Murder at Broadstowe Manor

by Jason Vail

  He peeked out the door. A dozen men with torches were moving about the hall setting fire to the tapestries along the walls. The tapestries flamed quickly, belching smoke, the fires racing up toward the wooden ceiling. In moments, the entire hall was burning and filled with choking smoke; even the stairway that Stephen and Gilbert needed to make their escape had begun to burn.

  Satisfied with their work, the intruders tossed their torches away and fled out the front door.

  Chapter 19

  Stephen and Gilbert backed into one of the bedchambers and shut the door. Stephen laid a bedsheet against the bottom of the door, but it wasn’t long before smoke started to leak through the crack at the top. He felt the door. It was hot.

  He pushed open the shutters of one of the windows and looked out. It was at least twenty feet to the ground, too far for either of them to jump.

  “Push the bed as close to the window as you can,” he told Gilbert as he smashed a stool by the table and removed a leg from the shards.

  Stephen then cut a hole in the blanket near a corner. As Gilbert lifted the corner of the bedstead, he slipped the hole through the leg of the bed. Then he cut another hole in the opposite corner of the blanket and a hole in the corner of the other bedsheet. He slipped the corner of the bedsheet through the hole in the free corner of the blanket and locked it in place with the stool leg, which he turned in the hole in the sheet hoping this would give strength to the connection. Then he threw the sheet and blanket out the window.

  “You first,” Stephen said.

  Gilbert bent out the window. “No, I insist. You can catch me if I slip off.”

  There wasn’t time to argue. The room had so filled with smoke that it was almost impossible to breathe. Flames shone through the cracks in the door and the door itself was sure to catch fire in moments.

  Stephen went out the window and slipped down the rope while Gilbert held the top of it just in case the hold on the bed wasn’t strong enough to bear Stephen’s weight.

  “Now you!” Stephen called when he reached the ground.

  Gilbert gauged the distance, which looked more frightful when you were at the top, hesitated, then put one leg then the other through the window and, grasping the blanket, descended with too much speed in his haste to be away from the flaming cauldron of a house. The sounds of cloth ripping encouraged him to go faster.

  Stephen caught him with a grunt.

  “I think you’ve broken my back,” Stephen gasped.

  “You look capable of running,” Gilbert said.

  He took off toward the back wall of the rear garden at a waddling run.

  The back wall was about six feet high. Gilbert leaped for the top but couldn’t pull himself up. Stephen got under his arse and pushed.

  “Oh! Wait! Not so hard!” Gilbert exclaimed as he toppled over to the other side, the thump of his landing loud enough to wake the neighbors who had so far managed to sleep through the conflagration lighting the sky behind them.

  “I’m all right!” Gilbert called. “I’m all right! No dogs! I don’t see a dog!”

  “Good to know,” Stephen murmured to himself as he chinned himself on the top of the wall and flipped over into the back garden of the neighboring house.

  They had escaped from the fire, but they were not free and away by any means. Shutters banged open at all the great houses they could see, including the one before them, and people leaned out to gawk at the fire, the flames now having reached the roof. There were cries for the fire watch. Alarm bells clanged from every direction.

  There was nothing to do but press across the garden to the courtyard, even if they would be seen. Several people spilling out of the townhouse and the shops and houses along the street — Caboches Lane — snatched at Stephen’s sleeve, for they thought he and Gilbert might be servants of the house on fire who had escaped, and demanded to know what had happened.

  But Stephen pushed ahead and passed through the gate to the lane without answering anyone, with Gilbert so close to his heels that they both nearly tripped on each other.

  Stephen relaxed once they reached the lane and headed north some distance. The streets were filled with people, for a house fire was a source of dread. It might easily spread to other houses and burn the entire town.

  “We should be safe in this commotion,” he said to Gilbert as they came to Behynderthewall Lane. “I doubt anyone will pay us any mind.”

  “Back to the tunnel?” Gilbert panted.

