Текст книги "The Crediton Killings"

Автор книги: Michael Jecks

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

16

Sniffing disdainfully at the mess, Hugh trod carefully along the alley. There was no idea of cleanliness here. Even when he lived with his parents they had enforced the rules of keeping to their midden and not just peeing against the doorposts of the house. Here, the people didn’t care. The sewers and middens were so far away that people used whatever was nearest. At least to a farmer, the nearest object was usually a tree, Hugh thought to himself, avoiding a pile of excrement, and not his neighbor’s house.

Hugh turned into the side-alley with a set frown of concentration. The woman’s body had been removed during the night, and there was nothing to show of the horror of the previous night. This little branchlet from the main thoroughfare faced east, and the light in the misty morning was charitable to the dirty buildings, hiding streaked and worn limewash, and dissipating the harsh light of the late summer sun so that cracks and holes could not cast such strong shadows.

He stood with his hands on his hips and squinted round the space. He had observed Baldwin often enough when the knight was investigating the site of a tragedy, but the quick eye for details that the knight possessed was not transferable to Hugh, and he knew it. Where Baldwin might have seen a dozen hints for finding the boy, Hugh only saw a mess.

Folding his arms, he leaned a shoulder against a wall and peered at the ground. His master had said that the boy had been in front of his mother, and had seen the attacker coming up behind Simon as the bailiff called the boy to him.

Casting his mind back, Hugh noted where the bodies had lain the night before. He was sure that Simon, having been unconscious for so long, all through the night, must have fallen where he had been hit. Hugh stepped to the spot where, as far as he could tell, his master’s feet had been resting. There were a pair of scuff-marks, and he thought they might have been caused by the bailiff’s feet jerking as he was coshed.

Nodding grimly to himself, Hugh crouched down and stared before him. The dirt had been flattened in some patches. All around there was a light coating of ash, from the many wood fires which had driven off the night’s chill for the townspeople. Though behind him it had all been disturbed by the passage of the men collecting the two figures, and there were clear footprints where the man appointed to stand guard over the woman had waited, Hugh thought he could see where she had lain. As he bent lower, he caught his breath.

From the corner of his eye, he had caught a glimpse of the guard’s footprints. Viewed from this low angle, he discovered he could see them more clearly. To test it, he rested his hands on the ground and held his head almost at floor-level, and found he could see the prints much more distinctly. Wriggling, he squirmed until he was staring excitedly at roughly where the woman’s head had been, and gave a short exclamation of delight. He could see a series of small barefoot prints.

The ones nearest were surprisingly clear. He could make out the individual toes as if the lad had waited there for some time, and perhaps he had, Hugh reflected. After all, Simon had appeared after hearing the boy crying. He could have been there, standing beside his dead mother for an hour or more. People from the houses all round would not leave their dwellings after dark, he was sure, not to go to the aid of a brat they might not know, not when there were the sounds of misery to hint that some danger lurked.

He thought he could make out a scuffle, as if the child had retreated, then shuffled as he began to run away. More marks seemed to lead toward a wall. Rising, he followed after, every now and again lowering himself to make sure of the direction, until he came to a large patch where the muck and dirt had been flattened and dispersed. Going down on one knee, he studied it with bafflement. It was just before the wall, near a hole. Feeling a quick excitement, he dropped by the hole and gazed inside. It was dark and small, and he reached in with a hand, lying heedlessly on his back in the stinking filth. He could feel the sides and roof, and, stretching to his uttermost, he could just touch the furthest extreme. There was no child.

Standing and brushing the dirt from his shoulders, he felt a pang of compassion as he wondered whether it was here that the boy had been caught by the attacker. Maybe, he thought, the flattened patch was caused by the struggle between the two, the man catching hold of the boy who was the only witness to the attack on the bailiff, and possibly the cruel murder of his own mother.

If that was the case, he thought, resting his hands on his hips with a new determination, the people who lived closest must have heard the poor lad’s screams. He stared at the walls all round. There was no doorway on which to bang, but in the alley there were several. Striding out, he turned right and beat upon the timbers of the nearest.

The latch was slipped and the door creaked open; a small, dirty, anxious young girl peeped round it. Seeing Hugh’s fierce glower, her eyes widened in a panic and he realized that the door was about to be slammed. Immediately, he smiled. He also took the precaution of shoving his heavy boot into the gap. “Hello,” he said.

