The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits Volume 2 (The Mammoth Book Series)

by Mike Ashley

  Mat Coward (b. 1960) has been writing for over fifteen years and his books include such diverse titles as Success . . . And How to Avoid it (2001) and The Best of Round the Horne (2000). With Up & Down (2000) he began a series of crime novels featuring DI Don Packham and PC Frank Mitchell. His work has appeared in all the major mystery magazines and anthologies. The following story is set at the time of the Peasants’ Revolt in 1381 and sets a special dilemma for its protagonist.

  “With whom hold you?”

  “Stand aside, child,” said William. “We’re in the middle of Jack Straw’s Castle, we don’t need watchwords.”

  The sentry – a boy of about thirteen – trembled a little, and bit his lip, but still he stood his ground, his spear pointing towards us. “With whom hold you?” he said again.

  I admired anyone, man or boy, who might stand up to my cousin William (a large and noisy man, where I am small and quiet), so I spoke before William had a chance to bark again.

  “With King Richard and the True Commons.”

  “Pass, Captain.” The lad gave me a smile of gratitude, lowered his weapon, and stood smartly to one side as William and I entered the tent.

  The smell of blood, of life’s blood spilt, was one I knew well enough; there were few men in those days who didn’t. For all that, the scene within the tent shook my soul. This was not death on the battlefield, nor yet death from the plague. This was something more terrible by far. A man of thirty years or so lay lifeless upon the ground, face-down, his blood all about him. “Murder,” I said. “This is murder.”

  William nodded. “Without doubt, John. A cry was heard from this tent, and a man seen leaving it, as bold as dawn, with blood upon him. I was sent for, saw what you now see, and set that silly boy to guard the tent while I went to fetch you.”

  Me . . . yes. They called me Captain, and had elected me so, though I was by trade a pigman. I knew all about pigs that any man might know, but I knew nothing of murder. I said as much to my cousin, as we returned to the sweeter air of the Heath. Spring was surrendering to summer, and the early evening was mild and pleasant.

  “Who else can we turn to, John?” he answered. “Our situation is such that we cannot call on the usual authorities. You are our leader, here in this camp.”

  “Leader?” I laughed. “John Ball preaches that there are no lords; that we are all the descendants of Adam and Eve, each equal to the other.”

  William was always a man of short temper, and his tone was one of irritation. “You know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean,” I admitted. Back home in the county of Sussetter I had been, for the last twelvemonth, an organizer in the Great Society. I collected pennies from the commons in my village, and those neighbouring it, and encouraged them to refuse to work for any lord for less than sixpence per day. The moneys amassed were used to pay the fines of any member who stood true for his rights, and was persecuted for doing so.

  Had I known that this would result in men calling me Captain – expecting me to lead them in this uprising against the traitors and bloodsuckers who held our King in thrall – I should never have accepted the commission.

  “I am no Wat Tyler, cousin.”

  He grinned, and threw a huge arm around my shoulders. “You are our Wat Tyler. There are 300 men upon this Heath today, many of them strangers to you and to me, but all of them know you by reputation, John. A steadfast man, and a just man. If we are to hold the men together in this great undertaking, then this horrible matter must be settled quickly, and justly.”

  “By me?”

  “By you. So, Captain – let us make a start.”

  I accepted my destiny, and collected my thoughts. “The bloodied man seen leaving the scene of the crime – he was taken?”

  “He is held.”

  “Then,” I said, “let us begin with him.”

  All around London, that night, there were camps like ours – some bigger, some smaller. The next day, all would assemble together, under the counsel of Wat Tyler, to meet with the young King; and, God willing, all would be put right. The poll tax would be lifted; the bloodsucking, high-living traitors, who so cruelly suppressed the porail, and waged foreign wars for their own enrichment, would be removed from office and arrested; the Church would be dispossessed of its great wealth, and its numerous bishops defrocked; most important of all, the state of villeinage itself would be abolished. There would be but one lord in the kingdom, under God: the King himself.

