The Alehouse Murders

by Maureen Ash

  Roget was measuring him in amusement, the scar on his face creasing as he rolled his eyes upwards in mock resignation. “Ah, de Marins, you Templars are a chaste crew. But me, I am a libertine, and pleased to admit it.”

  Bascot joined in his good humour and they finished the wine in Roget’s skin while he and Gianni ate their meal. Across the street from where they sat, a wooden stand had been set up, the top covered with rough sacking threaded on a string that could be pulled back to reveal a tiny shelf. Inside the stand, a poppet maker had secreted himself and, with the aid of two of his dolls, was manipulating them on the shelf in a parody of real life. One poppet was attired as a middle-aged matron, with a plump stomach and wobbling jowls, the other was her husband, a long stringy doll with a downcast expression and sad eyes painted on his wooden face. The poppet maker provided their voices, high-pitched for the wife, low and plaintive for the husband. The matron was berating her spouse for his shortcomings, citing everything from parsimony and incivility to lasciviousness with a neighbour’s daughter. Attached to the woman’s hand was a tiny broom made of twigs. At every protestation of innocence from her husband, the wife, propelled by the movement of the poppet maker’s fingers inside the sleeves of her gown, beat him severely about the head and shoulders with her broom. The husband cowered and covered his head with his hands—again with the help of the poppet maker’s fingers in his sleeves—moaning all the while about his misfortune in choosing a wife, which opinion caused his beating to be mightily increased. The people that had gathered to watch were howling with laughter, as was Roget, doubled over with mirth at Bascot’s side.

  “Ma foi, de Marins, what a spectacle. That is why I have never taken a wife. Marriage brings a man only a lifelong imprisonment that he can never escape, except in death.”

  Thinking of Sybil de Kyme, Bascot said, “Not only a man, Roget, but a woman also sometimes.” As he said the words the glimmer of an intruding thought impinged on his consciousness. The distraction of the poppet maker’s show had caused him to remember something he had heard someone say, a remark that had submerged below the surface of his thoughts as being of no importance. He tried to retrieve it and could not. Was it to do with the alehouse, or perhaps the injured priest? Vainly he struggled with the memory but still it escaped him. He sighed. It was no use, he thought; he could not dismiss the matter of the murders from his mind. They kept floating back. He pushed himself to his feet, awkward on his aching ankle, but decisive all the same. He had had a short space of pleasure, now he must resume his task.

  “I must leave you, Roget,” he said to the mercenary. “I have a matter to attend to.”

  “Are you going to see if Ernulf has found Brunner?” Roget asked, looking up lazily from his comfortable position leaning against the water barrel, his interest in the poppet play momentarily diverted.

  “No. I am going to see Isaac, the Jew.”

  Seventeen

  BASCOT SAT ACROSS FROM ISAAC IN THE CHAMBER where the usurer carried out his business transactions. It was richly, but not ostentatiously, furnished. In one corner stood an empty brazier and on the floor beside it was a stout wooden chest, intricately carved on the front and side panels and securely banded with strips of iron. In a wall niche was an incense holder. It was lit, and emitted a wispy stream of smoke, filling the room with a pleasant musky smell. The aroma reminded Bascot of the Holy Land, where the spicy gum was used in abundance.

  Wine was brought by a servant and, once the man had left the room, the Jew spoke. “You said you wished to have speech with me about my cousin, Samuel, who was found dead with the two Christians. How may I be of assistance?” Isaac’s words were formal, but there was no obsequiousness in his tone.

  Bascot took a sip of wine before he answered. It was good, dark red and laced with sweet spices. “Are you aware that a charge has been made against Lady Sybil de Kyme and her son, Conal, in connection with the deaths of the two Christians found in the alehouse?” he asked. “It is being claimed that the two dead strangers were the illegitimate son of Sir Philip de Kyme and the son’s wife.”

