by S. D. Sykes
Chapter Seventeen
I was woken at first light by a thunderous bang at the door to our apartment. I rose quickly from bed, pulled on my cloak and opened the door, to be greeted by the ashen face of Alice Cross.
‘What is it?’ I said.
‘You must come quickly, my Lord,’ she replied. She was out of breath and could hardly speak. ‘It’s Lord Hesket. He’s dead.’ Before I could ask another question, she added, ‘He’s been murdered.’
For a moment I felt the blood rush from my head to my feet. ‘Where is he?’
‘In the stables.’
I stepped into the passageway and half closed the door behind me. ‘Does anybody else know about this?’ I asked her.
‘Only one of the maids,’ she answered. ‘The girl went to feed the horses this morning and she came across his body.’ She paused. ‘It’s a terrible sight, my Lord. Lord Hesket has been . . .’ She took a deep breath and put out an arm to lean upon the door frame. ‘His body has been sullied.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I cannot describe it,’ she replied. ‘You must come and see for yourself.’
I told her to wait in the passageway while I quickly dressed, deflecting Filomena’s stream of questions, as I pulled a thicker tunic over my head and then tightened my belt. ‘Just lock the door behind me,’ I told her. ‘Don’t open it to anybody.’
This advice did nothing to calm her. ‘What’s wrong, Oswald? I demand that you tell me the truth.’
‘Very well then, Filomena,’ I said. ‘Hesket is dead.’
My wife raised her hands to her mouth and gasped. ‘What?’ she said in disbelief. ‘Was he murdered?’
‘Just make sure to keep this door locked,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back shortly.’
I followed Alice Cross down the stairs, through the inner ward and then into the stables, but when our steward refused to go any further, I sidestepped the woman and entered the stall alone – peering past the horse that still occupied this stable, to see something propped up against the far wall. It was Hesket’s body – his head drooping to his chest, and his arms and legs splayed, so that he looked like an abandoned doll. Once again, I had the impression that the body had been arranged into a pose.
I approached, kneeling down to look into Hesket’s face. The sight that met my eyes was horrific. The killer had cut great swathes of skin from his scalp and scored his cheeks with the blade of a knife – though these injuries were only superficial and had not been the cause of his death. As I slipped my hand inside the loose neckline of his tunic to feel the temperature of his skin, I felt the wound that had really killed him. It was a slit across his throat – deep and cleanly cut. His death would have been instant and silent, for he would not have had the time to call out for help.
I was about to rise to my feet again, when I noticed that Hesket’s chemise was torn. Pulling back the cloth to investigate further, I then made another grisly discovery – the skin of his stomach had been skewered with an array of metal pins, as if he were a tailor’s pin-pillow.
I called out immediately to Alice Cross. ‘Please fetch Robert of Lyndham. Tell him to come without delay. And to bring his sword.’
She did as I asked for once, without a word of argument, soon returning with the knight, whose hair was dishevelled and face darkened with stubble. ‘Is it true?’ he asked me, as he hung back momentarily from the body.
‘Yes. Come and see,’ I said. ‘As long as you have a strong stomach.’
‘I’m a soldier, de Lacy,’ he reminded me – but even so, I think that the sight of Hesket’s mutilated face shocked the knight, for he took a deep breath and rubbed his hand about his mouth. A sure sign that he was distracting a churning stomach. ‘By the saints,’ he whispered. ‘Who would do such a thing?’
‘Take a look at this,’ I said, pulling back Hesket’s chemise, so that Lyndham could see the pins that punctured the dead man’s stomach.
Lyndham leant forward to view this new horror, before he turned his head back to mine, his handsome face now drained of colour. ‘The Dutch boy?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘This bears all the hallmarks of his butchery.’ I stood up. ‘So, come on. We need to find him.’
The castle was still silent, until we passed through the inner ward, scattering the brood of chickens that were gathering for their morning feed. They flew up in a noisy confusion, flapping their wings and cackling as if they were under attack. A pair of seagulls watched us from a windowsill – their screeches sounding like laughter at our expense. Perhaps they already knew what we would find when reaching the room where Pieter de Groot and his nephew slept. That Hans had fled.
