The Crediton Killings

21

On the ride back to Crediton, Baldwin was deep in thought. When they reached the top of the hill leading down to the town itself, Simon turned to face him.

“You said her sister could be in danger, Baldwin – but why? Why on earth should this bloody man want to kill all the women he has known in this town?”

“That’s not necessarily the way to look at it, Simon,” Baldwin said. He patted his horse, then irritably waved away the small swarm of flies he had disturbed before continuing, “This knight may not have harmed any of them. It is startling how clear the links are to Sir Hector, isn’t it? Two women die, and both were short-term lovers of this knight. Both times there happen to have been arguments or rows with him. Sarra at the inn had a shouting match with him, and was shortly after found in a chest in his very room; Judith bumped into him in the street, and got herself stabbed.”

“Yes, so there’s a clear link to him.”

“True, but then, if you reverse the perspective, who would benefit from these women being found and their attachment to Hector being discovered?”

“Nobody, surely?”

“I can think of several. The mercenaries themselves. Take Wat: he wants to get rid of his master; I think that is plain enough. Otherwise he would not have been so forthcoming about Sir Hector’s relationship with Judith.”

“Maybe he wanted to see justice done.”

Baldwin gave him a long, intense stare. “Justice done – Wat? I think you mistake him for a pleasant man, for a gentleman, Simon. He is not; he is a mercenary – a ruthless, dedicated killer and despoiler. A knight should fight for Christianity, for the greater glory of his name and reputation in this world and the next. He should defend the weak and unfortunate, showing courtesy and largesse. Have you noticed any of these attributes in Hector or his men – Wat, for example?”

“I’m sure they…”

With an uncharacteristic burst of anger, Baldwin reined in his horse. “Simon, don’t try to be their apologist. They are evil, nothing more. Men like them ride where they will, offering allegiance only to those who pay them, and no one else, but even that is only for as long as it suits them. They have no conception of honor or largesse; all they want is the next sum of money, and they are casual about how they receive it.”

“Calm yourself, Baldwin,” Simon said soothingly. “I accept that you understand more about such men than me; I’ve never come across them before.”

“My apologies, Simon. This whole affair is starting to make me smart, and like a bear baited at the pole, I turn on whoever I can reach.”

“When we came out today, you were thinking that the matter could be resolved by looking at the local situation. Surely that has worked, in the main? Now we have learned that the butcher’s wife was also known to Sir Hector. It seems fairly clear that he threw over Judith for her, and quite probably the same thing happened to Sarra when he met Mary Butcher again in town.”

“Yes. And now she too has disappeared,” Baldwin said grimly.

“She may not be dead, Baldwin. Think on this; if she was intelligent, as soon as she had heard about Sarra and Judith dying, she might have put two and two together. Maybe she’s run off to protect herself?”

“It is possible, certainly.”

“In terms of this whole affair, though, let’s just hope that Stapledon’s men catch the two thieves. At least they might be able to shed some light on the thing.”

Bishop Stapledon wandered out into the garden with Peter Clifford and expressed his delight at the mixture of plants. Peter, he knew, was very keen on his herbs and spices. Several plants he had arranged to be delivered from far afield.

Irises were among Peter’s favorites. As he explained – at some length – the plant was an almost perfect example of God’s bounty. The roots could be crushed for ink, the flower yielded a juice which could be used as a salve for teeth and gums, the leaves thatched for mats or patching roofs, and if it was needed for none of these purposes, the flowers were both beautiful and sweet-smelling.

The Bishop smiled and nodded as Peter led him round the garden, keen to avoid hurting his host’s feelings by letting his boredom show. Lilies and roses were pointed out to him – they filled a bed near the house – while further on, toward the orchard where the apple, pear, cherry and nut trees grew, was the herb garden. Rue, whose smell the Bishop cordially detested, flourished here, but there was also sage, chamomile, lavender and other attractively perfumed plants. After an hour, even the enthusiastic Peter began to observe the Bishop’s attention waning, and they walked over the lawn, full of daisies, violets, primroses and periwinkles to create an aromatic and attractive cover, to the shelter of an oak where there was a bench.

Here they found Margaret and Hugh. Edith was a short distance away, playing a game with Rollo which seemed to involve pulling flowers from the lawn. Hugh stood as the two approached, but the Bishop waved him back to his seat. “May we join you?”

