‘But why boy? You were safe here for as long as you wanted! Why steal from your home?’ Stephen asked.
‘You’ve seen what happens to Secondaries. We never last long. We’re either made into sub-Deacons or we’re out. Well, I’ll never get to be a sub-Deacon, that’s obvious.’
‘You were safe here for as long as you could have wanted!’
‘I think that clears up Ralph the glover’s suggestion that there was a theft going on,’ Baldwin noted.
‘Does this have to be bruited abroad?’ Stephen asked. ‘News of this would break the Dean’s heart.’
‘Come outside with us a moment,’ Baldwin said.
‘What do you want?’ Stephen said when they were out in the chill sunlight.
‘The truth. If you tell me the truth on two points, I shall swear to keep your secrets but I must know, just so that I can be certain that the killer is not escaping justice.’
Stephen drew in a breath. ‘Very well.’
‘First, Peter.’
‘His crime was foul. My brother told me categorically that he and Hamond had nothing to do with the robbery of Karvinel, yet Peter’s evidence helped condemn the man. I think Karvinel most cruelly and dishonestly forced Peter to lie for him. Perhaps – I cannot tell – but maybe Peter committed suicide realising his mortal sin. He had caused another man to be killed.’
‘I understand. And the other: Adam’s father. Who is he?’
Stephen gave him a hunted look. ‘Why do you need to know? That is not my secret.’
The Cathedral doors opened and people began to flood out onto the grassed precinct. Simon watched the folk pass by and heard Baldwin murmuring into Stephen’s ear.
The Canon nodded resignedly, then shook his head. ‘Yes. I fear you are quite right.’
Vincent le Berwe shook hands heartily with the thickset Breton and then sat back in his chair as his client left. It was hard to contain his glee. He had confirmed orders for wine, for lead and for dyes. All in all, a good day’s work. If he could keep up the momentum he would soon be able to cover his losses.
It had been a jolt to see Sir Thomas in the tavern, but the fellow had cleared off smartish, taking his half-wit with him, thank God. The dribbling weak-minded wretch repelled Vincent; how Sir Thomas could bear the creature’s proximity was beyond him. Still, the two had gone, and that was a relief. Vincent had no desire to be seen anywhere near his leading business associate, as he liked to think of Sir Thomas, in case he decided to talk to Vincent. Someone might have seen them together, which would have been disastrous. It was too risky. The man was a known outlaw, for God’s sake!
Vincent jerked his head at a serving girl for more wine.
That was the pleasantest aspect of the position of Receiver – the fact that he could expect respect from everyone in the city. Not least because he would become one of the richest men in the place. It would depend upon how the revenues went during his term of office, naturally, but provided that he could keep afloat for a few more months, he should be all right. And that meant pulling in every debt he owned.
As if on cue he saw Nick Karvinel appear in the doorway. Vincent motioned to the other merchant to join him. Karvinel hesitated, but then he pulled a wry face and crossed the room, sitting where the Breton had been only a few minutes before. ‘What are you after, Vincent?’
‘Come on, Nick. There shouldn’t be any hard feelings. All I want is the money you owe me. Do you have it yet?’
Karvinel took a mazer from the next table, glanced into it, then filled it with Vincent’s wine. He drank deeply, then met Vincent’s gaze with a firm eye. ‘I don’t think I care to pay.’
Vincent felt hot blood rush into his face. Karvinel’s tone was insolent, intentionally rude. It was not the voice of a man who owed respect, it was that of a man who owed nothing. ‘What do you mean, you “don’t care to”? I don’t give a shit what you do or don’t wish, Nick. You owe me money and I want it back – all right?’
‘Shut up, Vincent. I don’t like the tone of your voice.’
‘You don’t like my voice? I don’t–’
‘Where did all Ralph’s basan and Cordova leather go?’
‘What?’
Karvinel leaned back and cast a contemplative eye over the people in the room. None had so far noticed their altercation, and Karvinel was happy that it should remain that way. He smiled coldly at Vincent. ‘The fact is, I hear that you sold Ralph a load of basan and cordwain. It was witnessed by the Coroner, wasn’t it? Yet there’s none in Ralph’s shop.’
