The Alehouse Murders

Nineteen

Gianni sat in his place amongst the castle hounds and peered out from behind one of the shaggy heads to stare at the people seated with Lady Nicolaa at the table on the dais. The midday meal had already been served and the castellan was lingering over wine and sweetmeats with the newly come guests. Gianni had never seen any of these people in Lincoln before. They were two men of middle age, both tall and fair-haired, and an elderly woman who was almost as tall as the men but, unlike them, was thin and fond of punctuating her speech by thumping on the floor with the short staff she carried as an aid in walking. The cane was mounted on top with the head of a raven fashioned in silver. Gianni watched as her fingers clenched and unclenched in frustration around the sharp pointed beak as she spoke.

As far as Gianni could tell, Lady Nicolaa was trying to placate the two men, who looked enough alike to be brothers. Gianni knew they were speaking about the murder of the people in the alehouse and, since his master was concerned in the affair, he strained his ears to try and hear what was being said over the scratchings and grunts of the dogs.

Bascot had left early that morning, before these new visitors had come. Gianni did not like it when the Templar was away from him, even for a short space, and he almost always took refuge with the hounds until his master returned or went to sit by himself in their tiny room at the top of the old keep. Even now, after he had been with the Templar for almost a year, he mistrusted any other human companion. He had too many memories from his childhood of the blows and curses that had rained on him when he had begged for scraps of food, and happenings far worse from some of those who had at first seemed inclined to be generous, to ever feel entirely comfortable with any other person.

He had even distrusted the Templar at first, although he had snatched the loaf of bread that Bascot had held out to him before running away to eat it. It was only when the Templar had come again the next day, this time with some cooked meat wrapped in a cloth, that Gianni had begun to feel that the one-eyed limping stranger meant him no harm. Bascot had laid the food down in the middle of the wharf among the pilings where Gianni spent his nights, then had moved a distance away, keeping at bay the other beggars clamouring for his largesse, until Gianni had crept from his hiding place and taken the bundle. With an amused grin, Bascot had watched while Gianni, his eyes flicking warily back and forth from the Templar to the hungry gaze of the other beggars, had wolfed down the contents of the parcel until there was none left. Still the Templar had not made a move that was threatening. He had just nodded his head and turned away. At a safe distance, Gianni had followed his benefactor and seen him turn into an inn near the docks. All night the boy had sat, waiting, until in the morning the Templar had reappeared and handed him a pear and some cheese.

From that day on, Gianni had never left the Templar’s side. He had been fed and clothed, taught to read and write, and had willingly clambered up behind his new master to travel on horseback the many days and nights it had taken to reach this strange land across the Narrow Sea. To Gianni, with only memories of pain and hunger throughout the duration of his young life, the Templar was a combination of the father he could not remember and the God he had never been able to find. Now, when de Marins went away from his company, the Palermo urchin was always uneasy until he returned.

Up on the dais, the old woman was again banging her stick and this time her voice carried clearly to Gianni. She was speaking to one of the two men who had come with her and seemed to be berating him.

“You Danish! Always the same, hold fast with one hand and reach to take more with the other. Sybil and Conal did not commit this crime, I tell you. If it is her dower property you are concerned with, then know that it will never be returned if she is found guilty. How can you think of oak trees when it is the honour of your family you should be defending?” The old lady banged the floor with her stick again. “She would have had short shrift at your board, Magnus. Neither you or Ailwin are known for your generosity.”

With this last riposte she threw back her head, causing the white linen of her old-fashioned headdress to flutter around her thin shoulders as she added another insult. “But what else can you expect from Danish stock? The people of Norway know that to their cost.”

Ailwin spoke again. “ Tante Hilde, your family and mine have all lived in England for many generations now. Let us forget these old feuds of our ancestors.”

“To forget one’s heritage is to take away the meaning of life,” the old woman expostulated. “I am the only member left of Conal’s father’s family, and he is the one that will carry on our name. For him I will fight with all the strength I have left.”

