The Alehouse Murders

by Maureen Ash

  Ernulf looked doubtful. “De Kyme will say they used a minion.”

  “So he will, but it will be a feeble charge unless he can come up with the person who did the deed and then connect that person with his wife or Conal. I think, Ernulf, that our murderer has made his first mistake. Find out for me, if you can, whether Philip de Kyme stayed at his manor house last night. And where his nephew and cousin were. Also Hugh Bardolf.”

  “Bardolf? Surely you don’t suspect him of having a hand in this?” Ernulf said with astonishment.

  Bascot explained to him Hilde’s opinion about the baron. “Even if he is not the one who did the deed, he may know more than he is telling. Especially if he has hopes of marrying his daughter to de Kyme once Sybil and Conal are disposed of.”

  Ernulf nodded. Throughout the exchange Gianni had been staring at them, listening to every word. His young face was strained, his dark eyes full of consternation. He tugged on Bascot’s sleeve, and made a quick flurry of movements with his hands, rubbing the skin of his forearms and face and pointing at Bascot.

  “What’s troubling the lad?” Ernulf asked.

  “He is frightened of the leprosy,” Bascot replied.

  “But why? He has not been in contact with the lepers and neither have you.”

  Bascot gave a short laugh. “No, but he knows I soon will be.”

  The serjeant looked at the Templar enquiringly. “Sometimes I think the boy knows me better than I know myself, Ernulf. I must go to the leper house. It is possible that one of the inmates or the monks that tend them saw something that may help us in our enquiries. I do not imagine your men stayed in the area long enough to ask many questions.”

  “No, and nor do I blame them,” Ernulf replied. “They came at the monk’s request, got the girl and left Brunner’s body to be disposed of by the Priory. No one in his right mind would go into a leper house if he didn’t have to. And neither should you. Lady Nicolaa would not ask it of any man, nor will she of you.”

  “I am a monk, Ernulf, just as those who go to care for the lepers. Few of them take the disease, for God gives them his protection. I must trust that He will do the same for me.”

  “Sometimes it doesn’t pay to stretch the Good Lord’s patience too far,” Ernulf muttered.

  Bascot laughed. “I will be careful not to take unnecessary risks, I assure you.”

  The Templar looked down at Gianni, saw the boy’s eyes were filled with tears. He knelt down beside the lad, clumsy on his ankle. “Do not fear, Gianni. God has led me into this mystery, I must believe that he will protect me while I try to unravel it. Stay with Ernulf until I return. I will not be long.”

  Twenty-two

  UNFORTUNATELY, BASCOT DID NOT LEARN ANY MORE about Brunner’s assailant at the leper house. At the lazar community he was directed in his visit by the monk who had found Brunner, a Brother Thomas. The monk was a rubicund man with a rolling gait, who looked as though he would have been more at home on the deck of a ship than tending the sick. His face was broad and fat, and his tonsure left the remainder of his hair sticking up like stubble in a shorn field. He had a ready gap-toothed smile and pudgy, capable hands. Only the gentle expression in his dark grey eyes belied the roughness of his exterior, along with the caring manner in which he treated his patients.

  The lazar houses were within a low-walled enclosure and were of simple construction, but clean and dry. On the south side, at the far end of the main buildings, the enclosure opened out into a field in which there was a vegetable and herb garden and a byre which housed a few cows. Chickens clucked in a small coop and some sheep grazed in a walled pasture beyond the garden. Other monks were in evidence, tending to the chores of caring for the garden and animals helped by one or two inmates who were still well enough to do so, their diseased limbs wrapped in clean linen and large hats of straw shading their faces from the heat of the sun.

  “The shack where the murdered man was found is beyond the pasture,” Brother Thomas told Bascot. “There are a few tumbledown buildings there, which were once all that the lepers had to shelter them. When Hugh of Avalon became bishop of Lincoln some few years ago he was much distressed at the terrible state in which these poor unfortunates were living, so he chivvied the people of the town into giving enough material and alms to build the new hospice which you have just seen. He is a saintly man, the bishop. Would that all men were as good as he.”