De Groot could not explain his nephew’s disappearance, but still attempted to defend the boy against our accusations – arguing that Hans was only hiding himself away somewhere, due to the constant persecution he received at my hands. I almost congratulated de Groot for shielding Hans in the face of such damning incrimination as the tailor’s pins in Hesket’s stomach, but when I looked at the clockmaker, I also saw fear in his face. He might have protested Hans’s innocence, but I think he knew his nephew’s faults well enough. It’s why he always shouted so loudly in Hans’s defence.
Lyndham and I split up to search the castle – I took the cellars, while Lyndham took the four towers, entering every unlocked room and knocking on every closed door. The castle was now in uproar, as news of Hesket’s murder spread, which meant that everybody had joined us in the search – but after an hour of looking, we had found nothing. It seemed as if the Dutch boy had evaporated into thin air.
I was starting to think that Hans might no longer be inside the castle, so I climbed the stairs of the curtain wall to see if he had lowered himself from the parapet walk somehow. When I found no ropes attached to any of the crenellations, I thought again. Hans could not have descended from these heights without a rope, for the exterior masonry of the castle was deliberately smooth and slippery. Nevertheless, I walked the whole circuit of the parapet, looking down at the foot of the castle walls, to see if the Dutch boy had met his death in a failed escape. I saw nothing.
I met up with Lyndham again by the gatehouse. ‘So what should we do now?’ Lyndham asked me, as a note of deflation crept into his voice.
‘Have you seen Edwin of Eden yet?’ I asked, looking over at the other guests, who were now huddled together at the opposite end of the inner ward like a herd of wary sheep. Edwin was not among them.
‘No. He wouldn’t let me into his room,’ said Lyndham, a little uneasily. ‘I think he was still nursing a sore head, after all that drinking last night.’
‘Or Hans is in there with him,’ I said.
Lyndham was taken aback at this suggestion. ‘Why would Eden be hiding Hans?’
‘I have an idea,’ I said.
His eyes widened. ‘What is it?’
‘Just come with me, Lyndham. We need to speak to Edwin.’
Lyndham thumped on the door to Edwin’s bedchamber, until the man finally answered. We then rushed inside to look about for Hans, but the room was empty – Edwin’s only companion being the pungent stink that always lingered about this chamber like an old friend. This morning Edwin’s ratty scent was complemented by the bucket of piss and shit that was standing near to his bed.
Edwin grabbed me angrily. ‘What the hell are you doing in here, de Lacy?’ he said. ‘Get out.’
‘We’re looking for Hans,’ I said.
‘Hans? Why? He’s not in here.’
‘Hesket is dead,’ I told him. ‘He’s been murdered.’
‘What?’
‘I said Hesket has been murdered and Hans has disappeared.’
Edwin continued to squint at me, before my words finally appeared to make sense. He dropped his hands from my sleeve and then fell back onto his bed.
Wanting to speak privately to Edwin, I then asked Lyndham to leave the room – though my hope that Edwin would talk more freely to me if we were alone did not prove successful at
first, since he only grunted the most incoherent answers in response to all of my initial questions.
‘What exactly happened to Hesket?’ he asked me, in the end.
‘His throat was slit and his body was mutilated,’ I said.
‘Mutilated?’
‘Yes. The murderer sliced the skin from his scalp and stuck pins into his stomach.’
Edwin recoiled at this description. ‘What?’
‘Does that remind you of anything?’ I asked.
He gave a shrug in response. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said.
‘Yes, you do. It’s what Hans did to your uncle’s crow.’
Edwin stiffened. ‘Are you saying that the Dutchman killed Hesket?’ he said. ‘Why would he do that? They had no quarrel.’
‘But you had a quarrel with Hesket, didn’t you? And we both know that Hans will do your bidding for money.’