On saying this, the old woman pushed herself to her feet, using her cane as a lever. A woman servant of middle age rushed to her side from below the dais, but Hilde brushed her away and stood proudly erect. As she turned to leave, there was the sound of voices at the entrance to the hall and Conal and his mother came in, followed by Bascot and Ernulf.

Conal strode immediately to Hilde’s side, taking her in his arms and embracing her. “ Tante, I am pleased to see you.”

“And I you,” Hilde said as she reached up a gnarled hand and stroked his cheek. “You grow more like your father every day.”

Gently he led her back to her seat, then greeted his uncles. Sybil did the same, then both she and Conal sat down beside Hilde.

Gianni crept forward now, closer to where Bascot and Ernulf stood. Nicolaa de la Haye beckoned to the Templar and introduced him to her guests.

“These are Lady Sybil’s brothers, Ailwin and Magnus Redwison. Lady Hilde is great-aunt to Conal. His father was her nephew, her brother’s son.” She explained Bascot’s role in the matter of the crime with which Conal and his mother were charged. “Sir Bascot is gathering evidence to place before the judges at the assizes. It is to be hoped he will find some information that will prove your sister’s innocence, my lords,” she said to Magnus and Ailwin, “but so far, none has been forthcoming.” She looked at Bascot. “Unless, de Marins, there is something new since last we spoke…”

“Nothing, lady,” Bascot replied, “but neither is there anything to prove their guilt.”

“Exactly,” burst out Hilde, leaning forward and thumping her cane to emphasize her point. “That is because they have none. Tell me, Templar, have you found any indication of someone else’s involvement? Another party who would profit by this boy’s death? There are other heirs to de Kyme’s estates, are there not? A nephew and some cousins? Where were they when this deed was done? Does he have a leman who hopes to become his wife if he is free of Sybil?”

Bascot smiled at the old woman. He liked her forthright-ness and, since his visit to de Kyme that morning, her thoughts echoed his own. There were others beside Conal for whom the inheritance of the baron could provide a strong enough lure to tempt them to commit murder. But to interrogate persons of the status of de Kyme’s nephew and cousin might result in harsh complaints from them at such treatment, and needed to have the direct authority of the sheriff, not just that of Nicolaa de la Haye. In answering Lady Hilde, he chose his words carefully, in order not to offend the woman who had so generously given him a place in her retinue.

“So far, lady, my commission has been only to determine if your great-nephew and his mother could or could not have had the opportunity to commit the murders. But perhaps you are right, it may be worthwhile to look for another likely culprit. But to do so, I will need a warrant whose power will not be questioned. Many who are touched by this affair will not take kindly to my intervention otherwise.”

Lady Hilde immediately understood the delicacy of his words and swung her piercing gaze on Nicolaa. “The truth must be found, and it is the duty of the sheriff to ensure that it is. And your’s also, Lady Nicolaa, as keeper of the king’s castle and his peace. Will you persuade your husband to this course?”

Nicolaa considered the suggestion, not taking offence at the imperiousness in the older woman’s tone and the unnecessary reminder of the obligations of her office. Finally she nodded in agreement. “There is sense in what you say, de Marins. And, since Conal is of knight’s rank, there should be no complaint if those of equal status are questioned. I have no doubt Gerard will agree. He is as anxious as I to have this matter resolved. I pledge the warrant in his stead, and those here are witness to my words. May God give you His divine assistance.”

So saying, she rose from her seat, tired of the subject and the wrangling that had accompanied it, but conscious also of the courtesy due her guests. “I have no doubt we can all do with a brief rest before the evening meal. There are chambers above that you may consider your own while you are in Lincoln and my servants are at your bidding.”

Ailwin and Magnus sighed with relief at the dismissal, and Conal assisted his great-aunt to her feet and helped her down the two shallow stairs to the floor of the hall. As they passed Bascot, the old lady paused. “You are a man of honour, Templar, I think. It would please me if, when you have finished your duties for the day, you would attend me. It might prove profitable for us to have speech together on this matter.”

