‘I am sorry to disturb you, Master Simeon, but the matter cannot wait.’
Simeon bowed his acceptance. ‘What is it that you require of me, my lord?’
‘Nothing but your vigilance. Information has come to light that leads me to believe that your property, and thus your family, stand in immediate danger. An unknown man was seen hunting for your house last night, as the storm broke. He stopped outside, but the violence of the weather sent him off. I assume you do not encourage trading visits after dark, and it therefore seems likely that the visitor meant no good. If it turns out to be our fire-raiser, well, it is best that you have a close watch kept to the front and to any rear access.’
Simeon nodded, his dark brows knit. He cast a swift glance back towards the family at his table. ‘Should I send my family from here until the matter is resolved, my lord?’
‘I cannot truly judge. Perhaps, but then where would you send them?’
‘Down the river to Bristow and my brother if I must, though there is discord enough down there.’
‘It must be your decision, but for tonight simply keep a careful watch.’
‘That I will, my lord. And thank you for coming in person. I fear we will not enjoy a peaceful Sabbath.’
Bradecote looked puzzled. ‘But …’
Simeon gave a tight smile. ‘Ah, of course I mean our Sabbath. You Gentiles have the wrong day, you know.’ He judged the undersheriff would not take umbrage, and was correct in his assumption. Bradecote was more astounded to hear that another faith observed a sabbath.
‘Oh.’ Bradecote was at a loss how to respond, and took refuge in repeating both his apology and warning. Master Simeon showed him to the front door in person, and bowed him out respectfully and with genuine thanks. The merchant’s face, when he returned to his table, was clouded and serious.
Chapter Eleven
In sober mood, Bradecote returned to the castle and headed for his supper, though with a curtailed appetite. He was relieved to find the castellan absent, nursing an aching tooth in his chamber, and when Catchpoll entered, with Walkelin in tow like an eager hound, he pushed his trencher aside and rose to meet them.
They adjourned to the privacy of the guardroom, and round a small glowing brazier that kept out the evening chill, the recent developments came under review. Bradecote sat upon a narrow bench, and invited Catchpoll to do likewise. As befitted his lowly rank, Walkelin remained standing and kept his own counsel as his superiors discussed the information about the stranger in Cokenstrete. They agreed that the Jew’s house was a clear target, and Catchpoll remarked that he had instructed the watch that was going to do the rounds of the quay area at some point during the night to take in Cokenstrete on its patrol. They then wondered about how much further they had got in identifying their potential fire-setter. Assuming the girl had seen him, and not just some debtor with a grudge, then the culprit was now confirmed as male, of tall stature and not blonde-haired. At this point Walkelin could not resist commenting that Edgar Brewer was not fair-haired, but though tall, walked with a stoop.
‘Would that be visible if he wore a flowing cloak, do you think, my lord?’
Catchpoll’s train of thought had been disturbed, and he rounded on the man-at-arms. ‘You just wait till we’re ready for you, young Walkelin, or else I’ll send you to stand out in the bailey yard and your keenness can cool off out there. You’ve fair thrown my thinking, so you have. Keep your mouth shut and learn. Where were we, my lord?’ He turned back to Hugh Bradecote.
‘Accepting that whoever it is, it is not Mercet’s tame bully, Turgis. He’s probably not tall enough, but more importantly the girl would have recognised him at once.’
‘Mercet has other men to do his dirty work though, so it does not necessarily rule out the master even if it does rule out the man.’
‘True enough. And Walkelin does not rule out Brewer, even though he casts doubts.’ Bradecote rubbed his chin, thoughtfully.
‘Not doubts, my lord, just questions. Besides, as I have it, if the fire-raiser is Brewer, then his motive is against those he thinks usurped his bed. Are you seriously suggesting Maud Brewer sold her body to a Jewish merchant?’
‘If he had plenty of money I don’t suppose it would have stopped her. Why should it? If adultery meant nothing to her it would be unlikely that a man’s religion would get in the way. More to the point is that I do not see Master Simeon, respectable husband and clearly doting father, falling in sin with a brewer’s wife, especially of her reputation. I’d swear an oath he has eyes only for his wife, and his profitable business.’ Bradecote shook his head. ‘No, that doesn’t work.’
