The Night Wanderer

SEVEN

We trudged on across the wet grass. The fields looked very beautiful in the soft mist that was slowly rising off the ground as the sun rose and a little heat warmed the air. There was nobody about. Maybe the townspeople, frightened and uneasy at the latest brutal murder, had been only too willing to obey the sheriff’s new dictate.

Presently the last of the buildings stretching along the south side of the river came into view. Quite a few were churches, endowed by the rich merchants, and some of them had been there for decades. In pride of place, however, closest to the water and with gently sloping grass-covered banks leading to the river, was a row of new houses. It was, I reflected as we drew closer, a beautiful place to live. We were only a short walk from the town – the Great Bridge and all the busy, noisy commerce of the quays were only about half a mile ahead – yet here it was peaceful and quiet, the area possessing that indefinable quality of aloofness that is typical of rich men’s dwellings. Jack pointed to the second-to-last house, and muttered, ‘That’s it.’

I studied Robert Powl’s house. It was timber-framed and thatched, with a solid-looking oak door and windows either side, both tightly shuttered. Set against the left-hand wall, and built in the same style as the house, was a large barn, its tall doors barred. For a widower, it seemed an unnecessarily large amount of space.

‘Why did he need that huge barn?’ I asked. ‘It’s not as if he was a merchant, needing space for his goods. Robert Powl only provided the transport for other people’s stuff.’

Jack stood staring at the barn. ‘I wondered the same thing. Perhaps he had occasionally to store cargoes until they could be collected?’

‘But surely he’d have had a warehouse down on the quayside for that? Why bring boatloads of goods out here to his house?’

‘He did have a warehouse,’ Jack said slowly. ‘We’re going there next.’

He marched up to the house and banged on the door. Quite soon, it opened a crack, to reveal the long, cadaverous, pale face of an indoor servant, well past the first flush of youth. ‘Yes?’ the man said in a faint voice.

‘Jack Chevestrier,’ Jack said. ‘From the sheriff.’ Strictly speaking, it was true.

‘Your men were here before,’ the old man said plaintively. ‘Wanted to know if he had any enemies.’ He gave a dismissive sniff. ‘Well, of course he did. Somebody tore his throat out.’

‘I realize how distressing his death must be for you and the household,’ Jack said gently. ‘I would like to come in and have a look round.’

The old man stared at him, his expression hopeless. ‘Well, you’re the law,’ he muttered, ‘so I don’t reckon I have a choice.’ He stood back, opened the door wide and beckoned us inside.

The other servants, apparently having heard the exchange, had gathered in the room into which the door opened. Three women, a man and a youth, they were huddled together, managing to appear both shocked and keenly interested in what would happen next. The room was warm from a generous fire burning in the central hearth. Archways in walls to right and left led through into further rooms. ‘Master slept through there’ – the old servant jerked his head over to the right – ‘and saw to his business affairs in there.’ He pointed to the room on the left.

Jack strode beneath the arch on the left into the space beyond, and I followed. Boards had been laid across trestles, and on them were many rolls of parchment, horns of ink, quills and a small silver-handled penknife. Several stout wooden chests, bound with iron, stood against the walls. A chair with carved back and arms had been placed exactly halfway along a large table, in front of it a wooden writing slope on which there was a piece of vellum: the very last document on which Robert Powl had worked, perhaps. All was neat and orderly.

‘Has this room been tidied up?’ Jack asked.

The old man shook his head. ‘No. This was how the master left it. He liked things tidy.’

Behind the table, hanging on the wall backing on to the barn, I noticed a heavy tapestry. Going over to have a closer look – it was a forest scene of huntsmen and a hart, beautifully done in vivid wools – I realized that it was in fact a curtain, covering a low, narrow door.

I went to stand beside Jack, who was intent on the document on the writing slope. ‘There’s a door through to the barn,’ I said, so quietly that only he would have heard.

His head jerked up and he looked round. In a swift couple of paces, he was beside the tapestry, pushing it out of the way. He raised the latch on the little door, but it didn’t open. Jack turned to the servant. ‘Is there a key?’

The old man shook his head. ‘Master always carried it on him.’

