by E. M. Powell
He set off, forcing his tired legs to move as quickly as possible.
Before he turned the corner, he took a last glance back.
Agnes stood, her back to the body of her betrothed, staring silently out over the pond.
Stanton shook his head. A horrible tragedy for her so soon after her father’s murder.
At least Stanton had been with her. Otherwise, she’d have found the body on her own. Maybe his day hadn’t been such a waste after all.
He needed to alert Barling. At once.
Chapter Seventeen
Barling had known that asking questions of Sir Reginald Edgar was going to be problematic. What he had not appreciated was precisely how problematic.
First, the lord had not appeared out of bed for the entire morning. Nor the early afternoon.
Barling’s earliest enquiry of the servants as to what time their lord might arise had been met with the response ‘Well past Terce,’ a time Barling believed to be disgracefully late as it was.
Their reaction had been one of surprise – surprise that Barling would even consider seeing Sir Reginald at such an hour.
For, it would seem, Edgar loved his bed almost as much as he loved his wine. His love of wine being, quite literally, beyond measure meant that Edgar’s attachment to his bed approximated that of a limpet to a rock.
The servants did not neglect Barling. Not in the least. But his irritation with them grew as the sun rose to its height in yet another cloudless sky. Grew still further as it began its long, slow descent once more and still Edgar had not appeared. He did not require bread, nor ale, nor cheese.
What he required was Sir Reginald Edgar.
He was sorely tempted to ask the servants why, if they had so much spare time, the hall was in such disarray. Daylight had brought an even more unforgiving eye on the contents of the hall. Dirty rushes were scattered with bits of food and discarded bones. A torn tapestry hung off one wall. Knife marks scarred the tabletop. While the padded chair he sat in was reasonably comfortable, its tapestry cover was full of holes and shiny with grease.
With his papers spread before him, Barling whiled away the time by reading one of his law tracts. Under normal circumstances, this would have given him the greatest of pleasure. But in these circumstances it was not even tolerable. For the joy of reading the law was to lose oneself in it, to apply one’s full concentration to its complexity, its detail. Thinking that every footstep, every door opening might be Edgar, breaking off to check and then find yet again it was not, meant Barling ended up rereading through the same few pages in frustrating repetition.
When one of the finer points of inheritance claims was quite spoiled by an enquiry about an apple, Barling rose to his feet, about to go and sit in the lord’s solar if need be.
Then Edgar walked in, wearing a loose, grubby tunic over his linens. ‘Barling,’ he said. ‘Sit, sit. No need to get up.’ The lord already had a goblet in his hand.
Barling sat back down. He should be pleased, or at least relieved, that Edgar had finally appeared. Not so. As well as the goblet, Edgar still wore the swollen face and high colour of last night’s excess at the table. ‘I trust you have slept well.’
Edgar placed the goblet on the table and flung himself into a chair opposite Barling. ‘As well as can be expected.’ He stretched, grimaced. ‘I swear that long journey yesterday made me ill.’ He brought a hand to the top of his head. Grimaced again. ‘The sun on my head all day. It beats like a drum. You know how it can be.’
‘Indeed I do.’ Barling did, though he did not mean the sun. He’d not touched wine, the real source of Edgar’s bad head, for many years, but he recalled full well how it could leave one pleading for dark and quiet. And more. ‘Yet I hope that you are sufficiently well to answer my questions.’
A couple of servants hurried in, slovenly as their lord, bearing trays of bread, fruit and meats. Another bore a large chipped jug of wine.
‘Questions about what?’ Edgar rubbed his forehead with a meaty hand.
The servants set about laying their items in front of Edgar.
‘The murder of Geoffrey Smith. As I said I would do.’
Edgar rolled his bloodshot eyes, ignoring the servants as they finished with quick bows and left. ‘I already answered your friends in York, Barling.’
Barling’s mouth tightened at the casual description of the King’s esteemed justices. He would not respond lest he get deflected. ‘I fully appreciate that, Edgar. But’ – he gestured to his papers – ‘I need to have the full record. For completeness.’
