A Murder too Soon

by Michael Jecks

  ‘I’m not sure that it would serve a useful purpose,’ the Coroner said.

  ‘He is only bringing messages to the Lady Elizabeth, after all,’ I said. ‘He and I were charged to bring them and seek her views on matters that are—’

  ‘Unimportant compared with the complete lack of decorum and good behaviour displayed by your master during my inquest. No. He remains.’

  ‘But, Sir Henry …’ I began.

  Bedingfield shook his head. ‘It will not do, Master Blackjack, really it won’t. The fellow could have caused a riot in there. It is unacceptable. I dislike it, but there it is. It’s all too much for my Norfolk understanding, I confess, but if the good Coroner declares this, I cannot argue.’

  ‘Be grateful,’ the ‘good Coroner’ said, ‘that your own innocence was so clearly displayed today. I would not like to think that you could have been involved in the murder or in undermining my authority here.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ I said.

  ‘Good. When you found the body, was she still warm?’

  ‘Eh?’

  He repeated his question and I shrugged. ‘I think so. The blood was still liquid, and she must have died only a moment before.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I heard her drop the plate.’

  ‘Did you hear her fall?’

  ‘Well, the plate—’

  ‘That’s a “no”, then?’

  I looked from him to Sir Henry, baffled. ‘Er … I suppose so.’

  ‘So she could have been killed at that moment, or perhaps earlier, couldn’t she? And someone decided to roll a plate on the floor to give the impression that she had just fallen?’

  ‘Why would someone do that?’

  ‘Do you have anything between your ears? If a man were to commit murder, he could do so from sheer evil – stab and run. A man could also try to kill with malice aforethought, and intend to put the blame on to another. Or perhaps he might desire simply to kill and then go and fraternize with some young women to establish his innocence, while paying a servant to sling a plate down the staircase, for example. Or maybe the servant could have his master do that for him. Not many would dare to arrest a man of quality, after all, if he was representative of the Lady Elizabeth.’

  I gaped. Suddenly, the floor began to rock beneath my feet, or so it felt. I blinked and stammered my innocence, but the Coroner waved a hand airily. ‘Just wanted you to see how this could be, Master. I think it is worthwhile leaving the gates locked for a little longer, while I consider this case. After all, there is a murderer here in the palace, and it’s important that we don’t let the fellow kill anyone else. Nor that he should escape and hurt others.’

  He peered at me and all amiability fled from his eyes as he growled, ‘No: be he ever so young and good-looking!’

  I left the room considerably deflated. It was like the time when I was a boy, running through the streets of Whitstable, at my heels a small dog. The mutt had adopted me that morning, and I had thrown sticks for it, chased it, had play-fights with it, and had decided to keep it. I ran through the town to my father’s yard, and as I ran, the dog bowled along with excitement lighting his eyes. He was lean, with a long nose, like a miniature greyhound, and wore a coarse, pepper-and-salt coat. I had never owned a dog, and this was wonderful.

  And then a man came past at a canter on his great horse, there was a squeak, and my new companion was a whining, crumpled mess. The man’s horse slipped slightly, and he threw me a scowl of contempt before riding on, leaving me with the injured dog. It was too late to help him, but a passing tradesman took the body, shaking his head and making tutting noises, and then quickly did something with his hands. When he passed the body back to me, the dog’s head flopped.

  I don’t know why, but there was something about that memory that came back to me now. To have been so full of hope, only to have it dashed in an instant, was not so much appalling or distressing as strangely enervating. I felt as if all the energy had been sucked from my body in that instant. I tottered out into the yard again and stood there, feeling the weak sun on my face, and wondering how much longer we would all be forced to remain in this damned palace.

  Palace be damned! It was a prison now. It held all of us in its grip, and we were forced to remain here no matter what our own lives or interests demanded. I really hated that place.

  ‘I am sorry about your master.’

