by Jason Vail
Melmerby lay on his back, arms splayed, one eye half open. A dark stain covered one shoulder. Stephen knelt and fingered the stain. It was still damp. He leaned over to sniff it: wine. He noticed the brass pitcher on its side not far away from the body. There had been enough wine in that pitcher for a man to get very drunk. Stephen imagined him climbing the tower ladders in the dark. A drunk could easily lose his footing in such a place. He wondered what Melmerby had been doing here. No one went to towers after dark . . . unless they had business they wanted to transact out of sight and sound of everyone else. It occurred to him that drinking up stolen wine might provide sufficient reason.
“It’s said you’re a coroner. You must be familiar with such things. Do you think he fell, sir?” asked the watchman who had fetched Stephen. He had been on the raid, but Stephen could not remember his name.
“It looks that way.” Part of Stephen felt compelled to inquire further. Something seemed wrong about this, yet he had no idea what it was: just a nagging sense. But he reminded himself that this sort of thing was no longer his business. He was done with coroner work. He had awaked during the night with the solution to his money problem. He had heard Harry’s voice in his head telling him to sell his two mares. Harry had often given him this advice in life and Stephen had just as often refused it. He had so little left after the disasters in Spain that he could not bear to part with a bit of it, for he could not face sinking any lower in the world than he already had. But now his situation was desperate, and the mares were the only property he could sensibly part with; together they might bring as much as fifteen pounds. That was more than enough to buy a passage to France and to provide something to live on while he found another position. So he had decided at last and with great reluctance to take Harry’s advice. With Harry’s modified stirrup, he could ride in battle with anyone. He’d be safe from the Prince and FitzAllen and there was hope for the future.
Stephen said, “I’ll tell the deputy coroner on my way through New Montgomery. Meanwhile, you two stay with the body until he shows up. See that nothing is disturbed.”
Chapter 18
Jennifer Wistwode brought out Harry’s supper that evening. She set the platter on the bench by his head. Harry smelled bacon, cheese, and mutton porridge. He could see that the porridge had radishes and peas floating with bits of real mutton in its gelatinous deliciousness. He forced himself not to snatch the platter and to attack the food, for Jennie did something quite unusual. Instead of retreating to the house, she sat on the bench by the platter. This caused Harry to be torn by his desire for the food and his wish to savor her presence.
She watched the house, where several of the hall’s windows were open. Movement could be seen inside, and it was clear she was watching in case her mother saw her.
Harry carefully put the platter in his lap. “Thanks, Jen.”
Jennie leaned over and brushed his chin. “You need another shave, Harry.”
“Shaves cost money,” he said, going still until Jennie withdrew her hand. The smell of her was almost overwhelming: a mixture of lavender and other scents he could not identify, as the use of scents was not common among the women of his acquaintance, except the whores he occasionally saw at the Wobbly Kettle, and he had never asked them.
“You can afford it now.”
Harry sighed as he tucked into his supper. “Business at the gate has been bad since I’ve cleaned up. People aren’t as charitable as they used to be.”
“I don’t know why. You still look pathetic.”
“Thanks. Pathetic is the look I’ve always aspired to ever since I was a boy.”
“Have you got anything more for me?”
“I’ve one that’s half done. Why?”
“There’s a fellow at the inn. He asked after a carving. But he’s leaving in the morning.”
“I could finish it tonight, I suppose. I’ll need a candle, though. The one I’ve got won’t last longer than it takes to piss.”
Jennie’s face screwed up in thought. She took after her parents, round in face and stout in body, yet the expression made her look adorable to Harry. She said, “Can’t let you have a candle in there. So much hay.”
“I’ll be careful. I ain’t burned the place down yet.”
“I don’t know.”
“Put it in one of the lanterns, then. It ought to be safe there.”
“All right. It’ll have to be after dark, though. Mum will wonder what I’m doing with a lantern while it’s still light.” She stood up.
“Can’t have your mum wondering what you’re doing.” Harry wished she could linger a while longer, but he could not think of anything to say that would persuade her to do so. “Oh, can you ask your father to come out? I’ve learned something that I think he’d like to hear.”
Harry took out the half-finished carving and was working on it while some light remained when Gilbert emerged from the house. He stashed the carving under his cloak as Gilbert crossed the yard.
“Jennie said you’ve some gossip for me,” Gilbert said, settling on the bench.
“I take offense at that. I do not deal in gossip. This is an important matter.”
“You are the worst gossip-monger I know, apart from Mistress Bartelot, that is.”
“I am cut to the quick that you should compare me with her.”
“Out with it. It’s getting late.”
“Yes, you’re such a busy man, filling every minute of daylight with important work. Can’t spare a second to talk to the likes of me.”
“I like to avoid unpleasantness, if I can.”
“Life is full of unpleasantness. You come to me to get used to it. I harden you to life’s adversities.”
Gilbert stood up. “I’ve had enough. I’d like to enjoy my evening.”
Harry grasped the hem of Gilbert’s shirt. “Will Thumper came to see me today.”
