The Butcher of St Peter's

Chapter Twelve

‘Just who the hell is he, then?’ Sir Peregrine demanded of the luckless bailiff who had called him.

He was with a small group of men, peering down at the corpse Henry had found in the twilight of the alley.

The bailiff was a stolid man called Rod atte Wood, who tried to look away as he was questioned. ‘I don’t know, Sir Peregrine. He is no one I recognize. Not with his face like that, anyway. The man who found him is here.’

‘Bring him to me, then!’ Sir Peregrine fretted irritably while the First Finder was brought to him. ‘Now hear me, man: this body. You found it?’

The man was a noisome fellow, who reeked of old ale and sweat, clad in a thin woollen tunic over a linen shirt. His back was twisted, his right hand all but useless and held in a sling. From its wasted appearance, Sir Peregrine knew that the man hadn’t used it in many a year. His face was grey and lined, his cheeks sunken from malnutrition, and his hair looked as though it had once been dark like a Celt’s, but was now faded to a uniform grey.

‘I didn’t touch it, sir. I found him there because I tripped over the outstretched arm, but I didn’t know it was a man until I poked the cloth with my staff.’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Sir Peregrine snapped. ‘Save it for the blasted inquest, man. What’s your name?’

‘Henry Adyn.’

‘Really?’ Sir Peregrine glowered at him, and Henry felt a flaring of anxiety. ‘I want to speak to you. Where were you last night? Daniel Austyn’s been murdered and I’ve heard you were attacked by him and crippled. Did he do that to you?’

‘Yes. He took a pickaxe to me. I was lucky to live.’

‘You hated him?’

The bailiff cleared his throat. ‘Sir Peregrine, if I can …’

‘What?’

Rod shrugged expansively. ‘Look at him! He has only one arm. Could he truly kill a man like Daniel? Daniel was much more powerful. In the dark, a feeble old sod like Henry could hardly hope to win.’

Sir Peregrine reckoned he was right. He pulled the man’s shirt apart and saw for himself the dreadful scar that rippled and twisted his flesh. The arm and hand were wizened and shrivelled. ‘Can you hold a knife in that hand?’

Rod answered. ‘He hasn’t held anything in that hand since Daniel ruined it for him. And last night I saw him in the Black Hog from the early evening. He was very drunk when he left the place. I doubt he could hold a knife in his good hand. With one hand, he couldn’t have hurt Daniel.’

The Coroner nodded sharply. ‘Then he can be eliminated as the murderer, I suppose. Very well, Master Adyn, do you or anyone else in this benighted area know just who on God’s earth this man was?’

‘He’s familiar. I think I’ve seen him about the place. Mostly down near the docks — and out near the South Gate.’

The bailiff frowned and hunched down to squat by the body. He waved irritably at the flies that surrounded him immediately, and narrowed his eyes, turning his head to one side as he contemplated the features. ‘I think you’re right, Henry. He has the square face … same hair too … it’s hard to see, though, with that mess made of his face.’

‘Who, then?’ Sir Peregrine demanded. ‘I have another inquest to hold.’

The bailiff moved his lips as he stood, a searching expression on his face as he tried to dredge up an unfamiliar name. Then his brow cleared. ‘I know who it is! Mick. He was a sailor for a while, worked out of Topsham, but came to Exeter some few years ago. A bright lad, but too fond of the ladies, I think.’

‘What does that mean?’

Henry answered. ‘He was involved in the brothel outside the city wall near the South Gate. Used to go to the docks to tempt the sailors, telling them that he had access to a good sister or daughter or wife, whatever they wanted to hear. You know how a pander works.’

Sir Peregrine nodded. All men did. ‘And the brothel was out at the southern gate?’

‘There are a couple out there. One is mostly used by women who want some extra money — maids and others who don’t earn enough and have to sell themselves to make a little more. The other is a regular brothel, where the women all live in the place.’

‘Are these stews regulated?’ Sir Peregrine asked.

‘Only by the noise they make. If there are too many fights, we go and try to calm things down. Other than that, they aren’t doing any harm, so we tend to leave them to their own affairs.’

‘But you think that this man was a pander for one of the women?’

‘At least one. If he was working in the brothel, there’d be several wenches dependent on the men he could bring them. Each woman will only have one man a night, usually. So I’m told.’

‘Very good. In that case, prepare a jury for early tomorrow morning. Have someone guard this body until I am back then. You, First Finder: make sure you are also here for the inquest.’

‘I will.’

