The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker aktm-10

by Michael Jecks

  ‘No. She meant to kill Jolinde, as I said. However, by accident she killed the man who could truly have put the noose about her own throat. It was merely Peter’s bad fortune.’

  The Coroner was frowning. ‘But why should Hawisia have decided to kill Karvinel now?’

  Baldwin looked over at Vincent. ‘I assume Karvinel threatened to expose Vincent.’

  Le Berwe met his gaze. ‘You are right. He did so yesterday. My wife suggested, when I told her, that I should approach Sir Thomas one last time and get him to finish off Karvinel once and for all. I told her I couldn’t, but she wept and said that she couldn’t see me ruined for want of a little help. I tried to stop her but she went off anyway. She said to see Sir Thomas.’

  ‘She never came to meet me,’ Sir Thomas growled.

  ‘Vincent never thought she would,’ Baldwin said. He faced le Berwe. ‘Hawisia knew all about your business dealings, didn’t she? And she took great pride in supporting you in both your business and political dealings. Nothing was too much for her to help you, was it? You know full well that she committed these crimes, that she killed Peter and Ralph and tried to kill Adam as well, before last night murdering the Karvinels.’

  Vincent did not answer, but his eyes slid away from Baldwin’s cold, intense stare.

  ‘Very well. Let us see if we can persuade you to consider your position,’ Baldwin continued. ‘Hawisia was trying to murder your son when she killed Peter. Did you realise that?’

  ‘I don’t think that she would…’

  ‘And she certainly murdered your first wife. Christ Jesus, man! How many more people would you have allowed her to kill before you put an end to her atrocious acts?’

  Vincent had slowly come to face Baldwin. He stood, gaping with horror, as Baldwin’s words sank in. ‘No!’ he breathed.

  ‘I am afraid “yes”,’ Baldwin said.

  Vincent shook his head, his face slack and expressionless, like a waxen mask which had been left near a fire. He tried to walk to a jug of wine, but stumbled and had to sit on a stool while he poured with shaking hands.

  ‘Are you sure of all this?’ Coroner Roger asked.

  ‘It became clear at the baker’s just now,’ Baldwin explained. ‘The girl there clearly didn’t care when I said that I’d tell Vincent, although if she had been involved in a crime she should have been worried to hear that the Receiver would be involved. No, she told us to tell him! That showed me that she thought she had operated with his sanction. But we already know that Vincent wasn’t there that morning. He was at the Guildhall. Except a wife may give orders in her husband’s name and many will assume she speaks with his approval. As for using poison, it is ideal for a woman since it can be administered at a distance, and does not involve some of the more risky and unpleasant aspects of murder.’

  ‘And Ralph?’ the Coroner asked.

  ‘Was stabbed with a small blade, only half an inch wide. A woman’s knife,’ Baldwin said dispassionately. ‘Just as her berserk attack was typical of a scared woman killing her first victim.’

  ‘Did you know this?’ Roger demanded of the silent merchant.

  ‘You only guessed recently, didn’t you, Vincent?’ Baldwin said softly.

  ‘I didn’t guess until last night when she got back. She told me she’d done it all for me, but I couldn’t believe her. I honestly couldn’t. She told me she’d put poison in Nick and Juliana’s wine. All for me, she kept saying. All for me.’

  ‘She is evil, Vincent. She thought to placate you for having tried to kill your son. Where is she? She’ll kill someone else if we don’t catch her,’ Baldwin said gently.

  Vincent closed his eyes and tears sprang from beneath the lids. He looked as though he had aged twenty years in the last ten minutes. ‘She went to Mass. She’s not back yet.’

  Baldwin patted his arm, but then glanced through the window at the daylight outside. ‘For the first Mass of the morning? Shouldn’t she be back by now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ le Berwe said and covered his face again.

  Sir Thomas was leaning against the wall picking his teeth with a dirty nail. He glanced at Sir Baldwin. ‘What is it?’

  ‘This woman is irrational. She sees murder as the only means of controlling events and people.’

