The Crediton Killings

9

Simon heaved a sigh of relief at being out of the jail. It was too small, too dark, and he had felt claustrophobic in there. The air might not be any better outside, with the stench from the street worsening as the sun warmed the waste in the sewer, but at least here there was sunlight and the noise of free people rushing about trying to earn a living. It was infinitely better than the atmosphere of the jail.

“We’d better get to the inn and rescue Edgar and Hugh,” Baldwin said, glancing up at the sun. It was rising in the sky: it must be midmorning.

They crossed the street, dodging a horse and cart. To their left, the tripod still stood outside the shop, but the bailiff saw that the butcher had disappeared. Simon happened to glance in through a window, and there he caught a glimpse of the young apprentice. Grasping a massive cleaver, he was hacking at a pig’s carcass dangling from a hook in the wall, splitting it in half down the spine. Every now and then the lad paused to wipe his forehead, clearing the sweat as the flies danced. Simon smiled. He could understand how tiring it must be to lift the massive axe-like tool and swing it in this heat. The apprentice would have several bodies to joint, and if he did not complete his work, his master would surely leave him in no doubt of his incapacity as a trainee. He looked young to be hefting a weapon like that, at maybe thirteen or fourteen years old, and the bailiff could not help glancing at the solemn face of the young rector, wondering whether Roger de Grosse realized how lucky he was.

It was dark in the alley inside the market entrance, which was a comfort after the furnace heat of the street where the shining cobbles seemed hotter than the sun itself. There was no breeze, and even in the shade he could feel the fresh sweat prickling under his armpits and all down his back, but he had to smile. He was calm, with no shadow of fear to darken his brow, and the fact made him proud.

So the bailiff was interested in a butcher’s apprentice? What a keen mind he must have! Either keen or vacant. Better than his friend, though. Sir Baldwin de Furnshill was thought to be quick and intelligent, a cautious but tenacious inquisitor, much more of a threat than the Exeter Coroner who hardly ever bothered to travel to Crediton nowadays; with the teaming hordes of seamen at the docks, he was kept busy enough closer to home. There was no need to journey far to see death in all its forms. This Baldwin, though, was considered clever. The man in the shadows sneered at the idea. Clever! And yet now he was going from the jail back to the inn, no doubt intending to question the captain in his lair, seeing whether he might have any idea why the girl had been killed.

The two men disappeared through the doorway, and their watcher smiled again. His mind was clear once more, just as it had been the night before when he felt the knife slip so smoothly into her body; it was like pushing the weapon into an oiled leather scabbard – one especially shaped to take the thick single-edged blade. The way that his brain had suddenly been so calm, the thoughts so crystal-bright, had surprised him at first, but then he’d realized it was because he was so clever. It was impossible that the others would discover him.

A slow grin spread over his face. And now they were off to seek the man who had robbed the captain. They were bound to find suspects: only men who had something to hide would join a mercenary band.

Yes, he thought. There should be plenty of suspicious characters in a band like that. It was good to keep the King’s man busy.

“Hugh, would you please stop that!” Edgar usually displayed the tolerance of an older brother toward a younger in his dealings with Simon’s servant, but when the man had pulled his dagger out of its scabbard for the seventh time and scrutinized its edge as if suspicious that it had developed a fault, his temper began to fray. When Simon’s servant was not studying his blade, he was whistling – a hollow, deathly sound that reminded Edgar of the wind in the branches of trees over a churchyard at the dead of night. Even when the man was sitting, his fingers would keep drumming on any convenient surface near to hand. “What is it?” he asked irritably. “Can’t you just be quiet?”

“No,” Hugh scowled. “I’m not used to guarding a dead body.” His face reflected his mood. It was not only that he was missing Peter Clifford’s hospitality, which had lived up to expectation in the excellence of his ale and the fullness of his board; Hugh had grown up on the moors, a little to the south in the old forest of Dartmoor, and his superstitious soul cringed at having to share a room with a murdered woman. The only thing that could make it worse, from his point of view, would be if she was a suicide, but even a murder victim was full of terrors. He had stayed awake all night less from a sense of duty than from a terror of the Devil coming to take an unshriven soul. Hugh might not be learned, but he knew what the priests said: if a man or woman were to die without having been given the chance to confess their sins, they could not be buried on hallowed ground. They could not go to Heaven, they belonged to the Devil, and all night Hugh had fretted, thinking that every sound he heard was Old Nick coming to take her away. Now, in the warm sunlight of a fresh morning, he had a feeling of anticlimax.

