The Crediton Killings

23

Margaret had not felt so happy for weeks. Simon appeared to be getting over the shock of poor Peterkin’s death, and the return to Crediton after so many months up in the bleak countryside of the moors seemed to have done him good. She preferred not to consider how much of his returned color was due to the excitement of having another murder, or series of deaths, to investigate. It was more comforting to ignore that side of his nature, even though she was fully aware how much he enjoyed being involved in such enquiries. He was almost another man when there was a serious affair to be tried and justice to be sought.

There was no doubt in her mind: he was improved. It was there in the way he smiled at her again – he had stopped doing that after Peterkin’s death. In some way she knew that a part of this was due to the boy.

Rollo and Edith were playing together, their heads so close that they looked like a single creature. Every so often the boy threw a glance over his shoulder to make sure that Roger had not left him. Sitting on a low log which had been cut from an oak and was waiting to be separated into pieces for the fire, they looked like two small, and grubby, angels. The sun shone through their hair, making it flame into reddish halos with iridescent fringes; all they lacked was wings.

The poor boy, she thought, had little chance in life. Orphans like him were all too often without hope, relying on the charity of the parish for survival. Even the most basic requirements for life were often refused to a lad with no family. Others reasoned, with cause, that the cost of an extra mouth represented in food was not worth the possible reward later. Those who could afford to look after such a waif preferred to give their money to institutions for the general good rather than dissipating their efforts in looking after a single person who was likely, in any case, to die. What was the point of seeing to the worldly needs of a single child, when the same money could go to a church or abbey where the monks would be able to say prayers which would protect the souls of hundreds or thousands?

She mulled over this dilemma as she watched them constructing daisy chains, Edith giggling to herself while the boy seriously threaded one stalk through the next. Children should be protected and looked after, like any precious goods, but their value was regularly ignored. When a villein’s family suffered a lack of food, it was all too often the children who must do without, for their father needed the sustenance to be able to work his land and produce food for the future. Sometimes mothers would starve themselves in an effort to keep their children alive, but this was frowned upon. If the children could not survive, such was God’s will, whereas the mother should keep herself fit to look after the others and in order to be able to produce more. There was no sense in her killing herself to look after those who were unproductive.

Margaret knew it was sensible, but she did not like it. It would be impossible for her to watch her Edith die for want of food, for the young life possessed by her daughter was more precious to her than her own. The view that only adult life mattered because it was productive was incomprehensible to her.

Yet she did not want to have this extra little life attached to hers. It was difficult enough knowing that she had failed her husband by not producing the heir he needed so desperately to take the family forward, without accepting defeat by inviting a cuckoo into her nest. She knew of many families who were apparently plagued, like them, with an incapacity to breed their own boys. They were able to produce strong herds of cattle and flocks of sheep, their dogs and cats multiplied easily, and yet all too often there was this fundamental weakness: no sons to carry on the family name.

Rollo was a likable boy, and Edith thought he was the perfect playmate, but Margaret could not take him into her family. She would always be expecting him to meet her own exacting standards, and if he failed, she might lose her temper and remind him he was motherless. In any event, if she were later, as she hoped and prayed, to be able to conceive and bear a son for Simon, he must feel deserted again. The cuckoo would be supplanted.

“May I join you?”

“Of course,” she smiled, and patted the bench beside her. Stapledon dropped gratefully on to the log, and studied the children with interest.

“They appear to get on very well together,” he mused.

“Yes. It is nice for Edith to have a child of her own age to play with. I think she was bored before.”

“How is he?”

“He obviously isn’t over it, I would hardly expect him to be, but he seems calm enough so long as someone is with him. It’s when he’s alone that the fear comes to him again.”

“Yes.” Stapledon gave a grimace. “One shudders to think of what he saw. It would be enough to break the mind of many.”

“He’s young; youth often helps. There is a resilience in children which we adults often lack,” she said indulgently.

“Perhaps. But I cannot help but wonder what may become of him.”

