Текст книги "The Crediton Killings"

Автор книги: Michael Jecks

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

10

Simon was bored. The men were cautious in their answers, and Baldwin was having to work to tease every detail he could from them; for the bailiff, it was dull. There was no verbal interplay, just a detailed questioning, with the knight checking their story and the two giving noncommittal, one-word replies.

The bailiff found his attention wandering. At the nearest bench he could see Hugh and Edgar talking to an older man, while others looked on suspiciously. The men polishing armor had gone. The armorer was still whetting his sword with his stone, but it was a listless motion; his mind was not on the metal before him, and with the sun at its hottest, Simon was not surprised. Even under the elm it was stiflingly hot, with not a breath of air to stir the leaves.

Standing, he made his way over to the inn, intending to ask for a drink, but when he peered into the buttery, he found the innkeeper’s wife asleep in a chair, head back, and mouth wide open, issuing small snores and gasps. He smiled, then left her in peace. Wondering where her husband was, he walked to the hall and glanced inside. Three men sat at the dais, playing dice. They had been placed there by Sir Hector, and would allow no one to pass.

Simon did not attempt to test their resolve. He walked out, past the pantry and leaned on the doorframe which gave out onto the street.

The sight of Crediton High Street never ceased to give him pleasure. He had visited many other towns, even been to the city of Exeter twice, and in comparison, Crediton, he thought, was perfect. It bustled, without intimidating visitors by its size. Other places were too large, and their alleys and streets were potential traps to the unwary, but in Crediton everyone knew everybody else, and it was safe to mingle with the crowd. As he watched, young merchants and tradesmen rushed past, going about their business; canons walked by, disdainfully avoiding the manure in their path; a hunter with rough shirt and leather jerkin strode proudly with dogs at his heels; the wife of a rich burgess strolled past, her maid carrying her heavy blue cloak. Simon smiled and nodded at them, but the wife ignored him, thinking he might be drunk. The maid gave him a twinkling smile from the corner of her eye which made up for her mistress’s rudeness.

He crossed his arms. At first he had thought that the killing and theft would be enough to keep his interest, but already his mind was turning from the fate of the man in the jail and moving back to his wife.

Margaret had always been all he had ever wanted in a wife. She was attractive, intelligent, and a calming influence on him in his more angry moments when he had been locking horns with the miners who had colonized the moors. He had loved her from the first moment he had seen her, and had never regretted their marriage. She had given him the two principle joys of his life: Edith and Peterkin. But now Peterkin had gone, so had much of his zest for life. He no longer had the patience he once had when Edith played in the house, and could not even speak to Margaret about his sense of loss.

It was easier, he felt, to keep his emotions locked away. He preferred to avoid discussion of Peterkin because he knew it would entail her talking and him being evasive. It would be different if they had many children, but it seemed difficult for them: two children with some years between them, and a series of miscarriages. He was not sure that she would be able to bear him another son, and it was that which hurt: not that he wanted a new wife, but he was sad not to have a son with whom he could play, whom he could educate and train.

Hearing a high-pitched scream, he sprang forward, then forced himself to relax. It was only a boy laughing. For some reason, Simon felt his scalp tingle with anticipation. When another cry of delight rang out, he followed the sound, almost unwillingly.

Giggles and squeals of pleasure issued from the alleyway down alongside the jail, and he crossed the road, shouldering people out of the way. At the entrance he stood and peered inside. Washing hung limply from tired, slack lines, and beneath, all was dark. After the bright sun in the street, he had to blink. There, a short way inside the alley was the woman and son whom he had rescued from the soldier.

Roger had seen the bailiff cross the street, and now he strolled after him. The interrogation was dull for him as well.

At the alley entrance he saw Simon hesitate. The bailiff was wondering whether to leave before the woman saw him – or to go up and speak to her. She saved him the choice. Looking up as his shadow darkened the entrance, she gave a small cry, holding out her arms, and the boy rushed to her protection, throwing his skinny arms round her neck and whimpering. Simon quickly realized that he must seem a menacing figure, with the sun behind him and his features hidden. He smiled, moving back so that the sun caught his face, and held his hands a little way from his body to show he was not holding a weapon.

She was wearing the same worn and frayed gray tunic, a cord tied round her waist to give it a semblance of shape. As his eyes began to adjust, he saw that she had a thin, ravaged face, little more than a gray skull, from which sunken eyes stared back with near-panic. Wispy strands of pale hair hung dispiritedly from beneath her wimple. Cradling her child, she stared up at him as if convinced he was about to attack her, and her fear was all too plain.

There was no reason why this woman should wish to speak to him. He had helped her during the night, it was true, but she did not recognize him. It had been dark, and he was on horseback first. Looking up at a figure some eight feet above would not give a good perspective, and she had been so scared at the threats of the man-at-arms that she might not have noticed his face.

