Ordeal by Fire

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘We are investigating the unfortunate fire in Corviserstrete, which involved a death. Since it appears that you own some of the damaged property, we thought we should speak to you, Master Mercet.’

  ‘Quite so, my lord, quite so. A bad business.’ Mercet shook his head and tutted.

  ‘But not actually bad for your particular business, we find.’ Bradecote’s voice was very measured.

  ‘My property was burnt to the ground. How can that be good for business?’ The merchant tried to sound affronted, but it was not a good act.

  Catchpoll gave a bark of mirthless laughter. ‘Because you’ve got men clearing the carpenter’s shop away to rebuild as a new lease, and undoubtedly at higher rent. No squabbling with Master Woodman about an increase, especially when he happens to be away on business and there’s just his little mouse of a wife and the brats to deal with. What a good time to clear the ground.’

  The aquamarine eyes flickered. ‘Fair enough, there is an opportunity, a landholder’s opportunity, and I am too good a man at making money to ignore it, but the idea that I would set a fire … Jesu, what if it had spread? I have several messuages in that street.’ He paled at the thought.

  Catchpoll was reluctant to leave the theory.

  ‘You wouldn’t have lit the torch yourself, but you employ enough gutter life who would do it without a thought if you willed it.’

  Bradecote did not know Mercet, but did not think that the man was faking the edge of panic in his voice when he looked to his own person directly, and there was no trace of insolence or insult remaining.

  ‘My lord, Serjeant Catchpoll would accuse me of any crime committed in Worcester, if he had the chance. I am not involved in this fire, I give you my oath. You must seek your fire-starter elsewhere, and I have a likely culprit.’ He paused, aware that he had caught their attention.

  ‘And that is?’ Catchpoll did not disguise the wariness in his voice.

  Bradecote tried to look only mildly interested.

  ‘Simeon the Jew.’

  Bradecote looked at Catchpoll and then back at Mercet.

  ‘And he is likely to be guilty because … ?’ The undersheriff could feel the disappointment rising inside him before a word was spoken.

  ‘Because he is Simeon the Jew. They do not think like us, act like us. They do not care for the welfare of Christian souls.’ Mercet was sounding almost philanthropic. ‘They are guided by a desire for wealth, by whatever means. I have heard tales—’

  ‘Yes, but tales are just that,’ interrupted Bradecote. ‘Why, exactly, should this man,’ and he stressed ‘man’, ‘have set the fire?’

  ‘Why to discredit me, and to be able to buy up land at a good price, like a crow seeking carrion.’

  Bradecote sighed. It sounded very unlikely to him, but he had never had any dealings with the Sons of Abraham, and knew he was no judge. Even if Mercet’s belief was in part the desire to thrust blame upon an outsider and rival, there was no reason why the man should be excluded from their investigation. He glanced at Catchpoll, hoping to read scepticism on his mobile features, but there was a frown of thought. Catchpoll was not discounting the idea out of hand.

  There was a brief silence, then Bradecote roused himself.

  ‘Right. We will make enquiries, and I will see this Simeon. Thank you for your help, Master Mercet.’ The irony of his tone was lost on Mercet, who smiled. It was a smile, thought Bradecote, of relief blended with pleasure.

  Catchpoll growled something indeterminate, which Mercet might, if he were so inclined, interpret as thanks, but which could just as easily have been an expression of gruff disappointment. The pair left the merchant’s house without another word, and only spoke when they had walked some way down the street.

  ‘I take it that that was not as enjoyable as you hoped, Catchpoll.’

  The serjeant grunted morosely.

  ‘Was it because Mercet wriggled out from under your boot, or because you thought there was something in what he said?’

  ‘I would doubt the sun sets in the west if that whoreson bastard told me that it did,’ grumbled Catchpoll, ‘but there might, and I say it very grudgingly, be something there for us, my lord. Most like he is just trying to get us away from his own shady dealings, whether or not they include lighting fires, but you never know.’

  ‘I agree with your reading of his character, Catchpoll, but somehow I do not think this particular crime lies at his door. He was right that if the fire had spread further he would have lost other properties, and replacing several would be costly, even for him.’