  Isaac nodded. His face was heavily fleshed above a robe that was loose sleeved and made of finely woven cloth, as was the close-fitting cap that held back the curling mass of his hair. On both hands he wore thumb rings of gold. He regarded Bascot with a solemn air, but his dark Semitic eyes were wary.

  “It is said that Lady Sybil feared for her own son’s disinheritance in favour of Sir Philip’s bastard,” Bascot continued, “and, with the connivance of Conal, removed that threat by killing the son and his wife. I have been given the duty of finding out the truth of that charge. If it is proved, or if I cannot disprove it, then Lady Sybil and her son will stand to answer it before the king’s justices at the assizes in July.”

  Bascot paused, picking his words carefully. “Since your cousin, Samuel, was found slain along with the two Christians, it would seem that whoever murdered them also killed him.”

  Isaac said nothing, merely kept his watchful silence, and Bascot went on. “Wherever all three were killed, it was not the alehouse. They had all been dead some hours, we believe, brought to the alehouse later from some other place, perhaps a house in the town. The two Christians were from Maine, and must have come to Lincoln recently. I am trying to determine where it was that they came to be in company with your cousin. If I can find that out, I may also be able to determine if Conal or Lady Sybil had the opportunity to kill all three of them. Can you tell me Samuel’s whereabouts on that day?”

  Isaac leaned forward and picked up his wine cup, not drinking but merely holding it between his hands. When he spoke, it was softly. “Will Lady Sybil and her son, or any other Christian you may find guilty, also be charged with the death of my cousin?”

  Bascot answered him straightly. “You know the answer to that question as well as I. They will not. The death of a Jew at Christian hands will not be considered of sufficient import. Whoever, if anyone, is found guilty of the Christian deaths will, I presume, also be found guilty of the death of your cousin. In that case a fine may be levied concerning his loss—which will go into the king’s coffers—but that is all.”

  “Then, why, Templar, should I help you?” The question was couched in the same low tones Isaac had used before.

  Bascot tried to answer with honesty. “I had hoped you would want to find out the truth of the matter. Who it was that brought about the death of a member of your family.”

  “It will not bring Samuel back, and any information that I give you may be held against me by the kin of whatever Christian is found guilty. Indeed, if my cousin had not been found along with the Christians, I have no doubt that their murders would have been found to have been carried out by a Jew. We are usually blamed in such matters, whether implicated or not.”

  Bascot took a breath and leaned back in his chair. He had expected such a response and hoped that he could circumvent it. “It was said in my hearing that such would be the case. It was also said that a hue and cry after the Jews of Lincoln would be bad for trade during the fair. That is the reason I am here. If it is disproved that Lady Sybil and Conal are guilty, do you think it will take long for suspicion to be cast in the direction of you and your brethren? It will be said that your cousin was killed by one of his own race merely to cast the blame elsewhere. Are you willing to take that chance?”

  For the first time Isaac smiled. “You speak with a strange directness for a Christian. Especially one”—he gestured with his wine cup in the direction of Bascot’s Templar badge—“who has dedicated his life to the slaying of the enemies of Christ. How do I know that you will not use any information I give you against one of my own kind?”

  “You do not,” Bascot replied. “But unless a member of the Jewish community is guilty, I give you my pledge, in Christ’s holy name, that I will keep in the strictest confidence anything you may tell me.”

  The usurer stared at Bascot for a moment, then took a sip from his wine cup. Finally, he seemed to r
each a decision. “Since that oath is one that I know means much to you, I must assume your promise is made with integrity. Very well, Templar, I will help you as much as I can. What is it you wish to know?”

  “As I said, where your cousin was on the day that he was killed. Would he have had occasion to visit any of the Christian houses in the town and, if so, which ones?”

  Bascot waited for the answer with held breath. If Isaac named the house of Roger de Kyme it would, with the lack of either Lady Sybil or Conal being able to provide a witness to their activities on that day, press the finger of guilt on them as surely as if they had been caught stuffing the bodies into the barrels. Isaac’s reply, however, was not one that Bascot had expected.