Jack began to say something, then, with a curse, broke off. He reached into the leather purse hanging on his belt and extracted a silver ring with two keys on it, one big, one smaller. He looked sheepishly at me. ‘I took these from his body myself,’ he said quietly. ‘I should have remembered.’

He fitted the larger key in the lock, turned it and the door opened. He pushed me through, following hard on my heels, then closed the door in the old servant’s face.

‘We need to do this without an audience,’ he said.

We looked round the barn. It was a big space but there wasn’t very much in it: stacks of empty wooden crates and chests, standing with their lids thrown back; a handcart whose broken shaft someone was in the process of mending; a ladder with one rung replaced, in bright new wood; a stack of something beneath a cover that proved to be bales of wool of indifferent quality. ‘Perhaps someone changed their minds and didn’t want it after all,’ I remarked, looking at the wool.

Jack was prowling round the barn, peering into corners, reaching behind bits of the wooden framework. I wandered over to the wall that I calculated must back on to the river, where I’d noticed a small edifice in stone which I thought was a shrine. It was a little over waist-height, with a door set into one side. I touched the door, and to my surprise it was cold: it wasn’t made of wood, as I’d thought, but of iron.

‘Have you got that smaller key handy?’ I called softly.

I was still staring at the shrine, and sensed Jack come to stand beside me. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘It looks like a shrine, or a sort of miniature chapel,’ I said. ‘But it has an unexpected door.’ I tapped it and it rang out a low, clear note.

‘Why lock a chapel so carefully?’ Jack wondered. He put the smaller key in the lock, and it turned with a definite click of some hidden mechanism.

He pushed the door open and we bent down to look inside.

It wasn’t a chapel or a shrine. It was a small stone-built, iron-doored and very secure storage area, lined with neatly made wooden shelves, the flagged floor covered with straw.

And it was empty.

‘What did he keep in here?’ I asked. ‘Gold? Jewels? Coins?’ Any or all seemed likely.

Jack had forced his broad shoulders through the low, narrow doorway and was feeling round the shelves. ‘It’s very clean,’ he observed. ‘Not a speck of dust or dirt.’ He pulled himself out again. ‘You try,’ he said. ‘You’re smaller than me so you can get in further.’

I knelt down and crawled inside. Once I was right in, I was able to turn so that my body was no longer blocking the light. I went over every shelf, but there was nothing to be found. I was about to crawl out – it was a little as I imagine being buried alive would feel like in there – when my knee struck something sticking up out of the floor.

‘Ow!’ It hurt, a lot, and I felt blood well up as my skin split. Jack reached to help me out, and we looked at my cut knee. I was quite touched by his evident concern, but then he said, ‘Whatever could have done that?’ and I realized he wasn’t actually interested in the wound.

We both reached back inside the stone edifice. One of the flags was sticking up very slightly; you wouldn’t have noticed it underneath the covering of straw, and we’d only discovered it because my knee had struck it. Jack put both hands to it and began heaving it up, and, after a great deal of sweaty effort and quite a lot of cursing, finally it gave. The flagstone would have thundered right over backwards on to the floor had Jack not had the presence of mind to put his forearm under it. It obviously hurt, and he’d have an awful bruise, but at least the household servants wouldn’t have heard anything.

We stared at the dark, narrow, earth-smelling hole that had appeared beneath the flagstone.

‘He made this hiding place so secure, with its stone walls and roof,’ Jack said softly, ‘but, assuming it wasn’t he who dug the tunnel, he forgot it has six sides, not five.’ He looked at me. ‘Fancy going down there?’

I didn’t, not at all, but one of us had to if we were to find out where it went, and clearly Jack was out of the question. I wriggled across the floor on my stomach, and, with my arms above my head as if I were diving into water, forced myself down the hole.

