The Canterbury Murders

by Maureen Ash

  Returning to the passageway, he noticed a ladder that led up to the attic. Taking a tinderbox, candle and holder from a niche set in a wall, he lit the candle and went up the ladder to open a hatchway so he could inspect the space under the eaves. Apart from a thin layer of dust, it was empty. Bending over almost double, he went to each end, looking for traces of an intruder, but there were none, so he went back down the ladder, snuffed out the candle and replaced it where he had found it, and descended to the lower floor.

  When he reached the bottom of the stairs, the passageway was empty except for two maidservants peeping out from behind the door that led to the kitchen, watching him with anxious eyes. Calling to them, he asked them to direct him to the servants’ quarters, which Gianni had noted in his report were located at the back of the house.

  Timidly, they led him down a narrow passage to two large rooms, both fitted with pallets that had been rolled up and neatly stacked against the walls, and an array of hooks on the walls from which hung odd items of clothing—cloaks, hats and the like. “This one is for the women servants,” one of the maids said nervously, indicating the door of the room in front of which they were standing, “t’other for the men.”

  Glancing around both chambers, and finding nothing untoward, he asked if Inglis had slept in the room allotted to the men. The maid shook her head. “He had his own chamber, lord,” she informed him and pointed to a door at the end of the passageway. Going inside, Bascot found a comfortable bed laid with a thick mattress and wool coverlet, a wooden coffer and a table on which stood a candle set in a pewter holder alongside a pile of parchment. On the wall hung a cloak made of good wool and a fur-lined hat. As befitted the steward’s station, his room was far more comfortably furnished than the ones allotted to the other servants.

  Dismissing the two maids, Bascot examined the papers on the table. All of them were concerned with the running of the household—a list of supplies that required ordering, the amount of wages that had been paid to the servants at Michaelmas and an inventory of all the furnishings, right down to the last candle, that were in the townhouse. All had been written in a neat hand and the columns of figures were carefully aligned. It seemed that Inglis had been conscientious in his duties.

  Next Bascot opened the coffer. Clothes were piled neatly on the top, consisting of spare tunics, hose and smallclothes and a pair of soft shoes for house wear. At the very bottom were two rolls of parchment, both tied with a ribbon. After undoing them, Bascot smiled to himself as he read the writings they contained. On both pages a few stanzas of poetry had been meticulously copied down. All of them had been taken from Ars Amatoria, one of the poems by the Roman poet Ovid, and were salacious in content. Miles had described the steward as pompous; it would seem that beneath that arrogant exterior had beat a heart filled with lust.

  There was nothing more of interest in the room and Bascot went out to inspect the yard. In doing so he had to pass by the kitchen, a separate building constructed of stone, and attached to the townhouse by a covered wooden walkway. Smoke was spiraling out of the chimney and from inside he could hear the sound of the cook’s voice issuing orders to his scullion. The Templar walked past the door, the top half of which was open, and into the yard beyond. It was a large space, a privy and stables set on one side, and a couple of outbuildings with locked doors on the other. At the far end was a small wharf jutting out into the river. All was covered with a thick layer of snow, and pathways were being cleared from the stable to the house by two menservants with shovels. Another two men could be seen inside the stables, mucking out soiled straw and carrying buckets of feed. Three of Chacal’s men were on guard duty, one pacing the perimeter of the yard, another checking the locks on the outbuildings and one standing on the wharf, well wrapped in a wolfskin cloak and stamping his feet against the cold. Next to him the Stour flowed sluggishly, empty of sailing craft. There was a clear view over all of the yard from the wharf, so it was reasonable to assume that the claim of the vintner’s employee to have seen Aquarius in argument with Inglis when the boat had been pulled over was a truthful one.

  He turned back towards the house, having seen enough. It was time to begin the interviews. He would start with the chubby little cook.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  When Bascot walked through the door into the kitchen, he was met by a blast of welcome heat. The cook, busy skinning a coney on a table, looked up and started when he saw the Templar, dropping his knife in alarm. The room was a large one, with a great open fireplace where a huge cauldron was suspended over roaring flames, its contents bubbling and emitting a savory smell. From the rafter hung bunches of onions and dried herbs. To one side was a long table set with benches on each side at which two men were sitting and drinking pots of ale. They were both roughly dressed, one of them young and with a thatch of yellow hair. Since he fitted the description Gianni had penned in his notes of the servant that had carried up the water on the night of the washerwoman’s murder and whose story Miles had distrusted, Bascot surmised he was the Londoner, Alfred. In a far corner was a young scullion, washing root vegetables in a bucket of water. When the Templar entered, he dropped the turnip he was holding and hunkered down as close as he could to the floor, trying to make himself as small as possible.

  “I have come to speak to you, cook,” Bascot said to the little man behind the table. “And I want to do so alone.”

  Almost stumbling over his feet, the cook went over and grabbed the scullion by the arm and pushed him out of the kitchen, telling him to wait outside until he was called. As he did so, the two men at the table rose to their feet, and with a hasty nod of deference in Bascot’s direction they followed the cook’s assistant outside, closing both halves of the door behind them.

