Bad Money (A Stephen Attebrook mystery Book 6)

by Jason Vail

  Mistress Bartelot nodded again.

  Edith took her arm and led her back to the inn.

  When Stephen left Ludlow for Hereford later in the morning, instead of crossing the Teme at the bridge below Broad Gate, Stephen turned upon the path that ran eastward along the river. It occurred to him that he ought to talk more to Thumper about certain thefts. He had meant to do so long ago, but one thing or another kept getting in the way of his intentions.

  No one emerged from the house to greet Stephen as he entered the Thumpers’ ample yard. He put this off to the fact that he had become such a frequent visitor no one bore any curiosity for his visits any longer.

  The deserted yard and back garden with its broad vegetable patch and pig sty gave the impression that no one was home, but Stephen heard voices from within the rambling house. He knocked on the door and presently Tad Thumper opened it.

  “What do you want?” Tad said, hooking his thumbs into his belt.

  “New shirt you have there, eh? And that looks like a new knife,” Stephen said. “Sold the horses already, have you?”

  “Got a good price for them, too,” Tad grinned.

  “I’d like a word with your pa.”

  “He ain’t up yet.”

  “Sleeping like a lord now?”

  “We could almost be lords with all that money!”

  “Be a good lad and wake him for me.”

  “He’ll be in a foul mood.”

  “I’ll take the risk.”

  Tad retreated down the entrance hall to a side room, where the younger Thumper children were chasing each other around the hearth. Two of the Thumper women were carding wool beside the hearth. Neither of them made any effort to warn the children about playing near the fire, and they even said nothing as one of the boys, who couldn’t have been more than six, leaped over the hearth with a whoop.

  It was some time before Will Thumper made an appearance, and Stephen spent the time chafing in the entranceway, for Tad never returned to invite him into the hall. Nor did the women, who noted his presence but continued with their work.

  Will came through the door to the hall, rubbing his face. His eyes were bloodshot and had gray bags beneath them.

  “What is it now?” Thumper asked.

  “I need to know how you came into possession of that cross.”

  “I thought we had an understanding that we’d not speak of it.”

  “We did. But I’d like you to reconsider.”

  “All right, then, what are you offering?”

  “I’ve nothing to offer.”

  “Not even a threat or two?”

  “No threats. Consider it a favor.”

  “Me! Do you a favor?”

  “Yes. I appeal to your good nature. I’m sure you have one somewhere. The fact that you haven’t killed that boy Tad is evidence of it. A lesser man would have done.”

  “I’ve come close once or twice, I’ll admit. He’s a handful.”

  “Well?”

  Thumper stroked his chin, which badly needed shaving; it had avoided the razor for at least a week. He sighed. “I suppose. Although I’ll have you know I didn’t know it was stolen goods.”

  “I believe you.”

  “You do?” Thumper seemed surprised. “You can’t let on that you heard from me, though. It might be bad for business.”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “It was in Hereford.”

  “I thought as much.”

  “Just after we got there. Fellow came by with it and offered it for sale. I took it cheap. He wanted to be rid of it. Said his wife didn’t like it. I can understand that. It’s a heavy awkward thing.”

  “I know.”

  “You could knock a man out with it. I don’t understand how Bartelot can hold her head up with that thing round her neck.”

  “Probably from years of practice. Did the man have a name?”

  Thumper hesitated. He nodded. “Theo. His name is Theo.”

  “Is he in the business?”

  “He was, years ago. But he got married. His wife made him get out. That’s why I thought nothing of it.”

  “That wouldn’t be Harry’s sister, Sarah, would it?”

  “You know them?”

  “We met.”

  “I’ll be damned. I didn’t think you traveled in such circles.”

  Stephen smiled. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  “That’s one way of putting it. You won’t let on that I told you?”

  “How can it matter, if he’s not in the business? Or so he says.”

  “I’ll do no business with anyone if it gets out that I’ve blabbed.”

  “You’re rich now. You don’t have to worry about the business.”

  “Well, the money’s not going to last forever.”

  “I reckon not. I’ll be careful not to let on that we talked.”

  The house was quiet now that the children had been packed off to bed, except for the cracking of the fire as it burned down, the sigh of the wind in the eaves, the creaking of the timbers and the occasional faint stirring of very small feet in the dark crannies.

  Stephen had not had a chance to speak to Theobald alone since he had arrived in Hereford, and it did not look as though he would have any better opportunity than at that moment. So he said, “Theo, you were in the business once. Tell me about it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Theo said. He locked eyes with Sarah for a moment.

  “Yes, you do — the business you were in before you went to work at the castle. The climbing business.”

  Theo was quiet. Then he said, “I’m not doing that stuff anymore.”

  “I’m not saying you are. But you know people, you must know people who are still involved.”

  “I won’t say nothing about that.”

  “Let it lie,” Harry said.

  “I’ll not give you away,” Stephen said. “But there are things I need to know. Answer if you can, or not. I won’t press you any further.”

  Theo sat without speaking.