“You’re a farmer’s son. Surely you’ve had to sit up with a corpse before.”

Hugh stared at him for a moment. “Of course I have! But I’ve never been told by my master to guard a room with a corpse in it, in case some mad bugger comes in trying to move things around.” He stood and went to the chest again, looking down at Sarra where she lay on the floor.

His master and Baldwin had covered her with a bolt of cloth they had found in the chest, thus her face was hidden, but she held a fascination for Hugh. It was sad to see her dead. He was used to death in all its forms, from starvation during the appalling famines of 1315 and 1316, to those killed by swords and axes during the attacks of the trail bastons four years ago, but this little figure, whose hair tumbled silkily from beneath the cloth, seemed still more sad than all those.

“God’s blood! Will you sit down and stop fidgeting! You’re making me twitchy.”

Hugh grunted and wandered to a convenient chest. Sitting, he rested a hand on another nearby and unconsciously began knocking out a rapid percussion. Edgar had opened his mouth to snap at him, when there was a tap at the door. Muttering with irritation, Edgar pulled it open.

Outside stood an old soldier. “My master has told me to fetch him some clothing.” Edgar said nothing, but held the door tightly. The man glanced past him to the body and shook his head sadly. “Poor lass.”

Rather than have the man stare through the door all morning, Edgar opened it wide. “Be quick. And touch nothing from the open chest.”

He wandered in, going from one chest to another. Hugh saw how his eyes moved to the figure on the floor occasionally. There was no fear or horror, merely a kind of disinterested acceptance, as if it was too commonplace a sight to justify particular curiosity. This piqued Hugh. He had been quite proud of enduring the vigil by the corpse, and felt that others should be awed by the courage of two men who dared to defy ghosts and ghouls alike by sitting up with a murdered body.

Sir Hector’s man walked toward him and gestured. “I’ve got to open that one, too.”

Hugh rose, disgruntled, and waited while he rifled through the chest for oddments, selecting a short cloak and decorative belt with an enamelled buckle.

No sooner had he left than Simon and Baldwin arrived with Roger. To Hugh’s disgust, neither asked how his night had been – they simply strode in and lifted the cloth from the body, so that Baldwin could study it more closely. Almost immediately his attention was drawn to Sarra’s head.

Sucking his teeth, Simon moved to the tiny window and peered out. Wagons and carts passed by, interspersed with riders on horseback. People hurried by on foot. It was a busy street, and he fell to wondering again whether someone could have stood passing items out to an accomplice hidden behind a wagon. Leaning forward, he meditatively touched the frame. There was certainly enough space for a man to wriggle through if he was small enough – and if the shutters had been opened first.

Baldwin asked Edgar to help him; together, they rolled the body gently over onto its side. Over Sarra’s left ear was a lump, and a crusting of blood. It looked much like Cole’s wound, with one difference: hers was more like the result of a glancing blow which had scraped the skin and caused bleeding. She must have been alive when struck, for she bled, he thought. That explained a little of the mystery about her: she was alive but unconscious when gagged and bound. The next question, he knew, was why she had been stabbed. He studied her, then walked to the chest and looked at her outline. Where Simon had pulled the cloth aside, he carefully laid it back in place. There, where her head had lain, was a small patch of brownish black. So she was definitely alive when she was placed in the chest; dead people did not bleed, he knew. So she had been killed later.

Sighing, he rose. Simon had finished staring out of the window, and now left the room. Baldwin paused, then knelt and, using his dagger, cut off a large swatch of the material of her tunic. Stuffing it in his purse, he followed his friend into Sir Hector’s room, and stood gazing round with an introspective air while Simon peered out of the window. Roger trailed in after them.

Outside, in the yard, Simon could see several men sitting at a table and drinking, laughing and joking in the shade of an old elm tree, while others worked on their weapons. Some were polishing helmets and shields until, when they caught the sun, they were painful to look at. Two men were fletching, expertly winding string round arrows to hold the feathers in place, and another was running a stone over his sword to give it an edge.

