Ordeal by Fire

by Sarah Hawkswood

  Father Anselm sat for a moment, the realisation of the implications vying with dredging the details from his memory. He clasped his hands together as if seeking assistance from Higher Authority, and when he spoke the words were measured and precise.

  ‘It is difficult. I mean they closed without force, but …’ he licked his lips and paused briefly – ‘I am called to many deathbeds, Serjeant. It is part of my daily life. I am often the one to close the eyes, and there is no resistance. Thinking on it, there was a little, but not requiring force, if you understand.’

  Catchpoll nodded. ‘Now, can you recall where the body lay and how it lay … arms out or whatever?’

  ‘She was in a sort of heap at the bottom of the ladder, as if she had been a bundle dropped by mischance, and lying face down, on her front I mean, with her head on one side …’ He paused and closed his eyes in concentration. ‘And one bare foot was visible, peeping out from under her skirts, but her arms were not flung out. There were clothes, washing, scattered about from a basket, so she must have stumbled as she was bringing it down. Oh dear, this is most unwelcome.’

  ‘Face down? Was the cheek against the ground, the one bruised?’

  ‘No. No, that is what was odd.’ His face brightened. ‘Ah, but of course, I imagine her husband, or Widow Fowler, had turned her face, in the vain hope of seeing she lived.’ There was something in his voice that said he was trying to convince himself, but could not succeed.

  ‘And were her feet nearer the ladder?’ Catchpoll was thinking hard, and every thought pointed to one thing.

  The priest nodded dumbly, and Catchpoll continued, speaking more to himself.

  ‘If I was coming down a ladder, and it was more like a ladder than stairs, as you say, would I come down it with a basket of washing and facing outwards?’ Catchpoll shook his head. ‘I’d play safe, especially in skirts, and come down facing the ladder. I am sorry, Father, but I think your parishioner did not die by accident.’

  ‘The basket could have made her spin round as she fell?’ Father Anselm’s tone was almost one of pleading.

  ‘Aye, it could just about, but all things considered, I think not.’

  The priest crossed himself and mumbled a prayer. Catchpoll left him shaking his head over the wickedness around him, as he set to pray for other souls than just that of the late, and lamented by a fair number of men other than her spouse, Maud Brewer.

  Chapter Twelve

  In the chilly light of the September morning, the frontage of Simeon the Jew’s house presented a sorry spectacle. The charred remains of the woodwork already lay in the street, with dark voids where they should be set. There was no sign of Master Simeon, but a man was clearly in charge. Bradecote accosted him and learnt that the Master was down at the quay, settling his family in a craft to take them downriver. He had left instructions that all trace of the contaminated wood was to be cleared away before his return, and carpenters were measuring the window for new shutters, whilst two more were in the process of replacing the door frame, complete with its little niche.

  Bradecote squatted down by the remains of the door that lay to one side, summoning Walkelin to do likewise.

  ‘Right, Walkelin. You have to use not just your eyes and ears in this business, but your nose also. What can you smell on this?’ He tapped the charred wood.

  Walkelin shut his eyes and leant forward until his nose almost touched the wood. He presented a comical figure, and a watching child giggled. The flame-topped head was bent for some minutes, and then Walkelin straightened himself.

  ‘The main smell is clearly of burnt wood, but that would not interest you, my lord. Above that, well I would say it was most like swine crackling, but there’s something else as well. I recognise it, but it isn’t food. I mean I don’t link it to food.’ His face was serious, and his puckering brow drew together the pale freckles upon it. He sighed in concentration. Bradecote understood what he meant, but could not put his finger on the smell’s origin. Suddenly Walkelin broke into a wide grin.

  ‘Of course, my lord. That’s holy oil. It’s nothing to do with food. It’s a faint smell, but that is what it is. Have I said something wrong, my lord?’ His superior’s face had contorted as if in pain.

  ‘No, Walkelin. But I should have guessed that straight away.’ He paused. ‘This is Simeon the Jew’s house. Can you think of why pig fat, lard, would be the thing to start a fire with?’

  ‘Can’t say that I do, my lord. Sorry.’

