by Mel Starr
“And what,” I asked her, “are the customary reasons for one man to slay another?”
“Surely you can imagine such causes.”
“Aye, but I would know your thoughts.” My Kate is quick of wit, and had provided good counsel in previous entanglements in which I had found myself.
Kate finally picked up the loaf and tore a fragment from it as she spoke. “Greed, of course. One man wants what another has.”
“Sir Henry was in reduced circumstances.”
“A knight with no funds?”
“So it seems.”
“A man may possess things other than money,” Kate said, “which another man may want.”
“Such as?”
“A wife… or a daughter.”
“Ah, just so. Sir Henry had both.”
“I’ve not been to the castle since they arrived. Are they comely?”
Here was perilous ground, but I trod nimbly across it.
“Some men might think so. They are not repulsive.”
“Hmmm. I suspect you of great tact,” Kate smiled.
I am no fool. I changed the subject. “Why else, do you think, do men do murder?”
“Some grievance, perhaps. An ancient wrong, or a new one, for which a man might seek vengeance.”
“’Twould have to be some offense Sir Henry did to one of those of his circle now lodged in the castle.”
“Was he a hard man with his inferiors?”
“I know not. ’Tis a thing I must learn, and it should not be difficult. A man who holds a grudge against his lord can usually be persuaded to speak of it, especially if the lord is a corpse and can do him no injury for his words.”
“What if,” Kate replied while chewing a portion of the maslin loaf, “such a man fears speaking ill of his lord, lest doing so will turn suspicion upon him for his lord’s death?”
“A possibility. You speak wisely. I must be discreet.”
“Or devious,” Kate said. “Cause a man to believe you suspect another, so he will lower his guard.”
“His guard, or hers?”
“You think a woman struck down Sir Henry? It could only be his wife or daughter… unless one of Lady Margery’s maids…”
“Aye, wife or daughter, and both have maids who wait upon them.”
“Why would Lady Margery want her husband dead?”
“Who can know if she did?”
“Or the daughter,” Kate added.
“If it is so that wife or daughter did this,” I said, “there will be also a man in the business.”
“A lover?”
“Aye. A wife who wishes to change husbands, or a daughter who wishes to wed a man to whom her father objects.”
Kate tore off another fragment from the maslin loaf and chewed it thoughtfully. “There must be other reasons men do murder.”
“I believe there are but three,” I said. “A man has what another man wants, and is slain for it. Or, a man has what another man wants, and murders the other to keep it. Or revenge… to requite some injury.”
“Which of these brought Sir Henry’s death, you think?”
“I cannot tell,” I said. “But when I learn the reason I will have the felon, I think.”
My cup of ale was not quite empty. I swallowed the dregs, kissed Kate and Bessie – who had been exploring her toes all the while her mother and I had tried to account for the evil men do to others – placed my cap upon my head, and set off from Galen House for the castle.
I was but a few steps from my door when I heard someone retching nearby. The sound came from behind my own house. I crept quietly alongside of Galen House ’til I could peer around the corner into the toft. Kate stood just outside the rear door, one hand upon her stomach, the other across her mouth. Her retching had ceased.
I remembered well the last time Kate was so afflicted and so walked with light heart to the castle. I was sure that Bessie would soon have a playmate.
My joy was much reduced when I arrived at the castle, for there all was in mourning. Sir Henry’s coffin, shrouded in black linen, lay upon a bier just inside the gatehouse, and as I watched, Lady Margery and Lady Anne appeared, garbed in their most somber cotehardies, ready to assume their places behind the coffin as chief mourners when the procession to the church began.
Father Thomas de Bowlegh arrived a few moments later. As I watched him pass under the portcullis I saw behind him, through the opening, that a small knot of Bampton citizens was gathering in the forecourt.
The priest spoke a few words to Lady Margery, then nodded to the four grooms who stood ready at the poles to bear the coffin to St Beornwald’s Church. Father Thomas took his place at the head of the procession, ready to lead the way.
