City of Fiends

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Alley off Combe Street

Baldwin saw Simon stagger and reel, and the moment he did so, he caught sight of Juliana.

There was a lantern nearby, and caught in its baleful gleam, he saw the alley as a series of little scenes. There was the sobbing boy, being hugged close by a woman, two pigs behind him, a man with a stick keeping them in their makeshift pen in the corner of the alley. There were two bailiffs, both ashen-faced, there were neighbours gathered to help as they might – and then there was Juliana.

She lay on her back, and at her throat there was a gaping maw, where a knife or sword had slashed. Blood had splashed all down her breast and skirts, and made them slick and foul. But the worst thing was her face. She had been rendered almost unrecognisable.

Baldwin approached her with a frown of concentration. Death held no fear for him. He had seen too many bodies in his life. As a young man he had joined the warrior pilgrims who set off for the Kingdom of Jerusalem to try to protect the last city, Acre, from the enemy’s swords. There he had seen people slowly die from starvation and disease, or Mamluke weapons. Since returning to England and becoming Keeper of the King’s Peace, he had viewed many corpses, and had witnessed judicial executions, as well as killing men himself. But even for him, this was a sight that shocked.

Juliana’s murderer had hacked at her face as though in a frenzy. Her left eye was ruined with one stab, while another raked down her right cheek. But it was her mouth that made Baldwin stop short. Both lips had been cut away. One was missing, probably lying in the alley’s mud and filth, while the lower lip hung, revolting, over her cheek. It was one of the worst cases of mutilation he had ever seen.

Simon was leaning one hand against the wall, head low as though he was about to throw up. Baldwin motioned to Edgar to take him away. It was bad enough here without Simon adding to the stench. When Simon had gone, Baldwin spoke to the man by the body.

‘Bailiff,’ he said, ‘ I am a Keeper of the King’s Peace.’

‘I know you, sir. I’m glad you’re here.’ The man was thick-necked and built like an ox, but at the sight of the body his voice had thickened, and there was a break in his tone.

‘You must ensure that all the neighbours are collected. Has anybody sent in search of the killer?’

‘There are men all over the alleys here.’

‘The alley only has two entrances? Has no one seen a man about here?’

Sir Richard was staring down at the body. ‘This is Mistress Juliana, isn’t it?’ he interrupted. ‘I recognise her clothes.’

‘I believe so,’ Baldwin said.

‘This boy came up from the city wall,’ the woman comforting him said. ‘He said he was following his pigs when he heard her scream.’

‘Can you tell me what happened?’ Baldwin said, crouching before the boy. ‘What’s your name?’

The boy was shivering, his face grey, but he swallowed and nodded. ‘I’m Rab. I was watching my master’s hogs, and she screamed. I didn’t want to come here, but the hogs went off and found her. I couldn’t leave them-’

Baldwin held up a hand as the boy’s voice became higher and more strained. ‘Calm yourself. You were down by the wall then, and came up here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then the killer must have headed back to Combe Street,’ Baldwin decided.

‘He may not have had much blood on him,’ Sir Richard observed. ‘If he got her in front of him, and slashed with a knife while pushing her away, the blood would have mostly missed him. He might have walked the streets and no one realise.’

‘It all depends upon who was in the street at the time the first scream was heard,’ Baldwin said. He looked up, past Sir Richard, and saw William and Philip Marsille approaching. Grabbing at Sir Richard, he said urgently, ‘Stop them! For God’s sake, don’t let them-’

But it was too late. Baldwin saw their faces freeze in horror. Philip’s expression became fixed and yellowish, until he looked like a corpse himself; William’s reddened until Baldwin feared he might suffer an attack of choler and fall, but then the boy’s face went absolutely white, and he tottered. Edgar caught him before he could fall, but then, as the people around the body and the bailiffs drew together to hide the remains of their mother from them, William happened to glance behind him.

‘You did this! You killed her, you murdering bastard!’ he bellowed at Paffard.

Baldwin ran to William before he could struggle free. Edgar had him by the shoulder, but before Baldwin could reach them, William had punched Edgar in the side of the face and was already yanking his arm away. Behind him, the sight that had enraged him were Henry and Gregory Paffard, Father Paul at their side, and even as Baldwin caught sight of them, he realised William had drawn his knife.

