by Paul Doherty
Colum obeyed Kathryn carefully examined the back of the corpse. She peered at where the skull had been caved in.
‘Woman, what is the matter?’ Colum asked.
‘Turn him round again!’
Colum obeyed. Kathryn tapped Fronzac’s knife still in its sheath.
‘Leave it!’ she said. ‘Let’s visit these terrible hogs!’
Luberon was waiting outside, talking to the groom.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke,’ he said. ‘This is the man who found the corpse.’
Kathryn grasped the groom’s hand, noting that his pockmarked face was white as snow, his eyes were still watery from retching.
‘I fought at Towton, Mistress,’ he began, ‘in the terrible snow: corpses were piled waist-high yet nothing like that!’
‘Tell me what happened.’
Kathryn moved across to where Colum was washing his hands at the pump. She did likewise, then wiped them on the inside of her cloak. The groom stood, scratching his head.
‘I’m trying to forget,’ he mumbled.
‘Please,’ Kathryn said. ‘You see.’ She pointed to the hut. ‘That poor man did not die of an accident. He was murdered. Or so I think.’
The groom’s face went slack with surprise.
‘Please,’ Kathryn repeated.
‘I came out for some water.’ The groom pointed to the hog pen. ‘I could hear them grunting, highly excited, sometimes they are like that. It continued so I became curious. I climbed the fence and looked in. The hogs were milling about. I could see the blood on some of their flanks. Then I saw a boot sticking out. I picked up some stones and threw them; the hogs cleared away: that poor bastard’s corpse was lying there.’
‘How?’ Kathryn asked.
‘You know, just lying.’
Kathryn took a groat from her purse, pushed it into the man’s hand and pointed to a small patch of grass.
‘Show me!’
The man shrugged, but obeyed. He went across and lay down on the grass, legs sprawled, face staring up.
‘Thank you.’ Kathryn helped the groom to his feet. ‘What is your name?’
‘Catgut.’ The man grinned. ‘Well, that’s what they call me. It’s a nickname.’
Kathryn smiled. ‘Tell me, Catgut, if you fell into that pen, what would you do?’
‘Try and get out.’
Kathryn laughed. ‘No, you are a fighting man. You carry a dagger?’
‘Of course!’ Catgut whispered. ‘That man didn’t even draw his.’
Kathryn turned to Colum. ‘And wouldn’t you do the same?’
‘I’d fight for my life.’
‘And what else?’
Colum pulled a face. ‘Scream and yell.’ He smiled. ‘Of course, no one heard Fronzac cry out!’
‘And what else?’ she insisted.
Colum closed his eyes.
‘Let’s say you have lost your dagger,’ Kathryn continued. ‘You can’t reach the fence. You’d roll over, surely, to protect your head and face. Yet most of Fronzac’s bruises are to his front except for that terrible blow to the back of his head.’
Followed by the rest, Kathryn walked down the hog pen. She climbed onto the tree stump beside the fence and peered over: the hogs milled around, bristling backs, tufted ears, short, raised tails, narrow, red eyes gleaming with fury. She looked at their strong legs and the small tusks on either side of their jutting mouths.
‘Thank God!’ she murmured. ‘At least Fronzac was spared this terror.’
She gazed around. The hog pen was a broad square of sturdy planks nailed to posts driven into the ground. It contained a trough, feeding bins, but nothing else except churned mud. Kathryn glimpsed a small gate at the far side, a little lower than the actual fence. She got down and walked carefully round the hog pen.
‘What are we looking for?’ Colum asked.
Kathryn paused and stared back towards the tavern. She could see the casement windows high in the third storey under the red tiled roof. However, once she was round the other side of the pen, the tavern was obscured. She walked down the path to a wicket gate built into the high, bricked wall. She lifted the latch and stared into the alley-way.
‘Where does this lead to?’
‘Back into the city,’ Catgut replied.
Kathryn closed the gate and leaned her back against it.
‘Colum, do you have a penny?’
‘Of course, I have two. Do you want them?’
‘No, Catgut does,’ Kathryn said. ‘I want you to search,’ she told the groom, ‘the bushes on either side of the hog pen.’
‘What am I looking for?’
‘Oh, you’ll know when you have found it. A thick stick, a club: it may be smeared with blood and have some of the dead man’s hairs still on it.’
