He was about to hold up a hand and halt the posse when a cry came from in front. Frowning as he tried to pierce the darkness, he set spurs to his horse and quickened his pace. The road bent to the left, gently dropping down the slope over the summit of a small hill. As they came round the bend, Baldwin saw three shadowy figures, one lying unconscious on the ground, two standing over him, a short distance from the verge. Automatically he slowed, feeling for his sword, aware of Edgar at his side. He was about to bellow a challenge when one of the men took a step forward.
“Thanks to God you’re here! We’ve got him!”
“Who are you? Who have you got?” Baldwin demanded.
Two fearful eyes stared up at him, set in a weasellike face. “Sir, we’ve caught a thief. This man stole Sir Hector’s silver.”
“Who are you?”
The other moved forward, a confident-looking, strong man, Baldwin thought. “I’m Henry the Hurdle, sir. This here’s my friend, John Smithson. We’re with Sir Hector’s troop.”
“And who is that?” he asked, pointing.
“Philip Cole, so he says, but I don’t know if it’s really his name. He only appeared the day before yesterday, and now he’s stolen my master’s silver. Look! We found this on him.” He held up two plates and a small leather purse.
Baldwin took them and weighed them in his hand thoughtfully. “Why did you follow him? Did you know your master’s silver was missing?”
“No, sir, but we spotted him skulking round the streets, furtive-like, so we thought we’d follow him, take a look at what he was up to. Then we saw him examining a silver plate, and I thought I recognized it as one of my master’s.”
Henry’s face was earnest, his eyes compelling, and the knight nodded encouragingly.
“We called out to him, but he started running away, and we only caught up with him here. We had to knock him out to stop him struggling.” He took a long, weary breath. “We were just wondering how to get him back to town, us not having a horse.”
“You have done well. Your master will reward you, I’m sure,” Baldwin said, staring down at the still body. The man would have to be tried, and Baldwin would be the man to pursue him in the court. But there was something not quite right about the stolen plate…
6
At Crediton they delivered their prisoner to the jail, much to the disgust of Tanner, the Constable. Edgar, who knew him, explained with a malicious smile that Tanner was friendly with a certain widow whom he knew to be lonely quite regularly, and this was an evening when she would expect him.
Their return had been slow, with the two men-at-arms walking. The thief’s body they had slung, bound, over the horse of another trooper, who had led his mount on foot. By the time they got back to Crediton the prisoner was awake again, and had begun to shout and complain, but he was soon plunged into a horrified silence when he was told who had captured him and why. The prisoner’s eyes were bloodshot, and his gaze wandered as if he found it hard to concentrate. Sir Baldwin knew that a hard knock on the head could addle a man’s mind, and was sure that it would be more profitable to question him the following morning.
The two men who had captured Cole were unhappy about this. One, the weasel-faced soldier said, “Our master will want to speak to him.”
Baldwin gave a curt shake of the head. “Sir Hector may well want to question Cole, but he can wait. This man will have to be investigated, and if he is found to have been the thief, your master will see that our revenge is swift.”
His response did not satisfy them. Their glowers indicated that their captive’s guilt was plain enough given his decision to run away—especially since he had been found with some of the stolen items on him. They gave in with bad grace only when they realized that Baldwin would not be swayed. Hugh and Edgar were sent back to Peter Clifford’s with the horses, while Baldwin and Simon went on to the inn, having first given instructions to Tanner to keep his charge in the jail without any visitors. The knight had a shrewd idea that one of Sir Hector’s entourage might think he could earn favors by punishing the thief.
Baldwin had taken the recovered silver from the two, and he studied the plates with interest when he had an opportunity, standing with Simon in the hall of the inn near a guttering candle. The plates were doubtless of fine quality. Deep and heavy, adorned with leaves and a hunting scene, they were both beautiful and valuable. He turned them over and over, his mind far away. When his name was called, he came to with a start. A messenger was waiting to conduct them to Sir Hector.