Behind him he could hear Baldwin muttering to himself, but his attention was caught by the scene in the yard. It was rare to see men-of-war in a place like this, going about their business with a casual unconcern that made it seem normal. If they had been farmers cleaning tools and preparing for a day’s work, the sight could not have been more tranquil. As if to emphasize this, the inn’s hens scratched and stepped all round, their jerky motion an odd contrast to the smoothness of the armorer with his weapon. The stone sweeping along the sword’s blade gave a rhythmic background to the setting, like a man scything wheat. Cloths buffing shields to a mirror-like finish added an air of domesticity which tended to confirm the impression of rustic calm.

“What are you staring at?”

Simon pointed. “You’d hardly think it was necessary to polish armor so clean, would you?”

The knight gave a small smile at the bailiff’s ignorance. “Professional warriors often do that. Most armies are made up of peasants who have been ordered from their fields by their lords to go and fight for a cause they often understand only very sketchily. If they are hurled against another, similar army, they can sometimes do well, but if they find themselves arrayed against men who are clothed in armor, who shine like angels when the sun touches them, and who gleam so brightly that it is painful to look upon them, the average peasant will want to turn and run. Mercenaries are naturally warlike people because that’s how they earn their living, and they practice and train to make sure that they are likely to win. After all, there is no profit for anybody in fighting if you’re going to die. All soldiers intend winning, and living to enjoy their gains. A shining shield and helmet simply helps put the odds more in the mercenaries’ favor.”

“Whatever they do is designed to help them kill.”

“Not only that: more to win,” Baldwin studied his friend. “All they want is to make money, the same as any other businessman. They make nothing by killing. Prisoners who are worth money are ransomed, but in the main a mercenary army would be happier to see their poorer enemies put to flight.”

“What if they fail, and they capture prisoners who are worth little or nothing in ransoms?”

“They will die,” said Baldwin, his voice hardening. “But ruthlessness is not unique to mercenary bands. In any war it is the weak and poor who suffer. The same will be happening in Scotland as the army of England tries to hold back the Bruce.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “At that table – aren’t they the two who found Cole last night?”

Baldwin nodded. “We have to talk to them at some point; it might as well be now,” he said. He walked from the room, and with the others in tow, he and Simon led the way from the solar.

In the hall, Sir Hector was seated, complaining irritably about the quality of his food to an agitated Paul. Baldwin gave him a quick look of sympathy, and the innkeeper rolled his eyes. As they got to the doorway, Cristine was coming the other way, carrying a large tray. She stood back, out of Baldwin’s path, with a respectful bowing of her head, but then he caught sight of a different emotion. She smiled with a sunny brilliance that transformed her tired visage, and when Baldwin checked, he saw that her face was turned toward his servant.

Edgar noticed his master’s glance, and quickly fixed his features into their usual blank expressionlessness, but not quite fast enough. He could see that he had not fooled Sir Baldwin, and the knight had to struggle to keep the smile from his mouth. There were, he noted, depths to his servant which were still capable of surprising him.

Henry the Hurdle lounged in his seat, back resting against the inn’s wall, his hands in his belt, belching softly and contentedly with his eyes half-closed. With the sun warming him, he thought he could be in France, except he preferred the drink in England. Watered wine was a pale substitute for good ale, even if it was weak ale. Margery was a very capable alewife, and her strong ale was powerful enough to put men to sleep when they were unused to it; her weak ale, brewed with less malt, had a pleasing, silky mildness, and Henry had already enjoyed three pints. He disliked the continental habit of adulterating good ale with weeds like hops; it made the drink too bitter, and everyone knew it was bad for the health, making the Flemish in northern France, who drank it in huge quantities, fat and bellicose. Beer was not as wholesome as good English ale.

His sense of well-being was rudely shattered when John dug him in the ribs. “It’s the Keeper, Henry. Henry, wake up! The Keeper and his friend are here, the two who found us last night. They’re back again.”

Risking a quick glance from lowered brows, Henry watched the bailiff and his friend. They paused in the doorway, taking in the scene, three men close behind them, before beginning to stroll in the direction of their table. He stretched and yawned, then forced himself upright. “Let’s see what they want.”

