Illegitimacy was no barrier, of course. It could be viewed with disdain or contempt in a small village if the bastard concerned was born to a poor family, but that was natural. The vill itself would have to see to the child’s feeding, his education, and if the place had little money, the peasants could be bound to a useless mouth in a time of famine. Conversely, if the father was rich, he would usually see to the feeding of the child and help the family and their friends by small gifts of money, perhaps even taking the child’s education in hand.
As Jolinde’s father had. Jolly would hardly have been brought here to the Cathedral if he hadn’t been pointed out to the Succentor by his father. Sir Vincent had wanted him to be helped as far as possible and educated, for after all Jolinde was his first child, his only child in those days, before Vincent was married.
Jolinde knew that his father was a lusty man, always happy to go wenching, but that didn’t colour Jolinde’s view of him. If it wasn’t that Vincent’s first wife had been very jealous, Jolly might have gone to live with them in the house in the city. But the young girl had been jealous, and God knew what sort of a fuss she’d have kicked up if Jolly had been invited to live there. Her death had been very… convenient.
By then Jolinde was already living as a Secondary. He, like Vincent, thought that a career in the Church would be most congenial, but if that failed, he could easily learn law, which would make him still more useful to the merchant his father. That remained a possibility, but he would have to travel to University to learn more about the Common Law and that idea held little appeal for Jolinde now – since meeting Claricia at Sutton’s Inn.
Peter had been thinking along the same lines. They had often spoken about their hopes for the future, and although Peter was inclined to remain in the Church, he knew that without a patron or relations who could assist him to a sub-Deacon’s post, he too would have to consider the law.
Wincing, Jolinde recalled the scene of his death. It had been dreadful seeing his friend collapse like that, vomiting and crouching on all fours, then toppling sideways and going into convulsions, his face contorted with agony. It brought home to Jolinde just how fragile life was. They were much the same age. It could so easily have been him instead. He shuddered at the thought. Horrible!
It was a relief to glance once more at the Cathedral’s doors and see the trio leaving. He walked to join them. ‘Sirs? Can I return to him now?’
‘No, you can wait here a while with us,’ Coroner Roger snapped. ‘We have some questions for you.’
Baldwin shivered. Roger appeared quite oblivious to the cold that was sinking into the knight’s bones; when Baldwin looked at Simon, he saw the same indifference to the chill. Neither man would mind remaining out here, Baldwin realised, and with the realisation came the solution. ‘Rather than question him here,’ he intervened, ‘I think we should go and talk in the place where the two lived. I want to see all the dead man’s belongings.’
Jolinde nodded effusively. It would be better than staying out here in this frost with the clouds preparing to smother them with snow, he thought. ‘Follow me, gentlemen.’ He led the way at a sharp pace, hurrying down the shallow incline towards the southern wall and following around the new Bishop’s Palace. ‘It’s not far.’
‘This is where you and your friend lived?’ Baldwin asked when they arrived at a small house near the city wall east of the Cathedral.
‘Yes, sir. We have been here in this chamber for several years. Both of us left the Choristers at much the same time, but we neither of us won advancement. I think poor Peter felt it very strongly. It was like a failure to him.’
‘You lived here? Ate here, slept here?’
‘Um, well most of the time, yes. Peter lived here, although he and I tended to eat with our Canons when they were here. It is their responsibility to feed us, you see, but both of our Canons are away from the city at present. Mine, Mark, is in London with Bishop Walter, while Peter’s, Geoffrey, has gone on pilgrimage to Santiago, so we have been feeding ourselves…’
Baldwin didn’t comment and after a moment Jolinde opened the door and thrust it wide. Beyond was a small hall with the embers of the previous night’s fire.
‘Oh, it’s out.’ He felt suddenly tearful, realising that from now on he would never again have company in this place, not now Peter was dead. ‘Forgive me,’ he said shakily, ‘I’ll relight it. It won’t take a moment…’ The simple task was enough to drive away some of the sadness. He gathered up tinder and set it atop the few glowing chips, then added dried sticks and small pieces of kindling about and above it, crouching down low to blow steadily. Within a few minutes there was a faint crackling, and soon afterwards the kindling caught. He balanced a handful of thicker twigs, then a pair of small logs over the flames and rested back on his heels.
