rested on the joint of the thief’s largest toe. Blood began to well from the wound. “If you tell me the truth about where you stole the jewellery, I might only take off one of these miserable worms,” he said to Cotty. “But if you do not . . .”

  The threat was enough. Cotty began to blubber and admitted that his tale of how he had come by the sack was only partially true. “I found it, Captain, just like I said, but not on the ground. It was in the wall of one of the houses, behind a stone that was loose. I found it when I was climbing up to get to a casement in the house beside it. . . .”

  And so the thief’s story came out. It required little prompting from Roget beyond a slight pressure on the knife he held against Cotty’s toe. The thief said that in the late afternoon of the day before he had been in the lane behind the row of houses where the guard had found him and noticed that one of the windows on the top storey of a house appeared to be unlatched. He kept watch for the rest of the day and evening and, when no light appeared behind the shutters after darkness fell, he thought the room was most likely used for storage purposes and not a sleeping chamber. Aware the premises belonged to a clothier, Cotty said he thought he might be able to steal some better clothing than the rags he possessed. His only reason for doing so, he said, “was to keep my bones warm, Captain. I was perishin’ from the cold.” He said he thought the best way to climb up to the unlatched casement was to scale the stones of the building next door, which belonged to the silversmith, Tasser. “It’s stone all the way up, Captain, as you know, and made that way for to keep his workplace safe from the flames of the forge.”

  When Roget had nodded at his explanation and eased the pressure of the knife a little, Cotty became more garrulous. “’Twas easy to scale it, Captain. There’s some good toeholds on them stones ’cause the mortar’s beginning to crumble. I was up it in a minute, intending to climb along a wooden beam that edges onto the stone on Tasser’s building and get
up to the clothier’s casement.”

  He paused for a moment, his eyes glistening as he drew a deep breath and then went on. “But I never got onto the beam. I’d just got level with the floor of the top storey on Tasser’s house when I felt one of the stones was loose. I pushed it and it turned sideways a little bit, like there was nothing behind it, so I put my hand inside and felt around. It seemed like there was some bundles in there, so I grabbed ahold of one and pulled it out. It was that sack you took off of me that came out in my hand, Captain, the one with the jewellery inside.”

  He stopped again, looking at Roget to see his reaction. When he got nothing but a slight increase of pressure on the knife, he winced and quickly finished his tale. “It was just then that the tocsin began to ring. I knew as how everyone would come out into the streets and maybe into the lane—for all I knew the fire could have been inside Tasser or the clothier’s house and I’d be burned to death—so I shoved the sack inside my tunic and climbed down. I thought I’d hide in the silversmith’s yard ’til I knew it was safe to come out.”

  He threw a hateful glance at the guard standing at the door. It was one of the men that had caught him. “Looks as how I should of stayed hidden a bit longer.”

  COTTY HAD HARDLY FINISHED SPEAKING BEFORE BASCOT and Roget were running from the gaol, Roget yelling at two of his guards to follow. When the little thief had spoken of “bundles” the Templar and captain had realised it was more than likely there were other sacks of valuables secreted in the hidey-hole Cotty had found. If Tasser had been alerted by Roget’s questioning at the houses along Mikelgate about the owner of the jewellery, the silversmith would, by now, have had time to dispose of the rest of the cache.

  With the guards following, Roget and Bascot went immediately to the manufactory. The door was locked but Roget kicked it in. The blast of heat from the tiny furnace almost knocked them back as they entered. The silversmith’s two employees—the old man and his lackey—were busy at the crucible. At their feet lay a pile of candlesticks, cups and plates, all fashioned of silver. In the small crucible a half-melted salt cellar was fast disappearing in a molten pool, while a square-shaped mould on a nearby table was already filled with liquid silver. Tasser was standing alongside it. When Roget and Bascot entered, he looked up at the intruders with a resigned expression on his face.

  “You have been quicker than I thought, Captain,” was all he said.

  Ordering Tasser’s employees to leave their task and stand to one side, Roget bent down and examined the items lying on the floor. “Every one of these pieces has been reported stolen within the last six months,” he said to Bascot and then, to the silversmith, “You will not be able to convince either the sheriff or your guild you are innocent of conniving with thieves this time, Tasser.”

  The silversmith nodded. “I am aware of that.”

  Roget ordered his guards to take Tasser to the gaol and incarcerate him in one of the cells, but Bascot intervened and countermanded the instruction. “Take him to the castle and have Serjeant Ernulf place him in one of the holding cells. I think the sheriff will want to question him personally.”

  Tasser’s face went ashen. Camville’s reputation for brutality was well known.

  “Why am I to be taken to the sheriff?” the silversmith asked fearfully. “I am a wealthy man; I can pay a surety to guarantee my presence in the sheriff’s court.”

  “A surety is not allowed for a charge of murder,” Bascot replied in a hard voice.

  “Murder?” The word was a breathless squeak. “But I have killed no one.”

  “Have you so quickly forgotten that your apprentice, Roger Fardein, was murdered just a few days since?” Bascot said. “I think perhaps it was your hand that dealt the deathblow.”

  “No,” Tasser said vehemently. “I did not kill him. Why would I do such a thing?”

  “Perhaps because he knew of your dealings with thieves and wanted a share? Or because he threatened to tell the authorities of your criminality?” As the Templar spoke, he looked at the silversmith’s two remaining employees. Both of them were edging away from Tasser, tripping over each other in an attempt to distance themselves from him.

