by Mel Starr
“He departed for Exeter and the Priory of St Nicholas on the twenty-fourth day of April?”
“Aye, he did. Before the Angelus Bell he was off.”
“You saw him away?”
“Nay. Don’t rise from my bed so gladly as when I was a young man. I have the disease of the bones.”
Surely the priest’s corpulent form also made rising from anything, chair or bed, an irksome task.
Kellet’s journey to Exeter would have taken him past Cow-Leys Corner. Did he see Thomas atte Bridge, his partner in villainy, dangling from the oak? Perhaps, if he set out very early, it was too dark to see the man. Or perhaps atte Bridge was not yet suspended from the tree. Or perhaps John Kellet had to do with Thomas atte Bridge’s place and condition that day?
If so, Kellet did not act alone. Thomas was not slung over some strong man’s shoulder and carried thence to Cow-Leys Corner. Two carried him, of this I was certain, and one dropped his feet.
“Didn’t know him when first he came to my door,” the priest continued. “Pilgrimage to Compostela took much flesh from his bones.”
John Kellet had grown fat from blackmailed venison. Did he resent Thomas atte Bridge’s loose tongue, which implicated the curate in the blackmail scheme? There were others in Bampton who had greater reason to hate the priest and his betrayal of the confessional: Edmund the smith, whose dalliance with the baker’s wife Thomas and his brother Henry before him learned of and used to extract items made upon Edmund’s forge as payment for their silence; and the miller, whose cheating with short return on corn brought to the mill atte Bridge also knew of and exploited. These two had greater reason than Kellet, I thought, to wish revenge upon Thomas atte Bridge. Was one of them at Thomas’s shoulders, and Kellet at the feet, in the tenebrous hours following St George’s Day?
“Wears a hair shirt now, too, does John,” Father Simon interrupted my thoughts. This was a startling revelation. The John Kellet I knew was concerned with little but his own comfort.
“You saw this?”
“Aye. Saw the hem of a sleeve hanging below his robe. I know your thoughts, Master Hugh. John Kellet is a different man, changed, as pilgrimage should do.”
“It should,” I agreed, “’though there be pilgrims who remain unchanged. I have known such men.”
“You suggest,” the vicar frowned, “that a saint cannot intercede for men with the Lord Christ?”
“I am sure He hears the prayers of all men.”
The priest harumphed grudging agreement as I stood from the bench to leave him. He heaved himself to his feet to honor my departure and it was then I noticed his belt. Why my eye should have been drawn to a mean cord wrapped about the fat priest I cannot say.
A plain hempen rope circled his ample belly twice. The ends of this belt fell to his knees, one length knotted three times for Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. A string of rosary beads was fastened to the cord; a cord much like that taken from the neck of Thomas atte Bridge. Priests whose purses permit fine woolen robes will often circle themselves with a mean belt to pretend simplicity and penury.
Father Simon saw me stare at the belt and peered down at it as well. The ends, dangling about his knees, were fresh-cut and unfrayed.
“Your belt is new,” I remarked.
“Aye, near so.”
A puzzled frown furrowed his forehead. Few men show interest in another man’s girdle, especially is it made of simple stuff like hempen cord.
“The cord used to drop the bucket in my well was worn. I purchased a length of rope; some I used for the well, and some for my belt,” Father Simon explained.
“Have you the length your belt was cut from?”
The request so startled the priest that he did not think to challenge such a question.
“Aye.”
“May I see it?”
“A length of rope? Surely a bailiff can afford his own belt, and of better stuff than hempen cord.”
“You speak true, but I seek a brief inspection. ’Tis much like the cord found about Thomas atte Bridge’s neck.”
“One hempen cord is much like another, and what remains of my purchase hangs in a shed in the toft.”
“May I see it?”
The priest shrugged and called his servant. When the man appeared he instructed him to seek the shed and return with the hempen cord hung there. The man disappeared through the rear door of the vicarage and a moment later I heard Father Simon’s hens clucking disapproval at the disturbance to their pecking.
