‘God forsakes not even the rat-infested,’ smiled Abbot Reginald, ‘but I understand your sentiment. I will pray you have success, and if we can aid you in any part, be sure we will.’
‘Thank you. I can ask no more, and am grateful.’
The morning began with a brisk shower, and none of the sheriff’s men wanted to spend the day steaming and damp, so it was not until the monks went to Chapter that they set about their allotted tasks. Walkelin went the short way to the street by the abbey wall to find out what he could about the second man Amicia Horsweard had visited, and Catchpoll took up where Walkelin had left off in finding out all about Robert the Coppersmith.
‘Best I go, lad, since you nosing about again might look suspicious, and besides, I am too old to be shocked.’ Catchpoll grinned, and winked.
The undersheriff departed with Catchpoll still gently poking fun at Walkelin’s inexperience. Any light-heartedness he might have felt dissipated as he crossed the Bengeworth bridge. The castle had a fairly squat stone keep, but the rest of it was wooden palisading and daub and wattle quarters for the men. The only advantage for the lordly was that their accommodation was less cavernous and cold. For some reason the damp clung to the place, and gave it a mouldy smell. Even as he gained admittance, the miserable memories flooded in like the Avon in a flash flood. The serjeant of the guard did not recognise him except by his quality, and was deferential enough, passing him on to the lord currently commanding the garrison. Hugh Bradecote had met him before on service. Odo FitzEimar was an older man, inclined to be cynical and life-weary. He nodded at Bradecote and asked, without any marked enthusiasm, what sheriff’s business brought him.
‘I heard you had taken de Crespignac’s place since last summer. Thankless task, I’ll be bound.’
‘It has its moments.’
‘No doubt. Mind you, if de Beauchamp sends you in his stead, you do not have to report every watch to him, and can be your own man. On the other hand, you have to work with that gallows-faced Serjeant Catchpoll. There’s a bastard as was born miserable.’
Since Bradecote had left Catchpoll chuckling, the accusation seemed harsh, but the undersheriff knew Catchpoll relished his ‘miserable bastard’ reputation, and so concurred.
‘He is a good sniffer out of crime, though, and I cannot fault him for diligence.’
‘Well, rather you than me, is all I say. Now, what is it that you, my lord Undersheriff, are sniffing out this side of Avon?’
‘Murder.’
‘Indeed? And how can we help?’ Odo was wary now. He did not want his men associated with a murder.
‘Only that the murdered man came from Evesham, and left nigh on a week ago to purchase horses in Gloucestershire. He turned up in the mill leat at Fladbury four days past, waterlogged, but with a neat stab wound to his chest. All I am trying to find out is if he crossed at the bridge or not. He wore a distinctive green jerkin, and was middle-aged and a little on the fleshy side. His horse would have been good too. No horse seller rides a breakdown. I want to speak to those who took watch the days about then, to find if any saw a man of that description cross the bridge.’
‘Ah.’ FitzEimar relaxed. ‘I can furnish the men easy enough, but near a week ago? I doubt they recall what they saw yesterday, unless it was carrying a tray of ale beakers. Let me call my serjeant.’ He did so, and the serjeant returned. He was a man who could purse his lips as well as Catchpoll, but Bradecote did not see the same spark within him. He did his job and no more, no less. He sniffed, did a mental review of the guard and went away, returning a few minutes later with six men-at-arms, who looked slightly nervous before the undersheriff of the shire.
‘These are the men, my lord. Stand up and at least try to look awake, you misbegotten mongrels.’
They shuffled.
‘All I seek is information.’ Bradecote spoke authoritatively but without force. He needed no claims that were false but given to be the ‘right’ answer.
He described Walter Horsweard, and let them think. One by one they shook their heads. If only he could be sure that they had been attentive, proving the murdered man did not leave the town as expected was an interesting step forward. He was fairly certain, but could not base everything upon it as fact. He thanked them, and FitzEimar, and returned to the abbey, wondering what, if true, the information told them about the deceased, and the killer. He had nothing to do but wait, and hope his subordinates had had better success.