  Simon was already striding for the door. Over his shoulder he called, ‘And two Secondaries are still loose ends to her.’

  It was bright and warm in the sunlight and Hawisia felt perfectly composed and calm. The service had gone smoothly for once, the sermon had been comprehensible, and the Secondaries had not dropped the candles or sniggered as they so often did. Today, the twenty-seventh, was after all an important day, for later tonight the boy-Bishop would come into his own.

  And everything was going well, too. Thank goodness the Karvinels were no longer a threat. Their menace had been removed from Vincent’s life and he could look forward to a secure future. Hawisia smiled. Her man deserved it. She had done it all for him. There were only two items of business left for her to complete.

  She had gone to the north tower and offered to take Jolly’s loaf to him, bearing in mind Adam was unwell. She carried the bread in her basket now, slightly altered with a few of the drops from her bottle. First Jolly, then she must see Adam again.

  The air was crisp and fine. From the precinct she could see the smoke from chimneys and louvres all over the city, rising a short distance and then drifting and falling until it formed a pale grey blanket over the whole place. It was warming and pleasant to see how God embraced the world.

  Surely she was in God’s hands. At no time had she been in any danger. When that meddling fool Ralph had been about to tell the City Bailiff of Vincent’s little ‘arrangement’ with Adam to do with the candles, she made sure to visit him before the Bailiff. Her luck had held; the baker’s girl had done her job well. Ralph had opened the door, expecting to see William de Lappeford, and expressed his surprise, but when Hawisia, at her most charming, explained that she wanted to buy back some of her husband’s cordwain, he had reluctantly agreed and taken her into his shop.

  And as soon as he turned his back in there, she had drawn her knife and struck at him.

  Oh, it had been scary at first. Her first blow had made him swear, as though he didn’t realise what was happening. He made to turn, so she struck again and again, to silence him and kill him swiftly. Even when he fell, she kept raining blows upon his back and then his chest, and after a while she realised that his breath had stopped. He stared up at the ceiling sightlessly, his shirt stained ruby red.

  He was in the way of the door so she had dragged him away, then took a thin piece of leather and wiped her hands with it, thinking she should return home now, but just as the thought came into her head she heard footsteps. Panic took hold of her – it must be the Bailiff! She frantically sought a place of concealment, then rushed to the door and pushed it shut, locking it. But no one tried to enter. She could hear the dim fool apprentice calling, but then he left.

  Relief gave her a new idea. Taking care to see that no one was about, she slipped out of the shop and into the merchant’s house. Upstairs in the chamber, she saw the money-box. And, miraculously, Elias’s knife and keys. At once she saw their importance. She could take the money and put all blame onto the merchant’s apprentice.

  Swiftly she pocketed the small sack of coins and gems and, taking the keys and dagger with her, she went downstairs. The apprentice was at the back of the house now; she hardly dared to breathe while the latch jiggled up and down. Then she heard him call to his master, over and over. Hawisia knew there was no time to lose. She hurtled through the hall, unlocked the front door, and dived into the shop just as feet came running along the alley beside it. Panting in her quick fear, she heard Elias enter, shouting for his master, and then she knew she was safe for another couple of minutes. She stabbed Ralph with Elias’s knife to bloody the blade, then dropped Elias’s keys at his master’s side, before, with a happy smile, taking an armful of leather
s – it was a terrible weight – and staggering with it to the cart outside, throwing them in and covering them with a sheet.

  And that was that. She set off with the cart, pushing it down the slight incline to the Guildhall, where she saw her husband, but he was involved in discussions and couldn’t waste time with her. Vincent had given her one of his men to take the cart back to the shop. All so easy! She had planned it very carefully, but even she hadn’t quite expected to have everything go so smoothly.

  The poisoning of Peter was annoying in the extreme. She had delivered the bread, stopping Adam outside the Cathedral on his round, and it had been intended for Jolly, but the Devil had made her stepson give it to his friend instead. Not that it would matter for much longer, she reflected, patting the loaf in her basket. Everyone knew Jolly was her stepson, and no one could associate her with any malice towards him. That made it so much easier, she thought. And in retrospect it was good that Peter had died. He could have been embarrassing after what he told Karvinel.