Suddenly she leaped up, and, holding her child to her thin breast, darted away from him, pelting down the alley. He took a step forward automatically.

“Sir?”

Hearing Roger, he stopped. There was no point in chasing her; he would only scare her more if he did so. His shoulders drooped with an unaccountable melancholy, formed mainly of jealousy, as he turned to face Roger.

She ran past. It was tempting, but killing her now would be foolish. Judith must wait: he could not see to her now while the bailiff was there to hear her screams and rush to rescue her. No, he thought regretfully, and allowed his hand to relax on the knife’s handle. When he looked back toward the entrance, the looming bulk of the bailiff had gone, and the watching man felt a quick resentment.

He had nothing much against the bailiff, but he was irritated by the slowness of the knight with his investigations. Why had he only arrested Cole? The man should have realized by now who was the guilty one, and that different people had performed the two crimes: one had stolen while the other had killed. If Furnshill had half a brain, he thought, the fool would have arrested the obvious one by now.

He eyed the bright opening where the bailiff had stood. It would have been a stroke of sheer good fortune, of course, had the man not turned up. The watcher had been wondering how to deal with Judith, and this would have been the perfect occasion. He hated to miss an opportunity. While he was hidden in the doorway, the pathetic woman could have run by and met her end quickly; his arm reaching out to curl round her throat as she rushed past, halting her, the quick shock freezing her for a moment, just long enough for his hand to find her mouth and smother her cry, the knife pushing through her back, near the spine, first low down for her kidneys, then higher, reaching for her heart.

He was irritated at missing the chance, but he knew the value of patience. He was in no hurry: there would be plenty of occasions offering similar possibilities and he must take his time. Patting his knife in its sheath, he made his way to the street, and soon became lost in the crowd.

When Simon and Roger got back to the inn, Baldwin and the two servants were sitting together at a table. The two mercenaries were nowhere to be seen, and Simon felt a vague sense of relief. If he had to watch the hideous mouth of John Smithson for another second he would be sick.

Baldwin held a tankard of weak ale in his hand; he waved them toward the jug and a spare pot on the table. “I was beginning to wonder if you had gone back to Peter’s.”

“No, we were out in front.” He did not meet the Keeper’s eye. For some reason he did not want to tell his friend about the woman and her son. It felt foolish, almost, to have wanted to speak to her, and to have listened to her son playing as if it could heal the pain of his own boy’s death.

Baldwin caught his mood, and guessed his friend had been thinking about his son again. He diplomatically poured ale and passed Simon the pot. “We have had some interesting information. Hugh, tell Simon what you’ve heard.”

Leaning forward, his face once more set in its customary scowl, Hugh related Wat’s thoughts, Edgar interrupting occasionally to correct a point.

As he gradually came to a halt, glowering at Edgar, Baldwin sat back on his bench and shot a glance at Simon. “Well?” he demanded, and finished his pot.

“It hardly helps us, does it?” Simon muttered, and dropped onto the bench beside his friend. “Surely he’s just a man with some sort of grudge against the other two, who would like to think they were guilty. It doesn’t help explain who stole the silver – or why they killed Sarra.”

“Her death is the most confusing part,” Baldwin admitted. “From the lump on her head, she must have been knocked out before she was gagged and bound.”

“So whoever took the plate found her in the room and knocked her out, then stabbed her,” said Hugh. He was rapidly getting light-headed from the ale he had drunk.

“No, Hugh,” said Baldwin. “I can easily believe that she was knocked out when the thief entered the room and that she was shut away, silent, in the chest. But why would he go back later to stab her and kill her? It makes no sense.”

Simon shrugged. “There might have been two men there; one was seen by her, the other hit her. The second one tied her up, but the first knew he’d been seen, so he killed her later.”

“That supposes that one of them was already there, and the second came in later and gave away their intention… it is possible, but I find it hard to swallow.” Baldwin frowned.

“Why?” asked Simon.

“One man goes into the room, then the girl enters. A second man goes in, and hits her.” He meditatively swung an imaginary club with a fist. “He knocks her out, and that gives him a chance to truss and gag her. Then he lifts her… have you ever tried to lift an unconscious body on your own? It is like a sack of wheat; it goes in all directions. I would think that both lifted her up and set her into the chest. But then one of them goes back and kills her.”

“I wonder…”

“What, Simon?”

“It may be nothing, but that tunic… It was of exceptional quality, and very expensive. I wonder…”

“Sir, can I serve more ale?”

Simon turned a dazzling smile on the innkeeper. “Paul, thank you. Yes, we’d like more ale, but why don’t you join us?”

