The Rufus Spy

by Alys Clare

  Between the servants and the lawmen, puffing slightly as he hurried into the hall, came a short, barrel-shaped figure dressed in a dark robe, over which he had wrapped a brightly coloured shawl. His round face was topped with a bald head, circling which was a halo of pure white hair. Two brilliant blue eyes sparkled with intelligence.

  Flooded with relief – although he didn’t stop to ask himself why – Jack stepped forward to take the man’s hands. ‘I am very glad to see you,’ he said feelingly. ‘I should be most grateful for your help.’

  And, giving Jack’s hands a squeeze before releasing them and stepping forward to crouch beside the corpse, rolling up his sleeves and already staring in fascination at what lay before him, Gurdyman said, ‘And I am here to give it.’

  NINE

  Gurdyman studied the corpse for only a few moments before turning his attention back to Jack and beckoning him close. Standing over him, Jack sensed the great effort it took to interrupt his fascinated examination even for an instant.

  ‘You should go,’ Gurdyman breathed in his ear. ‘Sheriff Picot is on his way.’

  Of course. Jack frowned, angry with himself. The lady Elwytha was the widow of the sheriff’s late nephew. The sheriff would see it as his personal duty to investigate and avenge her murder.

  Whilst Jack recognized the folly of being found here when Sheriff Picot arrived, nevertheless he wanted to stay …

  ‘You’re sure of that?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Gurdyman replied firmly. ‘The man who came to fetch me had been dispatched by the sheriff himself. He told me Picot was coming. He will be here as soon as he’s finished barking out unnecessary orders to men who function perfectly well without him.’

  But Jack had only taken in the first few words. ‘He sent someone to fetch you?’

  Gurdyman smiled briefly. ‘Don’t sound so surprised. It’s far from the first time that Sheriff Picot has commanded my assistance in determining how and by whom murder has been committed, and this of all victims’ – he glanced dispassionately down at the body – ‘is a case that will require of him all the expertise he can muster.’

  ‘I want to—’

  ‘You want to remain. Of course you do, Jack, but you can’t.’ With surprising strength for a short, tubby, elderly man prone to breathlessness, Gurdyman shoved Jack away, so that he was forced to take a step or two back. ‘Go home, try to rest, and come to see me in the morning.’

  He turned back to the body, and Jack sensed that already there was no place for himself in the old man’s mind. He paused for a brief word with the three lawmen, then marched back along the passage, out of the door and down the steps.

  His pace increased as he strode away from the house. He was furious at having had to leave the scene of the brutal assault. He knew there would be so many small details to uncover, and he had no faith that anyone else could pick them up as well as he could. Arrogance, he told himself. Pure arrogance. Gurdyman has a far better eye than you.

  But that, really, was no comfort at all.

  Suddenly he heard marching feet, coming straight towards him. Berating himself for the preoccupation that had driven all thoughts of self-preservation from his mind, he understood instantly just who was hurrying towards him and what would happen if they were to come face to face. He glanced around. He was on the main track that looped in a shallow curve round to the immediate east of the middle of the town, and on his left several small, dark alleys and passages snaked off into the concentration of dwellings to the east of the market square. Choosing one at random, he ran down it for a few paces. Then, leaning back against a wattle-and-daub wall, he drew into the shadows and looked back out at the track.

  Where, only a few moments later, Sheriff Picot strode past, at the head of a group of ten or a dozen men with flaming torches held aloft, his head up, his shoulders squared and a sword in his hand.

  And much good a drawn sword would do now, Jack reflected, when the lady Elwytha lay dead and rapidly cooling on the floor of her own hall.

  He waited until the last of the lawmen had passed, then eased himself away from the wall. He was about to return along the narrow little passage and back onto the main track when he heard something.

  He stopped still. He turned his head from side to side, listening. The night was fine, and there was hardly any wind. There was no movement of air at all here, in this maze of alleys that turned this way and that between the walls of the houses. Despite the silence, however, whatever sound had alerted him had ceased.

  He started to walk away. Then it came again.