“Of course, my lord.” Margaret moved along the bench and Hugh stood again resignedly and went to station himself behind her. From here he could see the children. Rollo had frozen at the sound of men’s voices, but seeing two men he recognized, and after a brief confirmatory glance at Hugh, he resumed his game. Hugh suspected he was so used to seeing the priest dispensing charity that he knew he had nothing to fear from men in holy garments.

The men sat, and Stapledon looked at Margaret. “I hope you do not mind me noticing it, but you look very refreshed. Are you feeling somewhat better?”

She could not hide her pleasure from him. “It is not just me,” she confided. “My husband was very sad over the death of our son, but he has almost recovered from it. These last weeks have been difficult, but I think we have got over our pain. Peter’s kindness has helped so much.”

The Bishop nodded gravely. “Your husband was extremely upset. I know how hard it can be. I suppose all of us in the Church are aware, for we see so many tiny coffins being interred, and death can strike the richest as well as the poorest in the land.”

“We shall have another son, God willing,” Margaret said.

“Yes.” Stapledon was watching Rollo. “That young fellow likes playing with your daughter.”

“Edith likes his company too. They are not so very different in age, and where we live she does not have many friends. It is pleasant for her to find someone with whom she can enjoy a game.”

“Yes,” he repeated, then frowned, lost in thought.

“Bishop? Bishop!”

Stapledon looked up, jerked back to the present, to see Roger running over the lawn. The Bishop forced down a sense of annoyance. At last he had begun to relax, and Roger’s bursting in on his pleasant mood of calm was vexing. By the time the rector had approached, however, the Bishop had managed to dispose of the exasperation and had regained his equanimity. “What is it, Roger? Is the house on fire?”

“No, sir. But a messenger has just arrived from Exeter. They have found and captured the two runaway mercenaries, sir, and are bringing them here.”

“Excellent!” said Peter, and rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. “Then we should soon be able to put this sorry affair behind us once and for all.”

“Yes,” said Stapledon, but again his eyes moved to the small figure only a few feet away. “Most of us will.”

When Simon and the others arrived back in Crediton, they were hot and dusty. The moisture on the road from the night’s downpour had splashed and spattered their legs on the way to Coleford, and red-brown splotches marked their hose and tunics. Returning, the dampness had been driven off by the sun, and instead of soggy droplets they had been assailed by a clinging mist of fine reddish powder which had risen as their horses’ hooves had disturbed the road. Now, looking at Baldwin, Simon could see that his hair had a wiry firmness, his face had darkened, with paler streaks where the sweat had run, and his tunic was, instead of white, a dull ochre at the shoulder and dark orange-brown at the hem. It made him look as if the color had run from the top down in a rainstorm, the bailiff thought with a grin, which faded when he looked at the state of his own hose.

The powdery dust had not only affected their clothing. Simon’s eyes felt as if they had gravel in them, and his throat was as sore as if he had swallowed a pint of sand. As they passed the inn, he croaked, “Let’s wash away a little of the road with some of Paul’s ale. His wife is a better brewer than Peter’s bottler.”

Baldwin nodded, and they were soon out in the yard behind, gripping quarts of ale.

Simon glanced round after taking a long pull at his drink. At another table were a group of soldiers from Sir Hector’s troop, all studiously avoiding the bailiff’s eye. He recognized none of them, and was about to turn away when he saw Wat.

The mercenary was standing out toward the back of the yard, near the stables, talking to someone Simon could hardly see. Only two boots protruded beyond the stable wall, and a hand which rose and fell in emphasis. Wat was staring with what looked like horrified fascination, occasionally shaking his head in quick denial or nodding in grave agreement.

“Baldwin,” Simon said, hiding his mouth behind his jug, “Wat is over there, in deep debate with someone, and it looks as if it’s a serious matter.”

“Eh?” Baldwin surreptitiously glanced over his shoulder. “I wonder what…”

Catching their eyes on him, the mercenary made a quick gesture to silence his accomplice. He was in two minds whether to speak to the Keeper immediately about this latest discovery, but he could not see how to avoid the unpleasant revelation. It would soon come out anyway, and he saw no way to gain more capital from it. Nothing he could do would reduce the impact of the news.

