Bradecote agreed. He realised, with no little surprise, that he was suddenly becoming unnaturally suspicious, and, Heaven help him, like the serjeant.
‘He could still be our man. We know of no motive, but he was in the right place, and is easily strong enough to have dragged the body.’
‘So do we ferret around in the masons’ workshop or work through the list of unaccounted for brethren, my lord?’
The younger man ran his long fingers through his dark hair and sighed. ‘I have no doubt everything is now as it should be there, and nothing of significance will remain, but yes, we ferret, Catchpoll. And we pray for a sign.’ He pulled a wry face.
‘Not a sign,’ muttered Catchpoll, under his breath. ‘Priests wants signs. I wants evidence.’
Two
The lord Sheriff of Worcester saw his serjeant and newly appointed acting under-sheriff emerge from the abbot’s lodgings as he himself sought out Abbot William to take his leave. He noted the disgruntled expression of Serjeant Catchpoll, and the frown furrowing Bradecote’s brow. Taking it seriously was he? Well, all to the good.
Bradecote noticed the sheriff and abandoned his original intention of visiting the masons’ workshop, heading instead to his superior. Catchpoll lengthened his stride to make sure he reached the sheriff at the same time.
‘Good to see you both hard at work,’ said the sheriff, cheerily. ‘I hear de Grismont is one of the visitors in the guest hall. Seeing how he takes being left swinging his heels, while you get about the business, almost makes me wish I could stay.’
He shook his head in mock sorrow. In fact, what would be entertaining was watching Serjeant Catchpoll and Hugh Bradecote establishing their positions. Catchpoll, de Beauchamp knew from long experience, did not think very much of his lords and masters, insubordinate and contrary bastard that he was. His under-sheriff, de Crespignac, grumbled persistently and craved his removal in a half-hearted way, but the wily old fox was too good a man not to use to the full, and the sheriff had a sneaking respect for him, though he would not admit it out loud. How Bradecote would rub up against him would be very interesting; no fool was Hugh Bradecote.
‘However, if I don’t get the corpses back to Worcester today they’ll be too far gone to string up properly, and besides, I don’t like travelling with half the flies in the shire trailing in my wake like mourners.’
Bradecote and Catchpoll made vague noises indicating agreement.
‘Right, then. I will make my farewells to the Father Abbot and be away. From experience, Bradecote, if you have got nowhere after a week, then you had best let everyone be about their business. I’d normally just leave the death unsolved. It happens that way sometimes. But in this case I would suggest you give out that it was a motiveless killing by a madman unknown in Pershore. It will give the Abbot of Pershore an answer to the Bishop of Winchester’s questions, which is what he will need most. Otherwise I may end up returning to investigate the murder of my own men by those kept in the enclave, and de Grismont would be top of my list of suspects.’ He laughed at his own joke, and nodded his dismissal. ‘Good luck.’
De Beauchamp did not think Abbot William would like the ‘unknown madman’ to feature in his letter to Henri de Blois. It was so obvious as a cover for ‘we could not find out who did it’. On the other hand, clerics were inclined to get very squeamish over hangings and retribution. Whichever the outcome, he was not going to be a happy man, but the lord Sheriff of Worcester was not there to make people happy.
As Bradecote and Catchpoll had feared, the wooden workshop was clean and tidy. Most of the men were up amongst the lashed poles of scaffolding, ropes and winches. A couple of the most senior carvers were working on blocks of stone, and Bradecote could see how Elias regarded the work as drawing out something from within. They worked deftly, though the muscles in their dust-covered forearms showed power as well as skill. They spared the two intruders barely a glance as they entered and began their search. It was a waste of time, thought Bradecote, merely a case of saying that they had checked. Serjeant Catchpoll, he noted with irritation, was hardly bothering to search at all, and was instead engrossed in the study of an angel’s head emerging from the efforts of chisel and mallet.
‘Ah, it’s a mystery to me how you can create a thing of such life from a dead lump of stone.’ Catchpoll sounded enthralled and admiring. ‘A rare gift, indeed.’
