Murder at Broadstowe Manor

by Jason Vail

  Harry set his bowl on the ground before him and called out, “Alms! Alms for a poor soldier hurt in the wars!” After an hour, when this produced little result, he changed to, “See the horror of a poor man’s degradation!” which was accompanied by a peek at his stumps. Those wishing a better view had to pay for the privilege, and this proved to be a more lucrative appeal.

  One of those who could be expected to come forward for a view of his stumps was a boy of about twelve or thirteen whom Harry had noticed lingering on the other side of the street. Normally, a boy this age had a job, but this fellow seemed to have nothing to do but pick his nose and leer at the women passing by. The boy also threw glances in Harry’s direction whenever he whisked the blanket away from what remained of his legs. Yet he made no move to cross the street for a closer look. It might be that he had no money; a not unusual state of affairs. But then he would still have crowded closer to ride on someone else’s contribution.

  The more Harry watched the boy, the more he seemed familiar. It took time to figure out why. It was the boy’s rather frog-like face: the low forehead, the piggy eyes, and the broad chin. It brought to mind Squinty Peg’s face. Now, Squinty Peg’s power and influence stemmed in large part from the enormous brood of children that she had dropped upon the world, even though she had not bothered with a husband. Say what you would about them, but they were loyal to her and the family to a fault. Was this boy one of her litter?

  A half hour before sundown, Joan returned with the pony cart. She threw Harry’s board in the back, while he pulled himself up. She sat down beside him, snapped the reins, and turned the cart around with smoothness and expertise that Harry could only admire.

  Now and then, as the cart passed through the market, came around the Guildhall, and turned down Wydemarsh Street, Harry found some excuse to turn about and look back. Frog Boy was following along, pretending to look into shop fronts.

  “What are you doing?” Joan asked after a time.

  “Keeping watch. We’re being followed.”

  “What on earth?”

  “I think it’s one of Squinty Peg’s brood.”

  “Why would she have you followed? Did you say something?”

  “I don’t know, but it can’t be good. Squinty’s nobody’s fool. She never does anything without good reason.”

  Frog Boy remained behind them after they passed through the gate.

  Joan was about to turn into the Turtle’s yard, but Harry said, “Go a bit farther.”

  “Where to? We’re almost in the country.”

  “There’s another inn just ahead on the right. See the sign — that yellow stag? Turn in there.”

  This inn was not as fancy as the Turtle, but it had a stable. A groom emerged from it upon their arrival.

  “Will you be staying the night?” the groom asked.

  “I don’t know about us, but the horse will,” Harry said. He gave the groom a half penny and ducked under the blanket to change into his better clothes. The cart lurched downward so that Harry almost tumbled out as the groom unhitched the pony. Then it came up again as Joan pulled the cart toward the inn’s side door.

  “There you go,” Joan said, laying down the traces with more care than the groom had done. “A hop, skip, and a jump.”

  “Is he still there?” Harry asked, glancing toward the gate. “We should take shelter in the stable and not the inn.”

  “Afraid that someone will be nasty to you?”

  “Beggars don’t go into inns.”

  “But you got your good clothes on now.”

  “The lad still thinks I’m a beggar,” Harry said. “If he sees I went into the inn, Squinty will know I lied, and that something’s up.”

  “Doesn’t she guess that already?”

  “Probably, but let’s not fuel her doubts.”

  Joan picked up the traces and hauled the cart back to the doorway to the stable.

  “Now what?” Joan asked.

  “I need to talk to Stephen.”

  “You could have done that at the Turtle. We went by it.”

  “I didn’t want to lead Squinty’s boy there. If Squinty finds out Stephen’s in the neighborhood, he’s done for. Stephen’s a match for the bailiffs, but Squinty’s boys are really tough. And there are lots of them. They don’t call her the Queen of Grope Lane for nothing.”

  Chapter 16

  Joan did not reach the Turtle Inn until after dark, since Harry would not let her leave until night had fallen for fear of being seen by the boy in the lane. There was no telling if he had remained there, but Harry wasn’t taking any chances.

  Stephen and Gilbert were still in the hall when Joan entered through the door to the kitchen. Joan looked tired and her feet and the hem of her shift were muddy.

  “Did you get supper?” Stephen asked.

  Joan nodded.

  “Where’s Harry?” Gilbert asked.

  “At another inn down the road,” Joan said.

  “Whatever for?” Gilbert asked.

  “One of Squinty’s lads followed us from Grope Lane. Harry didn’t want to lead him here, in case she finds out Stephen’s here.”

  “I am astonished Harry would be so thoughtful,” Gilbert said. “FitzAllan might be willing to pay a high price to get ahold of him again.”

  “You don’t give Harry near enough credit,” Joan said.

  “He does have a certain low cunning,” Gilbert said. “I will concede that.”

  “What did Harry find out?” Stephen asked.

  “I think he should tell you himself,” Joan said.

  Stephen stood up. “We may as well hear his news straightaway.”

