The Crediton Killings

11

Paul was in the yard when they got out, serving three travellers, who sat eyeing the mercenaries with such trepidation they reminded Baldwin of rabbits watching a crouching fox. Hugh and Edgar joined them by the door to the hall, and as the innkeeper passed by on the way to his buttery, Baldwin stood in his path. “Paul, do you mind if we go and take a look round Sarra’s room?” Taking his shrug for agreement, the knight led the way. They climbed the staircase to her door and tried the handle. It opened.

“I can see why she would prefer to get herself married” Baldwin observed.

It was a sparsely furnished little room. A palliasse lay on the floor to the right for her mattress, and a table held her few belongings. Some tunics and an apron were hooked over pegs in the timber frame of the building, but one lay as if kicked aside on the floor, and a belt rested on the bed itself.

“She must have changed into the blue tunic here,” Baldwin murmured. “But where did she get it?”

“Baldwin, are you beginning to think that Cole didn’t kill her?” Simon asked.

The knight waved a hand, vaguely encompassing the inn. “I don’t know what to think. That lad Cole seems pleasant, while the two who caught him are… well, I would be happier not to have to rely on them myself. The girl could have upset them: if Henry had overheard her telling his master that he was about to try to depose him as leader, he might have lost his temper and knocked her out, put her in the chest, and then killed her, although it hardly seems likely. Why put her in the chest in the first place? Why not kill her outright?”

“Perhaps he was going to do so, but got interrupted? Someone arrived, so he had to stuff the girl into the chest and came back later to kill her.”

“No.” Baldwin dropped on to the palliasse and stared round the room. “That can’t be it. If he was in such a hurry to hide her away, how could he find time to bind and gag her? It makes no sense!”

He opened the door and peered round cautiously. There was an odd feeling of anticipation as he went in, as if he expected her to hurl herself at him and attack. But she couldn’t – not now. Still, the dream would keep coming back, and even while he was awake the memory of it lurched around in his mind like a heavy rock which occasionally bludgeoned other thoughts out of the way.

That night he had rubbed down his horse after his journey and stretched, making his muscles strain taut as he tried to ease the tension in his neck and shoulders. It was late, and he hadn’t wanted to wake his staff.

Shutting the stable door quietly, he had made his way over the yard to the hall, but had then hesitated. Before bed, he had reasoned, a last drink would be a comfort, and he had gone through to the buttery. A cask had already been broached and, filling a pot with ale, he had tipped it up to finish the last drop before opening the door and emptying his bladder onto the packed earth of his yard. Tugging his tunic back into position with a tired shrug, he had been unable to stop another yawn before going to his bedchamber.

The building was old, and he must go through the hall to get to the bedroom in the small solar block beyond. Stepping quietly, he had avoided waking the men sleeping on either side. The door beyond opened silently.

He was strong and known to be bold, but the sight that met his eyes made him stand stock-still in horror.

The fire was dying, and only offered a dull orange glow to light the betrayal. She had not bothered to pull the bedclothes back to cover herself, and her inelegantly sprawled body gleamed with a silken sheen, while beside her the figure grunted and snored in his sleep like a hog after truffles.

Standing in the doorway and staring at the two figures, his mind had worked with a fresh clarity. He could have bellowed, calling for his men to hold the man while he whipped the adulterous bitch, but they must already know of the treachery, for this libertine could only have got in through the hall, and he must surely have been seen by one or more of the servants.

No, he had thought: there was a better way to punish her. And him.

None of the servants had woken. Closing the door with care, stiff with the dread of being heard, he had made his way from the room and out to the stable. Nobody had expected him, and no one had seen him. He would ride away, and return tomorrow as if nothing had happened; no one would be any the wiser. And he could begin his revenge by agreeing to the plan proposed that evening.

He had calmed the tired beast, speaking low to soothe it, thrown the blanket over and tightened the girth straps, but his actions were mechanical, his mind back in the bedchamber. She was his. And someone else had stolen her. They must both pay – one for the dishonor, one for the theft of his woman.

And now they were going to pay, he smirked, drawing the dagger and resting the metal against his cheek. The blade sat against his belly while sheathed, and it was warm; just as it had been when he had pulled it free of her body.

Henry strolled out into the yard and walked to a table far from the inn’s hall, where he could see the door. After a few minutes, John left the stables and, seeing his friend, sauntered over to join him.

The other men of the band were inside, mostly dozing after eating and drinking too much of Margery’s strong ale, and this was the first time the two had been alone since their questioning about the robbery and murder. Henry found himself eyeing his companion suspiciously.

“Has anyone been talking to you?” he asked.

“Me? No – why? Someone been bending your ear?”

“No,” Henry muttered, and glanced at the hall again. “But Sir Hector has been very quiet toward me. I keep seeing him staring at me when he thinks I won’t notice. And I saw him talking to old Wat.”

“That cruddy old bastard! He should have kept his trap shut.”