  I discovered that Bedingfield had joined me. He cast a glance back at the hall. ‘I cannot say that I like that man,’ he said. There was a weary note to his voice. He looked from the hall to the gatehouse, then back at the hall. ‘There was a time when I was delighted to be asked to come here. That was in the days of the old King, of course. King Henry was a man whom you refused at your peril – not that I wished to. He was a hard man, firm, rigorous, but fair. You know he sent me here?’

  ‘I had heard something of it.’

  ‘Yes, he had me installed to hold our Queen’s mother here, and the Queen too. Of course, that was many years ago. And it was difficult, very difficult.’ He seemed to lose his thread, shaking his head and mumbling, gazing at the ground.

  ‘My master is being held in quite intolerable conditions,’ I ventured.

  ‘Yes, well, the Coroner demanded that he should be held.’

  ‘But could he not be held in decent accommodation? His chamber is over there,’ I pointed, ‘and you could have him held within the palace walls. At least then he would have the fresh air and decent food. In the gaol cell, he is suffering.’

  ‘The Coroner said that he must be held securely.’

  ‘Then order him to be moved to his chamber and held there. Have a guard on his door to prevent his escape. There are enough guards and to spare!’

  ‘I do not—’

  ‘Of course,’ I interrupted as a thought struck me, ‘it would be most upsetting if the Queen were to hear that her own sister’s messenger was being held in such demeaning conditions, but you could say that you were overruled in the matter. After all, what are you, a man instructed by the Queen, compared with a Coroner with his warrant? She would understand if you had accidentally caused a fresh rift between the Queen and Lady Elizabeth.’

  ‘Me? Cause a rift?’ The poor fellow turned his eyes upon mine. They looked like badly poached eggs.

  ‘If Lady Elizabeth complains about the treatment meted out to her messenger, the Queen will want to know why it happened. She will look to who argued for my master’s better treatment. She will enquire who it was who kept him locked away and I will be duty-bound to tell her.’

  ‘I have no authority here,’ Bedingfield said, half to himself. ‘The Coroner orders it, and I—’

  ‘You are the seneschal here; you are the man responsible for the running of the palace, for the smooth organization and protection of your charges. The Coroner doesn’t have to worry about such affairs, does he?’

  ‘The Coroner seems to suspect him.’

  ‘He can suspect many. He almost accused me just now, even though I had three witnesses to say I was not involved.’

  ‘You had nothing to do with the Lady Throcklehampton’s death?’

  His eyes were disconcertingly steady when he looked up at me.

  I shook my head. ‘I swear on my mother’s grave and the Gospels: I had nothing to do with her death.’

  Bedingfield threw another look back towards the hall. ‘It’s not as if there’s even an accusation to suggest that your master was complicit in the murder. This Coroner wants only to make trouble for others. He forces me to become involved.’

  ‘Where were you when the lady was killed?’ I asked.

  ‘Me?’ he said, and stared at me as if I had lost my senses. ‘I was in the solar. I had been hunting all morning and took a few moments of rest, as I always do,’ he added sadly. I think it had just occurred to him that he had missed his opportunity for a doze today.

  ‘You were alone, of course.’

  ‘Yes, I was walking with my daug
hter and …’ His eyes suddenly hardened and he glared at me. ‘Do you mean to suggest that—’

  ‘No, of course not. But others may ask. After all, why should you kill your own spy?’

  ‘Yes. It would be ridiculous,’ he said, but there was an edge to his voice.

  ‘Did you see her before her death?’

  ‘I had seen her earlier, yes, but there was nothing for her to communicate.’

  ‘No one could have heard you shouting and arguing.’

  ‘We didn’t shout or—’

  ‘Good, because were that to have happened, people might think you had reason to kill her. Perhaps she refused to spy any longer, or she—’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Besides, there were witnesses with me,’ he said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I was with my steward and my daughter and others at the inner parlour discussing meals.’