In the pit of her stomach she felt the trembling nervousness. She dared not look at him, fearing that her eyes would give away her innermost thoughts. “Er… No, neither can I,” she said.

“It would be best for him to be looked after in a family, I suppose.”

“Yes – ideally, anyway.”

“But the right sort of family… It is hard to find parents who would be suitable.”

“Very hard.”

“Not, of course, that there aren’t many very deserving people in this town. Very deserving, indeed… But so much more could be made of him.”

“Er…”

“And then there’s the financial aspect. Few in Crediton could afford an extra mouth, one would imagine.”

Margaret nodded glumly, steeling herself to reject the suggestion.

“So tell me, Margaret. What do you think of this for an idea?” Stapledon turned to face her, his brow wrinkled in thought.

And then the cudgel struck him and he crumpled at her feet.

Baldwin’s hand was already tugging his sword from its scabbard even as the shriek shivered and died on the late afternoon air. His eyes went to Simon. The bailiff shoved him aside as he began to run for the garden. “That was Margaret!”

He and Hugh rushed out into the garden. Simon felt his heart pounding as his sword came free of its sheath with a slithering of steel. His wife needed him, and he would not fail her. Not this second time. For weeks he had avoided her when she needed him; he had tried to escape his own sadness by excluding her and thus preventing her from reminding him of his loss. The shame of his behavior, freezing out the woman who depended on him alone for her life, when all she wanted was to give him her support and offer her comfort to him, burned in his veins like molten lead.

There was another sharp cry of fear, then a keening wail of absolute, chilling terror, and Simon felt his scalp contract in reaction. He gripped the hilt of his weapon and led the way down the short staircase to the herb garden, past the trellis up which the roses climbed, and through to the lawn overlooking the meadow.

Here they found the children. Stapledon lay sprawled beside the oaken log, and Baldwin ran to his side. He looked up at Simon, relief plain on his face. The Bishop was alive.

Simon went to Edith. She stood, shocked, staring at her playmate, and was pleased to be able to plunge her face in her father’s tunic to hide from the piteous child.

Rollo stood, eyes wide, mouth gaping, as scream after scream issued from his frail little body. He was incapable of speech, unconscious of the others all round. His whole being was one long, solitary screech of loss and despair. First the man had killed his mother, and now the kind lady who had looked after him had been taken away as well. Roger stood nearby, wringing his hands, unsure how to calm the child.

Passing his daughter to Hugh, Simon went to the little boy, holding him tightly in his arms, trying to control the crying with the strength of his own body, as if he could pass on a little of his own self-restraint by doing so. Gradually the sobs faded until, shaking and groaning with his misery, eyes streaming with tears, the little boy allowed himself to be taken by the rector.

But Simon did not feel his anguish dissipate. His wife had been here, and now she was gone. Stapledon, who was moaning to himself as he tried to sit upright, had been knocked down with as little compunction as Simon would expect in a man swatting a fly, and not treated with the respect accorded to a man of God.

“Roger, what in God’s name has happened?”

“Bailiff, I…”

“Where’s Margaret? She was here, wasn’t she? Where’s she gone?”

“Bailiff, it was the butcher, Adam. He struck the Bishop, then took your wife…”

“Where, man! Where did he go?”

A hand shot out, pointing the way. “There, toward the church. I saw him take her that way. To the church.”

“Daddy!”

He heard the terror in his daughter’s voice. “Come here, Edith. It’s all right.”

She rushed into his arms and he held her close for a moment, but then he lowered her to the ground. “You stay here, my love, you understand? I’ll go and get Mummy. We’ll come back here.”

Simon set off at a run. He was unaware of the others, of the way that Hugh thrust Edith into the arms of the dumbfounded Peter Clifford before chasing after him, or how Baldwin made haste to follow; he was only aware that Margaret was in mortal danger, in the clutches of a murderer who appeared able to kill without compunction and for no reason. Simon was determined to save her.