  “No, lord. It is not true,” the silversmith replied, his voice shaking as sweat began to form in droplets on his forehead and run down his fat cheeks. “I did not murder Roger. I swear it.”

  “So you say, silversmith,” Bascot replied laconically. “But I have heard such lies from the lips of murderers before.” The Templar nodded to Roget’s men. “Take him to the castle and tell Ernulf I shall be along directly.”

  AS THE GUARDS HUSTLED THE SILVERSMITH AWAY, Bascot and Roget went out into the yard behind the manufactory and looked up at the rear wall of the premises. The masonry, as Cotty had said, was badly in need of pointing and the loose stone the thief had chanced across jutted out at an angle from the rest of the wall.

  “If I remember correctly from the day we searched Tasser’s premises,” Bascot said, “the room behind that loose stone is the chamber where the silversmith keeps his records.”

  Roget nodded. “There was nothing of value in there, just rolls of parchment and some writing implements.”

  “And therefore no reason to believe the room contained anything of value.”

  They went back into the house and up to the chamber on the second storey. One of the stones along the edge of the floor swivelled out easily when pressure was applied to a corner. Behind it was a cavity of capacious size, lined on the bottom with wood that rested on the infill of rubble between the inner and outer stones of the wall.

  “If Tasser had been more conscientious about repairing the outside of the building, Cotty would never have discovered this hiding place,” Roget said.

  Bascot shook his head. “Tasser could not take the chance of hiring a mason. Any good workman would have found the hole while repairing the mortar, just as Cotty did. Once it was known to be there, it would lose its security.”

  Roget nodded his agreement. “Do you really think the silversmith murdered Fardein?”

  “I do not know, but if he did not, it is likely he knows who did,” Bascot replied.

  Seventeen

  AS THE SILVERSMITH WAS MARCHED UP MIKELGATE by Roget’s guards, people on the street stopped and stared. Most of the bystanders were goodwives shopping for meat, fish and poultry at the markets near Bailgate, but a few were strolling along looking at the wares displayed in the open-fronted shops along the thoroughfare. One of these was Iseult Partager. She had begged her husband to allow her to come to Lincoln early that morning with him and Legerton, hoping to renew the exchanger’s interest in her once they were away from Canwick and the eagle eye of his sister. But all her efforts to coax a smile from her lover proved of no avail. He had ignored her throughout the short journey, his only conversation being with Simon as they discussed the various merchants with whom they were to meet that day and whether they had enough new coinage to exchange for the silver pennies the burgesses would bring. Even Simon, usually so attentive, had barely spoken a word to her since they had risen from their bed that morning.

  Once the small party arrived at the lodgings above the mint, the two men went downstairs to confer with de Stow and see how his production of new coinage was faring. Unused to being ignored, and left with only the company of a young serving maid, Iseult quickly became bored. As the morning passed, she gave up hope that Legerton would return and seek out her company while her husband was engaged in his duties. He had done so once or twice in the past, and her lush mouth smiled in remembrance of the rollicking hour they had spent together in the bed in Legerton’s chamber while her husband toiled on the floor below. But now she had to face the fact that the exchanger was no longer interested in sampling the delights of her body. It was time, she thought, to find herself a new admirer.

  She had gone into the town, ordering the young serving maid to accompany her, with the intention of visiting the shop of the draper that had been one of Legerton’s guests
at Canwick over the holy days. The draper’s son had been most attentive to her and was a handsome lad, with strong muscles rippling at the neck of his tunic and a smile showing teeth that were even and white. Iseult gave no thought to her husband. She had only married Simon to get away from the threats of her father who, when she lived under his roof in Nottingham, had sworn he would confine her in a nunnery if she did not mend her wanton ways. It had been in order to remove her from the scandal of bedding a neighbour’s husband that her father had sent her to Lincoln for a prolonged stay with her sister, knowing his eldest daughter would keep a vigilant eye on her younger sibling. Soon after she arrived in Lincoln, Iseult had met Simon. From the first moment of meeting him, she knew the diffident assayer was besotted with her and would, she thought, be a biddable and complaisant mate. In that opinion she had been proved correct, and she gave no thought to the hurt she inflicted on him, nor would she have cared if she’d been aware of it.

  Her trip to the draper’s shop had not been fruitful. Although the merchant had greeted her civilly enough, he had been very curt in his response to her request to speak to his son, informing her in icy tones that his offspring was not in Lincoln at the present, having left their home almost as soon as they had arrived back in town. His son was, he said, visiting a family member who lived just to the north of Lincoln, in Riseholme, and not expected back soon.

  Annoyed with the draper’s attitude, Iseult left and wandered among the shops on Mikelgate. The weather had stayed reasonably warm and the streets, except for the odd slushy pile lingering by the roadsides, were almost devoid of snow. But as the short winter day drew towards time for the evening meal, and the sky began to darken, she decided she had no choice but to return to the mint and the company of the inattentive Legerton and her dull husband. It was just as she was on her way down Mikelgate that she caught sight of Tasser being hustled up the street by two of the town guards. Along with the other people on the street, she stopped and stared. The remarks of the spectators buzzed around her. Some opined that the silversmith’s illegal trading in stolen silver had finally been proved while others, more pragmatic in nature, said it was more likely Camville had discovered that Tasser had murdered his apprentice, Roger Fardein.