  Wanting to put the cook at his ease, and recalling from Gianni’s notes that his name was Godwin and that he had been a servant in the townhouse for fifteen years, Bascot spoke to him familiarly, calling him by name, and telling him to be seated on the bench the two menservants had just vacated. The cook did as he was bid, but despite Bascot’s kindly tone he still looked nervous, and the Templar took a seat opposite him so as not to tower over the little man.

  “You have been here a long time, Godwin, and must know much of what goes on, so I have come to question you about a couple of the other servants in the household,” Bascot began.

  The little cook gave an uncertain nod and waited for the Templar to continue.

  “I want you to tell me what you know about a manservant named Alfred, and also any knowledge you may have of Guillaume Aquarius, the bath attendant.”

  “I . . . I don’t know much about either of them,” the cook answered nervously. “Alfred’s only been here a few months, and Aquarius came just a few days ago, with the king.”

  “Nonetheless, I think you are an observant man, and that I can trust your judgement,” Bascot said smoothly. “I am sure you have formed an opinion of both of them and would like to hear what it is.”

  The cook relaxed a little and nodded. “Well, all of the servants eat in here at mealtimes, so I have had a small chance to study them.”

  “Good. Now, Alfred told the knight that questioned the staff earlier that he came to Canterbury from London with his master, a draper, who was seriously ill and hoped that St. Thomas would cure him. But, despite his pilgrimage, the draper died shortly after his arrival, and his wife dismissed Alfred, refusing to take him back to London with her. It was then that he found work here. Is that what he told the rest of the staff?”

  “Yes, lord,” Godwin replied, interested now and losing his fear.

  “It seems very strange that the draper’s wife dismissed Alfred so summarily. Surely, in her grief, she would have welcomed the escort of a manservant on her journey ba
ck home even if, as he claimed, she did not like him. Has he ever told anyone here how he came to earn her disfavour?”

  “We all wondered about that ourselves, lord,” Godwin replied confidentially, “and since he once boasted as how he’d been tumbling the draper’s daughter while the poor man was ill, we thought that might be the reason.” The cook looked up at Bascot with a mischievous glint in his eye, now completely relaxed and enjoying himself. “Maybe the widow found out what he’d been doing and didn’t want him near her daughter anymore.”

  Bascot nodded. “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Only that one of the other menservants said Albert had a purse full of silver when he came here; he saw it while they were getting ready to go to bed one night and it clinked when Alfred hid it under his pillow.” Godwin shook his head. “I don’t know how Alfred persuaded Inglis to take him on. I suppose it must have been because he can be very ingratiating when he wants to. I think he must have impressed Inglis with a show of sham humility; I hate to say it, but Inglis was not very perceptive when it came to people, for all his high station.”

  Satisfied now that Miles had been right in his estimation of the Londoner, and that not only had Alfred lied about the reason he was dismissed but it was probable he was also a thief, Bascot moved the topic of the conversation to Aquarius.

  “And what about the bath attendant?” he asked Godwin. “Do you and the other servants find him good company?”

  This time Godwin did not answer with so much surety. “Well, we did, lord, when he first came. He seemed polite and friendly, but since Molly was killed and he was the one who found her, we’ve rather shunned him—but only because we’re fearful he might have had something to do with her death. Besides, he’s foreign, and not one of us, so we’re not rightly sure if we can trust him.”

  “Before Inglis was murdered, was Aquarius friendly with him also?”

  “He seemed so. As Aquarius attended the king personally, Inglis accepted his company more readily than he would have done otherwise. He even asked Aquarius to share a cup of wine with him in the buttery on the night they arrived, and I think they attended Mass at the church together the next morning.”

  “Did you see them when they returned after the service?”

  “No, lord. I was busy in here.”

  Bascot rose from his seat. He didn’t think the cook had any more to tell him, but he told him to search his memory and, if he remembered anything else that he thought might be pertinent, to send a message by one of the guards.

  Godwin was pleased that he had been chosen to share the Templar’s confidence and assured him he would do so, adding, “I hope you catch this murderer soon, lord. We all used to be happy here, despite Inglis being a little overbearing at times. Even though the king wasn’t here often, there was usually some visiting noble or royal official in residence to liven the day, some of them great lords of the realm. But now, with both poor Molly and Inglis murdered right under this roof, and suspicion all around, there’s no joy here anymore.”

  ***

  Bascot sent one of the menservants who had been shoveling the snow to find Alfred and bring him to one of the chambers on the ground floor. It was a small room, containing only a narrow table and one chair, and would be suitable for his purpose. When the Londoner came in, Bascot motioned for him to stand in front of the table behind which he was seated. The Templar remained silent while he studied Alfred.