His superior blinked. Catchpoll was not a man he would have seen as having a single fibre in his body that could appreciate the artistic.
‘Aye, some has the gift and some hasn’t, but each to his own, my friend.’ The mason smiled slowly, keeping his eye on his work.
‘The mallets vary in size according to the delicacy of the work?’ The answer was obvious, but Catchpoll put the question nonetheless.
‘Bless you, of course they do, and to match the chisels also.’
‘I heard there was quite an outburst from Master Elias when one of them was out of place last night.’ Catchpoll was fingering the smooth, hard surface of a mallet next to the craftsman, who chuckled, and then coughed as he took the pale dust into his lungs.
‘Oh aye, the master likes everything in its place. Poor Arnulf swore blind he had left all as it should be, but it didn’t save him from a hiding. No harm done, mind. If apprentices weren’t shown their errors with a clout, occasional like, how would they learn? Now when I was first apprenticed in the craft …’
Bradecote had at last comprehended what Catchpoll was doing, and marvelled at the skill of it. He did not say a word, much as he wished to be involved, for fear of ruining the whole, but folded his arms and stood back, observing a master at work, as Catchpoll steered the mason from reminiscences of youth to the events of the previous evening.
‘A mallet was left out and the bench was dirty, as was told.’
‘That one there.’ The mason jerked his head to one adjacent to the gap in the rack where the mallet in his hand would fit. ‘And ’tis a mite odd, the dust, because nobody was actually working here yesterday afternoon. Edwin here was up top.’ He nodded towards his neighbour.
‘That I was, and have a hot red neck as a result of it.’ Edwin set a finger gingerly to the back of his neck.
Catchpoll took the mallet from its place, handling it as if it were a fragile item of great beauty, turning it in his hands and inspecting it carefully. His brow was furrowed with concentration, and Bradecote was conscious of a desire to hold his breath. After a short while Serjeant Catchpoll’s brow cleared, and he inhaled slowly and contentedly. He looked across at Bradecote and nodded very slightly.
‘I think we need not disturb you further in your work,’ he announced brightly to the two stonemasons. ‘Shall we continue, my lord?’
‘Er, yes indeed, Serjeant Catchpoll.’
Bradecote did not need any encouragement. The pair stepped back into the peace of the church and headed for the cloister. There, where there were no echoes to betray soft words, Catchpoll confirmed what Bradecote knew he must have discovered.
‘That mallet was what dashed the man’s brains, no doubt of it. It was hefty enough and the right size. Besides which, there was a dark line where head met handle. Whoever returned the mallet tried to remove any sign of blood or brains, and probably used stone dust as a final disguise.’ Catchpoll was jubilant.
‘Which accounts for the dust on the bench.’
‘Which accounts for the dust on the bench, yes. And for Arnulf getting a beating for laziness, which he did not deserve. We progress with the cwisker ruby.’
‘The what?’ Bradecote looked baffled.
‘It’s Latin, my lord.’ Catchpoll beamed, clearly proud to show knowledge over ignorance. ‘Something I have learned from the lord sheriff himself. Always seek the answers to the cwisker ruby, oh, and the cweemodo. Who, why …’
‘Where and how.’ Realisation dawned on the sheriff’s newest officer. He smiled. ‘Of course. Quis, cur, ubi et qui modo.’
‘As I said, my lord. We know
the where and the how. We now proceed with the why and, most importantly, the who.’
Bradecote was silent for a moment, slotting the information about the mallet into place in his brain, and then spoke, almost to himself.
‘This also means that the time during which the murder could have taken place is reduced, and that the murderer was afraid of discovery. He certainly did not think to return the mallet to its place. He could not have expected Master Elias, but when he did hear him in the transept he would have been trapped in the workshop.’
‘You forget the door to the outside, my lord.’ Catchpoll shook his head, and sighed, as a craftsman might at the cumbersome attempts of his apprentice. ‘The murderer, who need not be “he”, could have slipped out and returned through the main gate, innocent as you please.’
