The Alehouse Murders tk-1

by Maureen Ash

  Bascot judged the last second of safety, hoped it was enough, and rolled, pushing out with his good leg to give himself purchase on the stone of the floor, presenting his blind side to the blade that swept down in an arc above his head. He threw up an arm to protect himself, drawing the blade from his belt at the same time. From the direction of the sacristy, he could hear d’Arderon and the priest burst through the door, their shouts of warning, the ring of their mail-shod feet on stone. Steeling himself for the slice of the blade, he turned his sighted side towards his attacker and readied his own knife to thrust, just as the preceptor’s fist crashed into the jaw of the person above him.

  “By God,” he heard d’Arderon shout in disbelief. “It is not a man. It is a woman.”

  Bascot pulled himself to his feet and bent over the figure that lay unconscious on the floor, the hand the knife had held thrown out to one side, the sharp wicked blade glittering in the candlelight a few feet away. Silently he pulled back the hood that covered the face of his assailant to reveal a mass of dark russet-coloured hair.

  “I thought you said it was the secretarius, William Scothern, that you suspected?” d’Arderon demanded.

  “It was,” Bascot replied.

  “Then who is this?” the preceptor asked.

  “It is his sister,” Bascot answered. “Isobel.”

  Twenty-six

  “So that little lass murdered them all,”Ernulf said, disbelief on his weathered countenance. “Seems hard to credit.”

  He and Bascot were standing outside the door of the holding cell, where Isobel had been taken after she had been revived. Dawn was near to breaking and the castle servants were beginning to stir. From the direction of the poultry sheds a rooster let out a call warning of the imminence of daylight.

  “That little lass, as you call her, serjeant, killed six people. After stealing the key to the chest where her brother kept de Kyme’s private correspondence, and discovering that Sir Philip was sending for his illegitimate son, she calmly wrote and instructed Hugo and his wife to come to Newark, where she told them they would be met. She then hired Wat, and his boat, and had him ferry the couple up the river just past Torksey. It was her that went to meet the alekeeper there, and gave the boy and his wife a draught of ale with a potion in it that would render them unconscious. She then smothered them with a piece of sacking.”

  “That was where she met the Jew? On the Torksey road?” Ernulf asked.

  “Yes. It was Samuel’s misfortune that he had stopped there, perhaps to take a break in his journey before going on to Alan de Kyme’s. He must have seen her making her way to the river. Since she could not let her presence be noted, she persuaded him she needed assistance and took him to the river and onto the barge with Hugo and his wife. Samuel was given the same adulterated ale as the others and suffered the same fate.”

  “You said she claims her brother had nothing to do with the business. How did she explain her absence that day to him? If I remember aright, it was originally claimed that she and him had kept company together at the fair. That was why she wasn’t there to give Lady Sybil a witness to being sick in bed all day.”

  “She told Scothern she was going to Parchmingate, to see a new Psalter at one of the parchment makers, and would meet him later. Scothern was not averse to leaving her to her own company. It seems he has been visiting the pretty young widow of a cloth merchant, and used the time to spend with her.”

  “And Brunner?”

  “Isobel tracked him down much as we did. Remember, she was in the castle. She not only had the advantage of knowing what we were going to do, and when, by observing our movements, she also could glean information from her brother. She was clever, and careful. It is only by God’s grace she did not get away with it.”

  “It is hard to believe she killed the priest. That takes an evil heart.” Ernulf said the words with distaste. “It’s like that verse in the Bible, about what is an abomination to our Lord.”

  “ ‘A proud look, a lying tongue and hands that will shed innocent blood.’ ”

  “Aye, that’s the one. Well, she had all of those, I reckon.”

  Bascot thought of the serene look of hatred that Isobel had given him when she had come to her senses on the floor of St. Clement’s nave. There had been no sign of remorse in her eyes, nor a trace of guilt. She had calmly risen, rubbed the bruise that was swelling on her chin and said, “Well, Templar, you have found me out. I hope you burn in hell.”

  In the holding cell he and d’Arderon had questioned her. She had told them all she had done, hiding nothing. She had found herself pregnant, she had said, and not wanting her child to be born a bastard had decided that she would gull Philip de Kyme into thinking the child was his and then would persuade him to marry her.

  “First I had to get rid of the boy that my spineless brother had helped de Kyme to find. Then I needed a way to make the baron set Lady Sybil aside.” She had shrugged, the heavy fall of her dark auburn hair spilling around her shoulders, her graceful hands folded and still in her lap. D’Arderon and the Templar priest had stared at her. She was beautiful, with alabaster skin and eyes the colour of burnt honey. It seemed impossible to believe she was so evil.

  “It seemed to me that the easiest way to accomplish both aims was to use one end to achieve the other. And it would have worked, but for the alewife. Had she left their scrips in place, they would have been identified immediately and Sybil and Conal charged straight away.”

  For the first time she showed tension. Her fingers tightened one around the other until her knuckles turned white. “Damn the alewife. Wat said she was upstairs, in bed, but she wasn’t. If she had been I would have killed her, like the others.” Her eyes met Bascot’s, glittering with intensity. “Just as I would have killed you.”

