The Chapel of Bones

Chapter Eleven

Udo had prepared himself as best he possibly could. He wore his finest linen shirt, with a crimson gipon over the top. This was the best he could find in Exeter, a tight-fitting, rather uncomfortable garment, but padded throughout. Over this he had his best cote-hardie, low-necked, with sleeves that ended at his elbows so that his gipon’s buttons (which extended all the way to his wrists on both arms, a hideously expensive and rather ridiculous fashion, so he felt) were displayed. At his throat and hems all was lined with beautifully soft squirrel fur, which complemented the pale russet colour of the cote-hardie itself. And then he had his new headgear, a blue felt hood with a long liripipe that curled about his head as though there was a snake resting there.

As he gazed at himself doubtfully in his mirror, he was forced to consider how much foolishness a man must endure to prove himself worthy of a young bride. Take this new idea of a hat with a liripipe. What on earth was the point of a length of material bound about the head like a moor’s turban? It served no useful purpose, other than persuading an idiot of a buyer that he should purchase at least double the length of material which was actually required to keep his head warm … and that was the whole point of a hat, wasn’t it? It was something to keep the chill off a man’s forehead and ears, when all was said and done. Perhaps the old King, Edward I, had been right when he had restricted the sort of clothing people could buy. There was little in the way of laws against what a man or woman could wear, but in his day there wasn’t much need. People knew what he liked and what he didn’t. He liked his men to be dressed soberly, with simple haircuts and no beards. Women he liked to see dressed modestly — until he got them into his chamber, no doubt — although Udo had heard that Edward I was not like most Monarchs in that he was devoted to his wife, and after her death he appeared to have little interest in other women.

Perhaps Udo would feel the same about his own dear wife. If he won her, that was.

The note from Julia had arrived the evening before, and he had read it three times before realising that there was a message hidden beneath the bald prose.

On the face of it, the note was a simple request to meet with Udo in order to discuss the sad matter of the saddle. Udo read that with some anger, for it seemed a bold comment after the way that Henry had treated him, with that bitter refusal even to consider the match of Udo with his daughter. It was an insult that the women should now decide to plead for his mercy, when he knew that Julia’s hand was to have been refused him. What did they take him for?

But then he had another thought and read it a fourth time. As he did so, his brow grew furrowed. And then he realised: Henry had died before he could go home and explain his angry words with Udo that afternoon! Suddenly the letter made sense. The women were desperate for a protector, and they now saw Udo as their only hope.

‘She knows of my affection for her,’ he told his reflection once more in the mirror. ‘She holds a regard for me, for otherwise she would not consider speaking to me after the death of her father. Surely his death has had an impact on her — she must possess a deep trust in me to have decided to ask me to attend to her.’

Perhaps, but then again the hard-headed man of business would keep reminding him that at the time of her father’s death, it was Udo who was threatening to destroy Henry’s business. He had said he might sue him, which could leave Henry’s widow and daughter with no means of personal support.

The two ideas: her love for him and his cynical suspicion that she only wanted to guarantee that she had a roof over her head, vied for his attention all the time that he completed his toilet, checked his reflection one last time, and walked along the roadway to her house.

Before knocking at the door, he took a diversion.

As he left his house he could smell the fresh bread from the bakers further up the road towards the Carfoix, where the four main roads met. The odour made him consider: he could scent beef from the pie-maker’s at Cook Row, and the odour of sweet almonds from the cakeshop where the still-warm cakes were being snatched up by all those who could reach them. Warm cakes were such a pleasure. Infinitely better than cold. They were a treat to be treasured, Udo thought, and suddenly he beamed. He’d buy some for the ladies. No woman could resist a warm tart filled with flavoured custard.

No sooner had he made his decision than he set off up the hill. Cook Row was at the top of Bolehille, and continued in a straight line towards the Carfoix. Here the shops were set up to display all their wares. Each morning the shutters were dropped from the great shop windows, some hinged down to rest on a trestle, or removed entirely and set out like a table just in front of the shop, in order that all their goods could be spread out to their best effect.

Udo bought a small pie and ate it as he eyed the merchandise in the road, but his mind was already made up. The shop he wanted was the small one halfway along the road with the door gaping; no window, just a wooden board with a rough painting of a cake on it hanging above, and a plain table made from two planks laid over a couple of barrels. A green sheet was spread somewhat lopsidedly over this, and on it were set out the finest cakes in Exeter. That was not Udo’s opinion alone. Already a small queue of people trailed from the doorway out into the street.