Gilbert sat down again. “Why would Thumper do that?”
“He had something he wanted Stephen to know. Since Stephen isn’t here, I thought you should hear of it.”
“That was thoughtful — so unlike you, Harry.”
“Seeing as you bollixed up your inquiry by losing that valuable piece of evidence, it occurred to me this was an opportunity to redeem yourself.”
“What did Thumper have to say?”
“I think I am entitled to a ‘thank you.’”
“That will come if your news is worthwhile.”
“Everything thing I say is worthwhile. You’re just too dull-witted to appreciate it.”
“If it is your intent to make fun of me, I shall go.”
“You’re such an easy target. But wait! He said . . . .”
Gilbert was quiet for several minutes. At last he said, “Well, this opens up a whole new line of inquiry.”
“That’s stating the obvious. You may not yet find the relic, but you now have the opportunity to cover yourself with glory by solving the riddle of Ormyn’s death. Not that anyone cares.”
“But I shall be able to console myself with some success, eh?”
“I don’t want you to regard your life as an utter failure.”
Gilbert patted Harry’ head. The gesture was so quick that Harry, who took offense at being patted on the head, could neither duck nor bat the offending hand away. “Good boy, Harry.”
“Where’s my thank you?”
“That was it, in case you missed it.”
“That’s the last favor I do for you.”
“No, it isn’t. You relish being the center of attention too much to keep your mouth shut next time some insignificant bit of news comes your way.”
“You are an insufferable little man.”
“But at least I am taller than you.”
“Now. It didn’t use to be that way.”
“No, sadly it didn’t. You were tall once, and strapping. I remember how you used to come and cut our wood.” Gilbert gazed into the distance, recalling the memory. “Now if you will excuse me, I have a few thing
s to do before bed.”
Constables of castles, particularly those who double as deputy sheriffs, are busy men, and so it was well into the morning of the following day before Gilbert succeeded in obtaining an audience with Walter Henle.
When Gilbert at last was allowed to come to the high table in the hall, where Henle was holding court, he received a scowl of dislike that was so intense that it might have shriveled other men. In previous times, before the coming of Stephen Attebrook, they had got on well enough, which is to say that Henle found Gilbert beneath his notice. But an incident involving an interrupted hanging, in which Stephen had played a part, caused Henle to put Gilbert in the category of persons he actively hated.
“What is it?” Henle said at the sight of Gilbert standing there, floppy hat being wrung by stubby fingers. He sounded much put upon.
“May I have a word, your honor — in private?”
“You can say what you have to say right here. I’ve much to do and very little time, and I don’t want to waste it on you.”
“It is a rather sensitive matter, your honor.”
“Come on, speak out. Get it over with.”
As it was clear that Henle would not adjourn to a side chamber, Gilbert leaned across the table so that he would not have to speak loudly in order that what he had to say would not be overheard, and perhaps acted upon. But Henle growled, “Stand up straight, man!”
“Of course, your honor,” Gilbert said, standing up straight, his fingers working his hat with more vigor than before. “It is about the matter of Ormyn Yarker.”
“Yarker? That fellow who fell off the wall?”
“There is some reason to believe that he did not fall.”
Henle started to say something, reconsidered and then said, “You cannot be suggesting that he had help.”
“It may be so.”
“And who thinks so? You and that good-for-nothing Attebrook?”
“The facts as we know them seem to point in that direction.”
“And I suppose there’s something you want me to do.”
“I need to have some persons arrested. For questioning. And a house searched.”
“And who would this be?”
So Gilbert told him.
Henle was too august a person to dirty his hands with little things like arrests and house searches. He delegated that chore to Turling, who summoned six men and went straight away to Linney Gate and downhill to the Pigeon Inn. Gilbert waddled in their wake to keep up as best he could, as they walked even faster than Stephen normally did in their haste to reach the inn before word of their mission got there first.
Gilbert remained in the yard while Turling and the others entered the inn. He was rather interested to see the inside of the house, mainly as a matter of professional innkeeper curiosity, since he had never seen more than the kitchen and the hall. But he deemed it inappropriate under the circumstances to indulge that impulse. Occasionally, he heard angry voices inside, often Herbert Jameson’s complaining about some bit of damage, and quite a bit of banging around.
At last, Turling and the other soldiers emerged with Herbert Jameson in hand. Turling carried a sword with a distinctive U-shaped cross and tear-shaped pommel.
“You found it,” Gilbert said to Turling with relief. He had been afraid that it would be gone.
Turling nodded, looking angry. The other soldiers were angry as well.
“You!” Jameson said as he realized Gilbert was part of this invasion. “You’re behind this! You planted that in my house!” He pointed to the sword. “You’ve wanted to put me out of business for years!”
One of the soldiers cuffed Jameson so hard that he stumbled and fell to his hands and knees. The soldier added a kick to the ribs that knocked Jameson on his side. He curled into a ball, anticipating further rough use.
“This isn’t personal, Herbert,” Gilbert said.
“I don’t know where it came from!” Jameson cried as two soldiers hauled him to his feet.