The tunnel was truly horrible, and I only went on because I didn’t think I had a choice. There was no way I could have turned round, and I was so terrified of finding I couldn’t wriggle backwards that I didn’t dare put it to the test. The earth pressed all around me, sometimes crumbly and choking, sometimes slimy with things I didn’t want to think about. The tunnel’s sole virtue was that it was quite short: after heaving myself only perhaps five or six times my height, the tunnel started to climb steeply, then level out, and I saw daylight filtering through greenery. I shoved my head out through a patch of dense undergrowth beneath hazel trees on the river bank, and, observing there was nobody about, dragged myself into the open. I was about to dance with relief when it struck me that if we were not to advertise the tunnel’s existence – and I just knew Jack wouldn’t want to do that – then I was going to have to return by the same route. I took a quick look round to see exactly where I was, then, not pausing to think about it – there was only one way to do it and that was quickly – I took a deep breath, dived back down the tunnel and wriggled back to Jack.

‘It comes out on the river bank,’ I whispered as I crawled out of the stone room and stood up, ‘and I’ve memorized the place where- What’s the matter?’ I added crossly. Jack was trying unsuccessfully not to laugh.

‘You are absolutely filthy,’ he replied, already reaching out to brush off the worst of the dirt and the smears of mud. Then he extended the white sleeve of his undershirt and carefully wiped my face.

For a moment we stood looking at each other. His touch had been tender – caressing, almost – and it had affected me with a shock whose force took me by surprise. I tried to say something, but my throat was suddenly dry.

‘We should get on and check the warehouse,’ he said eventually. ‘We…’ He trailed to a stop. He was still staring at me, his clear green eyes intent on mine, and whatever was running through his mind seemed to distract him.

I reached for his hand, striding off across the barn and pulling him with me. ‘Come on, then.’

One of us had to make a move.

Robert Powl’s warehouse stood at the end of a row of similar buildings, although it was small in comparison to the others. As we drew nearer, it became clear that it was a workshop as much as a storage facility; the side facing the river had an open area beneath an overhanging roof, and was presumably where repairs to the boats in his transportation fleet had been carried out. Between it and its neighbour a narrow little passage ran back, away from the riverside, and right at the far end of the passage, overshadowed by the large buildings on either side, there was a low door, presumably giving access to the adjacent warehouse.

The quayside was not as busy as it usually was on a fine morning, although quite a lot of people had apparently managed to persuade Sheriff Picot that they had good reason to be down there, and thus avoid the strictures of the new law. None of these people – and, more crucially, none of the handful of sheriff’s men who were lounging about and watching the watermen and the quay workers – had eyes for Jack and me as we approached, keeping as much as possible under cover of the trees and shrubs that grew along the river bank.

We slipped in beneath the overhanging roof and Jack tried the door leading inside the warehouse. It opened. Jack turned to look at me. ‘I don’t believe Robert Powl would have left this door unlocked,’ he said.

Hurriedly he pushed the door open. It was clear, from the most cursory glance, that the space within had been searched. Far from being neat and tidy like its owner’s house, office and barn, it was in total disarray. A stack of planks had been toppled over; a pot of what looked like congealed pitch lay on its side; the cinders of the hearth had been kicked apart; a set of shelves against the far wall had apparently been swept with a brawny forearm, and the contents were now jumbled together in heaps at the far end of each shelf, sundry objects spilling on to the floor.

‘Of course,’ Jack said heavily after a moment, ‘with everything disturbed like this, we cannot know if the thieves found what they came for, and, if so, what it was they took.’

‘No,’ I agreed. ‘It would have been a lot more helpful to have discovered one vacant space on those shelves, with a neatly written label telling us what was normally stored there.’

‘And yet the stone vault in the house was empty,’ Jack mused.

‘Did they come here first, do you think?’ I asked eagerly, following his thought. ‘Then, not finding whatever it was – probably because this place isn’t secure enough for something very valuable – they went on to the house?’

Jack nodded. ‘It looks like it.’ He swung round to look at me. ‘Very determined, weren’t they? Imagine them, finding a way to get inside the house, then discovering that whatever it was they wanted was locked away in that stone crypt thing. And that can only have been conjecture, yet what trouble they then went to, digging a tunnel from the river bank and managing to come up in exactly the right spot.’

‘That part would have been easy,’ I said absently, my mind on the effort it must have taken to tunnel through the earth. Admittedly the distance wasn’t great, and the soil was easy to penetrate, but-

Jack was staring fixedly at me. ‘Easy?’ he echoed incredulously.

I realized what I’d just said. Staring down at my feet, feeling myself blush, I muttered, ‘Some people have a talent for knowing where things are hidden.’

