Walkelin, privy now to the ploy, wondered how they kept such straight faces. He was having to bite his lip to avoid laughing. Unconsciously, this made him look nervous, which in no way alleviated Serlo’s rising panic.
‘I beg of you, my lord, have mercy.’ Serlo’s eyes rolled, and his lower lip trembled.
Bradecote stared, unmoved.
Catchpoll reached out and grabbed Serlo by the throat. With great deliberation, he drew a very serviceable knife. Serlo whimpered. Catchpoll could smell the fear on him, augmented by a hint of urine. With no trace of emotion, he cut the rope bonds that tied Serlo’s wrists.
‘Get out,’ he snarled.
Serlo stood rooted to the spot, uncomprehending.
‘Get out. Now. And remember the only reason you leave here is the merciful, and to my mind, over merciful, attitude of my lord undersheriff. So when he comes, all civil like, and next asks you a question, be sure and give him an honest answer. For my part, I am going to be trying to persuade him not to be so soft with vermin like you.’ Catchpoll spun Serlo round and sent him staggering out with a well-aimed kick to the backside. Serlo needed no third command. He scurried off, too relieved to wonder why he had been held in the first place, and with an inflated idea of Bradecote’s power over life and death, just as Catchpoll intended he should.
Chapter Sixteen
‘Now that’s over, what do we do next?’ Walkelin wondered, when Catchpoll’s guffaws of delight subsided.
Brought back to earth, Catchpoll sighed, and sucked his teeth.
‘Well, on the sad assumption that Mercet is not the instigator, we go back to the beginning and look at everything we have, trying not to make the same connections as before. It grieves me, that does. Even if Mercet is not our man, it feels as if he has slipped through my fingers again.’ He shook his grizzled head despondently. ‘And it looked so promising.’
He was mildly revived by the thought of thwarting the merchant’s clearing of riverside properties, as explained by Bradecote, but it was a small consolation.
‘Do we still take it that all four fires are linked, for a start?’ asked Walkelin, who had taken the serjeant literally and was mulling over the case from first principles.
‘We have to, as I see it.’ Bradecote attempted to focus his thoughts. ‘I am sure that none were accidental, and it is surely stretching the imagination too far to have two fire-raisers in Worcester this Michaelmastide.’
‘We have no motive, no link between all the victims, and no probable suspects to follow.’ Catchpoll pulled a face indicative of frustration and misery.
‘But those things must exist, mustn’t they?’ Walkelin was nothing if not dogged. ‘Men don’t plan fires without a reason, and these must have some planning to them. Is there another man apart from Mercet who would want to rid Worcester of Simeon the Jew? Other than priests, of course. They must see them as pagans, or heretics or something.’
‘Even if there was a papal edict put out, I cannot imagine the clergy running round setting fire to other things as practice.’ Catchpoll dismissed the idea, but had considered it seriously.
Bradecote held up a hand. ‘Wait.’ He shut his eyes in concentration. ‘There’s something in this.’
‘What, my lord?’ Walkelin could not hide his incredulity.
‘Oh, not monks wandering the streets with burning the town in mind, but a reason based on something religious. Remember the holy oil stolen from St Andrew’s? Why could it not have been stolen, not just as oil, but actually because it was holy oil?’
‘And the swine fat used to make a point, not just as an insult.’ Catchpoll nodded. ‘It might be a link, but then, what could be the religious connection with the others?’
‘Drogo and Widow Bakere are having a sinful union,’ noted Walkelin, with a degree of relish. ‘The bakery fire could be a warning against furni … forni … lustfulness.’
‘He’s a widower, she’s a widow, and it isn’t as bad as adultery, which goes on in almost every street most nights if you was to listen hard, and I do not suggest you do, being young and innocent.’ Catchpoll did not sound taken with the idea.
‘Does it?’ Walkelin was surprised, and not uninterested. He had never thought of adultery ‘going on’ on such a scale.
‘Don’t corrupt the young, Catchpoll,’ remarked Bradecote, drily.
‘You understand though, my lord. In the scale of sinning, why pick on them?’
