Bradecote sensed rather than heard the beginning of the low growl in Catchpoll’s throat. However much Catchpoll disliked having to work with an active superior, he was jealous of the office of sheriff’s man, and took most unkindly to anyone treating it with disrespect. The undersheriff did not know whether Catchpoll knew of his bereavement, but assumed that by now he did. It was not something he was going to share with the silversmith. He understood the silversmith’s lack of enthusiasm, and silenced Catchpoll with a small movement of his hand.
‘My apologies to you, Master Ash. It is not our intention to keep you from your work, nor,’ and he pulled a wry face, ‘work from you. Even so, we have to make sure that Worcester does not burn down, so whether it pleases you or not, we are back with more questions.’
Reginald Ash’s cheeks assumed an even redder hue, and he mumbled an apology, which Bradecote also waved away.
‘What we need to know now, Master Ash, is whether you, or your journeyman, have had dealings with a woman called Maud Brewer.’
The silversmith raised his eyebrows and looked enquiringly.
‘That depends on what you mean by “dealings”, my lord. And if you’re thinking what I suspect you are, the answer is no, never. In terms of honest trade though, yes I have, when her husband has been by, mind. Always happy to purchase little pieces to keep her sweet he was.’
‘Keep her in his bed, you mean.’ Edwin the journeyman had come from the rear chamber as his master spoke. He stood with his thumbs tucked into his belt, and a grin on his face.
‘And I thought you a betrothed man,’ Catchpoll murmured, with an even more lecherous leer.
‘I am that, and faithful to my Winflaed too, but it don’t mean I don’t see what’s put before the end of my nose. Some women can’t help themselves; making eyes at every man they come across. She was one such. Brewer never saw, or pretended he didn’t. Instead he prided himself on her looks, and thought how many were jealous of his position.’ Edwin winked. ‘Never seemed to strike him that her favours might be widely spread, like her … and he a cuckold.’ Edwin shook his head. ‘Poor fool. Maud Brewer was a woman well “known” in Worcester.’
‘She died some months back. Have you seen Edgar Brewer since?’ Bradecote wanted to know if Edgar Brewer was still under this delusion of his wife’s fidelity.
‘No. What use should he have now of my work?’ Reginald Ash frowned.
‘I only wondered if he seemed the same … believing in her being a good wife.’
‘Couldn’t say,’ replied Edwin. ‘You’d think he’d have to be deaf, aye and blind also, not to know her reputation, but some folk choose to be deaf and blind, if you see what I mean.’
Catchpoll nodded. Such denial of reality was common enough. It did not help the discovery of culprits.
Bradecote hid his disappointment, though in honesty his expectations had not been high.
‘We are also interested in a man, probably wealthy, perhaps some local lord, who wears gauntlets.’ Catchpoll was already working on the next trail of evidence.
The silversmith looked puzzled.
‘Not uncommon, that. Why should I note one man more than another?’
‘We think this one has been wearing them even in fine weather, when others would not … fine leather gauntlets perhaps, and chestnut in colour.’ Bradecote was working on the assumption that the man did not possess too many pairs of such an expensive item.
The look of perplexity remained on the silversmith’s face, and was echoed by that of Edwin. They shook their heads, and Bradecote turned to Catchpoll, whose face contorted into a fleeting grimace of resigned disappointment. The sheriff’s men left the silversmith’s and set off at a relaxed pace for the Sutheberi road below the castle and cathedral. Bradecote was suddenly aware of the isolation of their work. The everyday life of Worcester was continuing just as normal all around them, and they were largely ignored, although he noticed a couple of surly fellows who stepped back into the shadows or turned away when Catchpoll approached. They existed in a different world of threat, deception and death that was ignored by the world at large, and complained of when it intruded into normal daily existence. Catchpoll had inhabited this other world for many years and seemed unconcerned, but Bradecote was conscious of having been part of the unaware majority until only a few short months ago. He gave thanks that at least he was not investigating in his own manors, and could keep home and this duty apart. Home … there was a moment of realisation that ‘home’ was no longer the same, but the image of the bloodless pallor of Ela’s dead face was swiftly supplanted by the fresh pink of his son’s. He must adjust, he told himself, just adjust and move on.