  It emanated from deeper in the mass of dwellings. Without pausing to think, Jack went towards it.

  What was it?

  He stopped to listen. Closer now, he could hear it more clearly.

  It sounded – it sounded like a lament. It was a cry of sorrow; of despair. The pitch rose and fell, and it was almost singing; chanting, perhaps. There were words to the mournful sounds, although he couldn’t make them out. He thought they were in a language he didn’t know.

  He felt cold suddenly. He told himself it was no more than the sweat of exertion cooling on him, now that he was standing still. But he didn’t believe it.

  There was something eerie about the lament. Something visceral and profound, that seemed to go right into the deep heart of his humanity and command him to mourn, to grieve, for what was life but the path to death?

  With a huge effort he drew himself back.

  And stood, trembling, shaking, as if he had stepped away from the abyss.

  He knew he should go, for whoever was floating their grief on the night air was dangerous to him.

  He turned and began to walk away.

  And then – either starting up as an accompaniment to the lament or replacing it, he couldn’t be sure – there came another sound: that of weeping, so harsh and raw that it surely threatened to tear asunder the heart of whoever was making the awful, racking sobs.

  Now, as if released from some spell, Jack ran.

  As he pounded down the alley and emerged, panting, onto the main track, the sounds of the weeping faded and died. His spirits instantly lifted and he set off for home.

  He was knocking on Gurdyman’s door early the next morning.

  It was not easy to be there, even standing outside in the alley, for the house was indelibly associated in his mind with Lassair. He had stood here on the step several times, waiting for her. And I shall do so again, he told himself firmly.

  The heavy old door opened a crack and Gurdyman’s bright blue eye peered out. ‘Jack!’ he exclaimed, opening the door widely. ‘In you come!’ Jack stepped up into the long, cool hall and followed Gurdyman towards the light spilling in at the far end, where there was a little enclosed courtyard open to the sky. Whenever the weather permitted, it was where Gurdyman habitually sat when he was not in his workroom, down in the crypt deep beneath his house, and it was furnished with benches and a small table. This morning, although the skies were lowering, so far it was fine and the temperature mild.

  ‘So,’ Gurdyman said, settling himself with an involuntary sigh on one of the benches, ‘you wish to hear about the body of our victim, the lady Elwytha, widow of Gaspard Picot.’

  ‘I do.’

  Gurdyman paused, gazing into the distance. ‘It was an attack of great savagery,’ he began, ‘as you will have seen for yourself. There were many blows, and she was not killed by the first ones.’

  Jack nodded. ‘The bruises on her forearms, yes, I noticed those.’

  ‘You will not have noticed other evidence of the infliction of pain before the killing blow, however,’ Gurdyman went on, ‘because I didn’t either, until I had her maid unfasten her garments.’ He shot a quick glance at Jack. ‘She had been struck repeatedly across the breasts and the lower belly, so hard that I am all but certain three of her ribs had been broken.’

  Lower belly and breasts … ‘Was there any sign of a sexual assault?’

  Gurdyman nodded. ‘I too
wondered that, the areas of her body being those associated with a woman’s sexuality. However, as far as I was able to ascertain, her undergarments were all intact and she hadn’t been touched in the genitalia.’

  ‘You can’t be sure?’

  Gurdyman said, with a trace of asperity, ‘It is not easy to conduct an intimate examination of a woman’s body when her late husband’s uncle is standing over you breathing hot, angry air on the back of your neck and demanding that you hurry up with some answers and refrain from disturbing the dignity of the corpse.’

  Jack grinned briefly. ‘The two aims can’t be achieved together.’

  ‘As I tried repeatedly to tell him.’

  ‘What did you make of the extreme damage to the face?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Much the same as you, I imagine,’ Gurdyman replied. ‘I would say it indicated true hatred; that the killer’s desire – need – to be rid of the victim extended to a powerful wish to obliterate her entirely. Our faces are where we display our identity,’ he added, leaning forward, his expression eager. ‘It is a matter to which I have given much thought. Where do we reveal our nature, Jack? In our appearance or in our deeds?’

