by Jason Vail
“Rub the wax from your ears, Walter. I’m not going to mention it again. Even in a deserted place like this, people can overhear.”
“Who did it, then?” FitzSimmons demanded.
Stephen pointed to the medallion. “A gang. I didn’t get a good look at any of them. One of them wore this badge. I believe Curthose ripped it from the coat of one of the assailants when they invaded his house.”
“And what does this have to do with the letter?” FitzSimmons asked.
“I suspect that Curthose took it. Probably sometime after his master was killed.”
“You think Curthose killed him?”
“I can’t say with certainty, but I don’t believe he did. He wouldn’t have engaged me to investigate FitzHerbert’s death if he had been involved. But someone else wants the letter as well, and, suspecting that he had it, came for him. He was pretty badly tortured.”
“So, someone else has the letter now.”
“That sizes things up neatly, FitzSimmons. You are quick.”
“Don’t make fun of me, Attebrook.”
“Just an observation. Now, as to the medallion, I assume you’re not familiar with it, eh, FitzSimmons.”
FitzSimmons shook his head.
“What about you, Walter?” Stephen asked the soldier.
Walter prodded the medallion with a finger. “Yes, I’ve seen it before. It’s the symbol of Lord Richard de Mychenall. He adopted it recently after his return from Gascony. I understand such badges are popular there.”
“Mychenall!” Stephen knew the name, of course. Mychenall was not an earl, but he held enough land in southern Herefordshire and Wales about Cardiff to consider himself one. He had kept aloof from the dispute between the barons led by Montfort and the King’s faction. It was a surprise to hear his name mentioned in connection with the letter. What would such a man want with it? “I find that hard to believe.”
“I don’t know what interest Sir Richard might have in the thing, sir. But there are some in Hereford who owe him fealty.”
“Who are they? Do I have to hit you on the head to get it out of you?”
“Very good, sir. The most prominent such person is someone you know — your good friend, Thomas de Mapuleye.”
Chapter 20
“Mapuleye,” FitzSimmons muttered, his voice thoughtful but concerned. “You’re sure?”
“His men wear the badge, my lord,” Walter said. “They are all liege men of Sir Richard.”
“Why would Mapuleye go to such lengths to get the letter?” FitzSimmons asked. “It does not make sense. He’s one of us. You’d think he’d just demand it of Curthose. I’d expect him to tell FitzAllan about it, who would then simply recover it.”
“Are there those who would pay to get their hands on it?” Stephen asked.
“Of course,” FitzSimmons shot back. “The King’s men would pay dearly to know what promises Montfort has made to the Welsh.”
“Then the answer is obvious,” Stephen said. “He’s doing it for the money.”
“He must need it badly, if he’s willing to commit murder for it, and betray us in the bargain.”
“Well, now you know, the thing is in your hands. All you have to do is ask him.”
“I’m not sure that things are that simple. If we demand Mapuleye produce the letter, he will deny having it, if he’s so bent on the money.”
“Perhaps you could offer to buy it.”
“And get into a bidding war with whomever he’s in contact with on the King’s side?”
“It might have to come to that.”
“I haven’t much on hand for such a negotiation. We cannot depend on FitzAllan to come up with it, either. I’d prefer to get it back by other means, if that’s possible.”
“Surely, you have other resources.”
“We are not the Crown. The King is better provided for in money than we are. We have only the rents from our manors, and that is hardly enough to afford the army that will be needed soon. We must find another way before we stoop to commerce and bribery.”
“What about that false money you had made?” Stephen asked, referring to a plot to forge money that FitzSimmons had overseen earlier in the year. “Surely, there must be something left.”
“There is some, but it is far away. It will take days, even a week to fetch it here.”
“Then I would not waste any time.”
FitzSimmons’ fingers drummed the table. “Meanwhile, I should have you find the letter for me. If Mapuleye has the letter I want to know. There will be a reward in it for you.”
“I will think about that.”
“Think hard.”
It was still raining when Stephen and Walter stepped onto Bridge Street, the center of which had been churned up to a pasty mud by the passage of many feet and the wheels of carts. He was glad for the rain and not for the mud, which made walking an effort. It was not unknown to stumble into a puddle that looked like nothing but was a deep sucking maw that would yank a boot right off a man’s foot. The ground just outside the Black Lion presented a particular hazard, because there was a dip in the road at the doorstep, and a vast pond stretched from one side of the street to the other. Stephen was a canny traveler in towns, however, and knew to keep to the edge of the road where the ground was not as wet or muddy owing to the shelter given by the overhanging upper stories of the houses bordering the street. Walter followed him, lost in his thoughts.
The prudent way to get to his destination would be to pass around Saint Nicholas’ Church at the head of Bridge Street to Wrotehale Street, and thence to Wydemarch and around. But Stephen cut across the cathedral close and its graveyard to Castle Street, where the houses of the wealthiest people in the city could be found. This made his journey to Grope Lane all the shorter and faster, a thing to be prized in the cold and wet, not to mention his aching foot, sore from all the abuse it had suffered.
The rain had driven the barkers and street gamblers on Grope Lane to find shelter, but a few of the windows in the brothels were open, since the girls needed a means to call out to passersby for their business.