Edwin drew back. ‘Now wait a moment, de Lacy,’ he said, holding his hands aloft as if I were threatening him with a pike. ‘Don’t start that again. I’ve told you before. I would never pay Hans to kill somebody.’
‘But you did argue with Hesket last night, didn’t you?’
He was speechless for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but that was just a silly falling out.’
‘Oh, come on, Edwin,’ I said. ‘Hesket belittled you, Edwin. And then attacked you, in front of your own household.’
He paused, and let his hands drop. ‘That didn’t upset me,’ he lied. ‘You’re wrong about that.’
‘Where’s Hans?’ I said.
‘How should I know?’
‘He’s not in the castle.’
‘He must be.’
‘There’s another way out of here, isn’t there?’ I said. ‘Godfrey knew about it, and so do you.’
‘No there isn’t,’ he answered. ‘That’s nonsense.’ But it was too late. I had seen the telltale twitch in the corner of his eye. I knew that he was lying to me.
I strode back to the door and pulled the large key from the lock.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Edwin, chasing me across the room with a panicked expression on his face.
‘I’m making sure that you stay in here,’ I said, as I opened the door.
‘You can’t do that!’ he said. ‘This is my castle.’
I hesitated. ‘Tell me the truth about Hans, Edwin. And then I won’t lock this door.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he bleated. ‘I don’t know anything about any of this. You’ve got to believe me.’
‘But I don’t believe you,’ I said. ‘That’s the problem.’
He rushed forward to make his escape, but not before I had darted out into the passageway and pulled the door shut behind me.
Lyndham looked at me in surprise as I turned the key in the lock, whilst Edwin banged and kicked ferociously on the other side of the door. ‘Let me out of here,’ he shouted. ‘Hesket’s murder has nothing to do with me! Let me out, I tell you! This is my castle.’
Lyndham cocked his head. ‘What are you doing, de Lacy?’
‘I want to keep Edwin locked in this room for now,’ I told him.
‘Why?’
‘He knows something about Hesket’s murder,’ I said.
The knight narrowed his eyes. ‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you got any evidence against him?’ he asked.
‘Not yet.’
He lowered his chin and looked at me from beneath his eyebrows. ‘Then is it a good idea? This is his castle after all.’
‘Edwin of Eden is involved in this murder somehow,’ I said resolutely. ‘So he can stay in this room until he decides to tell me the truth.’
Lyndham was not going to give up that easily, however. ‘I would agree with you, de Lacy,’ he said, now whispering even though we were completely alone. ‘But—’
‘But what?’
He puffed his lips. ‘I’m not comfortable about locking him into this room.’
‘Why?’
He hesitated and then cleared his throat. ‘Edwin was right last night,’ he said.
‘Right about what?’
Lyndham wiped his forehead with uncharacteristic embarrassment. ‘When he said that I was paid by Godfrey to guard this castle.’ He paused. ‘You see, my own affairs have been a little difficult in recent years, so I often carry out such work for noble families. I don’t like asking for payment, of course. But I’m forced to.’ He gave a strained smile. ‘Because of my reduced circumstances.’
‘We must all earn a living somehow,’ I said blankly.
He frowned at my response. ‘You’re not understanding my point, de Lacy. Imagine how it will look for me if I’ve falsely imprisoned a nobleman? Especially as he’s a member of the family who engaged me in the first place. Who will ever want to retain me again?’
I put my hand onto Lyndham’s arm. ‘Just leave Edwin in there for now,’ I said. ‘It’s his bedchamber. Not a dungeon. I just want to give him some time to consider.’
‘Consider what?’
‘Telling me the truth.’
Lyndham heaved another long sigh. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘If that’s your decision.’
‘It is.’
‘And what now?’ asked Lyndham.
‘I’m going to speak to Hesket’s wife,’ I said.
His face brightened at last. ‘Would you like me to come along with you?’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘But I should go alone. It’s better if there’s just one of us.’ I could see that he was disappointed not to be included, so I quickly added, ‘But, you can help in another way.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Will you wrap Hesket’s body in some linen and then lift him into a coffin? Before his daughter sees what’s happened to his face.’
