Ordeal by Fire

by Sarah Hawkswood

  He regarded the woman with a new respect. His manner with old women was generally brusque. They had a tendency to get in the way, wittering, and Catchpoll couldn’t abide wittering. This one, however, was different. Notwithstanding the pink scalp shining through the sparse white hair, nor the tremor of her misshapen bony fingers, this was not just some befuddled old dame, but a source of knowledge he had previously not tapped. He acknowledged as much to her, and she gave a gracious nod of her head, as accepting of her due.

  ‘You yourself are not one to be behind the news, as I know,’ she commented. ‘For a man, you do well. If you want to learn things from me, though, you’d best be sharp about it, for it’s not long I’ll have left to draw breath. Now, you leave a poor old dame to her dozing, and tell that idle cat’s-breath of a daughter-in-law I have to suffer, that I am ready for my dose of elderberry and whatever it is the potion-pedlar puts in it.’

  The audience was at an end, and Catchpoll was conscious of a desire to bow himself out. He smiled when he emerged into the street again, but it was fleeting. Matters were beyond any jest now. He set off, at pace, to the remnants of Mercet’s stable.

  Chapter Nineteen

  He stood by the ashes of the stable for a short while, awaiting the undersheriff, but despite Bradecote’s suggestion, made no attempt to root among the remains. The smell of burnt flesh lingered, and although sense told him it was most likely the dead horses, he had no stomach for it. Bradecote had only seen the girl twice, but Catchpoll was pricked by the uncomfortable feeling that he bore some responsibility for her, even though chances were that she had not been in a position to be saved until that last moment. The fact that she had had little likelihood of a long or happy existence did not help. Catchpoll vowed to set a candle for her when all was done, and it was a contemplative serjeant that Bradecote found upon his arrival.

  They exchanged information without preamble, and had, without thinking, begun to head for St Andrew’s before they had finished.

  The church was empty when they entered by the parish door. As with all church doors, it creaked as it opened; the sound was amplified by the acoustics of the building, and their footfalls sounded in their own ears like an advancing army. They heard sounds in the vestry and approached as stealthily as they could, wincing at every echoing step and finally flinging open the door so hard that they almost fell through it. There was a clatter, and a woman screamed.

  In front of them a short, rotund dame stood with her hands over her mouth and her eyes wide with surprise. A broom lay dropped at her feet.

  ‘I’m sorry to frighten you,’ apologised Bradecote, attempting to hide the fact that he had come very close to launching himself at the unfortunate woman. ‘We seek Father Boniface.’

  The woman blinked several times and opened her mouth, but let it hang open.

  ‘Father Boniface, woman.’ Catchpoll had no time for politeness in this situation, and cast the undersheriff a fleeting look of scorn.

  ‘He’ll be out sick visiting, as I should guess, my lord. I saw him only for a moment this morning.’

  She bobbed a nervous curtsey, incorporating the retrieval of the broom in the action.

  The sheriff’s men turned to leave, and saw the black-garbed figure in the nave.

  ‘Oh, there he is, come back,’ remarked the woman, needlessly.

  Father Boniface eyed the two men calmly, and folded his hands before him. He was completely calm, and said nothing.

  ‘Good morning, Father. We were wanting to have words with you.’ Bradecote spoke slowly and distinctly.

  ‘We’ve come for confession,’ growled Catchpoll.

  The priest looked squarely at him. ‘I imagine you have plenty to confess, and telling a falsehood is just another added to the list.’

  ‘It isn’t our confession that needs to be heard.’ Anything less amicable than Catchpoll’s tone would be difficult to imagine.

  Father Boniface looked past them and addressed the cleaning woman. ‘Go now.’

  ‘But I’ve not—’

  ‘Go.’

  The little figure bobbed a hurried obeisance to Bradecote, then to priest and altar, and scurried out.

  The three men stood in silence until the parish door shut with an amplified click of the heavy latch.

  ‘You know why we are here,’ Catchpoll growled. ‘The trail of ashes, the trail of dead, leads to you, and ends now.’

  Father Boniface did not flinch.

  ‘Tell us why.’ Bradecote could feel Catchpoll stiffening as his wrath reached boiling point. The priest’s lack of concern rankled.

