House of Shadows

by The Medieval Murderers

  Baldwin reckoned that the inquest itself was notable only for the severity of the coroner. In his own experience, many coroners could be too demanding, and frequently they were thoroughly corrupt, soliciting bribes to prevent a man being taken to court or demanding more to ensure that some other fellow was arrested in his place. There were any number of tricks that could guarantee a man a well-filled purse.

  This man started proceedings by fining the vill because not all the men of over twelve years had appeared. Then he imposed another fine because Hob did not answer him in the required manner, apparently. Before they had reached the point at which the bodies were displayed, the jury was already cowed. Baldwin could see that their damp shuffling in the mud was stilled, and they stared at the ground with sullen resentment.

  Not that the coroner minded. He appeared to relish their grim bitterness.

  Soon, though, when the witnesses began to come forward, Baldwin found his attention being diverted – especially when he caught his first sight of the man he had been keen to question: William de Monte Acuto, the father of the dead Pilgrim.

  To his surprise, for he had expected someone who would show the same dissipation as Henry Capun, William was a tall man with the physique of a warrior. He had the same muscled neck, powerful right arm and thick thighs as a knight. Clearly this was a man who had fought in his youth. He had a calm face, and even with sorrow marking his eyes he was still a handsome fellow, the kind of man whom women would like. There was a softness and soulfulness in his features that was attractive and spoke of an inner gentleness. It was a great shame that he had allied himself with Piers Gaveston, but, as Baldwin knew, men would connect themselves with the greatest fools and felons in order to protect themselves politically.

  ‘I am William de Monte Acuto.’

  The coroner was questioning the witnesses in a bullying manner, as though he enjoyed cowing those who came before him. With William, he seemed a little unsure how to continue. At last he jerked his head at the woman’s body lying on the ground before them. ‘You know her?’

  ‘I do.’ William did not look down at her, but kept his gaze fixed forward.

  ‘She knew your son?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where was your son on the night of the vigil of the feast of St George? That is two nights ago, Master William, the night of Tuesday and Wednesday.’

  ‘He was with me at our house.’

  ‘And no doubt your servants will vouch for you?’

  ‘Of course they will – but I am happy to swear on the Gospels if you do not trust my word.’

  Baldwin smiled at the man’s suave courtesy. It was in marked contrast to the coroner’s hectoring manner.

  ‘I am glad to hear it. Perhaps we should have both you and your servants swear in like manner?’

  ‘If you command it, coroner.’

  ‘Your son desired this girl, did he not? Were they lovers?’

  William de Monte Acuto’s face hardened, but with pain, not anger. ‘My son was a man. This young woman was lively and pretty, so perhaps it is so.’

  ‘You were not aware that he was wooing her?’

  ‘I guessed so, yes.’

  ‘He lies dead there, stabbed through the heart. She holds a dagger in her hand. Perhaps she killed him, then herself?’

  William looked at the coroner for the first time now, his face blank of anything but his sorrow. ‘My son is dead, and you wish me to speculate about who did it?’

  Later, Baldwin managed to push through the crowd and reach William de Monte Acuto. ‘May I speak to you a moment, friend?’

  ‘What – do you wish to question me like that cretin of a coroner?’

  ‘No, I merely seek the truth – I act for my lord Bishop Stapledon.’

  ‘Then how can a poor man like me refuse?’ William said sarcastically. ‘The king has many advisers, but there are few who can command the respect of my lord bishop.’

  Simon said, ‘Friend, I have a son. You have my sympathy. To lose a son is terrible…to then be questioned by that coroner is obscene.’

  William bent his head. ‘I could have happily taken his head from his shoulders.’

  ‘Your son,’ Baldwin said. ‘When did you know he was missing?’

  ‘The day he was found. I have a hall with a solar at each end. The servants sleep in the eaves between them. William used to sleep at the other end of the house, and recently…well, we were not on good terms in the last days.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of Juliet, of course!’ His anger subsided as quickly as it had flared, and he hesitated. ‘I had no wish for my son to be associated with her.’

