City of Fiends

CHAPTER ELEVEN

De Coyntes’ House

Bydaud de Coyntes was glad to be away from the alley. Every so often the breeze had turned and brought with it the distinctive stench of death, and he had almost gagged.

His house was at the other side of the alley from Paffard’s. It was small, more or less the same size as the Avices’ house, but better located, bordering Combe Street. Of course, both were a great deal smaller than Paffard’s. That was enormous, as befitted one of the city’s wealthiest men. But that did not matter. Bydaud was rich enough, he felt. Emma was a good woman, his daughters were the pride of his life, and he had money enough to keep them all warm and fed. There was little more a man would wish from life usually.

‘Peg, bring me a flagon of wine, and mazers for me and Emma,’ he called to the maid as he squatted at the fireside, poking the embers until sparks gleamed and burst into the air. He blew gently, and flames erupted along the length of the logs resting on top, until he could feel the heat.

It was bright outside, but in here it was always gloomy. He took a taper and lit the candles in their great iron stands, then the smaller candles on the spikes in the walls.

He needed light to drive away thoughts of death. Since the unrest last year, when the King had been captured and imprisoned, there had been a lingering sense of unease about the city, and Alice’s murder only served to underline the tension.

‘Husband, to burn so many candles is expensive!’

‘I know, woman. But I enjoy the light.’

Emma sighed and shook her head. ‘We should save money, Bydaud.’

He blew out the taper and dropped it into the pot hanging on the wall by the door, then dipped his finger in the stoup of holy water and crossed himself, before going to his chair and sitting. ‘Come here.’

Emma scowled. ‘This is no time for-’

‘Woman, come here.’

She gave an exclamation of annoyance, but obeyed him and sat on his lap.

He placed his arms about her waist. ‘There, that’s better.’

‘You should be working.’

‘I have a meeting with Henry later at the Cock Inn. I will be working then. All work and no pleasantry would make for a tedious life, wife.’

‘Oh? Get off me!’

He withdrew his hand from her bodice as she slapped him, but then clasped her in a tight embrace, and this time kissed her until she put her hands on his head and pulled him closer. He was utterly maddening, but he was kind, considerate, handsome, and she loved him.

And while the maid from Paffard’s was dead, Emma wanted to celebrate life, as though by making love with Bydaud she could eradicate the memory of the other girl’s cold, lifeless flesh.

Precentor’s House, Cathedral Close

Baldwin was standing and tickling Wolf’s ears in Adam Murimuth’s chamber when the door opened and the vicar entered.

After the inquest, Baldwin had suggested to Sir Richard that they should inform the Precentor of the outcome. It was there, in Murimuth’s hall, that the Precentor had told them of the man suspected of running into the Close after the murder.

‘I am sure he is innocent,’ Murimuth said unconvincingly, ‘but I would be remiss were I not to tell you.’

‘I should like to speak with him,’ Baldwin said.

Adam Murimuth nodded with sadness as he sent for the vicar.

It was some minutes before Father Laurence entered, and Sir Richard gave him a quizzical stare, commenting loudly, ‘They build vicars more heftily here than at my home.’

Murimuth was already feeling guilty, as though he had surrendered Father Laurence to the hangman. Laurence was the son of a baron near Axminster. It was unthinkable that he could have had anything to do with the murder of some maidservant. Out of the question. He sat on a stool with a sense of misery that he could ever have thought Laurence involved. And yet . . .

‘Father, there was a murder in a yard out near Combe Street last Saturday,’ Baldwin began.

‘In the alley,’ Father Laurence said calmly.

Sir Richard said, ‘You saw the body?’

‘I almost fell over her. As soon as I realised she was dead, I was struck with fear lest I should be thought to be the killer. I ran, I’m afraid.’

‘Which way did you run?’ Baldwin said.

‘Down to Combe Street and back up Southgate Street. I knew that Mark on the Bear Gate would let me in.’

‘So you didn’t see the woman who was declared First Finder?’ Baldwin said.

‘I saw no one. Or didn’t notice. It was late, so-’

‘Yes,’ interrupted Baldwin. ‘It was late – so why were you there?’

‘I was visiting a friend.’

‘Who?’

‘Father Paul at Holy Trinity.’

