The Girl in the Ice (A Stephen Attebrook mystery Book 4)

by Jason Vail

  The stout man said, “Some of my family have gone missing. We wish you to find them for us.”

  Chapter 5

  “I believe the people you seek are dead,” Stephen said.

  The woman and the girl covered their mouths with their hands. The men all said at once, “Dead? Dead?” as if they did not want to believe it.

  The stout man asked finally, “How would you know?”

  “My friend and I,” Stephen said, indicating Gilbert at his side, “found the bodies of five men, a young woman, and a small child on the road to Shrewsbury last month. They had been murdered and robbed.” He pointed to the dandelion medallion. “They were carrying a cargo of salt. The barrels were marked with that same flower.”

  The older woman flung her arms around the stout man and buried her face in his chest. Her shoulders wracked with sobs. The stout man gazed at Stephen over her shoulder, his face grim. “Seven, you say.”

  Stephen nodded.

  “The baby too?” the young girl cried.

  Stephen noticed now that she was older than she first appeared, probably seventeen or eighteen. She was so small and slender that she looked younger. And she was so pretty that his mouth went dry at the sight of her. He said, “I am afraid so. A boy of about four. Would that be right?”

  The girl nodded, her eyes squeezed shut and tears flowing down her cheeks. “Poor little Thomas.”

  “Who were they?” Stephen asked the stout man.

  “My brother and his family, three cousins, and a carter. What happened to the bodies?”

  “Buried in the churchyard at Stokesay. Do you know it?”

  The man nodded. “I have seen it from the road many times since I was a boy. But I have never been there. Murdered,” he added, as if he could still not believe it.

  “Let us not stand here in the street discussing such terrible matters,” Gilbert said. “Come to my house so that we can talk.”

  The stout man’s name was Adam Saltehus. The family was from a place called Worlebury in Gloucestershire. The older woman was his wife, Mary, and the girl, his daughter, Agnes. The two men, Nichol and Benedict, were his brothers. Together they owned a saltworks on the bay of the Severn across from Cardiff. They stared at the fire in the fireplace at the Broken Shield with faraway looks in their eyes, taking no warmth from the blaze.

  Stephen sat not far away with a cup on his lap. His skill at comforting the bereaved extended only as far as a clumsy “I’m sorry,” accompanied by awkward shifts of weight from one foot to another, punctuated by nodding and overseen by a glum face. He had used all that up in the first few moments before they had repaired to the Shield.

  Gilbert and Edith were much more able in this capacity. Edith made everyone comfortable and welcome, and she and Jennifer bustled about getting drinks and food and blankets for people to put over their laps, as it was cold in the inn’s hall despite the fire. Normally the blankets cost a visitor extra, but Edith made no mention of this. For his part, Gilbert spoke soft condolences to each of the visitors, as if he was their parish priest, which to Stephen’s surprise they seemed to appreciate a great deal.

  “How did it happen?” Saltehus asked harshly. His hands shook and some ale spilled onto his leg.

  Stephen and Gilbert exchanged glances. The memory of the horror was not something either of them liked to dwell on, for it had been worse in its way than any of the others they had attended — more terrible even than the corpse of a drowning victim they been forced to view or the bodies of people burned to death in their house, the flames having charred them black and shrunk the adults to the size of children. And the only time they had spoken openly about it was in their report to Sir Geoffrey Randall, Stephen’s superior and the coroner in these parts of the county. Randall had received the news with no comment, since hearing about death was his job, but he had looked alarmed when they had given him their opinion about who was responsible and had ordered them not to speak of the matter to anyone.

  “This is delicate,” Sir Geoff had said anxiously. “Very delicate. The possible repercussions! We cannot make accusations without more proof. Until we learn more, I order you both to say nothing to anyone. Do you understand?”

  “We can’t just leave it lie,” Stephen had said.

  “You’ll leave it lie if I tell you to! I must think about how to handle this. We can’t simply accuse an earl — and a Marcher earl at that — of robbery and murder. We must be careful. We must be certain.”