The grooms bent to their poles and followed Father Thomas through the gatehouse, Lady Margery and Lady Anne close behind. Lord Gilbert, Lady Petronilla, and Sir Roger walked behind the bereaved widow. Then came Sir John and Sir Geoffrey. I fell into the column with the squires William and Robert, as my rank ordained.
The bier was hardly out from under the gatehouse when Lady Margery set up a dreadful wail. Lady Anne joined in, but both were immediately overwhelmed by the small crowd which I had seen through the open gate and portcullis. Somehow Lady Margery had found funds to hire mourners for Sir Henry’s funeral, and these now offered a howl of grief so as to earn their pay.
The procession crossed Shill Brook on Mill Street, and thence traveled on Bridge Street to Church View. Kate watched from the door, Bessie wide-eyed, clutching at her mother’s cotehardie, as the procession passed Galen House. While I walked I tried to watch and see if any mourners before me seemed less enthusiastic in their grief than the others. This was difficult to do, observing the backs of heads. And behind me the Bampton citizens hired for the purpose set up a mind-numbing clamor which did not abate until the coffin was set down in the lychgate.
Father Thomas there began Sir Henry’s funeral, but I paid little heed to the dirge. Any man who has survived the plague and its return has heard such many times. I watched to see if any of Sir Henry’s mourners seemed complacent while others grieved, but either the felon was cunning, or I am unable to recognize guilt in a man’s features.
Father Thomas completed the office, then turned and strode toward the church porch. The grooms who bore Sir Henry’s corpse resumed their task, and we mourners followed, silent now, into St Beornwald’s Church. Father Thomas can be eloquent when the mood strikes, and after the funeral mass, it did. His oration was as fine as any duke might deserve. I hope Lady Margery appreciated his effort.
When he was done Father Thomas led us to the churchyard and near to the south transept scraped a furrow into the turf with a toe. The grave-diggers plied their spades at this place, and there was soon a pit large enough for Sir Henry to await the Lord Christ’s return.
The grooms lowered the black-veiled coffin into the grave and mourners who had brought with them sprigs of rosemary tossed the greenery atop the coffin. Father Thomas reminded all to remember to pray for Sir Henry, that his soul be released sooner from purgatory. It may be difficult for a wealthy man to enter heaven, but it is also sure that it is hard for a poor man to escape purgatory. If Sir Henry had not lived a life worthy of heaven I doubt that my prayers, or any man’s, would send him there. But I keep such heretical views to myself. I am responsible for the care of a wife and a child. Perhaps soon two children. It would not do to provoke the bishops.
Sir Roger approached and drew me from the grave and those who surrounded it as earth was shoveled atop the coffin. We were near the churchyard wall when he turned and drew from his pouch a scrap of parchment the size of my palm. “This,” he said softly, “was slipped under my door in the night, whilst I slept.”
A few lines, hastily scrawled, filled one side of the fragment. The letters were so badly formed that at first I could not decide whether the words were Latin or English. A moment of scrutiny told me that before me was a message in English, written by some man unfamiliar wit
h a pen.
“The squire has what you seek,” was lettered in a crude hand upon the parchment.
“Who has written this,” the sheriff asked, “and what is it that I seek?”
“You are here to seek a murderer, are you not?”
“Aye. Does this then say that one of Sir Henry’s squires did murder, or does a squire know who is guilty?”
“Perhaps both. If one of the squires is the guilty man, the other may know of it. But why, I wonder, tell you in this manner? Why not speak of the knowledge directly to you?”
“Aye, why not? The man who wrote this wishes to be unknown.”
“Some knight or valet or groom knows, or believes he knows, who has slain Sir Henry,” I said, “but wants to conceal from you that he possesses such information.”
“Which squire?”
“Perhaps the man does not know. Or perhaps the squires worked together to strike down Sir Henry.”
“Then what is it we seek?” Sir Roger asked.
“Evidence. When we have returned to the castle I will tell Lord Gilbert that while others are at dinner in the hall we will inspect the chamber where Sir Henry’s squires sleep.”