The priest and I stood gazing at each other, awaiting the servant’s return. He was not prompt. Father Simon had begun to chew upon his lower lip in frustration and seemed about to turn to the door when it swung open and the servant reappeared. He carried no rope.
“Ain’t there,” the fellow said, and raised his empty hands palms up.
“Bah, ’twas hanging from a tree nail,” the vicar asserted, and set off for the toft.
“I know where it was,” the servant said. “Hung it there myself.”
I followed Father Simon into the toft. His servant shrugged and followed me. The vicar swung open the crude door to his shed, which was but half of his hen coop, and peered into the dim interior. He was evidently unable to trust his eyes, for he thrust his head forward, the better to see, and when this failed, entered the hut.
The priest appeared a moment later, anger darkening his brow. The servant’s face reflected complacent confirmation of his discovery and announcement.
“’Twas there at Hocktide. I cut my new belt a few days after Easter, when the old belt frayed and finally broke where I keep my rosary. Some thief has made off with the remnant.”
A look of understanding washed the frown from Father Simon’s brow. “Was it the cord Thomas atte Bridge used to hang himself?”
“As you say, one hempen cord is much like another, but it may be so. What length was the missing cord?”
Father Simon peered at his servant, brows again furrowed. It was the servant who answered. “Near twenty paces long after I cut a length for the well, I think.”
I did not at the moment think to ask when and from whom the cord was purchased. I should have.
Chapter 6
I was uneasy for the remainder of that day. Had I learned a thing important to Thomas atte Bridge’s death? Or was Father Simon’s missing rope but a minor theft, or simply misplaced? The latter explanation seemed quite unlikely. Would Father Simon and his servant both forget where a length of hempen cord was coiled?
Days grew long, so after supper Kate and I sat upon a bench in the toft behind Galen House and enjoyed the warmth of the slanting sun as it settled over Lord Gilbert’s forest west of the town. I was silent, considering John Kellet and the missing rope. Kate noted my pensive mood and held her tongue for a time, but eventually curiosity overcame her — Kate does not do battle well against curiosity — and she asked of my thoughts. I told her what I had learned of Kellet, his visit to Father Simon, and the missing cord. When I was done it was Kate’s turn to sink deep into thought.
While I told her of these things the servant’s estimate of the rope’s length returned to me. Kate followed as I left the bench, found the cord which suspended Thomas atte Bridge at Cow-Leys Corner, and uncoiled it upon the street before Galen House. It was near ten paces long. The remnant Kate discovered tossed aside at Cow-Leys Corner would add little to the length. If this was Father Simon’s stolen cord, some eight paces or so, considering what had been cut for his belt, was missing.
The absent cord was found five days later. The day before Rogation Sunday, Father Simon’s servant was gathering eggs and found the remnant of his master’s rope coiled in the shed in its proper place. Where it had been since Hocktide no man could say. Well, some man knew, but that man was hid in the cloud of unknowing.
I learned of this discovery as Kate and I walked in the procession about the boundaries of the parish. Father Thomas, Father Simon, and Father Ralph led the marchers. I was a few paces behind the vicar
s when Father Simon’s servant sought me out and told of his discovery. I confess my mind wandered from the prayers beseeching the Lord Christ for a bountiful harvest.
Kate and I had brought with us this day a pouch of coins, as did other more prosperous inhabitants of the town. These were distributed to the needy as we walked the parish boundary. Maud atte Bridge and her children were among those who stood beside the path with arms outstretched and palms raised.
When mass was done I sought Father Simon and while Kate returned to Galen House to prepare our dinner, I asked him about the new-found cord.
“Aye, as you were told, Robert found it coiled upon the tree nail when he gathered eggs yesterday morn.”
“It was not there when he sought eggs Friday?”
“He thinks not.”
“It would be well if this matter could be discussed with Father Thomas and Father Ralph,” I said.
“A bit of stolen rope, now returned?”
“If you stretch it out in your toft you will find it shorter by half than when you hung it upon the tree nail at Hocktide.”
