by Mel Starr
“A dead man was found this morning upon your lands,” I said. “Well, he was not dead when found, but died soon after.”
“A tenant, or villein?”
“Neither, m’lord. A chapman, I think. We found a place in the wood where the man was attacked, and a horse and cart were there.”
“We?”
“Aye. John Kellet found the man moaning and near dead under the porch roof of St. Andrew’s Chapel. I have brought horse and cart to the castle. Neither I nor Kellet recognize the dead man, nor did Hubert Shillside or any man of his coroner’s jury. If no heirs can be discovered the goods in his cart are yours, m’lord.”
“Oh, aye… just so. What is there?”
“Two chests of combs, buckles, buttons, pins, and such like, and another of woolen cloth of the middling sort.”
“A traveler, then,” said Lord Gilbert.
“Aye. ’Tis why he is unknown in Bampton. Hubert Shillside sells much the same stuff. The man has probably passed this way before, perhaps traveling from Cote to Alvescot or some such place, and this may be why he sought St. Andrew’s Chapel when men set upon him.”
“If thieves,” Lord Gilbert wondered aloud, “why did they not make off with his goods?”
“Before he died he looked at me and said, ‘They didn’t get me coin.’ Poor men might find it impossible to hide possession of ivory combs for their wives. Even selling such things would raise eyebrows. But coins… even a poor cotter will have some wealth. Perhaps whoso attacked the chapman thought disposing of his goods might point to them as thieves, so wished only for his purse.”
“Did you find it?”
“Nay. He had no purse fixed to his belt, nor was there one in the cart or the forest, unless it is well hid.”
“Then why, I wonder, did he say the fellows had not got his coin?”
“This puzzles me, as well. Perhaps the purse was in his cart, and he was too knocked about to know that the thieves made off with it.”
“Aye,” Lord Gilbert agreed. “Let us have a look at the cart, and see what is there.”
“John Kellet has asked, if the chapman cannot be named, and no heir found, some of the goods found in the cart might be sold and the profit dispensed to the poor, to help them through the winter to come.”
Lord Gilbert is not an unjust man, but the thought of surviving a winter, or possibly not, does not enter his mind, nor do any nobles give the season much thought other than to make ready a Christmas feast. That many folk might see winter as a threat to their lives and the survival of their children was an unfamiliar thought to my employer.
“Oh, uh, well, let us see what is there and I will consider the matter.”
Most great lords need an extra horse or two, even if the beast be of the meaner sort. Lord Gilbert ordered the chapman’s horse placed in an empty stall, and after inspecting the contents of the cart, commanded two grooms to take the goods to John Chamberlain’s office, where he might hold them secure while I sought for some heir to the unidentified chapman. The empty cart was placed beside the castle curtain wall, behind the marshalsea, there to await disposition.
My stomach told me ’twas past time for my dinner, and as I departed the castle gatehouse the noon Angelus Bell rang from St. Beornwald’s Church tower to confirm the time. Kate had prepared a roast of mutton, which I devoured manfully, though such flesh is not my favorite. I have never told this to Kate, as I dislike disappointing her. So I consumed my mutton and awaited another day and a dinner more to my pleasure.
I decided after dinner, of which a sizeable portion remained for my supper, to revisit the clearing in the forest where John Kellet and I found the cart, then travel east to Aston and Cote. Perhaps the chapman did business in the villages and some there would know of him, or perhaps his murderers lived there and might be found out.
The path to the forest took me past St. Andrew’s Chapel, and as I approached the lychgate I saw the curate and another man leave the porch, the dead chapman between then upon the pallet. In a far corner of the churchyard was a mound of earth where a grave lay open to receive its unidentified tenant. I turned from the road, passed through the rotting lychgate, and became a mourner at the burial.
