by Maureen Ash
The lad nodded and the Templar leaned forward to a table that was near his chair where a lighted candle stood. Grasping the knife by the hilt, he carefully held the joint of the blade where the thin line of greyish grime was ingrained over the flame. As he did so, the oily grit sputtered and then the colour changed from grey to black as it began to melt. Almost at once, a strong smell of cloves pervaded the air.
Nicolaa gave an exclamation of surprise. “Sweet Jesu, that is soap residue!”
“It would seem so, lady, and that this knife was used to cut clove-scented soap bars into tablets before it was employed in the murder of Emma Ferroner. Our quarry is one of the men who work in John Glover’s manufactory.”
* * *
Within moments, Ernulf had raced downstairs and brought the soap-maker back to the solar. Bemused by the speed with which he had been pushed up the stairs, Glover stood before Nicolaa and the Templar as a man dazed.
Bascot held the knife out in front of him. “Is this a tool that is used in your workplace?”
Glover looked at it and nodded in confusion. “It is very like them, yes.”
“Have any of these knives been reported missing lately?”
“How did you know that?” the soap-maker asked in astonishment. “My overseer in the workshop came to me only a couple of days ago asking permission to order a replacement for one that seems to have disappeared.”
“This is the knife that your overseer could not find. It was left at St. Dunstan’s shrine after being used to stab Emma Ferroner.”
“By the Virgin, it cannot be,” Glover exclaimed, shocked to his core. “Are you certain?”
“We are,” the Templar said firmly. “How many men do you employ to cut the blocks of hard soap into bars?”
“Only one,” Glover replied, his voice shaking. “And the hiring of him was one of Aliz’s recently increased demands to maintain her silence about the relationship between herself and Mabel. He is Garson, half-brother to my wife and Aliz, and also to Dern.”
Chapter 35
“There was yet another illegitimate child born to this woman?” Nicolaa exclaimed. “How many more are there?”
“I am only aware of three, lady,” Glover replied. “My wife, Mabel, her half-sister, Aliz, and this other half-brother, who Lorinda bore to Dern’s father before Mabel left to return to Nottingham. But since neither my wife nor Aliz have seen their mother for many years there may be more, although they would be younger than Garson, who is about nineteen years of age.”
“And Garson,” Bascot pressed, “he has only been in your employ for a short time?”
“Yes,” Glover said. “According to Aliz, he arrived in Lincoln a couple of weeks ago and came to see her, claiming he was destitute and needed work. She immediately sent him to me asking, as I said, that I put him to work in the manufactory as part of the ‘favour’ I owed her. I have never mentioned him to Mabel as I did not wish to trouble her with the news that she had yet another bastard relative living nearby.”
“Then Lorinda must have kept him with her after she left Coleby all those years ago,” Nicolaa said. “Does Aliz know if he stayed with his mother until her death?”
The soap-maker grimaced. “I never asked her, lady. She simply told me that he had come to her for assistance, needing work, and she had agreed to help him.”
“What is his appearance?” Bascot asked. “His height, girth and colouring?”
“He is of medium stature and slim,” Glover replied. “And his hair is similar to Mabel’s, dark auburn.”
Bascot glanced at the castellan, and she returned his look. Both were fairly confident that the identity of the murderer was now discovered. To be absolutely certain, Bascot asked Glover one last question.
“Was Garson in the manufactory on the morning that Emma Ferroner was killed?” the Templar.
“He is not there on any morning, Sir Bascot,” Glover told him. “He works at night only, from Compline until two hours after midnight.”
“So he should be at the manufactory now?”
Glover nodded and the Templar stood up, elated. The end of the hunt was in sight.
* * *
Minutes later, and after cautioning John Glover not to tell anyone of Garson’s culpability, even his wife, Bascot and Roget were riding towards the manufactory. On the way down Mikelgate, they stopped at the town gaol to pick up Ivo and Cerlo. John Glover had told them that the manufactory would be empty except for Garson and one other employee, an older man who acted as vat-tender, and kept watch over the soap cauldrons left simmering through the night. They did not expect their task to be a difficult one, but had decided to take the two guards to stand outside in case their quarry should manage to exit the building.