Paul was flattered. For two days now he had been running around after the mercenaries, without a single word of gratitude. It took him little time to fetch a fresh jug and a pot for himself, and then he sat comfortably, sighing with the relief of it. His legs ached and his feet were sore from standing too long, his back was stiff from bending to pour jugs, and he had an almost overwhelming desire to shut his eyes and doze off. Margery has gone to bed; she had not been able to sleep until the early hours because of the noise from the hall, and partly from her fear of the men themselves.

“It’s a shame about Sarra,” Simon said.

“Yes. She was a good girl, really. Pretty, too. She never deserved to die like that.”

“She was getting on all right with Sir Hector, wasn’t she?”

“I think so. She was with him on the very first night, when this lot arrived, so she must have caught his eye. At the best of times she was hard enough to keep working, but after meeting him, she was impossible.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t want to be like the other girls, I suppose. Wanted to get married, have children, the normal things, but with a rich man for a husband. Sir Hector was ideal for her. Money, power, the lot. He was exactly what she needed – or so she thought.”

“Did she have any good clothes, like the tunic she was wearing when she died?”

“That blue one? No, I’d never seen it before. What would a serving-girl want with something like that? No, that wasn’t hers.”

“Where did it come from then?” asked Simon. Baldwin leaned forward, his dark eyes intent.

“I don’t know.”

“It wasn’t your wife’s – or one of the other girls”?“

“No. I’ve never seen it before.”

“Tell me, innkeeper,” Baldwin said, resting his elbows on the table. “Was she popular normally with your… clients?”

“Very – when she was interested.” Paul smiled as his eyelids drooped with tiredness. It was hard to keep alert in the elm’s shade. “She was very pretty, and she knew it. Well, it’s not surprising. With looks like hers, she had all the men after her like rams after the ewe, and she could pick and choose. Why, the night before this lot got here, she had been trying to snare an apprentice to a goldsmith! He was too scared, though, from what I saw.”

“Perhaps one of her more appreciative clients gave her the tunic, then.”

“Could be. Poor lass. Always wanted money and marriage, and just when she got the kind of tunic she always craved, she gets herself killed.”

“Was she keen to get money, then?” asked Simon.

“Oh, yes. She saw all her friends working themselves into the ground, and she was determined to be free, to have a husband who had money, so she wouldn’t have to work any more.”

“Do you know if she was friendly with Cole?”

“Him? No, not at all. I saw them only yesterday, arguing.”

“What about?”

“Something to do with Henry and John. I don’t know what.”

Simon picked up a large twig and toyed with it thoughtfully. “And she was succeeding with Sir Hector.”

“On the first night. Not after that.”

“What happened?” Simon’s ears pricked up.

“Didn’t you hear? Oh, they argued. They woke up Margery, and I was really furious. It was the first proper sleep she’d had since they got here, and then just as she dropped off, there was all that shouting, and doors slamming and so on, and…”

“When was this?”

“On the day she died. She had gone to the captain during the first night, but the next afternoon, he had dropped her like a hot brick. Then yesterday they had a row!”

“What happened? Where were you, for example, when you heard them?”

“Me?” he said, his eyes opening a little at Simon’s obvious eagerness. “Oh, I was out in the buttery, filling jugs. Cristine came through and told me something was going on, but I decided to ignore it. The last thing I’d do is stand between two soldiers in a fight – they’d probably turn on me! No, it wasn’t until Margery came and told me it was him and Sarra, and how much row they were making, that I decided to go and speak to them.”

“How was she? Worried? Nervous?”

“My wife? No, just irritated to be woken up, and it made her cross with me for letting them carry on. I went through the hall, and I could hear doors slamming as I got in…”

“Where? Were these doors out at the back, where Sir Hector had his room?” Simon queried.

Paul stared, forcing his mind back. “One was, I think. But the other was out at the back. It was probably the door to her room.”

“That’s over there?” Baldwin confirmed, jerking his head toward the block across the yard.

“Yes. Anyway, I went into the hall, and a few minutes later Sir Hector came out. He apologized, said that she had annoyed him, and that was that.”

“Did he say how she had irritated him?” Baldwin said.

“Not really, no,” frowned the innkeeper. “He said she had gone on about something to do with one of his men, saying Sir Hector was in danger, something along those lines.”

“Which of his men?”

“I really don’t…”

“Think, Paul! This could have something to do with why Sarra’s dead.”

The innkeeper recalled how he had gone to the door of Sir Hector’s bedchamber, but before he could open it, the captain had emerged, shaking with rage, his face mottled. Seeing Paul he had spoken with fearsome control, as if each word was weighed carefully. “That strumpet Sarra has had the goodness to warn me that my men are plotting against me. Me! As if I were a puny baron! I’ve told her to leave my sight and not return, and I’d be grateful if you would make sure she does not come near to me again while I stay here.”

Paul had nodded in astonishment, and turned to go, but he had heard the knight mutter one more word under his breath “Henry!”

As he told the others, Simon rolled his eyes skyward in disbelief while Baldwin closed his. Edgar winced.