All of a sudden he felt tired, worn out from his recent planning and manipulations, from his devious trade-offs in the attempt to win the favors of the stronger elements of the troop. The stage had been set ever since Hector had failed in his bid to win a position with the King, for once his attempt to get a new contract had been summarily dismissed, it was obvious to all the others that his leadership was questionable. His fighting ability was never doubted, but the main responsibility was to find contracts and money for his men, and he had fallen short of their expectations. They could now see that he was ill-considered by recruiters. He had turned his allegiances once too often. Now even a King desperate for aid would not employ Sir Hector and his men.

They had discussed this, the men of the band, when they had been told of his lack of success. Some had wanted to keep him on, thinking that he could lead them back to France and a new role, but others were so thoroughly disgruntled with his organization and his reputation for losing contracts that they wanted a change.

It had been this which had prompted Wat to move, to test the water with his colleagues to see whether he could tip the balance and make them all lose their trust in Hector, but this was not how he had intended things to go. From the first, he would have preferred to save his company from any association with murder in England. It would be different if this was France, where killings were sanctioned with the full authority and severity of the power his group could wield, but in England they must live within the law without upsetting too many people, and the spate of murders was impossible for even the most incompetent and corrupt of officials to ignore. In Wat’s estimation, most officials were corrupt, but he was not sure if Baldwin was incompetent.

The Keeper’s dark eyes were fixed on him, gazing intently with that little frown Wat had come to recognize as curiosity, and Wat did not enjoy having the man’s attention for the second time that day. But he had little choice.

“Come with me.” Leading the way to their table, Wat gave a curt jerk of his thumb over his shoulder. “This man has found something you should see.”

“What?” Baldwin said, turning his face to the newcomer. This was another of the mercenaries, but not one he had spoken to as yet. The man named Will was short and very thickset, with a neck like a bull. His round face was pocked and scarred, and he wore a bristle over his jaw to show he shaved but rarely, but he was surprisingly well-spoken. He appeared to have hurt his right arm, for he had it supported in a simple sling, but Baldwin noticed he was stiff in his body too, and wondered whether he had been stabbed or wounded in some other way.

“Sir, I’ve found a body in the stable. A woman’s body.”

Baldwin and Simon stared, then leapt to their feet and pounded to the stable.

Simon was aware only of a kind of desperate yearning for the man to be wrong. He had seen too many deaths over the last week. Two dead women, both stabbed, both for little or no apparent reason, was as much as he felt he could cope with. For there to be yet another was incomprehensible.

As he entered, he slipped on the hard-packed earth of the stable floor, and nearly fell. The hay was stored on a raised floor, with the horses beneath in their stalls. To reach it they had to ascend a ladder. Simon waited while Baldwin, looking more tired than he had ever seen him, slowly went up after Wat and Will, and then Simon followed.

As he reached the top, there was a scurrying and skittering through the hay. Wat curled his lip. “Rats. They get everywhere.”

The hay lay all about in an untidy mess, intermingled with the clothing and accoutrements of the mercenaries, for those who could find little space in the hall were accustomed to the comfort and warmth that the hay could offer.

“I was just getting my gear ready for cleaning,” Will said in a choked voice; looking at him, Simon could see that he was as shocked as the bailiff himself. He stepped forward and pointed.

At first, all Simon could see was the paraphernalia of warfare. A short sword, a bundle of bolts for a crossbow, a stout leather cap and a chainmail habergeon lay in a bundle on top of a heavy blanket. Nearby was a cup lying on its side. The ale which it had contained had dribbled onto the hay, the beery smell intermingling with the wholesome scent of the dried fodder.

The cause of the man’s shock was right there in front of them. The blanket, which looked as though it performed the function of bedding for him, had been lifted at one corner and thrown aside. Beneath it, a hole had been scraped in the hay, and some crimson cloth was visible.

“When I sat down, it felt lumpy and uncomfortable, so I dug around. Then I felt something, and wondered what it was,” he explained. “I pulled at it, lifted the hay, and found… that.”

Baldwin knelt and gently eased the hay from the crimson dress. It lifted easily to reveal the body of a young woman. Her eyes were dim as they stared upward through a layer of dust from the hay. A thick coating of the same dust lay upon her, but when he touched the cloth, the tiny particles of grass and seed did not move, for in places the material was quite damp.