  ‘Her father and you were once friends?’

  ‘Yes, we were. But then Cecily died because of him, and he started his rise to prominence and wouldn’t talk to simple folks like me and my son. We weren’t significant enough to measure in his estimation. No, he’d prefer to be spending his time with all those magnificent fellows in their great houses.’

  ‘Whereas you…?’

  ‘I stayed where I had been born. I never lost my roots. I am a simple man, when all is said and done. I was born a serf, and I make my own way in the world. My business keeps me well enough. Henry Capun is a knight now, and he can claim Hugh Le Despenser as a friend. What use am I to him now?’

  ‘Who could have wished to harm your son?’

  ‘Only one man,’ William said darkly. ‘Henry Capun hates me and would seek to ruin me in any way he might. Killing poor William is just one way to attack me. Poor William!’

  ‘You think he would kill his daughter in order to get at you?’ Baldwin asked sharply.

  William looked at him. ‘My only love, Cecily, was taken from me by him. She died because she was desperate to give him a son. She wasn’t ready for another child after little Juliet’s birth, but he was ever a demanding devil, and she fell pregnant again. It killed her.’

  ‘This son of his, Timothy – he is from another woman?’

  ‘Yes. Henry married Edith after Cecily died, and Edith gave him Timothy, but then she, too, died in the famine seven years ago or more.’

  ‘Still,’ Simon suggested, ‘he would have loved his daughter, surely?’

  William wiped a hand over his face. ‘God forgive me for saying it, but I doubt it. He looked on her as a chattel. Nothing more. If she was no further use, he’d have discarded her as easily as a man throwing away a broken staff.’

  When the carter arrived at the gates, John was sent to find Lawrence. The cellarer was the main contact for any tradesmen with food.

  John could see him with the group about the body with the coroner and hurried to him just as he saw Simon and Baldwin approaching him. The two men were a little alarming, with their strange accents. Especially the knight, with his black, intense eyes. John only hoped that Lawrence was not in trouble.

  The arrest of Prior Walter the previous year had alarmed all the monks. That their leader could be removed and replaced at the whim of the king was unsettling. For John it was worse, though, because he knew secrets none of the others had heard. Every day he feared that the men would come to arrest his master, Lawrence. The cellarer had been involved in the escape of Mortimer. He knew that. He’d seen Lawrence return that night.

  Simon and Baldwin caught sight of the cellarer, and, while the coroner demanded refreshment and adjourned the inquest, Simon led the way to the monk, struck with a thought.

  ‘Brother Lawrence – when you mentioned the marriage of Juliet, you said you heard the vows. Were there any witnesses apart from you?’

  ‘I cannot tell you of that wedding. I swore.’

  Simon was staring at him with a shrewd narrowing of his eyes. ‘If a maiden weds, it is rare indeed that she will do so without her maid at least at her side. Was her maid there?’

  ‘You must ask her that. Why?’

  ‘I was wondering…’

  Another voice interrupted them. ‘Yes? What were you wondering, master?’

&nb
sp; Simon could almost smell the man before he heard him. There was an unpleasant odour of sourness, and when Simon caught sight of his ravaged face he could see why. It was only natural that a man so terribly scarred by the pox or some similar malady should be noisome to others. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I was going to ask you the same, master. You have so much interest in my household, I thought you might like to explain what you were questioning this man about?’

  ‘Your household? You are son to Sir Henry?’

  His knowledge of Timothy’s father should have been no surprise, for as Simon had already noticed most people in London seemed to know of Sir Henry, and yet it seemed to make the son still more suspicious. The man laid one hand on Simon’s arm, the other on his sword. ‘I’d like to know more of you and your fascination with my family.’

  ‘Good. When you have let go my arm, I shall be happy to talk,’ Simon said.