  “I don’t see us walking through a gate, do you?”

  “I was afraid you’d say that. I think I’ll take my chances at the gate in the morning, if it’s all the same to you.”

  The safest place to hide for the remainder of the night was Theo and Sarah’s house on Jews Street. But since Gilbert did not know the city well enough to find it in the dark, Stephen had to escort him. While they had worried about discovery and trouble, the streets were in such an uproar about the fire in Milk Lane that even crossing the market at the head of Wydemarsh Street attracted no attention.

  This detour took considerable time, not to mention the half hour to overcome Theo’s resistance to allowing Gilbert to remain, so it was approaching twilight by the time Stephen slipped down the alley by Squinty Peg’s house and made for the shed at the base of the wall.

  He was about to enter the shack when he heard voices within it. Stephen dashed off a few paces and lay in the grass while figures emerged from the shack, visible against the lightening sky even though it was overcast. The figures all bore sacks on their backs that gave the silhouettes a hunch-backed appearance. One fellow tripped and fell, the contents of his sack clattering and clashing. The fellow in front kicked the unfortunate man in the shoulder. There was a sharp exchange of curses and accusations. Then the band disappeared in the direction of Squinty Peg’s.

  Stephen waited a few more minutes to make sure the coast was clear, then entered the shed. He put a foot upon the ladder leading to the tunnel, but he did not go down.

  He withdrew his foot after a few moments of thought and went out of the shed.

  Stephen kept to the path along the wall to the Bye Street Gate, where he crossed Olde and Bye Streets and entered the dark maw of Jews Street.

  In moments he was knocking at Theo’s door again.

  Theo stuck his head out of the upstairs window. “What the devil! You again? What do you want? Quick, before the neighbors notice.”

  “I need a favor.”

  “Favors for you are always too dangerous and unprofitable.”

  “Just this one. It won’t put you in any danger.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Who is it?” Sarah asked, out of sight.

  “That damned Attebrook,” Theo said to her.

  “What does he want?”

  “Nothing good.”

  “What do you want, Sir Stephen?” Sara asked, sticking her head out the window to get a look at the visitor.

  “I need Theo to take a message to someone in the castle,” Stephen replied.

  “Why don’t you have Gilbert do it?” Theo asked.

  “Because he’ll be recognized,” Stephen said. “And questions may be asked about what he’s doing here.”

  “A moment.” Theo pulled his head back in the house.

  Shortly, the door opened. “All right, come in,” Theo said.

  “I’ll do it,” Theo said when Stephen entered the front hall. “But this is positively the last time.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And you’re to hide in the next yard. There’s a rubbish pile big enough to conceal a wagon back there. If anybody notices you and raises an outcry, you run for it, as fast as that gimpy foot carries you. Now, this message?”

  Stephen curled up behind the rubbish pile, which was as large and evil smelling as he anticipated, trying to get some sleep before sunrise.

  He awakened just after dawn to the chirping of birds, the hoo-hoo-hoooo! of doves, and the distant cry of a cock greeting the day. Several crow
s fluttered down on the top of the rubbish pile and inspected it for potential food. One of the crows found the remains of a shoe, which it tossed in Stephen’s direction with a flick of the head. The shoe bounced down the pile and landed a foot from Stephen’s face, bringing with it a small avalanche of something foul and rotting. “You missed,” he said, sitting up.

  He had been so tired that even the stinging rain that began while he was asleep did not wake him. Despite the chill and wet, he welcomed the rain, for it gave an excuse to pull up his hood, which would make it easier to pass through the city during daylight without being noticed. The wind was cold and blustery.

  Stephen stood up, scanning for people in the back gardens that were separated by waist-high wattle fences. He saw no one, but caught Theo peering at him out of a back window. Theo motioned for him to be away, then closed the shutters. Stephen envied the fact that Theo had his breakfast handy, for his stomach ached and demanded to be filled. It would have to wait.