  ‘Too large a question for an autumn morning,’ Jack said shortly. ‘Please, do not misunderstand me’ – Gurdyman’s face had fallen – ‘I am fascinated by what you just said. But—’

  ‘But other matters must take precedence. Yes, quite right.’ Gurdyman leaned back once more. ‘So, if we agree that the victim had aroused intense hatred, perhaps we should now ask ourselves whether the hatred was specifically for her – for the woman she was and the things she had done – or for the man who had been her husband.’

  ‘Gaspard Picot,’ Jack said quietly.

  ‘Yes, who, on the face of it, was far more likely to have aroused the impulse to violence than his wife. But then we must ask ourselves what sort of a man takes out his fury at a man already dead on his widow?’

  ‘You think it was definitely a man’s hand that killed her?’

  Gurdyman looked up in surprise. ‘I had assumed so, because of the blows to the breasts and belly. But, now you mention it, I believe a powerful woman could have wielded whatever club or cudgel did the damage. Why do you ask?’

  The question had appeared to materialize in Jack’s mind of its own volition. ‘No particular reason.’ He paused. ‘But there’s something you should know.’ He went on to tell Gurdyman about the dark-cloaked figure he had observed watching the house.

  ‘Aaah,’ Gurdyman said slowly. ‘A thief, do you think, looking for his chance to break into the house? And perhaps the lady Elwytha disturbed him as he prepared to help himself to her treasures?’

  ‘It’s possible, although she had a houseful of servants and one of my men informed me she’d recently increased the guard. If she’d heard a noise, she’d have sent one of them to investigate.’

  Gurdyman nodded. ‘Will you continue to watch out for your dark man?’

  ‘I’m not sure there’s much point,’ Jack admitted. ‘If he was there for some innocent reason, he’ll soon find out what’s happened and keep well away before he’s hauled in for questioning. If it was him who killed her, he’ll be miles away by now because, again, he’ll fear falling under suspicion.’

  ‘And if the purpose of his presence here in the town was to kill the lady Elwytha, then that has now been achieved and so there is nothing to keep him here,’ Gurdyman added.

  There was a brief silence as both of them contemplated that bleak prospect. Then Jack said, ‘I had overlooked, what with my preoccupation with the widow Picot and her household and now her death, that—’

  ‘Preoccupation,’ Gurdyman put in gently. ‘Yes, I had noticed.’

  ‘It was I who—’

  But, again, Gurdyman interrupted. ‘Stop, Jack. Stop the remorse, stop the guilt. Gaspard Picot was an evil, corrupt man and the world is well rid of him. He tried to kill you and in defending yourself – as is your right under the law – you took his life. Let that be an end of it.’

  Sitting there in the soft light of the courtyard, with a weak yellow sun sending a kindly ray down upon him, Jack slowly became aware that something had changed. It was as if a weight he’d been carrying on his shoulders had suddenly been lifted off. He could sit up straight, open his chest, breathe the good air.

  It was far from the first time that well-meaning friends and colleagues had told him Gaspard Picot’s death was not his fault. It was, however, the first time he truly believed it.

  He met Gurdyman’s bright blue eyes. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You are most welcome. Now, you were saying that you have overlooked something?’

  ‘Yes. I was thinking of those two earlier deaths, the body found out beside the road to the fens, and the one that got caught up beneath the Great Bridge.’

  ‘Two good-looking young men, both with longish fair hair, their dead bodies discovered within the space of a couple of days.’

  ‘You saw them both?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And no progress made, or so I believe, as to who killed them,’ Jack mused.

  ‘There was in fact a third attack,’ Gurdyman said, ‘although fortunately it didn’t result in a death.’

  ‘Who was the intended victim?’

  Gurdyman paused, as if weighing something up. Then he said, ‘It was a young man called Sibert, the son of my friend Hrype.’

  ‘From Lassair’s village.’ The words were out before Jack could stop them. ‘You’ve spoken to Hrype recently? Has he news of her?’