Edgar grunted, stabbing at a large piece of venison with his eating knife. ‘Go on, then.’
‘Firstly, I have already written up everything you said to the justices in York.’
‘When?’ Edgar stared at him, chewing. ‘On the back of the horse yesterday?’
‘No, last night. In my solar.’
‘That was a jest, Barling.’ Edgar reached for his goblet.
‘Ah, of course it was.’ Barling decided not to trouble himself with a laugh as Edgar drained his wine. ‘So I have a record of what you said before de Glanville and his fellow justices.’
‘Good.’ Edgar reached for the jug and poured a fresh cup.
‘Do you have any idea why Lindley would want Geoffrey Smith dead?’
‘No.’ He drank deep.
‘What kind of a man was Geoffrey Smith?’
‘What do you think?’ He filled another cup as he spoke. ‘He worked the forge, shoed my horses. Made and mended my ploughshares and my tools and knives. Did the same for other people, rich and poor. We all need iron.’ He belched. ‘Even you. Like for your ordeal.’
Barling itched to berate the lord for his rude, unhelpful reply. But it would not help matters. ‘I mean more, what manner of a man was he?’
‘A freeman.’ Edgar shrugged. ‘Always paid his rent on time.’ Drank again.
‘I mean rather his temperament. Was he a man who favoured strife? Or was he one that lived in harmony with his fellow man?’
‘He seemed pleasant enough. Not a troublemaker, at least not to me. I never heard that he was.’ Edgar shrugged. ‘Beyond that, who knows?’
‘Would Lindley have had any reason to attack him?’
‘How should I know what’s in Timothy Lindley’s head?’
‘Nicholas.’
‘Eh?’
‘The outlaw’s name is Nicholas. Nicholas Lindley. Not Timothy.’
Edgar rolled his eyes. ‘Timothy, Nicholas. Whatever the man’s name is.’
Barling tried to get him back on track. ‘Can you think of any reason why Lindley would murder your smith? And in so brutal a manner?’
‘It was brutal, you know.’ Edgar sucked down another deep draught, then gave a sage nod.
Barling’s knuckles tightened. ‘Yes, you said.’
The man rapidly was getting drunk again. If he ever truly sobered. Barling was beginning to understand only too clearly why the hall was in such poor order. Edgar had given himself over completely to the sin of gluttony, caring for wine and food and nothing else.
‘Brutal!’ said Edgar. ‘That’s why we need to get rid of him soon as we can.’ He reached for the jug again, much cheerier in his look. ‘Like I said in York. Justice should be swift. Strong as well. I even think—’
A commotion came from the door.
‘What in God’s blood is that?’ said Edgar.
‘Barling, where’s Barling?’ came Stanton’s voice, raised in his agitation. ‘I need to find the King’s clerk. Now.’
He appeared at the door, breathless, dishevelled.
Barling frowned. ‘Stanton, what on earth—?’
‘Sir, there’s been a horrible accident. Bartholomew Theaker has drowned.’
Chapter Eighteen
The progress to the reed bed was slower than Barling would have liked. He was only too aware that his own pace was nowhere as swift as Stanton’s. And as always with those of younger years, Stanton seemed less b
othered by the searing summer heat. Barling’s entire body was coated with sweat, and he had to wipe at his face repeatedly with his kerchief.
At least his complete humiliation was saved by two things.
First, a couple of servants accompanied them as well, leading a placid horse that drew a cart for transporting Theaker’s body. The bumpy track limited their speed.
Second, Sir Reginald Edgar had climbed into the cart, loudly proclaiming he had to do so because of the heat.
Barling doubted anyone would notice his own lack of pace in such circumstances. He had tried to leave the nuisance behind at the hall, but Edgar had insisted.
‘It’s just here, sir.’ Stanton pointed ahead.
They rounded the corner and the whole sorry tableau came into view, lit by the setting sun.
Theaker, on the ground, his large limbs in the contortions of death.
Agnes stood near the body. But not with it.
‘You have come for my betrothed,’ said Agnes. ‘Thank you.’
Dry-eyed, noted Barling. The girl would naturally be very shocked. Upset. Yet while her appearance would suggest the former, it did not convey the latter.
