“A personal slight, an accident – who knows? Maybe we should go to the tavern again and ask there; maybe meet up with Holcroft and see if a night in the clink has loosened friend Elias’ tongue.”
“Oh, I suppose so,” Baldwin grumbled. “If that pathetic damned cook would only speak, we could stop wasting our time. Why didn’t he just tell us what happened?”
They walked over to the women. Jeanne instantly turned to Baldwin questioningly. He shrugged apologetically as Simon explained, then added, “I think Simon is right – we should go and check on this.”
To his surprise, she nodded understandingly. “Of course you must.” He looked so chagrined at going, she wanted to give him a hug, like a mother cuddling a recalcitrant child. She gave him an encouraging smile instead. “It would be boring for you to trail after us anyway, going from stand to stand looking at clothes and boots. No, you both go, and we’ll see you later.”
Jeanne was no fool, she had seen the expression on Simon’s face as they were talking, and knew how shy the knight was. The bailiff had been ribbing him unmercifully, that she was sure of, so as they turned to leave, she called them back. “One moment, Simon – surely when your wife has so much to buy you wouldn’t leave her with only a little change? Your purse is full, and hers is almost empty – won’t you give her your money?”
Simon stared open-mouthed. “My money? But…” As Jeanne held her hand out he retreated, walking into the grinning Edgar, who quickly caught the bailiff’s arm and led him back. Under Jeanne’s firm gaze, he felt he had no choice but to untie his purse-strings and remove all the coins. “Don’t spend it all on sweetmeats,” he said gruffly, and jerked his arm free. “Come on, Baldwin. Let’s leave these beautiful thieves behind and seek a good, honest murderer.”
They left Hugh with the women, looking mutinous at the thought of the goods he would have to carry again, and walked away with Edgar, heading through the main gate and down to the market-place. Here Baldwin strode up to the cell’s window and peered in. He saw the cook huddled uncomfortably in the corner, wrapped in his thin and threadbare blanket, shivering.
Passing the market area, they had to push past the crowds which had already collected to watch the jugglers and acrobats. Minstrels were tuning their instruments, one woman singing in a high, nasal voice. Then, at the far end, they saw the friar.
Hugo was standing on a barrel to preach. “God teaches us that there is a fair price for everything, and it should be enough to allow a man a profit. But He teaches that if a man makes too much profit, that man is actively pursuing avarice, and that is a sin. That’s why our laws prevent you from hiring more staff than you need, or anything else that might give you an advantage over others in your trade. It is why you mustn’t overpraise your work to the detriment of that of other people.
“It is why usury is such a unique sin, for usury adds nothing to man’s well-being. Bankers add only to the misery of the world, because they lend money and charge interest on that money. What does that benefit mankind? If you are a cordwainer, you help us by making us shoes so that we can walk far without hurting our feet; if you are a cooper, you allow us to store our food and drink so that we don’t starve during the winter; if you are a weaver, you make cloth for us to clothe ourselves; if you are a farmer, you provide us with food that we might eat. But what do bankers do? They make nothing, provide nothing, add nothing to the good of men.”
Baldwin muttered, “He’d best be careful. We don’t want the rabble roused.”
“He knows what he’s doing – he’ll be on to why avarice is so bad soon. I’ve heard this kind of lecture before,” said Simon. “Come on, let’s get to the tavern.”
They passed on, and so missed the end of Hugo’s sermon. Later, Baldwin would come to regret that.
Inside the tavern there was a pleasant odor from a pottage cooking in a huge three-legged pot over the fire. The bailiff snuffed the air appreciatively. If he had not eaten before leaving the Abbey he would have demanded a bowl of the thick broth. As it was, he asked the serving girl to fetch ale for him and Edgar. Baldwin was not thirsty.
There was quite a crowd, with traders and buyers sitting and haggling over their deals, families taking their ease while their children ran about between the legs of farmers, merchants and tinners. Baldwin could see a group of watchmen in a corner, and he studied them with interest. One appeared to have hurt his arm, for it was held close to his body in a sling. Another was looking extremely pale and shaken.