It was not long before they reached the Sutheberi gate, with the hospital of Bishop Wulfstan’s founding just outside. The roads divided, and they set out up the hill. The houses soon petered out and, beyond a small enclosure, Gilbert the Tanner had his business. It was a foul-smelling trade that put filthy water into whichever watercourse it used. There were small tanneries on the riverbank at the northern edge of the town, but Gilbert had a large business and steady clientele, which led to his presence beyond the town boundaries and by a stream that entered the river a mile or so below Worcester. The combination of putrefying flesh, ammonia and animal excrement produced an eye-watering stench. It pervaded even the front building where the finished leather was kept for the artisans to select as suited their trade. Bradecote had of course purchased from saddlers, cobblers and glovers, whose premises smelt sweetly of worked and waxed leather, but he wondered how anyone could work in a place such as this, as the foul air assailed his nostrils and brought tears to his eyes. His gorge threatened to rise. Catchpoll smiled as the undersheriff coughed. A tannery was not the sort of place that the upper classes visited. Mind you, it was not one he would choose to come to either unless duty so demanded.
A lad who was carrying a stiff and malodorous hide, stared at them as he passed, and Catchpoll asked after the master. The youth, who was heavily set and remarkably bovine in appearance, tossed his head in the direction of the rear door of the chamber. Bradecote groaned inwardly. He had no wish to advance further into this miasma, but had no alternative without losing face. Gritting his teeth, and taking as shallow breaths as possible, he led the way into the rear yard. The scene was one of industry, and to his amazement there was even a man whistling. The undersheriff studiously avoided looking closely at the large pits, wherein lay the soaking hides, and which were dotted about the yard as if the products of corrosion by the liquid contents. In one corner men were actually treading up and down in a shallow pit, rather as he had seen done in a fuller’s vat. Elsewhere men were scraping the hair from sodden hide, or stretching it to cure. A man, better dressed than the labour force and clearly in charge, was handling a hide that had just been taken down from a frame. He looked up as his attention was drawn to the visitors by one of his workers.
He registered the two men, the one tall and of lordly bearing and apparel, the other shorter, with grizzled hair and dour expression. He recognised that face as belonging to the sheriff’s serjeant.
‘Good day, Serjeant Catchpoll.’ He looked to Bradecote and made a correct assumption. ‘My lord? I take it that you are my lord de Crespignac’s replacement.’ He shook his head. ‘A great pity his loss was, to be sure.’
Bradecote contrasted his words with those of Master Mercet.
‘Yes. Well, that’s as it is.’ Catchpoll did not actually want to linger any more than necessary, and de Crespignac’s replacement needed no eulogies about him. ‘We were hoping you could give us some information about some leather that has been made into gauntlets, good quality and chestnut in colour. Wilfrid Glover said they were not of his making, but that the leather was so good he thought it must be yours, if local.’
‘If Wilfrid Glover speaks so well of my workmanship then I am mightily pleased, but such leather is not uncommon. I have sold much of it over the years.’
‘The glover thought it new,
’ interposed Bradecote, keen to put himself into the conversation.
‘Well, I sold some very good chestnut hide at the end of Whitsuntide, but that was for boots, I know. The only chestnut leather sold to a glover was fine kid, such as a lady would wear, not for a man’s gauntlets. They want something tougher for regular riding and hunting. The kid would be soft, fit for a lady’s soft and delicate skin. It would be a strange fellow who wanted gauntlets out of it.’
‘Who was the purchaser, Master Tanner?’ However unlikely, it was the only lead to the disguised man the law officers possessed, and Bradecote, whose eyes were now watering, was very keen to end the interview.
‘I sold it to Walter Typcote. Ask him by all means what he made with it.’
The undersheriff thanked Gilbert Tanner and hastened to withdraw. Once outside and far enough down the hill not to be seen from the tannery, he stopped and took great draughts of air. Catchpoll, who was more discretely breathing through his mouth, laughed and choked. After a few health-giving gulps, Bradecote turned to him.