Up the garden he pelted, then into Peter’s hall and along the screens, his boots slapping hard on the flags. If Adam was heading for the church, this was the quickest way there. Out into the yard he ran, scaring a horse and making it rear so that the ostler cursed as he tried to bring it back under control. He skidded over the cobbles of the outer yard, and across the grass of the old graveyard, toward the scaffolding which encompassed the new building like a haphazard fence.

Vaguely he was aware of figures running behind him, but his concentration was fixed on the red stone edifice in front. He pounded over the turves and rubbish of the works, until a pair of figures up at the top caught his attention, and he stopped dead.

One he recognized immediately. With her golden hair, strawberry-tinted in the late sun, streaming behind her, her cap dangling from a string, Margaret was carefully ascending one of the topmost ladders. Behind her, as nimble on the slender planks, as sure-footed as a cat, a long dagger in one hand, was the butcher.

This would make them regret their corruption. They would know from now on that if there was one man they could not cheat, that man was him. He would make them realize that they could not avoid their duties. They would have to arrest the captain of mercenaries. He was obviously guilty. Adam had made sure that the evidence pointed to him, and they could not possibly have missed the proofs.

At the top of the highest ladder he halted, breathing deeply. It was strange that he felt so little fear. Usually he would be nervous standing on top of a small stool, but today he was up here, on top of a tall scaffold, with a view over the whole of the county, as far as he could tell. To the west were the hills rolling toward Barnstaple and the sea, while eastward the road disappeared on the way to Exeter.

He sighed with contentment. This was wonderful: marvellous! He felt superhuman, capable of anything. The dagger was as light as purest down in his hand, his feet were assured on the narrow boards which the builders used as flooring, and his mind was perfectly clear. He was rational and more aware of himself than ever before.

A workman sauntered round the scaffolding from the other side and stopped, open-mouthed, at seeing the two. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, but then he saw the knife. Snapping his mouth shut, he turned and fled.

Smiling at his captive, Adam tied her hands tightly, then motioned vaguely with the knife toward the men below. “Do you know who they are?” he enquired. “They know who I am, but I have only met a couple of them before now. Curious, how lives can become intertwined. Theirs and mine, and all because of a man who was prepared to steal my wife. There was no reason for him to do that; he just took her because he could. Why did she want him? She didn’t fight, you know, she just accepted him into her bed – my bed! – when she thought I was out. But I surprised them.” He gave a chuckle. “Oh, yes. I surprised them.”

Margaret stared at him. “Did you… kill them?” she managed.

“Kill them? No, that would have been foolish. I would have had my revenge, but where would the justice have been? No, I wanted him to suffer for what he had done. I could have stabbed him there, while he lay in my bed, but he wouldn’t have had the expectation of his agony; it would have been a quick and easy death, and I didn’t want that for him, not for the man who ruined me and my Mary. Poor Mary.” He broke off and frowned at his long knife, and when he continued it was with a contemplative quietness. “She was my life, my whole life. All I ever wanted. I would have done anything to make her happy, yet she betrayed me; I gave her presents and toys, but she went to another man. She never hinted that I had failed her, there was not an angry word between us, but she preferred this mercenary.”

Below, Margaret could see the small knot of men swelling as others joined, all pointing up at her and chattering. She could just make out her husband, and imagined his stark horror, almost convinced she could see the expression on his face. He would be terrified in case he lost her too. Peterkin was bad enough, but to lose her as well, she thought, would be likely to unbalance his mind. She wanted to kiss him, to smile once more into his serious gray eyes and hug him, and wondered whether she would be able to ever again.

“Down there, they all think I simply went mad. They think I killed the women for no reason. What do they know of love, of loss?” he sneered, gesticulating, then shouted, waving his blade derisively. “What are you all staring at? Come up here, if you wish to talk, you cowards. I’m not corrupt. I’m not false or devious. I’m not a lying official lining my own pocket at the expense of justice!”

