Ordeal by Fire

by Sarah Hawkswood

Walkelin stood stupefied by this feat of detection. Bradecote was convinced, and secretly also very impressed. Catchpoll had a wealth of experience and clearly used it well. ‘But how do you prove that with all evidence neatly cleared away and buried?’

  ‘My lord, we could not convict just with evidence anyways. It says so in law. I can’t give you the Latin of it, but it is something like “you cannot convict anybody on serious charges from evidence only”. What is needed is confession, and even two months late, that, and the witness evidence, is valid. You leave it to me, my lord, and I will see a way round this, and without halting our fire-raiser hunt. It might even be easier if they think, like you, that nothing can be proved agin them, and we are busy elsewhere. Leads to mistakes, that does. “Pride cometh before a fall” I think it says in the Bible, and this fall is like to be one into eternal darkness with a gallows rope about their neck.’

  Biblical utterances were also issuing forth from the glowering visage of Father Boniface. The townsfolk were now very worried by the fires in their midst, and turned, instinctively, to the Church for solace. At All Saints that is what they got from Father Anselm, but at St Andrew’s the priest was berating them for their sinfulness that had brought down God’s fiery wrath upon them. He had read out Holy Scripture about the chaff being cast into the flames, with relish, and was making sure every soul before him knew the peril in which they stood.

  ‘You who are conceived in sin, born in sin, and wallow in it as swine wallow in their own filth, how can you hope to gain the mercy of the Almighty. The judgement of the Lord is upon you, and you do not repent. Such fire as you see here is but a candle’s light in comparison with what you face in Damnation, yet do you change your evil ways? No, even in the presence of His will, you do not alter your sinful lives; you deceive and cheat your neighbours; you lie in disgusting lust and adultery and fornication, taking pleasure,’ here his voice added incredulity to anger, ‘in the foul and corrupting act; you bear false witness; you break every one of the Commandments. Worcester is become as Sodom and Gomorrah, so it is small wonder the flames of vengeance are come to raze it.’ Father Boniface’s voice shook, and his eyes smouldered as fierce as any furnace coal. ‘Salvation is for them that fear Him, and therefore I tell you to be fearful, fearful for your very souls’ sake, before God. Repent, and cast out the evil from your hearts. Prostrate yourselves before Him and plead for your souls before you are cast into the fires of eternal hell as chaff by His angels, and burn in agonies that cannot be eased, for all time to come.’

  The congregation, almost in unison, lay down in penitence upon the stone floor, their faces as pale as its cold surface, and prayed for deliverance from this fate, and also, in some cases, from the terror that was Father Boniface himself. When they emerged from the church, many raised their eyes to the heavens, as if the angels of their destruction might be peering at them from behind the wisps of cloud, and the fires of God might descend upon them at any moment. Within, Father Boniface composed himself and then prostrated his own long-legged form before the altar and closed his eyes, repeating the paternoster, ‘Our Father, which art in Heaven, thy will be done, in earth as it is in Heaven …’ until the blood ceased pounding in his head, and his heart resumed its normal beat. Nobody could ever say that the priest of St Andrew’s took his duties lightly.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The three sheriff’s men spent the end of the forenoon trying to work out what possible reason could have led Robert Mercet to have organised a fire at the silversmith’s workshop. None of them could come up with any answer beyond it being a decoy, and it left a worrying sense of doubt in the undersheriff’s mind, however much he sought to dispel it. He still felt that Mercet’s original denial of having set the first two fires rang true, however much he was ‘an evil bastard’ and top of Catchpoll’s pet hates. It was agreed that a watch should be set on Simeon’s warehouse, which seemed the next likely target if Mercet really wanted him out of business, since another attempt on the house itself would be too risky, so soon after the first one.

  It was then that a question entered Walkelin’s head, the answer to which, it seemed to him, might solve the problem of linking Mercet to the silversmith’s fire. He made his suggestion to Serjeant Catchpoll and the undersheriff with becoming diffidence, but clearly keen to undertake the following of this strand of investigation.

