[Mediaeval Mystery 06] - Cast the First Stone

by C. B. Hanley

  ‘A loom?’ He paused, a look of incredulity spreading over his face. ‘But that’s just two uprights and a horizontal bar. Surely even Edwin could manage …’ Belatedly he realised he was about to do himself out of a bit of business. ‘Or I can send Bert here over to do it for you. Simple job.’

  Alys looked closely at the boy, reasonably certain he wasn’t the same one she’d seen at the mill the day before. But that was no matter. ‘No, that’s not what I mean.’ She’d seen some very simple looms of the type he described in other houses in the village: just like a door-frame, with warp threads hanging from the top bar and weighted at the bottom to keep them taut. But although these were all right on a very basic level, they produced a very inferior grade of cloth – not one she would really even consider for blankets, never mind clothes. What she had in mind was not quite as complex as the ones that had been housed in her father’s weaving sheds back at h–, back in Lincoln, but certainly a step up from anything she had seen here.

  She began to describe to him what a horizontal loom looked like, and at first he nodded, but by the time she got to beaters, shaft bars and treadles she could see that he was losing his way.

  He spoke a little dubiously. ‘Never made anything like that before. Reckon you could draw it, if I send Robin over later with a board and a bit of charcoal?’

  ‘I could try. And if you’re willing to make something new to you then I’d be very grateful. And of course I’m happy to pay properly to make sure it’s right.’

  He brightened; after all, he did have all those mouths to feed. ‘That’s settled then. Robin’s finishing on the mill roof today. If he’s back before dark I’ll send him round; if not, tomorrow morning.’

  Alys thanked him and watched as he turned back to his chiselling – something quite fine-looking; perhaps it was for the castle – and was soon absorbed. As she left she smiled down at little Barty, who was trying his best to emulate his father. He had a tiny knife, and now, instead of using it to whittle, he put the point into an offcut of wood and hit the handle with a hammer that had a very dirty round head. That certainly wasn’t a toy, and she wondered if he would get into trouble when his father found out that he’d pilfered a tool from the workshop.

  Anyway, the subject of the loom had been raised, and the bread was baking. The rain was still holding off, so she decided to get some work done in the garden while she could.

  Edwin was about to leave the masons, Philippe’s warning ringing in his ears, when a thought occurred to him. He turned to Denis. ‘What were you doing in the village just now? Were you working on Ivo’s house?’

  ‘No. Philippe had said that we should stop work on it until we know more. After all, the lord may not want it built now.’

  Edwin waited for more, but needed to prompt him. ‘So …?’

  ‘I lost one of my tools,’ Denis confessed, glancing at the master mason shamefacedly. ‘The hammer I was showing you the other day, in fact. When I was last down there, the bottom fell out of my bag and the tools scattered in the straw. I thought I had picked them all up but later I saw it was missing.’

  ‘And did you find it?’

  ‘No. It was gone. So maybe I dropped it somewhere else, or maybe someone has taken it.’ He turned to Philippe. ‘I can borrow another for now, so it won’t affect my work.’

  Philippe made a tutting noise, but all he said was, ‘See that you do. And, to be fair, you are normally careful, so let this be the first and only time.’

  Denis nodded and, after a pause during which Edwin did not speak, he moved away. Philippe also returned to his work, leaving Edwin standing in the ward thinking about a hammer. A hammer with a smooth round head. One that would be heavy enough to inflict a fatal crushing blow, if swung with force, but that had no corners or sharp edges to cause a jagged cut.

  The body had only been taken to the church that morning; Father Ignatius couldn’t possibly have buried it yet. Edwin made his way out of the castle and down the rutted path.

  It was dark and chill inside the church, which made Edwin wonder, again, why Ivo might have wanted a house made of stone. He approached the body, which was lying on a trestle table, and pulled back the cloth. Someone had closed the eyes since he had last seen it, but otherwise all was the same. He bent to examine the wound more closely, but was hampered by the lack of light; the few small windows didn’t let in much at the best of times, and on a gloomy day like today they were virtually useless.