  ‘Perhaps he had his men set ready to prevent such a spread.’ The serjeant’s tone lacked conviction. ‘If it is not him it is surely a pity. He’s one I’d love to see dancing at the end of a rope, though a strong rope it would have to be, with his weight.’ Catchpoll sighed. ‘One day I’ll catch him.’

  ‘But does he break the law?’ queried Bradecote, and encountered a look of disbelief as answer. ‘I make no claim for him being other than what you say, and morally corrupt, but he might manage that within the bounds of law.’

  Catchpoll shook his head. ‘He’s clever enough to do trade that is legal, however unjust, but his love of making money, and at others’ expense, of a surety leads him over the bounds. I know it, and he knows I know it. He would not be able to resist it. I will get him, my lord, if I bides my time.’

  ‘And that brings us, in a way, to the trail he gave us. You did not jump down his throat at the suggestion that Simeon the Jew might be at the root of this, so what makes you consider it? What is this man like?’

  ‘That’s the thing, you see. I cannot tell you beyond where he lives and what he does for trade, and it is that that makes me wonder. I know something about most of the wealthier men in Worcester, and nigh on every shady character, which is sometimes one and the same but … but he is a mystery. He keeps himself quietly, not drawing attention to his dealings or person. That might be natural caution, but then again …’ Catchpoll frowned.

  ‘So you are simply saying you cannot vouch for him.’

  The serjeant nodded. Then he halted, like a hound testing the air for a scent. For a moment Bradecote feared he might have caught a hint of another blaze, but the man was miles away in his own thoughts. After what seemed an age, he snapped his fingers and smiled at his superior.

  ‘We’re linking the wrong folk with these fires, my lord.’

  Bradecote said nothing, and waited.

  ‘We was looking at the link between Winflaed and Edgyth, but we should have been looking for a link between Reginald Ash and Martin Woodman. Just because the old crone died in the fire, it does not mean she was an intended victim. In fact, nobody remembered her at the time, so she was probably just an unlucky result of the fire.’

  Bradecote frowned. ‘But the only link we have is Mercet, and I thought we had just agreed that he looked less likely than you would have hoped. The carpenter and silversmith are in different crafts, in different streets, and not even of the same parish. Where do we start?’

  He was floundering, and too worn to care that Catchpoll knew it. The serjeant smiled, but the smile was more conspiratorial than victorious.

  ‘It might be best to leave the links between Masters Ash and Woodman to me, my lord, seeing as I know Worcester and, forgive me, you do not. Mind you, you’re likely to get more from Simeon the Jew if you visit him on the morrow.’ The smile grew to a grin. ‘He’ll appreciate being visited by nobility and your manners are much better than mine.’

  Hugh Bradecote laughed, his weary pessimism suddenly dispelled, and did so without any feeling of guilt following it. Considering the fact later, he admitted to himself that throwing himself into an investigation was just the boost to the spirits that he needed.

  Serjeant and undersheriff parted in the castle bailey. Bradecote wanted to sort his thoughts before having to sup with the castellan, and Catchpoll had to make sure that the men-at-arms on his watch-bill knew their duties for the next twenty-f
our hours. Before heading home, he slipped into the kitchen to share a jug of ale with Drogo, who was whiling away the lull between preparing the dishes for the castellan’s supper, and the mad rush to serve them up still warm.

  The kitchen was hot, with interesting smells of herbs and stewing meat vying for dominance. Drogo was not to be found within, but sat upon a stool outside the rear door, where the shadows cast cool fingers amidst the mellowing sunlight.

  Catchpoll, having already provided himself with a beaker in anticipation, sat down on the threshold, groaning slightly as proof of his ageing bones. Without a word, Drogo pushed the ale jug towards him with a dusty foot, and for a few minutes the two men sat in companionable silence, drinking. Eventually, Drogo smacked his lips with relish, and wiped his hand across his mouth.

  ‘Got your fire-raiser yet, then?’ His tone was conversational rather than interested.

  ‘Would it were that easy.’ Catchpoll did not sound overconcerned. He scuffed his toe idly in the dirt. ‘Investigatin’ is a bit like your cookin’.’ He raised his eyes to meet his friend’s, who regarded him with good-humoured suspicion.