Bascot had been amused by the manner in which Hilde had spoken to the others for, although haughty, she had comported herself with courage and a keen perception. And, he surmised, she was driven by an honest intent that was laudable. Her request to him had been couched in a more conciliatory fashion and he was intrigued by her wish to speak to him privately. He decided to humour her and nodded politely; assuring her he would do as she wished. Gianni, now standing beside him, stared with fascination at the silver raven’s head on the top of her cane as, leaning heavily on Conal’s arm, Hilde went slowly from the hall.

It was late in the evening before Bascot began the ascent up the stairs to the chamber where Lady Hilde awaited him. The Templar was tired and his leg ached from the riding he had done that morning, and also from his walk to the priory that afternoon after he had left the company in the hall. The purpose of his visit had been to see if the priest, Father Anselm, was showing any signs of recovery. Brother Jehan led him to the injured man’s bed, explaining that his patient had still not regained consciousness and from lack of any sustenance except for a few mouthfuls of honeyed wine dribbled into his mouth, was likely to remain so until death should take him.

“It is a strange irony that his wound has finally begun to heal,” the infirmarian said. “It is almost as though he remains unconscious of his own choosing.”

Bascot looked down on the face of the priest. It was peaceful, smooth and unlined in repose. The Templar had judged him to be a man just a few years older than himself, but lack of food had brought a gauntness to his features that made Anselm seem closer to middle age. His hands lay one on either side of him, resting on the thick woollen blanket that served as a cover, the fingers long and sensitive. On the priest’s brow dark hair curled thickly, but his eye sockets were sunken in deep shadows. Beneath the blanket his chest rose and fell in shallow movement. What hidden failing, Bascot wondered, had prompted Anselm to don a hair shirt beneath his vestments? Was it a penance for the commission of a sin or for the pleasure of an imaginary one? Had it anything to do with the murders in the alehouse?

“Were you acquainted with Father Anselm before this incident?” Bascot asked Brother Jehan.

The infirmarian shook his head slightly. “I have spoken with him but twice, and that is all,” he said. “He is only recently come to Lincoln, arriving here some two years ago. Before that he was in Canterbury, I believe.”

“And the times that you saw him, did he make mention of anything that was troubling him? Any problems he was having in his new parish, perhaps?”

Brother Jehan gave him an uncertain look, as though asking the reason for the Templar’s questions. “I am searching for an explanation as to why he was stabbed, Brother,” Bascot said. “I had thought it to be connected to the murders in the alehouse near the church where he officiated. But I could be wrong. It might be completely unrelated, the cause instead to be found in some personal matter, even something from his past. But his injury and his death, if it comes, are just as deserving of inquiry as those of the unfortunates found on the alehouse floor. I would discover the identity of the culprit, if I can. But to do that, I need to know more about Anselm. Can you help me?”

Jehan gave the matter a few moments thought before he answered. “It is not likely that I can for, as I said, I was not often in his company. But I will tell you the little that I know.” The infirmarian cast a brief look at his patient before he continued. “The first occasion that I met Anselm was not long after he arrived in Lincoln. A fellow cleric had advised him to enquire of me if I had a remedy for a persistent rash that had appeared on his lower extremities. He seemed to me, at that time, to be a man who was distracted, as though his thoughts were far away from his surroundings. I did not pay his demeanour much mind. It is not unusual for removal to a new parish, especially one so far from a place he might have come to regard as his home, to be unsettling for a priest. I gave him a salve to use on the rash and he left. I did not see him again until some time later.”

Bascot noted that a frown had appeared on the infirmarian’s careworn face as he had spoken the last words, as though the second meeting had not been as unremarkable as the first. “And when was that, Brother?” he prompted.

As Bascot spoke, Anselm stirred on the cot. He was still deep in unconsciousness, but his limbs had suddenly become restless, and his fingers began to twitch with movement. Brother Jehan immediately leaned over him, taking a moistened cloth from a bowl of water on a nearby stool and gently dabbing Anselm’s forehead, murmuring soothing words as he did so. Suddenly Anselm’s eyes flickered open, just for the briefest space, and he stared unseeingly past the two men at his bedside, seeming to focus his attention on a point beyond them. Then his eyelids closed, and he began to mutter. “Unclean. Unclean. Forever unclean.”