  ‘Really, I have no time for this. I must be about my Father’s business. I am His servant and His work must be done without let or hindrance.’ The priest did not sound alarmed, rather mildly irritated, as though they had come to him at an importune moment to arrange a christening. Then, quite suddenly, he turned, and with a speed that neither Bradecote nor Catchpoll had anticipated, covered the few paces to the door; to their surprise, he did not open it but rather vanished through a smaller door in the shadows.

  ‘The tower,’ cried Catchpoll, already running. ‘We have him trapped.’

  The two men ran up the spiral stair, breathing heavily, lungs complaining as they approached the top. They paused for a moment and took a deep breath before flinging themselves at the door, expecting resistance, and instead found themselves stumbling onto their knees into the sunlight. The top of the tower was empty.

  ‘The bastard’s jumped,’ gasped Catchpoll, and they both rushed to the parapet to look down, expecting to see a broken black figure at the base of the tower. There was nothing. It was then that the tower door shut with a snap. They looked at each other and scrambled for the door, which would not open.

  ‘He’s wedged the latch with something, but how did he get behind us?’ complained Bradecote, heaving at the door in vain.

  Catchpoll groaned like a soul in torment. ‘This’ll get out faster than we’ll get down from here. The shame of it.’ He ground his teeth. ‘When we catch this murdering bastard of a priest, I warn you, my lord, you’ll have to let less than a whole man be handed to the bishop, ’cos I’m going to pull his legs off, slow as I can. And don’t try that, my lord, for you’ll just damage a good weapon.’

  Bradecote was preparing to try and lever the door off its hinges with the tip of his sword.

  ‘Quicker, if more embarrassing, to call down and get someone up from below.’ Catchpoll leant over the parapet. Perversely, there was nobody visible in the street. He swore with great vehemence, which was not appropriate in an ecclesiastical building, but he was technically outside, and the situation desperate. After a couple of minutes a woman, holding a small child by the hand, came into view. Catchpoll shouted and waved.

  The child heard first and tugged its mother’s hand, pointing upward. She looked up, then gathered the child up into her arms, and helped it wave happily at the irate serjeant, who cupped his hands, shouted, and then began a peculiar mime show. The child laughed and clapped at the entertainment. Eventually she seemed to grasp what he meant because she put the child to the ground and disappeared from view beneath them. A few minutes after that they heard the sounds of laboured breathing and the clump of heavy pattens.

  ‘’Tis jammed shut,’ announced the voice, ‘with a big metal key thing. I can’t budge it. You wait till I fetch a man. Don’t go away,’ she added unnecessarily, and the clomping grew more faint.

  By the time a strapping youth with a mallet had knocked the obstruction free, both Catchpoll and Bradecote were nearly jumping up and down in frustration. The door opened, and Catchpoll almost dragged the lad through the doorway to give room for their descent.

  ‘Sheriff’s business. Important. Thank you,’ cried Bradecote as he too dashed past their bemused rescuer.

  ‘That’s how he did it,’ shouted Catchpoll, as he passed a small door that they had ignored three-quarters of the way the way up. ‘Door to roof.’

  At the bottom, the
y rushed out into the street as if chased by fiends. Catchpoll bent forward, gasping for breath and making a peculiar whistling sound as the air was dragged through the irregular gaps between his teeth.

  ‘Where first? The gates?’

  Bradecote nodded, breathing almost as heavily through his long nose.

  ‘Well, we’d best turn out men from the castle, then.’

  ‘You do that, Catchpoll, but I’m straight for the Foregate and Bridge Gate. They’re close enough for him. Meet you at the Foregate as soon as you’re able, and bring a spare horse.’

  Catchpoll set off, too breathless to curse, wishing that his legs felt twenty years younger, and that his lungs did not feel like bursting. The thought also crossed his mind that this was a job Walkelin should have done.

  At the Foregate, on the north side of Worcester, Bradecote began to ask everyone whether they had seen the priest leave, and realised after the first few shaken heads that he must appear demented. He pulled himself together, and seconded a pedlar to stand by the gate and keep his eyes open until such time as relieved by a man-at-arms. He then passed on to the Bridge Gate, with little hope of receiving any positive answer, though a man mending a fishing net swore no priest had been that way all morning. Bradecote doubled back to the Foregate to await Catchpoll, who arrived with a clatter of hooves and several mounted men. He dismounted before his horse had even halted.