  That was interesting, but since I knew his daughter had been near enough to rescue me, it was quite possible that Sir Henry could have had a hand in the killing. ‘That is good,’ I said.

  ‘There can be no suspicion on me or my daughter,’ he said.

  In that he was right. But then who was guilty? Blount? Squire George? Or One-Eye and the knight, Sir Walter? They had been talking about the seal last evening, and One-Eye was told he’d be paid well for it. What seal, though?

  ‘You said the Coroner makes trouble?’ I said.

  ‘He has little understanding,’ Bedingfield said.

  ‘It must be hard to hold a position of power like this,’ I said helpfully. ‘It must be exhausting. A man like the Coroner perhaps doesn’t realize that you have so many conflicting calls on your time, and naturally you have the difficulty of keeping your prisoner in a happy condition. You cannot allow her to suffer any degrading treatment, naturally.’

  ‘No, that would be shocking. She is a lady.’

  ‘And half-sister to the Queen.’

  ‘She has been declared illegitimate,’ Bedingfield said, but there was an anxious glance my way as he spoke.

  ‘Yes. And others were accused of that in the past, only to come to great power, as you yourself know,’ I said. I had no need to remind him of the fact that he had been gaoler to Catherine of Aragon all those years ago. ‘And there is the other matter, of course. It is difficult to maintain a place this size and a complement of soldiers quite as large as this. You must have good financial support to keep Lady Elizabeth in the style that she expects.’

  He gulped at that. I knew as well as he did that the money to keep Woodstock running came mostly from Lady Elizabeth herself.

  ‘Lady Elizabeth is most generous with her support,’ he said. There was a plaintive tone in his voice, like a child who still seeks a sweetmeat after accidentally letting the hounds eat the dinner: I did turn the spit as you asked, and cooked the meat to perfection. I deserve my reward for that, surely?

  ‘I think she will find it difficult to keep her support for the place with her most important messenger held in gaol. She will not be able to release funds, nor call for other monies to be sent, while my master is held in your gaol. It is very sad, but she will undoubtedly restrict her assistance.’

  ‘Then she will learn what it is like to undergo hardship,’ he said with a firmness that alarmed me.

  ‘No, no! You would punish her for something she cannot control? You cut off her sole means of support and therefore decide to make her suffer more indignities? She will be most upset to hear that.’

  I had not meant anything by that. I was pleading to have Master Blount freed, and no more, but as soon as I finished speaking, his face crumpled like an old parchment in a fire.

  ‘Please! Master,’ he said, ‘you will speak for me, will you not?’

  ‘How can I, when my master is held in your gaol?’ I said innocently with my hands held out.

  Thus was the arrangement struck.

  I hold no great affection for the man, but I did hope for a mild expression of gratitude when Blount was released into my care. He stumbled from the cell, rubbing at chafed wrists and glaring about him with eyes slitted against the sun for the first moments, and then grunted one word at me: ‘Ale.’

  I took him to the buttery and drew off a quart and a half of ale, but as soon as I had, the Bear and his young, fair-haired companion arrived. They took Blount from me and helped him across the yard to his room by the gatehouse, leaving me behind. I felt I was superfluous to their needs. I entered the hall, sat on a bench and was drinking a pint, morosely telling myself that it was typical that I should rescue my master, but no one would thank me for it, when I became aware of a quiet step. Glancing behind up the hall, I saw One-Eye dart behind a pillar. It made me grunt in irritation. Still, if I were to be followed by anyone, I would much rather it were a clumsy, one-eyed fool like him than anyone else.

  There were more steps, and I saw the giant I still thought of as Friar Tuck walk down the hall towards me. He meandered amiably enough, until he reached the pillar where One-Eye was hiding. There he stopped and frowned. ‘What are you doing there, Master Matthew?’

  I could hear hissing and muttering, and leaned forward as though that could help me discover what was being said.

