City of Fiends

CHAPTER FORTY

Cock Inn

‘So, brother,’ Philip said as he saw William sitting on a bench by the wall. ‘I hope you are well?’

‘You know about the house?’

Philip sat beside his brother and took up his drinking horn. It held a rough, sour ale that to Philip’s mind was probably off, but he drank it anyway. He had need of it today. ‘I know of them both.’

‘Both?’

‘I spoke just now to Madame Paffard with a view to trying to talk her into letting us stay, but she said no. And then she began to tell me how her husband had stolen all our money. Our father left us with plenty to keep us, Will. It was Paffard who embezzled it all. And the superb irony is, not only did he do so, but then he made us take his own hovel and pay him rent. A perfect theft.’

William looked at him. ‘And he got away with it? He robbed us blind and walked away?’

‘And now he’ll die, but we’ll still be poor,’ Philip nodded. He drank more of the ale. ‘This tastes better if you drink enough,’ he mused.

‘Enjoy it while you can. I can’t afford another,’ William said, eyeing the remains of his drink with regret. ‘That’s the end to my money. My last farthing.’

‘What will we do, brother?’ Philip said.

‘I wish I knew.’

‘If I could find a sword, I’d go to the King.’

‘You’ve said that before, but you still don’t know one end of a sword from the other,’ William pointed out.

‘That’s unkind.’

‘It’s still true.’

Philip passed him the drinking horn to finish. ‘I think we should find out if we can recover even a little of our money, Will. I don’t want to die knowing we were robbed and our mother died in poverty without trying to do something about it.’

‘What can we do?’

Philip frowned. ‘We could speak to Gregory. I was trying to follow him this morning because . . .’ Memory of the look in Gregory’s eye came to him, and he murmured, ‘There may be a way we could persuade him to give us money.’

‘Who?’

‘Master Gregory. I think he may be willing to pay us to keep quiet.’

Paffards’ House

There was a squeal at the rear of the house, and John leaped up, disorientated for a moment. Then he yawned, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and hurried off to find the source of the noise.

In the garden, he found Joan comforting little Thomas.

‘What is it with the boy?’ John demanded, still feeling the effects of a shattered rest.

‘He fell over, that’s all,’ Joan said, wiping at the lad’s face. She did not look up at him.

‘Was he playing in my shed? Or beneath it? It’s dangerous there, as you know.’

Joan shook her head. ‘Of course not. He was being sensible and careful, but something cut him when he fell.’

‘Oh. Is he badly injured?’

‘A nasty cut in his knee,’ she said. ‘There must have been something there.’

‘Where was it?’

‘There, by your storeroom,’ she said, pointing with her chin.

John walked to it, and prodded carefully with his foot. ‘Ah, it’s a piece of metal from an old barrel,’ he said. He bent and picked it up. With his back to them, he frowned. ‘You should take him inside, and wash the wound with egg-white, Joan. The metal is rusty, and we don’t want the boy to get lockjaw.’

Joan agreed. She had seen a man lose his leg from a small scratch before. This was deeper than a scratch, and possibly more dangerous. She bundled the shivering Thomas up in her arms and hurried inside, sitting him on the table in the brewery, where there was a copper of hot water, and she moistened the edge of her apron in it and dabbed it on his knee.

Thomas sniffled and moaned, but Joan wiped until she was satisfied that the worst of the mud was cleaned from the wound, and then she went to Sal and took an egg, breaking it into a pot and using her fingers to smear the white all over the wound. She wrapped a strip of linen about it and stood back to eye the results.

John was in the doorway. ‘It was a bad cut, wasn’t it?’ he said to the boy: In his hands he held a rusted piece of metal that might have been a cooperage band a long time ago. ‘It must have fallen from a barrel many years ago. I am sorry, Master Thomas. I should have seen it, and not left it to hurt you.’

He gave him an apple, smiled in a fatherly manner and walked away.