Catchpoll was thinking, his face contorting as it always did. Walkelin watched the spectacle with slackened jaw and wide-open eyes. Bradecote fought the sudden urge to laugh.
Catchpoll’s face ceased its movements. ‘Of course, there’s always the possibility that any action planned against the Jew is just using the fire-raiser as a cover for another motive entirely.’
Bradecote rolled his eyes and groaned. ‘Don’t, Serjeant.’
‘So Brewer can be followed up further?’ Walkelin was keen to keep his first target in view.
Catchpoll looked to Bradecote, who shrugged.
‘Can I tell you what I discovered today then, my lord?’ The puppy-like eagerness of the man-at-arms was difficult to suppress.
‘Go on, then.’ Catchpoll kept his features very straight, although a muscle in his cheek quivered.
Walkelin stood as straight as possible, cleared his throat and addressed a point some inches above Bradecote’s head.
‘As ordered by Serjeant Catchpoll, at the beginning of my watch I set out for—’ he began in a colourless monotone.
‘Halt. Stop.’ Catchpoll shook his head. ‘You’ve been talking to Gyrth, haven’t you, lad?’
Walkelin coloured and nodded. Catchpoll sighed.
‘Gyrth is a sound man-at-arms. He’s a good man in a fair fight and,’ Catchpoll admitted grudgingly, ‘an even better one in an unfair fight, but he is not, and never will be, the man to make a report. Tell us what you know in your usual voice, and stop talking to the wall. Now, get on with it.’
‘Sorry, Serjeant,’ mumbled Walkelin, his reddened face clashing with the flame colour of his hair. He began again, describing, with a tinge of pride, how he had disguised himself in front of the brewer’s, and even drawing a small wooden horse from his scrip. ‘I make them when there’s not much going on … and all sorts, not just horses. There’s ducks and pigs and …’ His voice petered out under Catchpoll’s withering stare.
‘At what point is your report going to tell us something about the brewer as opposed to you, Walkelin?’
‘Ah, right. Sorry, Sergeant. Yes. Well, I watched the house all morning and a woman entered and remained there for several hours. She was not particularly young, or indeed comely, as I see it, too broad in the hip for—’ Catchpoll’s expression brought him back to the point. ‘I later found this was the Widow Fowler, when I changed my disguise in the afternoon. Her cottage lies on the lane behind the brewer’s. It seems she is none too popular with her neighbours. They were all keen to point her out as one that had found herself a cosy billet, so to speak, as soon as Maud Brewer was cold, and several remarked that she and Edgar Brewer had been on “comfortable” terms for some time prior to that. Oh, but before that, I sat and chatted with the brewer’s workers at their noontide break. There was two of them came out, and they said that the widow and Edgar Brewer get on very well, and she has been “looking after” him since his wife died. There was some bawdy comment made at this point, my lord, but that might just be the usual sort of jest men make on the subject, and could not be taken as fact. I further discovered that it was the Widow Fowler who found the body of Mistress Brewer on the day of her death. They, the workers that is, said they heard humming from the upper chamber of the house that morning, and then a thump, but that Master Brewer, who was with them in the brewhouse out back, laughed
it off as his wife dropping the old palliasse, the one that was going to be replaced, down the stair. Some short while after, there came the scream when Widow Fowler, coming to ask for a pat of butter, found the corpse at the bottom of the ladder stair. Then the priest was called, of course, because she was clearly dead.’ He paused, and frowned. ‘Mistress Brewer, that is, not Widow Fowler.’
Serjeant Catchpoll was listening attentively, but wisely ignored Walkelin’s muddled conclusion to the report. ‘That would be Father Anselm of All Saints. Brewer was in the brewhouse when the thump was heard, you say.’ He pulled a peculiar face and rubbed the back of his neck, meditatively. ‘And how, I wonder, was she found?’
‘By the widow, Serjeant.’