  ‘I’ve set men to the gates and a second to report back here as to whether any sign has been seen of the priest. What has hit me as I came along is that it is always possible he has not tried to leave at all. Had you thought, my lord, about how he was in the church … very righteous and calm before he duped us. If he sees himself as the agent of God’s vengeance, well, if his task was complete he’d be as likely to ignore what we might do as not.’

  ‘You mean that he escaped because he hasn’t finished?’ Bradecote groaned.

  ‘Exactly. And although most of the fires have been at night, he knows we are after him so the next one will be as soon as he can set it.’

  ‘The old woman.’

  ‘What, my lord?’

  ‘Your “spider”. The only lead we will get is if she recalls anyone else connected with his mother. Otherwise we are looking for a needle in a hayrick, and a hayrick that is about to catch aflame.’

  Catchpoll and Bradecote arrived outside the home of Aldith Merrow’s son in an impressive haste, and hammered firmly upon the door. Her daughter-in-law answered it, ready to berate whoever it was, and swiftly altered her demeanour. She ushered the undersheriff and serjeant in, but told them ‘Mother Merrow’ was asleep.

  ‘Then we’ll wake her,’ said Catchpoll. His face brooked no argument. The woman announced them loudly and slowly, as if to an idiot, and shook the old woman none too gently by the shoulder. Second time round Aldith Merrow opened her eyes.

  ‘I’m not deaf,’ she lied in a loud, strident voice, shaking off the hand and focusing on Catchpoll and then Bradecote. ‘Didn’t expect you back so soon, Serjeant, and in smart company too.’ She looked Bradecote up and down. ‘This’ll be the new undersheriff. Does he understand God’s good English?’ She was addressing Catchpoll, but Bradecote answered.

  ‘Yes, Mother, and speaks it also. We need your help, and quickly if we are to avoid more deaths and more charred buildings.’

  Her eyes narrowed, and sparkled a little. ‘Better than the last one,’ she muttered, appreciatively.

  ‘That’s because he called you an interfering old witch,’ commented the daughter-in-law, with relish, ‘and in Foreign too. You had to ask Father Jerome what it meant.’ The woman smirked. ‘And—’

  She would have continued but for Catchpoll’s raised hand.

  ‘We have to know everything about what happened when Waltheof the silversmith died. So far, fires have been started at the smithy that passed from Master Long to his journeyman, Old Edgyth the healing woman, Simeon the Jew, the bakery of Drogo’s bride-to-be, and Mercet’s stable.’

  He saw the old woman smile at the new information that this gave her.

  ‘Well, that’s interesting. Now, that’s more folk than I’d have supposed, but have you missed any? Let me think.’ Thinking involved her shutting her eyes for several minutes. Bradecote wondered if she had fallen asleep, and leant forward just as her eyes sprang open.

  ‘Not asleep,’ she announced vehemently, ‘but if I thought I’d get a fine young man’s hand upon me again it would have been worth dozing off.’ She cackled, and her rheumy eyes twinkled in a remarkably lascivious manner for one so old. Bradecote actually coloured. ‘When Waltheof died, the business was sold to pay the debts. The purchaser was no smith, but a brewer. He died within the year, and the business was taken over by his brother Edgar.’

  ‘Edgar Brewer, husband of the late lamented Maud?’ Catchpoll was incredulous.

  ‘Lamented by more men than just her husband,’ grinned the old woman, ‘and not for the quality of her beer.’

  ‘And anyone else?’

  ‘She had no women friends. Her sort rarely do.’

  ‘No, I meant other people connected to Emma, Waltheof’s widow.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘Ah. Mmm, now let me see. It was so long ago, I could not swear an oath on it, but I do not believe so.’

  ‘Thank you, Mother. We owe you a debt.’ Bradecote made her a small bow.

  ‘Send me one of that Drogo’s coney patties and I’ll be content. Make up for the midden-fare I get from her.’ She pointed a bony digit at her daughter-in-law.