  He jumped a series of fences to reach the alley he had used previously. As he emerged onto Bye Street, the apothecary a couple of houses to the left was putting down the shutters on his shop, a signal that he was open for business. Stephen almost turned away from the shop, but the memory of something Squinty Peg had said made him pause.

  Stephen went to the window. The apothecary had his back to the window, bent over a pestle. Stephen coughed to get the man’s attention.

  “Are you Hamblett?” Stephen asked.

  “No,” the apothecary said. “I am Fulco Hellecoc. What do you want with Hamblett?”

  “I am after some dwale.”

  “The stuff that makes you sleep? Hamblett doesn’t make it. He hasn’t the skill. I am the only man in Hereford who does, apart from a few monks at the hospital. The recipe is quite complicated. Get the proportions wrong — especially of the hemlock, opium and henbane — and you can kill someone. That happened to Hamblett, which is why the bishop forbade him to make it.”

  “I see. Did one of Squinty Peg’s girls buy some dwale from you in the past week or so?”

  “Peg? What do you want to know for?” Hellecoc gave his full attention to Stephen now, taking in his common brown shirt and stockings, and worn cloak and hood: the apparel of a common man without means.

  “I had but a few ales at a tavern in Grope Lane. It put me to sleep. I’m not in the habit of falling asleep after a few ales. When I woke up, my purse was empty.”

  Hellecoc smiled with a trace of sympathy. “And you thought one of her girls put dwale in your ale?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not much you can do about that now.”

  “I don’t know. There might be. If it happened.”

  Hellecoc shrugged. “Well, for what it’s worth to you, no. None of her girls has bought dwale from me for quite a long time. I sell dwale mainly to older people who have trouble sleeping. The younger people, they have no need of it, unless they have been injured and need a barber surgeon to cut on them.”

  “What about others?”

  “You are a curious fellow. So many questions.”

  “Please humor me.”

  “The only ones recently were a lady from the castle, the sheriff’s current mistress, and that new coroner, Mapuleye.”

  “Last week sometime?”

  “Yes, it was. The both of them.”

  “Odd, that.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you have a batch handy?”

  “Of dwale? Certainly.”

  “Mind if I smell it?”

  The apothecary looked put upon, but he fetched a box from a shelf and put it on the counter.

  Stephen flipped up the lid and lowered his nose to the contents. It had that same flowery aroma he had detected in the pitcher of wine found in FitzHerbert’s bedchamber.

  “Satisfied?” Hellecoc asked, retrieving his box of dwale.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Well, then, be off. Don’t you have a job? Or are you a layabout who does nothing but make trouble for working people?”

  The inn was called the Black Lion. It was the same one where Stephen had seen Lady Margaret only five days ago, a few doors away from the Wye Bridge. Those five days seemed an age. Stephen didn’t realize how tired he was until he thought about that passage of time. He wished he could retreat to Ludlow and settle at his favorite table by the fire at the Broken Shield and put this mess behind him. But it was not close to being finished.

  The Black Lion wasn’t the Shield. Its floors were dirt and pocked with holes that Stephen had seen trip a few of the unwary, unlike the wooden floors of the Shield, which Edith Wistwode kept neat and swept, harrying all for any dirt or mud they tracked in. But the ale was sweet and the onion soup, with cheese melting in it, was tasty. He dunked another bit of bread smothered in butter into the soup and devoured it with relish. As inns went, it wasn’t bad.

  The door opened admitting a blast of chilly air pregnant with the tinny smell of rain. “Shut that damned door!” shouted a chorus of patrons reflexively. The ritualistic way they shouted this suggested they did so at every entrance.

  The fellow who had just entered was already closing the door behind him. He threw off his hood. It was Walter, Lady Margaret’s man.

  But he wasn’t alone.

  Walter’s companion was clad all in black: cloak, coat with silver buttons, stockings; even his boots were black. His black goatee and moustache were close cropped and gave his narrow face the appearance of white porcelain. Predatory eyes regarded Stephen from across the hall.