“I must have slept right next to her all night,” the mercenary said, with a stricken wonder in his voice.

“More than one night,” Baldwin remarked callously. “This woman has been dead some days.”

Simon met the soldier’s horrified gaze for a moment, and then the man was sick.

Paul brought their ale and stood with them as they stared down at the body. They had put her on the ladder and, using this as a stretcher, had carried her over to the hall. Baldwin had spent some time digging through the hay, but could find nothing else. There was no sign of who might have killed her.

“You are quite sure?”

The innkeeper threw Baldwin a testy glance. “She was my neighbor. Of course I’m sure! This is Mary Butcher, all right.”

“I had to ask. When did you last see her?”

“Oh, Monday, I think. She was outside when Sir Hector left, and they walked off together.”

Baldwin sighed and looked at Simon, “It seems fairly consistent.”

Simon nodded as the landlord walked out. “With Sir Hector having killed her? Yes. Just like the others.”

“The stab-wounds are the same as those which killed Judith. Two cuts in the back.”

“They’re the same as the ones that killed Sarra too. She had two wounds, didn’t she?”

“Yes, but she was stabbed in the chest; from the front.”

“That was because she was in the trunk.”

“Yes. The killer could merely open the lid and thrust down,” Baldwin commented, motioning with his fist, but then he stopped and stared down at the body again.

“Something wrong?”

“Hmm?” Baldwin shook his head. “No. I was just thinking: Judith and this woman were attacked from behind. I daresay the murderer put his hand over her mouth to stop her screams, and then…” His hands performed the actions as if rehearsing the sequence of events which led to her death. He let his hands drop and stared down at the body meditatively. “I wonder why that seems important to me?”

“What I don’t understand,” Simon said thoughtfully, “is who he was waiting for.”

“What?” Baldwin shot him a keen glance.

“The day when we saw him with Judith. We thought he was waiting for someone, and after today, I assumed it must be Mary; but she has been dead for some days.”

“Yes. Certainly she has been dead some time,” Baldwin mused. “Which does seem strange. Unless he was trying to establish an alibi – pretending to be waiting for her when he had killed her. Another thing, the rats were all over the loft, and yet there is hardly a mark on her.”

Simon raised his eyebrows, then peered at her. “You’re right. There’s hardly a mark on her – only at her fingers and toes.”

“I have never known rats to avoid fresh meat.” Baldwin pondered. “I would have expected more damage.”

“More to the point, though, is why on earth Sir Hector would have put her there at all.”

“It is incredible.”

“Incredible? Bizarre. The man has gone from hiding one corpse in a chest, leaving a second lying in an alley, and now he’s deposited this one under a thin layer of hay where his own men were sleeping. It’s bizarre, all right.”

“Yes,” Baldwin agreed, and turned his solemn eyes back to the woman before him. “She cannot have been there in the hay for long, though. Feel her dress – it is damp. She must have been moved to the stable some time after she died. Before that she was stored somewhere else.”

“Why is she damp?” Simon asked as he gingerly touched the cloth.

“It was raining last night. Heavily. Surely it is not difficult to conclude that she had been secreted away somewhere else, and was then moved to her new hiding place last night during the storm.” Even as the knight spoke his eyes were moving over her body, seeking any further hints as to how she came by her death. She would have been an attractive woman in life, he thought. Slim and well-formed, with large blue eyes and thick brown hair. Her wrists were tiny, and her ankles too, and she had a waist so slender he could have encompassed it with both hands. On her front there was no mark, but for the nibbles of the rats at her fingers and toes. Her back too showed little mark, but they could see where the cloth of her dress had been sliced by the blade which had killed her.

He sighed. It was incomprehensible that someone should snuff out the life of such a dainty young woman. Still more so that this should be merely the third in a sequence.

“Where else could she have been stored?”

“When we know that, Simon, we shall know who killed her, and why!”

“Do you think he will confess?” Simon ignored the other’s brief display of irascibility, and dropped onto a seat. Leaning forward, he studied Mary Butcher.