‘He must have sold it.’
‘I don’t think so.’
Vincent pulled his lips back over his teeth in what could have been a smile or a snarl. ‘Prove it! Do you realise I can have you arrested for such an allegation?’
‘I wonder what the City Freemen would think of a Receiver who took leathers from a dead man’s shop. And if he did that,’ Nick continued, now eyeing Vincent with a more serious expression as the Receiver went very still, ‘when did he do it? Did he take the stuff after his friend had been dead a matter of hours – or a matter of moments?’
‘What are you saying?’ le Berwe whispered.
‘Did you kill him, Vincent?’
‘I should stab your God-cursed body for that!’
‘I know you were there that day. So did my clerk; he saw your cart outside.’
‘Bollocks! Bring him here!’ Then Vincent’s face went white.
‘Yes, Vincent. That’s what I wondered too. How convenient that the only witness to your act was a man who is now also dead. My poor clerk Peter,’ said Karvinel pointedly. He rose. ‘I have to go now, but I think there’s no hurry in paying you. You may be in prison soon.’
Outside, Nicholas Karvinel felt justifiably pleased with himself. He had effectively called a halt to the threat of a demand for money while at the same time putting the fear of God into Vincent.
Of course he had no proof that Vincent was actually responsible for the murder of Ralph, but it would make sense, bearing in mind that Ralph was a possible competitor for honours; honours meant money, and Karvinel was sure that Vincent would not turn down any opportunity for increasing his wealth. Ignorant of the foundering of Vincent’s ship, Karvinel thought le Berwe’s demand for his debt to be repaid was motivated by pure greed. This unreasonable demand from one whom Karvinel thought to be rich was an insult.
Reaching his door, he paused a moment. Farther along the street he could see Coroner Roger. On an impulse he waved and shouted to him to let him know where he could find Vincent. Then, with a feeling of satisfaction, he watched as the Coroner hurried away, calling to the City Bailiff as he went.
He could remember the clear, alcoholically enhanced fantasy of killing Vincent from the tavern on Christmas Eve, and the vision rose before him again of Vincent le Berwe’s face as Nick shoved his dagger into the greedy bastard’s guts. It would be good to see the bastard squirm while spitted like a capon on a stick. But if he couldn’t do that, at least he could put the Coroner onto him. That might be even more enjoyable in its way.
The smoke above the city swirled, blown by a freezing blast from the south, and Karvinel saw the clouds scudding past at speed. It was getting dark now, and the weather looked as if it would break soon. It would be good to get inside and sit beside the fire.
Then a spirit of rebellion rose in his breast. What was the point of going home? His wife would be sitting sulking because of the loss of her maid and their bottler, and because of their financial problems. She would be waspish about any conversation he instigated, scathing about any new ventures he mentioned. Her companionship was the last thing he needed tonight.
He sniffed disdainfully and set off to an alehouse further up the street.
Coroner Roger saw Vincent le Berwe as soon as he entered the tavern. Nodding towards their quarry, the Coroner marched up to Vincent’s table and pulled up a stool without offering a greeting.
Vincent gave him a welcoming smile, but the Co
roner’s face twisted into a mask of revulsion.
‘I wanted,’ he said in a low voice, ‘to see you to ask what sort of a man could do it.’
‘What?’ asked the baffled Vincent.
‘Pay his own son to perjure himself,’ the Coroner spat.
Vincent felt his face go chill, as if all the blood had drained in a moment. ‘Perjure? I… I don’t…’
‘Balls, you lying bastard! Your boy has confessed to his part in the fraud and theft from Ralph, and he’s told us how you bribed him to make sure that Ralph was conned. Were you proud to have perverted your own son?’
‘It wasn’t a perversion, it was the only way to protect him!’ Vincent snapped, stung into retaliation.
‘How?’
‘Ralph stood in my way: he was the only man who could have prevented my being re-elected as Receiver. I had to make sure that he was removed. Otherwise, how could I have built up my position in the City? If Jolly is to win my inheritance, I have to protect it. I couldn’t allow Ralph to get in the way.’