Jehan continued his ministrations and Anselm slowly subsided back into his heavy sleep and the murmuring ceased. Finally the infirmarian placed the cloth back in its receptacle and straightened the covering over his patient. When he had done, he leaned back from the bed and heaved a deep sigh.

“Always he is thus. Continually speaking of something, or someone, that is ‘Unclean.’ It is clear that his mind is greatly disturbed but there is no way of determining the cause of his anguish,” Jehan said heavily.

Bascot let a few brief moments of silence pass before he urged the elderly monk back to his recollections of the times he had met Anselm. “You were telling me, Brother, of the second time you met Father Anselm.”

Jehan nodded his head, unwilling to distract his attention from his patient. “Yes, I was,” he said finally. “The next occasion that I was in his company was just a few weeks before he was attacked. The rash on his legs had reappeared, more virulently this time. I suggested he try an unguent that I prepare from a plant commonly called Bee-Bread, which is red clover. He thanked me for it and went away. I never saw him again.”

“And the second time he came, did he still seem distracted?”

“No, he was more… how shall I put it… intense. As though a great matter was on his mind. Because of that it seemed to me that his blood might be out of balance with the other humours in his body, possibly overheating. It is often the cause of an eruption on the skin. I suggested he go to a leech for bleeding, but he did not seem of a mind to take my advice. Barely paid it heed, in fact.”

“And you had no inkling of what was troubling him?”

Jehan shrugged. “I might be in error-that there was something amiss with him, I mean. Perhaps he had always been so. Or he may have been in the throes of an internal struggle with his conscience.” The infirmarian flicked a glance at Bascot. “You must be aware that many of us who take up the pledge to serve Christ often find the way long and hard. Thanks be to God that I have never found it so, but it is not uncommon.”

Bascot nodded his acknowledgement of the truth of the brother’s words, thinking of his own struggles as the infirmarian continued. “But I am not in a position to judge Anselm for I hardly knew him. Except…”

After a long pause, Bascot again had to prompt Jehan into speech and it was with reluctance that he explained the reason for his reticence. “What I am about to tell you is only hearsay, told to me by one of the more garrulous monks of our house. I know not of its veracity, or even if I should repeat it.” He smiled ruefully. “I berated the monk who told me, scolding him for the looseness of his tongue.”

“Unless the matter is pertinent to the attack on Anselm, or the murders in the alehouse, you have my assurance that it shall be kept between us two,” Bascot told him.

Jehan nodded. “Very well. It is only a small thing, but if it will help you in your quest, then it is my duty to relate it, I suppose.” He reached over and once more straightened Anselm’s cover before speaking. The stricken priest made no movement at his touch, still deep in senselessness. “It was said that Anselm was sent to Lincoln because some grave matter necessitated his removal from Canterbury. It was implied that he was in a disgrace of some sort, but for what, I do not know. The fact that he was wearing a hair shirt when he was stabbed is an indication that he was undergoing a heavy penance, but whether it was self-imposed or laid on him by his confessor… again, I do not know.”

Bascot thanked the infirmarian for his help, even though the information he had given brought little aid in discovering if the attack on Anselm was connected to the alehouse murders. Perhaps Bascot would never find the answers to the questions he was asking. If the priest died without regaining consciousness, it was quite possible his secrets would be taken with him into heaven.

Bascot ruminated on those secrets, if there were any, as he knocked on the door of the chamber that had been assigned to Lady Hilde.

The room was a small one, a narrow bed encircled with hangings set against one wall, a tiny clothespress and a low polished oak table. Hilde sat by the table in the one chair the chamber possessed. The elderly maidservant that had been in the hall was perched on a stool in the corner, sewing a rent in one of her mistress’ garments by the light of a thick candle. Beside her a straw pallet was neatly rolled, ready to be spread and used when her mistress should retire.

“You are well come, Templar,” Hilde said. “I have only a stool to offer for a seat, but there is a good wine I brought from home, if you will take a cup.”

Bascot accepted her offer and seated himself on the stool. The servant brought him wine. It was thin, but sweet, and he drank it gratefully, feeling its warmth drain some of the tiredness from his body.