By the time they rode through Stonebow gate and turned onto the path to the manufactory, dusk had fallen and the sky above was growing dark.
The soap-maker’s building was silent as they approached. Large and high-roofed, it had wooden casements fitted to the walls that could be pulled up during hot weather, in the same fashion as the armoury. These were closed now, with only a few vents at the top of the walls left open to let in air. Soft wisps of steam puffed gently through them and out into the gloom.
The Templar and Roget left their mounts a little way from the entry door, which was open, and, while Ivo was left to stand sentry at the main entrance, Cerlo slipped around the side to keep watch over any other doors that gave egress from the building. The odours of the river were strong here, overlaid with the acrid stink of the fats bubbling in the soap cauldrons. Bascot and the captain entered the building as quietly as they could, finding themselves in a cavernous chamber with two concentric rings of a dozen hearths built into the earthen floor. All had fires burning in them with vats of varying sizes placed on grills over top of them, and steam was gently rising from each of the cauldrons. The atmosphere was one of Stygian gloom, the only light other than the glow of the fires coming from a pair of torches flaring high on the walls at the back of the chamber. Below the torches were tables on which had been placed long, uncut bars of soap, and behind were two small doors which, by their size, appeared to be internal ones leading to storerooms at the rear of the premises.
When Bascot and Roget slipped through the entrance, they immediately saw the vat-tender that Glover had mentioned. He was atop a metal ladder resting on the side of one of the larger vats and, with his hands protected by thick leather gloves, was using a long metal paddle to stir the contents. He turned his weathered face towards them as they came in and would have spoken had not Bascot brought his fingers to his mouth in a gesture instructing him to keep silent. Another motion indicated that he should descend the ladder and, when he had done so, Bascot walked up to him and asked, in a low tone, if Garson was on the premises.
The man gave a nod and pointed to one of the inner doors at the back of the workspace. Just then, the door opened and a young man of slim build and with dark hair came out. “That’s him,” the vat-tender whispered.
Roget gave a start. “Sacré, that cochon was in the alehouse when I arrested Dern and Aliz,” he exclaimed. “Leave him to me, mon ami,” he said to Bascot. “He will not escape me a second time.”
At the captain ran towards him, Garson took to his heels, heading for a door in the side of the building. Roget shouted at him to halt, but Garson took no notice and the captain sped around the vat nearest the door and skidded to a halt with his cudgel raised menacingly, blocking escape. Foiled of his intent, Garson spun around and ran back the way he had come, dodging around the back of another vat which, like the rest of the receptacles, was steaming with a hot solution of animal fat and lye, and disappeared from view. Roget immediately gave chase, but he was not quick enough to stop Garson from seizing one of the huge iron paddles heaped in a pile on the floor and, using it as a lever, upending the vat behind which he had taken refuge. With a clatter and a cloud
of fiery embers, the cauldron fell on its side and the incandescent liquid gushed out, spattering down one side of Roget’s body. The captain roared with pain, and the Templar, warning the vat-turner to stay well clear of the fracas, ran to assist him, racing around the other side of the soap kettle with drawn sword in his hand.
Garson, seeing the Templar in front of him, and all routes to freedom gone, backed up against the wall, eyes wide with fear. Brandishing the iron paddle he was still holding, he made a feeble attempt at defiance, but the pitiful weapon was soon knocked aside by Bascot’s sword.
“You are taken,” the Templar growled, pushing the tip of his blade into the base of Garson’s throat. “Come quietly, or I will split your filthy gizzard wide open.”
* * *
Fortunately, Roget had not been too badly burned. His feet had been protected by the boots he was wearing, but his right leg, above his footwear, had been splashed with the noxious soap mixture, as had one of his hands. The vat-tender, having watched the pursuit of Garson with amazement, grabbed up a bucket and sped quickly towards a row of barrels filled with water at the back of the room and, scooping it full, ran to where Roget stood cursing with pain.
