by Jane Adams
“And is she a seer-ess?”
“No,” Ethan shook his head sadly. “She’s a child. Cassie has a mental age of about nine or ten.” He turned back to the spear and added. “You can see how that might be a problem.”
Rozlyn tried to hide her shock. The girl was strikingly beautiful. Her own reaction to Cassandra, though innocent, had been precisely the sort that Ethan must worry about. “Is she your daughter?”
“No, not mine. The child of an old friend. When he died, Cassie came to live with me.
“Now, about this spear.”
“We know it was definitely the murder weapon,” Rozlyn said, the image of it being refitted into Charlie’s wounds causing a shudder to pass through her. “What I’m most concerned with now, is where it might have come from.”
“You paid visits to the names I gave you.”
“I did, yes. One was abroad, but Mr Mark Richards gave me a little of his precious time.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“How did you find him?”
“Obnoxious. Rich. Uncooperative. I’m pretty sure he’s had something stolen, though he denies it, which makes me think that whatever was stolen wasn’t legit. Had it been, he’d have been tormenting the lives out of his insurers by now, not denying all knowledge.”
“You’ve shown him the spear?”
“No, only photographs. I only got it back yesterday, after the PM. Post-mortem, that is.”
“I know what it is. His reaction?”
“I asked him if it came from his collection and he said unfortunately not. He seemed to think it was a replica, he said on account of the condition. We know it’s been on display somewhere and that it had a shaft fitted to it.”
“Oh?”
“Um, forensics turned up fragments of paint and wood inside the socket. There’d be enough to get a match if the rest turns up. Until then . . .”
“Can’t you get a warrant for Richard’s house?”
Rozlyn laughed. “On what grounds?”
“I suppose you have a point.” Ethan reached out and touched the spearhead. He moved his hand so suddenly that Rozlyn jumped. “It’s older,” Ethan said softly. “Far older than the dig site out at Theadingford. And now I look at the real thing instead of those tacky little pictures, I can see just how fine the workmanship really is. That’s what fooled me, you see. In the pictures, you lose the detail but this really is exquisite.”
“I’m sorry to sound crass,” Rozlyn said. “But would it be worth stealing? In monetary terms, I mean.”
“Oh yes, but you’d have to convince the buyer of its authenticity. To get the best price for this, you’d need the provenance.”
“I thought black market dealers weren’t too bothered about that sort of thing?”
“To get the best price for anything you need its story, Inspector Priest. The story is what separates the good from the wonderful. Without that provenance, most buyers would think as you did, that this has to be a copy. A wonderful piece of work, but nevertheless, not the real thing. With provenance, this is not only wonderful it is close to unique. You’re looking at something as precious as any object that came out of Sutton Hoo and, I’d place it at a similar date. Sixth, Seventh century, perhaps.”
“You’re kidding me?” Rozlyn had been certain that this was a fake. “Pity in a way, I’d been looking forward to meeting the guy that made it. He sure knew his stuff.”
Ethan nodded. “He did indeed. The devil of it is, though, we have no context. No idea where it came from or what else lay with it.”
“You mean, there could have been more objects like this?”
Ethan frowned, but avoided the question. “Your murder victim. It was a single stab wound, to the chest?” He asked as if it was a question but Rozlyn had the odd sensation that he merely sought verification.
“Why do you ask?”
“And . . .” Ethan closed his eyes and lifted the spear from the blotter. “He was lying on the ground.”
“How do you know that?”
Ethan smiled. “Sometimes,” he said, “when I touch an object, I can . . . sense things. Know things about it.”
“Right.” Rozlyn said. She stared at Ethan for a moment, somewhat taken aback, shaken by the reference to the very skill Rozlyn tried to hide. “Look,” she said. “I have to be going now. Thanks for your help, I’ll be in touch and maybe you’d like to tell me where you were . . .”
“When your Charlie Higgins was killed? In Edinburgh, I’m afraid. I spent three days there last week and returned last Saturday morning. Don’t worry, Inspector, I’ll give you a list of names and addresses, you can check my story.”
“I’ll be doing that.”
They both turned as the door opened and Cassie entered carrying more tea.
“You’ll stay?”
“No, I’m sorry, I have to be getting back.”
“Oh. But we’ve got biscuits?” Cassie said.
She sounded so disappointed that Rozlyn had to smile. “Sorry,” she said. “Maybe another time.” She took the spear from Ethan’s hands and packed it back into the evidence bag and then her pocket. It dragged at her coat, felt heavy and hard as it swung against her leg. Heavier than she recalled it being. “I can see myself out.”
Jasper hissed as she passed but Rozlyn barely heard him. Her brain buzzed and her fingers fizzed with something like a static charge. She felt cold inside.
Recovering the spear head, she had touched Ethan’s hand and, just for the merest instant, her mind had been flooded with the image of Charlie’s death. She had seen it; been it. Had been both Charlie lying there on the ground anticipating the blow a split second before it hit and the other, that invisible assailant, thrusting down at the helpless man. And Rozlyn had felt it, the flood of anger surging through the assailant’s mind until it was all he could conceive and, still cramping her ribs so that she could not breath without the fire of it in her lungs, the pain as the spearhead pierced her flesh and touched her heart.
CHAPTER 25
By the time she got back to base Rozlyn had recovered enough to tell herself it was just imagination. Her own tiredness had led her to give in to the suggestions that Ethan had made so that she had taken those thoughts on board without really . . . without really what?