“It is good, eh?” Hilde said, motioning for her servant to refill his cup. “It is made from damsons grown on the land left to Conal by his father. It is a small holding, but the soil is good and produces enough for the needs of the household.”

Conal’s great-aunt had discarded the close-fitting coif she had worn earlier that day, allowing her white hair to rest on her shoulder in one thick braid with only a light head-cloth for covering. She wore a loose gown of plain material, and no ornamentation of any kind. The open collar of the garment revealed her thin neck, the flesh softly wrinkled. But although her body seemed frail, there was still much strength of purpose in the straightness of her back and the gleam in her eyes.

Against the arm of her chair rested her cane, the silver raven’s head gleaming dully in the dim light. Hilde saw Bascot glance at it and smoothed the great beak with her finger. “This staff is all the wealth I have ever had. It belonged to my father, commissioned by him when a battle wound made walking difficult.” Her eyes misted at the remembrance. “My father had only two children, my brother and myself. My brother was a sickly youth, but gentle natured and I loved him. He lived just long enough to sire a son, Conal’s father Leif, before he died. And then Leif was taken too, leaving only one small boy to carry on our family name. The grief of his losses killed my father, and I vowed on his deathbed that I would look after Conal as he would have done if he had lived.”

She gave Bascot a direct look. “I have never married, Templar. I was neither comely enough nor had sufficient dower to interest any but the most niggardly of suitors. But I was never sorry, for I had Conal. And he has more than justified my love for him. I hope I will not fail him now.”

With her customary directness, she turned the conversation away from herself and to the reason she had asked Bascot to come to her chamber. “This is a sad business, Templar, and I hope it will be handled with dispatch. That is why I have asked you to come here tonight. Whoever killed those people, I am convinced-nay, I know-it was not Conal, nor Sybil. It seems to me that the quickest way to prove their innocence is to find out who is guilty. If the deed were done to pave a clear way to Philip de Kyme’s inheritance, then the killer has rid himself of both the base-born heir and Conal by his actions. I have a feeling that is where the search should be made, among those who will profit by these deaths, and I would like to offer you my assistance, if you will have it. I have lived near Lincoln all my life and have knowledge of most of the members of de Kyme’s family and their history. If you would be willing to tell me what evidence you have gathered, it may be that I can give you some insight into who would have the motive, and the opportunity, to have committed this cowardly act.”

Lady Hilde spoke, as she had in the hall, in a blunt fashion. Bascot considered her offer. She had a sharp mind, of that Bascot was sure, and she also had what he did not, knowledge of the background and character of each of the people involved. He was also confident that, apart from her conviction that Conal was innocent, she would give him what information she possessed in an unbiased manner, a pleasant prospect after the frustrating attempts at extracting details from the alewife and Isaac, the Jew. He signalled for his wine cup to be refilled and ruminated for a few moments before making a decision.

“I think your opinions might be useful, lady,” he said at last. “And a recounting of the facts that have been discovered thus far may assist me in marshalling my own thoughts into a more coherent order.” Taking a deep draught from his wine cup he then told her all that had happened since that morning just a scant few days before when he and Ernulf had gone to examine the bodies on the alehouse floor.

Lady Hilde heard him through without interruption as he told of his difficulties with Agnes, of Gianni finding the scrap of material in the alehouse yard and how he had become convinced that the bodies had been taken there in empty ale barrels and how, through Philip de Kyme’s secretarius, William Scothern, the identity of the two strangers had been determined. He also told her of his visit to Isaac and how he was convinced that all three of the victims had been somehow abducted while travelling along the Torksey road. Finally he told her of the attack on Father Anselm and his rather tenuous suspicion that it might somehow be linked to the alehouse murders and of the lies that had been told by the prostitute Gillie and of her subsequent disappearance along with Brunner, the stewe-holder.

As Bascot’s words came to a halt, Hilde picked up her cane and rose from her chair, waving away his offer of assistance and motioning for her maid, who had jumped up to help, to remain where she was. “I think better on my feet, poor creatures that they are. A few paces will suffice to order my mind.”