Crossing the hall, Baldwin was struck by how deserted the place was. It was strange to see a room, normally so bustling and raucous, now empty. Most of Sir Hector’s men were still out searching, and were unlikely to return until morning. They would want to make sure that they could see no sign of their quarry before risking their master’s wrath, and it would have been impossible to send messengers after them to call them back: there were too many routes being covered.
Smoke hung lazily in the rafters, and the stench of rotten ale permeated the atmosphere. The inn stank of the men-at-arms in the mercenary band, of their unwashed bodies, of urine and sweat. A couple of dogs rooted among the rushes on the floor like hogs, searching out bones and scraps. One of the serving women tossed a crust to them, and then watched as they fought over it, laughing. To Baldwin, the dank and chill jail was more appealing than the inn at this moment.
They went through a door, which was concealed behind a tapestry at the back of the room. A room led off into a number of chambers, and Baldwin and the silent Simon were conducted to the one Sir Hector had taken for himself. The captain was alone in his chamber.
“So, Sir Baldwin. I didn’t need to ask for your help in the first place, did I?”
Sir Hector eyed the knight and the bailiff with a sardonic smile. If only he had got the hue out immediately, he thought bitterly, he could have had the thief back here and punished without the unwelcome attention of the Keeper of the King’s Peace. It still rankled that the man had appeared and taken charge, and it was aggravating in the extreme that he had been with the group that found John and Henry and their captive. Any other team would have brought Cole back to Sir Hector for immediate retribution, but this local knight, who looked like a hard-up merchant with his shabby tunic and scuffed boots, was too keen to keep a hold on his own power in this pathetic little town. Was it because he wanted to extort money from Cole in return for rigging the jury at his trial? It had happened often enough before, Sir Hector thought contemptuously.
“This is good plate, Sir Hector,” Baldwin said politely, ignoring the sneering suggestion.
“I don’t keep poor items.”
“Is it English?”
“No. I won it in Gascony.”
Baldwin nodded to himself. He knew that “won it” meant “stole it.” For a man like Sir Hector, there would have been many chances for enriching himself. Few men would go to war for amusement. Someone like Sir Hector saw it as a uniquely profitable business which could offer excellent opportunities in exchange for short-term risks with the potential, providing the captain was bold enough for untold rewards: sometimes even the overthrow of a ruler and the theft of his entire kingdom. Incidents of that nature did not occur too often, but such had happened with the Grand Catalan Company, which had turned against its employer in 1311 and set up its own duchy in Athens. Poor laborers and peasants with the army found themselves in possession of wealth they could hardly have conceived of before. Baldwin knew that the Catalans still ruled there, and were likely to do so for some time: they had the arms, the power, and the will to use both to keep what they had won. It would take a strong army to dislodge them, and there was none which was prepared to try.
“Was this all that was taken?”
Sir Hector gave a short, annoyed shake of his head. “No, of course not!” he snapped. “The bastard took almost all of the plate from my chest.”
“Yet this was all that was found on him,” Baldwin murmured, studying his dis
torted reflection in the plate. “I wonder where he could have disposed of the rest?”
“He’ll soon answer that, whether he wants to or not.”
Baldwin glanced at the captain. “Perhaps,” he said mildly. “I suppose there is no possibility that you made an error? The silver was definitely taken?”
“Look for yourself.” The captain waved a hand haughtily round the room.
There was, Baldwin had to admit, little likelihood that the silver could have been secreted in the room. Apart from the mattress, there were few items of furniture in the low-ceilinged room. Some heavy chests lay on the floor near the window, a chair among them, and a sideboard sat at the opposite wall. The floor was trodden dirt, and any digging would have been immediately obvious. No, the silver must have been removed.
Some of the captain’s treasure still occupied the top of the cupboard, lying on a great expanse of cloth which made the jug, pair of mugs and saltcellar look lonely when compared with the empty space around them.