‘So you tried to ruin him?’
Vincent looked away. ‘It seemed the best thing to do,’ he muttered.
‘And when you failed, you had him murdered.’
‘No! I didn’t do that. I’ve never tried to have a man killed.’
‘Then who did? Everyone liked Ralph…’
‘What about Karvinel? He couldn’t stand Ralph, and Ralph was even more of a competitor to him, seeing both were glovemakers.’ Vincent’s brow cleared. ‘That must be it! Nick Karvinel knew that the Cathedral always ordered gloves from Ralph to be made for the Holy Innocents’ Day celebrations. If he could get rid of him, he thought he’d be able to win the contract to finish the job and earn himself some much-needed cash. So he murdered Ralph and took over that business, but he also stole all Ralph’s money.’
The Coroner eyed him with distaste. ‘So now you’ll put the blame onto another unfortunate? Karvinel is no kind of a threat to anyone, not in his present state.’ He frowned as he considered his words. Often in the past he had found that the most meek and humble people could turn to violence when they felt they had no alternative. Karvinel was moderately courteous and mild-mannered, it was true, but he also wore a dagger. He could have become so bitter that he had decided to take matters into his own hands.
‘Why should I have killed Ralph?’ Vincent said, holding both hands out, palms upwards. ‘He was no threat to me once I had put my little plan into operation. There was no point in my killing him.’
‘Maybe he realised what had happened,’ the Coroner said speculatively.
‘Not so far as I know. If I had to bet, I’d say Karvinel did it.’
Simon and Baldwin returned to their inn as dusk was giving way to full night. Jeanne met them in the crowded and smoke-filled hall, Edgar standing at her side to keep unwanted visitors at bay, glowering at any stranger who approached too close. Both appeared relieved to see the two men return.
Baldwin took his seat and motioned to the host to serve them. While waiting, he looked enquiringly at his wife. ‘Are you well? Did you enjoy your tour of the city?’
‘Yes, it was interesting enough, but not so fascinating as your enquiries. I heard another man was poisoned – is it true?’
‘I am afraid so. It was one of the Secondaries called Adam, although, thank God, he should recover. So long as the apothecary’s intervention does not put an end to him first!’
‘Who did it?’
‘There we have the difficulty,’ Simon grunted, throwing a leg over a bench and surveying the crowd in the bar. ‘Two folks have been suspected, but neither seem probable. One is only a child, while the other is le Berwe’s illegitimate son, who has no reason to want to harm Adam.’
‘I think I have news for you, then,’ Jeanne declared, and told them of Hawisia’s terrified appearance and her assertions about Jolinde.
‘She suggests that he poisoned them?’ Baldwin breathed. ‘My God. That would follow on from what the Dean told us.’
Simon nodded. ‘He said rumours suggested Jolinde had tried to kill his father’s wife and got the wrong woman – Ralph’s wife. Now Hawisia says she thinks he succeeded with poison. God’s bollocks!’
Baldwin agreed. ‘I loathe and detest poison. It is so cowardly. There is no courage in attacking someone with such an indiscriminate weapon. It is a tool used by the weak and feebleminded.’
Simon looked at him. ‘I have never heard you so scathing, Baldwin.’
‘The older I become, the more appalled I grow to see such foul behaviour. It is obnoxious to consider putting orpiment or somesuch in a man’s food or drink. A man should be able to trust that his food is safe no matter what.’
Jeanne put her hand on his arm. ‘Calm yourself, husband. Try to think of happier things.’
‘How can I, Jeanne?’ he snapped. ‘The murderer is in the city somewhere and could well strike again at any time. Perhaps it is Jolinde, perhaps it was truly the child Luke! How on earth can I relax when anyone picking up a lump of bread or piece of fruit could be poisoned? How many more will be dead by morning?’
Vincent himself was little happier. He was filled with a deep moroseness which lay heavily on his soul as he walked into his hall.