It was a blow, but Bradecote recovered himself. If the murderer had gone out by that route, Brother Porter would have seen them as they passed his gate, and it was quite possible that Master Elias, who was careful with his property, would have barred the door, and would have been certain to notice if it was unbarred when he entered.
‘He was keen enough to tell us about the other things he found out of place. Had the door been unbarred, he would have added that to the list of reasons to clout his apprentice.’
Serjeant Catchpoll accepted Bradecote’s theories calmly, and, if he was in any way impressed, he concealed it perfectly. Not wishing to recall the master mason too soon, which might be interpreted either as having failed to ask an important question in the first place, or holding him as chief suspect, Bradecote and Catchpoll divided the interviews of the monks between them. It was unlikely that any could be serious suspects, but they might have incidental information.
Brother Porter was adamant that he had not left his duties even for a moment between Vespers and Compline, and had admitted none but the sheriff and his party, excepting one of the lord de Grismont’s men, who had taken his lordship’s horse out for exercise in the cooler air. The horse had become cantankerous in the stable, had kicked a hole in a partition, and he certainly looked mettlesome and in need of a gallop to work off his ill humour, or so said the groom.
Hugh Bradecote found the novices as much in awe of the sheriff’s representative as of their abbot, and singularly unhelpful. They lowered their eyes in humility, and were vague, as if they hoped to give him the answers he desired whether the truth or not. Their sub-prior, Remigius, could give no proof of what he had been doing after the end of the meal in the refectory, for he had sought solitude to consider a problem, an ‘inner crisis’ all of his own. Even had others seen him, he would not, he said, have noticed them. Only the Compline bell recalled him to his duties. Bradecote asked where he had gone for this contemplation, but other than denying being in the church, Remigius seemed unable (or was it just unwilling?) to say. There was certainly something still preying upon the monk’s mind, but asking him bluntly what it was seemed unlikely to get a response.
‘You came here from Winchester, Brother, so I hear. You must have known Brother Eudo then.’
‘By sight of course, my lord, but he was oft times away upon the lord bishop’s business, and …’ Brother Remigius halted and studied the floor, and Bradecote groaned inwardly. He was going to have to drag anything useful from the man.
‘And what, Brother Remigius?’
‘It’s not charitable to say so, my lord, but Brother Eudo was not well liked among the brethren. No doubt he was a conscientious worker for our bishop, but among those of us who do not venture much outside our walls he was considered lacking in humility and a sower of discord. In community we should live together in charity, but we are human, and fall into sin. We are guilty of not forgiving, of anger, of jealousy, and Brother Eudo was always glad to tell one man of the failings of another and then smile upon the consequences.’ The sub-prior of Pershore shook his head, as if glad to rid himself of the memory.
The under-sheriff hid his momentary delight. Here was one who had knowledge of the victim and disliked him. He tried to elicit more information in the subtle way Catchpoll had used with the mason in the workshop, but the man just looked more miserable and was as closed as an oyster. Bradecote did not see the man as a killer, however, and could see no motive. A Benedictine would surely not imperil his immortal soul because another brother did not match the pattern of rectitude expected, and ‘told tales’.
He rejoined Catchpoll, who had passed an equally fruitless couple of hours, and looked as happy as a man with toothache. Bradecote decided it would be best not to unleash a morose Catchpoll alone on the sensibilities of the ladies, especially the pallid fidgety one, whom he wanted to interview first in the afternoon. After the midday meal he waited in the abbot’s parlour while the serjeant went to fetch her. He hoped more would be gained from the women than the monks, although he had his doubts. His own wife would, he thought, be totally useless at remembering anything that fell outside the scope of her daily round. Ela was almost pathetically keen to please, and fearful of failing her lord in any way, but faced with the sort of questions they were about to set these dames, she would be reduced to wide-eyed panic. He frowned, conscious that it was the first time he had thought of his wife since setting out with the sheriff, though she was advanced in pregnancy with their first child.