Bradecote shrugged. ‘It was a case known to the fire-raiser, not just gossip?’
‘That would narrow the hunt. I did not know of it until a few days back.’ Catchpoll sounded vaguely aggrieved, as though the sin was him not knowing of the affair long since.
‘And if the ever-vigilant Serjeant Catchpoll doesn’t know about something it must be a well-kept secret?’ Bradecote queried.
‘Something like, my lord.’ Catchpoll almost blushed.
Walkelin was too lowly for badinage, and, in consequence, was single-mindedly persistent.
‘So that would cover the last two fires, but what about the first two? If the old healing woman was the intended victim, it could be because she helped women lose unwanted babes, but that still leaves Master Ash, the silversmith. Of course, that will be it.’
‘What will be it, Walkelin?’ Catchpoll was beginning to find the man-at-arms’ enthusiasm jarring.
‘The fire-raiser objected to Master Ash because of his trade. Judas was paid thirty pieces of silver and to our man that is enough to mark a silversmith as victim.’
‘One of the moneyers would be more fitting, but it would work at a stretch.’ Having begun this theory, the undersheriff was finding it ever less likely. ‘This means we are hunting some form of religious maniac. Seen any about the town?’
‘We have a few odd folk … Mad Meurig comes to mind … but I’d swear they are harmless.’
‘Mad Meurig?’ Walkelin and Bradecote chorused.
‘Oh yes. He’s Welsh, of course, and they can have some dismal ideas. Probably because they live in a land of rain and mist so much of the time.’
‘I went to Wales once, I think, and it was bright and sunny every day I was that side of the border,’ Walkelin chipped in, and received a withering look from his serjeant.
‘Well, you were in the wrong bit, then. Mad Meurig has thought the world was about to end “any day now” for the last twenty years. He tells everyone who comes to his smithy, and even accosts people in the street, but he never causes harm.’
‘Odd behaviour, but mad?’ Bradecote pulled a face.
‘Yes, when he also tells you that he knows this because he is visited by angels; angels with long tails that scamper about his floor and squeak.’
‘Ah. Fair enough. He’s mad. But does a person like that turn killer?’
Walkelin pursed his lips, assuming that it was part of the profession to pull faces.
‘He might not have seen it as killing, just purging by fire, perhaps,’ he suggested cautiously.
‘It doesn’t get us past the question “Why now?” though, and the only answer seems to be because our fire-setter is new to Worcester.’
‘Which,’ noted Catchpoll, ‘would account for them not being amongst our “known” madmen. Trouble is, if they are only recently come here, how have they found all these different targets so quickly, and how do they know their way about?’
Bradecote made a decision. ‘Right. We therefore find out who has come to Worcester in, say, the last six months or so. They must be male, living alone, and not apprenticed. We then narrow that down by who is tall and not fair-haired.’
‘That’ll take some doing, my lord.’
‘I know, Catchpoll, so you and Walkelin set about it first thing. Walkelin had a late night, and we got barely any sleep at all, so we’ll make an early night tonight.’
The trio dispersed; Walkelin and Catchpoll ultimately to their hearths. Catchpoll wanted to see his friend Drogo before returning to his wife, but Walkelin delayed him.
&nb
sp; ‘How do you get folk to confess without force, Serjeant? And for that matter, what is “due-ress”? I can’t see how the laws work.’
Catchpoll scratched his ear and considered his red-haired apprentice, judging whether he was fit to hear a proper explanation. Apparently he did, for he patted him on the back in an avuncular fashion and steered him to the brewhouse to lubricate said explanation. Leaning comfortably against a sun-warmed wall, Catchpoll tried to pass on some of the workings of his craft.
‘Duress is, as I see it, heavy-duty threatening along the lines of “Say or do this, or I’ll drown your children, break your neck, throw your mother down the well”. That sort of thing. It’s not nice, and while it may get the answer you want it might not be the right answer … if you see what I mean.’
Walkelin was concentrating hard. ‘You mean a man will say something that’s not true to avoid the threat becoming fact.’