Hugh looked from one to the other. “What’s the matter?”

“So let me understand this, Sir Baldwin. You are accusing me of stealing my own silver and murdering a serving-girl, is that right?”

Baldwin sighed. He had known that speaking to Sir Hector again would be difficult, but he had hoped to explain himself before the captain flew off the handle. “I am not accusing you of anything, Sir Hector, but we have been told that you had an argument with Sarra on the afternoon when she died, and it might help us to find her killer if we know what you argued about.” He dropped into a chair.

They were once more in the hall. Thankfully most of the mercenaries were outside. Only a few men sat nearby to protect their master. Simon lounged against a wall, idly swinging his twig. Roger was beside him, his arms crossed as he listened. The servants had remained outside at the bench.

“What has this to do with finding my silver?”

“Did you argue with her?” Baldwin continued doggedly.

“What if I did?”

“If you did, what was it about?”

“She had a stupid notion that some of the men were planning to mutiny, that’s all.”

“Who?”

“What has this got to do with…”

“Sir Hector, I am trying to the best of my ability and skill…”

“Which is limited.”

“Perhaps. But I am trying to find out where your silver is and who killed Sarra.”

“Then go and demand the truth of Cole. He must have done both,” Sir Hector suggested with exasperation.

Simon drew his dagger and began shaving flakes from his stick. “If we question him, he could lie, especially if we were to use any force to get him to confess. He might have an accomplice, in which case even if Cole knew where it was stored, the silver might already have been moved. Cole might not know where it is now. Far better if we learn a little more about everything which happened yesterday, so we know when he lies.”

Sir Hector eyed him with distaste. “If you are incapable of persuading him to tell you the truth, you don’t know how to ask. If he has an accomplice, make him tell you who it is. You’ll soon find out where my plate is stored when you have both of them locked up, and if you don’t I can lend you men who know how to extract such facts from recalcitrant captives.”

“That will not be necessary,” Baldwin said sharply. His friends and colleagues had been tortured when the Knights Templar were destroyed by the French King, and the sight of their twisted, agonized bodies had persuaded him forever that torture was no assistance in an enquiry. Torture only made people answer what they thought their questioners wanted to hear; it did not force them to give the truth. “But it is important that we understand what happened yesterday. I cannot believe that you are trying to hide something, Sir Hector, but your refusal to answer what seems to me to be a very simple question must make me wonder what motivates your reticence.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No. But I will not be trying to discover what happened to your silver until I feel I have your cooperation.”

“Then perhaps I should investigate the matter myself, with my men.”

“I think,” Simon interrupted, taking on a judicial air, “that would not be useful.”

“Really? Well, I am beginning to think it might be the only way of learning what happened to my plate.”

“What of the girl? You argued with her, threw her out, told everyone to keep her away from you, and then she is found dead in your room,” Baldwin thundered.

“It has nothing to do with this.”

“God’s teeth! We will judge that, not you! I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace for this town, and you are deliberately hampering my investigation. Are you aware that you are, so far, the only person we have found who has argued with her? That makes you the only man with a motive to kill her!” Baldwin paused. “Now – was it Henry whom Sarra warned you of?”

Simon looked at his friend. The knight’s outburst surprised him, for he had known Baldwin to remain calm under vastly more irritating meetings than this.

“Yes,” Sir Hector admitted.

Baldwin frowned. “What exactly did she say?”

“She accused him of trying to set the men against me; she thought he was a danger to me.”

“You didn’t believe her?” Simon asked.

“In God’s name, no! She hated Henry. On the night we came here, he tried to rape her – he would have done so, too, if I hadn’t intervened – and from then on she clearly wanted to get her own back. She made up this story to discredit him, and I wasn’t in a mood to listen.”

“So you ignored it?”

“Yes. I told her to get out and not to bother coming back. Henry the Hurdle is one of my best men.”

“Did it not occur to you that he might be the man who stole your plate?”

“He’s my leading sergeant! Who else can I trust if not him? He always has access to my money and silver. I can’t imagine anyone less likely to have been the thief. And in any case, why should I think of other men when you have the thief already held in jail?”

Baldwin stirred. “So you ejected Sarra from your room and she left immediately?”

“Yes. She went to her own room, I suppose.”

“When did you next see her?”

“When I was called to look at the open chest – when we got back from the chase for Cole.”

“So you didn’t see her alive again?”

“No.”

“One last point, Sir Hector. The tunic she was wearing when she died – have you seen it before?”

The mercenary clenched his jaw. He had hoped that the knight would not have led on to that, but it was a natural question, he knew. The dress was far too good for a tavern slut like her. “No,” he said. “I’ve never seen it before.”

Simon glanced up at him, his dagger taking another shaving from the stick. The captain’s voice had been quieter, almost contemplative, and Simon was sure he was lying.