  Stephen must have looked sulky at this order, for Sir Geoff had said, “Look, you. Know you nothing of politics? FitzAllan teeters on the edge of loyalty to the crown. If we accuse him, we risk pushing him into the baron’s camp.”

  Stephen sloshed the remains of the ale in his cup, remembering that conversation.

  “How did it happen?” Saltehus said relentlessly, his voice a monotone.

  Stephen sighed. He did not wish to speak about the matter any more than he cared to remember it. But these people had a right to know. So, he said, “We were on our way to the Augustine priory at Clun. We found them about a mile north of Onibury on the Shrewsbury road.” He went to describe where he and Gilbert had found the bodies: in a pleasant, unmowed pasture by the river; how he concluded they had been shot down from ambush from the high ground on the right of the road and then killed as they lay wounded by perhaps eight or more robbers. He left out how he had concluded that the woman had fled with the child only to be captured and killed, or about how the bodies had all been stripped and left naked, covered with flies when he had seen them. He told them also about the cart which had been emptied of its contents and left overturned in the middle of the stream; and how the tracks of the killers had led off to the west.

  “Who did this?” Saltehus grated. “Do you know?”

  Stephen hesitated. He and Gilbert suspected that the man ultimately responsible was the Earl of Owestry and Clun and lord of Arundel, Lord Perceival FitzAllan. But in truth, as Sir Geoff had said, they hadn’t any real proof. Stephen had guessed at the man’s guilt after spotting a barrel of salt bearing the same dandelion mark in the possession of a Welshman known to trade in stolen goods, and one of the Welshman’s drovers had let slip that the barrel had come from FitzAllan. Stephen had leapt to the conclusion that it was FitzAllan behind the robbery, even though he knew that leaping to conclusions was a dangerous business and that one was as likely to fall into error as collide with the truth.

  “No,” Stephen said at last. “I don’t know.” He looked up from the fire into Saltehus’ eyes. It was hard meeting them. “No one knows who’s responsible for the robberies on the highway.”

  “There have been many these last few months,” Gilbert murmured. “The road to Shrewsbury is not safe.”

  “The sheriff should do something about it,” Mary Saltehus said.

  “Too busy collecting taxes to spend on his own comfort and hiding from the Welsh,” Benedict said.

  “Aye,” the others agreed.

  “We can expect no help from the authorities,” Saltehus said. “If we’re to have justice, we must make it ourselves.”

  Stephen nodded, holding his cup out for Nan to refill on her way to the kitchen at the rear of the inn. Saltehus was right. You couldn’t depend on anyone but yourself in the end. But he dreaded what he knew would come next.

  “The folk here say you’re good at finding things,” Saltehus said to Stephen.

  “It’s just a rumor,” Stephen said. He waved at Gilbert. “Started by him.”

  Saltehus glanced at Gilbert, who stared at the fire with a rueful curl on his lips. Saltehus said, “More than a rumor, I’ve heard.”

  “People do exaggerate.”

  “We can pay you.”

  “We are expensive.”

  “We?” Gilbert said.

  Stephen smiled humorlessly, without looking at Gilbert. “We,” he said with some emphasis. At Saltehus’ puzzled expression, Stephen added, “He is the smart one. I just get in fights.”

&n
bsp; Gilbert snorted and almost lost a mouthful of ale. “That’s true.”

  “I’m sure we’ll need both before the end,” Saltehus said.

  Chapter 6

  The purse that Saltehus had put on the table before he departed sat heavily on Stephen’s lap. He was a good judge of the weight of money and it felt like five shillings — a quarter the cost of an average horse. He owed three shillings for the stabling of the three horses he possessed and the stableman had been around several times during the last week to badger him for the arrears. He loosened the drawstrings and poured some of the silver pennies into his hand. Most were tarnished and dull, but a few were shiny.