  ‘Be sure we will.’

  They turned to go and were in the doorway when Aldith threw a last question at them.

  ‘So is it an old admirer or the boy?’

  Catchpoll turned his head so quickly it cricked his neck.

  ‘The son, but how did you …’

  ‘Call it woman’s wisdom, Serjeant. Now be off.’

  They did not need a second command.

  It had all been going so well. Walkelin felt perfectly in control of the situation. He had rehearsed the manner he would adopt according to gender and likely involvement, as recommended by Serjeant Catchpoll. Having gained entry by means of the truthful statement that he was the sheriff’s man, he proceeded to weave an almost labyrinthine tale of larceny, swapping of barrels and, bizarrely, a lost dog. He wondered if that was going too far, but his last embellishment left his auditor as confused as he had anticipated. Reeling from the tangle of information, the widow did not appear at all on her guard.

  After a minute or so she mustered her wits enough to enquire what exactly the sheriff’s man thought she could do to help.

  ‘Well, Mistress Brewer,’ began Walkelin, the picture of innocent ignorance, ‘I—’

  The woman coloured and interrupted him. ‘I’m not Mistress Brewer, not yet.’

  ‘Truly? That’s not what we expected.’

  ‘What do you mean, “we”?’ She peered at him, suddenly suspicious.

  Here was a decision. Did he go for the flattery approach, or try to frighten her? Unsure, he tried an amalgam of both.

  ‘Such a woman as yourself, Mistress, would have much to offer a lonely widower, unused to caring for himself, and with an unhappy background.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she repeated. There was no doubting that she was now on the alert.

  ‘Oh, just having lost his wife in such very unfortunate circumstances. Fell down the stairs, didn’t she? Must have lain right there at the bottom, all spread out like washing on a bush. So unusual an accident, too.’

  ‘People fall down ladders often enough.’

  ‘But not while facing outwards and carrying a pile of washing. That would be begging for mischance.’

  Widow Fowler’s eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps she threw herself down, then. She was certainly stone dead when I saw her.’

  ‘Of course, and she used the washing as a cunning device so that nobody could accuse her dear husband of having done away with her. So thoughtful. Don’t suppose she
was thinking of him when she entertained the other men, do you? Or was she the tidy sort? Did she think he’d forget to bring it down in the mayhem afterwards? I would I could find so excellent a wife.’

  ‘I could wish just that for you,’ sneered the widow, maliciously, but Walkelin noticed that she was gripping her skirts with her left hand so tightly that the knuckles showed white. He felt confident he could get an admission from her, but suffered a setback with the arrival of Edgar Brewer from his brewhouse yard. Brewer cast a swift interrogative glance at Widow Fowler before asking Walkelin’s business. The man-at-arms swore inwardly. Going over his tale once more would give the woman time to regain her poise and concoct a good story, and he was not sure that his reason for his presence would sound as convincing on the second outing. Certainly the brewer was watching him very closely, and was suspicious of every word. Like the woman, he listened to the tale and then announced that he wanted to know what he was meant to do about it all, but it was clear that he was only paying lip service and believed none of it.

  ‘Since I do not think we can be of use to the lord sheriff, I suggest that you try elsewhere. I’m a busy man, and Widow Fowler here was come to collect my washing for me and will be wanting to get down to the river on a fine day like today.’

  A seed of doubt in his own abilities was germinating in Walkelin’s brain, but he was not one to shirk a task and continued doggedly.

  ‘But Widow Fowler here was telling me all about your poor wife’s fall, Master Brewer. It made such interesting hearing.’ That, he judged, would cast a rift between the pair, and he had the pleasure of seeing Edgar Brewer glare suspiciously at the woman.

  ‘I did no such thing. You know I would say nothing.’ Her voice was outraged, but her eyes were on the brewer, and pleaded understanding.

  Walkelin opened his eyes wide in mock surprise, and his lightly freckled brow furrowed. ‘Strange then, that you said she was “stone dead” when you found her, and “stone dead” implies cold, yet you were heard to scream only minutes after the heavy thump of something weighty falling from a height had been heard in the brewhouse.’