Catgut needed no second bidding, but scurried away, crashing about in the bushes. Foliot, who had apparently returned to the tavern whilst she had been examining Fronzac’s corpse, came hurrying round the hog pen. He took one look at Kathryn’s eyes and pretty, flushed cheeks and grinned.
‘It was murder wasn’t it?’ he asked. He looked to where Catgut was still crashing about amongst the shrubbery.
‘Yes, it was murder,’ Kathryn said. ‘First, Fronzac wasn’t stupid: he was born in the countryside. He knew the danger of hogs. He would never climb the fence and sit with his feet dangling over like some child. No, Fronzac came to this side of the hog pen because his murderer asked him to and, when his back was turned, the murderer struck, hitting him on the back of the head with a club or stick. It was easy to do: the hog pen hides any view from the tavern whilst the boundary wall and the alley-way beyond obscures the view of any passerby.’
‘That’s why Fronzac didn’t cry out?’
‘Precisely,’ Kathryn replied. ‘His body was either thrown over the fence or even dragged through the gates. The hogs, maddened by the scent of blood would finish the assassin’s task. If Fronzac had slipped, he would have drawn his dagger, screamed for help and certainly tried to clamber out.’
‘I’ve found it!’ Catgut cried, dancing out of the bushes, his face scratched by the thorns. He held up a thick blackthorn cudgel. ‘This is it!’ he shouted, brandishing it in the air and running back to Kathryn.
She examined the club carefully and pointed to the patch of red, matted hair.
‘So,’ she murmured. ‘We have the corpse, we have the weapon and we know how it was done. Only two matters remain. Who and why?’ She glanced at Foliot. ‘I’d wager a purse of silver that the assassin is now sitting in that taproom.’
Colum, busily handing over the coins to a now happy Catgut, came back to join them, as did Luberon, still pasty-faced, glancing fearfully back at the hog pen.
‘You’ve learnt something today, Simon,’ Colum gently teased. ‘Stay well away from hogs.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ Luberon said in a choked voice. ‘And, believe me, Irishman, it will be a long time before I have any appetite for pork or bacon.’
‘Go back, Simon,’ Kathryn instructed. ‘Tell the rest of the pilgrims to wait for us.’
Luberon hurried off. Kathryn grasped Colum’s hand and held it, staring at Foliot. She wanted to remonstrate with him about his threats the previous evening, but before she could speak, Colum did it for her.
‘You left us abruptly last night, Master Foliot.’ He pushed Kathryn’s hand away, his fingers going to the dagger strapped in his belt. The Irishman took a step forward; Foliot did not move, but stood watching him carefully. ‘You said that if I failed to unmask Tenebrae’s murderer I might be recalled to London.’ Colum struggled to keep his violent temper in check. ‘Have you marched under a blistering sun or tried to sleep in the freezing snow? I have. I have been hunted on land and tossed about on the high seas. I do not like to be threatened.’
Foliot stepped back, pushing his cloak over his shoulder, his hand going to the hilt of his sword.
‘And now you threaten me, Irishman?’
‘Stop it
!’ Kathryn came between them, her back to Colum.
‘What’s the matter, Mistress?’ Foliot taunted. ‘Protecting your Irishman?’
Colum moved angrily, but Kathryn pressed herself against him.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ she whispered. ‘My Irishman’s no idle boaster. He’d take your head.’
Foliot blinked and glanced away. ‘And you would like that, Mistress?’
Kathryn caught the humour in his voice. ‘Now you are being stupid.’ She stepped away from Colum.
‘I am sorry I threatened you.’ Foliot held both his hands out in a gesture of peace. He glanced quickly round the small garden as if wary of eavesdroppers. ‘You know the Queen,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I’ll tell both of you this, just the once. Tenebrae held some terrible secret, about what I don’t know. But believe me, Irishtman, if I go back to London empty-handed; everyone involved in this business, and I mean everyone, will feel the Queen’s anger, including myself.’
Colum relaxed. ‘In which case, let’s make sure you don’t!’
They walked back to the tavern where Luberon and the pilgrims were waiting. The clerk must have told the pilgrims what Kathryn had discovered. Hetherington looked openly worried; Greene anxiously plucked at a loose thread. Dauncey whispered with Brissot whilst Neverett and the beautiful Louise sat, hands nervously clasped. Kathryn put the bloodstained, blackthorn cudgel down on the table.