Smiling cheerfully, he was the picture of relaxed honesty, but in his mind he was running through the story of what had happened the night before. Henry knew of the Keeper’s reputation in the area: he was able to divine the truth in the way that people spoke, if you trusted what was said about him in the town. Henry did not believe in such powers, but he was prepared to accept that Baldwin was astute, and Henry did not want the knight guessing what had really happened the previous day, so he fixed his smile as firmly as if it had been nailed in place, and waited.

To Baldwin, from a distance they were like any ordinary pair of men taking their ease in the sun. One dozing, the other resting his elbows on the table and sipping at a large pot of ale. It was as he approached and could see their faces that he felt a pang of disgust. If his first impression of Cole was favorable, his immediate reaction to these two in the daylight was the reverse.

The night before he had thought that one was an ill-favored wretch, and now he could see that his recollection was overly generous. In broad daylight John Smithson was as unpleasing a sight as it was possible to imagine, with sallow features, a narrow, steeply raked forehead, sharp face and light, unsettling eyes which avoided Baldwin’s gaze. As they got closer, Baldwin was treated to a sight of Smithson taking a swallow of his ale. A portion fell from his mouth, and he wiped at it with the back of his hand. The knight was grateful not to have seen him eating.

There was nobody else at their table. Several other tables were filled with men from the band, and Simon wondered why these two sat alone, but the thought was fleeting, and he put it from his mind as he took his rest.

This discussion would take some time, Hugh saw moodily. He stood glumly behind his master as the inevitable questions began, Baldwin staring pensively at Henry.

“Last night we were all tired, and the excitement of the chase dulled our wits. I can hardly recall what you said about this man Cole and how you caught him. Could you run through it again?”

Hugh listened while the man told how he and his friend had noticed Cole in town. Originally they had gone after him to invite him to join them in a drink, but on approaching him, they had become suspicious at his behavior. He walked furtively, like a man who had something to hide, so they decided to follow him. He clearly knew the town, for he ducked into narrow alleys, only rarely passed where he could be seen and avoided places where the other members of Sir Hector’s troop might go. They passed under lines of washing, being spattered by drips, and around filthy dumps, until they saw him drop something. They heard it rattle and spin like a coin, saw it glitter, and realized it must be a plate. With horror, they suddenly understood what must have happened: he’d stolen their master’s silver and run away.

As he bent to pick up the fallen plate, Cole happened to glance behind him and – here Henry gave a chagrined smile as if he was disgraced by his stupidity – caught sight of Henry. If Henry had been less keen to see what it was he had dropped, he implied, Cole might not have spotted him. As it was, he had started to run away. They had called for help, but there didn’t seem to be anyone around, and they had chased after him for miles until catching up with him some way out of the town.

Hugh’s attention began to wander. He had heard it all the night before, and was not interested in the finer details of how the two heroes had managed to bring down their prey. At another table a short way off was space for three men, with a slight squeeze. He knew Edgar was committed to the protection of his master come what may, but there was little need to stand immediately behind Simon and Baldwin; a seat a few yards further off would surely be no difficulty. He indicated such to Roger, who leaned against the tree, bored, then tried to get Edgar’s attention. It was only when Hugh took a step back that Edgar noticed him. Hugh jerked his head to the table silently, and Edgar looked from it to his master, then nodded.

Simon was aware of the departure of the three. He saw them taking their seats nearby, then turned back to Henry.

“I am surprised that no one heard you when you called for help,” Baldwin observed.

“So was I, sir,” Henry spread his hands, palms up, in a show of exasperation. “If someone had helped it would have saved us a long run.”

“Yes. It seems quite clear, though, what happened.” Baldwin was lapsing into the slow way of speaking which some mistook for drowsiness, but which Simon recognized as proof of extreme concentration on details. “You were after him for how long, roughly?”

“I suppose about three hours,” Henry said, shooting a glance at his friend. John shrugged.

“How can I tell? It was afternoon when we first saw him, and dark when you caught up with us.”

“Let us assume it was late afternoon, then. Perhaps you could tell us approximately how long you spent following him and how long chasing him?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I couldn’t say. No, I’ve got no idea. Anyway, does it matter?”