The grubby child looked at his boot with perceptible alarm, and her mouth opened to scream, but before any sound could come out, Hugh squatted reassuringly.

“I want to speak to your mother. Is she here?”

Casting a glance behind, the small face nodded, and soon, to his relief, there was an adult with them.

She was a little under his height, but with the sallow, gray complexion of the poor. Standing in the doorway, she could have been the sister of the murdered woman, and the apron and wimple which she wore in an attempt to appear respectable only added to the impression of sad dilapidation that permeated the buildings of the little alley.

“There was a woman killed here last night.”

“I know. Poor Judith.”

The name meant nothing to Hugh. “She was killed down that alley, which runs beside this place. Did you hear anything?”

“There’s always noises round a place like this. We heard lots of things.”

“A scream?”

“Only her boy. We never heard her.”

“You heard her boy?”

“Rollo? Yes. He was making enough noise to bring the roof down on our heads,” she said.

“You heard him, and you did nothing?” he asked, aghast. “That child might be dead; the same man who killed his mother probably took him and killed him. If you’d gone to him when he cried you might have saved his life!”

“Yes. And I might have got myself killed,” she said, wiping a grimy hand over her forehead. There was no remorse Hugh could perceive, only a weary acceptance. “What good would that have done the lad? Or her, come to that? I have five little ones to look after, now my husband’s dead. What do you expect me to do? Run out and get myself killed at the first alarm?”

Hugh could not help taking a step back. He was not known for his courage, but he was repelled by the dour cowardice of this woman. He could understand nervous people staying in behind their doors after hearing a shriek, but not when it was a child who was being attacked! In his home village, it was the norm for all to go to the aid of a neighbor in trouble, no matter what the cause. If a man was under attack, all would help him.

“Well?” she asked at last. “Do you want to see him or not?”

“Do you know where he is?”

Eyeing him with exasperation, she knocked her little girl on the head and sent her scurrying back into the house. Soon she reappeared dragging an unwilling boy, who held back in fear at the sight of a man.

“What’s he doing here?” Hugh asked, dumbfounded.

“I couldn’t leave the poor bugger out in the cold all night.”

“Did you see the killer?”

“No. All I saw was these two bodies on the ground, and Rollo with them, crying fit to break your heart, so I brought him in here and gave him some hot soup, and while I was doing that, men came and started clearing up.”

“You could have told us you had the lad here.”

“Don’t grumble at me! I did what I could, and that’s a lot more than many would do. I’ve even fed the child, and I’ve hardly got enough for my own, so don’t try to tell me I did wrong. I wasn’t going out again to speak to strangers after nightfall – how was I to know they weren’t men from the inn? They could’ve been friends of the man who killed poor Judith and the other one.”

“The other one wasn’t dead. He’s my master, the bailiff of Lydford.”

“Oh? Well, what’re you going to do with this one? He can’t stay here. We can hardly feed ourselves, let alone an extra mouth.”

“I will take him to my master.”

She nodded, and took the boy’s hand, but as soon as she tried to push him toward Hugh, the lad shook his head violently, eyes wide in the little face. Hugh held his hands out to him, but he stood his ground, lips beginning to tremble.

Sitting back on his haunches, Hugh eyed him speculatively. “He’s scared of me.”

“I wonder why that should be.” The scorn made her voice waspish. “He saw his mother killed last night, and you’re surprised he’s scared of men! Here…” She took the boy’s arm and dragged him forward. “Take him. I took him in because I thought it’d help, but he doesn’t want to stay here. He won’t even talk. You have him, and I hope he helps you.”

The door slammed firmly, and Hugh heard the wooden bolt being pushed across. He wouldn’t be speaking to the woman again. Rollo was standing as if petrified, his eyes massive saucers of fear.

The servant smiled ruefully. “Don’t worry. I think I got nearly as much of a shock as you. Are you hungry? You want some food?” There was no answer. The lad was as dumb as a stone carving. “Well, I think I do. Let’s go to the priest’s house and see what we can find.”

He started off, but the child was a dead weight, pulling back like a rabbit caught in a snare, his visage a picture of terrified misery.

