The Crediton Killings aktm-4

by Michael Jecks

  “That’s one thing.”

  “What?” Simon asked, yawning.

  “Whoever stole the plate did not see it through these shutters. This was no random, opportunistic theft. Not that I thought it would be, for who would dare to steal from a mercenary captain and his men? No, nobody could have glanced in and realized that the room held a great store of silver.”

  “So?”

  “So, old friend, the thief must have been someone who was a member of the company, or was the friend of a member of the company. It would seem to bear out Cole’s guilt – but who was his accomplice?”

  The next morning Simon awoke later than usual with a vague sense of gloom. Margaret’s body had left a hollow in the mattress beside him, but the dent was cool to his touch. She must have risen some time before. He sighed and rolled onto his back, an arm flung behind his head.

  It hurt him so much to see her suffering – and yet he could not find the words to help her. His own desolation was so vast that he could not think how to bridge the chasm which had suddenly appeared and now separated them as effectively as the deep gorge at Lydford. He had no means of spanning it.

  To his surprise, thoughts of the dead girl intruded. Her face, which looked as though it was better used to being happy and carefree, was so violated and shrunken in that meager coffin with the cruel band round her mouth, that he felt anger stirring once more against whoever could have inflicted so demeaning a death on her. No matter how hard Simon tried to put her from his mind, the girl kept returning, as if demanding revenge, staring at him accusingly with his wife’s eyes.

  He rose and dressed himself. The hall was along a short corridor, and there he found the table laid. Peter, Baldwin, Margaret and Edith were all present, as was Stapledon. Peter waved him to a seat, but it was the Bishop who spoke.

  “Ah, Bailiff. I have just been hearing about the dead girl you found. Sad, very sad. To think a young man could do that – steal another man’s silver, and kill an innocent girl as well. It is horrible to discover how dark a man’s heart can be.” He crammed a thick hunk of bread into his mouth.

  Simon nodded and sat beside his wife. Margaret was pale, and her eyes looked red, though whether from lack of sleep or weeping he couldn’t tell. While he gazed at her concentrating on her food, by chance the sun escaped from behind a cloud. From the windows high in the walls, sunlight entered at a steep angle, falling through the apertures like a luminous mist in which dust motes danced and whirled, forming pools of color on the floor. One fell near, and by its light Margaret’s face was suffused with a golden tint which revivified her features, softening and smoothing her wrinkles, and renewing her youth. It made her hair glow, and she looked five years younger. To Simon it was as if the woman he had fallen in love with had returned, unlooked for.

  Chewing, Baldwin was about to ask Simon whether he had any fresh thoughts on the dead girl when he saw his friend staring at his wife. She turned to catch sight of his expression, and slowly her taut expression eased into a smile, as though she had almost forgotten how to. To his secret delight, Baldwin saw Simon return it.

  “Sir Baldwin,” Stapledon said, waving his knife vaguely, “What do you think the boy has actually done with the silver? Could he have hidden it out on the road before he was captured?”

  “No. That’s inconceivable, according to the men who caught him. Apparently they had been following him for some time, after they saw him behaving oddly – I think they said ”furtively“ – in town.”

  “They could have marked the spot where he hid it so that they themselves could return there and claim it.”

  “It’s possible,” Baldwin agreed.

  “But you don’t think so?”

  Baldwin shook his head. “Sir Hector de Gorsone has some thirty odd men with him. He has undoubtedly fought in several campaigns, and his soldiers are battle-hardened. All can kill. It is quite feasible that these two men could have seen where the silver was placed, as you say, but what then? They would not have left Cole alive to say where it had been stored; they would have killed him immediately. Then they could go to it whenever they wanted. If they were to stay with Sir Hector, they would have a hard time explaining where any new wealth came from, but on the other hand, if they were to try to run away, where could they go? And don’t forget they would have incurred the wrath of their captain. He would be bound to seek revenge, if only to reimpose his will on the other men. The two with the silver would find thirty or so highly motivated men chasing after them wherever they tried to go. I think that if they saw Cole making a fool of himself, then witnessed him hiding something, they would have told their master as soon as they found out about the robbery.”

  “What if they did not realize that it was their master’s silver? Couldn’t they have decided to profit by someone else’s theft and hidden it to collect later?”

  “That is possible, but as soon as they found out it was Sir Hector’s treasure they would be bound to tell him where it was. They would be unhappy to steal from him, I would think, although they might expect a reward for bringing it back.”

  “People can react fast to changing circumstances,” the Bishop said. “Perhaps they secreted it somewhere new, so they could go back to it later.”

  “Unlikely,” Sir Baldwin decided. “In the first place, like I say, I believe they would have killed Cole to ensure that their secret was safe. Then again, they had no idea how long it would take for the robbery to be discovered, so they could not know how much time they had to hide the silver. I think they would have tried to capture the thief and deliver him up to their master. After all, even if they are mercenaries, they are still soldiers. Their whole life is tied up with their companions.”

  “I have known men-at-arms who have been disliked by their companions and who have disappeared as soon as a good sum became available,” the Bishop observed.