Lyndham took a deep breath. ‘Very well,’ he said with some hesitancy. ‘But where am I to find a coffin?’
‘There’s a whole collection of them in one of the cellars,’ I said. Lyndham looked surprised by this. ‘Godfrey was very thorough in his preparations,’ I told him. ‘Ask Alice Cross to show you the room.’
Lyndham bowed his head and rested his hand upon my upper arm, clutching it tightly, as a child might grip his mother. For a moment I wondered what he was going to say, before he dropped his hand. ‘Thank you, de Lacy,’ he said quietly. ‘These are dark days. I’m pleased you’re here.’
Chapter Eighteen
I was informed by Alice Cross that Lady Isobel had requested privacy following her husband’s murder, but I could not wait any longer to speak to the woman. Despite our steward’s vocal objections, I knocked at the door to the Heskets’ apartment and then entered without waiting to be called inside. Alice Cross followed me into the room, claiming that she needed to empty Lady Isobel’s chamber pot – refusing to leave this chore until later in the day.
We found Lady Isobel sitting in a chair near to a roaring fire. She neither acknowledged my entrance, nor that of Alice Cross. As I walked across the carpet, I realised that Hesket’s daughter, Lady Emma, was standing with her face to the wall, and did not turn to look at us – even when I placed my hand upon her tiny shoulder.
It was my interest in the girl that finally woke Lady Isobel from her reverie. ‘It’s no good trying to comfort Emma, Lord Somershill,’ she told me. ‘She won’t move.’
‘Does she understand what’s happened to her father?’ I asked.
‘I think so.’
I moved away from the girl, realising that my touch was only making her more anxious. ‘I would like to speak to you on your own, Lady Isobel,’ I said, turning to Alice Cross, who was still lingering in the pretence of clearing away the chamber pot. ‘Perhaps you would take Lady Emma to the inner ward, Mistress Cross,’ I said, ‘while I speak to Lady Isobel.’
Alice Cross bristled at this request. ‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
Lady Isobel looked up from the fire. ‘Please do as Lord Somershill asks, Mistress Cross,’ she said.
‘It would be very helpful.’ She then bestowed a rare but sorrowful smile upon our bad-tempered steward. ‘And I would appreciate it.’
Alice Cross was cornered by a lord and a grieving widow – a difficult position from which to refuse a polite request. She puffed her lips and scowled. ‘Very well then, my Lady,’ she said brusquely, before she approached Emma and pulled at her arm. ‘Right then, Emma,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to come with me.’ When the girl didn’t respond, she continued, ‘Now don’t be difficult. Your stepmother wants you to leave the room.’ Still no response. Alice Cross looked at me in despair, before she huffed and then turned back to the child. ‘Please come with me, Emma,’ she said, coating her voice in a softer tone. ‘There’s a good girl. We can watch the flames in the bread oven.’ She paused. ‘You know how much you like to watch the fire.’
It was this suggestion that finally persuaded the child to turn her face from the wall, and place her tiny hand into Alice Cross’s large palm. As she followed our steward across the carpet, she never once lifted her eyes to look at me or her stepmother.
Once I had closed the door on this pair, I joined Lady Isobel at the fireside, waiting for an invitation to take a seat. ‘I’m so sorry about your husband,’ I said, sitting down anyway, when the invitation didn’t arrive. ‘Lord Hesket was a good man.’
She nodded in response. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re right, Lord Somershill. He was a good man.’ She poured herself a goblet of wine from a delicate rock crystal jug. ‘I understand that you’ve seen my husband’s body,’ she said, before taking a long sip of the wine. ‘I’m told that he was . . .’ She paused for a moment. ‘Damaged.’
‘Lord Hesket’s death was quick,’ I said, clearing my throat. ‘The . . . damage was caused after his death. He wouldn’t have felt anything.’
‘That is a consolation at least,’ she muttered, before she took another sip. ‘When can we bury him?’
‘We should be able to do it later today.’