Kellet lifted his eyes from his task when I approached and this caused him to stumble as a toe caught some uneven turf. He tried to regain his balance while maintaining a grip on his end of the pallet, but was unable to do either. The priest was a man who, three years past, could draw a longbow and place arrows in a butt as well as any. It is unlikely he could do so now, or even break an arrow shaft across his knee. Kellet’s gaunt frame seems hardly robust enough to keep him upright, much less sustain a burden, and the chapman had been a sturdy man.
Kellet had provided no shroud for the corpse. The priest gives away so much of his living that he probably had no coin with which to purchase a length of even the coarsest hemp. So when he dropped his end of the pallet the chapman rolled uncovered to the sod, face down.
I hastened to help Kellet to his feet, and together with his assistant we lifted the corpse back upon the pallet. But when the chapman’s face was raised from the grass I saw there a thing which arrested my attention and caused his dying words to return to my mind. A small coin lay upon the turf where a moment before the corpse had lain face down.
When the dead man was again upon his pallet I searched in the grass and retrieved the coin. It was worn and corroded, and looked like no coin I had before seen. It was of tarnished silver, smaller than a penny, very near the size of a farthing.
Kellet and his assistant watched as I inspected the coin. The priest finally spoke, “How did that come to be here in the churchyard?”
“It fell from the dead man’s lips when he was turned onto the grass,” I replied.
“Is that what he meant when he said the felons had not got his coin? He had hid it in his mouth?”
“Perhaps.”
“’Tis an odd thing,” Kellet said.
“Aye. Words are inscribed upon it, and the profile of a king, but they are so worn I cannot make them out.”
“Why would men do murder for a small silver coin?” the priest asked.
I shrugged and said, “That is the service Lord Gilbert requires of me, to find who would do such a thing on his lands, and why.”
Chapter 2
When the chapman was properly buried I walked to Aston and Cote and learned there two things. The man was named John Thrale, and he visited Cote and Aston three or four times each year. October was the latest month he was likely to appear, as roads would soon be ankle-deep in mud and travel would be cold, wet, and unpleasant. No one knew of a certainty where he made his home. A crone of Aston thought he was of Abingdon, but I mistrusted her memory.
Shadows lay long upon the ground when I returned to Bampton and Galen House. Bessie had discovered that, with proper use of arms and legs, she could explore her surroundings. Without constant supervision she is likely to cause herself some harm, as the fire is warm and inviting upon the hearth on a chill autumn day. So it is with men, who must be guided by the Lord Christ, else they harm themselves with the appealing but perilous things of the world. Kate was pleased at my return, as she then had an assistant to contain our daughter’s explorations, while she busied herself at the work of the house.
Kate asked what news, and I told her of the silver coin and learning the chapman’s name. I showed Kate the coin, and lamented that the letters stamped upon it were illegible. Kate took the coin from me, studied it, then turned to the hearth. From a corner of the fireplace she took a dead, blackened coal, then lifted the lid from my chest and drew from it a sheet of the parchment upon which I record accounts of events in Bampton. She placed the coin upon our table, laid the parchment atop it, then lightly brushed the coal across the two. An imprint of the coin appeared, and some of the letters circling the coin became readable. “CA_A_SIV ET F_ATR_S S_I” were discernible. With some study I was able to construe the letters which were worn away. The inscription
read, “CARAVSIVS ET FRATRES SVI” — “Carausius and his brothers”.
Such words I had never seen on a coin, but I knew their meaning. No wonder the letters were worn, for lying upon my table was a Roman coin more than one thousand years old. How had the murdered chapman come by it? And why would two or more men murder him for it? The coin was not likely of pure silver, and was small, so its worth to a silversmith would be slight. Few merchants would exchange goods for it as they would not know its value. Had the chapman done so, receiving the coin in trade for buttons or a comb? Mayhap, but such dealing would not lead men to slay him for possession of a coin of so little worth.
I voiced these thoughts to Kate as she bustled about, preparing our supper. I would find more mutton upon my trencher this evening, but for this I was prepared. Perhaps on the morrow Kate would prepare a custard. Hope is a dish near as tasty as any other.
