by Alys Clare
But Jack was tiring. He was not nearly fit enough for such a chase. He was gasping for breath, sweating, his lungs burning. In desperation, seeing the dark-cloaked man starting to increase the gap, he forced himself to make one last, desperate effort. And, to his surprised satisfaction, he drew closer, closer …
As soon as he judged that he was near enough, he launched himself at the fleeing man. His arms fully extended, his hands reaching out, he grasped his prey firmly around the upper legs and felled him.
For a brief moment both of them lay still, stunned by the force of the fall. Jack had fallen fully on top of the dark figure, and he’d heard the whoosh as the air was driven from his body.
But then, recovering far more swiftly than Jack would have believed possible, the man wrenched both arms free and, bunching his hands into fists, began punching Jack: ribs, chest, shoulders and jaw all took a hit, and as his sore, vulnerable wound was attacked yet again, Jack let out a yell of fury. Using his weight to hold the man down, he grabbed first one and then the other wrist in one hand. In one hand … Before he could think about that, with his free hand he shoved back the deep hood of the cloak and pulled down the scarf tied high around the man’s face.
But it wasn’t a man.
It was a woman.
In the waxing light of day, he could make out the features of her face quite clearly. She was in perhaps the mid-thirties, and the most striking first impression was her ferocious and intensely dark eyes. They were large, set at a slight slant, fringed with thick black lashes. And looking at him as if she wanted to kill him.
Her skin was olive, her hair – what he could see of it, for it was drawn off her face and secured somehow beneath the hood – was black. She had a strong nose, the nostrils deeply etched. Her mouth, wide, mobile, beautifully shaped, was busy hissing a stream of curses at him.
A dozen thoughts flew through his head, so quickly that he barely had the time to register them all. Uppermost was the memory of Fat Gerald’s shrewd words about Sheriff Picot, last night in the tavern: He wants a hanging, and if he can come up with a slower and more painful method of execution, he probably will.
The woman writhing and struggling beneath him might well have started the fire, and in all probability had. But nobody had been killed; all that had happened was that a monstrous house had been destroyed. If, as he had to admit seemed likely, she had also murdered the lady Elwytha, then that was a different matter.
But seemed likely wasn’t enough to throw her into Sheriff Picot’s vengeful hands; it wasn’t for Jack, anyway. If he let her be taken by the sheriff’s men, her guilt for both the fire and the murder would be assumed without question simply because she was found in the area, without one single question being asked or an iota of proof or evidence being demanded. As Fat Gerald had pointed out, Sheriff Picot was desperate to lay blame and anyone vaguely suitable would do.
This woman, fighting him so hard even as he felt her strength fail, would serve only too well.
Keeping firm hold of her upper arms, he got to his feet and dragged her up after him. Then he drew up her hood, bundled her cloak tightly around her and, one arm around her waist and the other encircling her wrist, he led her away.
He noticed, as he handled the heavy folds of her cloak, that there was no strong smell of smoke on her. She could, he thought, have lit the fire and made her escape before it took hold. On the other hand …
He urged her down the road that rounded the town centre, hurrying now for already there were sounds that the townspeople’s day was starting. She whispered, ‘Where are you taking me?’ He didn’t reply.
They were heading over the Great Bridge now, and the mist was clearing away as the sun rose. Up ahead, the castle was visible on its mound. Her face paled and a gasp escaped her.
‘Don’t worry, we’re not going there,’ he said curtly. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
She cursed him again, something she seemed to be able to do in more than one tongue. He understood, in the jumble of words, that she was hurling serious doubt on his legitimacy, and she definitely referred to his mother in a term not designed to flatter. Briefly he tightened his grip on her wrist and felt her wince in pain. He muttered, ‘We’ll leave my mother out of this, if you don’t mind.’
They took the path that led round the base of the castle and on through the deserted village. They reached Jack’s house, at the far end of the alley, and his geese set up their alarm. Quickly he hushed them. He opened up and pushed the woman inside. He closed and barred the door – it was the only way in and out, the windows being too small and too high – and stood with his back to it, staring at his captive.