‘Small’ was hardly the word for this shop. In another street it would be called a stall, and that would be a compliment. Only five feet wide, it was always hard to get inside, because the customers filled it when Ham opened up. Luckily Ham knew Udo well, and winked when he caught sight of the German. He was a large, satisfied-looking, brown-haired fellow with arms like a labourer’s: massive, with short, square fingers. He had the sort of face that Udo associated with brewers — relaxed and comfortable. He knew his job inside out, and loved the work and the end result. Contentment radiated from him like warmth from the sun. Although he was busy, he bellowed to the back of the crowded shop for his apprentice, and soon Udo was collecting a selection of flavoured custard tarts and sweet dowcettes, flans filled with jellied fruits. With his purchases made, he nodded to Ham, who winked again and commanded a small boy to take the basket and carry it for Udo.

With the boy in tow, Udo set off down Cook Row and turned right, down the hill, towards Julia’s house.

It wasn’t far down that alley, he knew. The place was one of the larger shops, not like the cook’s, but at least twelve feet wide and a good fifteen deep. That was the difference between a cook and a saddler, he thought to himself. A saddler of Henry’s quality would always make good money, although it seemed as though Henry had not recently been quite so successful. Udo was adept at reading a man’s status in the city. It was a necessary skill for a foreigner, and to his eye, this place had been in need of maintenance for some little while.

The timbers had been limed, and the plaster covering the wattle and daub between the frames had been whitewashed, but that was plainly a long time ago. Now the building appeared to be in a state of disrepair. The whitewash hadn’t been renewed this year, and the timbers had darker patches where the damp had seeped beneath the lime. It was good oak, this wood, and would last many years, damp or no, but Udo knew that the appearance was all when it came to selling a property, and right now, this place was falling in value. It could hardly do anything else.

Udo felt certain, looking at the dilapidated building, that the women here must be delighted with his offer. He hardly need bother to honey his words. He was a man of wealth and status, and his desire to help them was untarnished with greed — it was based upon his desire for companionship, and the result would be a good education for his wife, and a home for her mother. Surely no impecunious women could turn down his generous offer — especially when she herself had asked him to come and visit her.

He glanced at the boy, who was eyeing the basket of cakes with more than mere professional interest, and then rapped sharply on the timbers with his stick before clipping the lad about the ear. ‘Keep your eyes and your fingers off those cakes, boy!’

Thomas had watched the men approach the Charnel Chapel. ‘Who’re they?’ he wondered.

Matthew was there with his roll and a reed. He glanced up from his calculations. ‘Hmm?’

Thomas pointed with his chin. ‘Them at the chapel. There’s the Dean and a couple of Chapter men, but who’s that knight?’

Matthew stared along the mess of the building site towards the little chapel. ‘Oh, him. He’s a friend of the Dean’s. When we had a murder here some little while ago, the Dean asked him to come and help discover the killer. I suppose he’s here for the same reason. That saddler’s still in the Charnel Chapel, you know. The Dean wouldn’t let us move the body until the Coroner had seen it.’ He sniffed distastefully. ‘I was surprised at that. Far better, I’d have thought, to bring the body out and store it somewhere else, and have the chapel reconsecrated. It is a great shame to have it polluted with shed blood in this way.’

‘Aye. Not pleasant for poor Henry Saddler, neither.’

‘You knew him?’ Matthew asked.

There was a sharpness in his tone which warned Thomas to be wary. ‘Who doesn’t get to know a man like him? He was famous for his workmanship, wasn’t he? It’s only a small city, when all’s said and done.’

‘I just wondered,’ Matthew said. ‘There was something about you …’

‘What?’ Thomas asked, feeling the ice settle at the pit of his stomach.

‘No, it’s nothing,’ Matthew said, but then he set his jaw. ‘It’s just that I had reason to hate him, you see. Henry was one of the men who attacked my master and killed him.’ He stared back at the chapel. ‘They nearly killed me too. So anyone would look on me as the murderer. I must be the clear candidate for guilt in their eyes.’

He faced Thomas once more, and the recognition which Thomas had feared for so long was in his eyes today. Yesterday there had been nothing, but now, Thomas knew, Matthew recalled him from all those years ago.

Thomas had fled this place, and when he returned, he knew that there was a risk that someone might have remembered him. He hadn’t thought that Matthew posed a risk, but poor wounded Nicholas had arrived here, and suddenly all Thomas’s careful attempts to disguise his voice and his features seemed pointless.

He had made it his task to ensure that he knew always when the friar was likely to be in the Cathedral Close, and then he avoided the place. He daren’t risk being seen by him, for Nick would be sure to denounce Thomas if he saw him. How could he not accuse him — the man who had so cruelly scarred him all those years ago and blighted his life?