She trod slowly the short distance to the far end of the room and back, then stopped in front of Bascot. “You have met the nephew, Roger de Kyme?”

“This morning, lady. He had his son, Arthur, with him. There was also a cousin, Alan de Kyme, in the company.”

“A poxy crew, all of them,” Hilde said. “Roger more than most, along with that whey-faced son of his. Alan is little better. They all of them fawn on Philip to gain his favour and he, self-pitying wretch that he is, responds in kind, lapping up their commiserations for his sorrows as though they were sincere. I am sure either Roger or Alan would be more than capable of murder if they foresaw future benefits.”

She thought for a moment, standing motionless. “I believe that Roger is in debt to the Jews. And Alan could be also. They both have good reason for not wishing the promise of a wealthy inheritance to pass to another.”

“And if de Kyme should proclaim one of them his heir-it would be a collateral of enough strength to enable more to be borrowed,” Bascot said, agreeing with her reasoning. He had formed similar opinions himself that morning in de Kyme’s manor house. “Their whereabouts that day must be looked into.”

“Yes,” Hilde agreed, “but it could be they used hired minions. There are many such about Lincoln these days, just as there are in the rest of England.” She shook her head. “The lawful days of King Henry are long past. Since his death first Richard, and now John, have not kept the order that their father did.”

“I do not think underlings were used to commit these murders,” Bascot said thoughtfully. “If I am correct and the victims were taken-either with willingness or by coercion-on the Torksey road, then it must have been by someone who would not arouse the suspicions of the sheriff’s guard. Patrols are carried out regularly, and often. Anyone seeming to be on unlawful business would have been noticed by them and challenged.”

“Unless it was one of their servants, claiming to be on a legitimate errand for their master.”

Bascot shook his head. “Possibly, but secret murder is a dangerous undertaking to entrust to a servant. If caught they could implicate their master and, if successful, such knowledge could be used as a threat to gain preferential treatment.”

He paused for a moment. “There is also one aspect of this murder that has bothered me from the beginning. Why were the bodies taken into Lincoln and left in the alehouse? Surely it would have been far better to have left them in the greenwood. They may or may not have been discovered eventually, but the purpose of eliminating Sir Philip’s heir would have been accomplished. It speaks of a need for them to be found, and found quickly. But, if that is so, then why remove all identification from the corpses?”

Lady Hilde sat down, obviously tired from the long day and her few brief moments of pacing. After ruminating a space she said, “Your questions are the very same ones to which I gave much thought while I was waiting for you. There are two other persons besides Roger and Alan de Kyme who may hope to gain by these deaths. One is obvious, the other not.” She gave Bascot a challenging stare. “The first is Philip de Kyme himself,” she said.

“But it is he who has laid the charge against Conal and Lady Sybil,” Bascot protested.

“Yes. And what better way to rid yourself of an unwanted wife and stepson? Much quicker than trying to dissolve the marriage through a weak claim of consanguinity. Such a process can take years. If he has the prospect of another wife in mind, he might be in haste to formalize the marriage. Lust is a powerful goad, especially to a man who is past his prime.”

“But to kill his own son, illegitimate or not-well, at the very least, is it not a rather drastic method of obtaining freedom from a wife?”

“If the boy actually was his son,” Hilde replied shrewdly. “We have only his word for that, and it was a nebulous identification at best. That may, or may not, be the answer to your second question. From what you tell me, he claimed the boy to be his own through the recognition of a cheap silver brooch. And you yourself helped to confirm it by identifying the origin of the clothing worn by the dead young man and his companion. Is it not an easy matter to obtain some garments made in La Lune, then lure to Lincoln a simple peasant and his wife from some village well away from these parts, promising work or perhaps a small quantity of silver as an inducement? They are then abducted, poisoned and left to be found in a public place. And also stabbed after death. Poison is a woman’s weapon, the sword a man’s. The use of both points to both genders having a hand in the murders. De Kyme conveniently pretends grief, followed by rage, charging his wife and stepson with the slaying. He has accomplished his aim-to free himself of a barren wife and wed another on whom he may beget a son of his own loins.”