“You believe what the squire has is a thing, rather than information?”
“Who can say? If some evidence is to be found in the squires’ chamber, it may be more readily discovered than knowledge, which men may more easily obscure from the view of others.”
“Lady Margery wishes to set out for Bedford on Monday,” Lord Gilbert said when Sir Roger and I approached him. “What say you? Must she remain until this matter is resolved? We could require her men and maids to remain, and send her off with an escort of my own grooms. There will be men left behind at Bedford to serve her until those of her servants who are innocent of murder can be released.”
“It may be possible for her to leave with her people… but for one,” Sir Roger said. He produced the scrap of parchment and Lord Gilbert frowned over the crude message while he considered its import.
“One of Sir Henry’s squires did the murder?” he asked.
“It is uncertain that this is what is meant,” I replied. “Sir Roger and I wish to absent ourselves from dinner. While all are in the hall we will search the squires’ chamber. Perhaps the murder weapon may be hid there.”
“Ah. Very well. I will tell the cook to keep back some of the meal for you.”
No doubt we were missed when Lord Gilbert’s valets began to serve dinner, but no one asked, he said later, of our whereabouts, being perhaps too polite to seem nosey.
The squires’ chamber was on the ground floor of the castle guest range, its ceiling low, and with but one narrow window of glass which looked out to the marshalsea across an open yard. It was mid-day, or nearly so, but the small window provided little light for our search.
“What is it we seek?” Sir Roger asked as we entered the room. “A bodkin or other such device?”
“Aye. Something long and slender which could be plunged into a man’s head through his ear. Assuming that we construe that note properly.”
Two narrow beds occupied either side of the chamber. Between them was a small table, two chests, and on the far wall a fireplace. I pointed to one of the beds. “Search that mattress and bed clothes and I’ll do the same here.”
Silently we lifted and peered under the mattresses. I pulled back blankets but found nothing. I bent to peer under the bed but found only dust. Sir Roger completed his inspection of the other bed and likewise found nothing incriminating.
I stood and studied the chamber, then turned my attention to the chests. They had no locks, and the lids opened freely. In them were men’s undergarments, kirtles and braes, extra cotehardies, caps, combs, and one chest held a pair of shoes with outlandishly curled toes, of finest leather, such as young men of fashion like to wear. In this same chest I found a vial of some liquid. I removed the stopper and passed the vessel under my nose. ’Twas no poison, but clove-pink, useful when a youth might wish to make his odor sweet before a maid. But no hidden weapon was found in either chest – but for the clove-pink.
Perhaps we looked for the wrong thing. The anonymous informer had written that we would find here what we sought, but how did the writer know what it was we sought?
I stood in the center of the small chamber, hands on hips, and studied the shadowed room. If I wished to hide an incriminating weapon, where would I do so?
The pillows and mattresses had seemed a likely place, but examination had found nothing but goose feathers and chopped straw. The sun, now slanting through the narrow window, illuminated the fireplace and at the top of the opening I saw a brief glimmer of some white object, pale against the soot of the mantel.
The white fragment hung, barely visible, from the inside of the mantel. A place where nothing white should be, nor would it remain so for long in such a place. I stepped to the hearth, reached into the cavity, and drew from behind the mantel a scrap of linen cloth about as wide as my foot and twice as long. It had evidently been stuffed hastily into a crack between the stones, and a corner had fallen free, which I had not seen until the afternoon sun began to penetrate the chamber and illuminate the hearth.
The linen cloth was white, but not completely so. Nearly half of it was speckled with a reddish-brown stain. The fabric had been used to absorb blood. Was this Sir Henry’s blood? Was this what Sir Roger had been told to seek? Sir Roger thought so.
“Blood,” he said, “or I’ll swim the Isis on St Stephen’s Day.”
Both the sheriff and I had, in our work, seen much blood. There was no mistaking the stains upon the cloth.
“Sir Henry’s blood, you think?” Sir Roger continued. “Some man wished to hide it, so it’s not likely ’twas used to staunch a bloody nose.”