“Simon, do you see those men?” Baldwin hissed.
The bailiff grunted. “What of them?”
“Margaret and Jeanne told us last night of the attack on the cloth merchant, don’t you remember? One man was left unconscious, another with his arm badly wrenched.”
“You think they’re the ones?”
“They look like them, don’t they? What are watchmen doing threatening traders in the fair?”
“If it is them, perhaps they had a good reason to… I don’t know, maybe they were collecting unpaid tolls.”
Baldwin gave an exasperated grunt. “Remember what Jeanne and Margaret said? Those men made no mention of tolls – they said they wanted to teach the stallholder English or some such nonsense. Anyway, it would be the port-reeve’s beadle who would go to collect money, not the watch. No, those men have been up to something.”
Agatha appeared with a jug and two large pots. She set them on the table, but before she could leave, Simon said, “Agatha, have you heard that we have arrested Elias?”
“Yes, and it seems about as stupid as everything else as far as I’m concerned.”
“Why?” Baldwin asked.
“Because he’s no killer. Elias is foolish sometimes, and he can be a right whining pest, but stabbing someone in the back? Never!”
“The evening Torre died, we know Holcroft was here, because Lizzie saw him waiting for her, so it’s not likely he could have killed Torre, no matter what the girl thinks.”
“What Lizzie thinks is her affair. I never thought the port-reeve was responsible.”
“But Elias was with this other man. How big was he – about Torre’s size?”
“Maybe.”
“You see, we think Elias would not have killed the man on his own, if he did have a part in Torre’s death. He and his friend left here together, according to you. At the worst, he killed Torre with an accomplice. We think it’s more likely than him stabbing Torre on his own.”
She shrugged. “That’s for you to find out.”
Baldwin leaned back and eyed her searchingly. “Agatha, how quickly did he come back into the tavern after walking out with his friend?”
“It was only a few minutes.”
“Are you quite sure? The killer of Torre would have needed plenty of time. Could you be mistaken? Could he have been out for a while?”
He waited expectantly, and let out a sigh of relief when she slowly shook her head. “No, I don’t think I made a mistake. He was only gone for a little bit.”
“So, Agatha, it’s possible that his friend was the man who undressed Torre and put his own clothes on the corpse. Would his clothes have fitted Torre, from what you saw?”
She again paused, holding his gaze, before giving a quick nod. “I suppose so.”
“Good. That being the case, we need to find Elias’ friend. It’s more than probable he was the killer.”
“Ask Elias.”
“We have, ” Simon protested wearily. “He won’t tell us.”
“Make him, then.”
Simon gritted his teeth. “Did you notice Torre argue with him?”
“With Elias’ mate? No, not at all.”
“But you did see Torre argue with others?”
“Oh, yes. He’d had a few ales, and he was in the mood for a fight.”
“Who did he fight with?”
Agatha said cheerily, “Everyone: he had a go at the monk, and David, and some strangers as they were leaving.”
“But not with El
ias or his friend?”
“No, not them.”
Baldwin was frowning at the alewife. “Mistress, we know there were others here that night. You mentioned a merchant. Do you know where he lives?”
“He’s over there if you want him.”
Following her pointing finger, Baldwin saw Arthur Pole sitting alone at a table. Before him was a pot of wine, and he was studying a sheet of paper. “Yes, I think we should speak to him now,” Baldwin said.
Arthur glanced up as they stood by him, and hearing who they were, he gestured to the bench opposite. “How can I help you, gentlemen?”
The knight thought him pompous. His dress was not overly showy, but the squirrel fur at his collar was a sign of his wealth. “Mr. Pole, we are trying to discover what happened on the night Roger Torre was murdered.”
“I thought you’d arrested someone for that.”
“We have a man in jail, but he is at best an accomplice, not the killer. We would like to know what you saw that night. What time did you arrive here?”