  The two of them crossed the hall, weaving between tables and benches. Walter did not sit, in deference to his companion, who settled onto the bench on the other side of the table.

  Stephen should rise at the companion’s approach, since he was far outranked on the social scale by the visitor. But he remained seated and put a hand on his dagger just in case. There was bad blood between them going back to an incident last year when Stephen had killed one of Nigel FitzSimmons’ cousins. Stephen’s excuse was that it had been self-defense, but that hadn’t mattered to FitzSimmons, who wanted Stephen dead as a consequence.

  “Well, FitzSimmons,” Stephen said, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you. Did Lady Margaret send for you?” There was a murky world out there that he did not fully understand. He only knew that Lady Margaret and FitzSimmons were spies for the Montfort faction. Lady Margaret was FitzSimmons’ subordinate, but what position FitzSimmons occupied and how much power and influence he had was unclear. What was clear was that he was a dangerous man.

  Nigel FitzSimmons knitted his fingers together. “She did. And she was wise to do so. This is too important a matter to entrust to busybodies and meddlers.”

  “Busybody? Ha! A busybody who has bested you twice. What does that make you?”

  FitzSimmons scowled and looked toward the fire. “It seems that I am forced by circumstances to be civil with you. I want that letter.”

  “If we come across it during my inquiries, I may look the other way. It is a death that interests me, not some letter.”

  FitzSimmons brought his gaze back to Stephen. There was venom and hatred in that gaze. But Stephen met stare for stare. It was rather, Stephen thought with mild amusement, like the game children played to see who would blink first, but the stakes for them were higher and blinking didn’t count.

  They regarded each other for some time this way, as if FitzSimmons was used to overawing others and hoped the trick would work here. When he sensed it did not seem to have any effect, he said, “Let’s get this unpleasant business over with. What have you learned so far? Or have you spent your time lolling in taverns and now need more money for drink and whores?”

  “Would you like some ale? Since you are being civil, I should return the favor,” Stephen said, ignoring the questions for the moment.

  He waved for cups to a servant of the inn and when he had them, he poured for FitzSimmons and Walter. FitzSimmons regarded the cup as if it h
ad been filled with piss. He did not touch it. Walter did not reach for his cup, either. Walter looked over their heads at the wall behind Stephen. A hard man with a homely blunt face, Walter was a soldier who knew when to avoid attracting a superior’s unwanted attention.

  “If you’re not going to drink anything,” Stephen said, “at least let Walter have a go. He’s the one I need to talk to, not you.”

  FitzSimmons hesitated, annoyed, but assented with a flap of the hand.

  Walter reached for the cup reluctantly.

  “And you should at least let him sit down,” Stephen said. “He’s attracting attention. I thought spies were not supposed to attract attention.”

  FitzSimmons flapped a hand again. Walter slipped around the table and sat beside Stephen. Sitting beside FitzSimmons could have been taken as far too familiar.

  “That’s better,” Stephen said.

  “Let’s get this over with,” FitzSimmons said. “We haven’t a moment to waste.”

  “All in its due course,” Stephen said. He extracted the medallion from his pouch and set it on the table. “Have you seen it’s like before?”

  “What’s that got to do with this?” FitzSimmons demanded.

  “I took it from Geoffrey Curthose’s hand.”

  “Curthose?” FitzSimmons asked. “His house burned last night. With everyone in it — him and all his servants.”

  “I know. I was there.”

  “You didn’t have anything to do with that, did you, sir?” Walter, who was as hardened and taciturn as a bull dog, seemed shocked at the possibility that Stephen might be responsible for burning up a houseful of people. But then, how different was that for burning up a church with people in it? That happened with sad regularity in wartime. Walter had been a soldier. He must have seen such things, perhaps had even thrown the brands himself.

  “I didn’t set the fire. Curthose was already dead by the time I got to him.”

  “The fire was set?” Walter asked.