“Would a man perish to save a coin from falling into the hands of thieves?” Kate asked when I had concluded my musing and fallen silent.
I had been considering why men would murder to possess such a coin. Kate wondered why a man would risk a beating and death to keep it. I could discover no ready answer to either question, for as I would not attack another man for such small gain, neither would I risk wounds from those who demanded it of me if I refused to give it up.
It is useful in solving a felony to be able to set one’s self in the place of felon or victim. I could do neither.
Bessie awoke in the night, hungry, and so roused Kate from her sleep, but not me. I was already lying awake, sleepless, considering why possession of a small silver coin might lead to a man’s murder. There must be, I thought, more to this death than I suspected.
The old woman of Aston had suggested Abingdon as the chapman’s home, and as this was my only clue as to his residence, I resolved next day to claim Bruce at the castle marshalsea and seek what information I might of John Thrale. The old horse was given to my use when I accepted Lord Gilbert Talbot’s offer to serve as his bailiff at Bampton, and had carried me many miles in Lord Gilbert’s service, once all the way to Exeter. The elderly beast seemed pleased to leave his dark stall this day, but I think he was equally happy when our journey ended at the New Inn on the market square in Abingdon.
I had warned Kate that my task would require two days to travel to Abingdon and to search for some kin of the slain chapman (if, indeed, he had made his home there), then return, for Bruce is grey at the muzzle and will not be hurried. Bruce had carried Lord Gilbert at Poitiers, twelve years past.
I thought John Thrale might be best known among competitors and those who sold goods like his own, so I saw Bruce quartered in the mews behind the New Inn, and after I had consumed half of a roasted capon from the kitchen, I sought some business which sold items similar to those I found in the chapman’s cart. I discovered such a shop and manufactory but a hundred paces from the inn, on Bridge Street, and when I asked of John Thrale my search was ended. The proprietor knew Thrale, and was, in fact, the chapman’s supplier for the buttons and buckles he sold in villages about the shire.
This haberdasher of Abingdon was not pleased to learn of the death of a reliable customer, and was full of questions regarding the chapman’s demise. As there was information I desired of the man, I thought the exchange of information a fair bargain. In return for my recitation of what was known of John Thrale’s death, the shopkeeper pointed me to his house which, I was informed, was but a short distance away, upon East St. Helen Street.
John Thrale’s house differed from most on the street in but one way: behind, in a small toft, was another structure. This was the stable where Thrale kept horse and cart when he was not upon the roads seeking custom.
I had not thought to ask if Thrale was married, so thumped upon the door of his house to see if a wife would respond. Eventually a wife did, but not the chapman’s. From the next house on the street, where a sign identified a pepperer’s business, a woman appeared at the door, a child upon her hip, and said, “Ain’t ’ome. On ’is rounds, is John.”
“Is there no other, then, at home?” I asked.
The woman’s eyes narrowed in suspicion at this. Why, she was clearly wondering, did some well-dressed man, who knew so little of John Thrale, seek him?
“Nay,” she finally said. “What d’you want of ’im?”
I walked to the woman’s door and replied, “I seek nothing of John Thrale. The man is dead. I am bailiff of the lands where he was found, and seek any wife or children so the goods discovered with him might be returned to them.”
“Dead?” the woman frowned. “’E seemed well enough when ’e went off a week past.”
“His health did not cause his death. Brigands set upon him on the road and murdered him.”
The woman crossed herself at this news, and she whispered, “Murdered?”
“Aye. Had he a wife, or children?”
“’Ad a wife, but she and a child died o’ plague near twenty years past, so ’e said. ’E was always on the road at ’is business an’ never wed again. ’Though I have seen a woman about ’is place the past weeks. My Alfred told John ’twas dangerous work, to be on the roads alone with the goods in ’is cart. Said evil would come upon John soon or late.”
“Had the chapman a brother or sister?”
“Aye, sisters, I think.”
“Do they reside hereabouts?”