“Water will ease the burning,” the vat-tender yelled and tossed the bucket’s contents over the captain’s scalded limb. Then he ran back for more water, this time grabbing a second bucket as well, and instructed the captain to plunge his burned hand into its cooling depths.
After several repetitions of the procedure, the blistering pain slowly began to fade. “Par Dieu,” Roget exclaimed, taking a deep breath of relief, “now I know what the flames of Hades must feel like.”
As the vat-tender applied a salve made of comfrey kept in the manufactory to treat burns and then bound Roget’s leg and hand in strips of linen, the captain looked up at the Templar and said, “I promise you, de Marins, I will enjoy seeing that bâtard hang, knowing that he will suffer a burning torture like this in hell for all eternity.”
At that moment, Ivo, alarmed by the shouting he had heard from inside the building, came through the door, short sword in hand. When he saw that the murderer was taken, he walked over to the captain.
Taking in the upturned vat, the slimy mess of soap steaming on the floor and Roget’s soaked hose, he said with a smirk, “Just a suggestion, Captain, but the next time you decide to take a bath, it might be wiser to wait until the soap has cooled before you apply it.”
His jest brought another stream of invectives from Roget, but it eased the tension in his face and, looking down at his scalded flesh, he let out a great roar of laughter. “I tell you, Ivo, it is of no matter. I would drown myself in hot lead to free Constance and that is what has been done.”
Chapter 36
It was very late in the evening by the time that Bascot and Roget arrived at the castle with the murderer in custody. After consigning him to a pair of men-at-arms to have manacles placed on his hands and feet, they went into the keep to tell Lady Nicolaa of his successful arrest and to show her a cloak that had been found hidden in one of the storerooms in the manufactory. It had a rent in the hood in the exact shape of the piece of material that the ravens had given Bascot. This garment, along with the fact that the colour of his hair exactly matched the strands that had been entwined in the swatch of fabric, and the witness of Constance Turner and little Letty confirming his height and build, eliminated any doubt that Garson was the man responsible for both killings. It only remained now to be discovered if he had acted alone or with another’s contrivance.
With Bascot seated beside her on the dais and Gianni perched on a stool just below the raised platform, parchment and quill at the ready, the castellan ordered Eudo to clear the hall of servants with the exception of himself, Ernulf and Roget. When this had been done, Nicolaa instructed the serjeant to bring before her all of the suspects who had been taken into recent custody. Only Mistress Turner, she told him, was to be left in her cell. Once Aliz and Dern, John and Mabel Glover and Wiger were all arrayed in front of her, she gave the order for Garson to be brought in.
He presented a sorry sight as he was dragged into the hall by two of the men-at-arms. There were bruises on his face from the soldiers’ rough usage and the skin on his wrists and ankles was scraped and bloody where the manacles had been clamped. Aliz gave a gasp of dismay when she saw him and called out his name, while Mabel, who had at first not recognised him, shrank back behind her husband as soon as she realised who he was. Although Dern assumed an expression of surprise, Bascot noticed a flash of anger cross his face and resolved to watch the alekeep covertly throughout the rest of the proceedings to see if he could discover the reason why. In the case of the two women, however, there was only shock at sight of their half-brother under arrest for murder, and no other emotion. Garson made no response to their reaction, not even glancing in their direction as the soldiers shoved him forward to stand in front of Nicolaa and Bascot.
The castellan regarded the prisoner for a moment before she spoke. His visage, beneath his bruises, bore a slight resemblance to his female kin, but far more to that of his half-brother, Dern. He had the same cold brown eyes as the alekeep, and the same angular set to his jaw, but he possessed none of Dern’s self-containment; instead he attempted to adopt a surly manner that did little to hide his fear.