‘There you are, pet,’ Joan said, and she cuddled the boy. But she had a frown on her face. The wound on Thomas’s knee was one with very straight edges, as if cut by a sharp blade on Sal’s table, not by a rough piece of rusted metal. But she had enough on her plate already without searching for a shard of sharp steel.

Exeter Gaol

‘Father, in God’s name how could you believe I’d have killed them’ Gregory hissed. ‘Why’d I have done that?’

Henry sighed heavily. ‘It was hard to see you like that. I know you didn’t realise. Perhaps it was Thomas who brought it all home to me – how you spent all your time with Agatha when you were little, whereas Thomas is always happier outside with a ball and sticks, playing rough and tumble and getting into mischief. I should have seen it before, but I never thought a son of mine would turn out this way.’

Gregory was hot, and there was a stickiness about his upper body that was horribly uncomfortable. ‘I don’t even know what you mean,’ he said, his throat dry.

‘You will have to marry and hope that this . . . this aberration ceases,’ Henry said.

‘Father, I cannot help my love any more than I can help breathing,’ Gregory said quietly.

‘No, you don’t love,’ Henry said, shaking his head. ‘You cannot. This perversion is not love.’

‘Father, I . . .’ It was a shock to know that his father had guessed his secret, but that Henry would have confessed to protect him – that was extraordinary. ‘I feel the same as you do towards your women, believe me.’

Henry fixed his son with a furious stare. ‘You speak of things you have no understanding about, Gregory! A man and a woman, they should have feelings for each other. They should enjoy their lust. It’s natural – normal! But men? No. It’s against every law of nature and-’

‘Men?’ Gregory blurted.

‘I know about you and Father Laurence.’

Gregory could think of nothing to say, other than, ‘Laurence is a priest.’

‘He’s an unnatural and depraved bitch-son to tempt you. Has he . . . Have you . . .’

‘We have done nothing. And will do nothing,’ Gregory added flatly. The heat was gone, and now he felt as cold as if the chamber was made of ice. His head was swimming.

‘You swear this?’

Gregory turned away. For a space all that he could hear was his own heart. He had to think quickly. ‘I swear it,’ he said. ‘I saw him today and he said we must not meet again. I agreed with him.’

‘Then at least the sodomite shows some sense,’ Henry said. His voice was cool again, his mind already on other matters. ‘Now, Gregory, you will have to take over the business, at least for now. And you will need to find me a pleader to argue my case in front of the Sheriff, and-’

‘He’s dead. We have no Sheriff.’

‘Christ’s soul! Are you serious?’

‘Sir Charles killed him.’

‘This could be disastrous for me. I can’t stay in here! I have to get out!’

‘All the men who could fill his place are in the north with the King,’ Gregory said soothingly. ‘There will be no court for some time.’

‘Hell’s ballocks! I’m not rotting in here while they play with fighting in the north! Find me a pleader, Gregory,’ Henry said. ‘And not some prick-for-brains like the arse in the Guild Hall! I want my freedom back. I cannot stay while they wait for news of a replacement Sheriff.’

‘I will do what I can,’ Gregory promised.

Henry looked at him, and in his face there was some of the old fire again. He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I am here because I thought I was protecting you. And you tell me you are innocent of the murders. In that case, who did kill those women?’

‘I had thought it was you, Father,’ Gregory admitted. ‘I didn’t hurt either of them. I promise, if I can find the real killer, I will prove you were innocent and have you released.’

‘Perhaps,’ Henry said, but there was a cynical smile on his face. ‘Except you forget that I have actually confessed. I was fortunate that I wasn’t dragged to the Heavitree gallows that same day. Trying to win my release will not be easy.’

‘I’ll tell them that-’

‘That I lied to protect my son? Because I thought you were a murderer, or a sodomite?’ Henry asked sarcastically. ‘Since both offences will have you hanged, I should be cautious before I used such an argument in public, Gregory.’

Gregory embraced his father and then withdrew from the gaol. Outside, he bent over and threw up, the sour taste of the pints of ale revolting. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, feeling hot and shivery, but cleansed.

Despite all his problems, at least he was free. His father, on the other hand, might well die soon.