He had been told often enough that women in her condition had odd crotchets and fancies, but, rather to his surprise, Ela had become marginally less irritating and developed a measure of serenity as her pregnancy advanced. Theirs was the common sort of marriage for their station, based upon pragmatism and land, but on his side the best that could be said for his feelings was that he had some small affection for her, frequently offset by her fluttery and illogical behaviour. He tried to be a considerate husband, especially while she was carrying, but the strain of not showing frustration at her inherent stupidity was wearing, and he had regarded the sheriff’s summons with no small degree of relief. He experienced a twinge of guilt, but set all thoughts of her aside as soon as the door opened, and he returned to the task in hand.
Serjeant Catchpoll ushered the birdlike lady, who had been identified as the lady Courtney, into the abbot’s parlour, and then stood by the door where his presence would be less intrusive. He made no mention of the difficulty he had encountered in keeping her ‘mastiff’ out of the chamber. Only the lady’s soft command for him to stay on its far side had prevented him forcing his way in, and Catchpoll wondered if he might whine if his lady did not reappear within a short while. Bradecote recognised the usefulness of having an experienced watcher of people, especially guilty people, in the interview, and caught Catchpoll’s eye for a moment before inviting lady Courtney to sit. That the serjeant was also watching his performance was best not dwelt upon. The nervous dame took her seat with a murmur that might have been thanks, her expression a mixture of anxiety and a peculiar childlike pleasure. She was not an old woman in years, and vestiges of an earlier ethereal beauty clung to her like wisps of mist in the Evesham Vale, but she appeared preternaturally aged by life. The stray hairs that had escaped her coif were white, and her face was gaunt, almost underfed. The skin was pale, and drawn taut over the fine bone structure of her face. She gazed at them with misty, pale blue eyes, whose rims were dully red, as if tears were a major part of her daily existence. Her hands, never still, worked agitatedly in her lap.
It had seemed an obvious move to question first the person who seemed only too pleased to talk to them, and appeared to have some direct knowledge of the deceased, but neither serjeant nor acting under-sheriff held out any great hopes for the encounter.
‘Well, my lady Courtney, why do you think that the lord Bishop of Winchester’s clerk was murdered?’ Bradecote began briskly, not wishing to give this strange woman the opportunity to let her tale wander.
‘Not murdered, you must not say murdered.’ She did not look at him, but stared into the middle distance. The voice was pale also, barely more than a whisper, echoing her appearance, but as in
sistent as a petulant child’s.
‘Killed, then,’ Bradecote’s tone was patient.
‘Why? Because it was a Judgement of Heaven. God has punished him for his terrible sins. There is no crime.’ She had an equally childlike simplicity to her approach.
‘But, forgive me, his skull was smashed to a pulp with a mason’s mallet. He did not fall dead without cause, nor was he struck by lightning.’
The pallid lady, surprisingly unmoved by the description of such a messy and violent death, smiled beatifically at the sheriff’s men. She could see no problem, yet Catchpoll winced and his face performed a contortion that suggested he was suffering acute pain. Bradecote could not see why, for he was clearly not squeamish.
‘God works in ways we are unable to understand, my lord.’ Lady Courtney’s response drew him back.
Serjeant Catchpoll now sighed meaningfully, and raised his eyes heavenward. Hugh Bradecote rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He was not getting anywhere on the reason for Eudo the Clerk’s death, although the lady had obviously some deep seated reason for loathing the man, if one so insipid could achieve so strong an emotion as loathing.
‘How do you know that his sins were any greater than yours or mine, my lady?’
Two spots of colour appeared on the woman’s thin, white cheeks, and her brows drew together. When she spoke, her voice had dropped an octave, and held a vehemence at odds with her natural gentle mien.
‘That man was a wicked, cruel thief,’ she declared, her voice shaking with passion.
Catchpoll, who had apparently lost interest in the proceedings, and had been contemplating a woodlouse clambering, slowly and determinedly, across the rush-strewn floor, looked up suddenly, incredulous.
‘Him, a thief!’
Bradecote shot him a quelling glance, and spoke to the lady, gently, as if eliciting information from a shy infant.
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