  In response, Timothy half drew his sword. ‘You’ll talk now, or answer to—’

  As he spoke, Baldwin’s bright blue sword blade rang, and rested gently on his throat. ‘Master Capun, I would have you release my companion. And do please take your hand from your sword. We would not want more blood shed, would we?’

  Simon took Timothy’s hand and pulled his arm free. The younger man’s eyes were filled with loathing, but he didn’t try to prevent him. As soon as Timothy’s hand had fallen away from the hilt, Baldwin whipped his sword away and sheathed it in one fluid movement.

  ‘We wanted to speak to you,’ Simon said, glancing about him to find Lawrence. The monk had disappeared as soon as Baldwin’s sword flashed from its scabbard.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Your sister is dead, and you ask why we want to talk to you? We are seeking to learn what happened that night.’

  ‘Ask that bastard over there. That son of a diseased pig was there. William killed them.’

  ‘Your father hinted as much,’ Baldwin said. ‘Except it really makes little sense. Why should a man like him kill his own son, just to have some form of revenge on your family? He could kill your sister, granted – but why harm Pilgrim?’

  ‘Pilgrim loved my sister. Perhaps he tried to protect her from his mad father? I don’t pretend to understand him.’

  ‘You suggest that William the elder could have tried to kill your sister? Have you ever seen him threaten her?’

  ‘I have not seen him attack her directly, but the man is insanely jealous of my father. He would do anything to hurt him.’

  Baldwin eyed him. The fellow was arrogant and bitter, but he had lost his half-sister and such feelings were not unnatural. ‘That is no reason to want to harm his own son.’

  ‘Who else could have done that to Pilgrim? You saw the body there, laid out with love. Who else but a father could have done that to him?’

  ‘Not you, eh?’ Simon said.

  ‘I would have spat on his face and cut his ballocks off for what he did to my sister! She may have been—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My father’s first-born. He loved her greatly,’ Timothy grunted. ‘Look at me: is it any surprise? Would you prefer a son looking like this, or a daughter as pretty as she?’

  Baldwin was not to be moved from his questioning. There were, after all, many others who suffered from scars. ‘You say he raped her? That is why you would castrate him?’

  ‘In a way,’ Timothy said evasively.

  ‘She knew him? They indulged in the natural pleasures of a man and woman?’

  ‘Yes! I know, for I saw them together. And it was disgusting! He had his…anyway, I rushed in, and it was only because she grabbed me and stopped me that I couldn’t actually run him through, the cunning bastard!’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘In my house, in the stables behind the hall. He had inveigled his way into the place, and she went to see him. It was only because she begged me that I didn’t tell our father. It would have broken his heart to know what they were up to. Carnal behaviour like that, to a man of honour and integrity, would be insufferable. But I swore to her that if I ever saw Pilgrim with her again, I would have his head off.’

  Baldwin nodded thoughtfully. ‘His head yet remains on his shoulders, but that does not mean you are innocent.’

  ‘Me? If I could have, I would have killed him, and done it gladly. He was a ravisher of women.’

  He was about to push away from them, but Baldwin placed his hand on the fellow’s breast and prevented him. ‘A few more questions before you go. Did you know that they were married?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘I have spoken to the man of God who listened to their vows. They were married.’

  Timothy’s mouth opened, but no words came. Instead he looked from one to the other, and then down at the ground with a frown. ‘But…she couldn’t have…She knew what that would do to Father…Why didn’t she tell me?’

  ‘You can answer that for yourself,’ Baldwin said unkindly. ‘Are you sure she didn’t tell you that she was wedded?’

  ‘Never! My Christ, if I’d known that…’ He looked up at Baldwin again, and now there was a fierce, cold rage in his eyes. ‘If she’d done that and not asked Father first, she deserved what happened to her!’

  Later, when the two sat to discuss the matter, Simon was unsure of Timothy’s innocence.