Then he said, ‘I found you skulking close to a burning house, where the night before last a woman was brutally murdered.’ Her expression changed, and for an instant she looked as if she was in great pain. ‘Now I do not necessarily assume that you’re guilty of either crime,’ he went on, ‘but the evidence against you is strong. I need you to tell me who you are and why, for the past week or more, you’ve been watching the house of Gaspard Picot.’
‘It was burning fiercely,’ she said dully. ‘Soon nothing will remain.’
He noticed, as he had in a fleeting impression when she spoke before, that she didn’t sound like a local woman.
‘You are a stranger here?’
Slowly she nodded. She was looking at him warily. She didn’t speak.
‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Where do you live? Why have you come to Cambridge? What’s your name?’
Still she didn’t speak. With a faint sigh, as if this was all too much to bear, she glanced around the room, her huge dark eyes resting on the shelves with their neatly arranged mugs and platters, the hearth and its recently swept surround, the clean floor. The small room beyond the archway, where the bed stood with folded blankets.
‘Good enough for you?’ Jack asked. She either missed or didn’t understand the sarcasm.
In frustration he stepped up close to her, pushing her so that she stumbled and fell. Instantly she drew up her knees and encircled her body with her arms, protecting the vulnerable parts of her body, making herself a smaller target. Her eyes fixed on his were full of terror.
And he knew, by that instinctive gesture of self-protection, that she was a woman who had suffered brutality at a man’s hands. With the realization came shame. Jack had seen what happened to a woman – even a brave one who would fight as long as she had breath – when she was beaten. Sooner or later that high courage got used up. And, spirit broken and ashamed, there would be nothing left.
He sat down beside her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have shoved you, and I didn’t mean to throw you on the floor.’ He sensed her relax, very slightly. ‘It’s not my intention to hurt you,’ he went on. In fact, he could have added, I’m trying to help you.
But it was too soon to promise that.
‘It seems to me,’ he went on when still she didn’t speak, ‘that you have two options: either talk to me, by which I mean tell me who you are and why you’re here, and what Gaspard Picot’s widow and her house are to you, or else—’ He stopped. Or else I’ll give you up to our deeply unpleasant and untrustworthy sheriff, who happens to be related to the dead woman and whose nephew built that ghastly house, who is baying for blood and who will be very happy to shove you in a filthy, stinking dungeon until he takes you out and hangs you for murder and arson.
No. He couldn’t threaten that, for he wasn’t at all sure he could bring himself to do it.
‘You should know that I’m a lawman,’ he said roughly. ‘It’s my duty to apprehend those guilty of crimes, and it may well be that here in my own house I’m harbouring one.’ He had her attention now, and her eyes didn’t leave his. ‘Oh, and we had a couple more murders not long ago which remain a total mystery,’ he added. ‘Had it been a less impartial officer of the law than I who happened to apprehend you, no doubt he’d have remembered those earlier deaths and found it convenient to ask himself if you were re
sponsible for those, too.’
She had gone deathly white. Every drop of blood seemed to have drained from her flushed face, and she swayed where she sat.
He thought it was because of his threat, and while part of him regretted causing her such terror, another rejoiced because at last he seemed to have got through to her.
But, as haltingly she began to speak, he realized that her fear had quite another cause.
‘Two more murders?’ She muttered something under her breath, briefly closing her eyes. It sounded like a desperate prayer. Opening her eyes again, her expression pleading, she said, ‘Please, who were the victims?’
‘Two men, both quite young, both with smooth, fair hair. They were—’ He had been going on to relate the details of where and when the two bodies had been found, but she was no longer listening. She had buried her face in her hands and she was sobbing.
Tentatively he reached out and touched the back of her hand. She didn’t seem to notice. Her distress seemed to intensify, and soon she was rocking to and fro, gasping for breath.