  “My cousin was not in Lincoln on that day. He left early, to visit a client who has his manor to the northwest of Lincoln, off the Torksey road. The last time he was seen was when he left to fulfill that task.”

  Bascot took in the information with surprise. How had Samuel, if he had left Lincoln alive, come to be back there after he was dead?

  “You are sure he did not return? Perhaps later in the day?” he asked Isaac.

  “I am sure,” Isaac replied. “Samuel was seen leaving by the warden on the western gate and was never seen to come back. We have asked both shifts of the guards, who all knew my cousin well, and have also enquired at the other access points into the town. He did not return. Alive, that is.”

  “What was the name of your client? Have you spoken to him? Did Samuel complete his errand?”

  Isaac sighed, the curls in his beard bobbing slightly with the movement. “I cannot tell you the name of our client because, as you know, it would be a breach of the confidence placed in us and might lead not only to loss of the customers we have, but could also involve unpleasant recriminations for our lack of discretion. But this much I may tell you. Samuel was on his way to deliver a small quantity of silver to a borrower and to bring back a signed note of the debt. The client has been contacted and insists that Samuel did not arrive as arranged, but . . .” Isaac lifted his shoulders in an eloquent shrug of dismissal.

  Bascot finished the sentence for him. “. . . the client would say that was the case even if Samuel did deliver the silver as promised. Without the note of debt you cannot prove that any money was borrowed from you.”

  Isaac nodded. “Exactly.”

  “The Torksey road—that leads in the direction of Philip de Kyme’s demesne, does it not?”

  “It does,” Isaac confirmed, “and also passes by many other, smaller fiefs. I will tell you that it was not to Sir Philip’s manor that my cousin was bound.”

  “Was he carrying a large sum?” Bascot asked.

  “No. Samuel was allowed to deal only in some of the smaller transactions of my business. My cousin was . . . a simple man, Sir Bascot. He did not have great intelligence, but he was willing and honest. I cannot think why anyone would want to kill him.”

  “But someone did,” Bascot replied, “and there must be a reason why.” He pondered for a moment. “If the two young people were making their way to de Kyme’s manor, it may be that they travelled on the same route, and at the same time, as your cousin. The Torksey road is not the only way to de Kyme’s demesne, but it would be the most direct for travellers coming from the south. I suppose the boy and his wife could have been abducted as they neared their destination but there are no marks on either of their bodies that would indicate a struggle and, if they were taken against their will, it is most certain that they would have made some resistance. And how did your cousin come to be with them when they met their deaths? It is most unlikely that he knew them.”

  “I would not have thought so,” Isaac agreed. “Neither I nor any member of my family has any connection with Maine and, to the best of my knowledge, Samuel had never been farther from Lincoln than a solitary trip to London many years ago. But it is unlikely that they met with abduction on the Torksey road. It is well travelled and patrolled by the sheriff’s guard. Samuel would never have been sent on his errand alone if there had been any danger to his safety.”

  “It is thought that poison was the means of death for both the Christian couple and your cousin.”

  “So I have been told,” Isaac informed him. “Our own physician has examined Samuel’s body and he agrees with that opinion and also that the stab wounds were made after death.”

  The usurer gave Bascot an oblique look. “I have also been informed that the bodies were secreted in ale barrels before being placed on the taproom floor. I presume that the alehouse keeper must have been in collusion with the murderer?”

  “It would seem so,” Bascot answered. “It is possible that the bodies were kept, for a few hours at least, at the house of Roger de Kyme in Lincoln. Both Lady Sybil and Conal were staying there for a time and neither can prove their actions on that day. Lady Sybil says that she was in bed suffering from sickness and Conal claims he was in Newark. Both were alone and have no one to vouch for their honesty.”

  Both men fell silent for a moment, each collecting his thoughts. Then Isaac said, “If Samuel was persuaded by another party to accompany the couple from Maine, it would have to have been by someone he knew. A Jew does not lightly fall into the company of Christians, especially strangers.”