Walkelin, being unknown in Evesham, did not really mind that his red hair might make him stand out. He had used the time in the abbey to bring out his whittling. He had come to the conclusion that a bit of whittling could always be useful to a sheriff’s man, either as a disguise or even as a way of letting him think through a problem. He had produced a couple of simple fish, but he had an innate ability to give even a basic fish a fluidity of shape. He also had a piece to work upon, and knew from experience that children would come to peer at him working. Children, according to the oracle that was Serjeant Catchpoll, could be very observant, and early in life, remarkably truthful. He positioned himself in the street, within twenty paces of the place into which Widow Horsweard had, after some interchange, disappeared. Then he took the small stool he had borrowed from the abbey porter, and sat down to whittle a duck.
It worked. It always worked. Within five minutes a sharp-faced boy of about six edged close to ask him what he was making, and very soon after there were four or five children about him. He had watched them emerge and knew these were local children, so asking what sort of trades were plied along the row of premises was easy enough, and getting the children to point out who lived where followed smoothly. He was priding himself of ascertaining that the dwelling of interest was that of Master John Pinvin who made bridles. Well, there was a connection between the man and the victim, and it probably showed how Master Pinvin met the horse trader’s wife. At which point a woman emerged from the house behind him and shooed the children away for being noisy.
‘Move on, pedlar, and sell elsewhere.’ She looked careworn and tired. ‘I have an ailing father within and would have him pass in peace, not straining to hear the words of the priest over the crying of wares.’
‘I am sorry, Mistress.’ Walkelin’s apology was perfectly genuine. ‘I could not know. I do not cry for custom, though. Mine is a trade that sells by observing.’ He showed her one of the fish. To his horror, she burst into tears. ‘Mistress? What is it? How have I upset you?’
‘My father is a carpenter by trade, but when we were children, made such things for us. Yet here he is, weaker than a babe, and the priest called for.’
‘I will not add to your distress, then.’ He paused. ‘If he made such things, would he be aware enough to handle one, for they are “seen” best by touch? I would wait here.’
The woman frowned, considering, then nodded.
‘If it gives him a moment of happy memory even as all fades, it would be well. Thank you, I will take a fish.’
Walkelin placed the wooden toy in her hand and said nothing. She disappeared within, and he waited. The priest, preceded by a lad of about ten, hurried down the street, and entered the home of the dying man without registering Walkelin. The lad came out, solemn-faced and with the fish in his hand.
‘Mother thanks you, and says Oldfather smiled when he held it.’ The lad was upset, but trying to control his emotions. ‘The priest is come, and I think it cannot be long now.’ His lip trembled.
‘It is never easy, lad,’ Walkelin patted the boy’s shoulder, ‘but your oldfather must have had good length of years to see you grow to be strong and heading to manhood. That is a thing to give thanks for.’
The boy nodded, but sniffed. Walkelin was a kind-hearted soul, and had painful memories of losing his own father when he was only a few years older than this youngster. His attention to his task was distracted for a while.
‘Has she sent you out? Then wait here with me. Your mother said he made such things as these when she was but
a little girl. Would you like to watch me whittling? I am making a duck.’
The boy nodded, and Walkelin sat down again on the stool, with the boy beside him. After a while sniffs gave way to questions, and the questions reminded Walkelin that he too should be asking things. He asked the boy, whose name was Godwin, about Master Pinvin, claiming to have known a man from that village himself.
‘Master Pinvin has been here since afore I was born, for he was journeyman to Old Redbeard.’ The boy blushed, looking at Walkelin’s red hair, but Walkelin just grinned, and the grin encouraged. ‘He took the trade when his old master died. He is a quiet man, but friendly enough. I used to go and watch him work sometimes, until …’
‘Until?’
‘Well, Mother got annoyed, and said as I should not go any more.’ Godwin looked puzzled. ‘I cannot think why.’
‘Was this long since?’ Walkelin wondered, already surmising.
‘No more than last All Souls. I miss watching and talking with him.’
‘And I expect he misses an interested lad, if he has no apprentice. Does he live alone?’