It was enough. The fire should be fine now. He smiled up at the three men. ‘Please, gentlemen, sit if you wish,’ he said, waving a hand at the two stools which were all the house possessed. ‘I am happy to kneel. It is one thing we become accustomed to.’
‘Were you there when he died today?’ Baldwin asked.
Jolinde couldn’t help the grimace of horror from passing over his features. ‘It was terrible. He was late to the service, but he often has been recently and I didn’t think much of it until I saw his face. Oh, poor Peter! He was yellow and green, as if he’d been up till late drinking and was about to spew, right there in his stall. I could see he wasn’t really concentrating. He was so ill-looking, I felt sick myself just to look at him. And then he started spluttering, just frothed at the mouth and fell to the floor, as though his legs had been fighting to keep him upright and then couldn’t do it any longer. He went down like an axed hog, and his limbs all wriggled and jerked… My God, it was awful!’ he blurted, and covered his face with his hands.
‘What sort of person was Peter?’ asked Sir Baldwin after a moment or two.
‘He was kind and good, sir.’ Jolinde drew his hands away regretfully. ‘I loved him like a brother. He was with me from the age of – oh, nine, I think. From then on we were inseparable. But when we both failed to proceed to become Deacons, we took on this place. It was an ideal base for us to continue our studies, and – well, it is a sociable Cathedral. We could study if we wished but if not, we could walk about the city.’
‘We have heard that your friend may have stolen from Ralph the Glover – maybe even murdered the poor devil. What do you think?’ Roger demanded brutally.
‘Peter? Oh, that’s rubbish,’ said Jolinde, but he didn’t meet the Coroner’s eyes.
Baldwin spoke. ‘We’ve also heard he might have been killed by felons because he pointed out one of their number.’
The young man shrugged. ‘Who can say how outlaws will behave?’
‘Was he wealthy?’ Baldwin asked.
‘Well, no. He had no patron here in the Cathedral.’
‘Poverty is a common cause of theft,’ Baldwin noted.
‘Peter earned enough. He clerked for merchants who couldn’t read; he helped Nick Karvinel occasionally. Anyway, if he had robbed Ralph, where is the proof? Where is the money he’s supposed to have taken? There’s nowhere to hide it in this hovel.’
Baldwin asked, ‘How long do Secondaries remain here usually?’
‘Oh, not terribly long… perhaps until they are twenty-one or so.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty.’
‘Where do Secondaries go when they get to twenty-one?’
‘They would become Vicars or Annuellars, sir. Perhaps a few would leave to become Chaplains to a minor lord, and some might remain here as clerks.’
‘What was Peter going to do?’ Baldwin said.
‘He was happy working for the Exchequer, sir. He was ever good with numbers: they held no mystery for him. He was considering learning the law but had not the money to go to University. I think Peter…’ He hesitated.
‘Yes?’ Roger rasped. ‘Spit it out, man!’
; ‘Peter was not a worldly man. He liked the peace of the cloister. Outside that he was shy, confused. Anxious.’
‘He is dead and some think he might have been murdered, others that he might have killed himself,’ said Baldwin. ‘What do you think?’
‘He wouldn’t have murdered himself willingly, but… He has not been well for some time, since the Feast of St Nicholas, sixth of December, when we took the money and jewels for the gloves.’
‘In what way?’ Baldwin was suddenly alert.
‘He was anxious and fretful at first, sir,’ Jolinde said. The words burst from him in a rush. It was a relief to be able to tell the story at last. ‘He’d been upset since the glover died, and I thought it might be some sort of imbalance in his humours. I was concerned about him, especially since he wasn’t being fed with his master, so I brought food to him.’
‘Why should you do that?’ Baldwin asked.
‘He was pale, withdrawn… I thought he might have food poisoning. But he wouldn’t go to the infirmarer. I think he was scared that he might find out he was more ill than he thought. Or maybe that he would find he was as ill as he feared.’