The vicar squinted at me from under lowered brows. He understood my meaning. “The missing length Thomas atte Bridge used to hang himself at Cow-Leys Corner? But who then returned what was unused, and why would they do so? Did Thomas require assistance to take his own life? Hempen cord is common stuff. Perhaps this is all mere happenstance.”
“Perhaps. But I would like to tell the tale to Father Thomas and Father Ralph. They may have insight we have missed.”
Father Simon agreed, somewhat reluctantly, and directed me to seek his vicarage at the ninth hour. He would send Robert to summon the other Bampton vicars.
Kate had prepared a Lombard stew for our dinner. This dish is a favorite of mine. Of course, I have many favorite dishes. When came the ninth hour I was better suited for a nap in the sun of the toft than disputing stolen rope, but I had a duty and would perform it.
I found the vicars seated before cups of Father Simon’s wine at his table. The three priests eyed the cord I had brought with me as if they expected it to strike out at them like a snake.
“I have explained your wish to speak,” Father Simon began, then fell silent. How much he had explained I knew not, so I began by telling of my unease regarding Thomas atte Bridge’s death. I recounted the evidence, and, when I fell silent Father Thomas spoke:
“What is it you seek of us?”
“All know that Thomas atte Bridge was a disagreeable fellow,” I said. “I can name many he has harmed who might have wished to do him ill.”
“Murder him?” Father Thomas asked.
“Even that.”
“Which of these injured folk do you suspect of having a hand in atte Bridge’s death… was he not a suicide?”
“I have a theory,” I confessed.
“We would hear of it,” Father Thomas encouraged.
“John Kellet visited Bampton at St George’s Day, quietly, and departed for Exeter the morn of the day Thomas atte Bridge was found at Cow-Leys Corner. He stayed with Father Simon two nights, and might have discovered the cord hanging in the shed.”
“But he is now in Exeter, at St Nicholas’s Priory. How could he have taken, then returned, the cord?” Father Simon scoffed.
“Remember I told you of the mud on Thomas’s heels, and the twin gouges in the mud of the road. Two men took Thomas to Cow-Leys Corner, one at his shoulders, another at his feet. The man at his feet dropped him briefly. Perhaps Thomas struggled and the man lost his grip. Now Kellet is gone, but his partner in the crime remains among us and has chosen this time to return the unused cord, perhaps unaware that it has been missed.”
Father Simon looked to his servant and spoke: “You said you would seek the stolen cord. Did you tell others of the theft?”
“Aye,” Robert nodded.
“Doesn’t mean John Kellet had aught to do with it,” Father Simon protested.
“But the thief, whoso it was, feared discovery and restored what he took,” Father Thomas answered.
“Perhaps he did not replace all of his theft,” I replied.
I lifted the rope in my hand. “This is the cord from which Thomas atte Bridge dangled. Let us lay it and the returned cord out in the street, and see how long they be together.”
We did so. When Father Simon’s belt, the fragment found on the forest floor, and the piece cut from Thomas’s neck were added to the two longer lengths, the total was twenty-one paces long.
Father Simon peered down at the segmented cord thoughtfully, his chin resting upon his left hand. His servant stood behind him.
“Near twenty paces long, you said,” I reminded the servant.
“Aye; ’bout what you see here stretched out in the street.”
I coiled the length of rope which had suspended Thomas atte Bridge and handed it to Father Simon.
“This is yours, I think.”
The vicar made no move to accept it. I suspect he wished no association with the dead to trouble his house.
“I have no further need of it,” he grimaced. I shrugged and dropped my outstretched arm to my side. The servant followed my lead and coiled the segment which had reappeared in Father Simon’s toft, shaking the dirt of the street from it as he did so.
“I’ll just put this back,” he explained.
Father Thomas waved a hand toward the cord in my hand. “Is it possible that Thomas had assistance in taking his own life, and his companion replaced the unused cord? If so, ’twas a grievous sin.”