  Stephen took that as assent to move ahead. “There were two break-ins at Ludlow last month. In both, the culprit got into the houses through upper story windows. I have no idea how, but I imagine it involved climbing and the use of ropes.”

  “Harry mentioned something about that,” Theo said. “I don’t know why you’re asking me about them.”

  “It is an unusual style, rather like your own.”

  “I had nothing to do with them.”

  “But you might know who is responsible. There can’t be many who employ that method.”

  “I had a partner. He’s the only one who comes to mind. But he’s dead now.”

  “His bad ways caught up to him,” Sarah said.

  “One of the culprits fell from a roof and was killed,” Stephen said. “A boy, about fourteen, red hair. I wonder if you might know who he was.”

  “That is one way they go,” Sarah murmured.

  “There’s lots of boys with red hair in England,” Theo said.

  “But I doubt there’s many who climb for a living,” Stephen said.

  “I might know one such. Haven’t seen or heard of him in a while.”

  “You wouldn’t have since he’s dead. What’s his name?”

  “What are you going to do with this?”

  “Find who he works for.”

  “What’s your interest?”

  “They stole some things from a friend of mine. She’d like to get them back.”

  Theo chuckled without humor. “That stuff has probably been sold by now. People in the business don’t hang long onto the take.”

  “Nonetheless, I intend to see what they have to say.”

  “You’re an honest man now, Theo,” Sarah said. “Tell him what he wants to know. You don’t owe them anything.”

  “You know them. They’re the sort who’d cut your throat if they think you crossed them,” Theo said.

  “You’re not crossing anybody,” Step
hen said. “You’re just giving me the name of a boy who died.”

  Theo still hesitated.

  Instead, Sarah spoke: “Ollie. His name’s Ollie. He lives with his father on Grope Lane.”

  Hereford was a large town and it took the better part of ten minutes to walk from Theobald Tennet’s house to Grope Lane through muddy and crowded streets. While there were many grand houses in Hereford, for it was a wealthy town, this area was occupied by smaller, ruder houses, none taller than a single floor, of the kind you would find in any village, many of them in need of repair or even replacement, roofed with thatch instead of shingles which was gray and patchy, the plaster flaking from between the supporting timbers to reveal the underlying wattle that itself looked scrofulous.

  Theo pointed out Ollie’s house to Stephen and then hurried away before anyone noticed him.

  An elderly man was seated on a stool beside the door to Ollie’s house, a clay pot on his lap. He noticed Stephen staring at the house from across the street. “You want something?” the elderly man shouted.

  “No,” Stephen answered.

  “Then move on and quit your staring.” The elderly man raised the pot to his mouth and drank, spilling brown ale on his shirt front. He pointed a finger at Stephen as he returned the pot to his lap. “I said, move on, you!”

  If Ollie was involved with a master thief, he had not got rich off it, Stephen thought. He had intended to question the people living there about Ollie’s associations, but the look of the elderly man and Stephen’s reception, suggested that he would meet with the same degree of resistance he had encountered in Theo and in the old woman at Bishop’s Castle. While there might not be much loyalty among thieves, there was just enough to make things difficult.

  Stephen wandered Hereford’s streets, struggling to think of what to do now. He paid so little attention to his surroundings that he almost failed to react when a hooded figure bumped into him and muttered, “Yer pardon.” This by itself might not be very extraordinary or a matter of concern, since people were always bumping into one another in towns, but Stephen felt light tugging at his purse and he just managed to grasp the hand holding the knife that was about to cut his purse.

  He twisted the wrist and deprived the hand of the knife. A boy of about ten or eleven was attached to the hand, which Stephen continued to twist. The boy squirmed and kicked while Stephen maintained his hold on the hand.

  “Leave off, you!” the boy shouted.

  The commotion attracted the attention of those passing by and a crowd began to collect about Stephen and the boy. Stephen looked around for the boy’s companions, especially the hooded man, who might make trouble, as cutpurses did not act alone. They always worked in packs.

  “I’ve caught a thief,” Stephen said to the crowd.

  There were grins here and there among the crowd. Something about them that suggested to Stephen that the boy was known, and they were eager to see what happened now.

  “Quit your squirming,” Stephen told the boy, “or I’ll break your arm.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “I’ve a short temper,” Stephen said in a mild tone that belayed this boast, “and no patience for thieves.”

  “I ain’t no thief! You’ve attacked me! Without reason!”

  “Is there trouble, sir?” a voice said behind Stephen.

  He turned to locate the voice, for it had seemed reasonable and carried authority. The man who had spoken was a hefty fellow with a truncheon under his arm. A similar man with a similar truncheon stood beside him: no doubt bailiffs of the parish if not of the town.

  “That boy bothering you, sir?” the bailiff asked.

  “No,” Stephen said. “He bumped into me. I thought he might be trying to cut my purse.”

  The bailiff regarded the boy. “Your mum know where you are, Alf?”

  “That sot’s too drunk to find her own feet,” Alf the boy spat.

  “You be sure to stay out of trouble in my parish,” the bailiff said as Stephen let go of Alf, who wasted no time in ducking between to spectators and making his escape.

