A Deadly Penance

Eighteen

“I am certain Adgate is the one who committed the murder,” Alinor exclaimed later that afternoon as she and Richard sat in the solar with Bascot and her aunt. “Richard and I first interviewed his wife alone, and then had Adgate join us. Beforehand, Clarice told us that her husband had spoken at some length with Tercel in private, in the hall of their home, and may have mentioned something about the people with whom her lover had become acquainted with in Lincoln. But when we summoned Adgate and asked him about the conversation, he said that, contrary to his wife’s recollection, they had been closeted together for only a short space of time, just long enough to discuss the cost of a fur hat Tercel wished to purchase for himself. The price had been far too high, Adgate said, and the conversation a brief one of only a few moments duration. I saw the bemusement on Clarice’s face when her husband said this. It was not the truth, I am sure of it. Adgate is lying, I know he is, and why else would a man do so unless he has something to hide?”

“It may not be the act of murder he is keeping secret, Alinor,” Nicolaa admonished her niece patiently. “And, even if it were, you have no proof of your accusation. The other guild leaders whom Adgate sat alongside at the feast have already testified that he did not leave their company until it was time to retire, so he was overlooked for the whole time when the murder was committed. It is impossible that he is the one who carried it out.”

“Even if he could not, I am still not as certain as you that he did not pay someone to do it for him,” Alinor insisted. “Someone who was already within the bail. It could be one of your own servants, Aunt, maybe one of the men-at-arms who were on duty on the ramparts that night.”

Nicolaa’s response was reproving. “I think that is highly unlikely. None of my household servants have ever given me the slightest reason for distrust. The same is true of the men-at-arms. Besides, as we said before, that would imply that Adgate knew beforehand of his wife’s intended assignation in order to arrange the matter, and I am reasonably confident he did not. While I am aware that Mistress Clarice is not possessed of a great intelligence, I doubt whether she is brainless enough to let slip to her husband beforehand the details of the meeting with her lover, so how could he have been aware of it? And aware of it Adgate would have to have been if he was to instruct a hired assassin to wait for Tercel outside the chamber where he and Clarice had their tryst. And why go to all the trouble that such a scheme would entail? It would have been far simpler for a hired killer to murder Tercel while he was abroad in the town-slip a knife in his ribs while he was in a crowd or lure him down a deserted byway and do the deed there. We have been through all this before, Alinor, and discounted Adgate as a suspect. I know you are anxious to put an end to this matter, but you will not do so by grasping at will-o’-the-wisps.”

Alinor got up and paced a few steps. “Mayhap that is so, but I can sense Adgate’s guilt, rolling off him like a storm cloud.” She sat back down, frustration written all over her face.

Nicolaa turned to Bascot. “Did you have any success today in your interview with the seal maker, de Marins?”

“Not insofar as to consider either he or his wife as suspects, lady,” the Templar replied. “As Ernulf thought might be the case, they came to Lincoln from Doncaster some twelve years ago, and had never lived here before that. In addition, Sealsmith’s wife told me that she and her husband were wed only eighteen years ago, not long enough for us to consider her as a candidate for the mother. But questioning them was not entirely in vain. Mistress Sealsmith gave me some useful information which, although gossip, I am certain is true.”

The Templar paused for a moment as he silently reviewed his visit to the sealsmith’s manufactory. It was a moderately sized establishment, with living quarters above, and located on the same street as Simon Adgate’s shop. Although Sealsmith was called a seal maker, it was actually the matrices, the implements impressed with a design on one end for marking hot wax, that Sealsmith manufactured. When a manservant admitted Bascot and Gianni into his workshop, the seal maker was busy at a small forge melting silver for the base of a matrix. He was a burly man of middle height with a thatch of thick black hair and heavy eyebrows that joined one another across the bridge of his nose. When Bascot’s rank and name were announced by the servant, it was obvious that Sealsmith was reluctant to leave his task, for he greeted his visitor with a sullenness that was barely concealed. Upon being told that Bascot had come to ask both him and his wife some further questions about the night that Tercel had been killed, he had answered brusquely and with an air of impatience.

“We saw nothing that had ’owt to do with the murder,” he said in a broad accent. “Just like we told Sir Richard at the time.”

“Nonetheless,” Bascot said sternly, “I still wish to speak to both you and your wife.”

His ill temper still evident, the seal maker gave the task of overseeing the molten silver to one of his young apprentices and, stomping to a door set in the interior wall of the workshop, called loudly for a servant to fetch his wife.

Imogene Sealsmith was a rather dowdy woman of middle years, with small dark eyes and an upturned nose that gave her the look of an inquisitive bird. Far more amenable than her husband, it was she, rather than the seal maker, who responded to Bascot’s questions, repeating the same answers she had given Richard Camville; that she and her husband had never made the acquaintance of the victim or noticed him during the feast. It was not until Sealsmith, distracted by a clumsy movement of the apprentice tending the forge, darted over to take charge of the small ladle full of molten silver, that Imogene was more forthcoming.

“ ’Tis true that neither my husband nor myself had ever spoken to the man that was killed,” she said quietly, “but from what I have heard since his death, I think it might have been him that I saw arguing with Simon Adgate outside our gates the day before we went to the castle for the celebration.” She paused and gave the Templar a glance of satisfaction when she saw she had gained his interest. “Was he a man with fair hair, personable looks and a swagger of self-importance?”

Judging her a woman with a love of indulging in salacious gossip, Bascot answered cautiously, keeping his own voice low so that her husband could not overhear. “There are many men who would fit that description, mistress. Perhaps I could judge better if you tell me why you think the person you saw may have been the murdered man.”