‘And after that you walked up to Combe Street?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Why turn up there, instead of heading into the Cathedral Close?’

‘I was thinking of things.’

‘Such as?’

‘Private matters that concern only me,’ Father Laurence said quietly.

‘So, you found her. Why run? It was your duty as a priest to pray over her. You were derelict in your duties, surely?’

‘I was. I went to her, and saw who it was, and that scared me.’

Laurence was pale, but composed. Baldwin thought it was strange to see the man accepting his failure without trying to defend himself.

‘Was there a reason for you to fail in such a dramatic manner?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I panicked.’

‘Was she your lover?’ Sir Richard demanded.

‘No,’ he said, and there was a slight movement of his lips, as though he was close to smiling.

Sir Richard said scornfully, ‘It ill behoves you to run away at the sight of a poor young girl’s corpse.’

‘Why were you in the alley?’ Baldwin pressed. ‘It leads nowhere, but to the Paffards’ house.’

‘I had a lot on my mind, as I said,’ Laurence said, and now he glanced at Adam Murimuth. ‘I was in the church with Father Paul, and he gave me many things to consider, so I went outside to think through all he said. It has nothing to do with this murder.’

It was clear that the man was determined to stick with this story.

Murimuth peered at him anxiously. ‘Is this a matter for the confessional, Father?’

The priest looked at him, and there was pain in his eyes. ‘No. There has been no sin on my part. Only a foolish hope.’

Baldwin did not get the impression of guilt from Father Laurence’s appearance. In his experience, a guilty man would look away, would nervously fidget, would twitch. This vicar stood resolutely, like a man-at-arms waiting for a cavalry charge: with trepidation, but with courage. Yet some men who were guilty did not think their crimes a felony. Perhaps this was one such man.

‘I will ask one last time: why were you there? Will you not answer?’

‘There are some things even a vicar may hold to himself. Things which hurt no other. I will not tell you more. It is my affair,’ Laurence repeated.

‘No doubt,’ Adam said, ‘you feared that the murderer might still be there in the alley, and your life could also be in danger.’

It was a good excuse. Baldwin could have kicked the Precentor for supplying it, but Father Laurence shook his head.

‘No, I will not lie. I had no such fear, yet I was anxious not to be discovered, so I ran away.’

‘I will inform the Coroner of your story,’ Baldwin said heavily. ‘He will have to know.’

‘Please!’ Laurence turned an anguished face to him. ‘If you do that, it will be bruited about the city. I would rather it was kept private.’

‘This is not a private matter,’ Baldwin said flatly. ‘This is an enquiry into a maid’s murder. I would have the truth, and if not, I would certainly not help you keep secret the little you have told us.’

Laurence threw a look at Adam Murimuth. ‘Precentor, could you not intercede for me? There is nothing that can assist the matter of this girl’s murder. Can you not ask that it be kept secret?’

‘Why on earth should I? Really, this is the most ridiculous situation I can imagine,’ Murimuth said tetchily. ‘You deny guilt, but refuse to aid the good knights here, and then demand that I help you? No! Certainly not! I suggest you go at once and pray, because your heart must tell you that this silence is shameful. You are concealing something, Vicar, and I would have the truth confessed. You have failed in your duty to your cloth.’

Baldwin turned back to Wolf as the vicar left them.

‘What’s ailing the fellow?’ Sir Richard muttered. ‘Cannot make sense of him. Denies all, but refuses to tell us anything that could corroborate his story.’

‘I wish I knew,’ Murimuth said. He had walked to his sideboard and filled three goblets. ‘He is a good man, I know: dutiful, honourable, and kind to all whom he meets. I cannot understand this attitude of his.’

He passed the wine around, musing that if he could, it would be tempting to force the man to confess to what he knew. Murimuth had enough to contend with already without the recalcitrant vicar.

‘He is troubled,’ Baldwin said musingly. ‘He was firm, reluctant, but not defensive. A strange mixture. Precentor, could you ask this Father Paul if he recalls the conversation with Father Laurence? Especially if there was any means of telling when they parted. And I would ask that you have Father Laurence watched. Carefully: there is no need to worry him further. I would not wish him to compound his crime by fleeing the Cathedral. Meanwhile, perhaps I should speak to Henry Paffard too, just to ascertain whether there was any possible infatuation that the maid had for the priest? Paffard may, possibly, have heard something.’