‘And how ill was that, do you think?’ Baldwin murmured.
Jolinde looked up, his face blanched. ‘I heard him in his dreams – he thought he was possessed. He was convinced that he had been taken over by a demon and was gradually being driven away from the Church. It terrified him.’
Baldwin interrupted the sudden silence. ‘He told you this?’
‘No, sir. He wouldn’t. He was too fearful of the way he was being pulled apart; yet I heard him crying out in his sleep, and then pleading with the devil he thought was inside him. Oh sir, it was awful. But there was nothing I could do.’
‘You could have told one of the Canons or a Vicar. Sought assistance for him,’ Coroner Roger pointed out with a frown.
‘With him denying it? What could I have done to help him? I made sure he was fed, saw to it he had wine…’ He broke off, miserable.
Baldwin took pity on him. ‘You say that his Canon was away and that was why he wasn’t being fed, and yet you seemingly had food for yourself. Was this from your Canon’s table? He must be generous with his victuals if he provided so much you could fill a friend’s mouth as well.’
Jolinde couldn’t meet the grim, dark eyes. He had to look away. Still kneeling, he spoke quietly. ‘Sir, I am not so honourable as Peter. I didn’t notice how he was before last night because after we delivered the box to Ralph Glover, I met a girl and stayed in town. Since then I have remained in town most nights, only returning here for services.’
‘You have been staying with this girl?’ Baldwin confirmed. When the lad nodded, he asked for her name.
‘Claricia Cornisshe, sir. She lives out near the Shambles, working in Sutton’s Inn.’
‘And she can confirm you have been with her?’
‘Oh, yes. I’ve been with her each night.’
‘Where did the food come from?’
‘I bought it, sir. I have a good allowance.’
Simon was intrigued by this. ‘You know that people say Peter was murdered, that he ate or drank poison and that is what killed him? This food you provided, where did you get it from?’
‘The wine was from my barrel out in the storage room,’ Jolinde said, pointing to the small door at the back of the hall. ‘The bread came straight from the Cathedral’s baker – it’s delivered to us by Adam, another Secondary – while the meat came from butchers in the Shambles near the Fleshfold.’
‘And how often did you purchase this food?’ Simon pressed him.
‘Regularly. I would bring him something every two or three days,’ Jolinde said. Then he gaped. ‘You don’t suppose I could have killed Peter, do you?’
The Coroner sniffed. ‘Who else would you suspect? You admit you brought him food. It would have been easy for you to have put poison into it, wouldn’t it? And you brought it straight here to give to your room-mate, so no one else could succumb to it. It was a well-conceived plan, I’ll give you that.’
‘But I wouldn’t have killed him – why should I kill him? What possible reason could I have had?’
‘Maybe he’d already stolen the jewels from Ralph Glover and you wanted them for yourself?’ Coroner Roger hazarded, squinting pensively. ‘Or maybe it’s simpler than that. You say you went with him to deliver the money and stuff early in the month?’
‘Yes, the Feast of St Nicholas. We got a receipt for it all. Check with Canon Stephen, the Treasurer. He’ll confirm that Peter and I brought the receipt back. He should have it now. Ralph the Glover signed it himself.’
‘But what if you thought you could rob him, eh?’ Roger asked shrewdly. ‘What if you went back there on the twenty-first, killed the glover and took his money? What if your friend saw the jewels and money here in this hall after he heard about Glover’s death? You might feel the need to silence him for ever, mightn’t you?’
Jolinde felt as if his world was toppling about him. ‘Me, kill Peter – kill the glover? Why, when I have enough money already? And where could I have hidden it?’
‘Show us the rooms where you and your friend slept.’
Still ashen-faced with shock, Jolinde took them to the ladder and clambered upstairs. ‘This was Peter’s. That is mine,’ he said, pointing to palliasses separated by a hanging cloth.