“Perhaps not, but I was wondering where Cole could have disposed of the silver he stole. And when, of course.”

“When?”

Simon broke in, “Yes, when. When seems to be an interesting problem with every aspect of this matter. When did he get into your captain’s room; when did he take the silver; when did he escape with it; when did he hide it? The only point of any interest apart from that is where he hid it, or with whom.”

“Because, of course, there was more than one man involved,” Baldwin added.

“How can you tell that?” asked Smithson quickly.

Baldwin ignored him. “Sir Hector is a cautious man, isn’t he?”

“Oh, yes. Very. He has to be. In his time he has managed to annoy some powerful men, both here in England and in France. It is only natural that he should be careful.”

“He must be very wary of strangers.”

“Yes.”

“And I suppose he makes sure that nobody he does not know, and know well, can get close to his food or drink.”

Henry leaned back comfortably in his seat. “Yes. Some of his enemies might try to hurt him through poison.”

“And he must be sure, really sure, of only a small number of men.”

“That’s right.”

“Like you, for example.”

“Yes. I’ve been with him for many years.” He smiled.

“Do you remember Cole’s brother?”

Henry frowned. “Cole’s brother?” he asked uncertainly.

“You don’t recall him? That is strange… Sir Hector lets you into his rooms, doesn’t he?”

“He permits me to see him when I want. I am his deputy, you know.”

“Yes, I know. He told me last night that you were one of very few men he allowed to enter his room: he trusts you. Would he have trusted Cole?”

“Cole?” Henry guffawed, and Smithson, recognizing a joke, drew his mouth into a wide, inane grin.

“What is so funny?”

“He wouldn’t let Cole within yards of his door. No one who’s new ever gets close to Sir Hector. Like I say, he’s suspicious. After some months, maybe he would learn to put some faith in Cole, but it would take a long time.”

“And all Sir Hector’s men are aware of that, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes.”

“How many men were in the hall last afternoon, do you think?”

“Ten or so. There would always be a guard there in case…”

“In case someone might try to steal Sir Hector’s valuables,” Baldwin finished for him. “But somehow someone did get in, didn’t they? Someone went in, either through the door, past all those eyes in the hall, or through the window where everyone in the street could see him. Which do you think it was?”

“Me?” Henry looked dumbfounded. “I don’t know. We weren’t there all afternoon.”

“You were there some of the time?”

“I had to speak to the captain about some problems with one of the horses. I went to see him, but he wasn’t in his bedchamber so I came straight back out again. I tried to see him later on, but he still wasn’t there, so I left it and went out with John.”

“So it was not very important?”

“Not by then. The horse had looked lame, but by later in the afternoon when we left the inn, it seemed to have recovered.”

Hugh was beginning to give up. He had tried every way he knew to engage the men round the table in conversation, but none seemed to want to talk. When he looked at them, they shiftily glanced away, and he was ready to resort to speaking to Roger. Edgar was studiously ignoring the others at the table and staring at his master.

“So,” Hugh said brightly, “it was lucky that Henry and John were there when Cole tried to steal the silver, wasn’t it? At least they managed to catch him.” There was silence. “If he’d got away, Sir Hector would have been furious, wouldn’t he?” Opposite, the man who had been in the room to collect Sir Henry’s clothes hawked noisily and spat. Hugh felt his face fall. The man sneered at him, a grizzled old warrior with silver threads shining on both cheeks of his thick, curling beard. Hugh tried again. “I suppose we just have to hope Cole admits where he hid the silver, don’t we? A shame about the girl, though.”

“The stupid bastard. There was no need to kill her, poor lass.”

Hugh turned to the man who had spat. Bright black eyes stared back confidently. “She was unlucky to be there, but I suppose Cole wanted no witnesses.”

“Maybe.”

“At least those two caught Cole,” Hugh repeated weakly, feeling the strain of maintaining their chat.

“You reckon?”

Hugh stared. “I… What?”

“Cole’s a fool, from what I saw. He trusted them two.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Those two bastards, they always needle till they know everything about everyone, then they put the screws on. Cole had some money, but he refused to give them any, and the same afternoon, he’s discovered stealing – by those two.”