Hawisia sat waiting for him at their table, and seeing him enter she poured warmed wine into his favourite silver-chased mazer and brought it to him beside the fire. He smiled weakly at her before emptying it in one go. She took it from him and refilled it, passing it to him with solemn assurance.
‘Husband, you are troubled?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Troubled?’ He stared at her as if awoken from a slow lethargy and despair attacked him with renewed force. He shot nervous looks about him, agitatedly biting his nails. Standing, he strode over to the table and was about to place his mazer on it when the urge suddenly took him to smash it. He lifted it high as if to dash it on the floor in a rage; but as soon as the urge took hold of him, it left him, and he let his hands slowly fall to the table, setting the cup down.
In an instant she was at his side, an arm about his shoulder as he began to sob. ‘My love, my darling, what is it? Oh, tell me what has happened!’
He couldn’t speak for some while. The words felt as though they would choke him. After so much effort and work, after all his careful planning to recover from the disastrous loss of his ship, he would now be ruined. ‘The Coroner came to see me just now.’
‘Yes, he was here earlier while I was out. Apparently he was in a foul mood,’ Hawisia said.
‘Not so foul as when he saw me! He knows everything – how I had Jolly take Ralph’s money and jewels, how I had Jolly get the fool to sign his mark on the receipt so that Ralph could be shown to be a thief when the gloves were presented… everything!’
Hawisia didn’t know what to do or say. She kissed his cheek, murmuring soft words to ease him, but Vincent stood resting his hands on the table-top, his eyes closed. ‘We are ruined, Hawisia. There’s nothing else I can do.’
‘Why? He hasn’t arrested you. He obviously doesn’t think he has enough proof to present you before the King’s Justice.’
‘Christ alive, woman, it’s not only him! Karvinel came to see me as well. He said he would accuse me of being there when Ralph died; said he would allege his clerk saw me there.’
‘His clerk is dead,’ Hawisia pointed out.
‘True, but if he swore it, I could be lynched!’
‘A man must be alive to accuse you.’
‘But Karvinel could convince others. Oh, Christ!’
‘Darling, there is something you could try. I know you had your own men rob Karvinel.’
‘You mean my friend in the woods?’ He turned to her with a terrible understanding in his eyes. ‘You mean pay Sir Thomas to kill Karvinel?’
‘Why not? He has robbed the man and fired his house on your orders.’
‘I couldn’t,’ Vincent said. But he knew that he could. His eyes were staring into the distance as he wo
ndered whether this could indeed provide him with a solution. And he knew the alehouse where Sir Thomas would be staying. He always chose the same low dive: the Cock.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sir Thomas was disgusted by her. When she felt the blade at her neck she had thought he was playing some kind of game, that it was a sign he enjoyed inflicting or receiving pain with sex and she had moaned with desire for him.
He shoved her from him and asked her his questions. She had not been much help. He felt no nearer a solution, an answer as to why his comrade had died. He was forced to the conclusion that it was the whim of a wealthy man, someone who had picked a scapegoat simply because he could. A suspected outlaw would fit the bill – why not make use of him?
Juliana had tried to tempt him into her bed, with a kind of desperate passionless longing. She wanted a man, she said, a strong man who would rescue her from her husband. No price was too high for her freedom. All the man need do was kill Nicholas, the useless fool and she would give herself to him completely.
He had slapped her, hard, three or four times, until her lips swelled and the blood ran, but still she asked him to help her – offering her body, her few jewels, all her money. She repelled him; with her disloyalty and shabby, sordid advances. In the end he left her lying semi-naked on her bed, watching him leave with large empty eyes, as though he was her last hope and prayer and he was leaving her desolated.
It was in the hall that he heard the knock. Instantly he ran to the ladder and slipped down to the ground. Crossing the floor, he peered round the door into the hall. The room was clear, and he hurried to the screens door, looking into the passageway.
The tapping at the door came again and he glanced about him. He had limited options. There were the two doors opposite, leading to the buttery and storerooms, or he could run to the back door. Making a quick decision, he crossed to the buttery and squeezed behind the door. There he waited.
He heard the door open, soft footsteps entering. They passed through into the hall, then out at the far end, going into the solar.
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