“It was a little before compline. The bell had not yet tolled when we entered.”
“How long did you stay?”
“Only a short time. We had been invited by a Venetian merchant whom we’d met on the journey into town.”
“Antonio da Cammino?”
“Yes,” Arthur confirmed sourly. “His son has formed an affection for my daughter. It is a problem, for both seem willful in this and I don’t know what to do for the best.”
Baldwin nodded. If Pietro was pining for a woman, that would explain his behavior in front of the Abbot. “When did they arrive?”
“They left before we arrived – which I must say was rude, bearing in mind they accepted my invitation.”
“Did they explain why they left?”
“No – but the alewife here told me it was because they were offended by a friar. I think it was likely the same friar who had preached at Antonio on our way in. You know what these mendicants can be like. Antonio was unlucky enough to be the target of this one’s speech, and I suppose seeing him in the tavern again was the last straw. He chose to leave before he could be publicly humiliated.”
“Did you see anyone arguing or fighting in here that night?”
“Nobody, no. It was quite late, and people were already beginning to settle for the night. Everyone was tired from travelling. Anyway, we left a little later ourselves.”
“Before the cook?”
Arthur shrugged. “I don’t know him. The only man I noticed walking out before me was the port-reeve. I don’t think anyone else did before us.”
“The dead man went from the tavern a little while after the compline bell rang. Did you hear it as well?”
Arthur hesitated. “I think I do remember it, yes. Oh, of course! It was when I heard it that I asked the alewife whether she had seen the Venetians. That was when she told me they had gone. So we finished our drinks and left.”
“You may well have left here before the dead man. I assume you know where the body was found, in the alley between the cookshop and the butcher’s. Did you see anything suspicious?”
“No. We only saw a monk on our way back.”
“A monk? Would you recognize him again?”
“No, he had his hood up, covering his face. All I know is, he was coming out of the alley as we emerged from the tavern, and as we passed him, we all gave him a polite greeting.”
Baldwin leaned forward. “Did he look large in body? Was he well-built?”
“Oh no, he was quite slight. Not a large man at all. And now you must excuse me. I have to go and – er – see my groom.”
Simon watched him walk to the door. “His groom?”
“I wonder if the port-reeve can corroborate Pole’s words,” Baldwin said.
“If you want to ask him, he’s just walked in.”
Looking up, Baldwin saw the cheerful figure of the port-reeve at the door. Holcroft glanced around the room, and seeing the bailiff and his friend, he walked over to them. “A good morning, sirs.”
“How are you, port-reeve?” Simon asked.
“Rushed off my feet. I’ve left the fair to get a few minutes’ peace – it’s mayhem up there – but apart from that, I am very well.”
Simon felt his eyebrows rise at the enthusiasm of the man. Holcroft could almost be a different person from the one who had ducked under Lizzie’s pot.
Seeing his expression, the port-reeve explained. “My wife – I told you she has been reserved for some weeks – well, now I know why! I had to tell her about Lizzie before it got back to her from one of her friends, and she was very understanding. She’s only been behaving like this because she’s pregnant again, and it was worrying her. Now she’s herself once more, and I can’t tell you how much better my household is!”
“I am glad to hear it, port-reeve,” Baldwin smiled. “By the way, tell me: those men – they are watchmen, aren’t they?”
Holcroft sat beside Edgar. Following Baldwin’s look, he found himself peering at Long Jack. “Yes,” he said, adding resignedly, “what have they been up to now?”
“They’ve been brought to your attention before?” asked Simon.
“Those buggers are brought to the port-reeve’s attention every year. There’s nothing they could get up to would surprise me.”
“I see,” Baldwin murmured with interest. Then, “David, we are sure Elias wasn’t the murderer. If he had something to do with it, he was not alone. Elias is shielding someone, and we need to find out who and why. Did you recognize the man he was drinking with?”
“I hardly even noticed him. I was talking to Torre.”