  He borrowed the candle that was burning on the altar – a good one, as the church received an allowance of them from the earl – and placed it on the table near Ivo’s head, where it cast a steady light.

  Now he could see more clearly, and what he observed confirmed his impression from early that morning. The right temple had been hit with a force that had dented the skull beneath it, but there was no sharp cut and no other residue around the wound. Blood had dripped both downwards and sideways from the injury – Edwin thought about it for a moment and then visualised the bleeding starting while Ivo had been standing upright, and then continuing as he lay on his back on the ground.

  But the blood hadn’t just dripped. Now he was looking in better light Edwin could see that it had been smeared. Were those the marks of fingers? He thought they were. Perhaps Ivo had put a hand up to his head after he’d been hit.

  Edwin pulled the cloth away from the rest of the body and picked up Ivo’s lifeless right hand. But the long, slim fingers were as clean as they had been when he’d seen them at the dining table. Odd. He moved to the other side, but the left hand was similarly unblemished. He went back to the head. Yes – now he had thought of fingermarks, he could see that that was exactly what they were. Someone who wasn’t Ivo had touched the injury after it had been inflicted. The murderer maybe? To check that he really was dead?

  A footstep sounded behind him and he started. It was Father Ignatius. ‘Are you praying, my son, or working?’ He came forward.

  ‘The latter, Father, though I should do the former as well before I leave.’ He felt the warmth of the priest’s bulk as they stood side by side looking down at the body.

  Father Ignatius sighed. ‘Yes. Another life gone before its allotted span, although in this case …’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The priest made a helpless gesture. ‘Murder is a mortal sin and an affront to God. But I can’t help wondering if this was the Lord’s plan all along, in order to save others from starving.’

  Edwin was taken aback. ‘Surely you don’t …’

  ‘As I say, I don’t know. I cannot know. But the Lord has worked in mysterious ways before and will no doubt continue to do so. I will pray for guidance.’

  ‘So will I.’

  ‘Shall we do that now? If you have finished?’ Father Ignatius started to arrange the shroud over the body once more.

  ‘Yes, for now. When will he be buried?’

  ‘I’d like to do it as soon as possible, but I will leave it until Monday in case any relatives come forward with a request to take him home. Do you know if he had any family?’

  ‘No. And now you come to mention it, that’s something I should check.’ Monday. That would give him tomorrow and Sunday in case he needed to come back and check anything else. And in this cold weather – and in this cold church – the body would keep until then.

  ‘If you find anything, let me know. In the meantime, I will have Agnes wash him and lay him out properly. If anyone does turn up after he’s buried, they can at least claim his clothes.’ He pointed at the braiding around the wrist he was tucking in under the shroud. ‘That’s a very fine tunic, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste, especially if the winter is cold.’

  Satisfied that the body and its covering now looked neat, he made the sign of the cross and began to pray. Edwin closed his eyes and tried to join in, but it was Ivo’s corpse, not his soul, that was uppermost in his mind.

  The rain had started again by the time he left the church. It was early afternoon and
he hadn’t had anything to eat yet; the meal up at the castle would be over by now, but maybe Alys could find something for him at home.

  Alys. With a sudden lurch he remembered the way they had parted that morning. His footsteps slowed as he reached the gate, but then the delicious smell of new bread hit him. He walked briskly up the path and opened the door.

  Alys was by the table, laying out the loaves to cool. She turned in surprise as she heard the door – it was unusual for him to come home in the middle of the day, after all – and then they both stood for a long moment without speaking.

  ‘I’m sorry –’

  ‘I didn’t mean –’

  They both stopped. Alys gestured for him to continue.

  Edwin stepped forward. ‘I didn’t mean to shout at you earlier. I just … what I mean is, seeing that body. Here. In Conisbrough. I know you’ve seen danger before, but not here. I just want to keep you safe. The thought that somebody might be …’ He broke off, unable to continue.