Bascot had to admit there was an element of possibility in her conjectures. “The secretarius, Scothern, would have to be privy to the matter, if that is what was done.”

“Not necessarily, Templar. You told me the letters were said to have been despatched with a retainer of de Kyme’s, then by ship, entrusted to the captain. The usual way for any missive not of great import. But the letters may never have been sent at all, and the secretarius could simply have been told that an answer had been received without actually seeing it arrive. Scothern may have done no more than pen the letters and read the ones that came in answer. He need have known nothing.”

“De Kyme is not literate. Someone else must have written the replies supposed to come from the boy’s mother.”

Lady Hilde shrugged. “Not very difficult to find a clerk in any town hereabouts to write a letter. He would not be interested in the contents, only his fee.”

Bascot pondered for a moment. “It could be as you say. I must find out if the boy that was killed was actually Hugo. If, indeed, such a person as Hugo ever existed.”

“A difficult task, Templar. The lands in Maine are in turmoil at the moment, what with our new king’s continental subjects rebelling at every turn. And did you not say that the last letter claimed that the boy’s mother was intending to embark on a pilgrimage? If the missives were falsified, this is a convenient ploy to cover her absence in La Lune. On the other hand, if the story is true, it is possible she may not be there to confirm or deny the truth of the matter.”

“Yes,” he said slowly, pondering. “Perhaps I can persuade the Templars to help. They have stations in nearly every large town in Christendom. I will ask the local master to send an enquiry on my behalf. To Compostella, if necessary. The Templar resources are large and efficient. If a deception has been carried out as to the boy’s identity, it may be that they will be able to discover it, or even prove that the dead boy was genuinely de Kyme’s son.”

“A slim hope, and one that will take some time to uncover, even with the Order’s help,” Hilde replied.

“You mentioned two suspects, Lady Hilde. Who is the other?”

Hilde took some time to answer. When she did, her response surprised Bascot. “The other is Hugh Bardolf,” she said.

At her companion’s look of disbelief, she added, “You are a newcomer here, Templar. I have known these people a long time. Bardolf is a greedy man, greedy for power. He has a daughter, Matilda, and is touting for a husband for her with all the voracity of a ribbon seller hawking a tray of shoddy goods. She is not an unattractive girl, but spiteful by nature and, rumour has it, not above giving her favours lightly. But her father is an ambitious man. Whether he is aware of his daughter’s unchaste behaviour I do not know, but even if he is, it would not deter him. He already has much land and wants more. De Kyme wants an heir and Matilda needs a husband. Bardolf would see such a match as a gift from God. And I do not think he would be averse to enlisting the devil’s aid in helping him to accomplish it.”

“It seems an extreme length to go to on the hope of a liaison that could only be a tenuous promise at best,” Bascot remarked.

“Ah, but is it, Templar? Has the fair Matilda already warmed de Kyme in his bed? That she is rumoured to have done the same with others might suggest that she has. And she is young, and of a good family, if not as high-placed as his own. She would be an ideal wife for de Kyme in her father’s eyes and I am sure Bardolf could be persuasive enough to make Philip see it that way. But he would need to be free of Sybil first.”

Bascot leaned back and drained the final dregs of wine in his cup. “You have given me much to think of, lady. And there is much that must be done, if I am to ascertain the whereabouts of all these people on the day the murders were committed.”

“If you are agreeable, Templar, I would like to aid you in this matter. I am not as mobile as you are, even with your injured leg, but I am privy to one place that you are not. The solar. Women love to prattle and so do their servants. Between myself and Freyda there”-she gestured to the maidservant-“we could glean much from any tongues that can be encouraged to wag.”

Bascot laughed despite himself. He could not imagine Lady Hilde engaging in cosy idle conversation with anyone. She was too intimidating. The old woman laughed with him. “I know your thoughts, Templar, but I can be amiable-if I wish. Will you accept my offer?”

Bascot told her he would and, as he bid her goodnight, found himself in a more hopeful frame of mind than he had been since the whole devil’s brew had begun.