  Bascot had pointed out that even had Hugo and his wife been identified at once, it would have made no difference. Nicolaa de la Haye would still have ordered an investigation to either substantiate Sybil and Conal’s guilt, or clear them of culpability.

  Isobel had looked at him scornfully. “Yes, but such an enquiry would have been only cursory. There would have been no need for you or any other to pry and dig. She had no witness to attest to her presence elsewhere when the murders were done. I saw to that by putting a little of the juice of the same plant I used on Hugo and the others into her food. And her precious son was off to visit his crippled paramour, as usual. He thinks it is a great secret, but it was not difficult to discover why he goes to Newark, as that simpering bitch Matilda could have done if she had thought to lift her jealous eyes from my face for a moment. Conal and his mother would have been able to bring no defence to the charge against them.”

  “And you would have seen your mistress and her son accused and found guilty, knowing that they were innocent?” Bascot had asked incredulously.

  “Of course,” Isobel had responded. “Why not? We are all at the mercy of fate. My grandfather might have given preference to a male bastard, but my mother suffered the ill chance of being born female, and so was relegated to a life of low station. As, in turn, have I. I should be the daughter of a baron, not merely a companion to the unwanted wife of one.”

  Her composure slipped slightly and there was a tremor of passion in her voice as she added, “My mother should have been born male, and so should I. My brother is weak, satisfied to pander to the whims of a wine-sop. Were I a man, I would have used my sword to carve a fortune, not wasted my life scratching messages on pieces of parchment.”

  She had told them the rest of the tale quite willingly. She had murdered Wat-smashing his head in with one of the alehouse stools when he had turned to pour them both a cup of ale after bringing the bodies inside-to prevent laying herself open to extortion at some later time. She had murdered Brunner for the same reason, tracking him down in much the same manner that Ernulf had done, by talking to the serving girl from the bawdy house the evening before the youngster had come to tell Ernulf she had seen the stewe-keeper. Ther
e had been a smile on her face as she told them how she had intended to dupe Philip de Kyme into thinking the child she had carried was his.

  “I crept into his bed one morning before he awoke. As usual, he had drunk more than his fill of wine the night before and was sleeping alone in a small chamber adjacent to the hall. Will had told me how he often had to help his master to bed because his wits were so befuddled. When Sir Philip woke up, I pretended we had slept together all the night through, and that he had enjoyed my body during that time. It was plain he couldn’t remember if he had done so or not, and it was also clear he wasn’t going to admit to his loss of memory. When the time was right he would have accepted the child as his, and married me to have his precious heir, even if it was a female.”

  “And who is the father of your child?” Bascot had asked.

  Isobel had looked at him in surprise. “Why, Anselm, of course. That was why I had to kill him.”

  At that point, the Templar priest had begged d’Arderon’s permission to leave. Even though used to hearing the confessions of dying men, he protested, never could he recall being privy to such depravity as was spilling from the mouth of this woman. He felt a great need of the solace of prayer. The preceptor gave him his leave and, shortly afterwards, he and Bascot left Isobel to the solitude of her cell, putting a pair of Ernulf’s men-at-arms on guard at the door.

  Now it was clear what Anselm’s repeated muttering of the word “unclean” had meant. He must have been a lecher, just as the shoemaker’s son had said, and that could have been the reason why he been removed to such a distance from his parish in Canterbury. After coming to Lincoln he had met Isobel and succumbed to the temptation of enjoying her body. Hence his wearing of the hair shirt; an act of atonement for his renewed lapse from grace. It was probable he had seen her when she attacked him, perhaps realised the depth of her depravity. The enormity of the sin he had committed had robbed him of the will to live. From Isobel’s point of view, his knowledge of their relationship was a threat to her plans. She had to murder him, to keep him quiet.

  “What made you think it was her brother that was guilty, Bascot?” D’Arderon had asked when they were once more outside.

  “It was Lady Ermingard’s mention of the cloak. And her insistence that the girl that had it was hiding the fact that she was pregnant. I had puzzled long over the implication that there was the need for a quick discovery of the bodies. When I learned from Agnes that she had removed the young couple’s belongings, thus effectively obliterating any way of discovering who they were, it seemed that the requirement for haste had been very real. All had been done to ensure they were discovered and identified quickly. Why? Once the boy was dead, and the child his wife carried with him, any of the other people who might have had reason to benefit from their removal could have waited to convince Sir Philip of their worthiness at their leisure.