The servants with the cart stopped at a respectful distance, crossing themselves at the sight as Edgar clambered out in clumsy movements.
‘God’s eyes.’ Edgar stared at the corpse but made no move towards it. He clicked his fingers to the servants. ‘Get Theaker on the cart.’
‘Wait.’ Barling raised a hand, halting them. ‘I wish to examine the body first.’ He matched his steps with his actions, ignoring Edgar’s stream of enquiries. He knelt down on the coarse, boggy grass. The flies had already found Theaker, and Barling swatted at them to no avail as he examined the blood-suffused face of the dead man.
He looked up to where Stanton stood nearby. ‘You say he was face down in the water, Stanton?’
‘He was, yes. Right next to where he lies. Agnes and I moved him to see if we might have saved him, turned him over.’ Stanton glanced over to the girl for confirmation, but she didn’t respond. ‘But it was far too late.’
‘I see.’ Barling’s gaze went to the pond’s edge, then moved along the dead man, finishing at his feet. He beckoned to Stanton and the servants. ‘Help me turn him over again.’
They did as ordered, though with expressions of surprise.
Edgar hung back. ‘Have you lost your mind, Barling?’
Barling ignored him, concentrating on easing Theaker’s hooded jerkin away from the back of his neck. And there he found what he suspected. So much for Edgar’s prating on about how murder was the rarest occurrence in this place. ‘Theaker’s drowning has been no accident. He has been murdered.’
‘What?’ Edgar’s roar drowned out the other exclamations of shock. The lord marched over. ‘What are you talking about? This is nonsense, utter nonsense.’
‘I offer you my sympathies, Agnes, on this terrible loss,’ said Barling.
She had her hand to her mouth, staring. Still she had no tears.
‘Barling,’ began Edgar, ‘I suggest you explain your wild imaginings—’
‘Look.’ Barling indicated the row of bruises on the back of Theaker’s neck. ‘Finger marks. Somebody held him down in the water.’
‘Could those not be from before?’ came Stanton’s question. A considered one from the young man, surprising Barling.
‘A remote possibility,’ replied Barling. ‘But look at the ground around his feet. It is kicked up in new clods. If Theaker had simply fallen or collapsed, the ground would not be churned up so. Theaker was engaged in a mighty struggle with the hand that held him under the water.’
Stanton nodded, his gaze still travelling over the scene as described by Barling.
Barling stood up, brushing off his hands from the unpleasant but necessary task.
Interesting. Stanton was paying very close attention.
Edgar was not. ‘So who did this wicked act?’ Questions, nonsense poured forth from the lord. ‘Did anybody see it? God’s eyes, this is an abomination! Was anybody here at the time? Theaker, imagine. Agnes, you’ll be faint, won’t you?’
Barling did not think for one moment that Agnes looked faint. She was far calmer than Edgar, who was still going. ‘Who would think to do such a thing? Unless it was an accident. Might easily have been—’
‘Edgar, Bartholomew Theaker was the thatcher of this village, was he not?’ asked Barling.
‘Why?’ Edgar glowered at Barling. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘It has to do with order. I want to record that I have the correct name and the correct person.’
‘It’s Theaker!’ Edgar flung his hands up. ‘My thatcher!’
‘But his murder is now under my area of authority,’ said Barling. ‘I want to make sure I have his details recorded properly.’
‘But you’re here about Lindley, Barling. That’s all!’
Barling had to hold his tongue. At least for now. Edgar’s knowledge and administration of matters of the law were an astonishingly incompetent tangle. If the man was representative of how the law was applied across the country, no wonder the King had decided to impose uniformity and order. ‘Agnes, you need to stay with Sir Reginald’s servants while they move the body and go back to the lord’s hall with them.’
She opened her mouth to protest, but Barling cut across her. ‘No arguments. It is not safe to stay out here on your own. Stanton, I need you with me.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Stanton.
‘Where are you going, Barling?’ said Edgar.
‘I want to go to the gaol and speak to Nicholas Lindley.’
‘Lindley?’ Edgar scowled anew. ‘Why?’