  ‘Go on then, you old ferret. Tell me why that is?’

  ‘Well, you see, the basic plan is simple enough, but every time the ingredients are just a mite different and you never know whether it will end in a triumph or something only fit to feed to the dogs.’ Catchpoll’s eyes screwed up in silent laughter.

  Drogo feigned outrage, but his shoulders shook.

  Catchpoll remained silent for a minute or so, and then came out with a question.

  ‘Do you know Reginald Ash, the silversmith?’

  Drogo squinted as he considered his answer. ‘Not to speak to, as such. Heard of him, mind you, because his work is well regarded, and then my first wife was a silversmith’s widow. That was a long, long time ago, God rest her. She knew the craft members, though of course Ash would have been only a journeyman then. Don’t think she liked any of them, much. A good Christian woman she was, but you should have heard her on their lack of charity.’ He shook his head. ‘Poor Emma.’

  ‘What about Martin Woodman, carpenter in Corviserstrete?’

  ‘Now Martin Woodman, he built a good oak cupboard for my brother-in-law, and made a fine job of it. My sister wed a man of means, you know.’

  ‘So you’ve often told me.’ Catchpoll pulled a face, and turned the grimace into an exaggerated yawn.

  ‘Alright, alright.’ Drogo raised his hands.

  ‘Don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of a connection between them,’ Catchpoll wondered, with studied nonchalance, ‘and Robert Mercet?’

  ‘Oh, so this isn’t just a friendly chat. You are after something, fox-brain. And there was me thinking you just liked to sit in the shade and have a drink with a friend. Ha!’ Drogo shook his head. ‘I’ve nothing you’d like to hear, but if they choose to be involved with Mercet they had best have their wits sharp about them.’

  Catchpoll drained his beaker and got to his feet. ‘Oh well. I was only being hopeful. Best get home, and leave you to serve up something tasty for the lord castellan and my lord Bradecote.’

  Chapter Six

  Hugh Bradecote sat with his brain only half registering the castellan’s monotone. The man clearly liked an audience, even a limited one. He droned on about a variety of subjects from the political turmoil between king and empress to the number of swans on the Severn. Much of it washed over the undersheriff, but he pricked up his ears when the subject of the fires arose. The castellan expounded a variety of theories, from a conspiracy to discredit him, to Welsh spies taking advantage of English internecine fighting, and even witchcraft. He complained about the lack of progress being made, waiving aside Bradecote’s remonstration that he had arrived but twenty-four hours previously.

  ‘Fulk de Crespignac would have had someone in the castle cells by now,’ complained the castellan petulantly.

  ‘Really, my lord. And would that have been the guilty party or just someone who fitted his idea of a fire-setter?’ Bradecote’s tone was scathing. He had no wish to be compared to his dead predecessor, especially by one as ineffectual as the castellan.

  The castellan choked over his goblet of wine, and began to bluster. Bradecote, who was weary of body as well as of spirit, made his apologies without any attempt at sincerity and withdrew upon the excuse that he had to plan his investigations for the morrow. In reality these consisted of making a mental note to ask Catchpoll for directions to Simeon the Jew’s house and to draw a very rough map of Worcester within the walls, marking the streets that he knew and the location of the fires. It was not much, but it was all that he could think to do. Reviewing what he knew was but the act of a moment; the fire-setter knew their way through back alleys, so was local. He, or even she, had started one fire in the daytime and one at night. This cut down the likelihood of them being an apprentice or journeyman under a master’s eye, unless set to the task by the master himself, and since they were able to walk out at night they were either wed to a heavy sleeper or slept alone. He could not even rule out that the fires were the random acts of a lunatic. On which unhelpful thought Bradecote blew out his light and lay upon his cot, expecting to lie awake until the small hours.

  Surprisingly, he actually slept much better than Serjeant Catchpoll, who had worrying thoughts gnawing at his brain, and, try to dispel them as he might, they would not go away. He had returned home to find his wife grumbling over a broken ewer, and in less than welcoming mood. She rounded on him for the smell of ale on his breath, correctly assuming he had been drinking with his crony, the castle cook.