‘Master Fronzac was murdered.’ She quickly described how she had reached that conclusion.
The pilgrims listened stony-faced.
‘It must be one of us,’ Hetherington spoke up.
‘Yes,’ Kathryn replied. ‘Logic dictates that.’
‘But why?’ Neverett asked. ‘Why should someone kill poor Fronzac? He was an able, industrious clerk.’
‘Did he have any enemies?’ Colum asked.
Neverett grimaced. ‘Who hasn’t, Irishman? Rivals, personal dislikes but certainly not the rancour and malice which leads to murder. He was no threat to anyone.’
Hetherington interrupted. ‘Except Tenebrae’s killer?’
‘Yes,’ Kathryn declared. ‘And I’ll speak honestly. Tenebrae was killed by someone in this room. Fronzac, God knows how, learnt something. He was murdered because of that knowledge.’ She paused, her words hung like a noose above the pilgrims.
‘Did Fronzac say anything?’ Colum asked. ‘Last night, or this morning, anything untoward, was he silent or withdrawn?’
‘Far from it.’ Brissot, his neat moustache almost stiff with excitement, shifted his bottom on the little stool, his fingers tapping the table. ‘He was happy: more than I have seen him for sometime. After you left last night, he and I stayed down here. We shared a bowl of wine. We talked about Tenebrae’s death, then the affairs of our Guild in London. Fronzac said he was hoping to move, buy a grander house near the Bishop of Ely’s inn just north of Holborn, one with a garden and carp pond.’
‘Did he explain the source of his newly found wealth?’ Kathryn asked.
‘Oh,’ Brissot replied, quivering with self-importance. ‘We didn’t touch on that. But, there again, he was a bachelor and he must have money stowed away.’
‘Yes, he did,’ Hetherington added quickly. ‘He lodges his money with me. Master Fronzac was not a wealthy man, but he had enough for the comforts of life.’
‘And did he speak to anyone else?’ Kathryn asked.
The pilgrims stared back at her. Brissot turned and pointed to Louise.
‘Mistress Condosti, he spoke to you. Remember? After we left the taproom we returned to our chambers. You came out, you were looking for a fresh candle. He took you aside, whispering.’
The young woman, so pale-faced Kathryn thought she was about to swoon, opened her pretty lips to reply then, bowing her head, began to sob.
‘What did he talk about?’
Louise just shook her head and dabbed at her eyes.
‘Don’t bully her!’ Neverett shouted, pushing back his stool.
‘You will sit down,’ Colum said firmly.
‘I will question Mistress Louise by herself,’ Kathryn intervened. ‘So that can wait. Did anyone else speak to Fronzac?’
Again a wall of silence.
‘He came down here this morning to break his fast,’ Hetherington said in exasperation. ‘The usual courtesies were exchanged.’
‘Then what happened?’ Kathryn asked. ‘I mean precisely?’
‘He said he must go out into the garden.’
‘Must?’ Kathryn queried. ‘Are you sure he said that, Sir Raymond?’
‘Yes, yes, he did.’
‘And where were the rest of you?’
A babble of answers broke out, which Kathryn stilled by questioning each of them individually. Hetherington and Greene said they were in their chambers. Neverett claimed he had walked into the city to view the market trade. His betrothed, Condosti, still dabbing at her eyes, simpered that she had stayed in her chamber. Dauncey and Brissot also declared they had gone for an early walk in the city to see the stalls and booths along Queningate.
‘So none of you went into the garden?’ Kathryn asked.
She turned and called over the master taverner who was leaning against the door of the kitchen. He bustled across, his cheery face now solemn.
‘You heard what was said?’ Kathryn asked. ‘Master . . . ?’
‘Byward,’ the taverner replied. ‘Anselm Byward.’
‘Is it true?’ Kathryn asked.
Byward nodded. ‘Catgut has already told me his tale.’ He wiped his hands on his apron. ‘I’ve questioned everyone: scullions and grooms. According to them, only the man who was killed went out into the garden. What is more, I have just learnt from my wife that the gate behind the hog pen was not unbarred until after the corpse was found. To put it bluntly, Mistress, if anyone entered that garden, they must have climbed the wall.’