At a loss to know what else to do, Jack put his arms around her.
Instantly she turned into him, her hands clasped into fists resting on his shoulders, her head on his chest. And something inside her seemed to collapse, so that she clung to him as if his solid presence alone was keeping her alive.
He let her cry.
When it stopped – she appeared to have worn herself out – he made her comfortable on blankets by the hearth and stoked up the fire. When it was going well, he put water to heat and made her a drink from one of Lassair’s herbal preparations. Then he fetched bread and a hunk of cheese. She gulped down the drink but pushed away the food, so he forced her. She looked half-starved.
When she had finished – after the first reluctant bites she tore through the simple food as if her life depended on it, which he reckoned it might well have done – she gave an enormous yawn and lay down on her side, curling up her legs. He tucked her cloak and a blanket around her. Soon her eyes closed and she sank into sleep.
He watched her for a while. She began to snore gently.
Quietly he slipped out, closing and firmly securing the door behind him.
He made his way through busy early morning streets and alleys to Gurdyman’s house. Once he’d managed to make the old man hear his pounding on the door and admit him – Gurdyman explained that he’d been absorbed in a particularly teasing problem concerning arsenic – he was given the usual welcome.
They settled in the little inner courtyard. It was chilly out there, but Gurdyman explained that the alternative was the crypt, which was unfortunately rather fume-filled just then.
Jack told him about the fire, about the woman, about his fear that, handed over to Sheriff Picot, she would not live long.
Gurdyman nodded. ‘She would be a most convenient choice as perpetrator of both crimes,’ he agreed. ‘An outsider – you say she’s not local – and a woman on her own.’
‘I didn’t say she was alone!’ Jack protested.
‘I think, however, that we may construe it,’ Gurdyman replied. ‘You have seen her keeping vigil outside the Picot house. She was there around dawn this morning. A married woman, a family woman or a servant would surely not be able to absent herself from her domicile so regularly and at such an unlikely time as the early hours of the morning.’
It made sense, Jack had to agree. ‘You may be right,’ he said.
Gurdyman was eyeing him, a small smile on his wide, mobile mouth. ‘Wasn’t it risky, to leave her alone?’ he asked. ‘She’ll surely be gone when you return.’
But Jack shook his head. ‘I don’t believe she will. When I mixed a hot herbal brew for her I included one of the sleeping draughts that Lassair prepared for me. If my own reaction is anything to go by, she’ll still be asleep when the sun starts to go down. And just in case it fails to work for some reason,’ he added, ‘I locked her in.’
Gurdyman was still watching him. ‘Do you believe her guilty?’
‘Yes. Probably. No.’
Gurdyman smiled. ‘I see.’
‘There was something else that I found strange,’ Jack said, breaking a short, thoughtful silence.
‘Yes?’
‘When I was trying to persuade her to tell me who she was and what she was doing in the town, I told her there had been two other murders and that she might all too readily be held responsible for those too, once she came under suspicion of the killing of the widow Picot and the firing of the house.’
Gurdyman gave him a reproving look. ‘And is that really likely?’
‘That she killed the first two victims, no. That she’d be suspected, yes.’ He spoke roughly, for Gurdyman was making him ashamed of his tactics.
‘How did she react?’ Diplomatically, Gurdyman moved the talk on.
‘She went very white,’ Jack said. ‘She said a prayer – at least, I assume that was what it was, although I couldn’t make it out – and asked about the victims.’
‘And you told her?’
‘Yes, upon which she suffered some sort of collapse and cried as if her heart was broken.’ He saw her again in his mind. Felt the desperation with which she had clung to him.
‘Interesting,’ Gurdyman murmured. ‘How old is she?’
‘I’m not sure. Maybe in the middle thirties?’
‘And the two young men?’
‘Younger by a decade or so, I’d say.’
‘Hmm. She is too young to be the mother, and perhaps a shade too old to be the wife, lover or mistress.’