‘No, cloth-ears, I said “how” not “who”. How the body looked could be important. I can see that I should visit the good Father Anselm tomorrow morning.’ He looked at Bradecote. ‘With your leave, my lord.’
Bradecote nodded his assent. ‘As long as we have no disasters to follow up, yes.’
It was quiet. A moonless sky gave no light in the streets, and only those with need were abroad. Father Boniface, having attended a birth that had become a deathbed, guided an old woman, who had acted as midwife, to her own door, before heading back to his little dwelling beside St Andrew’s church, while in another part of the town, Father Anselm administered the Last Rites to an elderly dame with none but a neighbour at her side to see her passing. A few unsavoury souls, whose occupation relied upon the concealment of darkness, plied their ‘trade’, and on the morrow, three good laying hens would be found missing from a widow woman’s coop, and Payn the Moneyer would be at the castle early, reporting that an unsuccessful attempt had been made to prise open the heavy-bolted and locked door to the little room that contained his dies and freshly stamped pennies.
The cloaked and hooded figure that passed along Cokenstrete shortly after two men of the night guard had passed by on their way to the riverside, was seen by no one. Approaching the house of Simeon the Jew the figure trod more carefully, and at the shuttered window stopped. After taking a pot from beneath the folds of the cloak, they smeared the shutters with the contents, and then pressed a moist cloth into the join where the shutters met, letting threads hang down below. The same process was followed upon the stout door, where a liquid was then also thrown against it. The grease pot was left at the door sill with another thin strip of cloth pressed into it. The fire-raiser stood back for a moment, surveying their handiwork, and then drew forth flint and steel and set sparks to the trailing threads. The strip burnt but when the pot was reached there was nothing but a little smoke. A second attempt was made. The third time the wisps of smoke were replaced by flame. The face beneath the hood broke into a smile. The figure remained only long enough to see them catch the pot and cloth and then swiftly disappeared up the street.
The servant within had dozed in the quiet blackness. Only after a few minutes did a thin ghostly finger of silvery smoke make its way into the front of the chamber, and it was several minutes after that that the smoke made him cough and awoke him. Without thinking, he made to open the door, which was warm to the touch but showed no flame. As he opened it the heat from the burning exterior hit him, and he fell back calling a choked alarm.
Bradecote was awoken by a man-at-arms shaking him by the shoulder and calling his name. He scrambled into his clothes, and headed off to Cokenstrete as quickly as he could run, which was faster than the majority of his men. When he arrived, breathing hard and with sweat running into his eyes, the narrow street was full of people, although most were bystanders. Simeon was outside, wrapped in a fur-collared cloak. He was directing his servants in damping down the smoking window and door, where spots of red glowed like little, fierce eyes. The frontage was smoke-blackened but appeared structurally sound. The neighbours stood by, concerned but inactive.
‘Is everyone safe, Master Simeon?’
The merchant turned and peered at him. ‘It is you, my lord. Yes, indeed, I have everyone out by the back entrance. Thankfully, we were prepared, and this wood is thick, only the outside has burnt, and there is a little damage from smoke also to the ceiling within. Taking your warning seriously, I had every available pitcher, pail and dish filled with water and left in the hall. That gave us an advantage.’ He pulled a face. ‘Mind you, the whole door, window and frames have to be entirely replaced.’
‘Cannot wood be used simply to repair the damage if the wood is still solid?’
‘You do not understand, my lord. These are unclean. Can you not smell it?’
Bradecote stepped up to the door and sniffed. The overriding smell was that of charred wood, but above that was a smell of … pig. He turned to Simeon. ‘Swine fat, and something faint that I cannot put a name to.’
‘All things to do with swine are unclean. We cannot touch them. These must be totally replaced. I would not pass through this door and have it contaminate me and mine. I will send my family to Bristow today, my lord, and will not have them back until all this is resolved.’
‘I am sorry. We have failed you.’
Simeon raised his hands, and shook his head. ‘No lives have been lost tonight. That is the important thing.’
Bradecote looked about him at the idle neighbours, and was suddenly angered beyond belief.
‘Why do you all stand and do nothing?’
