The Leper's Return

by Michael Jecks

  “And at the time you were wearing your blue tunic.”

  “What of it?”

  “Why did you lie to us?”

  “I didn’t!”

  “Who were you speaking to?”

  She stopped, her mouth open a short way. There was something in her face which the knight couldn’t recognize, but it wasn’t guilt, nor was it sadness. It was more a kind of wariness, as if she was trying to evaluate which near-truth would be most palatable.

  “We know you were talking to somebody. Who was it?”

  “Who says I was?” she demanded.

  “That is not your concern! What is, however, is who might have killed your father.”

  She tried one last denial. “I told you what happened. As I was about to go to the window, the man leaped out at me.”

  “That is not what happened! You were at the window—I know that. Your tunic tore on a splinter.” Her eyes narrowed, and he sighed. “You must tell us the truth. Otherwise the wrong man could be punished for your father’s death. Already some are thinking it could have been John.”

  “But John had nothing to do with it! He didn’t come in until later.”

  “And what did you say to him?”

  She hesitated—only a moment, but noticeably. “I was unconscious.”

  “I don’t believe you. You are lying.”

  She tossed her head angrily. “I hope you have some justification for that assertion! It’s a disgrace that a knight should thus berate a woman who’s just lost her father.”

  “She is right, Sir Baldwin,” chided the mystified Clifford. “What possible cause do you have for making that allegation?”

  “Look at her, Peter!” Baldwin threw out a hand emphatically. “Look at her! How many men have you seen knocked unconscious? And how many of them can move their heads so easily a couple of days later? This girl would have you believe she was out cold for a good few hours, and in that time her father was killed, her servant Putthe was struck down, and she was carried upstairs and placed in her bed, not waking until the following morning—yet look at her! She can fling her head back like that without even a twinge of pain. Is it credible?”

  Simon and Clifford stared. The bailiff realized at last what had been troubling the knight since passing her house. He remembered the scene with perfect clarity: Putthe standing and wincing with the pain as he moved his head, while she gave him a sharp nod of recognition. And yet she was supposed to have been unconscious for longer than he!

  Cecily avoided their gaze. This meddlesome knight was ruining things. It was ridiculous that he should have spotted her little deception because of such a trifle! Quite composed, she asked, “And what do you intend to do?”

  “All I want is the truth, Mistress. What really happened? Who were you speaking to?”

  “Child, you must tell the knight all you know, for how else can the murderer be captured?”

  “It is not my secret, Father. I can tell the knight nothing.”

  “Cecily,” said Baldwin, “it was your father who died. Your father! How can you protect his killer?”

  She looked up at him then, and Baldwin saw the naked fury in her eyes. “You dare to talk to me of my father? The man who made my mother die, the man who broke up my family and kept me under so tight a rein that I could do nothing without his approval?” She swallowed hard, and forced herself to calm, unmaking the fists she had unknowingly formed in her passion. “If I could help you, I would, but I will not tell you any more than I already have.”

  “Did he often beat you?”

  “Beat me?” she repeated, staring at the knight. “How did you guess?”

  Baldwin took his seat at a stool near her. “Was it he who punched you that night?”

  Cecily stepped away from him. Her hand rose as if to ward him off, and she gave a short gasp. “I could believe you were the Devil himself!”

  “So he did, then. And I believe it was because he saw who you were talking to at the window. He was so enraged that he dragged you from it and struck you down. Your friend did what? leaped inside in a murderous frenzy? Struck with all his might and killed Godfrey to protect you from any further attacks?”

  “I’ll say no more.”

  “Why? Because you love your suitor so much more than the father who had become hateful to you that you would happily see him escape justice?”

  “There can be no justice for him,” she said, and Baldwin was concerned to see that her eyes appeared to be filling with tears.

  He was careful to use a more gentle tone of voice. “But doesn’t your father deserve justice?”

  “He’s gone. I have to think of the living.”

  “You have a duty as a daughter!”

  “And I don’t forget it!”