Kathryn thanked the taverner, who went back to his listening-post to watch this drama unfold and speculate whether it would be good or bad for business.
‘What are you implying by all this questioning?’ Greene snapped.
‘I am implying nothing,’ Kathryn retorted. ‘Fronzac left the taproom saying he must go out to the garden: that means it wasn’t just a pleasant morning’s jaunt. I suspect he was going to meet his murderer.’
‘But no one followed him out,’ Brissot piped up.
‘The murderer could have still climbed the wall.’ Hetherington snorted. ‘Which means, Mistress,’ he tapped his broad belly, ‘I am not the assassin. I find it difficult to climb stairs, never mind vaulting high walls.’
‘Who told you it was high?’ Foliot interrupted.
‘I have been out there,’ Raymond blustered, his face going puce with anger. ‘And I am becoming tired of you, sire. Where were you this morning?’
All eyes turned to the Queen’s emissary and Kathryn quietly cursed her own stupidity. No one was above suspicion. Foliot was a glib courtier, talking in hushed tones about great secrets, but could he be the assassin? He had visited Tenebrae the morning the magus had died. He also knew where the pilgrims were staying. Foliot seemed to read her thoughts, and he smiled slyly.
‘I can vouch for my movements,’ he declared. ‘If you go to the tavern where I am staying, you’ll find I have more witnesses than people attending Mass on a Sunday.’
Luberon leaned over. ‘Mistress,’ he whispered. ‘This questioning is leading us nowhere.’
Kathryn agreed and got to her feet. ‘Louise.’ She smiled at the dark-eyed beauty leaning on her betrothed’s shoulder. ‘I need to speak to you alone.’
Louise looked up, eyelids fluttering. She darted a glance at Hetherington, who rubbed his face in his hands.
‘No one need accompany you,’ Kathryn insisted. ‘Except Sir Raymond.’
Hetherington touched the young woman’s shoulder.
‘Is that what you want?’
Condosti nodded.
‘What about me?’ Richard Neverett exc
laimed, pushing back his stool, his face anxious and puzzled.
‘You will stay here!’ Hetherington boomed, getting to his feet.
The Guildmaster led both Kathryn and Louise up the stairs on to the first gallery and into his opulently furnished chamber. Its walls had been painted a brilliant white, the stone floors covered in rugs and brightly embroidered tapestries hung against the wall. The four-poster bed was of polished oak and decorated with green curtains fringed with gold. There was a table, a few stools, a chest and two high-backed chairs. Hetherington closed the door, waved both Kathryn and Louise to these and pulled up a stool to sit opposite them.
Kathryn wiped her slightly sweating palms on the front of her dress as she tried to curb the trickle of excitement in her stomach, the same feeling she had when diagnosing a patient and discovering the cause of some mysterious ailment. For the first time, the wall of silence these powerful goldsmiths had built around them was about to be breached.
‘Mistress Condosti,’ Kathryn began bluntly. ‘I have questions to ask about your relationship with Tenebrae.’
Condosti’s lower lip began to quiver.
‘Please,’ Kathryn whispered. ‘I do not wish to bully or harass you. Did Master Tenebrae propose or hope to marry you?’
Condosti’s eyes flew open. Kathryn caught a look of subtle cunning and knew she had missed the mark.
‘Mistress Swinbrooke!’ Condosti smiled. ‘Marry Tenebrae!’ She threw her head back and pealed with laughter.
Kathryn glanced at Hetherington: he, too, was smiling, visibly relaxed. Think first, speak later! Kathryn ruefully recollected. Through her work with patients, Kathryn had become quite skilled in questioning but, listening to Condosti’s laughter, she realised she had a great deal more to learn.
‘How could you say such a thing, Mistress Swinbrooke?’ Hetherington brayed.
Kathryn shrugged. ‘I am just clearing obstacles from the path: first things first!’ Kathryn decided to grasp the nettle. ‘What I do know is that Tenebrae was blackmailing you, wasn’t he, Louise?’
Condosti stopped smiling.
‘Oh, not over money,’ Kathryn continued. ‘Or political allegiances, or giving aid and comfort to the King’s enemies. Something more, how can I say, personal?’