At one window, a girl draped her naked leg over the windowsill and called out to Stephen, “Hey, handsome! You look so lonely! Come up and take a load off your feet! I’ll rub your back for you!”
Stephen blew the girl a kiss. “Another time, sister! I’ve things to do!”
“What could be more important than a rub down?”
“My duty, I’m afraid.”
“Duty — you are such a dull boy.”
“What about you?” the whore called to Walter.
“Can I?” Walter asked. “It won’t take long.”
“No,” Stephen said.
Walter grinned and waved to the whore. “I’ll be back tomorrow!”
They reached Squinty’s house and went in. The hall was like that in any other tavern, inn or brothel, a low rectangular room with a fireplace on the side where a blaze warmed the room, benches near it occupied by persons who should have a job but did not appear to, barrels of ale opposite along the wall, separated by a high narrow table where the drinks were deposited upon order and where they were often consumed.
“What you want, lads?” asked the man behind the bar.
“I’d like to see Squinty. She here?”
“She’s here, but she’s busy. Too busy for the likes of you, I think.”
“I’m more than I appear. Just tell her that Steve would like another word.” Stephen put a farthing on the countertop.
The servant pressed his thumb to the sliver of silver, which adhered to his thumb. “You are a generous one,” he said with sarcasm. “Don’t get your hopes up.” But he went up the stairs at the rear of the hall nonetheless.
It wasn’t long before Squinty Peg appeared at the top of the stairs and made her laborious, limping way down the steps with much groaning and the assistance of her cane.
Squinty struggled up to him. She regarded him with a squint, which was her usual way of l
ooking at people. She prodded him on the shoulder with her cane. “What you doing here? What do you want?”
“Is there a quiet place we can talk in private?”
“There ain’t no privacy around here, not even in the privy.”
“You’ve a cellar. How about that?”
Squinty pursed her lips. “Willie, fetch me a lamp. Master Steve wants to inspect the cellar.”
“Is he a rat catcher?” Willie the bartender asked. “We could use one. The place is infested.”
“You’re something of a rat catcher, aren’t you, Steve?” Squinty chuckled.
“I hadn’t thought about it like that,” Stephen said, “but I suppose I am.”
“He coming, too?” Squinty asked about Walter.
“No,” Stephen said. “He’ll be happy to warm himself with one of your girls while we talk.”
“Sir!” Walter exclaimed, surprised.
“Watch that,” Stephen said. “I’m Steve here.”
“Right. Steve.”
“Just be sure to keep your drawers within reach in case we have to leave quickly.”
“You’ve a nerve walking into my place like that,” Squinty said when they had settled on barrels in the cellar. It was musty here, and there were indeed the sounds of careful scuttling paws now and then.
“You know, confession does a body good. You should try it.”
“What have I got to confess?”
“You told me one of your girls bought the dwale given to FitzHerbert and Martin. But that’s not true. Mapuleye bought it himself, and not at Hamblett’s.”
“I ain’t admitting or denying.”
“Did he tell you to get the letter when they were knocked out?”
“He never mentioned no letter.”
“All he talked about was the money in the box?”
“That’s it. He said we could have that.”
Stephen drew a clump of linen cloth from his belt pouch. He set the pouch on the upturned barrel between them so that they clinked, letting Peg know there was money in the cloth.
“Did Mapuleye go with you on the job?”
Squinty prodded the makeshift linen pouch. “No, he’s too high-toned for that. It was one of his boys.”
“The red-haired one?”
“Yes,” Squinty said, surprised. “How’d you know?”
“I’m a better rat catcher than I look.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“What’s his name?”
Squinty smiled. “Not that good, though, eh? Hugo. Calls himself Hugo de Norbury, though I don’t think he’s ever been within miles of the place.”
“So, let me see. The girl comes down with the money, and Hugo goes inside.”
“That’s right.”
“And he comes down with the letter?”
“No. He didn’t find no letter. It weren’t there. At least I heard him say so to the others of his little band as they made off.”
“I see. You’re a businesswoman. Let’s do business.” Stephen withdrew another makeshift linen purse from his belt pouch. This one was much fatter than the first one. He put that purse beside the other one. “There is something I need you to do.”
Chapter 21
“Will you look at that,” Gilbert marveled from his hiding place in the corner of the hall of Squinty Peg’s brothel. He prodded Stephen, who was sleeping with his head upon a table.
Stephen lifted his head. Walter had just entered the hall from the street with Hugo de Norbury. They were laughing as if at some joke.
“Look at what?” Stephen asked.
“I didn’t think Walter knew how to smile,” Gilbert said.
“He doesn’t. He’s pretending. He’s a spy. That’s what we spies do. We pretend, and put people at their ease.”
“You consider yourself a spy now?”
“I’m trying to. I’m going to need some line of work when this is over.”
“At least you’re not running away. I was afraid you might do that.”
“You’d miss me? I shall cry.”
“You’re Harry’s favorite target. If you run, he’ll go back to picking on me. And now that he has a situation of his own, I can’t quell his needling with threats of eviction.”