  Gurdyman reached out and put a steadying hand on Jack’s arm.

  ‘Hrype comes to see me quite frequently. The most recent occasion was only shortly after Lassair went back to Aelf Fen,’ he said kindly. ‘He had no news other than that she had arrived safely.’

  Jack stared at him.

  ‘She will return,’ Gurdyman said very quietly. It sounded as if he was intoning the words.

  ‘You can’t know that.’

  But Gurdyman, smiling didn’t reply.

  With a great effort, Jack dragged his mind back. ‘So is Sibert all right?’

  ‘Fortunately, yes. He has a tough skull, it appears.’

  ‘Was he able to describe his attacker?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Could he say anything that might be of use?’

  ‘Only one thing, and this is at third hand, mind, for it was something that Sibert told someone, that they repeated to Hrype and that Hrype told me.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Jack said wryly.

  Gurdyman didn’t appear to have heard. ‘It seems the attacker was trying to find out something from Sibert, or perhaps holding him culpable for something he thought he’d done. Punishing him for this imagined crime, possibly.’

  ‘And two other similar-looking young men were also attacked, but in their cases the damage was fatal.’

  ‘Quite so. There was some suggestion, it seems, that the assailant heard Hrype coming – he’d gone to look for Sibert – and fled.’

  But Jack barely took it in. Speaking softly, voicing thoughts even as they formed in his mind, he said, ‘They were all similar in appearance. It’s almost as if the killer was searching for someone he hated so much that he didn’t much care about making sure he was attacking – killing – the right one.’ He shook his head. ‘But that’s absurd.’ He fell quiet.

  ‘Hate,’ Gurdyman said. The single word dropped into the silence.

  Jack looked up swiftly. ‘As with the murder of the widow Picot.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘I heard a strange thing last night, as I hurried away from the Picot house,’ he heard himself saying. He was mildly surprised, having decided this morning, in the clear light of day, that he might well have imagined the whole thing. He described the eerie, spine-chilling lament, and the heartbroken weeping that had followed.

  Gurdyman listened intently. Then, when Jack finished speaking, he nodded slowly. ‘A lament for the dead,’
he said slowly.

  ‘You believe, then, it pertains in some way to the murder of the lady Elwytha?’

  But, with a shrug and a spread of his hands, Gurdyman said, ‘I have no idea.’

  TEN

  Rollo and I were running for our lives.

  Two nights ago, we had come so close to losing them that I still dreaded to think about it …

  Rollo watched as the two newly arrived, well-dressed travellers opened the door of the monks’ dwelling and went inside. He was frowning.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. I was worried, for I sensed his sudden tension. ‘Do you recognize them? Is it the man who’s after you?’

  He didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said, ‘I can’t be sure. I don’t know what he looks like.’ He paused, the frown increasing. ‘I think we won’t go back to join the brethren just yet.’

  I thought I understood his reasoning. ‘In case one or both of that pair are looking for news of you?’ He nodded. ‘But surely it won’t be a man and woman travelling together, on your trail? I’d have thought it’d be a man alone, or perhaps with a male companion, or – oh.’

  He nodded, smiling briefly. ‘Quite.’

  He had disguised himself by acquiring a woman – me – to travel with him. It was entirely possible that the man chasing after him had done the same. I was about to comment but he went on, ‘I wouldn’t have expected that he’d ride in the company of a woman, and the pair of them looking so prosperous and fine, but then I’ve concealed myself by riding with you, and dressing us up as a lord and lady, so why shouldn’t he?’

  I didn’t appreciate the reminder that I was only there with him to help to blur his identity, but I didn’t think it was the moment to say so. ‘What do you want to do?’ I asked him. ‘Do you think we should fetch the horses and ride on? It’s not raining now, although I believe there is more to come.’

  He looked up into the sky. ‘So do I, and we’d be fools to ride off when a storm is threatening and risk being caught in the open, especially when in all probability I’m worrying about nothing, and those two travellers are perfectly innocent. But all the same …’ He didn’t finish the sentence. He was still frowning.