“I see no reason why he should. Do we have any proof that he was the murderer? All we know is that he was seen with her before she died. It is a tenuous link to this corpse. By the same token, almost anyone could be accused of the murder.”

“Maybe so, but surely we have to arrest him. What if it was him, and he goes on to kill others? He’s killed three already; we can’t take the risk he might kill a fourth.”

“Can’t you?”

Simon whirled round. Sir Hector had entered the hall from behind them, taking even Edgar by surprise. The soldier walked slowly and deliberately over to them, his hand resting on his sword, but not in a threatening way. He scarcely glanced at them, but went to the table on which Mary Butcher rested, standing by her and looking down at her with what Simon could only think was sadness.

“Poor Mary. Poor unhappy, dissatisfied Mary,” he murmured, then faced Baldwin. “I did not do this. I could not have dreamed of hurting her. She was my love, the woman I wanted to take with me.”

“She was having an affair with you.” There was no need to ask it as a question; Baldwin stated it as a fact.

“We met years ago,” the captain agreed. “I wanted her to join me then, but she wouldn’t. She knew little about a mercenary’s life, but Mary always enjoyed her comforts. She liked being able to get the choicest cloths, the finest skins and furs, and I would have given her plenty of these things, but she could have them here too, from her husband, without the risks of losing me through fighting, without her needing to travel constantly, without the fear of being hunted by enemies, without constantly wondering whether the allies of the day would turn on us tomorrow and become our foes.”

“She would not go with you.”

“No.” It was said with blank finality.

“So why come back here?”

The captain turned his disconcerting gray eyes onto Baldwin. “Because I have thought about her every day for the last few years. Because I missed her, and wanted her, ever since I last saw her. Because I felt I had lost a part of me since I left her behind. I had to exorcise her from my soul, and I thought if I were to see her again, I might be cured.”

“So that is why you came this way after being refused a contract with the King?”

“Yes. I thought I might have got over her, and even took the servant-girl to divert me… But it was no good. A servant is no more than that, merely a servant. What I wanted was here, in Mary.”

Baldwin nodded, inwardly wondering how a man could take one woman to try to forget another. And if he could, Baldwin reasoned, would it be so great a step to kill the one who could not match the expectation?

His visage must have betrayed his doubt. The mercenary curled his lip. “You think I would simply have murdered the tavern slut for not being Mary? She was nothing to me! I kill those who harm or threaten me, those who thwart or betray me – the wench did not deserve to die for not being the woman I desired. And I certainly could never have killed my poor Mary, whatever she had done. I loved her with all my heart.”

“When did you last see her?”

“On Monday night. Her servants, and her husband’s apprentice knew I was there, but they didn’t care. They watched me enter her chamber, and they saw me leave in the morning. They all felt I was better for her than her husband.”

Simon doubted that. Any number of servants could be relied on to keep their silence if talking might involve annoying a mercenary captain.

“You are sure that was the last time you saw her?” pressed Baldwin.

“Yes. I tried to many other times… You saw me on one occasion, in the town. I was waiting for her then, that was why I was so irritated by that other slut.”

“Judith?” Baldwin asked.

“Was that her name? The beggar.”

“Did you recall her?”

“Recall her?” Hector’s face showed no emotion, but Simon saw that he had paled.

“Yes, Sir Hector: recall her. She was the woman you took when you last came to Crediton, wasn’t she? Before you met Mary.”

“I… I don’t think so.” He licked his suddenly dry lips.

“You had forgotten her? The woman whom you had enjoyed for a night or more, but whom you evicted from your side once you had met Mary for the first time.”

“No. I… No.”

“And then there is her son, of course. Born a little while later.”

“No!” The captain’s features had paled to wax-like translucency, and he picked at his lower lip as if in an attempt at memory.

“Was he your son?” Baldwin threw out the question swiftly and harshly.

“No, he can’t have been.” The anguish in the captain’s voice was almost tangible.

“I wonder. In any case, Sir Hector, I think I have more than enough reason to suspect you for the murder of these women.”

“Why would I have killed them? What reason could I have had?”

“The first because she stole, you thought, a new dress bought for your lover, the second because she shamed you in the street, telling you she had borne your son.” Baldwin watched the captain narrowly as he guessed at this, and was satisfied to see the dart strike home. Sir Hector flinched. “And then Mary, I assume, because she refused to leave her home and her husband to run away with you.”