“Look, I’m a friend. All I want to do is help you and make sure you’re safe. All right? Now – when did you last eat meat?”

For the first time, the urchin’s eyes met his. The little skinny body radiated hunger.

“I know where we can get you a thick slice of cold meat. Do you want some?”

Hesitantly, the child allowed himself to be steered toward the main street. Hugh walked happily, confident that he would find out who had attacked his master. This little lad had seen the blow being struck. It could only be a short time before they tracked down the assailant.

17

At the entrance to the inn, Baldwin stood taking his leave of the captain. “I will get the messenger off as soon as possible,” he promised. “The men have had a good head start – are you aware if either of them knows Exeter at all well?”

Sir Hector shrugged peevishly. “I’ve no idea, but I doubt it. Neither of them is from these parts. John Smithson comes from the north, somewhere near St. Albans; Henry from a village near London – Wandsworth, I think.”

“Good. At least they will probably have some little difficulty in finding the right smith to sell the silver to. They will quickly lose any advantage they might have had from their early departure, as their head start will be frittered away while they search.”

“If they went to Exeter…” The captain broke off as an unearthly shriek filled the air. When he continued, his face had reddened and his voice shook with a bellicose resentment. “God’s blood! Do they have to do it in the damned street!”

Baldwin nodded. The sound of a pig being stuck was not one which upset him unduly, being only a natural background noise anywhere in the country at this time of year, but he could see that it might be irritating. The pig was jerking in its death throes as he looked over and nodded to the butcher, who stood back watching his apprentice with his thumbs hooked into his belt. Adam nodded back happily.

Then Baldwin was jerked round by the second high-pitched squeal of terror. At the entrance to the alley opposite, he saw Hugh clutching the arm of a small boy. The lad was keeping up a constant keening ululation as he tried desperately to free himself and escape back along the alley.

Baldwin shot a glance at the captain, then gasped.

Sir Hector’s eyes were fixed on the boy. His face was white with dread, and a nerve under his eye twitched as the strident wailing rose and fell. With a hissed curse, he swiveled round and marched back inside the inn.

Standing with his back to the cool wall, he waited until his heart slowed its agonized pounding.

The boy had seen him, had recognized him from the stabbing of his mother! He should have killed the little bastard when he had the chance. It would be foolish to let him live, when he had witnessed the murder… but before he could strike, the knight’s friend, that damned Bailiff of Lydford, had appeared, and he only just had time to hide in the doorway. The boy had proved useful then, attracting the man’s attention for just long enough… But when the bailiff fell, he had spent too long gloating at the sight of the man on the ground before he tried to catch the boy. By which time he had disappeared! He had evaporated like the dregs of wine from a goblet left overnight, except the boy didn’t even leave a residue: he merely vanished.

He had looked. Oh yes, he had looked. He had searched through the rubbish, swearing constantly, picking about among the scraps of cloth and timber, muttering to himself in his futile rage as he tried to find that tragic face with the enormous eyes so that he could close them and put out the weak flame of life that burned so deeply in them… But he couldn’t find any sign of the lad.

And then the noises had started. Subtle murmurings, the swish of feet, sibilant whispers, as people woken by the disturbance began to wonder at the sudden silence. He had heard a door being tentatively opened, and froze in quick alarm. If someone should come out and investigate, there was nowhere to hide: nowhere!

Then a door creaked, and he heard low voices, people talking in hushed, horror-struck tones. There was a pile of torn and rotten sacking nearby, and he leapt to it without a second thought, dragging the foul cloth over himself.

Footsteps had approached and faded, local inhabitants walking toward him, then exclaiming as they found the bodies and had turned back. People had seemed awed by the enormity of what they had discovered. Then there was a short pattering as those same people bolted for the security of their houses, and he was sure that he was alone at last.

Cautiously peeping out from under his covering, he had seen that the alley was clear once more. He had clambered out and quickly felt the woman. She was cooling rapidly; he knew she must be dead, for he had felt enough dead bodies in his time.