  She was outside Jolly’s place now. Knocking, she entered, staring about her at the wrecked walls. It looked as if rabbits had burrowed to find shelter in the floor. Jolly wasn’t about when she called – he must still be at the Cathedral helping to tidy up after the service, or perhaps he was in the Chapter meeting – so she put the bread on his table and left.

  It was while she was walking along the grassed yard towards the Fissand Gate that she saw them, the Bailiff and Sir Baldwin. She was about to wave to them politely, go to meet them and enquire about Jeanne, when the Coroner loomed up behind them and pointed. All at once their faces turned towards her, and in their expressions she saw only accusation and loathing.

  Without a second thought she dropped the basket and fled. She knew the way to the secret passages, for Jolly had shown them to Vincent, and he had shown her, proud of his son. She darted through the workings to the little door and wrenched it open, then hurried down, into the darkness of the city’s tunnels.

  Water dripped in the blackness. Behind her, light was reflected from the world above, but here was only dark and gloom. Occasional drips were caught in a shaft of sunlight and glistened momentarily like jewels, only to disappear as they fell. She could move quite swiftly here, knowing the direction the passage would take.

  How could they have learned of her guilt? Was it something she had done which made them realise the killings were her work? Had someone seen her outside Karvinel’s place after she had been in to see Juliana and added her drops to the wine on the table? It was terrible to feel, after so much effort, that her work was all in vain, that all those people had died, their lives snuffed out, to no purpose. It was so unreasonable!

  A shudder of remorse shivered up her spine as she thought of that poor man Ralph flinching as she thrust again and again. All to help her husband, all to protect him and ensure his safe promotion. All failed; all pointless.

  Would it affect him? Yes, of course it would. His career was over. There was nothing she could do for him. Not now. It was too late.

  Her mood altered. She was close to collapse, awash with devastation at the realisation that all her plans were destroyed. Where she had intended to serve her husband, all she had achieved was his total ruin. It was dreadful, ridiculous, that a gaggle of busybodies should have been responsible for Vincent’s downfall. Why had they insisted upon tracking her down? There was no need.

  She heard a stone chink against another. Not behind her but ahead. They shouldn’t be there yet – how could they have got in front of her? They must have run like the wind along the High Street. A furtive step slapped into a puddle, and she shrank into a slight depression in the wall nearby, her eyes wide with the fear of the hunted. That was a man’s step, surely. It couldn’t have been a rat or anything, for a soft, muttered curse followed it. The owner of the voice had soaked his foot.

  Reaching for her knife’s handle, she slowly eased it free as a figure gradually became visible ahead.

  Baldwin and Simon chased after her as soon as she sped off past the side of the cloisters towards the building works. There they found themselves confronted with an empty space in the angle between the cloisters, the Bishop’s Palace and the Cathedral. As they gazed at each other in bafflement, the Coroner ran off to the far side of the Bishop’s Palace and stared over southwards towards the city’s wall. He turned back with a frown of incomprehension.

  ‘She can’t have disappeared,’ Coroner Roger panted.

  ‘Certainly not,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘But where could she have gone?’

  Simon peered about the area. There were innumerable doors to lean-to storehouses and workshops built to accommodate the builders. He began to pull at doors, rattling latches and tugging to see whether any were unlocked, but he had the conviction that it was a pointless exercise. If she were concealed inside one of them, she would surely have barred the door somehow.

  Baldwin watched him for a moment; he had a feeling that they should hurry, that there was a strong chance of someone else being killed if they didn’t find Hawisia swiftly.

  Behind him, a small crowd had formed. Hawkers and beggars had seen Baldwin and the others chase after the woman, and several had drifted over to see what was happening. Members of the congregation and choir had joined them, and already there was jostling as Canons and Vicars thrust themselves through. Stephen was the first to reach Baldwin and the Coroner.