Baldwin moved his stool so that he could lean back against the wall, and thrust his hands into his belt. “Torre came close to blows with the Venetians staying with the Abbot…”
“With the son, anyway,” Holcroft corrected.
“Thank you. As you say, with young Pietro. Then he tried to pick a fight with a monk, and finally he argued with you. At the same time, he was angry with the Abbot.”
“You’re not suggesting that the Abbot might have had something to do with his death?” Holcroft asked, appalled.
“Hmm? Oh no, of course not,” Baldwin said. A devil made him add: “But I suppose the possibility should not be ignored.”
Simon tried unsuccessfully to prevent a grin. “But we also have the curious treatment of the body.”
“Ignore that. Once we know who wanted Torre dead, we can look at why the killer mutilated him. The trouble is,” he went on, shaking his head, “there really doesn’t seem to be a serious motive for murdering the man. Not from all we’ve so far discovered. We must be missing something.”
“What has Elias said?” Holcroft asked.
“Nothing yet,” Baldwin said heavily. “We’ll see him again shortly, but he seems intent on martyrdom. You know him, Holcroft. He is a widower, you said, so scandal couldn’t be at the bottom of it – he is not trying to protect his wife. Is he the sort of man to have a secret that could embarrass any family he has still living? Has he something hidden in his past that could ruin his reputation?”
“Elias? No, he’s not imaginative enough.”
“And what could be worse than being hanged as a murderer?” Simon said with disbelief.
“You are quite right,” said Baldwin, shaking his head with disgust. “But why should he let himself be hanged without bothering to defend himself? There must be a reason!”
As he spoke he saw the four men in the corner rise and make their way across the room. The knight watched them idly. They looked like ordinary watchmen, except they had an extra hardness about them. To a man who had fought in the wars against the Saracens, it was easy to recognize the latent violence that lurked in their powerful arms and forbidding features. One of them, who was shorter than the others, with light brown hair and a face burned brown by wind and sun, held his eyes with an unmistakeably threatening stare as he approached the doorway. Edgar, seeing the fixed expr
ession on his master’s face, turned in his seat and followed Baldwin’s look. The watchman gave him a malevolent leer before traipsing out after his colleagues.
Holcroft was happily sipping his ale, his mind clearly back at his home with his wife. Baldwin nudged him. “Those watchmen – there was some trouble at the fair yesterday.” He explained about the attack on Lybbe.
“I wouldn’t be surprised at all if it was something to do with those buggers. They always charge protection money from the stallholders, but no one will ever point the finger. If someone has been able to turn the tables on them, so much the better. Maybe in future they’ll behave.”
“I doubt it,” Baldwin said, thinking of the mindless cruelty he had observed in the ruthless dark eyes of the last man to go out.
17
Leaving Holcroft to finish his drink, the two friends left the tavern and walked back up the hill to the jail. They skirted the market square, keeping away from the crowds which thronged the streets.
At the clink was a watchman, sitting on a three-legged stool, gripping a polearm and wearily resting his head on his forearms. When he looked up, Baldwin saw that it was the same guard who had helped them find the head.
“Daniel, we want to talk to the prisoner. Release him.” Standing stiffly, the watchman walked to the door. Baldwin gave him a sympathetic look. “Have you been here all night?”
“No, sir. That was Long Jack. I took over at dawn. But the town is so full, the only room I could get was in an alehouse, and that on the floor.” He rubbed at his back bitterly. “There were drinkers there all night, and I hardly got any sleep.” He unlocked the door and released a blinking, cold Elias into the sunlight.
“Elias, we want to ask you some more questions about what happened at the tavern on the night Torre was killed,” Simon said.
The cook walked determinedly to a patch of bright sunlight at a wall, leaning against it and enjoying the warmth like a hound in the sun. Baldwin took up his station at one side while Simon stood before the little man.
“Elias, who were you drinking with that night?”
“I’ve answered all the questions I’m going to.”
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