With a disapproving sniff for his seeming doubt of her claim, the sealsmith’s wife could not deny herself the enjoyment of relating her reason for making it. “All of us who live hereabouts knew that Clarice Adgate had taken a lover; she was seen leaving her home on several occasions when her husband was away from his shop, all dressed up in fine furs and without a maidservant or a basket for shopping or the like. And one of our neighbours saw her slipping into an alehouse in the town, one that has rooms above that can be rented for an hour or two, so we knew she was meeting someone she shouldn’t. We had speculated on who her lover might be and when I saw Adgate arguing with that young man, I reckoned it was him that Clarice had been meeting and that the furrier was giving him a warning to leave his wife alone.”

“Did you hear what was said between them?” Bascot asked, careful to hide his distaste for the relish she took in relating the tale.

Mistress Sealsmith shook her head regretfully and admitted she had not. “But I’m certain I’m right when I say he was Clarice’s paramour,” she insisted. “All of us who stayed in the castle overnight saw how she burst into tears when we were told of the murder and who it was that had been killed.” She turned her birdlike eyes on Bascot with speculative glee. “And maybe I’m right again when I say it might have been Adgate who murdered him.”

Now, to Nicolaa de la Haye and the others he told what Imogene Sealsmith had related. When he was finished, Alinor gave a smile of satisfaction. “It is as I suspected,” she declared. “The furrier knew Tercel far better than he admits. I would wager Adgate knew of his wife’s infidelity long before the night of the feast and it was he who arranged the death of her lover.” She turned to Nicolaa. “You should summon the furrier to the castle, Aunt, and force him to tell you what he is hiding.”

“Which may merely be that he was aware of his wife’s adultery and did not want to admit it for fear we would suspect him of the murder,” Nicolaa said wearily. “As I have said, the facts contradict his involvement in the death.”

“Still, lady,” Bascot said, “I think it would be worthwhile to try and find out more about Adgate.” He turned to Richard. “I believe he told you that he was happily married to his first wife. If it was she who was Tercel’s mother, then it could be that Adgate is trying to protect her memory, perhaps in collusion with a brother or other close male relative. If that is so, it could be the relative who, in fact, committed the murder.”

Nicolaa considered the suggestion. “That is certainly a possibility. But if we question Adgate directly, he will be alerted to our interest, and his guilty partner, if there is one, will abscond before we can lay hands on him. We must find another way to obtain information about his first wife. If we begin to ask questions of those who live in his vicinity, our suspicions might reach his ears, so the only alternative is to search for details of their marriage in the parish records. But without knowing in which church the nuptials took place, it will be a tiresome task.”

“I think, lady, that there might be an easier way,” Bascot said. “And I know just the person who may be able to smooth the path.”

Late that evening, Nicolaa and her sister were in the castellan’s bedchamber, preparing to retire. They had removed their outer clothing and, after donning furred bed-gowns, were sitting in front of a glowing brazier enjoying a posset of heated wine mixed with camomile flowers to aid their sleep. Lest she upset her sister, the castellan had responded guardedly to Petronille’s enquiry about how the murder investigation was progressing.

Petronille heard her sister out in silence and then sighed. “So, it remains uncertain who killed my poor servant, or the motive for doing so,” she said and then, raising tired eyes to Nicolaa, added, “I am sorry I was so intractable the other day. I fear I allowed my grief for Baldwin to cloud my thinking.”

“That is understandable, Petra,” Nicolaa said quietly. She cursed the fact that this tragedy was upsetting her sister; Petronille had seemed to be recovering her spirits a little before Tercel was killed. Now, the unsavoury implications surrounding his death had prompted a resurgence of her grief.

“I have come to the conclusion that it might be beneficial for both of us to spend a short time away from this terrible business,” she said, having earlier decided that a few hours away from the castle while Bascot tried to find out more about Adgate’s first wife would cause no delay in the investigation. “And, to that end, have arranged that tomorrow we shall go to Riseholme and see how the foundlings are faring. My bailiff has given me good reports of their progress, but I owe it to the guild members who donated funds to give my personal attention to the children’s welfare. The weather has warmed a little and is not too inclement. If we wrap up well, the air out in the countryside may prove a bracing tonic for both of us.”

Petronille’s face lit up. She had been enthusiastic about the foundling home and perhaps, Nicolaa thought privately, seeing firm evidence that five young lives had been saved from dire poverty might divert her sister’s attention from thoughts of death.

Leaving their empty cups on a small table for collection by a maidservant in the morning, the two sisters climbed into the huge bed they were sharing. As Nicolaa laid her head on her pillow, Petronille said drowsily, “You know, I have been thinking much about Tercel and how he was when he entered our service. The first thing that struck me about him was that I had seen him before but, of course, I could not have done, for he had never left Wharton’s demesne before he joined our retinue. Yet, since his death, the impression has returned more strongly. If his mother was from Lincoln, and her son resembled her, perhaps I might have met her in her youth, before I married Dickon and went to live in Stamford.”

“It is almost certain she was of merchant class, Petra, and it is unlikely you would have done so.”

“I know,” Petronille replied. “But I cannot rid myself of the notion. It is most distressing…”

As her sister’s voice drifted off into sleep, Nicolaa once again regretted that Petronille had been exposed to the terrible crime. She hoped the visit to Riseholme would lift her spirits. If it did not, as much as she valued her sister’s company, she would urge her to return home before her planned departure at Eastertide.