“That does not explain the signs that Thomas was carried or dragged to the tree, or the absence of mud upon the stool where he would have stood did he take his own life,” I replied.
Father Ralph had been silent while we examined the rope segments and considered their meaning. Now he spoke:
“Kellet would have passed Cow-Leys Corner when he set out for Exeter. Did any man see him there?”
The other vicars, the servant, and I peered at one another with vacant expressions.
“Then he must have passed the place before atte Bridge was found, saw him there, and went his way. It was the herdsman who first raised the hue and cry, was it not? He made no mention of any other man there.”
“What say you, Master Hugh?” Father Thomas asked. “Was Thomas long dead when he was found? You have more understanding of such matters than we.”
“He was beginning to stiffen in death. He was hanging from the tree since well before dawn, I think.”
“So unless Kellet arose and set off very early, he would have seen him there, even in the dark of night, as Thomas was so near the road.”
“When did Kellet set out for Exeter?” Father Ralph asked of Father Simon.
“He bedded with Robert,” the vicar replied, and looked to his servant.
“Kellet slept little. I awoke twice the first night to find him out of bed.”
“Men often have need to rise from their slumber in the night,” Father Simon said. “I find it more so as I grow old, and Kellet is no longer young.”
“First time,” Robert continued, “I saw him upon his knees before the window. When he saw that I had awakened he returned to bed. Where he was the second time I awoke I know not.”
“Visiting the privy, I’d guess,” Father Simon said.
John Kellet out of bed and upon his knees in the middle of the night? This was indeed a revelation. Such a scene, knowing what the man had done, was difficult to imagine. Father Ralph voiced my thoughts.
“John Kellet on his knees at midnight is not credible. Probably he heard Robert stir in the night and feigned prayer.”
“Why would he do so?” Father Simon objected.
“Because he was about some nefarious business he did not want known, like finding a coil of rope in your shed.”
“Bah. John Kellet is a changed man, I tell you. He wears a hair shirt.” Father Simon looked to me for confirmation, as if his earlier revealing this to me made of me a witness. I shrugged and said nothing.
“Why did he seek only you, and skulk about the town unknown to all others?” Father Ralph asked.
“He knows there is much ill will toward him, and did not claim it should be otherwise. He wished only to thank me for providing for him when he was a child.”
“What of the second night?” I asked Robert.
“I slept soundly and did not awaken ’til near dawn.”
“John said he would depart early,” Father Simon added, “and would not trouble us when he did so. My cook left a loaf for him upon the table and it was half gone when I arose.”
“He did not take the whole loaf?”
“Nay. But half. I told you of his changed appearance. A walking skeleton.”
Robert nodded agreement.
“And you do not know when of the clock he set out?”
The vicar and his servant shook their heads.
“Did he speak of his journey to Compostela?” Father Thomas asked.
“Some. Spoke most of folk here in Bampton,” the servant replied. “Said there was hardship aplenty on pilgrimage but he would not speak more of it. Asked of doings in the town since he’d been away.”
“Did he ask of Thomas atte Bridge?” I questioned.
“Aye, him more than most. Wanted to know had he changed his ways. I told him not so as anyone would notice.”
“How did he receive this news?”
“Seemed disappointed, troubled, like he’d expected to learn different.”
“Of an atte Bridge? The father was not a bad sort,” said Father Ralph, “but the sons… ’tis no calamity they are gone.”
“So whoever murdered Thomas atte Bridge,” Father Thomas replied, “if murder it was, has done a kindness to the town?”
“That is for God to judge,” Father Ralph crossed his arms sanctimoniously. “Men must preserve order and punish evildoers.”
“Some might say as that’s what was done, Thomas bein’ as he was,” Robert said softly.
Father Ralph blew out his cheeks and looked askance at the servant for his unwanted opinion.
“One other thing,” Father Simon said. “John wears no shoes. Walked from Spain barefoot. Said his shoes wore out on the way to Compostela and he had no coins to replace them. Decided to go on with no shoes as penance.”