The saltcellar attracted Baldwin’s attention. It was a great silver box shaped like a church without a roof, the four walls concealing the glass bowl which held the precious mineral. A tower rose at one end, while doors and windows were carefully and elaborately defined. It was the sight of this which removed the last vestige of sympathy Baldwin had held. Such a piece could only have been made for a man in Holy Orders or the patron of a religious order. No other would pay for such a costly item. Why had the thief not taken it as well as the rest?
“The whole of the top of that cabinet used to be covered in my silver. Plates, goblets, spoons—all of the first quality. And he took the lot.”
“It’s not in the cupboard?” Baldwin lifted a corner of the cloth and peeped under. The shelves were clear.
“Satisfied?”
“No, not at all. Did your silver fill one of these chests?”
“Yes. That one.”
Baldwin nodded slowly as Sir Hector pointed. The chest was a good three feet long and over two feet in height and depth. “And I suppose all the staff here at the inn knew about it?”
“Do you think I’m a fool?” Sir Hector roared. “Nobody from the inn was allowed in here, and I made damn sure that my men were always outside in the hall to stop anybody walking in.”
“I see. Tell me, when did you notice your silver had gone?”
Sir Hector was quickly becoming exasperated with the knight’s steady questions. “What does that matter?”
“Possibly not at all, but I would like to know.”
“This evening, after I had taken some food. I usually eat with my men late at night, but tonight I chose to dine earlier.”
“Ah, and did you have your cellar with you when you were eating?”
“Where else would my salt be? Of course I had it on my table. Then later, when I came back to my room tonight, I found that my silver had gone.” Bitterly he added: “And the man you want to protect from me had disappeared, too.”
“How did you find that out?”
“I asked whether anyone had disappeared, and we discovered that Cole had gone,” the captain said, adding with heavy sarcasm, “I suppose I was wrong to immediately assume that he might be guilty, but the fact that my silver was found on him makes me suspect my first thought was right.”
Baldwin ignored the taunt and laid the two plates found on Cole back on their cloth. “Was anyone else missing?”
“Yes. The two who followed him, Henry the Hurdle and John Smithson, but they are long-established members of my troop. They would not have dared do this to me.”
“I see.”
Simon looked up. He had been preoccupied, thinking about Margaret again, but something in Baldwin’s manner caught his notice. The knight was standing with his back to Sir Hector, who scowled at him from the chair. Simon could see that Baldwin was smiling to himself with a kind of world-weary amusement. Then he turned, peering at Sir Hector with a sudden sharpness. “Were you in here before your meal?”
“What is this? The lad was found with my silver on him! What’s the point of these questions, Sir Knight?” Sir Hector spat, but Baldwin gazed at him imperturbably.
“The point, as you so elegantly put it, is this: you are asking me to believe that a single man could have taken all the silver from this room on his own, without a horse or assistance from another, when I have heard it took three men to carry your chest when full. I find that hard to swallow. Either he removed it piecemeal over a period, or he had an accomplice. If he took it over a period, it would be helpful if I knew how long he had to do so.”
“Ah…”
“And that means I have to know how long this room was empty before you discovered your loss.”
“It doesn’t matter. We—you—have him. Interrogate him. He can give you the answers to your questions.” A trace of acerbity had returned to his voice. He stood, and the interview was over; the knight and his friend were no longer welcome.
“I will ask him, of course.” Baldwin gave a smile in which there was not a hint of warmth. “And if there is something interesting which leads from that, I shall let you know, naturally.” He nodded to Simon and made his way to the door.
The men had begun to filter back. Those who were less keen on the search had speedily decided to return, and the hall was already raucous with their laughter and swearing. Simon noticed one group grow quiet as he and Sir Baldwin appeared from behind the tapestry and crossed the floor. He thought he recognized the two who had caught Cole among them.