  ‘What is all this?’ Stephen demanded, gazing from one to the other. ‘This is Church land! What are you doing here, Coroner? You have no rights here, what’s the meaning of your intrusion?’

  Baldwin cut across the Coroner’s explanation. ‘We’re trying to prevent another murder, man! The murderer came here to hide and we need to find her.’

  ‘Her?’ Stephen gasped.

  ‘Wake up, Canon! Who knows this area best?’

  ‘Um… I suppose the architect, but he’s not here, he’s…’

  ‘Henry, Sir Baldwin,’ came the calm, unhurried voice of Gervase. ‘Henry knows all the Cathedral precinct. He has to, from running and hiding from people all the time.’

  ‘Fetch him.’

  Gervase didn’t move but instead bellowed Henry’s name at the top of his voice. There was no sign for a moment that anyone had heard, beyond one Annuellar, who happened to bear the same name, looking up anxiously, but then there was a rush of pattering feet and Henry appeared from the direction of the Bear Gate with what looked like a suspiciously innocent expression on his face. Gervase didn’t miss it, but passed the lad to Baldwin without comment.

  ‘Henry, the murderer who killed Peter is here somewhere, but we don’t know where. Do you know where someone could hide?’

  ‘The tunnel,’ Henry said immediately.

  There was a stone in his sandal. Jolinde groaned and sighed, then leaned against the wall with one hand while he fumbled in the dark to untie the thongs about his ankle which bound it. Releasing the sandal, he felt something damp and slippery on the sole and withdrew his hand in disgust as the noisome odour reached his nostrils. ‘Dog’s turd; oh, God’s teeth!’

  The shoe fell with a soft ‘plop’ into a puddle and he peered downwards in an attempt to pierce the murk. ‘Oh, God’s body – what next?’ he breathed, his foot still in mid-air, one hand on the stones of the rough wall.

  It was no more than he deserved, really, after spending the previous night with Claricia, missing the night’s Mass as he and she made love and slept fitfully, but since the death of Peter he was growing ever more depressed and unconvinced of his potential as a priest. He had taken his father’s money, agreeing to try to ruin another man purely to help Vincent; he had forced his friend to join him in robbing a man; he had failed in his oaths by missing services and spent his time indulging his gluttonous whims and in rutting with his woman. Still, she had agreed to wed him once he had left the Cathedral, so this was probably the last time he would come along the tunnel. It was only really from a sense of shame and embarrassment that he had taken this ro
ute rather than walking in boldly through the Fissand Gate.

  Gloomily he reached down for his sandal and felt his hand sink into a soft, wet muddy-feeling dampness. It could have been anything, and Jolinde found himself hoping very intently that it was only mud.

  It was no good. He couldn’t keep on living his life in two halves: one that of a serious Secondary, the other that of a secular man who enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh. He must find a new career. If his father would still agree, he could study a while at University, but if he wouldn’t, Jolinde would find a living as a clerk, either with another merchant, or perhaps with the Coroner. There were always openings for a fellow who could read and count.

  As he came to this conclusion, he heard voices and saw a glimmer of light ahead. The sight made him want to dart back along the passage, but then he realised that with his new resolution there was no point. He would meet them, whoever they were.

  Bracing himself and squaring his shoulders, he held his head high and marched towards the light.

  There was a flash at his side and he froze with terror as the gleams of light caught a blade that swooped towards him. He screamed, thinking it was some appalling horror from the grave which was setting upon him; he could almost smell the putrefaction of the corpse.

  Leaping back convulsively, he saw the razor-edged knife flash past his breast. Before he could say a word, it was reaching towards him again, up to his throat, and he was aware of maddened eyes in front of him. Jerking his head to one side, he felt the swift dragging at his flesh as the dagger sliced through his cheek and on up to his eyebrow. There was no pain, not yet, and he was only aware of a slickness, as if he had broken out into a heavy sweat. Jumping backwards again, he tried to escape the fast-moving blade, but it seemed impossible. His chest was open and unprotected. He saw rather than felt the blade sink into his upper body, grating against his collar-bone, before it was pulled out and came back.