  ‘I’d not be surprised if the poxy fool mused and let the resentment build until he seethed against her. He might have reasoned that the affront to the family’s honour justified a severe punishment.’

  ‘Perhaps. I am certain of only one thing: that the coroner’s tale is entirely wrong!’

  Simon agreed with Baldwin. The coroner’s summing-up had been devastating for the vill.

  ‘So we come to the essential facts. The two bodies. One, the woman, held the knife. I do not doubt that the knife was the weapon that ended both these two young lives.’

  ‘Clearly he doesn’t doubt – he didn’t even bother to measure the blade and test the depths of the wounds, the width of the injuries, nor any other comparative measurements,’ Baldwin whispered with contempt.

  The coroner had continued. ‘The dagger will be sold as deodand. It is clear enough that the woman killed her lover, and, feeling remorse, she first settled his body into that comfortable posture, and then she walked away to commit self-murder, dropping to lie dead where she was discovered. For these crimes…’

  It was at this point, as he was outlining the full total of fines that would be imposed on the poor peasants of the area for allowing this infringement of the king’s peace, that Baldwin nudged Simon and began to make his way from the place, muttering angrily: ‘I suppose that little child was strong enough to pick up her dead lover and dragged him across the mud?’

  He paused and stared into the middle distance. ‘We never answered why someone should have killed him up there and then dragged him away. Plainly the idea was to conceal his body. Yet why? Surely the likely reason was to hide him from Juliet when she arrived? So someone planned the murder as a double killing. The man was slaughtered first, his body hidden, but treated respectfully, and then the girl arrived and was killed in her turn. But she did not merit such respect. Instead she was left discarded. Why? Was she being punished for a crime of which the boy was innocent?’

  Shaking his head, he continued onwards, glowering at the ground as he went.

  Rather than make their way nearer to the river, which was invariably damp, especially nearer the king’s new moated palace, the Rosary, the two walked down to the priory, intending to make their way past it and down to the road that led to the great bridge.

  At the gate they saw Brother Lawrence with a carter. Lawrence saw them approach and suddenly grew curt with the carter, sending him into the priory, before standing and waiting for the two to reach him.

  ‘You left us swiftly, brother,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘I had no desire to be involved with that whelp,’ Lawrence admitted. ‘Is it as I feared, then? More fines for
the poor folk who can scarce support themselves as it is?’

  ‘You will not find a more stern and forbidding coroner in the country,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘He is a measure of the government. Was any culprit selected?’

  Baldwin showed his teeth in a smile. ‘Who would you have picked?’

  ‘Me?’ Lawrence looked up at him, then considered. ‘Clearly it is plain that Pilgrim was innocent. Someone killed him, and yet treated his corpse with reverence, so his killer at least recognized that he was a decent enough fellow. He didn’t want to leave his corpse lying there…’

  ‘Which says little for the man who murdered Juliet,’ Baldwin said. ‘He left her crumpled in a mess.’

  Simon nodded. ‘Perhaps someone else came along and the murderer was forced to flee?’

  ‘It is possible,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘What do you think, brother?’

  Lawrence sighed and peered up into the sky. ‘Did you know that this priory has a reputation? Many hundreds of years ago there was an illicit affair between a woman and a chaplain. It is said that the devil came and took them and that the man’s ghost is seen here on the flats occasionally.’

  ‘Here?’ Simon asked. He only stopped himself from gazing about him with superstitious concern by reminding himself how Baldwin would make him regret such a display.

  Baldwin smiled airily and turned to peer at Simon. Saying nothing to the bailiff, he asked Lawrence: ‘How would a woman come to be living here in a monastery?’

  ‘I believe that she was here for safekeeping…some form of wardship, no doubt.’

  ‘Hard to believe that someone could send a young impressionable ward to a place like this,’ Baldwin commented.

  ‘What happens to those who see the ghost?’ Simon asked.

  ‘They die, so the rumour says.’