‘Oh yes. There is a kind lady, very pretty, I have seen visit sometimes. I think she brings some sweetcakes in her little basket and cheers him. I do not tell Mother about it, since when I mentioned it once she clipped me about the ear. I thought the pretty lady very charitable.’
Walkelin had a pretty good idea of her ‘charity’, but said nothing more about her. Instead, he turned the conversation.
‘I suspect his kin are back in Pinvin, though he might visit them.’
‘He rarely leaves for longer than it takes to buy foodstuffs. I cannot remember when he last went away even for a morning, let alone overnight.’ Godwin paused. ‘I like him because of his stillness, I think. You feel settled in his company. I miss our hours together.’ He sighed.
Walkelin did not question, but thought perhaps that Godwin’s own father was some time dead. The lad had clearly latched onto Master Pinvin as a male influence in his life, a father figure. The worse it was that his grandsire was departing this life.
‘I live with my mother, Godwin, just us. Yours will need you more than you know. It is not easy being a man, early in life, but I think you will do well. Being, like Master Pinvin, able to be still, is a good thing.’ He looked down at the fish that Godwin had returned to him, picked it up, and handed it to the boy. ‘This made your oldfather smile, even at the end. Keep it as a good memory of him, and of what I say. I will not ply my trade in front of a house of mourning. God be with you, lad, and yours.’
With which he rose, picked up his stool, and walked away. Godwin, holding the fish, watched his retreating figure, as the sound of sobbing came from within the house.
Chapter Five
Serjeant Catchpoll, meanwhile, had been pursuing his investigations in his own way. He was not quite anonymous in Evesham, and a few of the less savoury characters in the town behaved with abnormal circumspection when they saw him on the prowl. The majority of the townsfolk, however, carried on as normal. Murder, in his experience, was often committed by people who were not previously of interest to the law, springing from sudden events and situations in which people acted out of emotion. There were planned deaths, but these were more unusual. If Mistress Horsweard or her lovers had taken more than a day to decide to kill her husband, other than in vague words of frustration, he would be surprised. This meant there had to have been something that had changed, and one thing sprang to mind. If the erring wife found herself carrying the lover’s child, either the lover wanted her to wed, or she thought husband Walter would not be as forgiving as he was over her seeking mere pleasure elsewhere.
He sucked his uneven teeth. Trouble was, it was mighty difficult to tell with women in the early months. She might know, or might just suspect, but without being at her side to see if she was sickly each day, none who did not know her would be able to tell, excepting perhaps a very experienced wise woman. He pulled a face. He was certainly experienced, and in the ways of criminals quite wise, but the woman bit was beyond him. The answer, therefore, was to speak with women who knew Amicia Horsweard.
Women, in Catchpoll’s long experience, were a fount of information, but making the initial contact and getting past their natural reserve with a member of the opposite sex could be tricky. Before he headed to Colestrete, he returned to where the Horsweard home and business stood, and had a stroke of luck. Two women were huddled in gossip, and casting glances at the front door. News of the death must have spread. Catchpoll offered up a silent prayer of thanks for nosiness, and strolled past, catching a few low-voiced words. He halted, nodded to the women, who regarded him suspiciously, and spoke casually.
‘Was this where the body they brought to the abbey used to live?’ He sounded the semi-curious stranger, and one of the women looked him up and down and then decided she might safely speak to him.
‘Might be. And what interest is it to you?’
‘Oh, nothing. Just that I brought the cart in from Fladbury.’
This did everything he had hoped. The women’s attitude changed on the instant. The curiosity was all on their side.
‘They say as he was found drowned in the river,’ commented the taller of the two, ‘but most of the local men could paddle since they were lads. Blind drunk, I suppose he was. There’s men for you. Not that his widow will weep for him.’
‘Oh, was he an unpleasant fellow? Beat her, did he?’
The second woman looked pityingly at his ignorance.
‘Not as any ever heard. Good enough man, was Walter Horsweard, but that wife of his …’
‘A shrewish woman, eh, complaining if he came into the house with dirty boots?’
‘House proud, her? No fear. The only thing she takes care of is her own appearance, and her a married woman. Shameful it is.’