“No, that’s not it at all. It’s all wrong, completely wrong.”

“She wouldn’t go with you, would she?”

“If that was all, I’d have killed him, not her! It had nothing to do with…”

“She wouldn’t go away with you, so you decided to kill her instead. You decided that if you couldn’t have her, nobody else would either. Even her husband.”

“That’s nonsense. Why should I do that? I couldn’t have hurt her, not my Mary. I loved her.”

“Yes,” Baldwin said, resting himself against the table and crossing his arms. “But I have to wonder what that word means to you. You are a soldier, Sir Hector. You are used to taking what you want. You wanted Mary Butcher – and you took her. You had no thought for her husband, her reputation, or for anything else. You wanted her, so you had her.”

“That’s a lie!”

“Is it? Do you really understand what the truth is, I wonder? Your whole life is a series of thefts. You agree terms with a lord or baron, and then ravage a whole area. You take what you want – isn’t that how your band survives? And then you come here and try to carry on the same way. A woman here, a woman there. Sarra, and Judith, and Mary. All of them were yours until you became bored with them. And then you killed them. All of them, all stabbed twice, all killed the same way.”

“Even Mary?” His voice had fallen to an awed horror.

“Even Mary,” Baldwin agreed mercilessly. “You killed them all, didn’t you? Why did you do it?”

Simon watched as the two men confronted each other. Sir Baldwin seemed to grow in stature as he spoke. It was as if he was trying to convince himself that he did not truly believe his own words, that the concept of such hideous crimes was so awful that he could not credit anyone with the ability to commit them. His face was hard with a kind of desperate urgency, like a man who wanted to be proved wrong, but who was convinced nonetheless that his worst imaginings were shortly to be confirmed.

But while they spoke, Baldwin found himself becoming more sympathetic to the captain. It was not that the Keeper was gullible, or that he was prepared to condone the mercenary’s life, but the man appeared to shrink even as Baldwin, alive with a new strength, invigorated with his disgust and revulsion at the crimes, railed at him.

To Simon, Sir Hector looked as if he was shrivelling in on himself, reducing to the scale of one of the hill farmers whom the bailiff saw every week; old beyond his years, worn and ravaged by cares and ill-health. Simon nodded. There was all too often no way to prove who might have committed a particular crime, but in this case he was convinced that he and his friend had caught the correct man, and it gave him a fierce pleasure to see the effect of Baldwin’s words.

There was something in Sir Hector’s haggard visage which made Baldwin study him hard as he spoke. Something about the man’s manner made his voice soften a little. It was not the immediate sympathy which a man felt for another accused of heinous offences, for the Keeper had become hardened to seeing criminals suddenly realize the degree of their crimes as their doom approached. It had often occurred to Baldwin that nothing was better capable of assisting a poor memory and inducing contrition than a rope. But if his sensitivity had become blunted after years of prosecutions, his empathy remained, and with this captain, he was sure that there were signs of his pain.

That itself was no proof of innocence. Baldwin had known of cases where men had killed women they loved: from jealousy, from sudden rage, from any number of reasons. All had expressed their shame, and appeared honestly devastated by their actions. It was not rare. But as he mentioned the name of the latest victim, he was assailed by doubts. The captain stood, head bowed, shoulders sagging, and hands limp by his sides, the very picture of misery. This was not the arrogant warrior-lord, ready to quarrel with anyone, and to back up his argument with the point of his sword; this was a man who had lost everything he held dear. His life, his posture suggested, was at an end. There was nothing more for him.

Baldwin ground to a halt and viewed Sir Hector pensively, his head on one side. The captain made no gesture, spoke no word of denial, gave no statement of outraged innocence, and suddenly the knight was doubtful. His mind ran through the evidence, and he was forced to admit to himself that the only links which connected the captain to the dead women were tenuous.

“Sir Hector, you are free for now, but I demand that you do not leave this inn. I will speak to your men, and make sure that they do not abet you in an escape, but I see no reason to lock you in a cell. You may remain here.”

The man nodded, and walked away, through to the solar, and Baldwin’s keen stare followed him until the door had shut. “Edgar. Fetch me Wat, and the man Will who found this woman today.”