Baldwin had seen them too. They were being fêted as the heroes of the moment, and no doubt the story of the capture was being retold to an appreciative audience, with plenty of embellishments. On a whim, he motioned to one of the serving-girls and asked for ale. “Is your master here? It is Paul who owns this inn, isn’t it?”
She gave him a bright smile. Cristine was a buxom, cheerful girl, almost thirty years old yet remarkably untouched by her life as servant and companion to travellers through Crediton. Pushing an errant lock of hair back above her forehead, she nodded helpfully and disappeared into the buttery. Soon she returned with Paul, directing him to their table before making off to fill more pots.
The innkeeper wore a harassed frown. His day had been, quite simply, awful. The headache his wife had woken with had not eased as the guests began to get up and demand ale and food, and Paul had felt himself flagging quickly before noon, exhausted by lack of sleep and the unaccustomed effort. His wife had disappeared in the early afternoon, snapping that she’d had enough and couldn’t carry on without a rest, but Paul had to struggle on, enlisting the help of Nell and Cristine. Sarra was either refusing to answer her door or had gone out.
He had hoped that Sarra might want to try to help when she knew how pushed Margery was, but the strain of serving so many people soon forced her from his mind. Occasionally, as he stood waiting for the ale to flow from the cask and fill the jug, he remembered to curse her, but for the most part he was too busy.
He gave his most servile smile to the knight. “Sir, you wanted me?”
“Innkeeper, you look dreadful!” Baldwin gave him a faint, understanding grimace of sympathy. “These guests are working you hard?”
“Yes, sir,” said Paul, and gratefully accepted the knight’s invitation to sit. Checking briefly that there were no men complaining, he watching his two serving-girls for a moment. “But at least we have a full inn.”
“You have been here all day, serving these men?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve not had time to sit until now. Missed my lunch, and all. It’s been mayhem. And last night we didn’t get any sleep hardly.”
“The men stayed here all the day, did they?”
“Most of them. Running me and the girls off our feet.”
“I suppose you’ve hardly had time to notice whether anyone left the inn at any time? Or if someone—a stranger—came in?”
Paul’s eyes snapped to the knight’s face. “If you mean, did I see who went and stole the s
ilver from Sir Hector—no, I didn’t.”
“Is there any other way into his rooms apart from through that door?” Baldwin asked, jerking his head toward the tapestry behind the dais.
The innkeeper shrugged. “There are windows in all the rooms, though no one can get in through them. They are kept shuttered during the day—Sir Hector’s orders. Never mind the heat. I suppose he was justified, seeing what’s happened.”
“They are barred?”
“Yes. All of them.”
“The windows open out onto the street?”
“Most of them. Some, like those in his bedchamber, look out over the stables and yard.”
“And none, I think, open on to another alley or road?”
“No, the far end of the solar part of the hall was sold some years ago, before I came here. That’s all owned by the butcher now—Adam.”
“So someone would have had to open all the shutters and pass the silver out at the front or back, or carry it through the hall itself?”
“Yes, sir, but they’d have to be brave to take it through the hall.”
“Why?”
“Because some of the mercenaries were there all day. It would have been hard to get past them, and they all know Sir Hector hasn’t given permission for anyone to enter his rooms since he got here. I was only let in once, when I made sure he was comfortable just after he arrived.”
Baldwin scratched his ear. “Could anyone have spent time outside his window without being seen?” he hazarded.
“What, in the yard? No.” Paul was definite. “There’s no possibility of that. The yard’s in use all day, and even at night people are always going backward and forward. The girls have rooms out there above the stables, and they walk past those windows regularly when they go to the cookshop for pies and so on.”
“You don’t make your own food here?”
“Some of it, but not all. It’s bad enough trying to brew ale enough for this number. We’ll have a roast, a stew or pottage for guests, but when it’s like this,” he waved a despairing hand at the swiftly filling room, “well, we have to get extra from the cookshop. We couldn’t cope otherwise.”
The Crediton Killings Page 7