The bailiff was still alive and breathing – almost snoring, as if he had been simply snoozing after a good meal. The noise infuriated him. It was loud enough to waken the whole town! he thought angrily. He tugged his knife from its sheath, ready to stab, when the new noise stopped him. More doors opening stealthily; more voices. He had no time, he must make his escape. At least the bailiff had not seen him – he had not had the chance to spy his attacker before falling. Still holding the knife, the killer bolted, moving quietly on soft pigskin boots which made little sound on the packed earth of the alley. Only at the end had he realized he still held the dagger in his fist. He thrust it into its sheath and, with suddenly nerveless fingers, he had half-leaned, half-staggered to the nearest wall, where he stood with his hands dangling, staring over the road to where he had killed her.

She had deserved it, and so had he, the bastard, he reflected with satisfaction. And then a slow smile broke out across his features as he considered how his plan was going.

The same slow smile appeared now, and the thin layer of tension was banished from his face. She had deserved it, and so had he. And soon, surely, he would pay the price in full for his deeds. Unless – a frown twisted his face – unless that cretin of a Keeper of the King’s Peace should realize. He was known to be clever – what if he guessed at the truth? With a shrug, he put the idea from his mind. There was plenty of proof for the knight of Furnshill. The Keeper of the King’s Peace must realize soon what had happened.

Baldwin strode back through the town with no regard for the two men and child following. His stern expression matched his somber mood as he thought it all through again. Sarra had been killed after an argument with the captain. Judith had been stabbed to death after trying to beg from him, and he had refused her in no uncertain terms. The man had lost his silver, but that appeared now to have been the work of a couple of his own men, who had run away with their profit before their unstable leader could exact his own punishment. He made a mental note to free Cole: if the two had stolen the plate, surely they must also have killed Sarra… But although he slowed his step, he did not turn and march back to the jail. It might be better to keep Philip locked up for now, until the mercenaries had left the town. There might still be some who would be prepared to execute him in misguided loyalty to Sir Hector. Baldwin recalled how Wat had suggested that Cole had been friendly with Henry and John too; so it was just possible that Cole had been involved, that he had been a willing accomplice to the theft. He resolved to leave the man in jail a little longer.

Why the man had knocked Simon out was anyone’s guess, but Baldwin was now of a mind to think that Judith’s killer either had not wanted to kill the bailiff but had been disturbed by his blundering nearby, or had intended to kill him as well, but had been interrupted by someone else. Whichever proved to be the truth, Baldwin was certain that Sir Hector would not have balked at killing either Simon or himself.

“Hugh, could you take the boy away for a minute?”

Baldwin watched as Hugh led Rollo some feet away, then faced Edgar, standing still in the road. A rider passed, swearing at them for blocking the road, but Baldwin ignored him. “Edgar, whoever the murderer is, he has killed two women, and would probably have done for the lad as well.” Baldwin gravely studied the small figure with Hugh. “He has been very brave, our Rollo. Let’s hope he can be braver still and tell us what he saw last night. Simon escaped by a miracle. Next time, the killer might be more lucky – if he wants to see Simon dead.”

“But surely if he wanted to kill Simon he would have stabbed him rather than knocking him cold,” Edgar suggested.

“That’s possible. But he knocked out Simon after he’d killed the woman, I assume. She felt quite cool to the touch, so she’d been dead some time. It’s quite likely he only struck Simon because he wanted to silence him. Perhaps he would have stabbed him as well but he was stopped by other people approaching.”

“So you think he might still try to kill Simon? That’d be a little irrational, wouldn’t it?”

“It’s hardly the behavior of a rational man to kill two women, is it? There’s nothing I’m aware of which links them: a girl from an inn and a beggar. And if he is not rational, he might come to the conclusion that Simon could have seen him. He might decide that it is better to make absolutely sure of Simon’s silence – that’s why I want you to look to our friend’s protection. Don’t let anyone near him while he’s unwell.”

Edgar nodded. Hugh returned when Baldwin beckoned.

“Hugh, I want you to stay with your master all the time he’s ill from this blow to his head. I think he might be in danger. Edgar will help you.”

Simon’s servant glowered truculently. Jerking a thumb at Rollo, he was about to speak out when Baldwin hastily cut him off.

“Right, let’s get back before anything else can happen.”

The last thing he needed was for the boy to be even more scared than he already was. Baldwin did not want Hugh to point out that, of all of them, Rollo himself must be in the most danger.