‘I had forgotten,’ he murmured. I looked up. He was smiling. ‘“It has happened, on rare occasions, that I’ve managed to locate lost items”,’ he said.

He was quoting exactly what I’d told him when he first had occasion to ask me to use the strange ability I have to find things. My embarrassment increased, and I dropped my head.

He picked up my unease. He said calmly, ‘If you say it’s easy, I’ll take your word for it.’

We looked all round the warehouse, but to little point other than an appreciation of how thorough the intruders’ search had been. Then abruptly Jack said, ‘What exactly did Mistress Judith sell?’

I had my back to him, investigating a pile of old sacks. ‘Apothecary’s and healer’s supplies. I told you that yesterday.’

He didn’t answer. I turned round, to see that he held a package in his hands. ‘Such as this?’

I jumped up and went to look. The package had been torn open at one end, but even before I saw the contents I knew from the smell that it contained olibanum resin, also known as frankincense. The oil derived from it is used, among other things, to help with coughs and breathing difficulties, but it’s so costly that healers like me rarely see it. Mistress Judith kept a small stock of it, and now here it was in Robert Powl’s warehouse…

‘Yes,’ I whispered. Understanding what he was thinking, I hurried on, ‘But I’m sure Robert Powl’s boats weren’t the only ones who brought such items to the town!’

He threw down the package, grabbed my hand and we ran out of the warehouse.

It took all our combined ingenuity to find a way from the quay back to the market square without being spotted by Sheriff Picot’s watch. And when we arrived at the square, it was to the realization that we stood no chance of getting into Mistress Judith’s house unobserved, since a guard of two stood right outside.

‘Is there a back way in?’ Jack whispered as we peered out from the shadows at the end of one of the many narrow alleys giving on to the square.

‘There is, but won’t that be watched too?’

‘Perhaps.’ Jack paused, frowning. Then, looking up into the sky, he said, ‘It’s not far off midday now. You should go home, and I’ll call for you once darkness has fallen.’

‘But I-’ There was no point in finishing the protest, since he’d already hurried away.

I reached Gurdyman’s house without drawing the attention of the watch, although it was a relief to close the door behind me. Guessing Gurdyman was down in the crypt, I went along to the kitchen. Absent-mindedly, I tore bread and put out cold meats and some cheese. I was hungry after the morning’s exertions, and Gurdyman might well emerge at any minute looking for something to eat.

I’d finished by the time he arrived, so I sat with him in the little inner court while he ate. I thought he might suggest some work for us to get on with, but he didn’t. He was preoccupied, and although he responded when I spoke to him, did not initiate any conversation. Finally I said, ‘Is there anything you want me to do this afternoon?’

He looked up with a start, and after a moment smiled benignly at me; I had the strong sense he’d forgotten I was there. ‘No, child,’ he said. ‘I am – I’m busy with a thorny little problem, and better left alone.’

‘Can’t I help?’

His smile broadened. ‘A kind offer, but no.’ He got to his feet, a hand to the small of his back, and shuffled off along the passage. As he turned the corner towards the steps leading down to the crypt, I heard him muttering to himself.

It looked as if I’d been given the afternoon off. It was bad luck that it happened to be on the very day when our sheriff had just imposed a law ordering us to stay in our own houses unless we had very good reason not to.

I made profitable use of the time. I gave the kitchen, court and passage a very thorough clean, tidied my little attic room, washed out some of my personal linen and baked a batch of the sweet cakes that Gurdyman loves. Then – for I reckoned I had a busy night ahead – I went up to lie on my bed and soon fell asleep.

I was awake and down in the kitchen some time before Jack’s soft knock on the door. It was fully dark, and there had been no sign of Gurdyman. I debated over whether or not to tell him I was going out, but decided not to. He wouldn’t welcome the interruption.

Jack had pulled a dark hood up over his head, throwing his face in deep shadow, and I had arranged my shawl similarly. The pale flesh of a face shows up in torchlight, as does the glint of eyes. Jack nodded approvingly at me. ‘I see you’ve been out on secret missions by night before,’ he observed.

‘Yes.’ More times than I care to remember, I could have added.