  Alfred was a well-set-up youth, with fresh ruddy skin, startling blue eyes and muscles swelling at the shoulders of his brown woolen tunic. It would not be surprising if women found him attractive. But now, as the Templar let the silence lengthen, gazing steadily at him with his icy blue eye, signs of nervousness began to appear. Small beads of perspiration formed on Alfred’s brow and a tiny tic started to shiver in the muscles of his cheek. Still Bascot said nothing and continued to study him, weaving together the information he had been told by Godwin with the sparse details Miles had extracted, ruminating on the way in which the Londoner could have cozened the draper and his wife.

  Finally, having constructed a likely scenario, he rapped out a question. “How long had you been tupping your master’s daughter before your mistress found out?”

  Alfred flushed red as he sought to find words to answer. “I don’t . . . I didn’t . . . I . . .”

  “Don’t prevaricate, man. You boasted of it to the other servants. You bedded her, did you not?”

  Alfred nodded.

  “Then answer my question. When did your mistress discover you had despoiled her daughter?”

  “Just before we left London to come to Canterbury,” Alfred mumbled.

  “Did she tell your master?”

  “No.”

  “And I presume that was because her husband was so ill she did not wish to upset him?”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “And that was why she dismissed you as soon as he was dead, wasn’t it?”

  Again, Alfred nodded.

  Satisfied that this aspect of his assumptions had been correct, the Templar went on to the money that Alfred had been seen hiding. “And you stole money from you master as well, I think. When did you do that, while he lay on his deathbed?”

  This time the Londoner did not attempt to make a protest against the charge, but hung his head and muttered an almost inaudible no. “It was after he died,” he mumbled, “and my mistress told me to lay him out ready for the death house. He had a purse sewn inside the hem of his cloak and I took it.”

  “You are despicable,” Bascot said tersely. “A lecher, a liar and a thief. Is that why you killed the washerwoman, because she found out about your crime and threatened to have you dismissed?”

  Now Alfred went white and fell to his knees. “I never murdered her, lord, and that’s the Gawd’s truth. She was whole and ’earty when I left the antechamber—I swear it on my life.”

  “It is your life that will be forfeit if you are lying,” Bascot grated. “What about Inglis, did you kill him because he discovered your duplicity?”

  “No, lord, I didn’t,” Alfred replied hoarsely and with tears running down his cheeks. “I never ’armed so much as an ’air on the ’ead of either of them. I may be all the things you accuse me of, but I’m not a murderer.”

  The Templar looked at the abject manservant, still on his knees and wringing his hands in front of him; he was the image of despair. Bascot was half inclined to believe his denial. As far as the murder of the washerwoman was concerned, he could imagine Alfred carrying out the deed. He was a wretched and cowardly man, a chancer who would seize the opportunity of any moment that presented itself and, if she had threatened to expose him, might have killed her in sudden desperation. But he could not see him as possessing the craftiness, or the courage, to obtain poison and place it in the buttery to despatch the steward. The methodical planning the deed would have required did not, the Templar deemed, accord with Alfred’s impulsive character. Nonetheless, he had to be placed under arrest. Even if he was innocent of murder, and of that Bascot could not yet be certain, he had committed theft, and would pay the penalty for it.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Bascot took Alfred outside and gave him into Chacal’s custody, saying he was to be taken to the castle gaol and placed in a holding cell.

  “I told you one of the servants was the murderer, didn’t I, Templar?” the mercenary declared with a grin of triumph. “Come here, you bastard,” he said to Alfred, grabbing the manservant so roughly that he fell to his knees with a squeal
of pain.

  “As ever, Chacal, you are too quick in your judgement,” Bascot said harshly. “There is no proof of murder against him, not yet. And if I find he is not fit to withstand further questioning when I return to the keep, I will hold you personally responsible.”

  Chacal gave the Templar a hostile glare, but he released Alfred’s arm and, with a rough shove, thrust the prisoner towards one of his men, muttering an order to keep him under guard until they returned to the castle at the end of their shift of duty.

  Bascot went back into the house and spoke to one of the maidservants who had been standing by the door watching, with avid interest, as Alfred was taken under arrest. “Where is the servant named Aquarius?” he asked her. Throughout his earlier inspection of the house he had seen no sign of the bath attendant, and wondered where he had taken refuge.

  “He’s in his room upstairs, lord,” she replied. “He went out to the privy when you arrived and came back into the house while you was talkin’ to Alfred.”

  “Send him to me,” Bascot ordered. Aquarius must be the one occupying the chamber where he had seen the writing implements and cloak.

  As the maid ran towards the stairs, he went back into the room where he had questioned Alfred. A few moments later, the bath attendant appeared, and Bascot gestured for him to come forward and stand in front of the table.

  As he did so, the Templar took in his appearance, remembering him as being amongst the crowd of household staff that had gathered in the passageway on the day Inglis’ body had been found. The descriptions given by Mistress Wattson and de Ponte’s employee had been accurate. Tall and thin with a prominent nose, and ink-stained fingers; there could be no mistaking that this was the man they had seen. As he stood in front of the Templar, his hands were in constant movement, first straightening the cuffs on his tunic, and then plucking distractedly at his belt. His eyes, set close together, were dark, and had an intelligent gleam.