  Our band, drawn from a number of villages in the far west of Sussetter, had made camp there on the northern heights overlooking London for no better reason than that one of our number had family in the nearby village of Hampstead. Near a mill pond we set up, alongside some ancient earthworks upon a hill. According to the locals – as best we could understand through their thick accents, that is – this used to be a castle, hundreds and hundreds of years ago. So, naturally, the lads began calling it “Sir John Ball’s Castle” or “Sir Jack Straw’s Castle”.

  The merchants of the neighbourhood made us welcome enough, and sold us good provender at fair prices. The old system of lords and serfs was not to their liking at all. They would have us all freemen, earning good wages – that we might spend those wages on their goods, and also that they and the manufacturers upon whom they depended, might find the labour they needed, when they needed it, at a price set in the market place, not in the manor house.

  All in all, considering the serious business upon which we were embarked, it was a jolly scene there up on the Heath, with camp fires sparkling in the dusk, men drinking and singing, and the good, godly aroma of fellowship and brotherhood enveloping all.

  Who sort of man would befoul such a scene with bloody murder? And for what reason?

  As to the first question, I soon had an answer. The man who sat on the ground inside William’s tent, his wrists roped behind him, was tall, of middle years, his head entirely bald, and wore an expression that was at once severe and calm.

  “I don’t know you, do I?” I said. “I am John Cable, of Middlefield.”

  “I know who you are.”

  I waited for the prisoner to say more but he did not. “And you, brother?”

  He looked at me for a moment, as if deciding whether or not my question was worth answering. “I am Edmund Bull,” he said at last, “not of Middlefield.”

  “Well then, Edmund Bull,” I said, sitting opposite him, and wondering how on earth one went about interrogating a suspected killer. It was not a skill much honed by pigmen. “You have blood on your clothes. Have you killed a man today?”

  I suddenly realized that I did not know the name of the departed soul. William, standing immediately behind the prisoner, must have had the same thought at the same moment, for he spoke now. “The man who was killed, Captain, was one Richard Hunt, of the village of Three Oaks.”

  “I know the place. I have been there once or twice, upon the business of the Great Society. And you, Edmund – you are also from Three Oaks?”

  Bull merely shrugged; that was two questions he hadn’t answered, I noted. Two crucial questions. If he maintained this policy of silence, I should soon be forced to make a decision concerning his fate. This far from home, and in such conditions, there could be only one outcome. The thought filled me with revulsion.

  “Edmund, I shall say this bluntly. If you refuse to speak to me, then tomorrow’s dawn will find you hanging from a tree on the Heath. Without your testimony my hands are as tied as yours.”

  He looked away into nothingness for a while. When his gaze returned to meet mine, I thought I saw a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. “I shall hang anyway, Captain. Such speech as I might offer would serve only to pass the time until your hanging-tree receives its burden.”

  The prospect did not seem to dismay him. I could see about him nothing of rage, or triumph – nor yet of remorse, nor fear. Yet by his words, surely, he had confessed to the crime with which he was charged? One thing seemed clear, if nothing else did: that
there was a story here, and that I would sleep uncomfortably for a long time to come, should I send a man to the rope without knowing why.

  “Let us start with simple fact, Edmund. You killed this man, Richard Hunt?”

  The accused nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I am from Three Oaks.”

  “What?”

  “You asked me, Captain, if I was of the same village as the dead man. The answer is yes.” He smiled.

  “You little turd!” yelled William, clouting Bull around the head with a hand the size of a horse’s buttock. “The Captain asked –”

  “All right, William.” I held out one of my own, much smaller hands, to prevent another blow falling. “Edmund Bull may tell us his story in whatever manner pleases him, so long as he tells it true.” I turned to Bull, whose expression had not changed, despite the rivulet of blood trickling from his upper lip. “Will you do that, Edmund? Tell it true?”