‘There are a handful of Sheriff Picot’s watch about, but they don’t seem to be taking their duty very seriously.’ He gestured. ‘Lead on.’

I had worked out in my head how to get round to the rear of Mistress Judith’s house without crossing the square, and I managed to follow the route with only a couple of doublings-back. Quite soon Jack and I stood in a narrow little passage hemmed in on either side by high walls and, indicating the one on my left, I said very quietly, ‘That’s the one.’

‘What’s on the other side?’ Jack’s warm breath right in my ear gave me a strange sensation; not at all unpleasant.

‘A small knot garden where she grows a few herbs,’ I whispered back. ‘Then there’s a rear door into a sort of scullery, and then the living quarters, and the shop facing the square.’

‘I hope old Adela is a sound sleeper,’ he remarked.

‘She may wake up,’ I countered, ‘but I’ll say I’ve come to check on her after her terrible experience yesterday.’

He nodded, looking up at the wall. There was sufficient light from the moon to make out its rough surface, and, in one swift surge of strength, he stuck his fingers into niches and hauled himself up. In a couple of fluid movements, he was sitting on top of the wall, holding out his hand to me.

The jump down on the far side could have been done more elegantly – for me, anyway, although, irritatingly, Jack landed like a cat – and in single file I led us between the low box hedges of the garden and up to the rear door. I opened it, as quietly as I could, and we stepped inside.

The crowded little scullery was where Mistress Judith had made her preparations, and fortunately the moonlight pouring in through the door made it possible to move without barging into things. The smell was very familiar, and for a moment I was back in my dear aunt Edild’s little house. Jack was leaning over a bench and, presently, I heard the rasp of flint as he struck a spark to a candle. Soft light filled the little room, and we could see that none of Mistress Judith’s many items of equipment seemed to have been disturbed.

But then it was most unlikely that jars, small glass vessels, funnels and weighing scales were what the thief would have been after.

We went through to the storeroom and Jack held the candle aloft so that we could look along the shelves. I wasn’t all that familiar with their usual appearance, but it definitely looked as if someone had disturbed the pots, jars and vessels on them; in addition, they didn’t look as crowded as I remembered. ‘I think they’ve been-’ I began.

Then Jack tripped over something on the floor.

As one we crouched down to look. The light shone on Adela, lying in a huddle just inside the door through to the living quarters. I called her name and reached for her hand, my other hand feeling around for injury. There was a huge bump on her head, and she seemed to be deeply unconscious.

‘Is she dead?’ Jack whispered.

‘No, she’s breathing, and the beat of her heart is steady, although it’s very slow.’ I was continuing my investigation as I spoke and, as far as I could tell, the bang on her head was the only injury.

‘He must have stood behind the door,’ Jack said, ‘and when she came to investigate – maybe he made some small noise, and perhaps he hadn’t realized there was anyone in the house – he stepped forward and hit her.’

‘She’s old,’ I said quietly. ‘He didn’t need to hurt her so badly.’

‘Will she live?’

‘I don’t know. We need to get her to her bed, warm her up, and somebody should be with her.’

‘We can at least do the first task,’ Jack said. Very gently he lifted Adela’s still form, and, holding the candle, I led the way through to the little cubby-hole beside the storeroom where she had her bed. Jack laid her down and I tucked several blankets round her, chafing her cold hands to bring some warmth back.

Jack had wandered through to the front of the house, and through the doorway I could see him, peering out through the closed shutters on to the market square. Then he walked soft-footed through the house and stared out over the dark garden. I turned my attention back to Adela. But then I heard Jack give a soft exclamation.

‘What is it?’ I hissed.

‘There’s a light flickering, over the roofs of the alley behind us.’

‘Well, lots of people live there,’ I said. ‘Probably someone-’

‘It’s too high for a house,’ he said.

In my mind I tried to see a plan of the town. What could he be looking at?

‘St Bene’t’s tower,’ I said. ‘The church is over there, behind us.’

He didn’t reply. I looked at him, and he seemed suddenly tense. ‘It’s probably the priest keeping a vigil or something,’ I suggested. ‘Maybe he’s praying for the murder victims.’