  Brother Thomas led Bascot to the place where Brunner had been discovered. Gillie had been right, the buildings were hovels, most with caved-in roofs and insect-infested walls.

  “It was I who found the dead man,” Brother Thomas explained. “One of the sheep had strayed during the night and I was looking for it when I saw what I took to be a bundle of clothes in the grass. I thought perhaps some kind soul had left them as a gift for the community and went to examine them. It was then that I discovered the terrible deed that had been done.”

  “And the girl?” Bascot enquired. “How did you know she was in the shack?”

  “I did not. I merely went in to see if the dead man had perhaps left some clue to his identity in there. Inside I found the girl, lying on the floor, bound hand and foot and too frightened to cry out for help. She was much distressed, poor creature.”

  Brother Thomas’ face became solemn as he showed Bascot the interior of the shack. There was nothing inside, just a dirt floor on which was a pile of mouldy straw and the length of rope with which Gillie had been tied. There was no sign, either inside or out, of the blade that had ended Brunner’s life.

  “Do you have much trouble with beggars or other unfortunates using these shacks?” Bascot asked Thomas.

  The monk’s wide face creased into a smile. “No, we do not. There are few desperate enough to intrude so near the inmates of the hospice and risk infection. Besides, as you can see, there is little to make use of.” He looked down sadly at the spot where he had found Brunner. “The slain man must have certainly been in dire circumstances to have sought refuge here.”

  “He was, Brother,” Bascot replied. “And whoever killed him must have been just as desperate.”

  Bascot did not enter the hospice where those lepers too sick to leave their beds were tended by the monks. However, he still took the precaution of washing his hands in a laver of wine which was kept near the entrance. “We do not know how the disease is spread,” Brother Thomas had told him, “but the ancient Greeks thought much of the cleansing properties of wine and so, under Bishop Hugh’s instruction, we always wash our hands in it before we leave.”

  Bascot had thanked him and ridden slowly back to the castle, oblivious to the crowds in the town and conscious only on the periphery of his thoughts that his new boots made the effort of sitting in the saddle much easier. By the time he got back to the hall, tables were being set up for the evening meal and Gianni was waiting for him anxiously at the east gate instead of in his usual place among the dogs. Ernulf was nearby, talking to one of his men.

  “The lad would not leave the gate, even when I tried to tempt him with something to eat,” he told Bascot with a smile. “I reckon he thought you would be struck with the lepers’ disease the moment you entered the hospice and be instantly confined there, never to return.”

  Bascot told the serjeant that he had discovered nothing helpful and asked if it had been confirmed that Lady Sybil and Conal had spent all of the evening and the night before within the castle walls.

  “It has,” Ernulf said with some satisfaction. “Conal kept company with Richard Camville until late, and then they both retired to the same chamber together, along with another male guest who is staying here. Conal’s mother went to the room she shares with Lady Petronille and, unless she be a wraith that can vanish through walls, never left it ’til the morning. Because the chamber is cramped, Lady Petronille’s maid had a pallet across the door. If anyone had left the chamber in the night, she would have been woken.”

  “Then we know that they, personally, are innocent of Brunner’s d
eath.”

  “It would seem so,” Ernulf replied.

  Alan de Kyme sprawled in a chair by an unlit hearth in his small manor house, drinking a cup of weak ale, his foxy face set in concentration. His wife sat nearby, repairing a rent in one of her husband’s old tunics while keeping a watchful eye on their three children, who were playing with a ball on the other side of the room.

  “You’ve heard that the Templar has evidence that neither Sybil nor Conal were involved in this latest crime,” Alan said to his wife.

  “Doesn’t mean they weren’t involved in the other one,” his wife responded shortly. She was like her husband in features, with a similar pointed nose and sharp eyes, but instead of the flaming red hair that he possessed, hers was dark, and her skin was sallow. She also had a less humorous temperament than her husband.