‘I am a married man myself, and I like my wife to tidy her hair for me, brush off the dust from her gown. Shows respect and … other things.’ Catchpoll forced the hint of a blush, designed to make the women feel they were on the edge of the indiscreet. The taller one stifled a giggle that Catchpoll thought must be the sound of a rat, sneezing.
‘Nothing wrong in that, but if she only does it for others … Different thing altogether.’
‘You mean … No, surely he would find out and then beat her soundly, if nothing more?’
‘Ah, that is what you might think, but Walter Horsweard was either blind or tolerant, and from how well he picked good horseflesh you would not call him blind. He did not “notice” her traipsing off and returning eye-bright and flushed.’
‘Perhaps she had been for a stiff walk?’ offered Catchpoll, dangling the bait for a warm response.
‘Stiff aye, but not a walk,’ cackled the second woman, with a lecherous wink. She jerked her thumb towards Colestrete and the coppersmith’s. ‘Robert the Coppersmith’s was where she has gone these two years past, pretending to bring him patties because he is a “lonely widower”. Hah! It wasn’t her patties he licked his lips over.’
‘Two years? But what if he got her with child?’
‘Well he never got poor Alys his wife with child in the ten years of wedlock, nor any other woman out of it, as I heard. So perhaps, however able in one sense, he is not in the other.’
That seemed a good reason to think it unlikely the motive for the killing was Amicia Horsweard carrying a misbegotten child, though not conclusive.
‘The coppersmith is a lecherous fellow, eh?’
The taller woman looked prim.
‘Never set a hand near me, and if he had I would send him off with my mark on his cheek.’
Catchpoll could well believe that nobody ever wanted to take liberties with her. She was hatchet-faced, in his opinion.
‘Ah, but with less virtuous dames perhaps …?’
‘Well, not that I watch, you understand, but it is so obvious …’ The second woman wanted to show her knowledge. ‘There was that woman from Hampton, red-haired piece, an
d then the fair girl he seduced. Witless maid, not that she stayed a maid long. He paid her father off, it is said, for there was an apprentice who would take her even as she was.’
‘Don’t forget the Widow Chapman. There’s one as thought she would catch him as soon as his poor wife died. Would have been a step up in the world for her, of course. But he dropped her like a hot hearthstone as soon as she even hinted at wedlock.’
This was useful background information, but the trouble was it did not make Robert the Coppersmith more likely to have killed Walter Horsweard. Rather it made him far less likely to have done so. Why kill a man if you did not want the complication of the woman then expecting marriage?
‘Surprised he has time for his smithing,’ observed Catchpoll, lightly, and the women smiled as he went upon his way.
It was not far to Colestrete, but Catchpoll was already processing all he had learnt. It was interesting that neither nosey neighbour had mentioned a second lover, and however bad it was that Amicia Horsweard had taken another man, it would be more than twice as scurrilous if she was known to be spreading her favours even more widely. If they had even a hint of it, the women would have said as much. Either this second man had come into her life very recently, was a kinsman and not a lover, or she thought of him in a different way to her lusty coppersmith. What if she had been lining the other up as a replacement husband, knowing the coppersmith was not the marrying kind? No, that would not work unless Walter had told her he was ailing, but had concealed his ill health from his brother, otherwise Will would have mentioned it when the death had been announced. Not knowing would be odd if he was to inherit. Catchpoll stopped in his tracks. What they had not considered was that Walter Horsweard might have left his assets to another if he and his brother were at odds. It was not like some lordly title, which had to go to next of kin. Walter might just have decided to spite his brother, and what better motive for killing him than the announcement that he was about to declare his will before a churchman that would leave brother Will nothing at all? If a man were dying, it was a positive action at a time when he must feel powerless against fate. It was not the most obvious scenario, but it meant that they should investigate the argument between the brothers before Walter’s departure. Will might have offered to go with him a short part of the way, and then seemed to make his peace with his brother, clasp him in a fraternal hug, and drive a sharp knife into his chest. The trouble was that even if Will had not known of it, Amicia ought to have spoken if her husband had suffered from an affliction.
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