Still Jack didn’t speak. Finally he muttered, ‘It doesn’t look right…’ Then, spinning round, he said, ‘I’m going to look.’

I leapt up. ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘What about your patient?’

‘I’ve done all I can for now. I’ll come back to check on her later.’

He nodded. It was kind of him not to suggest that the reason I was so keen to go with him was because I was afraid to stay in a place where a violent killer had so recently struck. He’d have had every justification in doing so, since it was absolutely right.

We slipped out of the house and once more climbed over the wall. Now I, too, could see the flickering light, and it could only have been coming from the church tower. Jack took my hand, and we hurried through the network of passages until we came to the rear wall of St Bene’t’s churchyard.

We ran across the wet grass, both of us affected with the same dread. Something was wrong; in that holy place, it felt as if dark, cold fingers were reaching out, crushing the light…

The church door was ajar, and we slipped inside. A lantern had been lit at the base of the tower, and it was its light, shining through high small windows overhead, that Jack had seen from Mistress Judith’s house. The brightness threw the interior of the church into deeper darkness, and at first it was impossible to make anything out.

But I could hear well enough.

From somewhere near the altar there was a muffled gasping, as if someone was fighting some obstacle as they fought for breath. Then there was a shriek, and a low, rumbling voice muttered some words I didn’t catch. Jack took off, running towards the altar, and I went after him.

Two figures were struggling together. One was small, thin and youthful – I recognized one of the junior clerics – and the other loomed over him, hooded, dark, big, tall, strong and powerful. For an instant the intense movements of the struggle twisted him round, and the light fell on him: his face was deathly white, and instead of eyes he had two big black holes…

I wanted to scream, but if I did he’d know I was there and he might pounce.

Jack, far braver than I, hurled himself on the pair, trying to grab at the bigger figure and pull it off the young priest. But whatever it was, it knew how to fight. It jerked an elbow into Jack’s ribs, in precisely the right spot and with such violence that I could hear the breath being driven out of the lungs. Then it spun round and landed a savage blow straight to Jack’s jaw, and he crumpled to the floor.

I cowered in the shadows. I knew I should do something, but I was so terrified that I couldn’t move.

Then the young priest managed to wriggle free. He came running straight for me, and hastily I crawled out of his way; the last thing he needed was to trip over me.

I thought he was going to get away, for he was fast on his feet and driven by terror.

But the hooded figure took off as if some diabolic force drove him. He seemed to fly down the aisle after the priest, and I’d swear his feet didn’t make contact with the ground. He leapt on the poor young cleric from behind, and there was a sound like the cry of a bird of prey.

The light of the lantern caught the glint of metal.

I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

The hooded figure had extended one arm – one heavy, thick arm, clad in something that looked like scales. But there was no human hand at the end of that arm: instead, there was a set of long, shining, curved and viciously pointed claws, horrible yet strangely beautiful in their shape and substance.

The young priest turned, and I saw the whites of his eyes, wide with horror as he saw death descend.

There was a whistle as the silvery claws ripped through the air and a dreadful sound of ripping, tearing.

A desperate cry came, turning into a gurgle, swiftly cut off.

The dark shape seemed to gather itself up, and then suddenly it was no longer there.

I was frozen with terror. But then from somewhere deep within me a voice said reprovingly, He may still be alive.

On hands and knees, trembling and shivering, I crawled down the aisle to where the priest lay. I could smell the blood, metallic and tangy, long before I reached him, and soon I could see it, spreading out in a huge pool.

I took his limp, warm body in my arms, cradling his head on my lap. His wide eyes stared up at me, but I knew he couldn’t see me. In the single, frightful movement, impressive in its deadly savagery, his throat had been torn out.

I bent my head over him, wishing I knew the right words. I found myself whispering, over and over again, ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’

After a time – a long time, a short time – I felt Jack’s warm hands on my shoulders. ‘Come away now, Lassair. We will fetch help, and he will be looked after.’

I tried to stand up, but my legs shook too much to hold me. Once again, Jack picked me up in his arms and, cradling me to his chest, murmuring soft words that didn’t seem to make any sense, he carried me away.

I took one last look. The young cleric – the Night Wanderer’s fourth victim – lay like a patch of deeper shadow in the darkness.