“Yes, but he didn’t. He shot his mouth off to the bailiff’s man, and the Keeper will soon know what the old fool thinks.”

“All he can say is that we sometimes fleece recruits.”

“You sure?”

“Look, nobody saw anything. If they had, we’d know.”

“Oh yes? How many times have we seen the captain negotiating with others who thought they were winning, only to find he’d changed sides? You know as well as I do he’s able to hide his thoughts.”

“Yes,” John said, and stared gloomily at the inn. “What do you think, then?”

“No one knows we got the silver. I reckon we ought to get away while we can.”

“Get away?” There was an unmistakable note of horror in his voice.

Henry hunched his shoulders grimly, his mouth set into a determined gash. “What else can we do? The plate is hidden well enough, but it could be found. And if anyone guesses that we had a part in the theft, they’ll know who to blame for the murder.”

“I suppose so,” John muttered, avoiding his gaze.

Henry glanced round. Their flight would be easier if both left together. Two men could keep a lookout for pursuit more easily than one alone. He nodded, leaning closer to his friend, and they began to plan how they would make good their escape.

Baldwin was thinking of rags. They had finished their meal which, because today was Wednesday and therefore a fast day, was fish. Peter was known for the quality of his board, and Baldwin was pleased to see that he had stocked up well in anticipation of the Bishop’s visit. The larder and pantry were full, and the stew pond out at the back of the garden was full of pike and bream.

He turned the patch of material over in his hands, and then cast a glance at Margaret. “What do you think of this?”

“Hmm? Oh. What is it?” she asked, and took it from him, nearly dropping it when he told her where it came from.

“Don’t worry! She did not die of a contagion that can be passed to you by the cloth, unless metal contains its own poison. No, I was merely wondering what you thought of the material.”

Margaret weighed it in her hand. “It’s very good. The warp and weft are very fine and even, and the color is bright and fresh. I have no idea what could have created such an excellent dye.”

“Could it have been produced locally?”

Margaret gave him a feeble smile. She knew that the knight had no interest in cloth or materials, even though they were so important to the town. Anybody else living in Crediton, could have given the price, and told who produced the fabric and who stitched it together. Some would claim to know almost which sheep the hair came from. “Take it to Tanner. He will be able to tell you where it came from. Why, does it matter?”

“Perhaps not, but I would like to know where it came from,” Baldwin said, taking it back and giving it a cursory look before shoving it into his purse again.

Stapledon needed Roger’s help that afternoon, so the others left without him. When they reached the jail, the Constable was sitting on a stool in the doorway, a wide-brimmed straw hat on his head and jug of cool ale by his side.

As soon as he was away from his wife, Baldwin saw that the bailiff recovered a little of his evenness of temper, and the observation worried him. In his experience, when a man had a devastating loss, he turned to those in whom he could trust. In Baldwin’s terms that meant his man-at-arms, Edgar, who had been with him for so many years he was a close friend as well as a servant. Other similarly destitute Knights Templar had helped him to survive after the fall of the Order, giving him the aid he had needed, until he had been able to overcome his initial sense of despair; and his cure had been made complete once he had caught the man who had been responsible. In his case, he had been able to forget his grief once he had avenged his companions. With Simon, he feared there could be no similar cure. The bailiff had no enemy to catch, for it was a disease which had stolen his child. It was hard to imagine how he could find peace when he would not talk to his wife and try to make sense of their life.

Frustration at his inability to help his friend made him irritable, and when he recognized the snuffling sound as being the snores of the Constable, his anger flared. Kicking the chair, he sent Tanner sprawling.

“You are supposed to be guarding Cole, not sleeping, oaf!”

Blinking, and stifling a yawn, the Constable set his stool upright and grinned apologetically. He was surprised by the knight’s mood, having always found him even-tempered in the past. “My apologies, sir. I just dozed a little.”

“Never mind that. How is he?”

“I gave him some food for lunch, and he looked fine. It’s good and cool in the cell at this time of year; I expect he’s more comfortable than you.”

The knight had to agree with that. Overhead the sun felt as hot as a charcoal brazier, and under his tunic and shirt he could feel the sweat slowly dribbling downward. He tugged the patch of cloth from his purse. “Have you seen anything like this before?”

Tanner was a massive block of a man, tall and broad, with a face that reminded Baldwin of the wrinkled bark of an ancient oak tree. His mouth was a thin line in his face, and the lips always seemed to be pursed in disapproval, but the brown eyes were quick to smile and held a kindly light. Now he took the piece from the knight and studied it. “This is good quality cloth,” he said tugging at it and pulling free a thread, rolling it meditatively between his fingers. “And a good color, too.”

“It’s from the dead girl’s tunic,” Baldwin said, and the constable frowned at it.

“You want to know where it might have come from? There’s only one place I can think of round here, and that’s Harry Fletcher. All the women go to him. He has the best dyes usually, but I’ve never seen anything this good even from him.”

“I know his place,” Edgar said without thinking.