  “Then who was it?” Simon demanded.

  She ignored his outburst. “You have been dreaming, Keeper. There was no one. I went into the room, and as I came close to the window, someone sprang out and hit me. When I awoke, I was in my room, in my bed. That’s all I know. And now, if you don’t mind, I shall go home and change my clothes. I have some of that poor Irishman’s blood on my skirts.”

  Peter Clifford stared after her as she drifted from the room, then at Baldwin. “I cannot understand this. She declares she doesn’t forget her duty as a daughter, but willfully continues in what you obviously think is a deception. Whom could she be protecting?”

  “When we know that we’ll have the killer,” Baldwin said pensively. He was still gazing after the girl, a slight frown wrinkling his brow. Recalling why he was in the Dean’s hall, he faced Clifford. “Now, tell us what has happened to John. All we know is what your messenger told us—that he was found badly beaten up, and brought here in a cart.”

  “That’s about it. He’s taken several blows to the head, and his leg was broken below the knee. I think he’ll be crippled for life, from the look of it. He complains that he didn’t see who did it, but then with his head so sorely bruised, I think he’d hardly remember if he had seen his attacker.”

  “Let’s find out.”

  21

  The tranter lay on a low mattress in the infirmary, a cheap russet cloth covering him. A monk was helping him to a little wine as the three entered, and was about to stand back when the Dean gestured for him to carry on.

  John had changed, Simon thought. Gone was the cheerful, happy-go-lucky salesman with the gift of easy patter and a winning smile. Now the fellow looked shrivelled. His face had an ashen pallor, his eyes an unhealthy glitter, and his lips were cracked and dry. Where the red wine dribbled, it looked like blood.

  His voice was weak. “Good day, gentlemen. I’d stand and bow, but you can see, I’m not at my best today.”

  “John, how are you feeling?”

  “Well now, Keeper, not to put too fine a point on it, and saving the presence of the two gentlemen in holy orders here, I feel like shite. I don’t recommend letting people use your head for practicing their aim with clubs and sticks. It gives you the most unholy headache you can imagine.”

  “And how’s the leg?” asked Simon.

  For answer, John flicked back the corner of the rough blanket. Simon winced at the sight of the blood soaking the fresh linen bandages.

  It was the infirmarer who spoke, talking in a soft, gentle voice. “It’s badly broken. The bones of the shin were shattered. He must keep still for at least three months, and then we might be lucky and find he hasn’t lost the use of it.”

  “I hope not, Brother,” said John weakly. The brother gave him a smile, and John returned it. He was enormously grateful for the man’s care, although he was still feeling feeble. It was the first time John had needed to visit a surgery of any sort and he was not looking forward to the pain of having the bones reset. Just the thought of the man’s determined, probing fingers trying to poke shards of broken bone into place made him feel sick. Swallowing hard, he turned to the knight and spoke, his voice gruff with pain. He still had to wince and slit his eyes, even here in the
relatively dark room.

  “So are you here to ask me who did this? If so, I’m sorry to say I don’t know. I didn’t get a good look at him.”

  “What actually happened, John?” prompted Baldwin. He had noticed that as John spoke, his eyes had gone to the Dean.

  “I’d been out, and when I got back the fire was low, so I bent down to blow some life into it. I suppose it was when I’d just got a flame that I realized something was wrong. Maybe he couldn’t see enough in there to be able to make sure of me, so he waited until I had produced a little light for him, and then he struck. And how he struck! Christ Jesus! Oh, sorry, Dean; sorry, Brother … ”

  “I think I should allow you a certain latitude, my son,” said Clifford affably. “When you are well again I shall give you a penance.”

  John shot him a suspicious look, and became more cautious in his speech. “I saw the club. It was just an ordinary hazel or ash stick. The sort which is made of a young sapling, where the stem grows a few feet. The grip was a large ball, and that was what he hit me with. I could see it coming, and … Well, there was no time to move. It struck me, and I was down. Then I saw it rise again.”