  He merely smiled again, and shrugged his shoulders. I was making no progress against his obstinacy, his apparent lack of concern for his fate. Watching him while he watched me, I saw how I must appear to him: a man of nearly forty years, of unimpressive physical stature, tired and confused. Well: Edmund Bull was not to know it, but I had fathered three sons and two daughters in my time, and I flattered myself that I knew something of the methods by which a smile may be wiped from a naughty face.

  “Has the prisoner been searched?” I asked. “Has he been stripped of his clothing, to discover what it might conceal?”

  “He has not,” William replied.

  “Then see to it now, please.” I left the tent without another word, and without even a glance at the accused man. I walked back to the place of murder, and looked again at the horrors to be found there; more calmly this time. Exposure to vileness deadens the involuntary reactions, as any man whose workaday world involves the slaughter of animals will readily attest.

  By the time I returned to my cousin’s tent, Edmund Bull was naked, other than the rope re-tied around his wrists. His look was less confident, now.

  “Did you find it, William?”

  Whether or not William had guessed what it was, he betrayed no hesitation in his answer. “We found nothing, Captain.”

  I remained standing this time, for the purpose of looking down on the supposed murderer. “You cannot kill a pig with bare hands, Edmund,” I said. When he did not reply, I added: “Nor yet a man – at least, not one who died so bloodily as Richard Hunt.”

  After a moment, Bull said: “He did bleed mightily, didn’t he? So much blood.”

  “A cry was heard,” I said. “A terrible cry, the sound of a man dying. Several people rushed immediately towards the tent from which the noise came. As they did so, they saw you emerge from that same tent, with blood upon your hands, arms and clothing. You were taken and held by those men, and from there you were brought to this tent – a distance of 200 paces. Will you grant me, at least, the accuracy of the story so far?”

  Bull nodded. “That much is true.”

  I leaned down until my face was only inches from his. “And yet you sit here, naked, your clothing having been investigated by my cousin . . . and no sign is there of the weapon with which you killed Richard Hunt.”

  I looked up and met William’s eyes; he nodded. So, he had understood what I was about, and his search would have been thorough and purposeful.

  The accused stretched his spine, and flexed his arms as if to bring back the feeling to his bound wrists. “This would seem, Captain, to speak prettily of my innocence.”

  I did not respond directly to that comment; I would play him at his own game for a while, and see where it took me. “I would say that poor Richard was slain with a short dagger. I have seen such wounds before, while on the King’s service abroad. But there is no dagger inside the dead man’s tent – I have just been to look, myself – nor on the ground outside his tent. And there is no dagger in this tent.”

  “Perhaps,” said Bull, “it was taken from me by the men who first arrested me. Or perhaps I cleverly dropped it whilst being led from that place of arrest to this place of confinement.”

  “If you had been holding a weapon in your bloody hand when you were taken, Edmund, I have no doubt that it would have been seized from you. But if it had been, it would surely have been turned over to my cousin, here, and he would have spoken of it to me. As for your second suggestion – William?”

  “I’ll set men to search the route taken from there to here.” He left the tent, and I heard him giving orders. I could not hide my smile; Cousin William was a blacksmith, and used to having his instructions obeyed.

  “I don’t think they’ll find the dagger, will they, Edmund?”

  Bull shrugged his shoulders. “If it’s there to be found, perhaps they will.”

  “Without that dagger, I should be most reluctant to hang you.”

  “Then I shall pray that their search is in vain.”

  “I do not ask again whether or not you killed Richard Hunt, for it is clear to me that that is a question you do not intend to answer. But will you tell me this? Did you see him die?”

  “You have heard the account of events, Captain. A scream; my exit; a dead man behind me. This would seem to answer your question.”

  “And yet you do not answer it. I can think of other explanations which would as well fit the facts, and which would point to your innocence. It may be, for instance, that you went to visit your neighbour, Richard Hunt, found him murdered, and ran in terror.”

  “I see. So the scream which was heard would have been mine, not his?”