  ‘No, I did not think of it either until I was told, which makes me wonder how many folk would do so. It says so often enough in Scripture, but you do not immediately think …’ Walkelin was looking lost. ‘Jews avoid anything to do with swine. I suppose I knew they did not eat them, as unclean, but it goes far further.’ He paused. ‘Right then, in the absence of Serjeant Catchpoll you can come with me to St Andrew’s Church.’

  Walkelin looked puzzled. ‘We resort to prayer, my lord?’

  Bradecote gave a crack of mirthless laughter. ‘It may yet come to that, Walkelin. But first we find out if the priest of St Andrew’s can cast any light on who may have stolen his bottle of holy oil.’

  Serjeant Catchpoll returned mid morning to report his findings to Hugh Bradecote, and reached the castle only a short time after the return of the undersheriff and Walkelin. One look indicated that he was in for a rough time with his superior. Catchpoll had never actually seen Bradecote lose his temper beyond being tetchy, and he looked a man who lost it rarely but fully.

  ‘Kind of you to join us, Serjeant.’ The undersheriff’s voice dripped sarcasm, and he added, without turning, ‘Get out, Walkelin.’

  Walkelin did as he was bid, torn between regret at missing seeing Serjeant Catchpoll berated, and relief at not being drawn into a messy argument.

  Bradecote’s expression was thunderous and he ground his teeth. ‘When we spoke last night, I gave you leave to chase off after the possible killing of Maud Brewer on the understanding that there were no more fires started and demanding our attention. Yet I rise, having attended just such a fire during the night, to find that you have gone hunting the priest of All Saints, despite being told of the fire … a fire that has no feasible link to Maud Brewer, anyway. I can’t decide whether you are deaf, insubordinate or just so puffed up in your own cleverness that nobody else’s words mean anything to you. You may be the sheriff’s man, but by heaven I’ll see you shovelling the midden if you disobey me deliberately again.’ His voice had risen so as to be heard by an interested gathering outside.

  Catchpoll looked stolidly at the younger man, with what could as easily be insolence as an attempt to be emollient.

  ‘No lives were lost, nor did it sound as though the delay of a couple of hours would alter what could be discovered. I made a judgement, my lord, simple as that. Finding out about the death of Maud Brewer could clear our path; take one strand from the tangle. I reckon as you don’t need me to be at your side for every interview, or raking over cool ashes. You’ve worked alone often enough over the last days.’

  ‘No, I don’t need you to hold my hand and guide my steps like an infant, Catchpoll, but sometimes more can be gained than would be expected. You could not know what would turn up at Cokenstrete.’

  ‘At my guess, signs, if you’re lucky, that the fire was started with holy oil, probably on cloth or suchlike. We said it would make it easier to start a fire from the outside, and that is presumably what happened.’

  Bradecote wanted to shake Catchpoll until his discoloured teeth rattled, and the fact that his assumption had been correct placated him not at all.

  ‘You are a disobedient, insubordinate bastard, Catchpoll. You may have all the experience in the world, but if you work against me and not with me, then you are no more use than a holed bucket. One more trick like that and I will have the sheriff dismiss you, however much you think he values you.’ He was clearly not in any way appeased.

  ‘Understood, my lord.’ By not so much as a flicker did Catchpoll
indicate how he took this reprimand, or whether he thought the sheriff would be prepared to dismiss him on the say-so of a novice undersheriff.

  ‘Call Walkelin back in.’ Bradecote turned away and took a deep breath, composing himself to think calmly.

  Those listening from without made instant efforts to appear otherwise engaged as Serjeant Catchpoll opened the door, but Walkelin stood wooden-faced within a few paces. Antagonising the sheriff’s serjeant was not a wise move, and he had no intention of doing so, especially having to work so closely with him. Catchpoll called him back with a jerk of the head, and he returned with a look of perfect innocence upon his face.

  ‘Walkelin and I visited Cokenstrete. As you guessed, there were indications that holy oil had been used to start the blaze, but there was more than that. An oaken door does not catch easily, nor heavy shutters, but these were heavily damaged on the outside surface. From the smell, it seems they were smeared with lard.’