“There is ample proof that you are guilty of the murder of Emma Ferroner and Gwen Hurdler,” Nicolaa said to him. “When the sheriff returns you will be charged in his court for your crimes and, I have no doubt, sentenced to death. Until then you will be held under close confinement in the castle gaol.”
Garson made no defence to the pronouncement; his only response a slight shudder which he quickly suppressed. Otherwise he remained silent and kept his gaze on the floor between his feet. Finally Aliz, unable to contain her stupefaction any longer, exploded into angry speech. “You are a fool, Garson. You did not even know those women—why did you kill them?”
Her outburst seemed to awaken a spark of animation in her half-brother and he answered her in an obdurate fashion. “For our mother’s vengeance,” he said mulishly. “I vowed I would be her champion and repay Robert Ferroner for the harm he did to her and now, by killing his daughter, my promise has been fulfilled.”
“And so has your mother’s curse, has it not?” Bascot interjected, certain now that none of the others in the room had been his accomplice. His two half-sisters along with Dern and all of the other suspects were openmouthed with surprise at his frank admission.
Garson reluctantly nodded. “Ferroner deserved it; the curse was just,” he mumbled. “He should have married my mother as he promised.”
“It is not true that the armourer gave Lorinda a pledge to make her his wife,” Bascot told him. “She lied when she told you that.”
Garson stared at him with incredulity on his face. “That cannot be so. I do not believe you.”
Bascot shrugged. “That matters little to me. You are a murderer, you are caught, and you will be hanged. That is my only interest.”
* * *
An hour earlier, at the lodging house in Butwerk, Lorinda had been growing increasingly alarmed. Her son, Garson, had promised to visit her earlier that day and it was now long past dusk and he had still not appeared. It was unlike him not to keep his word; never before had he failed her. She was especially anxious as she had wanted to discuss with him how the arrest of Dern would affect her plan to extract vengeance on Robert Ferroner. Another way to carry it out must be devised now that the alekeep was in custody.
The evening’s darkness was well advanced when a beggar who had been importuning passersby on Mikelgate returned to the hostel at the end of his day’s labour. He was very excited and told all of the current residents that he had just witnessed a man who worked at a soap manufactory being led up the thoroughfare in the custody of the Templar, Bascot de Marins, and Roget, the captain of the town guard, and that the gossip of the peop
le on the streets was that their captive was the one responsible for the recent murders. A feeling of dread descended on Lorinda as the beggar described the prisoner as a slightly built young man, not too tall and with reddish brown hair.
Surely it could not be her son, she thought. There must be some mistake, even though the physical description fit Garson and the detail that the prisoner worked for a soap-maker were all too accurate to his identity, especially when added to the fact that he had not come to see her as he had promised. But he had no reason to kill either of the two women who had been slain, especially Emma Ferroner, for her death had made Lorinda’s scheme to extract reprisal from the armourer much more difficult to bring to fruition than while his daughter had been alive.
She huddled into the corner where she was sitting, her throat constricting with panic, as she tried to convince herself that it was not her beloved son who had been taken prisoner. He was the only person, including her other offspring, for whom she felt true affection. Her daughters had abandoned her long ago, but he had stayed by her even after he reached manhood, stealing food in the times when she lacked a protector and consoling her when she became downcast. She would be desolate without him.
As her thoughts tumbled in furious confusion, there suddenly came to her the remembrance of an occasion when Garson had been about ten or eleven years old. It was one of the times when she had been asking a chapman who had recently been to Lincoln if he had any news of Robert Ferroner. Her son had noted her constant interest in the armourer, and how she questioned anyone who had travelled through the town about him, and had asked her why. When she had told him the story of Ferroner’s treachery and how she had cursed him, Garson’s young face had flamed with anger, and he had laid his little hand on hers and made a solemn promise that one day he would avenge her. “I swear to you, mother, that when I am grown I will make this man pay for his treatment of you,” he had said. He had never mentioned it again, but she recalled how his face had darkened at the very mention of the armourer ever since that day. Had he, out of loyalty, decided that he would be the instrument of making her old curse on Ferroner come true?