Ordeal by Fire

by Sarah Hawkswood

  Chapter Four

  Serjeant Catchpoll was supervising the sharpening of blades on a whetstone in the bailey when Hugh Bradecote and the returning messenger trotted into the castle. Only when he drew close did the serjeant see the difference in the undersheriff, and his eyes narrowed. The man was sallow, and hollow of eye and cheek. He wondered at first if he had been ailing and had come from his sickbed. He nodded in acknowledgement of his superior.

  ‘My lord.’

  ‘Catchpoll.’ There was no emotion in the voice, though it was strong enough.

  ‘It’s sorry I am to bring you in, my lord, but the lord sheriff is laid up on one of his manors, and the situation here needs delicate handling. If it is all mischance then the folk need someone in authority to convince them, and if it’s malice … well, then we are in for a right time of it.’

  ‘You can explain fully when I have seen the castellan and eaten.’ Bradecote dismounted and gave his horse into the care of a waiting groom. His tone was matter-of-fact, even dismissive. Catchpoll ground his teeth.

  The messenger was leading his own mount away, and saw Catchpoll’s expression. ‘S’pose you ought to make allowances for him being a cheerless bastard. He buried his lady a week or so back, and has a squalling babe in his hall. His people said he’s barely slept since.’

  Catchpoll merely grunted, not wishing to show any obvious interest in this information, but it made a difference.

  The hall of the castle was not a place to share confidences, being both busy and noisy during meals. Catchpoll watched Bradecote, with the castellan spouting at length on his trials and tribulations, including the threat of an unsettled populace. When the meal was drawing to a close the serjeant took pity on the undersheriff and approached the dais. He requested Bradecote’s attention with unusual politeness, though the castellan tried to wave him away. Bradecote was keen to make his escape, and would not delay the conference with the serjeant. He willingly assented to Catchpoll’s idea that they should discuss matters in private, and left the hall with no small degree of relief.

  ‘How does the sheriff put up with him? He’d drive a saint to murder.’ There was weariness in his voice and he dragged his long fingers through his hair.

  Catchpoll grinned. ‘He does what he does best: he shouts loudly and listens not at all. It’s not easy when the pair are in residence. The Earl Waleran made the lord sheriff his constable when they found themselves both supporting the Empress, and “suggested” the lord Furnaux as his deputy. It does not matter to Earl Waleran that the man is as much use as a shrivelled pizzle, since he is mostly concerned with his lands abroad these days. Of course, the lord Furnaux leaves off the “deputy”. Would have mattered in the past, him being useless, but less so now. Earl Robert of Gloucester ain’t likely to want to burn us out now that my lord sheriff is also for the Empress Maud.’

  Bradecote smiled, though it was both brief and weak, and it did not touch the blue-grey eyes.

  ‘Now you can tell me exactly why it is that you feel the need to call me in. I thought you preferred to hunt alone.’

  ‘What “I wants” don’t come into it on this occasion. There was a fire ’bout a week ago, in a silversmith’s shop. Fires happen, and not as rarely as you’d think, but this one had a suspicion of being started with intention. It was only a suspicion, mind, and after some digging, it seemed not worth making too much of. Then, this night last, there was another fire, a bigger one this time, and with a death. It might be just mischance, them being so close together, but the townsmen are rattled. If there’s another, heaven forbid, we’ll have the burgesses in uproar and foolish women in every street crying out at the lighting of a lamp. So we needs to be seen to be doing something, and it will be up to you to placate ’em all if things get difficult.’

  ‘Ah. So we don’t know if there has been a crime at all?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘And even if one or both are the work of a fire-raiser, we don’t know of any connection?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘I see. Well, I am not familiar with the town, so I am at a disadvantage to start with. I suggest that tomorrow morning you take me around and show me where the fires were, and we can speak to the people involved. Um … how exactly do you hunt down the culprit in a case like this?’