  “Why not? One man’s scream sounds much like another. An old soldier like yourself would know that, I fancy.”

  Bull laughed, softly. “I have not told you that I was once a soldier. Perhaps I was –”

  “And perhaps you weren’t. Quite. But I tell you that you were, Edmund. It takes one to know one.”

  “Then, if no dagger is found, I have merely to repeat the tale you have just suggested to me, and my neck will likely retain its current length.”

  “Or,” I said, turning away from him, to give my words a falsely casual air, “I might decide that, at a moment of great destiny for England, I have no patience for trifling matters such as the lost lives of two strangers. And having so decided, I might then hang you without delay, that more important thoughts might occupy my mind.”

  There was a long silence within that tent. I did not look at him, though I was sure he was looking at me. When he spoke, it was with a calmness that seemed to me unnatural for the first time. “I do not believe you would do that, John Cable. Your love of justice is visible in every line on your face.”

  Now I faced him. “Yet, it would not suit you, would it? To be hanged this evening, rather than in the morning.”

  “It would not suit me to be hanged at any time, Captain. I am sure most men would take the same view.”

  Nonetheless, I thought, I have pierced your shell at last.

  “I shall go now to fetch food and drink for us both, Edmund,” I said, “and then we shall talk again.”

  Food and drink could wait a little longer. Leaving a man to guard the prisoner, I went first to confer with my cousin. No dagger had been found, cunningly dropped between the victim’s tent and the makeshift jailhouse.

  “As I thought,” I said. “It is increasingly my belief – or suspicion, at any rate – that Edmund Bull is innocent of this crime.”

  William shook his head, in part from amusement, I thought, and in equal part exasperation. “You always want everyone to be innocent, John.”

  “However,” I continued, “I do believe that the identity of the real killer is known to him, and that all his current actions and inactions have one design – to allow that killer time to escape. That’s why he is not frightened of being hanged, William: he knows no evidence can be found against him, because no evidence exists.”

  “Evidence can always be found,” William said, his voice dark as midnight. Many of us
had personal reasons for taking part in this crusade.

  “That is the point: Bull trusts in our justness, since justness is the only cause of our being here on this Heath at all! We are gathered for the King, and for true English law, and for Christ’s mercy. He knows we will not hang him without proof.”

  William snorted. He was not impressed. “If Bull’s aim is to enable the killer to escape justice, then Bull is as guilty as the other, and should answer for it.”

  “I know. Which is why I still hope to persuade him to talk to us soon, before his hesitation damns him utterly.”

  “If he is not the killer,” said William, after a moment’s thought, “then what was he doing in the victim’s tent?”

  “Well, they came from the same village.”

  “So he says.”

  “Yes, so he says – I can’t see why he would lie about that, can you? Assuming it’s true, then it is no mystery that he went to visit Richard Hunt, who was his friend, or neighbour, or relative.”

  William scratched at his beard. “No, John, there’s no sense in that. If Richard were his friend, why will Bull not name his murderer?”

  I thought I had an answer to that. “Because the murderer is also a friend?”

  “Could be, I suppose. Yes, that fits. Ah, but it reminds me of something else! I’ve asked around amongst those camped nearest to Richard Hunt, and no one seems to have known him, or our prisoner. The dead man’s name and home village were known, only because he had offered it when he arrived here – after the rest of us, by the way – casually, as anyone might, when meeting a stranger over a campfire.”

  “You have asked people from the same village, Three Oaks?”

  “From there, or nearby.”

  I wasn’t sure what that signified. “That is a puzzle. I shall ask Edmund about it.”

  Again, William snorted. “You might as well ask Hob the Robber what has become of the King’s treasure while he has had stewardship of it!”

  “For now, Cousin, I would have another look at the scene of the killing.”

  As we walked towards Richard Hunt’s tent, William asked: “What are you looking for? There’s nothing there, I can tell you that: tent big enough for one man, one small parcel of clothes, and a corpse. Nothing else.”