  ‘I don’t see why you should spend your time in idleness with that foul-mouthed sot,’ she complained pettishly, going on to enumerate all the things she had heard to the detriment of his character.

  Catchpoll grinned, which did not help matters.

  ‘Oh yes, you can smile like a brainless fool, but if you had heard even the part of what I know, you’d not look so jolly. Why, only last week I went to her church with Agnes Whitwood, who used to work with her mother in the castle way back when she was scarce but a child. She told me Drogo the Cook had had three wives and was thought to have killed the first two. There, what do you say to that?’

  ‘If every man who remarried was counted a murderer, there’d not be enough timber in the Malvern weald to make the gallows, woman. Idle gossip is what you’ve been listening to, and shame on you for it.’

  She coloured, but held her ground. ‘That’s what the priest said, and sent me off with a penance, though not as heavy, I’ll be bound, as the one he laid on Agnes. But idle this was not. She told me in church, when she went to say prayers and put in an offering for her poor mother’s soul. She’d not talk “idle gossip” then.’

  Catchpoll was not smiling any more. ‘And why were you—’ He stopped as his wife’s face began to crumple. ‘I’m sorry, sweet. I had forgot with all this business going on.’ Belatedly, he remembered. September marked the anniversary of the death of their second son, who had died years ago as an infant. He had put the memory away and did not revisit it, but he knew that at this time every year his wife dragged the sorrow into the open, afraid to forget. He sat her down on a bench and then sat beside her, an arm round her shoulder.

  ‘You tell me what she said, then.’ He had no deep wish to hear, but it might distract her, and, for all that she had a sharp tongue on occasion, Catchpoll loved and valued his wife.

  Mistress Catchpoll sniffed. ‘She was talking about her mother, and the old days in the castle kitchens. I mentioned how you was friends with the cook, and she seemed quite shocked. She said that he had been married three times, and that at the time it was thought he had done away with them.

  ‘The last wife died of a spotted fever and had been married a dozen years or more, but the first two lasted no more than a few months. The first was a widow herself, poor soul; left penniless and in debt when her husband drowned himself in the Severn. She sent her little son off, to rela
tives or the cloisters, I imagine, to avoid the shame and penury, but providing for him cost her dear. She took menial work in the castle and caught Drogo the undercook’s eye, for she was a pretty woman. Rumour had it she caught the eye of others too, especially some lordling out of Shapwyck, but it was Drogo who married her, and she fell swiftly with child; perhaps too quickly. Not everyone thought the child his. While she was carrying she was more than usually sick, and he plied her with all sorts of pick-me-ups he made, and still she ailed. The healing woman tended her as well, and then she upped and died, and the unborn babe with her. If it was another man’s, you know Drogo and his temper, he wouldn’t have taken it well. Jealous husbands make dangerous husbands. And then he married again, within months. The second wife was underground within the year, and not of any contagion or accident, either. Died much the same way, though she was not carrying. It is hardly surprising that tongues wagged. He did not wed again for several years afterwards. Now tell me that is not suspicious.’

  Catchpoll said nothing, although a tight frown knitted his brow, and his wife continued.

  ‘Agnes said there was more, but the priest interrupted us. Most aggrieved he was, so he must have heard quite a bit. He ranted at us, quoting scripture over and over, and then almost threw me out, having set penance. I dare not think what penance he must have set poor Agnes for I have been so occupied I have not spoken to her since.’ Mistress Catchpoll looked sideways at her husband, her head on one side. ‘Don’t tell me that there’s really something to the tale after all.’

  Catchpoll was silent but shook his head absently. Strands of thought were weaving through his brain, making and breaking contact. He suddenly had too much information, and gut instinct told him that there was something on which he should fasten; but a dull disquiet, one that forced him to admit that Drogo had entered the web of suspicion, was fogging his judgement. He could think of no possible reason for his friend to be the starter of fires, nor was he a man Catchpoll would put down as one who would kill, or try to kill, in cold blood. Drogo had a temper, for sure, and Catchpoll could see that if goaded too far he might be a man to strike out in anger, but no more. Yet he formed a possible link between the incidents he was investigating.