Thomas found his eyes dragged back to the chapel. A man was hurrying away, and Thomas wondered where he was going in such a rush. That was the trouble with the body appearing there just as Nicholas returned to the city: it meant that men’s thoughts were once more on the evening nearly forty years ago, when the Chaunter was killed. It brought the events back to life, in some way. The fact of Henry’s body being discovered in the chapel had made Thomas’s life here dangerous. If he had a brain, he’d pack his tools tonight, and take to his heels. He’d always be able to find work, and he could maybe explain himself to the Master Mason. Robert de Cantebrigge was going to leave before long, to go and inspect another building site he was managing. Thomas could tell him that he was sick of this city and persuade his Master Mason to take him too, when he left. It would be the best answer.

Except he couldn’t. Beforehand he had had little feeling for this city. He’d been away too long to remember it with a child’s golden memory of delights and pleasures. Instead he had the one vision in his mind: his father’s body swaying in the breeze by the South Gate. That was no reason to remain here. Yet now he found he had another fetter that prevented his escape.

Sara. She had not yet recovered from the death of her husband and child, and Thomas felt a deep guilt that he hadn’t managed to ease her pain even slightly. He had given money, and he’d provided food, but that wasn’t enough. Whether he liked the fact or not, and in reality he hated it, he had a new responsibility in her. When he killed her husband, he caused the death of her son as well. Elias had died because he, like his mother, was desperate for food.

At least she still had the other son. Dan seemed a strong lad, from all Thomas had seen of him. Perhaps Dan would soon be able to find some form of work and help his mother. Then again, he might well leave her to her fate. Other boys did. And then what would happen to Sara? Thomas could guess all too easily. She’d a pleasing face and body, and if there was nothing else available, she would become just another member of the oldest profession.

Thomas didn’t want to see that. He wanted to make her smile again, give her back some self-respect and dignity. He would buy some more food with his money today and take it to her, he decided. It would be good to see her face light up at least for a short time.

It took a little while for Baldwin’s eyes to grow accustomed to the dim interior. ‘Dean, could you have a man bring me a lighted torch? It is very gloomy in here.’

While he waited, Baldwin studied the room with the door wide open. It felt like little more than a cell.

The body lay on the ground before him as soon as he had walked inside, and that fact gave him pause for thought. ‘Dean, do you know if anyone has touched the body? Could someone have moved it, for example?’

‘Not that I know of, no,’ the Dean replied. ‘Oh — ah — here’s a torch for you.’

Baldwin took the sputtering torch and held it aloft. Tutting, he called to the novice who had fetched the thing, and ordered him to hold it up while he investigated the man’s body.

Clearly he’d been stabbed in the back; there was no doubt of that. There was a neat tear in the material of his cloak and cote-hardie, and when Baldwin lifted the material and peered underneath, he could see the blood. Whoever had stabbed this man had managed to hit the right mark with the first blow: the blade had entered below the shoulderblade and must have punctured the heart at the first attempt. There was blood, but not much, and Baldwin was reminded of bodies he had seen before; when the heart was stabbed, often it would stop profuse bleeding, as though without the heart the body ceased to function.

Without moving the body, Baldwin studied the ground all about. There was dirt on the floor — hardly surprising given the amount of mud outside. No man could entirely clean his shoes before entering. Some of this now had formed dust, and Baldwin could see that there were the marks of many others. It would be impossible to tell which belonged to the killer or killers, and which had already lain there before this fellow had died. Then again, probably many Cathedral men had come in here to view the body. They too would be responsible for making their own prints. The dust couldn’t help him.

He crouched and studied the dirt nearer the body, wondering whether the man could have been killed elsewhere and brought here — an unlikely possibility, but Baldwin preferred to reject no idea until he had evidence to justify its dismissal. Studying the ground nearer the body, there was nothing other than the mess of footprints and scuffmarks.

Rising from all fours to squat, Baldwin sighed. There was no possibility of learning anything from this corpse. Too many men had been here over the last couple of days, probably first of all making sure that he was truly dead, more entering to gawp and speculate. He’d seen it all too often before at murder scenes; people couldn’t resist coming to see what had happened. All he could hope was that the man who found the body would be a more or less reliable witness. The body had been moved several times, probably, and Baldwin would like to know how the corpse had lain when it was first found. Looking at the way the man was lying now, he wondered if he had been like this, face down, feet pointing back to the door, head in the chapel itself.

Time, he thought, to study the dead man, and he rolled the body over.