  ‘So you are going to give us the answer to our problems, Walkelin?’ Catchpoll schooled his features into solemnity as he noted the eagerness in Walkelin’s eyes. Once upon a time, he too must have looked that keen. He remembered the sheriff’s serjeant under whom he had learnt the craft, and the key rules: to observe, not just ‘see’; to listen, not just ‘hear’; and, most important of all, to ‘out-bastard the bastards you have to catch’. It was this last that he thought might be hardest for his apprentice. Walkelin was inherently friendly, not your natural at being mean and unpleasant. He would simply have to learn the art.

  ‘I can’t promise anything, Serjeant, but for the sake of an hour it might do just that. It only means talking to a few folk to see if the link exists.’

  ‘And you do not wish to reveal your idea lest it prove to be the chasing of a shadow.’ Bradecote nodded his assent. ‘Fair enough. Off you go, and report back as soon as you have your answers.’

  Dismissed, Walkelin hastened off to Reginald Ash’s workshop, and there cornered Edwin the journeyman to get directions to the home of Widow Wick and her daughter. It lay close enough, down by the river, and clinging to the edge of the parish of St Andrew’s.

  Following Edwin’s directions, Walkelin soon found himself standing in front of a row of rather dilapidated dwellings that indicated their occupants were not among the wealthy of Worcester, and could not afford to live further up the hill and away from possible flooding. He had intended to knock at neighbouring doors with a tale of being a country lad seeking a distant relative by the name of Wick, and delving into her connections from there. In truth, when he came to it, he was unsure whether this ploy might work, and he felt alarmingly self-conscious. What if some kindly soul chose to lead him to the door and stand there as the woman denounced him as no kin of hers? As it happened, he was spared the necessity of a ruse, and was more fortunate than he could possibly have anticipated.

  The man who entered the cottage with the most perfunctory of knocks looked familiar, but Walkelin wanted not just his own identification. A question to a woman selling bunches of dried herbs confirmed the name, and more beside. The herb seller was taken aback with the force of his heartfelt thanks, and wondered why such mundane information should set so broad a grin upon his face. She watched him as he headed off with long strides, and shook her head. The poor young man was clearly addled. Red hair, she said to herself, was a sure sign of instability.

  Walkelin almost ran back to the castle, and was disappointed to discover that his superiors were not to be found. He was left kicking his heels for an hour of increasing exasperation.

  In fact, Bradecote and Catchpoll had only gone the short step as far as the priory, whence they had accompanied the newly returned Martin Woodman.

  The carpenter was obviously shaken by the discovery of the disaster that had befallen his home and business during his absence in Feckenham, but he was a straightforward, practical man, as befitted his trade. When his wife’s sobbed tale had been concluded, he headed to the castle to get the full account without tears. The help that he could give the sheriff’s men was limited. He had rented his home and premises from Robert Mercet for the last six years, and would have chosen almost any other man in Worcester as his landlord, had he the choice.

  ‘Needs must though, my lord, and the premises were just what I needed. The lease was set and paid for each Quarter Day, but it included my making all repairs, and his man Turgis was forever turning up and snooping around, hunting for winter storm damage, summer shrinkage or general wear and tear. Turgis the Ferret I calls him, though not to his face.’

  Bradecote decided tha
t Mistress Woodman had not told her husband about her encounter with Turgis after the fire. All in all, perhaps that was for the best. A carpenter had sharp tools, and he did not want to have to arrest the man for the perfectly reasonable act of removing Turgis’s ‘tool’ with an adze.

  ‘Did you not challenge the amount of repairs?’

  ‘No, my lord,’ Master Woodman smiled crookedly at the undersheriff’s naïvety, ‘since it was made clear to me that unspecified damage might occur to me and mine if I did not do as requested.’

  Bradecote frowned, but Catchpoll was unsurprised.

  ‘But he never threatened to burn you out?’ Serjeant Catchpoll needed simple fact.

  ‘No indeed, Serjeant Catchpoll. That he did not, for if he had I would have gone to the other carpenters and as a body we would have come to the lord sheriff. Fire would be too great a threat to all and would not be tolerated. Even a bully like Mercet would not voice such a threat, whatever he might say about a man’s flesh and bone.’