  Without the prospect of any beating, the crowd broke up, leaving Stephen standing with the two bailiffs.

  “There is one thing you can do to help me,” Stephen said.

  “And that is, sir?”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly.”

  “Well, that might make finding him a bit difficult.”

  “I am aware of that. However, I know one of his associates.”

  “His associates, eh?”

  “A boy name of Ollie. He’s about fourteen, red hair and so high.” Stephen indicated with his hand, estimating as best he could from his memory of the dead boy’s body.

  “Ollie?” the other bailiff said. “There’s an Ollie of that description what lives in Grope Lane.”

  “That’s the one,” Stephen said.

  “What would you want with the likes of him?” the first bailiff asked. “He’s more trouble than that little scut Alf.”

  “Ollie has gone into the burglary profession,” Stephen said. “I’m sure he had time to regret his choice before the end.”

  “I do not catch your meaning.”

  “He fell off a roof trying to burgle a house and broke his neck.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Last month, in Ludlow.”

  “You don’t say. I’d not heard that. No wonder we haven’t seen him about lately. But if he’s dead, why are you asking about him?”

  “I’m looking for his partner in crime.”

  “What would you want with a burglar, sir?” the first bailiff asked.

  “To catch him, of course, and to recover some of his loot, if that’s possible.”

  “Fat chance of that.”

  “I feel obligated to try nonetheless.”

  The bailiffs put their heads together in a whispered consultation.

  “Your most likely prospect is a fellow named Theo Tennet,” the first bailiff said. “He’s rumored to be quite the burglar, though no one’s ever been able to prove anything against him.”

  “I’ve already talked to Tennet, and I’ve ruled him out.”

  “Hmm, well then, you might try Hugo Horwood.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “That could be a problem. He’s an elusive fellow. But he rents a house on the other side of town on Wye Bridge Street. He’s a knife-maker, or claims to be.”

  “We’ve always had our doubts about that,” the second bailiff said. “Lives too well for a common knife-maker.”

  “Tell me,” Stephen said, “did Tennet and Horwood ever work together?”

  “You mean in the burglary trade? No, but we’ve always thought Horwood was an apprentice to a fellow named Parfeter. He was hanged a few years back for thievery. Tennet and Parfeter were long-time friends.”

  “Well,” Stephen said, “that sounds about right. Thank you.”

  “Good day to you, sir. And good luck with Horwood.”

  Percival FitzAllan laid the parchment back on the table and rested his hands on either side of it. His fingers tapped the tabletop, the rings on his fingers knocking when they struck the wood as he stared across the great hall of Hereford Castle.

  “You’ve no idea where FitzSimmons has gone?” he asked Stephen, who stood before the table.

  “No. No one would say.”

  “And you think he’s minting money for the barons? Why are you bringing me this accusation? The evidence seems rather thin.”

  “Henle does not put any weight on it,” Stephen said. “But I cannot think of any other reason why FitzSimmons would do such a thing.”

  “If it’s true, what do you make of it?”

  “I think that Montfort is planning to rise soon. Perhaps this summer.”

  FitzAllan was quiet again for a time. “You may be right. It can’t hurt to be on the lookout. I shall write to the King strai
ghtaway.” He pushed the parchment aside, a signal of dismissal. When Stephen did not yield his place to the next supplicant, FitzAllan looked annoyed. “Is there more?”

  “I’d like a favor, my lord.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’d like you to prevail on the chief bailiff to issue a beggar’s license to someone.”

  “A beggar’s license?” FitzAllan asked, astonished. “That’s absurd.” He smiled without humor. “Is that someone you? I had no idea you were in such dire straits.”

  “Well, I am desperate. But I think this is the only way to solve the problem of some recent thefts. Oddly, they are of silver. Perhaps there is a connection with FitzSimmons.”

  “You don’t say. All right then, I’ll have my clerk speak to the bailiff. Are we done now?”

  “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

  Stephen stopped the handcart a hundred yards down Wye Bridge Street from Horwood’s house and shop. He lifted Harry from the back of the cart and set him on the ground with a grunt. This act attracted some attention, for legless beggars riding in carts was not a normal occurrence. It would have attracted even more attention had Stephen worn his usual clothes instead of a woolen shirt and stockings borrowed from Theo so that he appeared to be just another common working man. But after a few stares, people went on about their business and it was almost as if they were alone in the street.

  “Theo will be back for you in the evening,” Stephen said.

  “So you’re leaving me after all,” Harry grumbled. “Abandoning me to a cruel fate.”

  “It’s not much different that your old fate.”

  “But I’m known in Ludlow, and respected. Here I will be the butt of children’s jokes and the pranks of any idle passerby. I put a stop to that in Ludlow. I’ll have to start over. This had better be worth it.”

  “I don’t know if it will, but I don’t know what else to do.” Stephen gestured toward Wye Bridge Gate, a squat stone edifice in the distance. “Horwood’s is the shop under the sign of a sword surrounded by a sprig of holly. You have your cup?”

  “Never leave home without it.”

  Stephen had asked the question from anxiety because Harry’s cup dangled from a thong about his neck.