  He felt her small hand in his. ‘I know, and I’m sorry too. You’re my husband, and you promised to protect me. But …’

  ‘But what?’

  She sighed. She grasped his other hand as well and looked up into his face. ‘But I’m bored, Edwin. I’m bored. How would you like to be in this cottage all day every day, with only trips to the well and the oven to break it up, and even then nobody speaks to you?’

  ‘I’d hate it. But then, I’m not a –’ He stopped just in time.

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘And I should know my place, should I?’

  ‘That wasn’t what I –’

  ‘Yes, it was. But look.’ Her hands were gripping his quite tightly now. ‘I don’t mean that I’m unhappy – far from it. I love you, I love our home, I enjoy taking care of it for you. But it’s just not enough.’

  He was about to reply when his stomach gave a loud rumble.

  It broke the tension and Alys smiled. ‘Well, this isn’t looking after you very well, is it? Did you not have your dinner up at the castle?’

  ‘No, I was too busy and by the time I noticed I was hungry they would have cleared it all away. And I wasn’t so desperate that I’d risk asking Richard Cook for something outside of hours.’

  She led him to the loaded table. ‘Plenty to choose from. Pick which one you want to start and I’ll wrap the others to keep for the week.’

  The smell of the three loaves nearest to him was unmistakeable, so he picked up the smallest and tore off a piece. It was still warm inside. ‘I love cinnamon.’

  ‘You have a very good nose for spices. My father would just eat whatever I put in front of him without even noticing.’

  Edwin spoke through a mouthful of meltingly soft bread. ‘I spent half my childhood in an office full of them, don’t forget. You soon learn which is which.’ He finished half the loaf and reluctantly put the rest down. ‘Better not eat it all at once – there won’t be another spice trader here until the spring.’

  She wrapped it, along with the others, and stacked them carefully in the bread basket in the cool northern corner of the house. Then she came to sit next to him, with a level stare.

  He’d hoped that he’d got away with it, but evidently not. ‘I suppose this is all quite different from what you did before, running your father’s shop as well as the house.’

  ‘Yes. And I need to occupy myself more, do something else on top of looking after the house. And now this – I thought I could help you.’ He felt himself shaking his head, but she continued. ‘I don’t mean that I would put myself in danger. But, for example, I might hear and see things while I’m out and about in the village, and might that not be useful?’

  ‘Gossiping at the well? You think that will help?’

  ‘Men do it too – groups of them standing around the carpenter’s workshop or the smithy – but nobody calls it gossiping when it’s men.’

  She sounded cross. He would need to tread carefully. ‘Maybe … but only that, mind – you mustn’t go out trying to track down someone who’s killed once and might do so again.’

  He was still a little hesitant, but she jumped straight in. ‘I agree to your terms of business. And while we’re both here – I don’t mean only just now; I mean in the evenings when you come home – you can tell me what you’ve found out and we can talk about it together.’

  He couldn’t see too much potential danger in that. ‘All right. In fact, let’s start now.’ He pulled out the sheaf of notes from his scrip and laid them on the table; they wouldn’t be any use to her, of course, but he could use them to help marshal his thoughts while he spoke.

  Edwin went through everything he knew so far. For most of it she merely nodded or agreed, but when he spoke of the actual body she put up a hand. ‘Wait.’

  Of course, maybe she didn’t want to hear the details – it might be too distressing. But that wasn’t it. ‘The wound on his head. You’re sure about where it was?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ve seen the body twice now. Why?’

  She got to her feet. ‘Stand up a moment.’ He did so. ‘Now, imagine you’ve got something in your hand and you want to cause a wound in exactly the same place you’ve just described.’

  Edwin didn’t like to be even pretending to hit her, but he obediently raised his right hand as though wielding a weapon. And then, of course, he saw what should have been obvious all along. ‘The wound is on the wrong side.’