His master turned slowly and stared at him. Under the astonished gaze, Edgar reddened. “Perhaps you would like to lead the way, then,” said Baldwin suavely.

The shop was little more than a narrow shed, out toward the eastern end of the town, and Baldwin realized he must have passed it often, but he rarely took notice of this part of the road. He only went along it when he was on his way to Exeter, and when he returned he usually had other things on his mind, such as how he would survive the remaining miles to Furnshill.

Edgar stood a short way back, and Baldwin looked at him, intrigued. A brief glance was enough to show him that this shop was not the sort to provide a servant with the clothing he would require. Cloths of many types were displayed on the trestle table on the street, but almost all were brightly colored, and the other items for sale were designed to attract women – nets for hair, wimples, ribbons and flower-embroidered kirtles. Edgar had apparently developed a fascination in a heavy rounsey on the other side of the road. Charitably, Baldwin preferred to assume that his servant was interested in the intricately carved leatherwork of the saddle, or the gleaming blue-black coat of the heavy horse, than simply avoiding his eye.

The owner was a short, dumpy man in his late twenties. He wore a constant smile, and his twinkling blue eyes, Baldwin was sure, increased his trade significantly. They appeared to flatter and invite confidence, and the knight could well understand how Harry Fletcher managed to tempt the women of the town into his little emporium.

It appeared that he viewed himself to be the best advertisement for his goods. His tunic was voluminous, reaching down almost to his knees, and was of good quality velvet. On his head was a fine woollen coif, tied under his chin, and the cowl hanging down the back of his neck had fur lining and a long point. It matched his boots, which had the fashionable lengthened toes which were now so popular.

For all his chubbiness, the man had remarkably nimble fingers, long and narrow, and as he spoke, he toyed with the measuring string which dangled from his neck, pulling and squeezing the knots which he used for measuring like a woman playing with the beads of her necklace.

“Sir Baldwin, Godspeed. Hello, Edgar. How can I help you both?” Fletcher asked, his voice at its most servile as he looked from one to the other. “Is it something rare you are…”

“Just listen to my master and answer his questions,” Edgar interjected, and Baldwin decided that henceforth he would take more interest in any illegitimate children in the area. It appeared likely that he might be able to find their father not too far from his own home.

Baldwin enjoyed the amused surprise on the man’s face and the urgent flush on Edgar’s before smiling and saying, “You must have heard of the death of the girl at the inn?”

“Poor Sarra? Oh, yes. Very sad. A great shame. Such a nice girl, I always thought.”

“Did you see her often?”

The bright eyes dimmed a little. His eyelids had drooped, and Baldwin could see that he was assessing whether he was in any danger. It was all too common for an innocent man to be put on trial, and with ill-educated people on juries, many assumed a man accused must be guilty. It was better to be careful and ensure one was not arrested in the first place. Fletcher considered, and said, “Only occasionally.”

“She came here for her clothing?”

“Sometimes.”

“I do not think you had anything to do with her death, but I wanted to know whether she bought any of this from you recently.” Baldwin passed over the fragment of material.

“This?” Fletcher smiled and shook his head incisively. “Definitely not. Have you any idea how much this costs? No, Sarra, when she came here, mainly came just to look. She never had any money, and she already had a couple of tunics anyway. Why would she spend good money to get another? She wasn’t a lady of importance.”

The man’s casual attitude toward the girl’s death irritated the knight, and his voice took on an abrasive edge. “She may not have been a ”lady of importance,“ as you put it, but she did not deserve to be murdered, either. Is there anyone else in Crediton who might have sold her cloth like this – or a tunic made from this cloth?”

“No, sir. There is nobody else in the town who could have sold such material. I had it brought here all the way from Lincoln. It is too fine for the weavers here, no matter what they say, and look at the color! Could anybody think it could be produced here? Cloth like this is only made by the Flemings, and you have to search even among them for this quality if…”

“Yes, yes, yes. All right, you have made your point. In that case, who have you sold cloth like this to? How could Sarra have got hold of a tunic like this?”

“I don’t know how she got it, but I have sold one tunic. To Sir Hector, who’s staying at the inn.”

“Did he say whom it was for?”

“No, sir. Perhaps he bought it for Sarra. I understand he liked her.”

“Where did you hear that?”

The shopkeeper’s smile broadened. “Here. I have many women come here for their wimples and so on, and as soon as Sir Hector and his men arrived, the gossip increased tenfold. Everyone knows how taken he was with poor Sarra at first – until they had their quarrel, anyway.”

“What quarrel?” Baldwin was not keen on inane chatter, but he knew how sometimes elements of the truth could intrude even into the malicious chitchat of an alewife.

“Sir Hector, on the day before she died, suddenly threw Sarra out and ordered her not to bother him again. He had lost interest in her.”

“Who told you this?”

“A friend of Margery – that is, Paul the innkeeper’s wife. She heard him shouting at Sarra. He said he had found a real woman, and didn’t need a cheap tavern slut any more.”

“Who did he mean?”

“Who knows? Perhaps you should ask him…”