‘Exactly so. Now the tricky bit, and it is what comes with years of doing the job, is putting the pressure on without it being duress.’
‘So frightening Serlo until he pissed himself wasn’t duress?’
‘Oh no. Firstly, that was for pleasure.’ Catchpoll grinned. ‘Perks of the job, you might say.’ Then his face became serious. ‘Now, he was not told what to admit. Also, no specific threats were made. I mean, did you ever hear me tell him I was going to do him a permanent injury?’
‘No-o, but that’s what he thought.’
‘Not my fault if the man’s stupid though, lad. Hinting at extreme violence isn’t the same as direct threat. Mind you, you have to get yourself a nice healthy reputation for being unpleasant for it to work a treat.’
‘I’m not sure I could threaten a woman, Serjeant.’ Walkelin sounded apologetic.
‘Wouldn’t ask you to. You see the craft is in judging how to get your criminal to admit the crime. Brute force and ignorance has its place, but if that were the only thing a good serjeant needed, Hammon would have been given the job long ago. But Hammon hasn’t got the wits, or the innate distrust of his fellow man, nor the memory neither. Now I picked you because you have a good eye for detail, which is a healthy start. Distrust you’ll have to pick up, just as you learn the finer points of serjeanting. Vermin like Serlo understand violence because that’s the world they work in. He therefore sees the opportunity for others to inflict pain upon him because that’s what he would try and do with others. He’s also stupid, so we could have tried tricking information from him, but I’ll admit frightening him felt so much better, and this job needs a few moments like that. Bakers get extra bread, butchers offcuts of meat, and serjeants get to scare the criminal brotherhood.’
Catchpoll was warming to his theme, and took a long draught of ale. He then drew the back of his hand across his mouth before continuing.
‘With women it is getting them into letting their tongues run away with them, and, Holy Virgin, don’t they do that; riling them so they admit it in a temper; or frightening them by making them think you know everything, or even that your idea is worse than the reality. Of course they’d all of ’em do better to say nothing at all from start to finish, but it is mighty rare for a criminal to be that clever.’
Catchpoll stretched and gazed at the bottom of his empty beaker. The lesson was over, and he went to check upon Drogo the Cook. Walkelin disappeared off home with his mind working overtime, going over everything he had heard. His mother found him distant and absent-minded, even finding him sitting with spoon suspended halfway to mouth during dinner. She was beginning to worry that all the new thinking might overheat his flame-topped brain, and recommended he retire with a cool cloth upon his brow.
Drogo was fretful, in enough discomfort to make him ill-tempered but not enough to keep him quiet. He was railing against being kept from Nesta Bakere’s side, and was prey to the growing fear that an awful truth was being kept from him. Catchpoll tried to reassure him that the widow still breathed, but it took several avowals and some strong language before this was accepted.
‘You think me foolish, I doubt not, but we have our happiness, not like the heat of youth, but strong nonetheless. The thought of having it snatched away now is an awful thing to bear. She’s a good woman, a comfortable woman, my Nesta; not as fair as my Emma, but that was more than a score years ago when we were both young, nor as witty as poor Judith, but a woman to grow old with peaceably, see.’
‘No need to persuade me, Drogo. I wish you well of her, God’s truth. You just keep from fretting while there’s nothing you can do. The quicker you are up and able, the quicker you can fend for her. Think on that, and don’t swear at poor Brother Hubert when he comes, for it’s God’s grace and his skills as keep your woman alive.’
The undersheriff sought solitude up on the battlements, gazing out over as much of Worcester that was not obstructed by the mighty bulk of the cathedral, in hope of inspiration. He had no proprietorial feeling, although he could now identify the churches rising above the general roof line, and had an idea of the main thoroughfares. Some of the roofs were tiled but a majority were thatched, and the variation in colour told the story of a firing of the town by Earl Robert of Gloucester’s men only four years past. Bradecote wondered idly what Catchpoll felt, looking over Worcester, and surmised that it was much as he felt atop the little scarp that overlooked Bradecote; a sense of protective belonging. He shook his head, for instead of being inspired he had merely become maudlin.