  He had taken the money against his better judgment, half now and half when the robbers were found. He did not expect to see the other half. It seemed impossible that they would find enough evidence to condemn FitzAllan. But the money was hard to resist. Now the only problem was how to make his inquiries without Sir Geoff finding out. After the warning to lay off pursuing FitzAllan, he would not be pleased to be disobeyed.

  “I do not wish to traipse about the country on a fool’s errand like this,” Gilbert said, eyeing the coins in Stephen’s palm. “It’s the middle of winter. Haven’t you noticed?”

  “Winter is hard to miss,” Stephen said. He dumped the remainder of the contents of the pouch onto the table and began dividing it into to equal piles.

  “It will mean riding,” Gilbert said more to the fire than to Stephen. Gilbert disliked few things more than getting onto the back of the horse, or in his case, a mule.

  “Riding?” asked Edith, who was passing by with a tray of cheeses. “Riding where?” She paused, her eyes flitting suspiciously from Gilbert to Stephen, then to the piles of money on the table. She had the ability to sense trouble at forty paces and her senses were screaming.

  “Nowhere, my dear,” Gilbert said.

  “I should hope not,” she said emphatically, giving Stephen a stern look. “You have not yet recovered from your last misadventure. It is too soon for another.”

  “Easter would be soon enough,” Gilbert murmured as his wife strode off, dispensing cheeses to the patrons who had demanded them. “If ever.”

  “We can’t let him get away with it,” Stephen said, disbelieving that such words issued from his mouth. As much as he wanted to see FitzAllan get his just reward, he desired someone else to do it. FitzAllan had suspected they discovered what he was up to while they were in Clun, and had thrown them in his gaol to silence them. The memory of their stay there was too fresh, and he did not wish for a repeat of the experience.

  “We can’t afford to go into the Honor of Clun,” Gilbert said, referring to the great swath of land surrounding the village and castle of Clun which was Perceival FitzAllan’s principal domain, as if he had read Stephen’s thoughts. The truth lay somewhere deep within the honor, and undoubtedly the only way to get it was to enter that land.

  “No.”

  “Or anywhere near it.”

  “Well, we shall probably have to go near it.”

  “You’re sure I must go?”

  “You’re my conscience. I can’t do without you. Think of the trouble that will ensue in your absence.”

  Gilbert sighed. “God knows, you need one. Since you haven’t one of your own, I suppose I shall have to do.” He waved at Nan to refill his cup, and said, “Being a conscience is hard and dangerous work. I will cost you a lot of money.” He eyed the piles with some surprise that one was not smaller than the other.

  Stephen smiled thinly. “You will cost a lot of Saltehus’ money.”

  “It’s good to know that someone thinks I’m worth a lot of money.”

  After training with the castle guard the next morning, Stephen stopped at the Ludlow guildhall, a tall half-timber building across Castle Street from the Wattepas’ goldsmithery. The hall’s upper floors projected into the street and were held up by posts, giving the impression of a porch, where people could, and often did, shelter from the weather. Benches had been put up by the front door for that very purpose, and three of the town’s deputy bailiffs occupied them.

  “It’s a bit early to see you up and about, sir,” one of the bailiffs said as Stephen reached for the door latch. Even though Stephen had his shield on his back, his helmet under one arm and a wooden and real sword under the other, and it was perfectly clear what he had been doing, the bailiff asked, “Somebody die?”

  The other bailiffs seemed to think this was very funny.

  “Not yet,” Stephen said. “Is Tarbent about?”

  There was some creaking on the boards above their heads, followed by shouting. A muffled voice answered the shouting and was answered by more shouting. The bailiff who had spoken pointed in that direction. “The scribbler’s up in his hole, as usual.”

  “Watch yourself,” another bailiff said. “He’s in a foul temper this morning. His clerks were slow in getting his fire going.”

  “He’s always in a foul mood,” Stephen said.

  “Shake that pointy thing in his face, your honor,” another bailiff said. “That might improve his temper.”

  “Make him more polite, at least,” the first bailiff said.

  “Until your back’s turned,” the second bailiff said.