“I don’t think they believe you,” Gilbert said. “I certainly don’t.”
Once the castle had a pit into which evildoers had been cast, but that pit had been filled in long ago, for it took up valuable storage space in one of the towers. But the castle still needed a place to keep prisoners, so a spot had been cleared in one of the buildings lining the east wall of the outer bailey, and shackles put into the walls on the ground floor. At the moment, the cell held two murderers, four robbers, and seven rapists awaiting the return of the crown justice for this area, Ademar de Valence, who had found urgent business in London at the outbreak of hostilities last November. This rash of crime had used up the available shackles, so the manacles applied to Herbert Jameson had been entwined with those of one of the murderers. Neither found the arrangement comfortable.
Jameson continued to protest his innocence while Gilbert and Turling waited for one of the soldiers to return with the thumbscrew, which was kept in the pantry behind old loaves of bread designated as alms for the poor. Gilbert would have preferred to rely on relentless questioning to break Jameson down, but once Turling got involved, the prospect of torture had become inevitable.
However, at the appearance of the thumbscrew, Jameson threw himself prostrate on the floor, as much as his manacled wrists and the murderer’s chain would allow, and cried for mercy.
“You can have mercy if you tell me where you got the sword,” Turling said.
Jameson was bawling so that when he spoke, he could not be understood.
Turling set the thumbscrew by one of Jameson’s hands. He grasped a wrist, and said, “You’ll have to do better than that.”
Gilbert knelt as well and wiped Jameson’s face and the drool that hung from his lips. “Come now, Herbert. Calm yourself. Take a deep breath. That’s better. Now, about the sword . . .”
“I-i-it w-w-was S-S-Simon,” Jameson stammered. “He gave it to me.”
Gilbert and Turling exchanged glances. “You were right,” Turling said.
“Where did he get it?” Gilbert asked.
“He found it in the yard.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“It’s true! I swear! He had nothing to do with Ormyn’s death!”
“Whether that’s true or not remains to be seen,” Gilbert said.
“You’ll let me go now?” Jameson blubbered.
“I think not,” Turling said. “Dealing in stolen property is a serious crime.”
“I’m entitled to bail!” Jameson cried.
“In due time, perhaps,” Turling replied. “Come along, Gilbert. Let’s finish this unpleasant business.”
Before fetching Herbert Jameson, Gilbert and Turling had taken the precaution of arresting his brother Simon for questioning. Simon had been placed in the town gaol so that the brothers would not have the chance to see each other and, perhaps, fix their stories. The gaol consisted of a small room at the back of the guildhall. There was no telling its original purpose now, but its employment as a gaol seemed an afterthought, as it was near the back door and could easily be reached from the outside by anyone skilled at latch jimmying. Moreover, the town did not splurge on a full time guard, that cost being viewed as excessive and unnecessary. So the door was merely locked, with the key in the possession of the town clerk, Edmund Tarbent.
“We’ll have to move him,” Turling said, as he and Gilbert passed through the hall to the corridor leading to the gaol. “It’s not safe to keep a murderer here.”
“If he’s the one,” Gilbert said.
“He has to be the one. It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“It looks more and more likely. But what seems likely sometimes turns out not to be true.”
“Well,” Turling grunted as they turned the corner. “what are you doing here? Getting your stories straight? There! You see?” He gestured down the passageway, where Bridget Yarker had stepped back from the gaol’s door. Behind her the back door to the hall stood open where she had neglected to close it.
&nbs
p; “What are you doing here, Mistress Yarker?” Gilbert asked as they reached Bridget.
“I heard that Simon had been arrested. Why?” Bridget’s manner was bold, but it seemed to contain more bluster than actual courage.
“We suspect him in the death of your late husband.”
Turling grunted. “Wistwode may suspect your husband, but I know you had a hand in this deviltry. You put him up to it — confess!”
“I did no such thing!” Bridget cried.
“You told me often enough how tired you were of Ormyn,” Turling said.
“She did?” Gilbert asked, feeling the ground shifting.
Turling sneered. “When I came here, she threw herself at my feet. I admit I had a go at her, but it was only for a few weeks. She’s a boring girl, really. A farmer’s daughter who thinks too much of herself. But it was long enough to hear the catalogue of complaints she had about Ormyn.”
“I see,” Gilbert said. “Why didn’t you say you suspected she had a hand in Ormyn’s death? As I recall, you said he had no enemies.”
Turling’s mouth curled. “I did not suspect that her unhappiness would take such a turn — until she moved in with Simon while Ormyn was still warm — and Ormyn’s sword turns up in Jameson’s possession.”
“I must admit, that is damning evidence. But there might be a harmless explanation. We must inquire, hear their side of things. Perhaps this evidence can be explained.”
“I’ll have a confession out of Jameson before the day’s over. That will be evidence enough.”
“It is amazing to me that you have managed to keep this affair a secret until now,” Gilbert said to Bridget. “Castles are such small places and secrets like this are hard to conceal. What were you doing, using the Pigeon as a trysting place? You may as well tell us. We’ll find out eventually.”