“Don’t know. ’E never said much of ’em. Poor John only lived ’ere on the street since Lammastide. Didn’t talk much, an’ was never ’ome for long.”
I thanked the woman for her time and turned my attention to the chapman’s house. Perhaps within the dwelling there might be some evidence of the sisters to whom the contents of the chapman’s cart might now belong. The windows were small, and covered by shutters which seemed fragile and easily torn aside. Prosperous families lived on East St. Helen Street, but John Thrale’s house was one of the meanest, and in need of some repair.
I did not wish to call to myself the attention which pulling down a shutter would bring, so tried the door. It was securely shut, as I expected, even though there was no lock. It was barred from within. This being so, there must be another door, with a lock, at the rear, in the toft, else there would be no means of entry to the place.
I circled the house and saw my assumption correct. The rear of the house had but one small window, shuttered like those in the front, and in the middle of the wall was a door secured with a heavy iron latch. A large keyhole was centered in this lock, and when I tried the latch handle it would not move.
I had found no key in the chapman’s cart, nor did Thrale carry it upon his person. Who would? Such a key is as long as my hand and the iron would weigh heavily upon a man.
My eyes found the barn at the rear of the toft and I left the house to search the place for a key. If I was the chapman, I thought, where would I hide a key that no man might discover it?
I would not hang it upon a nail, no matter how well hidden it might be. Such a place would surely be sought first.
The interior of the barn — which, in truth, was little more than a shed — was dark, stinking of manure, and shaded from the setting sun by the roof of the neighboring house. My eyes did not readily conform to the shadows, but when they did I surveyed the interior before moving to seek a key.
I saw a rusted nail, driven part-way into a corner post, which in such place could serve no purpose but to hang upon it some object. But no key was there. Perhaps some time past Thrale, or some earlier inhabitant of the house, had hung a key there and some miscreant found it and looted the house while the owner was away. I saw no key in any other place, so began to search under beams and in hidden, shadowy places. I found no key.
Was the chapman a careless, slovenly fellow? Or had he allowed his beast’s manure to accumulate upon the befouled straw so as to ensure no man was likely to plunge in his hand seeking a key beneath the filth? In a corner of the small barn I saw a shovel and rake, which tools the chapman
must have used when he did clean the stable. I seized the rake and began to pull aside the fouled straw. Half-way across the shed I felt the wooden teeth of the rake strike some solid object. It was the key.
A moment later I entered the chapman’s house. The interior was near pitch-black, for the autumn day was fading and the shutters over the windows were closed, permitting only narrow slivers of light to illuminate the place. The house was like those of most of King Edward’s more prosperous subjects, however, so I did not require much light to find my way about.
The house had two rooms upon the ground floor, and the larger of these could be warmed by a fireplace. This was a puzzle, for itinerant chapmen do not usually possess such wealth as to afford a house of two floors, complete with fireplace, even if the house was in some disrepair.
In one corner of the larger room was a table, upon which rested a small chest and a cupboard. In another corner was the chapman’s bed. A larger chest, complete with iron hasp and lock, occupied a third corner, close to the fireplace. Closer inspection of the table showed a cresset, and resting nearby, flint and steel for striking a fire.
I sought no heat, but desired more light, so unraveled a few threads from Thrale’s bed covering, set these alight with sparks from the flint and steel, then transferred the flame to the wick of the cresset.
I opened the small chest. I sought there some document or letter which might lead me to Thrale’s sisters. Likely he could not read, for I found nothing written there. Or perhaps he kept such things in his large chest. If so, I would not see them unless the chest was not locked, or I could find another key.
The chest was locked. The key for this box would not be so large as the one which opened Thrale’s door, therefore easier hid. I returned to the small chest and inspected its contents. No key was there. I removed the bed covers and shook them out, to no purpose. I inspected the mattress, to see if some seam might show where a key was hid in the straw, and pounded upon the pillow to learn if a key might be among the goose feathers. I found nothing.