  “The Templar believes it does. He thinks the murders are all connected—de Kyme’s son, the priest and the stewe-holder.”

  “If he knows so much, why doesn’t he know who did it?” his wife retorted sourly.

  Alan de Kyme laid his finger alongside his nose in an artful manner. “Knowing is one thing, proving is another.”

  His wife’s head came up sharply. “Do you think he does know, then?”

  Alan shook his head gently. “I don’t think so. But he’s determined, I’ll say that for him. If he doesn’t find out it won’t be for want of trying.”

  Alan’s wife gave him a searching look from under her dark brows. “Do you know who it was, husband?”

  “I could make a guess, if I had to,” he replied in an offhand manner.

  “And who would it be, if you were to guess?” she enquired, her needle still, poised in midair as she waited for his answer.

  “No, wife, not even to you will I name anyone. Could be dangerous. Look what happened to the priest and the stewe-holder. They knew who it was, like as not, and they were murdered because of that knowledge.”

  His wife looked thoughtful, then bent her head to her sewing once again, and kept her head lowered as she asked softly, “Alan, it wasn’t you, was it?”

  “Don’t ask daft questions,” her husband replied, the words sharp but his tone gentle. “I’ve enough problems without adding to them by skulking about murdering my cousin’s bastard.”

  If his wife noticed that he had not given a direct answer to her question, she did not remark on it. Instead she turned the conversation to the problems he had mentioned. Holding up the tunic she was mending, she said, “This repair is all but done, Alan, but the fabric is overworn. I will need some cloth if I am to make you a new one, and also some material to sew clothes for the children. They will soon run naked without.”

  “I know, woman, I know,” Alan said, a little testily. “If only that damned Jew had come here first before he got himself murdered we could have had the money he was bringing and denied receiving it to Isaac. It wasn’t much, but with the loan the Jew will give us anew it would have got us not only some timber for the mill but a new ram as well as your lengths of cloth.”

  His wife sighed. “Are you sure you shouldn’t ask Philip for the money instead, Alan?”

  “Not the right time to ask,” her husband said decidedly. “My cousin is awash with grief for a bastard son he never even laid eyes on. He’s spent more on the trappings for laying that Hugo and his wife out in his chapel than he’d lend me in a score of years, the parsimonious wine-sop. Beeswax candles at the end of each bier, and not just one, mind you, but three. And the best of silk for the palls. No, I’ll repair the mill with the money Isaac lends us, as we’d planned, and we’ll have to hope for a good harvest this year for the rest.”

  “Perhaps Philip will make you his heir once his bastard’s been buried,” his wife opined hopefully.

  “Not if Roger has his way, he won’t,” Alan said with a sudden grin. “Every time he goes to visit his uncle he brings that damned Arthur with him to dangle under Philip’s nose. He doesn’t realise Philip is usually too wine mazed to even notice the boy. Or Roger’s fawning.”

  Alan held out his cup for his wife to refill. “And if you think we’re badly off, you should see the condition of Roger’s estate. The grain-stores are falling down, half his sheep have died from lack of care and I swear his stables haven’t been mucked out for a month.”

  “Is he in debt to the Jews as well?” his wife asked.

  “He is, and for more than the piddling amount I’m borrowing. If he doesn’t come up with a payment on the interest soon, I think they’ll be applying to the bailiff for redress.”

  “But he has that fine house in town,” his wife protested.

  “How can he pay the upkeep on that if he is so far in debt?”

  “I doubt he’ll have it much longer if he doesn’t find some way out of his troubles,” Alan retorted.

  His wife’s face glimmered with resentment. “One solution would be for him to be named Philip’s heir, wouldn’t it?”

  “So it would, wife, so it would. And it would be a way out of our problems if I was named instead.”