  They left the inn through the kitchen door, crossed the back garden, and hopped the fence at a tumbledown place Joan had discovered on her way in. Strictly speaking, crossing behind the gardens of the houses along the road was a trespass in this field, which was a crime punishable by a substantial fine. But it was doubtful anyone would spot them in the dark if they crept along like ferrets.

  Except that Gilbert made quite a bit of noise, huffing, stumbling, and muttering.

  “Can you bumble about a bit more quietly?” Stephen asked, exasperated and anxious at the possibility of discovery. All it would take is someone hearing the commotion through an open rear window to call out. They would be assumed to be up to no good, burglary at best and robbery or murder at worst. And before you knew it the neighborhood would be after them.

  “I am doing the best I can,” Gilbert protested as he picked himself up again after having tripped on an object invisible in the moonless dark.

  “For God’s sake, you can be heard all the way to Hereford.”

  “My life, unlike yours, provided me with little preparation for sneaking about in the dark.”

  “You should have stayed behind, then.”

  “But only I will be able to tease the most important threads of information from what Harry has to tell. You can’t do it on your own.”

  “Next thing you’ll say is that I can’t pee without help.”

  “No, only Harry might say that.”

  “Here you go,” Joan said as she helped him to his feet. She did not let go and guided him along a thin path bordering the field that took a cat’s eyes to detect.

  “Thank you, my dear,” Gilbert said.

  But then Joan stuck out a foot and tripped him.

  “Good Heavens!” Gilbert declared. “Why did you do that?”

  “Don’t speak ill of Harry again,” Joan said. “I won’t have it.”

  “You’ll have to get used to that around here,” Stephen said. “It’s our only defense against him. Strike first and often, that is our motto.”

  “I don’t understand you people,” Joan said. “I thought you were friends.”

  “We are friends,” Gilbert said. “That is the root of the problem.”

  Presently the houses ended and open fields and a road faintly visible as a white strip lined with trees stretched into the murky distance. I
t was quiet except for the singing of crickets and Gilbert’s labored breathing.

  Stephen crossed the road into the field beyond and started down the backside of the houses on the east side of the road. He had a vague recollection that the inn in question was the third house from the end, but he wasn’t sure, and it would not do to blunder into someone’s house.

  “One house farther, I think,” Joan said when Stephen stopped at the third house.

  “This is it,” Joan added when they reached the back garden of the fourth house.

  “How can you tell?” Stephen asked, for in the dark all the houses looked the same.

  “That scarf,” Joan said, pointing to a scarf hanging from one of the fence posts. “I left it there to mark the way.”

  “Clever girl,” Gilbert said.

  Joan retrieved her scarf as the others hopped the fence and crossed the back yard to the stable, which stood on the left of the house just beyond a small apple orchard.

  Stephen reached the edge of the orchard when someone came around the side of the stable. An impulse made Stephen grasp Gilbert’s shoulder and put a finger to his mouth. They stood among the trees, frozen on the spot with Joan right behind them who had sense enough to do the same without being warned.

  The figure urinated against the wall, looked up at the bright stars showing between scudding clouds and went around the corner.

  Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps it was a groom tending to the horses of some late arrival. But something urged Stephen to be cautious, although he could not put a finger on what prompted suspicion.

  He slipped around a hay pile with the same care used when stalking deer in the forest to the corner of the stable. He could hear the voices of two men not far away, talking quietly as if they did not want to be overheard. Stephen dropped to a knee and peeked around the corner. The men’s silhouettes were visible at the doorway to the stable. They were just standing there, doing nothing. Then they moved a bit, pacing about. Both were carrying short staves.

  There was no good reason for men armed like that to be out in the night.

  Then he heard a faint groan from within the stable. A third man said, “I said, tell me where that fucker is!” Followed by a squelching sound, like a blow striking home.

  The groan had to come from Harry.

  Anger flared in Stephen’s heart as it sometimes did in moments like this. He tried to control his breathing, to slow himself down, to consider what was the prudent thing to do, as he stood up. The toe of his good foot bumped an object in the grass. Stephen bent down and retrieved the object: a broken ax handle.

  Without any further thought, he strode around the corner and marched toward the two men in the doorway.

  They turned toward him, startled at his approach. But he was on them in three long strides and on the fourth had launched a great blow with the ax handle that connected with one man’s neck below the ear. That fellow dropped like a felled ox, and Stephen swung for the next man. His back swing rose from the ground and caught the second fellow under the chin and he went over backward.

  Stephen turned toward the doorway, for there was at least one man in there, and perhaps many others. The fury that had sparked his attack had dissipated and now he was in the grip of battle calm, where he seemed to float apart from himself and was aware of every star in the sky, every blade of grass and clod of dirt about him.

  The man inside rushed out, bent low, and tackled Stephen, driving him backward. But Stephen had been taken like this before and knew what to do. The trick was not to fight the tackle but to go with it. He grasped his assailant about the waist, rolled backward, and the other man went flying.

  Stephen shot to his feet as the third man came at him again. Even in the darkness, brilliant starlight the only illumination, it was apparent he was a big man with massive shoulders — no wonder he had given Stephen such a jolt during his rush.