His hopes of being left in peace were of short duration. A servant sought him out with a message from the castellan, summoning him without delay, and, groaning inwardly, Bradecote descended to hear the castellan’s litany of complaints, starting no doubt, with the incapacity of his cook. Much to Bradecote’s surprise, this was almost treated as an irrelevance. The castellan, in more than usually poor temper after the drawing of a tooth, did of course bemoan the continuation of fires, noting that the last had occurred within view of ‘his’ castle. This was clearly seen as a personal affront, which the undersheriff had failed to prevent, but the main cause for his peevish anger concerned a man whom Bradecote had never met.
‘Why, in the name of heaven’s saints, have you dragged the good name of my poor son-in-law into the mire of your incompetent hunt?’
Bradecote’s face registered bafflement, for he could not imagine any of the suspects being related to the castellan. ‘Your son-in-law?’
‘Yes. Jocelyn FitzGuimar, the husband of my eldest daughter. I have heard that you have been sniffing like hounds round Worcester, asking impertinent details about him, suggesting he consorts with whores and …’ The castellan halted at Bradecote’s upraised hand.
‘Neither I nor my men have once mentioned this man. I have never heard of him until this moment. So you are in error, my lord.’
Simon Furnaux was not in any way mollified. ‘You say this to me, but it is a lie. You have been hunting a man already burdened by disaster and misfortune; one whose honour and courage deserve better than having his name dragged into a criminal case.’
Hugh Bradecote was at the point of losing his temper, but he was assailed by a sudden thought that kept it just in check.
‘What is this misfortune?’
‘Why, that he is maimed after the fire at his manor last All Souls. A brave man, Jocelyn, who risked all to save his wife and children. He reached home after the blaze had started, and found his servants, witless cowards to a man, making no effort to reach the solar where the family was trapped, because the hall roof was ablaze. They even tried to hold him back, but he threw them off. Part of the roof collapsed as he passed through, and he actually cast flaming timbers aside to reach the chamber. How he did so defies understanding, though it is said a man can do great things in time of emergency. He found my daughter and the children collapsed because of the smoke; forced open the shutters and dropped the smaller children to those below, and then, with burnt hands mind, battered the embrasure with the brazier to make it large enough to get Isabelle out. He himself grew faint, a
nd was pulled from the building by the steward, using a ladder, but his hands will never hold sword again, and his face bears unsightly marks, not that Isabelle cares. And rightly so.’ He paused for breath in his righteous indignation, and Bradecote took the opportunity to interject.
‘My lord Castellan, I said true. The name means nothing to me, but we did follow up a visitor to the healing woman who died in the Corviserstrete fire, because he was unknown and a mystery. We never found his name because we went no further, once we found out that he was a burnt man, and not so recent as to have been harmed while setting the first fire. If your son-in-law’s good name is offended, I will willingly make him my apologies and have it known he is beyond doubt unconnected with these crimes.’ Bradecote wondered how Simon Furnaux had heard of their quest for the gauntlet-wearing man and worked out who it must be, and then made no mention of it to him. ‘We would have done so immediately had we known his identity. What pity it is that you did not mention him, that we could have eliminated him from our investigation before any rumour spread.’ He did not mention that they would only have done so after checking his story for themselves.
The castellan sniffed, ignoring the implied criticism. ‘He comes rarely to Worcester now, disliking unknown company and staring eyes, but you apologise to his lady, for she is come to me but yesterday, and I told her of the insult.’
I bet you did, thought Hugh Bradecote, and felt pretty certain that the impugning of the man’s honour had gone no further than his father-in-law and now wife.
‘You may certainly make your apologies to her. I shall call for her.’
Lady FitzGuimar was probably only in her very early twenties, but care and worry had added to her years and she looked older. She was thin and birdlike, with anxious, periwinkle-blue eyes, but she held herself proudly when she came to the hall to receive the apology on her lord’s behalf. Bradecote would have far preferred to make any apology without the castellan’s presence. He had no objection to apologising to the lady herself, but he had little regard for her sire.
Ordeal by Fire Page 17