Margaret remained silent, staring down at her husband with a strange sense of serenity. Her hands were bound, and she could not try to run from this odd little man with his terrifying prattle, inconsequential yet deadly. There was no point in trying to escape, since if she were to keep from his clutches, she would surely fall in the attempt. The planks up here on the highest level were thin boards of split timber, roughly cracked away from boughs in lengths by wedges hammered in with the grain of the wood, and they had all warped and twisted in the sunlight as they dried. Some had been lashed to the scaffolding, but much of it was loose, the workers relying on their own skill and sure-footedness for their safety.

She let herself slide down until she was crouched on a plank, hands gripping a vertical scaffold pole before her, and began praying. Her only regret was, if she were to die here this afternoon, that she had not been given a last chance to tell her husband how much she loved him.

Baldwin put a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “My friend, come away. There’s nothing else for you to do here. Why not…”

“Leave me be, Baldwin. You would not have me desert my wife while there’s still a chance I might be able to do something.”

“It would be better if you were to go.”

“Why?” Simon shrugged the hand from his shoulder, but when he turned, his face was not angry, only sad and anxious. “So that if she were to die, I would be spared the sight? Come now, what about her? Do you think she would be happier to see me leave her all alone, or would she be better pleased to know that I am here, and will do all in my power to save her? She may not want me to see her die, but she’d be devastated if I was to disappear. It would be the last indignity, to see me run when I might be able to help her.”

Baldwin felt the unfamiliar sting of dampness at his eyes, and he wordlessly rested a fist on his friend’s shoulder and nodded.

“In the meantime,” Simon muttered, “tell someone to get all the workers away from the place. The last thing we want is the bloody fool to become scared by them and kill Meg and himself.”

“Master?” Hugh came and stood beside them, squinting up at the figures high above. His voice was calm and quiet. “There’s a second set of ladders on the other side of the church. I think I could get up there.”

“Are you sure?” Simon’s face showed his desperate hope, and Hugh nodded.

Ever since Simon had rescued him from the tedium of life as a sheep farmer on the northeastern limits of the moors, out at Drewsteignton, Hugh had been devoted to Simon. When he married, Hugh had quickly grown to adore Margaret, and his feelings for Edith and Peterkin had bordered on adulation. It was impossible for him to stand by and watch the woman die and then, as must inevitably happen, the ruination of his master: the idea was unimaginable. “I can do it,” he said confidently.

“It’s a long way up,” Baldwin said uncertainly. He knew only too well that Hugh was terrified of heights, and had only recently overcome his fear of being as high as on horseback.

“I can do it,” Hugh repeated stubbornly.

“Very well,” Simon said. “Show me where it is. I’ll…”

“Simon, no!” Baldwin interrupted. “You mustn’t! You must remain here and talk to Adam, try to distract him so he doesn’t see us approaching.”

“I must do something. Hugh here can show me how to get up there, then I can try to save her.”

“Master, Sir Baldwin is right,” Hugh said urgently. “You have to be here where she can see you. Like you said, how will she feel if she sees you going?”

“And how will I live with myself if I do not try?” Simon asked, but he was cut short by the butcher, who began waving his arms and bellowing. Simon watched, hardly heeding as his wife slipped down to sit, exhausted from exertion and fear.

“Bailiff? You can hear, can’t you? How do you feel about your wife being killed, eh? How would you like to see her down there with you right now? Shall I push her, make her fall? Or should I stab her first, so she’s dead before she lands? Which would you prefer?”

“Baldwin,” Simon muttered, “I have to go up there.”

“You cannot. I shall go in your place. No, Simon, no arguing. You must remain here: the man clearly knows you and is trying to get at you for some reason. Listen to him – he is mad, but not stupid. If you disappear even for a moment, he will notice, and what then for Margaret’s chances? This is not a matter of honor, any more than disputing a path with a rabid wolf is honorable. Both are situations which call for serious actions. With a wolf one must kill it or die; here we must kill Butcher before he can harm Margaret…

“Simon, you must stay here! Occupy him – keep him talking. Hugh, you come with me,” Baldwin commanded. He made his way back toward the road, Hugh and Edgar following. Once in the street, they went a short way west, until they were hidden by a tall hedge. “Now, Hugh, lead on. But remember, be quick!”