  ‘Clever. That would not run down swiftly, like oil, even if it was perhaps a little slower to catch. You still need a good deal of heat to light it, of course, but it would work.’ Catchpoll nodded to himself.

  ‘But there is more to it even than that, Catchpoll. Swine are considered foul and unclean by Jews. Master Simeon is having the door, window and framing entirely replaced because of the contamination. He said he would not even cross that threshold until all was removed. I had no knowledge of this, but then I am from the country and never met or lived near a Jew. Walkelin says he was ignorant of it, but what about you?’

  ‘Well, you hear odd things, of course, but what is true and what is fanciful gossip isn’t always easy to decide. I know there are odd things about what they eat, but beyond not pig-meat, I couldn’t say what.’

  ‘So you would be surprised if many of Worcester’s inhabitants knew?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Though mayhap some as have had dealings with him, borrowing, would have heard or seen more about him.’

  ‘Fair enough. Well, after seeing the site of the fire we went to see Father Boniface. What did you think of him, Walkelin?’

  The young man wrinkled his nose. ‘Not a man I’d want to confess to afore my dying breath, for certain. He’s a priest who believes in right and wrong, we, the ordinary folk, being the “all wrong”. Makes you wonder whether priests like that ever had mothers, or perhaps were just found in cloisters, ready grown and tonsured.’

  ‘Strange imagination you’ve got, lad. Best keep it shackled,’ declared Catchpoll, shaking his head.

  ‘It may be useful yet, so don’t shut it down entirely,’ added Bradecote. ‘Anyway, we were keen to know if he had any ideas about the identity of his thief.’

  ‘Don’t suppose he helped much, other than saying they will be damned for it.’ Catchpoll shrugged.

  ‘Not directly, Serjeant, but he did say what he did the day of the theft.’ Walkelin allowed an edge of excitement to enter his voice.

  ‘Go on, then. Tell me.’

  ‘He said he had last used it during the morning, when giving extreme unction to an elderly parishioner. He returned to the church and in the afternoon received visits from several of his parishioners, most of whom we can ignore.’

  ‘On what grounds?’ Catchpoll wanted Walkelin to be thorough.

  Walkelin ticked them off on his fingers. ‘Two were old dames who wanted prayers said for dead kin, one was Thorold the Wheelwright, come to arrange the churching of his wife after her delivery of twins … and his old mother used to live hard by where my mother and I live, so I know him and would vouch for him … there was blind Tosti come for alms and then,’ he paused for effect, ‘one Serlo, servant to Master Mercet.’

  Catchpoll suddenly looked more interested. ‘Did he really? Never saw him as religious. Shows how wrong you can be.’ He did not look as if he felt at all wrong about Serlo. ‘Came for a long confession, did he?’

  ‘No,’ answered Walkelin, unaware of the irony. ‘It seems Master Mercet wishes to be a benefactor of the church and wanted to know if any particular item of silver is called for that he could commission.’

  ‘Wonders will never cease. Item of silver, eh? Wonder if Master Mercet is intending to purchase at a fair price, or just lean on a silversmith, really hard. Was our friend Serlo left alone for any period of time?’

  ‘Father Boniface says he cannot recall, because it was a busy afternoon. I asked about the locked box the oil would be kept in, and Father Boniface showed where it had been forced, though a repair had been made.’

  Hugh Bradecote had let Walkelin make the report until this point. ‘It proves nothing because we only have understanding, not fact, but Mercet would gladly be rid of Simeon as a rival. We must reconsider Mercet as a suspect, although he clearly did not do the deed himself.’

  ‘If he sent Serlo, who is dark and a mite taller than me, then he would disclaim any knowledge if we got Serlo to confess, and I’m none too sure he couldn’t raise oath-swearers to vouch for his probity, with some strong-arm tactics.’ Catchpoll was not hopeful.

  ‘There is something else.’ Bradecote did not want to focus solely on Mercet. ‘Father Boniface knew all about the Jewish loathing of pigs, and said he had preached about swine possessed of spirits only a week or so ago and explained it then, so his congregation would have heard about it in the last few weeks. It increases the likelihood of it being one of his parishioners.’