‘Jesu, Catchpoll, how do they work there?’
‘They gets used to it, as I suppose. Mind, they are probably sick when they start.’ Catchpoll was observing his superior’s greenish tinge, and the next minute Bradecote turned aside quickly and could be heard retching in the narrow alley between two dwellings. Catchpoll grinned, but schooled his expression into one of concern by the time Bradecote rejoined him.
‘Feeling better now, my lord?’
Bradecote nodded, ignoring the hint of tremor in Catchpoll’s voice. ‘If ever, and I mean ever, there is a death in a tannery, by accident or design, then you can investigate alone, Catchpoll, if it costs me my position.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Is that understood?’
‘Indeed, my lord. I will make a mental note of it.’
‘I know bathing is not healthy, but that stink gets right into you. I will be calling for hot water and herbs when we get to the castle. Could there be a more lingering and revolting smell?’ Bradecote’s question was rhetorical, but Catchpoll’s expression hardened.
‘Aye, and that’s the smell of burnt flesh. Once in the nose it is remembered forever.’ He shook his head, all joviality banished. It was a suddenly sombre pair who came back into Worcester, and headed not for the castle, and water, but to Walter Typcote the glover.
Their visit did not give them the name of their mystery man, but considerably heightened their interest. He had come, said the glover, been measured and selected the leather, and returned some days later to collect them. His clothes and manner proclaimed the lord and there was no reason to ask his name, especially in the circumstances.
Undersheriff and serjeant raised eyebrows in unison, and the glover smiled but also shook his head.
‘Poor man, I was glad to do what I could for him, truth to tell. He looked well enough at distance, if a little drawn, but when he revealed his poor hands …’ Typcote crossed himself, and shook his head. ‘If ever such a thing befell me, I’d starve.’ There was a short silence, that even Catchpoll felt loth to break, and then the craftsman continued. ‘Normal gloves were impossible and I had to pick the very softest leather, of course. It took some time to design the best fit, not being able to draw round the hand in the normal way.’
‘Why?’ Bradecote was unable to conceal his interest.
‘Because his hands were all gnarled and contracted, and the skin red and angry, burnt as they were. I suppose you would have to say he was fortunate to survive such injury, but seeing his constant discomfort, I am not totally convinced. They would be useless if he were a craftsman, and I doubt even he can hold his horse’s reins proper now. His face bore burn marks as well, though not as bad, about the chin. Must be an awful thing for any man to bear.’
‘Do you suppose the injuries were recent?’ Catchpoll tried to sound as if the answer would not be important.
‘I’m not one as has seen much of burns. It’s mostly cuts and slips with awl and needle in this trade. Can’t have been too recent or the scars would not have drawn, but the skin looked raw new so perhaps a few months or so, no more. It’s a complete guess, mind.’
Bradecote thanked the glover for his help, and he and Catchpoll headed slowly back towards the castle. Neither spoke for some minutes, assessing and working upon the new information. The undersheriff spoke first, musing almost to himself.
‘It seems too odd a chance that we are dealing with a burnt man. Perhaps it was the result of an attempt gone wrong, or an ill deed that made him want a similar fate for others.’
Catchpoll stared at his superior in patent disbelief.
‘You’re not saying this man is our fire-raiser, surely? No, my lord, the tannery fumes have addled your wits in that case. We agreed the fire-raiser knew Worcester, but this man is from out of town, and a lord too. In addition, he has no connection with the silversmith, and if he did it would seem unlikely that it provided a reason to set a fire. All we have is the connection with Old Edgyth, and we can explain that. If his hands were as bad as Typcote says, then no wonder he sought the old woman’s salves to ease his pain. Even if they did not work as well as he hoped, he would have no cause to burn her out. A man who had suffered from flame like that would be more like to cringe at the sparking of a log in his hearth than want to set fires. No, my lord, this is one of those peculiar coincidences that just happen. There is no connection between this burnt man and our fires. We dismiss him here and now and hunt elsewhere. I’ll go to Edgar Brewer tonight, if you think it best, and see what he really knew of his wife. You go and wash away these flights of fancy with hot water and sweet plants.’ His tone was firm and almost paternal.