“Put Edith on him. She’s enough to scare anyone when she gets going.”
“I’ve already tried that. She ignores me, says she has better things to do than to trouble with Harry.”
Walter and Hugo talked to the girl who ran the brothel for Squinty, one of her many daughters. The brothel madam presented a selection of girls to them. Hugo indicated one, who curtsied. The brothel manager handed the girl a candle. Hugo took the girl’s arm and led her toward the stairway. This brought him close to Stephen, who dropped his head to his arms, just another drunk. Gilbert bent his head as if looking at his lap, but he held his breath, convinced that the charade was a tissue that Hugo would see through at a glance, even though the hall was not well lighted beyond the fire in the fireplace and a few tallow lamps here and there.
Hugo reached and mounted the stairs without giving any indication that he had recognized either of them. Walter, for his part, ruffled the top of Gilbert’s bald head as if he were a child and had hair.
“Stop that!” Gilbert hissed.
“Why?” Walter said. “What will you do if I don’t?”
“I will … I will …” But Gilbert could not think of anything sufficiently horrid to intimidate Walter.
Walter chuckled and went away with another girl on his arm.
“I will give you a piece of my mind,” Gilbert said to himself, “not that it will make a difference.”
“If I were you, I’d invite him for dinner and then let Harry have a go at him,” Stephen said as he peeked out of the corner of his eye as Walter disappeared through the doorway at the top. He raised his head. “Go fetch FitzSimmons, will you?”
“Right,” Gilbert said, rising. “Good idea about Harry and Walter, by the way. Except the part of having Harry for dinner.” He hurried out the front door and around to the back of the house to a stairway leading to the cellar, where FitzSimmons and three of his men were waiting.
Stephen climbed the stairs. He paused at the doorway. He had forgotten to arrange the room beforehand. Now he had to guess which one Hugo and Walter had taken. He listened at each doorway. He heard Walter’s voice and then another man’s at the third door. He hoped that this was the one.
FitzSimmons and his men arrived and crowded close.
“All right, boys, this is it,” Stephen said.
He lifted the latch and rushed into the chamber. Both Hugo and Walter still had their clothes on. They were seated side-by-side on stools watching the two girls undress. Walter tackled Hugo and they went to the floor, Hugo shouting, “What the f—” and the girls reeling backward, but remaining silent; they had been told to expect something, but not what exactly, to be quiet and stay out of the way. One of the girls had the presence of mind to snatch up the candle so that there was no chance of setting the house on fire.
The FitzSimmons men piled on Walter and Hugo. The scrum writhed as Hugo struggled against them, but they were too much and soon had him tied hand and foot.
“I’ll take the candle, girls,” Stephen said. “You can go.”
“What is this?” Hugo shouted in the meantime. “I’ll have your head for this!”
The FitzSimmons men had him by the arms, although he was still on the floor.
Stephen kicked Hugo in the head. “Shut up until you have permission to speak.”
“You mutherfu—” Hugo sputtered, spitting out blood.
Stephen squatted beside Hugo. He tapped Hugo on the nose with his finger. “I saw what you did to Geoffrey Curthose. Pretty clumsy work.”
He ran his finger along Hugo’ jaw, up to his forehead and around his face to the chin.
There was a message here and Hugo did not fail to get it. His eyes rounded so the whites showed.
“What do you want, pay
back?” Hugo said.
“No,” Stephen said. “I’m more interested in information.”
Hugo’ lips worked as if he were formulating a lie, then came together in a thin line. “You were the ones who came in after.”
“Yes,” Stephen said. “Where were you, by the way? In the undercroft?”
“Yeah.”
“Readying the torches?”
Hugo nodded. He spat, “You think that you, a murderer, are going to appeal against me and be believed?”
“I might. If I do, there’s a good chance I’ll be believed, especially after my case is resolved. Remember, I have the right of trial by battle. I’m pretty good with a sword, and my accuser hasn’t the money to hire the best champion. So, the odds are good that I’ll prevail. You, meanwhile, have no such right. If I appeal, you’ll languish in gaol until the circuit justice gets by. With things in such an upheaval, that could take quite a long time. Years even. It’s very common for people to die waiting for trial, don’t you know.”
Hugo snarled and spat out more blood.
“So again,” Stephen asked, “what were you doing at Curthose’s?”
“Looking for FitzHerbert’s letter.”
“Did you find it?”
“No, he didn’t have it. He swore that he hadn’t taken it.”
“You believed him?”
“In the end, yeah.” Hugo’ voice got plaintive. “Thing was, it wasn’t there when I went up.”
“Went up — that would be at FitzHerbert’s house, the night he died.”
“Yeah, but I had nothing to do with that. They were snoring away on the bed when I left, the both of them. Anyway, that girl’d taken the money, most of it, to all account, and the letter wasn’t there. That kid Martin told Squinty that it was kept with the money, but it weren’t there. Somebody took it.”
“Did you search for it?”
“Wasn’t time. I heard voices in the next chamber. I thought someone might come out to take a pee. The garderobe was just off the entranceway.”
“So, you don’t have it and neither does Mapuleye.”
“But he wants it bad.”
“Why?”