The townsfolk looked at their feet, and said nothing. A man coughed, and it was not at the smoke.
‘If this was anyone else’s house you would help.’ Bradecote picked up a pail and thrust it into the hand of the nearest man. ‘Here. Be a neighbour. Fill it.’
The man looked to his fellows and then at Bradecote.
‘I am the Undersheriff of Worcester, and I say do it. Now!’ yelled Bradecote, frustrated and also ashamed of his own inability to have prevented the fire. The man blinked and went to fill the pail.
‘It matters not, my lord.’ Simeon was tired. ‘I expected nothing else,’ he said softly, wiping a begrimed hand across his eyes.
‘I will see this matter sorted out, Master Simeon, as soon as is possible. You should not be parted from your family for long.’ He clapped the merchant on the back consolingly, directed a couple of men-at-arms to remain until such time as the damping down was complete, and returned to the castle.
He woke late, but after confused dreams that left him feeling jaded and lacklustre. He shaved with some care, hoping his ablutions would clear his mind as well as cleaning sooty smuts from his visage, and went in search of Serjeant Catchpoll. He found no sign of him, but was confronted by Walkelin, keen to do his bidding.
‘You have work for me this morning, my lord?’
Bradecote ignored the question. ‘Where is Serjeant Catchpoll?’
‘Not here, my lord.’
‘So you have not seen him today?’
‘Yes, my lord, but he went straight off to find the priest of All Saints, and told me to await your orders.’
‘Did he know of the fire in Cokenstrete?’ Bradecote’s temper was rising.
‘Oh yes. I mentioned it myself.’
The undersheriff swore, giving vent to his feelings in a string of highly descriptive expletives. Walkelin regarded him admiringly. He had been surprised to find that Bradecote spoke good English, but it was an honour to serve a lord whose mastery of the vernacular extended to inventing colourful descriptions of the absent serjeant and what he would like to do to him. The man-at-arms managed to wipe the smile from his face before Bradecote rounded on him and tersely commanded him to accompany him to Cokenstrete.
It took some time for Catchpoll to run the good Father Anselm to earth, for he was busy about his parish, visiting the sick, providing what little help he could to the indigent. His was a parish that included many of the less wealthy citizenry of Worcester, and a fair number of widows with children, for whom finding food for the infants often meant going without themselves. The serjeant eventually found him giving a cast-off cotte to a crippled youth,
begging down by the quayside.
Father Anselm, priest of All Saints, was a short, rotund man of gentle mien, popular with his flock, and keen to see the best in them, while acknowledging that they all strayed from righteousness, as he did himself. His parishioners looked to their ‘wealthier’ friends within the parish of St Andrew’s, living under the unyielding Father Boniface who gave sermons dwelling on damnation and set harsh penance, and gave prayers of thanksgiving for their own good fortune.
He greeted Serjeant Catchpoll courteously but with some concern, fearful that the serjeant might ask him to break some secret of the confessional, and he was therefore initially relieved to be asked about the death of Mistress Brewer, so recently laid to rest within his churchyard.
‘Ah yes, Serjeant Catchpoll, a very sad business. I arrived quickly, and there was a deal of commotion still. The Widow Fowler, who had apparently found her, was all tears and waving her hands about, the way women can be, and Maud Brewer lay at the bottom of the stair, which is more of a ladder, it is so steep.’
‘There was no doubt she was dead when you found her? I mean she held no breath when you got there?’
‘Oh, no doubt at all. Her neck was clearly broken. You could see from the peculiar angle, and when I closed her eyelids her skin was cool, like someone who had been outside in a chill breeze, and her skin pale, except for the purple marks on the cheek I could see. I assumed they were bruises from the fall, but when I recall them now they were not quite like bruises.’ The priest’s voice had slowed and he frowned at the implication of what he was saying. ‘How often does one bruise an earlobe, even doing such a thing? But why should bruises be there if—’
Catchpoll held up his hand to halt him. His mind was working quickly. ‘Yes, Father, there is a problem here. Did the eyelids close easily?’
Ordeal by Fire Page 12