  Martin Woodman’s serious, honest face was greater in its appeal for justice than any pleading or hand wringing. At no point had he bemoaned the failings of the sheriff’s men in finding the perpetrator of the crime. When he made to leave, he said that he was off to the cathedral priory, hinting gently that any support from ‘Authority’ would be welcomed. Bradecote and Catchpoll both offered to accompany him to lend official voices, should they be required in negotiations with Father Prior. This he accepted gratefully. Not that such support proved necessary, for the prior was quick to call for the details of any leases that might be available and of sufficient size for the carpenter’s business. He was a man both godly in his charity and practical in his desire to see a craftsman whose work benefited his priory given premises in which to fulfil his commissions.

  The undersheriff and serjeant came away, leaving churchman and artisan finalising details of a fair and amicable agreement. They had a sense that some good had been achieved, even without their good offices, and in this lightened mood they met with Walkelin, by this time barely able to control his desire to impart his news.

  ‘You look like the mouse that’s been given the run of the storeroom, lad. Best tell us before you burst from keeping silent.’ Catchpoll grinned.

  ‘I haven’t solid proof, my lord,’ Walkelin began in a rush, looking from Bradecote to Catchpoll and back again, ‘but I do have the connection we was looking for between Mercet and Master Ash’s smithy, like I said before. Not that it gives us a reason why he would want to burn it down but—’

  The words, so long held back, came out in a flow like a breached dam, and Catchpoll raised a hand to stem them. ‘Whoa! If you gabble, we’ll need the tale twice over. Take your time, and don’t wander off into blind alleys.’

  ‘Sorry, Serjeant.’ Walkelin cleared his throat and began again. ‘You see, what was getting me was that whoever set the fire in the silversmith’s had to know how the premises were set out at the rear. You said Mercet had never owned the place, so he could not know by that way. I wondered if the cooking girl, dim Agnes, or leastways her mother, might have a connection. I thought perhaps their place might be rented from Mercet. Then it would be easy to get the woman to tell all, with a bit of careful questioning, that is … you know how women go on at the slightest chance. Well, it so happens that Mercet is indeed their landlord, but it gets even better …’ Here Walkelin could not resist pausing for effect, although Catchpoll merely rolled his eyes in exasperation.

  ‘Get on with it.’

  ‘It turns out that the Widow Wick is sister to Serlo, Mercet’s man. I saw him visit, and recognised the face, but wanted to be certain, so asked a neighbour who confirmed his identity and gave me all the details. He visits regular like, on account of having no nearer kin and enjoying a free meal at his sister’s. No problem, then, for Mercet to know just how to set the fire, and if it was in the day, little chance of it spreading too far. If he wanted a fire he could have no obvious link with, to lead us off the scent, then this was it.’

  Catchpoll rubbed the end of his nose meditatively, but was only partially successful in concealing the reptilian smile that was spreading across his face.

  Walkelin looked from serjeant to undersheriff, clearly in hope of praise. Bradecote relented. It was certainly a good piece of work, and Walkelin deserved his moment of glory.

  ‘That’s certainly very useful. Well done, both for the discovery and for getting down to the nub of the problem. Now, what do you suggest we do next?’

  Walkelin’s blush of pleasure that set cheek at odds with flaming hair, turned to an expression of jaw-dropping horror as he realised the next move was being offered to him, a lowly man-at-arms. He blinked several times, swallowed hard so that his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and stammered his response.

  ‘Well, I suppose we could … but that wouldn’t work would it, my lord? No. Then I simply suggest, humbly mind, that we visit Master Mercet and see him squirm.’

  ‘Nice idea, boy,’ grumbled Catchpoll, ‘but it would take a lot more than what we have to make Robert Mercet even turn one of those fair hairs of his. If we shows him all we know he will laugh in our faces. He will simply disown Serlo and have three times the required number of oath-swearers queueing up within the hour to attest to him being as innocent as a newborn babe. Far better to take up Serlo on his own and see what we can get from him without his master on hand. He may just be persuaded to squeal like a stuck pig and implicate Mercet, but even then we are left in almost the same stew. Whatever we confront the miserable bastard with, Mercet will wriggle free. We need to have such evidence as will make any oath-swearer, however great the pressure upon him, know he is perjuring his eternal soul with a blatant lie. If we bring in Serlo and leave hints of deeper knowledge with Mercet, then perhaps, just perhaps, if we are very fortunate, he may make a stumble.’