  “Did he know either Lady de Kyme or her son?” Bascot asked.

  “Yes,” Isaac replied solemnly. “Since you have assured me you will hold any knowledge I may have in confidence and since the debt is in the past, I can tell you that Sybil de Kyme had occasion to borrow money from me once, using some of her personal jewellery as surety. She paid the debt promptly. It was her son who handled the transaction. The sum was not large and it was Samuel who was entrusted with the commission of picking up the payment of the loan.”

  And Newark, where Conal had professed to spend the day, was to the southwest of Lincoln. A destination that was reached by leaving through the same gate as dead Samuel. Had Conal turned north onto the Torksey road instead of turning south to Newark, as he had said? Had he known Hugo and his wife were near to arriving at their destination and had set out to forestall them, perhaps under the guise of welcoming them in his stepfather’s stead, then luring them into the forest where he offered his wine flask with a vintage that was deadly? Had the Jew seen and recognised him when he was in their company so that it was necessary to include him among the victims? But even if this were so, the one main question still remained—why had Conal not simply left the bodies in the greenwood? It was the question Richard Camville had asked, and also Conal himself, and it was a valid one. There could be no advantage to having the bodies discovered in Lincoln and run the risk, as had happened, of their being identified. In the summer heat, and with the help of foraging wild animals, the bodies would most probably have either decomposed or been devoured. Surely a conclusion a murderer would see as preferable, enabling the crime to remain hidden and not brought out into the light of investigation.

  “My information has confused rather than enlightened you, has it not, Templar?” Isaac asked softly.

  “Yes. It helps to bolster the sheriff’s charge against Lady Sybil and Conal, but it still does not convince me of their guilt and I do not doubt it will fail to convince the justices either. There are still too many questions without an answer.”

  Isaac leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of his wine. He gave Bascot a wry glance. “The answers must surely be there. It remains only to find them.”

  Eighteen

  BASCOT SET OUT EARLY THE NEXT MORNING ALONG the Torksey road, to carry out his intention to visit Philip de Kyme at his fortified manor house near Stow. Accompanying the Templar were Ernulf and two men-at-arms from the castle garrison. All were armed and Bascot wore a hip-length coat of mail over a lightly padded gambeson. The frustration the Templar had felt the morning before had returned during a long night in which he had slept badly. He recognised the cause as being rooted in the disillusionments he had experienced from a very young age but, even so,
could not eradicate it.

  His thoughts roved back to his childhood. The youngest of three sons, his father had decided to give him as an oblate—an offering—to the church, where he would be trained for life as a monk. At first he had been frightened, had felt all the aloneness of a seven-year-old boy amongst strangers. But the kindness of the monks and serenity of the abbey soon caused this strangeness to pass and he had come to enjoy the regularity of his day and the security of the stout walls that surrounded the enclave. He had excelled at his lessons and been praised for his industry. He had been happy. Then, a few short years later, the brother next to him in age had died in a hunting accident and his father had come to remove him from his new life, citing the need for the security of a younger son against the chance that some mishap should befall his eldest. That was when Bascot’s deep-seated anger had begun. He had resented his father’s decision but, cautioned by the monk who had been his tutor that duty to a parent was an obligation he must not deny, he had done as he was bidden and taken up training for arms. Translating his anger into energy he quickly learned how to wield a sword and mace and was barely eighteen when he won the spurs of knighthood at his father’s side in battle.

  That had been in the last days of the reign of King Henry, during one of the many skirmishes that the king had engaged in with his recalcitrant son, Richard. But throughout all the glory of battle and the attendant dangers of injury or death, Bascot had still yearned for his boyhood days in the cloister. When Henry had died and Richard had succeeded to the throne, the new king’s obsession to mount a Crusade to the Holy Land had seemed to Bascot to provide a way to satisfy both his own desires and those of his father. With his eldest brother now married and a new heir on the way, Bascot had begged to be allowed to combine his yearning for the life of a monk with his military skills and join the Knights Templar.