There was a short jerking motion from Edgar, a blow to the side of William’s head, just above his ear, and William crumpled to the ground. Edgar shot a look at Baldwin, then at Philip, as though daring Philip to try a similar attack, but Philip took one look at the grimly smiling man-at-arms and decided against it.

‘Sir Baldwin, I think we should fetch Master William home,’ Edgar said calmly.

Baldwin nodded. Simon was up and recovered, his back to the body of Juliana, glowering at the Paffards himself. ‘You do that, Edgar. Hugh will help you. Simon, Sir Richard and I will speak to the Paffards.’

Paffards’ House

It was good to stand near Henry’s fire after the chill of the alley and feel the warmth seeping into his hands, Baldwin thought. His skin was growing thinner as he aged. He was falling apart, he told himself without bitterness.

It was natural. He was well into his fifties: his muscles ached after even moderate exercise, his right ear was grown deaf, and he could not stay awake through the night as once he had been able to. His body was giving up its strength. Yes, it was natural that a man his age should begin to show signs of decrepitude. Father Paul stood near him, holding his hands to the fire, and Baldwin eyed him curiously for a moment before turning to the master of the house.

‘Master Henry, it would seem that William believes you must have had a hand in the murder of his mother. I shall speak with him later, but for now, is there anything you would like to tell us?’

‘It’s nonsense! How could anybody believe that? I am a merchant in the Freedom of the City, not a cut-throat.’

‘Why then should William Marsille make such an accusation?’

‘Because he’s a fool!’

‘It is one thing to be a fool, and another to make scurrilous accusations, Master Paffard,’ Baldwin said.

‘It’s because he hates us. That’s why,’ Gregory said.

‘Why?’

‘Because Father told them that he’d see them thrown into the gutter,’ Gregory said.

Baldwin eyed the fellow. Gregory looked intelligent, but he was restless. His gaze moved on, away from Baldwin and on to the fire, then to his father, to Sir Richard, to the jug on the sideboard – it was as though he found it difficult to maintain his concentration. Or was it a sign of guilt?

‘Do you own their house?’ Baldwin asked Henry.

‘Yes – and I want them out. Those boys think the world owes them a living,’ Henry said. ‘Well, I don’t. I want my property back so I can give it to someone who’ll pay the rent. They haven’t paid for weeks.’

‘So you have told them they will lose their home,’ Baldwin said. ‘What else? They wouldn’t accuse you of murdering their mother just because of that. And you wouldn’t suddenly threaten them with eviction after weeks of no rent without some other motive.’

‘They’ve been upsetting people,’ Henry Paffard said. ‘I told them they must leave the house because they have broken the peace. It is my duty as a responsible landlord to keep the peace between people living here.’

‘That is still no reason to say that you killed their mother, Master Paffard. So what is the reason for that?’ Baldwin insisted.

‘Their mother came here earlier. She wanted me to go tonight to see her in that alley.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. How could I?’ Henry demanded. Some of his old arrogance was already returning. ‘The woman was lunatic’

‘Because she thought you guilty of murder?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Why?’ Baldwin asked. ‘All around here say how well you treated your maid.’

‘Yes,’ Gregory sneered. ‘Everyone is so impressed with my father. He was so generous, so kind to that maid.’

‘Quiet, Gregory,’ his father threatened. ‘You don’t know . . . You don’t understand.’

‘You allowed her to use your front door,’ Baldwin said. ‘That means she was more than just a maid to you.’

‘She had been here many years. She’d earned the right,’ Henry retorted.

Baldwin eyed him for a long moment. The man’s manner intrigued him. He was waspish and arrogant, but there was another tone to his voice that spoke of some kind of internal conflict. He was a man to watch, Baldwin decided.

‘They’re jealous,’ Gregory said. ‘It rankles that they have to depend on us, while they think that they ought to be in here instead of us.’

‘Why would the Marsilles think that?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Their father Nicholas was a friend of my father. After he died, his investments and properties had nothing behind them, he owed so much money. My father has been forced to protect them. That is why they infest that house. It’s a matter of charity. We have looked after them with care, but we can’t carry on if they offend all their neighbours.’

‘That is why they hate you and your family?’ Baldwin said, looking at Henry.

‘Yes. They would pass around any scandalous lies to upset me.’

‘And in so doing, guarantee that they would lose their home? It makes little rational sense to me,’ Baldwin noted.

‘You saw them!’ Gregory said spitefully. ‘They aren’t rational. All the bad luck they attract, they blame on us.’