  Walkelin’s cheer subsided. What had seemed a conclusive link that would bring about the arrest of the guilty party, now seemed as flimsy as a house of straw. His disappointment showed in droop of shoulder and heavy sigh.

  ‘Don’t be too disheartened, Walkelin.’ Bradecote tried to sound positive. ‘If Serlo was Mercet’s instrument and we have solid evidence against him, he at least will face justice for the old woman and the fires, and Mercet would be rash beyond imaginings to send out another of his men to continue the work, assuming that any more fires are intended. Of course, it might well be that his aim was simply to rid Worcester of Simeon the Jew. That has failed, and his victim is going to be both on his guard and under our watchful eye.’

  ‘Ah, now there’s another problem, my lord.’ This time it was Catchpoll who looked glum. ‘What’s been gnawing at me like a rat in a rope-house, is why the fire at the Jew’s house was set as it was. True, if they had not been prepared by your warning, there might have been great damage and loss of life, but there was no attempt to block the rear exit, and that would have been the true killer’s way. This was almost haphazard, almost “Deus vult” – as God wills. Destroying his warehouse, now that would have cut deep, or better still do both at the same time. It’s the odd thing that niggles me, see. The fire-raiser seems to set a fire and not make sure of the effect. I admit I’ve never hunted one before, but I thought they liked to see the results of their “work”, and make it as spectacular as possible, not set it and walk away, disinterested like.’

  Bradecote was frowning, and rubbed his hand to and fro across his chin, as if he had a dull toothache. ‘But that is changing the culprit from a hired man into one who does it for himself, Catchpoll, and we are suggesting, out of desperation, it was Mercet at the back of it. Besides, we believe that the first fire was to set us off in the wrong direction and draw suspicion from Mercet, and that the second was another, since the first was still accounted a possible accident, but with the added bonus of Woodman’s place to rebuild and lease anew. Neither required a death, even though the second caused one. It is thus only this last fire that falls into the category of one not
followed through. And perhaps the fire-setter was disturbed in some way, or even got oil and grease on themself and was too scared to attend to the back or the warehouse.’

  Catchpoll nodded reluctantly. ‘You’ve a fair point, my lord, but there’s something in this somewhere that just doesn’t sit right, and I for one will not be content till I find out what.’

  ‘Serjeant’s instinct, eh?’

  ‘Easy to mock, my lord, but it’s an instinct that’s served me well over the years.’

  Bradecote sighed. ‘Until that instinct has a revelation then, let us do something practical. We’ll take the first opportunity that arises to take up Serlo, as long as he is out of Mercet’s tender care. We want him alone and feeling vulnerable.’

  ‘Then best try an alehouse, my lord, and since young Walkelin here is proving so clever, we will send him.’ If the lord Bradecote entered an alehouse everyone present would be staring open-mouthed at him all evening, and Catchpoll would have every man wondering why he was there. Also, he had no wish to return after a possibly fruitless evening, smelling of ale, and to a sharp-tongued spouse. Walkelin was not known as other than one of the castle guard amongst the townsfolk, so he would blend in, even with his red hair. What Walkelin’s mother might say about his evening’s work did not worry the serjeant in the least.

  ‘Sit there all evening, Serjeant?’ Walkelin wondered how slowly he could drink.

  ‘If needs be.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Not all galloping around being heroic, our job. As much time is spent waiting and watching, and getting sore feet and chilled to the bone. Best you get used to it early on, young Walkelin. Now, off home and eat, since an empty stomach leads to a thick head.’

  Walkelin returned to his mother with his brain awhirl with hopes, ideas and a sense of amazement that he, Walkelin, son of Hubert, had become one of the select number of sheriff’s men looking to the law in the shire. He hoped his mother would be impressed by her son’s elevation, but found that telling her he had orders to spend the evening in an alehouse brought down choice words upon his head, and those of his superiors, that were not approbation. However, he asserted his male authority, which was difficult in the face of his mother, and as the afternoon became evening, headed for the nearest tavern to Robert Mercet’s house. He bought himself a beaker of ale, and then sat doing a fair impression of a young man with things upon his mind, and not there for a laugh and lewd tales.