  “There could only be one reason, and that was that another child was soon to be born that could fill dead Hugo’s place. Since Philip did not seem to have a paramour, there was only one woman other than his wife who could be carrying his seed, and that was Isobel. She was in his household all the time, and of such a supposedly pious nature that she would not have been suspected of having a liaison with the husband of a mistress she appeared to be devoted to. Besides, Scothern was extremely nervous when I went to de Kyme’s keep to see the letters that had been written to Hugo’s mother. His explanation was weak, but there was no doubt his fear involved his sister. I reasoned that it was Isobel who Lady Ermingard had meant when she had been talking about the cloak being the wrong colour. And it had been the sight of her, not the tapestry, that had prompted the same reaction that morning in the solar. Isobel was sitting right in front of it. Ermingard had also said that the cloak was wet. It started to rain just about the time that Anselm was killed. Anyone leaving the church just then would have been drenched. Therefore, whoever had done the stabbing must be connected with Isobel. And have knowledge of the whereabouts of Hugo and his wife, and the movements of Lady Sybil and Conal. I thought it must be Isobel’s brother, William; that he had discovered the intimacy between his sister and his master, and also her condition as a result of it. To keep her from the shame of unwed motherhood he had devised a plan to get the baron to marry his sister by removing de Kyme’s illegitimate son and also Sybil at the same time. The others-the alekeeper, the Jew, Brunner, Anselm-had been killed to prevent them making public any knowledge that would implicate him.”

  Bascot took a breath, tracking the thoughts that had led him to his conclusion that Scothern had been the murderer. “I also remembered that it was he who first came to me with the tale of Philip’s illegitimate son, and the possibility that the murdered boy could be him. If he had not come forward, the identities of Hugo and his wife might never have been discovered. But Isobel was well aware of my investigations and it was at her urging that he asked Ernulf if the origin of the cloth had been ascertained, and it was she who prompted him to tell me of de Kyme’s letters to his former paramour. She had to have their identities made known.

  “When Lady Ermingard spoke of the cloak, I reasoned that if Scothern had stabbed the priest and his garments had become drenched in the downpour that fell just moments after he had done so, then Isobel had suspected her brother’s involvement and had been trying to protect him by saying the cloak belonged to someone else. In fact, the cloak was her own.”

  He paused as a sobering thought struck him. “It is fortunate that Ermingard never spoke Isobel’s name. She might have been murdered as well, if she had. Perhaps, in her confusion she sensed that her knowledge was dangerous and although she knew it was important to convey it, still had the good judgement to keep part of it back. It is thanks to her, however, that the purpose of the murders became clear, even if I ascribed that purpose to the wrong person.”

  “The trail you followed was a true one, you just scented the wrong quarry,” d’Arderon said.

  “Yes. I looked for a woman in the riddle, but never for one moment conjectured that it was a woman who had, on her own, carried out the murders. And it must have been by God’s own intervention that William was directed to tell his sister of the prepared speech that Hilde related to him last night.”

  “Scothern could easily have been guilty,” d’Arderon opined. “Isobel said that her brother used to visit the alehouse while she went into Anselm’s church, supposedly to attend Mass. And Scothern knew Wat, was even the cause of Isobel making the alekeeper’s acquaintance when he ordered some of Agnes’ ale for the baron’s table. But it is hard to believe that he knew nothing of what Isobel had done.”

  “No, it is not,” Bascot objected. “You have seen for yourself that she is clever and has a consummate skill at hiding her emotions. Scothern is a simple soul, cautious of incurring his sister’s anger, and respectful of what he believed was her pious devotion. It would have been an easy matter for her to gull him, just as she gulled Philip de Kyme, and, indeed, the rest of us.”

  D’Arderon had left Bascot to go in search of a cup of ale to slake his thirst when Ernulf had joined the Templar, Gianni trailing behind him.

  “I’ve told Lady Nicolaa and the sheriff what happened in the chapel last night. And Lady Hilde, too. She had not yet been abed, but was sitting up waiting for news of how you fared. She said to tell you that your task was well done, and she would have speech with you later.”

  Bascot acknowledged the words, but was looking at Gianni. The boy was strangely subdued, staying near Ernulf and looking at his master with watchful eyes. Last night Bascot had only told the boy he had Templar business with d’Arderon, and that Gianni was to keep Hilde company for the night. The lad must have discovered where Bascot had really been from the speech of the adults around him, but instead of being relieved to see his master whole and sound, he seemed distrustful and suspicious of Bascot. The Templar sighed inwardly. Gianni was a child yet and, to his mind, his protector had lied to him. The boy saw it as a breach of trust between them
.

  Twenty-seven

  The tourney was to take place on a broad stretch of level ground outside the castle walls to the northwest. It was the place where, nearly sixty years before, King Stephen had defended his right to the crown of England against King Henry I’s daughter, the Empress Matilda. Bascot arrived just before Sext, in company with d’Arderon and two other knights of the Temple. There was a huge crowd gathered to watch the spectacle, many already seated under the trees that bordered the river on the far side, eating food they had brought with them and drinking from flasks of ale or wine.

  There was a good host of knights entered in the tourney, which was comprised of only one event, the melee, a mock battle between two opposing teams of knights. Although the entrance fee was steep, the purse for the winning side was a large one, and contestants had arrived not only from the area surrounding Lincoln, but from as far afield as London and York. The merchants of Lincoln had donated a bolt of cloth and a new saddle to be awarded to the knight declared champion of the tourney. These prizes were well worth fighting for, as was the ransom that a knight would collect from any opponent he unhorsed. Many a contestant would go home the poorer, not only for the loss of his entrance fee, but also his destrier and arms, given in pledge until he should pay the silver he owed to the knight who had captured him.