Baldwin studied the place. As Jolinde had said, there was nowhere to conceal even a small amount of money. Jolinde’s area was as messy as Peter’s, with blankets over the floor and a spare dirty shirt bundled up and hurled into a corner of the room. No chest, no box, not even a small sack was visible. No vial of poison – but that would have been discarded long ago in case of suspicion. Baldwin tentatively prodded at the bedclothes, but there was nothing beneath them.
Returning to Peter’s side of the chamber, he crouched with the Coroner at the side of the messed bedclothes. Roger sniffed and looked at Baldwin, who nodded, saying, ‘Yes, it smells as though his bowels were loose. I don’t wish to put my hands into the filth there.’
‘Poor fellow,’ Jolinde said. He was close to tears. The sight of the scruffy bed, merely a leaking palliasse of straw with cheap blankets lain atop, brought home to him once more that Peter would never return. ‘Poor Peter.’
Baldwin lifted the blankets gingerly and shook them. There was nothing here. The palliasse beneath was of thin material stuffed with a cheap filling of straw and hair. Baldwin took his dagger and slitted it from top to bottom, pulling out the stuffing, but there was nothing hidden inside.
He rose and went to Jolinde’s own bed. He glanced at the lad, who nodded. ‘If it’ll prove my innocence,’ he said.
Baldwin pulled his bed apart, but there was no money hidden among the straw. There was a chest with a water jug on top. Baldwin moved the jug and opened the chest, revealing robes, cloaks, shirts, the detritus of a young man. ‘Did he have any other places in which he could have secreted things?’
‘No. All our belongings are kept here.’
Simon could see that his friend was confused. A thought came to him. ‘What of other friends? Could Peter have given the money to someone else? Someone who could hide it for him?’
‘His only friends were among the Cathedral staff, sir,’ Jolinde said dismissively. ‘To whom could he have given such a treasure without being denounced? No one here would help him steal from the Cathedral.’
‘Perhaps his friend wouldn’t have known what he was being asked to look after,’ Baldwin mused aloud.
‘We are forgetting another person,’ Coroner Roger said nastily. ‘If you had stolen the stuff, Jolinde, you’d have given it to one of your friends to protect, wouldn’t you?’
‘Like who?’ the young man scoffed, but then his expression took on a nervous look when the Coroner continued:
‘What about your woman?’
Chapter Ten
When they left the glum Jolinde, Coroner Roger led the way to the gate and out to the High St
reet. They were walking along in the direction of Sutton’s Inn where Jolinde’s woman worked, when the Coroner suddenly saw a man he recognised. He called out and waved, and the man crossed the road to join them.
‘Bailiff, Sir Baldwin – this is the city Bailiff, William de Lappeford. It was he who found the dead glover’s body.’
‘Oh?’ Baldwin said, turning to the man with interest.
‘That’s right, sir. I found him when his apprentice Elias had murdered him.’
De Lappeford was a large, slow man with a heavy forehead and a fixed frown of concentration. He looked the sort of person whom Baldwin would trust to obey an order entirely honestly, but who should never be put in a position of authority where independent thought was needed.
Sir Baldwin asked mildly, ‘What do you think of the apprentice?’
‘Elias? A fool, if he thought he could get away with killing his master.’
‘Did you find any money in Elias’s belongings?’
‘No, nor jewels. He must have hidden them somewhere already.’
‘How old was the corpse?’ Simon wanted to know.
‘Oh, it was fresh. Still quite warm to the touch, and the blood hadn’t congealed.’
‘So it’s not likely the lad had much time to run away and hide things, is it?’ Simon pointed out.
‘Perhaps not. But Ralph was up early.’
‘Ah, Bailiff Puttock,’ the Coroner smiled, ‘you don’t know the people of this city that well, obviously. It happens that Ralph was up well before dawn each day, when it was his habit to leave his home for a walk. The apprentice could easily have waited until his master had left the house, before going to the strongbox, taking the jewels and money, then dashing off to hide them somewhere. His master must have returned, realised what had happened, so his apprentice killed him.’
‘Would the glover have gone to his parish church each morning?’ Baldwin enquired.
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