  The third man shot a hard punch at Stephen’s head. Stephen slipped to his right, caught the arm, turned, and threw the third man over his shoulder with a flying mare.

  The third man landed with a thump at Stephen’s feet, and before he could recover or do anything else, Stephen slammed him with his fist two, three, four, five times, until Gilbert grasped his arm and said, “Stop! You’ll kill him.”

  “It’s what he deserves,” Stephen panted. “Joan, go see to Harry. I think he’s hurt. Gilbert, truss up those other two. I’ll take care of this one.”

  Stephen tied the third man with a length of cloth cut from the man’s shirt, then rolled him on his back.

  By this time the third man was coming around.

  The fellow sputtered and might have called out, but Stephen put a hand over his mouth and the point of his dagger under the chin.

  “Make any further disturbance, and I’ll cut out your tongue,” Stephen said. “Understand?”

  The fellow nodded.

  Stephen removed his hand but not the dagger. “You one of Squinty Peg’s boys?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  There was some hesitation. Stephen prodded with the dagger.

  “Looking for you,” the fellow answered. “I assume you’re Attebrook. We heard you could fight like the devil.”

  “Why are you looking for me?”

  “Mum wants you dead.”

  “She’ll have to do better than to send the likes of you after me.”

  “There’s plenty more of us, don’t worry about that. Enough to turn you into a meat pie. So what you going to do now?”

  “That may depend on what shape my friend Harry is in.”

  “We just knocked him around a bit. Tried to get out of him where you were.”

  “He say anything?”

  “Nah. He’s a tough little fucker.”

  “He wasn’t so little once. So, tell me, why does Peg want me dead?”

  “She doesn’t want anyone connecting us with that business at FitzHerbert’s. She knows you’re looking into it, been asking questions.”

  “You mean the robbery involving that player girl, Matilda.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Were you there?”

  More hesitation, another prod from the dagger.

  “Yeah.”

  “Was the plan only to get the money? Not to kill FitzHerbert and his boy, Martin?”

  “We wouldn’ta hurt Martin. He was one of us. Except he wouldn’t play over the money.”

  “Matilda told me Martin and FitzHerbert were alive when she left them.”

  “That was the plan. Drug ‘em and take the stuff. Sweet and simple.”

  “And did Matilda bring down a letter as well?”

  “I don’t know anything about no letter.”

  Stephen tapped the third man on the cheek with the flat of the dagger. “You can go back and tell your mum that I’m not interested in the robbery or what happened to those two player friends of Matilda’s. That’s Mapuleye’s business, not mine. I’m interested in who killed FitzHerbert and Martin, and this letter. I need to talk to her. There are questions about Martin’s death I think she may be able to answer. If she’s willing, have her come to Saint Owen’s Church at noon. Got that?”

  “I got it.”

  Gilbert and Joan dragged Harry out of the stable. It was hard to assess his injuries in the dark by starlight, but he was groaning and not fully conscious. He needed immediate attention, and since it did not seem safe to take him back to the Turtle, Stephen pounded on the door to the inn.

  After some time, a voice called from beyond the door, “All right! All right! What is it?”

  “Travelers,” Stephen said. “We need lodgings.”

  “No one travels at night, sir! Be gone!”

  “If you don’t open the door, I’ll break it down.”

  “I should like to see you try!”

  “Why does it always involve threats?” Gilbert asked.

  “Because they work?” Stephen replied.

  “We have a wounded man he
re who needs immediate attention,” Gilbert called to the voice beyond the door. “We’ve been attacked by Squinty Peg’s gang.”

  “Squinty Peg?” the voice called back. “I want no business with anyone involved with Squinty Peg!”

  “We’ll pay double,” Gilbert said.

  There was a thud of a bar being set aside, and the door opened.

  “How many are you?” the voice asked.

  “Four,” Stephen said. He picked Harry up and pushed into the hall of the inn, his back trembling at the effort, for Harry was as solid and heavy as a block of stone. The others entered after him.

  Stephen lay Harry on a table. “Get me a light,” he ordered. “And some ale. And bar the door. Squinty’s boys aren’t all gone. And more may show up at any time.”

  “Dear God!” the innkeeper said. “What sort of trouble are you in?”

  “Avoiding murder,” Stephen said.

  “Squinty is known for that,” the innkeeper said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He hurried off and came back with a tallow candle. He also brought ale, a bowl of water and some linen for bandages.

  Gilbert kept watch out a window while Stephen and Joan examined Harry. There was matted blood in his hair and a cut beneath on the scalp. His face was already bruised and swelling, an eye shut with another bloody cut on the eyebrow, but he still had all his teeth. In addition, he had bruises on his arms from where he had apparently tried to defend himself.

  Stephen propped up Harry’s head and fed him some of the ale. He began to come around as Stephen mopped his battered face with a strip of wet linen. This meant more groaning until Stephen sat him upright.

  “How did you get here? And where is here?” Harry asked, his words slurred by swollen lips.

  “This is …?” Stephen looked at the innkeeper for guidance.