  “Aye, there’s that.”

  “Sir Geoff says I’m not to make him mad,” Stephen said.

  “Sir Geoff knows best,” the first bailiff said.

  “I always say that as well,” the third bailiff said.

  “Shouldn’t you be out collecting taxes or rents or something?” Stephen asked.

  “It’s too early for that,” the first bailiff said.

  “Most people are still at breakfast,” the second bailiff said.

  “People don’t like being bothered at breakfast,” the third bailiff said.

  “Why aren’t you at breakfast?” Stephen asked.

  “We’re waiting for Wattepas to open up. He feeds us every morning.”

  “Good fellow, Wattepas,” the third bailiff said. “Knows how to treat people, well Master Wattepas does, anyway.”

  “Right,” said the first bailiff. “Can’t say that the wife is as charitable.”

  “They’re late today,” the second bailiff said. “Problem with their fires as well.”

  “Wet wood,” the first bailiff said. “It’s the thaw. The wood piles got wet and the wood’s damp.”

  “Say,” the second bailiff said, “any word on who the girl in the ice is?”

  Stephen shook his head. He still had the folded piece of Italian paper with her portrait drawn on it in his belt pouch. There was no need to show them the paper. They had been among the throng who had seen her laid out in the church.

  “Yeah,” said the third bailiff. “I’m not sure I believe this saint business. She was a pretty thing, but hardly a saint.”

  “Don’t you go talking like that,” the first bailiff said. “She could be a saint.”

  “Saint or no,” the second bailiff said, “she died just the same. Seems to me that she must have had lodgings in the town. I doubt she got in one of the gates after dark. The wardens would have said something. Girl like that is hard to forget. Have you thought to ask around?”

  It embarrassed Stephen that he had not thought of this. “The town was full of refugees. People threw their houses open to them. She could have stayed anywhere. And as you said, she was memorable. Someone would have spoken up. Besides, it’s not really my business who she is. It’s the sheriff’s.”

  “Aye, that’s true,” the second bailiff said. “Though I don’t think any of those fellows are likely to pull a muscle in trying to find out anything about her,” he said referring to the deputies under Walter Henle. “Well, it’s just too bad that we’ll never know her name.” He glanced at the first bailiff. “Saint’s got to have a name. You can’t just call her Saint Somebody.” He fixed his eyes on Stephen again. “You’d be doing the town a service if you could put a name on her. We’ve been experiencing a rush
of pilgrims since she was found. Gate tolls are up from it, not to mention donations at the church.”

  The first bailiff nodded. “And tomorrow’s a market day. You’ll see what she’s doing for the town.”

  Edmund Tarbent, the town’s chief clerk, was beating one of his scribes when Stephen entered his office at the front of the guildhall. The scribe lay curled into a ball on the floor as Tarbent rained blows on him with a cane. Tarbent, a short and muscular man with a blunt face and long brown hair that surrounded his bald head like a shawl, wielded the slender wand with great vigor. It made an audible thump at each stroke, which the scribe endured without a whimper. Another scribe hunched over parchments on a desk, pretending not to notice.

  Tarbent paused and wiped his brow, as if taking a break from heavy work. Irritation passed over his face at the interruption. The scribe looked through his fingers at the pause and scuttled behind a table.

  “Attebrook,” Tarbent said, setting the cane in a corner by his chair where it would be handy and acting as if the unpleasant scene had not occurred, “what brings you here?”

  “A favor,” Stephen said carefully, pretending that he had not seen the beating. He had endured similar treatment from Ademar de Valence long ago when he had been Valence’s clerk, but the memories and hatred of the experience were still fresh.

  “Ah, what sort of favor?” Tarbent said. He glanced at the two scribes as if to question whether they should remain. Some favors should not be discussed with others about.

  “I need a beggar’s license for the market,” Stephen said.

  “Oh.” Tarbent’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Not for you, of course.”

  “No.”

  “That fellow who lives in your stable?”

  “Yes.

  “For the market.”