Bradecote disliked being told that his ideas were madness, but Serjeant Catchpoll made sense. Perhaps the stench had indeed muddled his brain. The thought of hot water, infused with any strong-smelling herb that the kitchen had to hand to drive away the clinging foulness, was very tempting, and he assented to the idea without demur. Their two paths diverged, with Catchpoll heading back into the narrow streets to find the cuckolded widower, as Bradecote returned to the castle. He hoped to go straight to his chamber, but was waylaid by the castellan in the outer bailey. Bradecote heaved a heavy sigh at his approach.
‘I am not at all happy about this.’ The castellan’s voice was raised peevishly, and he pursed his thin lips, making his small mouth look like a scrip drawn tight. His arms waved in a vaguely encompassing gesture. ‘I have had the burgesses knocking at my door, and blaming me for letting them be burnt to a cinder in their beds. If you hadn’t made such a fuss about the fires the townsfolk would be none the wiser even yet. The weather has been hot and fair, so they could have been mere accidents.’
Bradecote gazed at Simon Furnaux in amazement, succeeded by rising anger. Here was the man who had proposed improbable and even impossible theories, and pestered for greater action, now complaining about action being taken. He stepped close, intentionally, glad to contaminate the man’s nose with the stench he had been forced to bear.
‘So you now think it would be best if we sat quiet and waited for more charred corpses to pile up?’ Bradecote’s tone was scathing, and deliberately insulting. He had spent an unpleasant and seemingly useless afternoon, and was in no mood to be civil, whether the castellan outranked him or not.
The castellan’s face grew purple. ‘I will not take such words from you, a mere …’ His sentence petered out as he could not find a term that fitted his opinion, and even more from the choking cough that rose as the odour from Bradecote’s person reached his senses.
Bradecote smiled, although the smile was largely a sneer. ‘Mere undersheriff will do, my lord Castellan.’ His voice was quiet, unlike the castellan’s bluster, and very deliberate. ‘But it is no matter. I take my orders from the sheriff of this shire, from whom I also hold land, not from you. For your information, there is no doubt in my mind, nor in that of Serjeant Catchpoll, whose experience is beyond doubt, that there is a fire-raiser at large in Worcester. P
retending there is nothing amiss will not work. Until we catch this man, and it is most probably a man, the risk to lives and livelihoods remains.’ His voice dropped. ‘And we will do whatever is necessary to catch him, whether it sets the burgesses, or you, aflutter or not.’
He stepped even closer to the castellan, intimidatingly. Simon Furnaux’s nose wrinkled in distaste as the all-pervading smell now overwhelmed him. He took an involuntary step backwards. Without waiting for the castellan to comment upon the odour or formulate a response, Bradecote turned smartly to his left, into the kitchens where he could order washing water and a large bowl.
If he felt afterwards that he smelt of the evening meal, which was pork heavily laced with sage and wild garlic, it was an improvement. It had taken quite a lot of rubbing of his skin to believe the smell of the tannery had left him, and its ghost haunted his nostrils. He took a fresh undershirt and his spare tunic from his blanket roll, yelled for a servant, and then cast out their predecessors to be washed. The serving wench who came running and caught him before the chamber door was closed, stifled a giggle at seeing him with the undershirt half over his head and clinging to his damp torso, and then gasped when she picked up the soiled garments. The undersheriff said nothing, being just glad to be free of the tannery. It was then he remembered the scented fruit he had been given by Simeon the Jew. It lay in his scrip still, and the merchant clearly considered it of great worth. He took it from the bag, smelt the skin, and then wrapped it in his spare linen undershirt in his roll of belongings. He could just imagine some castle maid coming across it if left on display, and casting it out as some dangerous devilment. He smiled, briefly, then sighed. Today he had learnt nothing of real use to his investigation and only that tanneries were to be avoided at all cost, and that there was a strange yellow fruit that grew upon trees in hot climes.
Ordeal by Fire Page 9