  “So have I,” Baldwin admitted. “But until I see evidence of that, I shall assume that these two have been telling the truth. And, of course, we do have a suspect in jail. Right now he is the most likely culprit.”

  Margaret leaned forward. “Why would he have killed the girl? There was no need, surely?”

  “Possibly – and possibly not. There is one simple explanation. He went into the room to steal the silver and either she was there already or she came in a little later. Either way, he knew that if she spoke of him being in Sir Hector’s room his life would be forfeit. He killed her to save his own skin, then hid the body so that he could make good his escape.”

  Roger de Grosse was sitting nearby, and he frowned at this. “Surely, Sir Baldwin, if he was intending to make his escape, he would have planned a better means than his own feet?”

  “A very good point. But it is possible that in the first case he intended taking the silver and hiding it, so he could return to it later when the fuss had died down.”

  “How did he do it? From what you have said, he would have been seen leaving by the hall, and the shutters were closed. He couldn’t have jumped from a window.”

  Baldwin glanced at Simon. “I have told them about our talks last night,” he said. “That, Roger, is still the point which interests me. Again, we don’t know how, but several explanations are possible.”

  “Could Sarra have been an accomplice? She might have opened the shutters for him and closed them after he left.”

  Baldwin smiled. “And afterward he wandered back in and killed her? No, all we know is that he must have taken the silver some time after Sir Hector rose from his bed, and before the captain returned from his meal.”

  The bailiff nodded. “I look forward to hearing how he did it.”

  8

  The jail was a small building near the market, almost opposite the inn. Commonly it was used for victims of the Pie Powder courts, at which market traders were convicted for selling short measures or defective goods, but it also served for those committed for more serious offenses. Small, stone and square, it lurked malevolently near the toll-booth, a
focus of fear for people of the town, for many of those who entered would only leave to make their way to the gallows.

  It was only a few minutes’ walk from Peter’s house. Baldwin and Simon set off immediately after their breakfast. Roger had asked if he might join them, and Stapledon agreed that it could be useful for the rector to witness how investigations were conducted.

  Even this early in the morning the street was busy. Hawkers strolled, yelling their offers to the world, horses clattered along the partly cobbled way, wagons thumped and rattled past, and Simon smiled to see the children running and jumping in and among the traffic. He saw the woman in gray, her child nearby, but she did not appear to recognize him. He did not blame her: it had been late when he helped her, and dark in the street. She stood quietly, a begging bowl in her hand, smiling pitifully at all who passed in a desperate attempt to win alms. Simon averted his gaze. There were so many, especially after the years of famine, who needed the charity of others to survive, yet the sight of beggars always made him feel uncomfortable.

  All along the way Roger found his nostrils assailed by the fumes of the busy, growing town. Sharp woodsmoke gave a wholesome background, but more pervasive was the noisome stench rising from the open sewer in the street, to which the dung of horses, oxen, pigs and sheep all added their malodorous reek. As they approached the inn, the smells altered, subtly proclaiming the presence of the butcher.

  They stopped to watch. The butcher’s was on the corner of two streets, right next to the inn, and behind it Roger could make out the cookshop. A little beyond was the lane which led behind the cookshop, past the stables, to the inn’s yard. Before the inn itself was the small pile of animal remains Baldwin had stood in the night before; now four stray dogs hovered over it, snatching what they could and snarling at each other.

  In front of the butcher’s itself Roger saw the rotund little figure of Adam at his work, a large knife in his hand, and dressed in his heavy old apron. The rector paid little attention; he was staring at a hawker further up the street when there was a loud, piercing squeal that made the hair on the back of his neck tingle.

  When Roger turned in horror, he saw that the butcher had stuck a pig. It hung upside down from a tripod by a rope around its hind legs, jerking and twitching as the blood bubbled and gushed from the vivid gash in its throat, dripping into a large pot underneath. As its struggles decreased, the butcher slit it from breast to pelvis, and the entrails, massive ropes of yellow brown, suddenly slithered free like so many snakes from a sack. An assistant was already tipping boiling water over the animal and readying his razor to remove all the bristles from the body, and Adam had his hands inside the carcass pulling out the heart and lungs as he watched.

  The smell of rotting flesh pervaded the street. Although many townspeople complained regularly to Baldwin about the smells and the flies, there was little he could do. If folk wanted to eat, the butcher must ply his trade. It was a shame that feces voided from the bowels of animals were dumped until they could be carried to the midden, for it created an unwholesome aroma, but the guts must be cleaned so that sausages could be made. Little if anything was wasted from a pig’s carcass.

  When the body had been carelessly shaved and carried away, a fresh hog was brought to its three-legged scaffold. Adam stropped his knife and waited while it was hauled aloft, squealing in rage and terror, its evil little eyes rolling wildly in fury. Seeing the three men watching, Adam smiled and waved, and Roger thought to himself how like a hog the butcher himself looked, with his little shining eyes and round features.