  ‘Me? What, am I disturbing you? I merely wondered what you might be doing there. Nothing, eh? Ah. Very well, then I shall leave you there. Eh? No, I won’t mention that you’re there, if you do not wish it.’

  He shrugged, and began to whistle as he continued on his way down the hall. Near me, he bent his head in welcome. ‘Master Jack, perhaps you have a few moments to talk about matters?’ Taking my nod as agreement, he continued, ‘I could happily take a cup of ale. Can I replenish yours as well?’

  Truth be told, I was nothing loath. I felt that I had performed well that day, and all I sought was a little display of gratitude. Friar Tuck led the way through to the screens, and along into the buttery. He drew himself a large jug of ale and sat on a barrel, drinking pensively. Occasionally, his left hand would go to his right wrist and rub it contemplatively while staring into the middle distance. I might as well not have been there. Then his eyes fixed on me.

  ‘Master Jack, you are an enigma to me. At first I was convinced that you were a murderer, but the more I see of you, the less I think it possible.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Me? I am called Jonathan Harvey. A good name. A fellow should always protect his good name. For without it, what are we? A name that has been sullied is no longer a pass to polite society. If you spoil your name, if you poison it, you ruin yourself, for ever.’

  ‘What are you?’

  ‘Ah, that is different. Once I was a priest, but now I am a seeker of trifles for others.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You are no assassin, young man. You have a keen interest in women, ale and a quiet life without drama. That much I perceive. However, you are keenly interested in this murder. I wonder why that is?’

  ‘I was accused of it, almost.’

  ‘Yes. The one-eyed warrener is conspicuously stupid. You are plainly more interested in investigating women’s hearts than their throats,’ he said. ‘So who do you think was responsible for the poor woman’s death?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ I said.

  ‘Bedingfield is not competent to murder a woman. I’ve known some few women-killers. Rarely does a man of sensibility like Bedingfield commit such an act. He has learned over the years that he should protect women. It goes with his chivalric education and his protectiveness towards his daughter. Women are to be revered in his world. Others can kill women, but they are different. The man with hatred in his heart and a drawn dagger will usually be caught. He will stab or punch, or throttle in a moment of lunacy, driven by his black heart.’

  ‘What of these “others”?’

  He looked at me and his eyes took on a distant look. ‘There are some who will slay, but rarely for no reason – they kill for money, perhaps – but most are hard, violent, unthinking men, who hold rage in the
ir hearts, who lose their temper swiftly and for little cause, who draw a knife because they dispute the price of a coupling, or because they think their woman is playing with another man’s pizzle.’

  ‘Is there a man like that in this household?’

  ‘Is there indeed? There is you, Jack. You are clever, devious, cautious, unscrupulous, aren’t you? That is the sort of fellow who could do this. Someone who intends not to be forced to pay the price for his crimes.’

  I didn’t like the way this fellow thought. ‘What reason could I have for hurting her?’

  ‘She was spying on your master’s Princess. I know all about it, my friend. I am to help you.’

  ‘Sir Thomas told you to come?’

  ‘Of course! To watch your back. You are clever, but some distrust you for that reason. However, no matter what others say, I consider you an unlikely assassin. Such men kill, but do so with care to make sure that their offences do not come to entrap them. They may stab, but they will know where to go afterwards to effect an escape. You tumbled over the body as though to ensure you must be caught. This killer was more careful than that. He killed for another reason, not for simple anger, but for money, for profit, for power, or …’

  He returned to his reverie. ‘There is something about this death that I have missed. I needs must discover what the motive was for this death. You did not commit this crime. Perhaps it was a bitter husband, or lover.’

  ‘You are trying to seek the murderer?’

  ‘Someone has to, and that blockhead of a Coroner is too alarmed of the impact on his personal future to do more than go through the motions. Who do you think could be responsible?’

  ‘I see. Well, if by “lover” you mean the squire, I do not think so. He is frustrated because he is married, and his wife is about to give birth.’