  ‘Not sure yet, my lord. Never had to do it before. Catching them with a lighted torch would help, but otherwise …’ He shook his head, grimacing, and Bradecote echoed the expression. ‘Get yourself a good night’s sleep then, my lord, and we’ll get going tomorrow.’

  No mention had been made of Bradecote’s loss. Catchpoll turned away, and did not see the look on Bradecote’s face alter. ‘A good night’s sleep’ sounded like an impossible dream.

  The morning brought a soft drizzle, and the sheriff’s pair set out early. Catchpoll cast his superior a sidelong glance. His instruction of the evening before had clearly not been followed; the shadows under Hugh Bradecote’s eyes were as deep as ever.

  They headed first for the site of the silversmith’s shop. Reginald Ash had wares laid out at the front of his premises and was actively seeking purchasers. He was by nature a craftsman who let his workmanship do the selling, and his efforts as a salesman would have been put to shame by any market stallholder. Nevertheless, when serjeant and undersheriff approached, he greeted them without a long face or complaining tone.

  ‘I have been very fortunate, in the circumstances. I still have work to sell and have raised both money and bartered work for it. There’s a man out the back sorting the thatch, and I gave the builder a cunningly wrought ring and a torque for his young wife. It’s glad I am he is new wed and keen to please her. Members of the craft have been generous too, lending any spare tools to aid me. I reckon I will be back in business proper by Michaelmas.’

  ‘I would like to show the lord undersheriff where the fire started, Master Ash. Is your journeyman at hand?’

  ‘Aye, he’s assisting the thatcher. It don’t take two of us to sell, and I don’t fancy working with the roof going back on above me. You take a look, my lord.’ Master Ash made obeisance to Bradecote.

  The silversmith waved them into the back of the premises, and turned his attention to a well-dressed young matron who was examining a cloak brooch.

  Behind the shopfront the extent of the damage was visible both in the blackened beams and freshly whitened walls. The beams themselves had merely suffered exterior charring and were sound enough, although the inside of the premises would smell of charcoal, above that used by the smith, for months yet. The workshop area occupied the rear portion of the front chamber opening onto the street. It was here that the smith had his little furnace. To the rear was a door into the living chamber behind, with a ladder up to a small loft beneath the eaves, perhaps half the size of the area below. The hearth was near the division of the front and rear chambers, giving the maximum room between fire and thatch. There was a low back door, leading out to a midden and cramped yard. It was here that they found Edwin the journeyman handing up the straw to the thatcher. When he became aware of them he abandoned this task, and, rubbing the crick in his neck, asked how he could help.

  There was not much to be gleaned that Catchpoll did not already know. Edwin pointed out where he had first seen the flames, which was some way from the hearth. If he was right, then it could not have started with an untended cook-pot. What Catchpoll had not seen on that first visit after the fire was the little wicket gate at the back of the yard. He and Bradecote exchanged glances, and Catchpoll went out to see where it led. Meanwhile, Bradecote bethought himself of the thatcher and called up to him. He himself had no knowledge of the material involved and how easily it caught light, or how swiftly a fire would take hold. After shouting up his questions, he was pleased that the thatcher came down his ladder and saved him Edwin’s discomfort.

  ‘When thatch catches, it burns fierce, my lord, but it isn’t like tinder, not unless the weather’s been unseasonably dry. This summer has
given us enough rain to keep the outer layer damp half the time. A stray spark drifting up from a hearth wouldn’t be likely to do harm, and besides, this roof burnt from this edge, and probably this corner, towards the front.’

  Bradecote was stunned. He had not thought it would be possible to tell such a thing.

  ‘But how can you know?’

  The thatcher smiled; it was the smile of the expert faced with the ignorant public.

  ‘Easy enough, my lord. When I first came to look at the job you could see the thatch pulled down from the front of the place, which hadn’t caught. The neighbours worked quickly, and dragged down more from the right side than the left. Much of that I could use again, and did so to give Master Ash a decent place from which to sell. The flames did not take, I should guess, to the front third, and, mark you, for this is important, there was less damage on the side where the hearth is set. If it had been a cooking fire, well then, the flames would have eaten away from the middle and the only salvaged thatch would be round the edge, like a priest’s tonsure.’