  “You remember all this?” Baldwin probed. From his experience of combat, he knew how often memories could become confused or imagined after a vicious blow to the head.

  John was definite. “Oh yes, Sir Baldwin. Make no mistake, I saw it! I’ll never forget that sight as long as I live.”

  “Is there anything you can think of which might explain why this was done to you?”

  “No, Sir Baldwin. I’ve got no idea at all.” The sunken eyes, rimmed with agony, turned to him with disingenuous conviction. “Why should anybody want to hurt me?”

  “I was wondering, after some of the rumors about you and—um … ” Baldwin glanced thoughtfully at Peter. It was not the kind of question he felt the Dean would be happy to hear. The Dean caught his glance and grinned before tactfully muttering about his duties and walking from the room. Relieved, Baldwin continued, “What about a man? Someone who was married to a pretty young wife?”

  “Sir Baldwin, there are many rumors about me, I know, but I can assure you that this has nothing to do with any woman—at least, not that I know of.”

  “In that case, who could want to do this to you?”

  “As to why they should want to, I have absolutely no idea.”

  “Come on, be honest with us. You say you saw the weapon clearly enough—you must have seen the man.”

  “Ah, but if I tell you, what’s to stop the fellow coming back and having another game of bat-and-ball with my head?”

  There was an anxious look to him that the knight could understand. “As for that, what is to stop him doing so as soon as he hears you’re not dead? From the look of your wounds, one would assume he was trying to kill. He may well return.”

  “You do have a point there,” John said, trying to grin. He winced as another bolt of pain shot up from his knee.

  “Why didn’t you want to talk in front of the Dean?”

  “Well, now—it’s like you say: there are lots of rumors about me, and I don’t want to see the good Dean being made to believe in them. The gossip about me isn’t true.”

  “So who was it?”

  “Matthew Coffyn.”

  “So it was because of your adultery with Martha Coffyn,” said Baldwin sternly. “I have warned you before about your lechery. It’s only surprising that no one got to you before this.”

  John sighed with unfeigned disgust. “I told you before, I have never committed adultery with Martha Coffyn.”

  “You enjoyed her favors whenever her husband was away,” Baldwin accused roughly. “The whole town is full of gossip about it.”

  Slowly at first but soon with a kind of helpless despair, John began to laugh. “Jesus, Mary and all the angels, it’s so daft. It’s funny! Sir Knight, I’ve never touched Martha Coffyn. I don’t like Martha Coffyn, and Martha Coffyn wouldn’t so much as look at a fellow like me. She thinks herself as far above me as a beech tree above a daisy. Oh, Christ’s Teeth!” And he burst out laughing again, moaning with pain between gales of mirth as his ribs and head complained. Calming himself, he at last gave a soft sigh. “No, Sir Baldwin. I never had anything to do with the lady. But I suppose if you believe it at least that explains why Coffyn decided to beat me like this.”

  “If you haven’t why were you in Godfrey’s yard the night he died?” demanded Simon.

  His reply was a twisted grin. “I wouldn’t lie, Bailiff. I never touched the lady. No, I was off seeing another girl.”

  “Who?” Baldwin pressed him.

  “I can’t tell you that, sir. Like I said, I can’t betray her honor. Would you betray your own lady? Of course not. If I was to tell you, it could hurt her reputation, and I won’t do that, but believe me when I swear that I’ve never committed adultery with Martha.”

  “Then who has?”

  “It’s not my secret, but if you want to know, go and ask Putthe.”

  Peter was waiting in his hall, surrounded by piles of paper. Since the arrival of the Bishop, who was now with the Dean’s master, the precentor of the collegiate church, Clifford had been forced to dig out all of the accounts of the different outlying chapels and churches to help the Treasurer with his report to Stapledon. It was a relief to him to have another interruption when Baldwin and Simon walked in. “Did you get anywhere?”

  The knight gave a distracted shrug. “He has given us a hint, but once more we are told to go and see someone else. Each time something happens here, we appear to be driven back to Godfrey’s household. It’s possible John is telling the truth, but that depends on how much another man has himself been deceived.”