  Hilde was sitting in Nicolaa’s solar, in company with Sybil and her attendant, Isobel. They were in a far corner of the room, well away from the huge fireplace, their only light a dim glow from the closest casement. At the other end of the chamber were a group of ladies, among them Nicolaa’s sisters, Petronille and Ermingard. Most of the women were engaged in some pastime, embroidering or reading, a few others were gossiping and enjoying tidbits from trays of honeyed fruit. Two of the younger women were playing catch with a soft ball. Petronille was one of those sitting idly, watching her sister sort out the colours of a small box of embroidery thread. Ermingard had seemed better these last two days, and was bent intently to her task. Hilde noticed with a passing thought that she didn’t seem disturbed in handling a skein of red wool, placing it on her lap with as much unconcern as she did those of blue or green.

  “It is fortunate that the Templar has proved that neither I nor Conal could have been involved in the killing of that stewe-keeper,” Sybil was saying. “It will take some weight out of the charge Philip has brought against us.”

  “Your husband can still claim you were responsible, and used a hired assailant to achieve your aim,” Hilde replied.

  Sybil leaned forward towards Hilde. “Yes, but at least we can prove that in this one death, neither of us was directly involved. And, as Nicolaa pointed out, all these deaths must be connected. To be cleared of one helps to clear us of the others.”

  Hilde made no response. She had little affection for Sybil, the only redeeming factor in her favour being that she had been Leif’s wife and was Conal’s mother. Hilde considered her a cold woman, although her fair beauty had been attractive when she was young, and was still, to a certain degree. Mentally Hilde dismissed the thought. Sybil was a Dane after all, and she was sister to Magnus and Ailwin. What else could one expect with such a bloodline?

  She glanced at Sybil’s attendant, Isobel, who was sitting with an open Psalter in her hands, her eyes downcast as she read. Now there, Hilde thought, was a completely different type of beauty to Sybil’s. Warm colouring, rounded flesh, eyes the glowing colour of amber beads, all suggesting a passion that she either chose not to display or did not have. But if there was one thing that Hilde had learned in her long life it was that the appearance of a thing or person was often at variance with its nature. Her eyes flicked back to Sybil. Not for the first time she wondered if Conal’s mother had been, after all, involved in the deaths of de Kyme’s bastard and his wife. Conal had sworn to her that he was not and Hilde believed him, but Sybil had only denied the charge dismissively in her cool fashion. Was she involved with a man other than her husband, perhaps, and had persuaded her lover to remove the threat to her son’s inheritance? Had she even helped him? After all, she had no one to account for her presence on the day the murders had been carried out.

  On impulse, Hilde asked her great-niece-by-marriage a question. “Why have you stayed with Philip all these ye
ars, Sybil? No one would have blamed you if you had gone into a nunnery to escape a marriage that has gone more than sour.”

  Sybil gave her a glacial stare from her pale eyes. “If I had done as you suggest I would have given up any claim to the dower I brought with me. I could not do that. It is for Conal.”

  And Conal doesn’t want it, Hilde thought. It was not your son you stayed for, madam, but yourself. Avarice is a strong trait in your family. You are just as grasping as your brothers, if more pleasant to look at.

  Aloud, she said, “I have never been married, thanks be to God. But if I had been I do not think I could have found the fortitude to bed a man that held as much dislike for me as Philip seems to feel for you.”

  Sybil turned her gaze towards the women at the other end of the chamber. They were too far away to hear any of the conversation, but she lowered her voice a little as she said, “For all he rants that I have never given him a son, there have been few opportunities these last years to conceive one. In fact, there have been none at all since Conal was a young boy.”

  The statement didn’t surprise Hilde. If the rumours about Philip de Kyme’s excessive drinking were true, he must seldom be capable at the end of the day of bedding a woman. Especially a woman he appeared to have disliked from the very beginning of their marriage. Forcing her voice to sound jocular, Hilde remarked, “Then you might as well be in a nunnery. Many women in your situation would have taken a lover. There must be handsome young squires and sturdy grooms aplenty in a retinue the size of de Kyme’s.”

  As Hilde spoke Isobel’s eyes darted up from her book and looked with speculation at her mistress. Hilde wondered if her words had struck on a truth. But Sybil answered in a detached manner and the girl’s eyes returned to her Psalter.