Roger stared open-mouthed. Edgar was sitting stock-still as if unconcerned, but he was listening to every word and nuance as Hugh stuttered, “But what… I mean, how could they…”

“Everybody coming to a troop like this has a story, right? A past. Some can’t stay at home because of something that happened, like a fight where someone got hurt, or they have a girlfriend who’s already married to another man – whatever. Those two bastards, they make sure they find out what a man’s secret is, and then they threaten to let everyone know. ”Why’re you here?“ they say, all friendly-like, and ”Everyone tells us why they come here,“ or, ”Nobody’ll trust you unless you tell what you’ve done.“” He spat again and gulped ale, as if to wash away a sour taste. “And then they say, ”We need some money; we don’t seem to have what we thought, and we want a drink. Why don’t you give us some?“ And if the new boys won’t cooperate, their story gets all over the troop – and later, news might just get back to their homes.”

“And they got Cole like that?”

“No, he got them. He lied when they asked why he was here, so when they tried to squeeze him, he told them what they could do with themselves.”

“Come on, Wat, you’ve talked enough,” said one of the other men at the table, squirming uncomfortably. “You’ll get yourself in trouble – they can see you talking.”

“What do I care?” The older man stared truculently at John Smithson, who was watching with hooded eyes. “They can’t do anything to me, and they know it.”

Edgar slowly turned in his seat, hitching a leg over the plank that formed the bench, and faced Wat. “Are you saying you think it was those two who robbed Sir Hector and killed Sarra?”

The older man took a tremendous gulp and finished his ale. “I don’t know who robbed Sir Hector, and I don’t know who spiked the girl.” Edgar shrugged, and with a half-smile, began to move back to watch his master. Stung by his patronizing air, Wat set the pot down hard on the table. “You ignorant puppy!” He leaned forward aggressively, his voice low and coarse. “You think I’m just some old fool who’s drunk too much on a summer’s morning, don’t you? You think because you work for an educated master you can look down on plain folk like me, because we’re just dregs and unimportant. We’re fools and can’t know what goes on, aren’t we? Well, I don’t know what happened in that room, but I know that those two went into Sir Hector’s chamber in the early afternoon, right? Then they went back later, and both times they were in there for some time.”

“You’re talking rubbish,” sneered the other soldier. “You’ve been drinking sour ale! There were men in that hall, and they’d have seen…”

“Those drunken sots wouldn’t have noticed if the King himself had passed by! I’m telling you what I saw: Henry and John went in – twice. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe they didn’t do it. Maybe they just went in and got lost in all those rooms. Maybe they didn’t steal the silver, and they might not have killed the girl – but I reckon they had as much chance as poor young Cole.”

“But why would they put the blame on Cole? They’ve hardly had time to grow to dislike him,” asked Edgar superciliously.

“You pathetic little man!” Wat sputtered contemptuously. “What about Cole’s brother? You know he was in this band, and that he died in a battle – just after he’d won a hostage? And after he died, Henry and John managed to take over his prize and keep the money. If Cole hasn’t found that out already, he soon will. Maybe he ain’t as bright as you, little man, and maybe he’ll begin to wonder whether the pair of them might have seen his brother Thomas with his hostage and decided that the profit was too much for a youngster. Maybe he’ll wonder whether his brother died from a knife in the chest or a dagger in the back; maybe he’ll wonder whether his new friends were lying when they said they liked his brother. And just maybe, the two of them thought their lives would be easier without him in the way.”

“And maybe Cole did steal the silver, and maybe Cole was interrupted halfway through by the girl, and he did the first thing that came into his head and killed her.”

“And maybe pigs will sprout wings and fly like rooks! If he did that, why did he bother to join the band?”

“To find out what had happened to his brother, like you said.”

“So why did he steal the silver before he had done anything about it?”

“What?”

“You’re so bright, little man, you tell me,” Wat sneered. “If you’d been wondering what had happened to your brother for years, just when you had a chance to find out, would you immediately rob someone else?”

“Maybe he had found out.”

“So he put himself outside the law before he wreaked vengeance on them. He’s obviously not much brighter than you, is he?”

“So you think it couldn’t have been Cole? Are you saying it was Henry and John?” Edgar demanded.

“That’s for your master to decide, isn’t it?”

Eyes slitted as he surveyed Wat, Edgar nodded slowly.