‘Do you know him, bailiff?’ Sir Peregrine demanded.

‘Yes. He’s Henry Adyn, lives in an alley off Pruste Street, don’t you, Henry?’

‘Then it’s your responsibility to make sure he’s here tomorrow. Fail and I’ll fine you, bailiff. Right: now we must see if anyone’s found this murderer Estmund. Have you seen him, Master Adyn?’

‘Me? No. I’d have taken him if I had.’

‘Good,’ said the Coroner, and left them there to hurry along to Daniel’s inquest.

Jordan filled his lungs and expelled the air with a contented grunt. ‘That was a good meal, wife. I feel ready to hurry off and slaughter dragons now. I’ll see you later. Keep warm for me. I may be needing comfort tonight!’

He rose and reached for his cotte with the fur trimming at neck and cuffs. It had been moderately expensive, but was not too ostentatious. Even the addition of the little strips of cheap fur had been carefully calculated. They were the marks of a successful man of business, but nothing to make another man stop to look again. There was nothing to demonstrate the wealth that Jordan had built for himself.

His wife was quiet again. Good. She had learned. Only a few days before, he’d had to take his belt to her. She would keep nagging him when he had other things on his mind. Actually, it had been the evening he’d been going to see Mick and Anne. She’d told him that he should wear a thicker shirt to keep out the cold, and she wanted him to take a sword as well in case of attack. In the end, he’d slapped her to shut her up. She was more trouble than she was worth. In fact, if she hadn’t improved, he had been going to consider killing her too, just so that her whining would be stopped for good. He didn’t need her body now. There were always his brothels, and if he needed women he could have them sent to him here, to his house. Much easier and less expensive than a wife. The only thing that prevented his taking that action was the effect it might have on Jane. He would never do anything that might hurt her feelings; not unless there was no other choice.

Still, Mazeline had been better today, and he was in such a good mood, he could have gone to see his wench and bedded her again. She was a willing bedmate, and her enthusiasm spurred him on to greater efforts … but she was bound to be tied up with all the legal nonsense that went with a murder. Probably had that new Coroner hanging round her neck. Best to leave her alone for now.

Jane was in the hall as he reached the door. He smiled at her broadly. ‘I’ll see you later, little sweeting.’

‘I won’t go to sleep until you’re home, Daddy.’

‘Good. I’ll come and kiss you, then, if I’m late.’

Turning, he slammed the door behind him and stood a moment in his doorway, staring up and down Correstrete. There was a chill in the air, but to him it merely smelled and felt like a perfect late autumn day. He had always loved this time of year. It was a time when lonely men thought of warm thighs to lie between, and his profits were as good in autumn as in spring. Yes, he’d go to his South Gate brothel first and see how business was since he’d taken Anne back there. She would have given a stern warning to the men and women alike who worked for him.

It was a shame he couldn’t give the same warning to his wife when she misbehaved, but it was safer not to. Far better that he should merely remove her if she grew fractious or difficult to deal with.

Baldwin would have been happier to plead his injuries as an excuse to avoid the inquest, but something made him rise and pull on boots.

‘Do you really have to go?’ his wife asked solicitously. She didn’t like the way he favoured his arm as he pulled on his cotte, his sore shoulder making him wince.

‘Perhaps not, but if I don’t go, I’ll never know what sort of a hash the good Coroner can make of a simple case,’ Baldwin said lightly, but she could see from the way his brow furrowed a moment later that there was something about this case that was giving him pause for thought.

‘Do you have any idea who could have killed the man?’ she asked.

He preferred not to discuss murders with her because her own parents had been slaughtered when she was young; she had been taken to Bordeaux to be raised by relations. He always felt that it must be upsetting to her to discuss other killings when death was so familiar and painful to her.

‘There are some possibilities,’ he admitted with a rueful smile when he saw that she would not give up in her pursuit of the truth. ‘A man who appears to have an unnatural interest in young children for a beginning.’

‘Why is that?’

‘We have not yet managed to speak to him. Perhaps we shall have a better idea about him when we have heard his story,’ Baldwin said. ‘He has apparently broken into many homes in the city, never hurt anyone, never given alarm, just watched the children.’ He stopped and threw her a look.

It was quite exasperating sometimes, the way he sought to protect her from unpleasant truths. ‘And?’

‘And he lost his own wife and child in the famine. The fellow who told me about him said that his mind may have become unbalanced because of the horror of finding his wife’s body. She committed suicide-’

‘The poor man! Their child had died?’