‘Because he is already under suspicion for one murder. Now that there has been a second, a mere eleven days later, after none in living memory, there is the strongest possibility that the two are linked somehow.’
‘I have rarely heard such bilge water. We need to hunt for this new killer. Immediately!’
‘It is not bilge water.’ He could not resist a small barb. ‘It is how one investigates such matters, Edgar. Properly. Yet you are quite right about the hue and cry. Can I leave that in your capable hands?’ A second barb.
The barbs landed. Edgar gave a snort of disgust. ‘I still know more about this place than you, Barling. I am coming with you. I can spread the hue and cry as we go. Then lead me to my own gaol, why don’t you?’
Barling did not respond as he set off. The lord was a complete oaf. He would make it his business to instruct him in matters of law for as long as he remained here, though it would likely be a thankless and ultimately futile task. ‘Now come, Stanton.’
As they walked through the village to the gaol, the cries and laments for the murdered Theaker filled the cooling evening air as Edgar spread the news. People hurried from door to door with the shocking tidings, some appealing to Edgar, who did not hesitate to confirm it over and over, giving his answers with apparent relish as his pace slackened.
To one man: ‘It’s true. Theaker’s dead. Murdered! A terrible act.’
To another: ‘No, I cannot stop. But yes, Theaker’s been murdered.’
To a knot of gossiping women at the well: ‘The King’s man has important work to do. No, not at the reed pond. Theaker was murdered there. But I have to go to the gaol. On the orders of the King’s man, you understand.’
Barling would not slow a single step. ‘Keep up, Stanton.’
‘Sir.’ Stanton hurried alongside him.
Barling would not respond to Edgar’s crude public jibes, either. For they pleased him, showing him that Edgar was acknowledging his authority. Showing him also how annoyed the boorish Edgar was by that. Barling allowed himself a little smile. It was down to Edgar’s lack of competence that he, Barling, had had to leave the court for the churn and chaos of Edgar’s lands. Bringing Edgar to heel with order gave him a deep satisfaction.
They had reached the gaol.
‘The key please
, Edgar,’ said Barling. ‘I pray your sun-sore head has not had you forget it.’
‘I haven’t forgotten what a waste of time this is,’ said Edgar, producing the key on a belt loop.
‘I hope you will see in due course, my lord, that an ordered approach is never a waste of time.’ Barling nodded to Stanton. ‘Be ready to escort Lindley elsewhere if need be.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Edgar banged on the door. ‘Back, Lindley! Stay away from the door.’
Barling folded his hands, his first questions for the outlaw ready in his mind.
Edgar unlocked the door and wrenched it open.
Stanton gasped.
And every single question deserted Barling.
For the gaol sat empty. Deserted.
Nicholas Lindley was gone.
Chapter Nineteen
It can’t be. It simply can’t be.
Stanton willed the sight to change. The small window gaped, bare of its iron bars, the stone surround hacked in the fresh cuts that had freed them. But it didn’t change. Broken stone, scattered metal. An empty gaol. And the bellow of rage from Edgar told him it wasn’t going to.
‘What?’ The lord’s voice echoed in the small, stale room. ‘What in the name of Christendom has happened?’
‘It would appear’ – Barling moved to the window, his tone calm but clipped – ‘that Lindley has escaped.’ He leaned out through the window.
‘I can see that!’ Another roar. ‘God’s blood, I can see it!’
Blood. Like the blood of Bartholomew Theaker, pooling in his dead face to give it a hideous, darkened hue. The heat of shame prickled every inch of Stanton’s body. He’d been shocked when Barling had established that the luckless Theaker had been murdered. Yet relieved too. Relief that he, Stanton, had spoken up for a wrongly accused man, just as he had before. Lindley’s pleas had been the truth. But now? Dread close to sickness gathered in his guts.
Barling drew his head back from the damaged window and looked at him. ‘Push that door open as wide as you can.’
Stanton went to comply, but Edgar shoved past him and booted the door so hard it bounced on its hinges. ‘There! Is that open enough for you? Would you also like me to remove the roof?’