He was perhaps six or seven years older than Baldwin himself, about sixty. His belly was proud proof of his wealth if nothing else. His stomach was well-rounded, and his jowls would have made a bloodhound jealous. For all his girth, he was not an unattractive fellow, from what Baldwin could see. Although his eyes had closed as though he was sleeping, Baldwin could see that his features were pleasingly regular and there were laughter lines at either eye, making him a cheerful companion. And yet there was also a set of wrinkles at the side of his mouth and at his forehead which spoke of recent worries. It was possible that Baldwin wouldn’t have seen these if he had studied the face in daylight, but here with the flickering yellow torch flame, the man’s face was thrown into stark relief. Clearly he had been worried about something before he died. Concern was etched onto his face like a pattern carved into leather.

Baldwin stood, staring down at the dead man. He glanced at the novice with the torch, a slightly green-faced youth who appeared to be gazing with fascination at a point on the wall some feet above Baldwin’s head.

‘Sir Baldwin?’ the Dean called. ‘Have you — er — discovered anything?’

Baldwin decided not to offer his observation that the man was certainly dead, and instead walked out to join the Dean.

‘He was definitely murdered. He could not have inflicted such a wound on himself with any ease.’

‘Of course he was murdered!’ snapped a voice.

The Dean gave the speaker a rather irritated look. ‘You — um — remember our Treasurer, Sir Baldwin? This is Stephen.’

‘I recall you well, Master Treasurer,’ Baldwin said smoothly. He hadn’t liked the Treasurer on the previous occasions they had met, and saw no reason to alter his opinion now.

‘Did you learn anything useful in there?’ Stephen demanded.

‘I should like to talk to the First Finder,’ Baldwin said after a moment. ‘What sort of a man is he? A stable sort? Intelligent, or prey to fancy?’

‘It was a fellow called Paul. I do not think that he is — um — prone to fancy, no, although I have to admit that he is new to his role as annuellar. Perhaps he could be a little … ah … unreliable? We are fortunate, however, because he called for help as soon as he found the body, and the man who — um — went to him was Janekyn Beyvyn, our porter from the Fissand Gate. He is not prey to dark imaginings. A more sensible fellow you could not — ah — hope to meet.’

‘I am glad.’

‘Do you think you can learn who actually committed this terrible crime, though?’ Stephen blurted out. ‘It’s revolting to think of that poor soul’s corpse in there waiting until the blasted Coroner can be bothered to make his way here. The man responsible should be made to pay for this dreadful abomination. To slaughter a man in a holy chapel! It beggars belief!’

‘I agree,’ Baldwin said, but he felt, as he looked at the men before him, that he could not and should not deceive them. He sighed. ‘Yet I fear that even were Simon Puttock with me, this matter could prove to be beyond our powers of investigation. There is nothing in there to show who might have killed him. Perhaps I can learn more from the man’s family. Was he married?’

‘Yes, with a daughter, I fear,’ Dean Alfred said.

Baldwin shook his head slowly. It was one of his constant fears that he would die too soon and not see his child Richalda grow to graceful maturity. All he hoped was that, should he die, she would at least hold fond memories of him. As would his widow. That thought suddenly sprang upon him, and he had a sense of complete loss, perhaps a recognition that he had already lost Jeanne’s love. The idea was appalling. ‘I …’

‘You are well, sir?’ the Dean asked solicitously. ‘You have blenched.’

‘I am fine,’ Baldwin stated firmly. ‘Very well, then I must speak to this novice and the porter you mentioned, and then, perhaps, you could have a man guide me to the widow?’

‘Of course.’

‘I sent a messenger to Tavistock to ask the good Abbot whether he could release Simon for a few days to help me here,’ Baldwin started tentatively. ‘I do not suppose you have heard anything from Abbot Champeaux about that? A messenger could have arrived here by now, I should have thought.’

‘No, I have heard nothing. Ahm — perhaps someone will come here later today?’ the Dean said hopefully.

‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said. He glanced at the chapel a last time and unaccountably felt a shiver pass down his spine.

A Charnel Chapel could hardly be thought of as a friendly, welcoming place: it was a storage area for those remains which would not naturally dissolve. The bones of many men and women lay inside there, under the ground, all higgledy-piggledy. It wasn’t surprising that the place should acquire a strange atmosphere all of its own. Of course Baldwin knew full well that he was not in the slightest fanciful, not like Simon; Baldwin was no romantic fool who heard ghosts and witches at every turn.

Yet he was aware of a curious shrinking sensation as he looked at the chapel, as though it was truly built upon death, and death would come here once more.