  “I would find it hard to trust too much that John tells you,” Clifford observed judicially. “We all know his background.”

  “I fear you might be doing him a disservice,” Baldwin commented.

  “So I may, but I have heard some stories about him … ”

  The bailiff grinned. “So have we all, but John just denied them most convincingly, and won’t tell us who it is that he has been seeing.”

  “Yet he was in Godfrey’s yard and saw the bodies, I understand?” Clifford was perplexed. He had also heard the rumors about John and Martha, but didn’t want to prejudice Baldwin’s investigation.

  “That’s right,” Simon nodded. “And disappeared when Matthew Coffyn arrived.”

  “Well, that would be no surprise, if he knew that Coffyn could be searching for him.” He sighed, passing a hand over his eyes. “It all seems so confused. And while we speculate, a murderer is loose. He might strike again.”

  “I would hope not,” Baldwin said dryly. “It’s my job to see he doesn’t—and in any case, I have to believe that Godfrey was killed for some logical, comprehensible reason. In England people don’t kill for no purpose; there is always a motive if one can only see it. But I have to win over Cecily and get her cooperation. I am sure she somehow holds the key to this whole mess.”

  “Why should someone attack John?” Peter wondered.

  “I think we already know the answer to that question,” said the knight. “Many of your congregation think that John has been carrying on an affair with Martha.”

  Peter blinked, then gave a sheepish grin. He should have realized that the knight would already have discovered something that was so readily discussed in the town. “So you had heard that? I must confess, I always thought it extremely unlikely. She thinks herself a great lady—that she might get involved with a tranter seems somehow incredible.”

  “John is certain that it was Coffyn who beat him.”

  Peter Clifford screwed up his face as he considered this. “Because Coffyn thought John had been committing adultery with his wife?”

  Baldwin gave a shrug that showed his own confusion. “That is the logical conclusion. It’s possible, but why should Coffyn think John was toying with his wife if he wasn’t? He must surely have had some convincin
g evidence to make him take such drastic action.”

  “I would certainly hope so!” said the Dean faintly. He poured himself a large goblet of wine and drank it straight off. “We cannot have our town disturbed in this way—men wandering the streets at night, breaking into private homes and beating the occupants.”

  Baldwin shook his head. “There is nothing random in it, Peter. John was thoroughly thrashed for a reason, whether the reason was justified or not. In the same way Godfrey was not the victim of a wild and unthinking attack. He was murdered deliberately. This mystery has a simple explanation, if only we can find it.”

  “Yes,” offered Simon gloomily. “And if we can get Cecily to tell us the truth.”

  At that moment the object of their thoughts was walking quickly up and down her hall, her hands clasped firmly at her breast as if in prayer.

  It was ludicrous! There was no reason for anyone to attack John! Nobody had wanted to steal from him, and there was little to take if they had wanted to. No, she was sure that whoever had committed this hideous crime was motivated by some kind of desire for revenge, but for what? Had he unknowingly insulted someone? Or was it simply that someone in the town hated the Irish?

  That was mad, though. Nobody could hate John. All who met him were forced to laugh at him, or with him. He was too inoffensive to make enemies. Yet her mind kept coming back to the fact that John’s injuries were inflicted not to kill but to cause maximum pain, as if they were intended solely to punish him.

  There was a scratching sound, and she spun around, startled.

  In the garden, Thomas smiled dryly. She looked so like a fawn scared by the breaking twig under a hunter’s foot. “It’s all right, Cecily. I haven’t come to rob you.”

  “Thomas! Oh, dear, dear Thomas! I wasn’t sure you’d still come. Oh, your poor face! How are you?”

  He leaned uncomfortably on his old ash staff. “A little the worse for wear,” he admitted.

  “I heard about what happened to you. The whole town seems to have gone mad.”

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  Quickly she told him about John, finishing, “And now the Keeper of the King’s Peace realizes I’ve been lying. I think he guesses I know what happened to Father.”