  He laughed at his mild wit, and Bradecote responded likewise, grateful for the information.

  ‘If you had to start a fire in the thatch, how would you do it, Master Thatcher?’

  The thatcher looked momentarily horrified, though Bradecote could not decide whether from fear of being suspected or revulsion that one of his trade could perform such an act of destruction. Then his features eased. ‘I understand, my lord. Well, you couldn’t just use tinder, a feather stick or such rammed in the thatch; it is too dense. No, I would light a fire beneath that would heat up the thatch to catching point and then … whoosh. It would give me time to escape as well.’

  Bradecote nodded. What the thatcher said was very true. Assuming that the silversmith and his journeyman would be busy in the workshop, anyone entering the rear of the building could have climbed to the loft and set a fire going where the eaves met the boards. He thanked the thatcher for his assistance, and complimented him on his work. He then turned, in time to see Catchpoll come back through the wicket gate. The serjeant’s expression was glum. Edwin cleared his throat, unsure as to whether he was still required or could go back to his task. Bradecote only had one question for him, and one that was simple to answer. With a small obeisance, the journeyman left the two sheriff’s officers to discuss matters between themselves in low tones.

  ‘The gate leads onto an alley, which runs behind all these plots right up towards St Andrew’s, and with several side turnings onto the frontages. One comes out almost next door, right by where the lean-to was pulled down. Anyone could have used it unbeknownst.’ Catchpoll pulled a face indicative of how fate had given them poor fare.

  ‘But they would have to have knowledge of it. We can at least discount an outsider. Whoever set this fire knows Worcester.’

  ‘That’s good, then. And just how many hundreds does that narrow it down to, my lord?’ Catchpoll sneered. He remembered just how irritating it was to have a ‘superior’ amateur teaching him his business.

  Bradecote did not rise to the bait. His mind was trying to sort out all the information he had received into a semblance of order. When he spoke again, it was almost to himself.

  ‘The journeyman slept in the loft space and had a palliasse there. Lighting that would be easy enough, and give time for the fire-setter to withdraw before the thatch reached the point of catching. It is possible that they simply took a good opportunity, but I would guess that they knew about the loft and sleeping arrangements. We should ask Master Ash who has been into his back chamber.’

  Catchpoll gave his grudging agreement, but did not think much would be gained. He was right. Master Ash could name few who had entered the private part of the premises.

  ‘There’s the girl who cooks, of course, and I have had other smiths in of an evening, on Holy Days and such.’ He grinned. ‘And I dare swear that Edwin’s wench, young Winflaed, has seen more of that loft than anyone else, aye, and been looking up at the thatch too.’ He laughed, but then grew serious. ‘I’d be hard-pushed to see any of them being involved in my fire.’

  Bradecote noted the proprietorial term. Now the fire and its ravages had been overcome, and life looked set to recover, the master silversmith seemed to have relaxed, as if the fire were a contagion, that if survived, granted immunity thereafter.

  There was no more to be gleaned from the silversmith’s, and so serjeant and undersheriff made their way to the site of the second fire. Here the devastation was but a couple of days old, raw and rank; a wound upon the town. Those who passed by the blackened wreck of what had been the old widow’s dwelling shook their heads and crossed themselves.

  The glover was gone, but there were two labourers clearing the ground where his shop had stood, making ready for a new construction, and another on the site of the woodyard. A fourth man, who seemed less inclined to dirty his hands and more inclined to instruct, was in heated conversation with a harassed-looking woman with two small children clinging at her skirts.

  ‘I know that face,’ muttered Catchpoll to Bradecote, his lips barely moving. ‘He’s Turgis, a bully boy in the employ of Robert Mercet, who has a tidy holding in the town. Not a pleasant character.’

  ‘Master or man?’

  ‘Well, neither really. Come from the same strain of heartless, greedy bastards. It’s just that Mercet’s sires were more efficient.’