Walter Stapledon pulled the spectacles from his nose with a wry smile and sighed. There was no doubt that the two discs of glass helped enormously, and with them he could see as well as he ever had, but they were tiring for his eyes. Roger was reading at another table, and he looked up on hearing his Bishop’s despairing exhalation. Stapledon was staring up at one of the windows as if for inspiration, his brow furrowed with affairs that Roger could only guess at.

The matters which were causing so much distress to the Bishop were not simple issues about the cathedral, or the founding of Stapledon College at Oxford; nor were they to do with the grammar school the Bishop was bent on creating. They were affairs of state.

This letter was from his friend John Sandale, the Bishop of Winchester and, more recently, the King’s Treasurer as well. John had written to tell him of the appalling state of the Exchequer’s records. There was no classification of records – most were not even dated. The staff were being smothered by their work, and had little, if any, guidance as to what they were expected to achieve.

Standing, Stapledon stretched and went to the screens. He stopped a passing servant and asked for wine, then returned to his desk. Soon the jug and a large goblet arrived, and he sipped sparingly.

The trouble was, the King was weak and ineffectual. He could be too easily swayed by any man with a persuasive turn of phrase – or a man who was too pretty, he admitted, sourly staring into his drink. That was one piece of information the country would be happier not to know. In general his friendships were passed off as being the natural desire of a young man to meet with others of his own age, but there was no way to hide his more flagrant affairs from closer members of his household, and, reading between the lines of Sandale’s letter, Stapledon knew that the King had set his hopes on yet another man. How the Queen could tolerate such behavior, he had no idea.

If the King was not careful, he might lose his crown – and his head. It would not be easy to force some of his more strident critics, especially those who also enjoyed positions of power, to restrain their public condemnation of him. No, it was beyond the Bishop how the poor Queen could bear to be near him, and if she were to lose her reserve, the King’s fate would soon be sealed.

Hearing the stamp of approaching feet, he looked up. Soon the door was thrown open and Baldwin and the others walked in. Smiling his welcome, Stapledon put his letters aside, folded, to be free from prying eyes, then froze at the sight of the expression on Baldwin’s face.

“Hugh,” the knight said, and gestured curtly. “I’m sure the lad would like to see the garden. And might enjoy playing with Edith – uhn, after he’s had a wash, perhaps. Oh, and give him some food. See to it that he’s comfortable.”

Stapledon watched as the servant took the boy out, then turned enquiringly to the knight. Baldwin sat on a bench at his table, and explained who the boy was, then told of his fears for the lad’s safety since the screaming fit in the town.

“And there is more,” Baldwin went on. “Two of the mercenaries have run away.”

Roger sat open-mouthed while Baldwin told of his discussion with the captain until he could not help bursting out, “They must have been the men I saw last night!”

“What? Where?” Baldwin frowned.

“Two men on horses, with a pack animal on a long line. I saw them just before I heard the commotion in the alley, and it put them from my mind.”

“Where were they heading?” Baldwin asked keenly, suppressing his excitement, and when Roger told him, he gave a groan of delight. “Then I was right! They are going toward Exeter. Bishop, could you send a messenger to alert your men at the cathedral? Have them check on all the silversmiths and find out if they’ve had a large amount of plate offered to them? Much, if not all, will be foreign, I would imagine. It must be easy to tell.”

“I can try,” the Bishop said, “but are you sure? They might simply have gone that way as far as the first village, then turned north. There’s nothing to suggest that they would definitely have gone to Exeter.”

“No, but I’m sure they will have done, nonetheless. They have no local knowledge, and would expect their captain to be after them at the earliest opportunity. Where else could they go, other than to the nearest city where at least they could try to hide themselves in the crowd, and where there would be many ships and other roads to take? These men, from what I saw of them, have a certain cunning, but I doubt whether they’d be able to think up a more detailed plan.”

“But they might have been planning this for months.”

“Possibly, but I doubt it. Sir Hector and his men have been up north. They were trying to get themselves recruited by the army. John Smithson comes from near St. Albans, while Henry the Hurdle is from Surrey, near London. The mercenaries passed nearby both places, once while they were going northward, to offer their services to the King. If they were going to steal all this stuff, surely they’d have done it near one of their homes? Then they’d know people to sell it to, people who could hide them until the fuss died down and their captain had gone. No, the robbery was perpetrated here because of something about this place. I just wish I knew what it was.”