  They walked on across the street. It was only a matter of yards from here to the jail, and Simon’s eyes were on the small, squat building, but when he shot a glance at Baldwin, the knight was staring at the inn almost opposite.

  “What is it?” Simon asked.

  “Oh, I was just thinking that being here, near the market, the inn must often have wagons parked outside it. Look, one is there now.”

  “Yes.” The bailiff could see the old cart, the horse standing slack and tired, thin and ragged from underfeeding and maltreatment. “So what?”

  “I had thought it would be too obvious for Cole to try to get the silver out through a window on the street, but look! If a stranger parked a carriage of some sort here, it would be noticed immediately, but a man could wait nearby, and take the things from the window, couldn’t he? If there was someone there now, he would be hidden from sight by the butcher’s wagon.”

  “But if the silver weighed so much that three men were needed to carry it…”

  “Oh yes, but he could have had more than one accomplice, or he might have passed it out in small parcels. That way his companion could have stood here for a few minutes, then gone to hide the silver and come back for the next instalment. Always hidden, always out of sight behind a wagon. It would be a perfect arrangement.”

  “There’s one thing I don’t understand.”

  “What?” Baldwin looked at him with a faint grin. Simon was a long way from being himself, he thought, but he did seem to be mending. It was not only the way he had smiled at his wife over breakfast; he had a different look to him. Last night he was peevish and complaining, but now that he had something to occupy his mind, he had almost become the cautious and thoughtful man whom Baldwin remembered. Apart from anything else, raising objections to Baldwin’s ideas was a sure sign that the bailiff was improving.

  “Let’s say you’re right and he had an accomplice out here…”

  “He must have had an accomplice somewhere, whether here or out back, in the yard.”

  “Fine. If that’s right, why did he still have two plates on him?”

  Baldwin stopped. “I… What?”

  “If you’re right, then he must have passed everything out to his companion. So why did he have two plates on him when he was caught?”

  “I suppose he might have discovered that his friend had gone so he had to take them out himself when he left the room.”

  “Through the hall, you mean? That makes no sense. If he was part of an organized group, the reason for having someone outside was so he didn’t need to carry anything himself. Nor would he have left any spare things behind, like the saltcellar. If he was going to carry out something worthwhile, he’d have gone for that, but instead he took two plates, the last things I would have expected him to choose.”

  “It would have been easier to hide two plates. They are flatter,” the knight suggested.

  “True, but even better would be nothing. Why risk discovery by carrying them? Far better to leave them behind and make good his escape. Especially since you’re supposing his accomplice had disappeared – in that circumstance, I would have expected him to get out and not take anything with him. His only interest would be in how fast he could vanish, not what else he could take with him. That’s what I find so difficult.”

  “Why? He was greedy, that’s all. He’s a thief. All right, so his accomplice had to leave for some reason, or maybe he simply took too long to get back. Whatever, Cole found himself with the last two plates and decided to brazen it out.”

  “If you were him, would you have taken out those plates? Put yourself in his shoes. The whole theft has been thought out carefully, even down to the accomplice outside. And then the accomplice disappears… you don’t know why, but surely you would suspect he had been seen. You still have to escape – and that means walking through the hall, under the eyes of thirty – odd men. You have two plates left out of God alone knows how many, and you are so blase you decide to take them with you? I find that hard to believe!”

  “Thieves can be irrational.”

  “Not so irrational, surely, that when they know they’re being chased they keep some spoil on them! He would get rid of any incriminating evidence as soon as he discovered his pursuit.”

  “You might have a point, but think on this: you have just had to murder a girl as well. That has thrown your plans all awry. You hide the body, and then escape, taking the shortest ro
ute. It could well be that your accomplice never disappeared: after having to commit murder, you decide to get out through the window yourself.”

  “Somebody would see a man diving out through a window.”

  “Would they? If so much silver could be shoved out without being noticed, I doubt it. If somebody’s carriage was in the way, maybe no one could see. Cole could have jumped out and remained hidden, then gone on later.”

  “But, Sir Baldwin,” Roger interrupted, “who closed the shutters afterward?”

  Baldwin found that he was frowning. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a merchant staring at them. Grinning apologetically, he continued in a mutter, “I have no idea, but it is the best explanation I can think of for now.”

  “I want to know what really happened,” Simon stated.

  Baldwin raised a fist to hammer on the door. “Well, rather than speculating, let’s find out. Simon, I… Where are you going?”

  “Just a thought, Baldwin,” Simon called over his shoulder.

  The butcher had that minute stopped, and was sitting on a three-legged stool, a pot of ale in his fist. As people walked past, all had a polite word with him, Simon noticed, and all received a nod and a smile from the genial man. Children got a wink too.

  Simon was aware of his companions joining him as he reached the other side of the road. The inn’s hall ran parallel to the street here, the entrance almost in the middle. Here, almost opposite the jail, they were at the dais end, and to their left were the windows that gave on to the solar block commandeered by the captain. With the bustle and hubbub in the street, it was obvious to the two men that nobody could have taken anything from the inn unseen.