  The woman was in tears now, wringing her hands. This did not have any effect on the man, except to make him smile in a particularly evil manner, and lean forward menacingly to whisper in her ear. The woman shrank back, her face flaming, and made to hit him. He was too fast, however, and caught the arm, laughing as she winced with the tight pressure.

  Bradecote stepped forward smartly and laid his own hand, quite lightly, upon the man’s shoulder.

  ‘I do not think the lady likes your ways, friend. Best leave her alone, I think.’

  The man, who was half a head shorter than Bradecote but of much heavier build, turned to see who had accosted him, and curled his lip derisively.

  ‘And what do you have to do with it, my fine lord?’

  ‘Quite a lot. He’s the new lord Undersheriff of the Shire, and he’s probably the only one who can stop me ramming your filthy teeth down your throat.’ Catchpoll had picked up a rake that had been left against a charred cruck, and pressed the handle end into the man’s neck. The eyes swivelled to Catchpoll, although the man remained very still. Serjeant Catchpoll was neither large nor heavily built, but conveyed an ability to inflict a remarkable amount of pain, very easily, and with no compunction about doing so.

  ‘Ah, it’s you, Serjeant.’

  ‘Indeed, Turgis. So you’ll be doing as the lord undersheriff says, and back off.’

  Bradecote was appreciative of Catchpoll’s introduction, but did not wish to be left out of the encounter. He looked first to the woman, who seemed still fearful.

  ‘Has this man threatened you, mistress?’

  Her eyes widened, and she glanced first at the man, whose own eyes flashed warning.

  ‘No, my lord. It was a misunderstanding.’ Her voice was hesitant and the lie palpable.

  ‘I see. And would it still be a misunderstanding if he was not stood here next to you?’

  She coloured, but said nothing.

  ‘Then you, Turgis, if I caught the name aright, had best be about your business elsewhere.’

  The big man bridled. ‘But I am here to oversee the clearing of the site, my lord.’

  ‘Clearing it of wreckage or of people?’ Catchpoll growled, and received a look of loathing in reply.

  ‘It was not a suggestion, Turgis. It was an instruction.’ Bradecote’s tone was cold, and intentionally insulting. For a moment the man dithered, then he turned on his heel and swaggered off with as much bravado as he could muster.

  One of the children began to cry, softly, unsettled by the angry adults he did not understand, and the woman bent to take him up in her arms.

&nb
sp; ‘He will return, and then what am I to do?’

  ‘If he does, we know where to find him, so I would not worry. Mistress Carpenter, is it?’ Catchpoll’s powers of deduction were reasonably acute.

  ‘Godith Woodman, the carpenter’s wife, yes.’

  ‘And where is your husband, Mistress Woodman? Still not returned?’ Bradecote’s voice was calming, even reassuring.

  ‘No, my lord, but he was not expected back for a sennight. He has gone to his brother and then on towards Feckenham to choose timber for a commission from the cathedral. He was keen to select special timber.’ Her voice cracked. ‘And when he returns, it will be to this.’

  ‘But you and the children have shelter, and food?’

  She nodded. ‘Our neighbours are good folk, but we cannot stay with them forever, and where is my Martin to work, and with his tools lost or ruined? And then Master Mercet’s man comes and says he does not want us here. There are to be new premises here, not a woodyard. We have nowhere to go.’ She was sobbing now. ‘That man said,’ she bit her lip, ‘he might be able to persuade his master if I …’ She shook her head and closed her eyes in anguish and shame.

  ‘We understand. Can Mercet do that, Catchpoll? Build something else, I mean.’

  ‘Not sure, my lord. Depends, I suppose, upon the tenancy. If the carpenter has a commission from the cathedral that is large enough for him to go that far for the wood, then they might have somewhere where he could work, or a vacant lease. The Church has a lot of property hereabouts.’

  ‘Yes, that would be a good idea. Tell your husband that on his return, and if needs be, let me know at the castle and I will speak with Father Prior.’