‘You’re thinking of a connection to both the fair-haired men?’ It seemed far-fetched to Jack, especially in view of the fact that no link had been established or even suggested between the victims. They looked vaguely alike; that was all.
But Gurdyman was shaking his head. ‘No, Jack, I’m not. I’m wondering if somebody is hunting for a man who is of a certain age, with fair hair worn smooth, long and well cut. And—’
‘And you think the woman locked in my house knows a man answering that description,’ Jack finished for him, ‘and now fears he’s just been murdered.’
TWELVE
As Rollo and I went through the doorway and into Mercure’s house, the sense of welcome seemed to increase. The main living room was clean and smelled fresh. I ran my fingers across the top of a small side table, and to my surprise there didn’t even appear to be any dust.
I heard Rollo drop the bags on the floor and I was aware of him unpacking. But my mind had gone back into the recent past: to the time when I had come here with Gurdyman, not long after his friend Mercure had left his home for the final time.
He and I had searched both this room and, more importantly, Mercure’s workroom, hidden away behind the main building and reached by the covered way leading off from the rear door. Although Gurdyman had been well aware that Mercure’s house was difficult to access, even given you could find it in the first place, so well camouflaged was it, he hadn’t wanted to take any risks. For Mercure had also been a magician, a wizard: the title doesn’t really matter, and neither man ever used such names themselves. Men like him and Gurdyman employ, are familiar with and experiment with many dangerous substances which, handled by the curious, the unwary or the foolhardy, are extremely dangerous. Poisons. Substances that suddenly and unexpectedly burst into flame or explode, or both. Strange and exotic materials, brought from far-distant lands, which, combined with one another, release powers that are too great for anyone who is not an adept to handle. Even the adepts sometimes come to grief, as I know from life with Gurdyman. So together he and I made the short journey out here to Mercure’s house, and, walking in silence beside my mentor, I had the sense that it was a pilgrimage, of a sort; a final devotional act performed in honour of a man who I suspected had probably been a lifelong friend.
We came up with quite a haul. Gurdyman had sent me out to rummage around in the little row of outhouses for something with which to transport our finds, and I’d
discovered a small but functional handcart. We stowed our unlikely treasures very carefully – there was a wooden barrel of a particular black powder, for example, which goes off with a bang and a cloud of foul smoke if it’s dropped – and covered the load with an old blanket …
‘Shall I set out the bed rolls in here, by the hearth?’ Rollo’s voice interrupted my thoughts. I turned to look at him, smiling.
‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I ought to be helping. Yes, good idea. This room is snug enough, and will be quite comfortable once we’ve got the fire going.’
Rollo spread out the bedding, then straightened up and said, ‘The firewood’s outside?’
‘Round the back.’ I pointed. Mercure, I recalled, kept fires both in his living room and in his workroom, and stored his fuel between the two.
Nodding, Rollo disappeared outside. Presently I heard the sound of an axe striking a block. He was, I guessed, making sure we had a good supply. We might, I realized with a shock of dismay, be here some time.
In which case, I told myself firmly, I should stop standing there daydreaming and feeling anxious, and get on with sorting out anything and everything that Rollo and I could use.
Mercure had lived a solitary life but, as I’d already suspected and as now was verified, he’d looked after himself well. The room was surprisingly comfortable – a stack of good wool blankets and some pillows were neatly stored in a big wooden chest, with a couple of straw mattresses tucked away behind it. The hearth stones were large and sound, and there was a space close by where the day’s firewood could be stored, the fire’s heat taking the damp out of it so that it was less likely to smoke. Everything was neat and tidy; Mercure, I surmised, had made sure of it. But then, I thought, it was likely that this pleasant, spacious living area was little used; that Mercure, like Gurdyman, had spent most of his life in his workroom.
I suddenly realized how tired I was, and I sat down on the wooden chest. We were safe, for the time being at least, and a wave of relief at having found this hiding place washed through me. But I didn’t sit there for long, for my stomach gave a great growl and I got up again to see what food supplies I could muster.