“Roger – could you fetch me Stephen, please. And tell the groom to prepare his mare. He will be leaving as soon as possible.” The Bishop turned to Baldwin. “Now, would you like a little wine?”

“No, thank you, my lord. I must see that child and make sure he is all right, and I want to see Simon too.”

“I suppose I should return to my work as well,” the Bishop muttered, throwing the papers a look of repugnance so virulent that Baldwin laughed.

“It is our duty to work, my lord.”

“Yes. Strangely, though, I sometimes wonder what made the Good Lord decide to inflict papers on us. We must have done something appalling to have deserved such a punishment.”

Simon was not in his bed. Leaving his chamber, it was only when he reached the garden that Baldwin could find him.

Immediately outside the house, on a terrace, Peter had created a pleasing display of medicinal and culinary herbs. Below it, beyond a group of massive oaks and elms, was a large meadow, and in here Baldwin saw Margaret playing with Edith. Judith’s son was nearby, sitting on a bench with Simon, while Hugh hovered, scowling distrustfully at the world at large.

To Baldwin’s relief, apart from a certain pallor, Simon looked fine. While the knight had been at the inn, Peter Clifford had asked one of the canons who was well practiced with medicines to come and see Simon, and he had impressed the priest with a professional display, holding up a number of fingers before Simon and asking him to confirm how many, inspecting the wound itself and smearing egg-white over it to cleanse it, and making sure Simon’s tongue had not gone black. Peter had no idea what this last could possibly show, but he was prepared to take the word of a trained man when he was told that Simon was fit, though he might be prone to headaches for a while to come.

Baldwin took a seat next to his friend. “How are you?”

“Grim.” Simon winced. “And this weather doesn’t help.”

Baldwin nodded. The damp heat smothered everything like a blanket, and he was already sweating profusely after the cool of the hall. “How is your head?”

“I feel as if I’ve spent the whole of last night drinking with Sir Hector’s men, matching each of them pint for pint individually, before being used as a football. And every time I speak, someone hits me again, from the feel of it.”

“It will improve.” Baldwin smiled. He had little sympathy with small knocks. Now he was sure Simon was to recover fully, he saw no need for excessive compassion. Men had suffered from worse, and would continue to do so.

“I am grateful for your sympathy,” Simon said ironically. “Margaret told me about last night. Thanks for coming and fetching me. So! What happened this morning?”

Baldwin told him, beginning with Hugh finding the boy and then recounting his interview with the captain. “And Roger saw them riding off, so we know where to search.”

“It shouldn’t take long,” Simon said speculatively. “There aren’t all that many silversmiths in Exeter.”

“No. We should have an answer – or a pair of prisoners – tomorrow evening.”

“With any luck, we can put them straight behind bars.”

“But what are we to make of the other instance? The boy clearly identified the captain, albeit unintentionally.”

“The two in Exeter must have stolen the silver.”

“Probably stole – not must have stolen. After all, it could still have been Cole who took the plate, and they saw where he hid it.”

“True, in which case either Cole or those two also murdered Sarra.”

“Yes…”

“Baldwin, you’ve gone into one of your ruminations. You’re staring out over the meadow and frowning, and that means something doesn’t strike true to you.”

“I was merely thinking: it seems unlikely that there should be two murderers stalking the town, and yet the boy showed terror when he saw Sir Hector. If Sarra was killed by whoever took the plate, it was not Sir Hector – he would hardly take his own silver. So, if he killed Judith, the two murders must be unconnected, but what possible motive could Sir Hector have to kill this woman Judith? The most obvious suspects for the murder of Sarra were Henry and John, as their rapid departure showed. And yet…”

“Could they have killed Judith and knocked me out?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible. We cannot tell how long you were unconscious there. It is feasible that they struck you down, saw who they’d hit, and left quickly to ride from town.”

“But why would the boy have reacted as he did when he saw Sir Hector, unless he saw his mother’s murderer?”

Baldwin sighed with vexation. “Perhaps the murders were nothing to do with the robbery. Maybe there’s something we’ve missed. In any case, we should have the captain watched. The boy certainly shrieked at the sight of him, and that seems to imply he must have had something to do with Judith’s death.”