  ‘Yes. And if, as you say, it’s on the front of his head, he’s unlikely to have been struck from behind, isn’t he?’ She turned around and he saw the impossibility of such an action. It would be a very awkward way to strike a blow; he’d have to reach right round her and then strike backwards.

  She turned again. ‘So the only viable explanation is –’

  ‘That he was hit by someone holding the weapon in his left hand.’ He nodded. ‘Why didn’t I see that before?’

  She smiled. ‘Too many other things to think about, I would guess. And besides,’ – more soberly – ‘looking at someone who’s been murdered, someone you knew, is enough to stop you thinking properly about anything.’

  She tried to turn away to hide it, but her lip was trembling and her voice was unsteady. He put his arms around her, murmuring words of comfort. She clung to him for a few moments but then stepped away, wiping her eyes. ‘I’m being silly.’

  ‘You’re not, you’re really not.’ He wiped a stray tear from the side of her face with the cuff of his tunic.

  She nodded and, with some effort, spoke more normally. ‘So, what now?’

  ‘I have plenty more enquiries to make – I need to see the night porter at the castle, though I can’t do that until later, and I also don’t know yet who it was who found the body.’ He paused. ‘And while I’m doing all that, I suppose I should also look out for anyone who favours his left hand.’

  ‘I can do that too.’ Edwin opened his mouth to speak but she forestalled him. ‘I can easily do it without anyone knowing it, and if I do see anyone, I won’t speak to them, I’ll just tell you at some time when we’re alone.’

  Once more Edwin found himself persuaded by the very reasonableness of what she was saying, although he wasn’t quite comfortable with how he was being carried along. ‘All right. And on that subject, why don’t you tell me about everything you’ve done and seen since early this morning.’

  It was almost a reverse of the earlier part of their conversation; he nodded and agreed, and then held up a hand. ‘Stop there.’

  That confused her – she evidently thought she was just giving inconsequential details about her visit to Robin the carpenter. But she hadn’t made the connection with something he’d said. ‘Barty was playing with tools?’

  ‘Well, yes. I just noticed because –’

  ‘And the hammer he had in his hand definitely had a round head? I mean, not round like a ball, but round like a pipe or like a cone with the point cut off?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He smiled. ‘You’re a geni
us.’ He stood.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To talk to Robin about a missing stonemason’s hammer.’

  He kissed her and left the cottage, feeling a little cheered. It was less than a day since the body had been discovered, and he had made good progress already.

  Robin was still in his workshop, and Edwin hailed him, looking around the floor for any discarded tools. ‘Can I speak to Barty?’ he asked. Robin looked incredulous, as well he might; Edwin supposed that not many people came over to talk to his five-year-old. ‘I just want to ask him a quick question.’

  ‘Barty! Get out here now!’ The bellow could have been heard at the other end of the street, and the boy appeared from behind the house, carrying …

  Edwin crouched. ‘Hello. Can you show me what you’ve got in your hand?’

  A hammer was held out for his inspection. A hammer with a rounded head. A rounded head that had dried blood all over it.

  Edwin heard Robin gasp. ‘Where did you get that?’ He stepped closer. ‘That’s not one of mine.’ He grabbed the boy’s arm roughly. ‘Have you been stealing?’

  Barty started to realise that he was in trouble, and he squirmed. ‘No, I didn’t …’

  Edwin tried to calm the irate carpenter. ‘It’s all right, I just want to know where he got it from.’

  The boy looked from his father to Edwin, trying to work out which was the bigger threat. ‘Papa, I didn’t steal it. I just found it so I picked it up to use so I could practise.’

  Robin was really angry now. He dropped Barty’s arm and clouted him hard, knocking him over and making him howl. ‘Do you know what they do to thieves? To boys who steal? They chop their hands off, that’s what. Do you want that to happen to you?’

  Barty was genuinely terrified, and Edwin stepped in between the two of them. ‘It’s all right. Barty, nobody is going to chop your hand off. Robin, please – I’m not accusing him of stealing, nobody is. I just want to know where he found it, because it might be important.’

  ‘Is there trouble, Father?’