  ‘And that would exclude Edgar Brewer, unless he happened to hear it elsewhere. Pity.’ Catchpoll spoke regretfully.

  ‘So we are saying our fire-setter is not also a wife-killer then?’ Walkelin looked equally disappointed.

  ‘Not necessarily, but it seems unlikely. It would be nice and tidy, though.’ Catchpoll pulled a face.

  Bradecote mirrored the expression. ‘Sorry we cannot arrange things to suit your idea of neatness. Anyway, the result is that we are deep into hunting the fire-setter, and I do not see that trying to follow up a murder that happened, if at all, some months back, with the corpse rotting quietly in the graveyard and the only evidence that of memory, will get us anywhere. The real evidence is long gone. So there is no point—’

  Catchpoll held up a hand to halt him.

  ‘First off, my lord, it was murder. I’m certain of it. For it to be accidental, Maud Brewer would have to have come down that ladder stair with a basket of washing in her arms and yet facing outwards.’ He shook his head. ‘No woman would do that, my lord. Then she has to have landed all of a heap, with her neck broke and lying on her front, not even her arms out as you would by nature, if falling. How does she do that, I ask you? Then there is the evidence of the death. I doubt not you’ve seen enough dead folk, my lord, but not dead some time, and I can tell you they change in several ways. Of course they stiffen after a while, and everyone knows that, though the stiffness wears off after a few days. But the thing is that the stiffness comes over them bit by bit, not everywhere all of a sudden. From what I have seen, it is often hands and feet, and a tightness of the face. Father Anselm noticed that her eyes did not close as easily as most. I would guess that was the start of stiffening, which would mean she had not been alive and well only a quarter-hour earlier. Also he spoke of marks on the upturned cheek.’

  ‘Bruises, you mean?’ The undersheriff was not finding this easy to follow, and Walkelin’s mouth hung open as if he were watching a feat of magic.

  ‘Not as such. If they were, you would have to ask how she got them in the fall if that cheek did not hit the ground. But you see, I have seen purple marks on bodies, and they are on the parts nearest the ground. A man found hanging will have ’em on his feet and lower legs, and his hands; even the nails darken; a body on its back will have them on the shoulders and in the back, except what presses hardest to the ground. I asked a physician about it once, and he said it was the blood and other humours settling back to the earth from which we are sprung, which sounds sense to me. Whatever causes it, it happens after death and in the first hours. That means Maud Brewer lay mo
st like with that darkened cheek to the floor, not the way she was found, and was dead some hours before she “fell”, or rather before her corpse was pushed down the ladder. She was described by Father Anselm as lying in a bundled heap. No living woman, or in her senses at least, would land like that off a ladder-stair. Oh yes, and he said she was barefoot. Would you not wonder why she was barefoot? The brewer is not a poor man, and even if she was going to do washing and did not want them wet, she would not take off her shoes until everything was ready.’

  ‘And the small matter of the men all hearing her working upstairs and humming?’ Bradecote wanted to be really sure if he was going to let this intrude on the hunt for the fire-raiser.

  ‘The men heard a woman upstairs humming, not singing as she usually did, and humming, from what I have heard over the years, does not carry as well as singing. I would say the shutters of the upper chamber were open enough just so that humming would be heard, and it was. They heard a woman, but it was not Maud Brewer, who was already lying dead with her neck broken by her cuckolded husband, who had decided that a loyal wife, however plain, was better than a comely one who would lie with half the men in Worcester, and probably burnt his pottage. I have no doubt our humming dame was the Widow Fowler. She wouldn’t sound the same singing, but humming is humming. When everyone is there in the brewhouse, working under Edgar Brewer’s direction so he could have nothing to do with the “accident”, she pushes the corpse down the ladder, because she don’t like having the corpse staring at her close up, which is why it ends up feet nearer the ladder and on its front. She tosses down the basket and some clothing to make it look like dropped washing, and hangs back until it is clear nobody is going to investigate the noise of the fall. She then comes down, steps over the body and goes to the front door. She knocks, from the inside mind, calling out nice and loud, and then screams fit to bust to get everyone in to see the accident. Quite clever, and with a fair amount of planning by one or both of them.’