‘Yet his son is rumoured to have had an interest in the girl,’ Sir Richard rumbled.

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said with a frown. ‘But Gregory appeared scathing about such an idea. He was most emphatic on the point. Whereas his father looked more deeply shocked. There is something troubling Henry deeply, which may possibly have a bearing on the murder. If he thought she was having an affair of the heart with a vicar, he could be ashamed or fretful, I suppose. She was in his care.’

‘Something troubling him?’ Adam Murimuth said with a sarcastic laugh. ‘I think there is enough to trouble all of us just now, wouldn’t you?’

Holy Trinity Church

Father Paul was recovering from a bout of coughing when the Coroner’s Clerk arrived.

‘Father, the wench’s body is ready for you now. The Fosser is coming to take her to the Cathedral.’

The vicar rose and wearily went outside. His fit had ceased, but it had left him profoundly exhausted, and his head was aching now with a steady, thundering beat that made him wish to close his eyes.

It took little time to walk to her, and as soon as Father Paul arrived, he found only a few men standing about idly, some little bratchets staring with goggling eyes at the form beneath the winding sheet. The Fosser from the Cathedral and Benjamin, Henry Paffard’s apprentice, were lifting the body onto a small handcart.

‘Stop that snivelling, Ben!’ his master snapped.

Father Paul glared at Henry. ‘Master Paffard, it is right that the boy should mourn the passing of the girl.’

‘She’s dead, and that is an end to it,’ Henry stated callously, but there was a distinct redness in his eyes. He looked like a man who was mourning the passing of his maid, no matter how he spoke.

Watching the men place the body on the cart, Henry jerked his thumb. ‘Ben, fetch my wife and the others. Then you may return to your duties.’

‘Benjamin must come with us, Master,’ Father Paul said. ‘He grieves for her too.’

‘Be damned to that!’ Henry said hoarsely. ‘I have a business to run, and Benjamin and the other apprentices have work to do. There is an entire set of plate to be made for the Sheriff, and a pair of bowls and goblets for the de Tracys. I cannot have my boys leaving their duties when there is so much to be done.’

‘The child here was under your protection,’ Father Paul said, resting his hand upon the shrouded head of the corpse. ‘It is your duty to her to see that she is properly buried, and that means her friends from amongst your household should be there. She requires their prayers.’

‘Oh, very well, if you insist,’ Henry said, waving his hand in irritation. ‘But hurry, Ben.’

In a matter of minutes, the Paffard household was gathered. Father Paul watched as Claricia Paffard and her two sons came down the steps to join her husband, their daughter Agatha a pale figure behind her. After them came the family bottler, then Benjamin and two other apprentices, while Joan brought up the rear, wiping her eyes all the while. Father Paul stood at the front of the column and they began to walk to the Cathedral behind the Fosser and his cart.

The hill to Carfoix was not steep, but in recent times the vicar had found it intolerable. Today, rather than be forced to endure a second coughing fit, he ordered the Fosser to turn into the Bear Gate, and from here they entered the Cathedral Close, walking with a slow, respectful tread to the great West Door, avoiding the masons’ tools and the other men working on the rebuilding. Father Paul could not but help a quick glance about him.

He felt that same poignancy that so many others must have, whenever he surveyed the Cathedral. It was such a massive undertaking, to pull down the old building so it could be built up stronger and larger, ever more beautiful. Many Bishops had striven to make this glorious building still more magnificent, and all had died before seeing the fruits of their ambitions. Paul knew that he must die before this was complete, just as they had. There was no possibility of its being finished during his lifetime, sadly.

They brought the body to the hearse in front of the Chapel of St Peter, and there set her down, and while Father Paul spoke to one of the vicars, arranging for candles and incense, the Paffard household stood silent. There were sniffs from Joan, and from young Thomas, Father Paul noticed, but all the others stood with restraint in every line of their faces.

It was so sad to see them like this. No demonstration of sadness or affection, but from the youngest and the closest. All others were mute.

Father Paul stood before them, staring at the cross for a long time, and then, before he began the service, he allowed his hand to rest once more on the dead girl’s head.

‘Poor child,’ he murmured, and his voice was clogged with tears.