‘That was the reason for her suicide, yes.’

‘I find it hard to believe that a man who has suffered such a terrible loss could think to inflict a similar pain on another family. Perhaps to steal a baby to care for, yes, but not to try to hurt one. Nor to harm the parent of a child.’

‘If he was provoked, if he thought that his own life could be in danger, perhaps then he could strike in order to defend himself.’

‘Perhaps … but why should he? If people knew that he was doing this, as you say, then why should he appear to be a threat now?’

‘A good point: he must know he was not viewed as a danger to others, and he would not expect to be threatened. So perhaps that makes him less likely to have been the murderer than I thought at first.’

‘Who else could have been involved?’

‘There was something,’ he began, then screwed his face into a mass of concerned wrinkles. ‘This is terrible. Please forgive me for thinking the worst of people, my love, but I have to wonder. The man’s wife is concealing something — I can feel it. She has a secret which she has not shared, and which she will seek to hide from us.’

‘It is not unknown for a woman to commit petty treason,’ Jeanne said slowly. Her own first husband had died of a sudden fever, but had he not, she could have been tempted to end his life herself. When they had not conceived a child after many attempts, he had blamed her for the failure. He mocked her and abused her in front of his friends, and had taken to physical punishments. Yes, she could understand women committing that most dreadful of crimes.

‘But why should she do it?’ Baldwin asked aloud. ‘Did she hate him because he was a bully and beat her, or was there another reason?’

‘Perhaps you should go, then,’ Jeanne said. She stood and took a heavy woollen cloak. ‘And I’ll come too, to make sure you are safe.’

Henry curled his lip. ‘So what will you do, then, Rod? Stay with me all the night to make sure I attend the inquest? Will you share my bed?’

‘Shut up, Henry. You whine worse’n a baby. Christ’s pain, I wish my baby daughter was here. She may make a noise and shit her clothes, but she makes less shit than you talk! Let me think.’

The bailiff was not a hard man, and more to the point he had other duties to attend to. It was all very well some bleeding Coroner demanding his time and telling him he had to go and do another job, but there were other people who needed him, and just now he could think of several tasks to be completed which would be impossible with this man in tow. ‘Look, Henry, do you want to go to the gaol?’

‘No!’

‘Right, then. Do as I say. I’ll leave you free tonight, but I’m going to tell all the porters of the gates that you’re not to leave the city. All right? So if you try to get out of here, you’ll be arrested and thrown into a cell. That’s that. Now, you have to come with me in the morning to the inquest, so make sure you sleep at home tonight, because if you aren’t there when I arrive tomorrow I’ll find you, and I’ll take pleasure in having you weighed down with iron. You’ll have neck, wrist and ankle shackles.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Be sure you are, you old git. If the First Finder decides to ignore the Coroner’s inquest, the Coroner will get very angry, and I don’t think you want to see him like that. I don’t, anyway, so if you piss him off, I’ll be even worse. Every sarcastic and painful comment he makes, I’ll take it out on your hide with a club. Understand?’

‘Yeah, I understand.’

‘Good. Then get lost, you old shit.’

Henry took his leave with a grunt and a sneer, and left the alley as quickly as he could. The only place he could think of going was the Black Hog. It called to him like a beacon of hope in the midst of this horror, and he was sure that he would be able to forget, if only for a short while, all the foul details of Mick’s face and the wriggling mass of maggots at the wound in his throat, if he could only get a pint of good wine inside him.

The Hog was not too far from here. He scurried up the hill as fast as his legs would carry him until he reached South Gate Street, and turned left up it to the tavern. Once there he almost fell through the door, and into the main chamber.

‘Hold hard!’ a voice called, but Henry ignored it, hurrying to the front where a makeshift bar stood.

‘I need a strong wine.’

‘Let’s see your money first, old man,’ the landlord said with a rough chuckle. ‘We don’t want any mistakes, like you ordering wine and then learning you’ve forgotten that there’s no cash in your purse.’

‘I need a drink!’

‘And I need customers who can pay,’ the landlord said unsympathetically. ‘So pay, or go.’

‘I’ll pay for him,’ a voice said.

‘Thank you, master,’ Henry said, peering up at the man. He recognized Reg Gylla.

‘Dreadful about the sergeant, eh?’ Reg said.

‘I wonder who killed him,’ Henry muttered.

‘Do you?’ Reg asked. Then he leaned towards Henry, his face drawn and pale. ‘I wouldn’t if I was you. It could be unhealthy.’