“Aye. Forced into the crevice between stones, it might have gone undetected, but a corner fell free.”
“So we’ve caught a murderer, eh? But which one? Two of Sir Henry’s squires occupy this chamber.”
“We must devise some way,” I said, “of learning which is guilty. If we bluntly ask, each will blame the other – unless both conspired against Sir Henry – and we might never learn the truth of the matter.”
“Hang ’em both. We’d be sure to have the guilty lad then.”
I turned to study Sir Roger’s face, but could not tell whether he was serious or spoke in jest.
“’Twould be best to be certain,” I said. “And if this is Sir Henry’s blood, the weapon which struck him down may be nearby as well. I don’t think a felon would cast away his weapon, then keep the fabric with which he wiped away the gore.”
“Keep both, or cast away both, eh?”
“Aye. Let’s return to the search. Perhaps there is in this chamber some secret place where an awl or bodkin may be hid. Such a weapon is slender and requires little cover.”
I placed the bloodstained linen fragment in my pouch while Sir Roger lifted the chests from the floor aside the table and inspected them. He then turned the table over, to see if any slim instrument of death was hidden underneath. None was.
This was a chamber fit for squires, not knights. Aside from the beds and table there was no other furniture in the room. I went to the hearth again and felt the crevices between stones inside the opening, seeking some tiny crack where a thin iron probe might be concealed. I found nothing but soot.
Only one other object remained in the chamber. A lampstand stood at the foot of one of the beds, where a cresset rested to light the chamber at night. Where upon a lampstand could a man hide a bodkin or an awl? The thought seemed absurd, but having no better thought, I moved the cresset to the table and upended the stand.
The shaft of the lampstand had been turned, and where the turner had fastened the work to his lathe there was a small hole. I know little of joinery, but enough to know that this cavity was to be expected. I gave it little attention, so nearly missed the stub of dark iron which had been driven into the lampstand through its base.
&nbs
p; Sir Roger saw me studying the upturned stand and spoke. “What have you there?”
“A bit of iron rod where none should be,” I said, and held the stand out for his inspection. The sheriff scowled down at the visible end of the iron shaft, then tried to pluck it out. He had no success. Some man had driven this slender bit of metal deep into the lampstand.
“The marshalsea will have pliers,” I said. “Let’s go there and see if we can draw this bit of iron from the stand. Perhaps if we can see all of it we will know better its use and how it came to be here.”
“Lead on,” Sir Roger said, and grasping the lampstand he followed me from the chamber.
We found Ranulf the farrier beginning his afternoon work, rested from his dinner. I showed him the lampstand and asked if he had a tool which could draw the thin iron rod from the spindle. He nodded, went to his bench, and produced an implement used for wrenching nails from horses’ hooves.
So little of the iron pin extended from the base of the lampstand that Ranulf found it difficult to find purchase on the metal with his tool. The pliers slipped their grip several times before the farrier managed, with forearms bulging and knuckles white, to loosen and then extract the object.
Ranulf lifted the thin rod before Sir Roger and me, and I reached out and took it from his tool.
“What was that there for, d’you suppose?” Ranulf said. “Lampstand didn’t need no bracin’.”
The bodkin or awl or whatever it once was had been filed to a needle-point. No wooden sphere covered the blunt end, but somewhere in the castle or nearby I was sure such a ball might be hid or discarded. There was no need for so sharp a point on a rod unless it was made to plunge through some other thing, and a larger surface against a man’s hand than just the blunt end of the rod would be needed for that work.
“Speak to no man,” I said to the farrier, “of what has been found here.”
“Aye… What is it, an’ why was it there?”
“Don’t know of a certainty. But when we learn of it we will tell you. Until then, keep silence.”
The farrier tugged a forelock when Sir Roger and I turned to go, me with the iron pin in my hand and Sir Roger with the lampstand. The bodkin was a bit longer than my longest finger. This was likely long enough to penetrate a man’s brain if thrust through his ear. Was this the thing we were to seek, which the crudely written message had advised us of? This seemed likely.