In the end she pushed the memory aside, decided that the ache in her ribs was due to indigestion and that Jenny was right when she said Rozlyn should eat more regularly. She was probably a prime candidate for an ulcer — yes that was it — and this was all down to stress and not taking better care of herself. If she didn’t watch it she’d be swilling beers like Brook and have the belly to go with the haggard expression.
In the incident room she noticed that a description had been added to Clara Buranou’s, together with a description and a possible link back to Thomas Thompson. As yet there seemed to be no response to the enquiry she’d made about Donovan with her contact in Art and Antiques.
She was reading the description of Clara and wondering if there was anything to add when Brook came in.
“Any trace yet of our mysterious landlord?” Rozlyn asked.
Brook shook his head. “Our Mr T. Thompson is still elusive,” he said. “We’ll see what immigration come up with and meantime keep digging locally.”
Rozlyn nodded wondering what, if anything, she should tell Big Frank. “You ever come across anyone called Donovan?” she asked Brook.
“Yeah,” Brook told her. “Folk singer or summat, isn’t he?” He grinned, wolf-like. “Never figured you for one of the finger-in-the-ear crowd.”
“The what?”
“You know. Singing through your nose with one finger in your ear?” He laughed at Rozlyn’s expression, then demonstrated for her benefit, inserting one fat digit into his left ear and droning loudly through his nose.
Jenny, just entering the room, gave him a slow handclap. “Very nice, boss. Missed your calling.”
“Less cheek from you. Our clerical ins
pector here wanted to know if I’d heard of Donovan. I was just giving her my best impression.”
Rozlyn, looking at Jenny, had the satisfaction of realising that the joke was lost on her.
“Right,” she said doubtfully. Then, “I think we’ve got a lead on Clara Buranou. And who’s this Donovan anyway?” She glanced back at Brook who was preparing once more to wedge his finger in his ear. “Never mind, boss, you can enlighten me another time.”
“Clara Buranou,” Rozlyn prompted her.
“Got a call, Mr Anonymous, reckoned she was at the bus station. I’ve got someone keeping an eye.”
“Anonymous? Who the hell else knows we’re looking for her?” Big Frank, she replied to her own question the moment it was out. Big Frank knew. She frowned, wondering what the man was playing at.
“You two getting off then?” Brook demanded. “Stand around here and she’ll have skipped it again.”
“You had a call about ten minutes ago,” Jenny told her as they got in the car. “I didn’t know you were back. Someone called Stevens in Art and Antiques, reckoned he’d got something on that Donovan character.”
Rozlyn smiled. “Not the folk singer, I take it?”
“Not unless he leads a double life. Stevens wants you to phone back, but he’s emailing anyway. Sounds like Donovan is someone they’ve been after for a while.”
“Oh?”
“Sorry, can’t tell you more, he was about to go into a meeting. He just called to let you know he was onto it and would you call him back later.”
That sounded important, Rozlyn thought. She nodded. “Good. Ok, let’s see if we can round up Clara Buranou.”
CHAPTER 26
Morning, chill enough to cut to the bone. The rain had passed in the late afternoon of the day before and the clouds fled, leaving open skies that had brought frost. Morning had dawned bright and treacherous and frozen. Two nights ago, the moon had been full and winter had begun and in his bones, Treven knew that the kindness of the softest autumn he could recall in many years had passed and winter would breathe harsh words.
Treven shivered despite the thick cloak pulled tight around him. Smoke rose from the roof of the smith’s forge and the fierce hot glow of the fire bellowed his and Hugh’s reason for standing there. Hugh, clad only in linen shirt and sleeveless tunic, held himself so stiffly he looked carved in stone, only the blue of his lips betraying his chilled body. He had said nothing all morning. Nothing either, so Osric told him, since Treven had left him last night. Now it was all in the hands of God. “All Father,” Treven breathed. “If he is truly innocent then aid him now. If he is guilty, let him die swiftly.”
Kendryk, three of his senior monks beside him, observed closely as the bar was heated in the fire. Treven watched him, studying his face. He too was pale and tense, the death mask features accentuated as he leaned in towards the fire. Hugh had claimed judgement by the church and, that being done, Treven could only look on, helpless and useless.
The tramp of feet behind him caused him to turn. The brothers arrived, accompanied by the twelve who would be oath keepers beside Eldred. They had come from Theading and others from Bearwell, still others from the lands the brothers had inherited from their kin, bringing their wives and children to witness this ritual of law in which Eldred would swear oaths to clear his name and Hugh would risk his life in pursuit of the same end.
“Hugh,” Treven had begged, “let me pay the blood price. My land will serve as promise. Or allow me to send word to your kinsmen so that oath takers can be found. They would come . . .”
“And take me back to worse? No, Treven, I will not permit it. They would come to see me shamed, then take me home like a badly behaved child. And as for payment, as you’ve said yourself, if I’d a mind I could give my brooch and other jewels from my father’s house. The geld could be raised, but I’ll have none of that either. I’ll walk from here a free man, clear in conscience and unstained by guilt. I will endure this, Treven, and I will be victorious.”
After that no more could be said and Treven had spent a sleepless night waiting for the dawn.
“Come forward, Eldred and declare your purpose here,” Kendryk demanded and then stepped back, deferring to Treven.
“By the oaths I have declared before the king, I will hear you fairly,” Treven told them. “Eldred, you stand charged of brutal murder. Your wife Cate died five days past and you stand accused of her killing. I ask you, how do you plead?”
“I will swear and have brought as decreed twelve good men to help my oath, that I laid no hand on my wife that led to her death. And further, I accuse Hugh de Vries of being the one that took her life. Unto that end, I do demand justice.”
Treven surveyed the twelve men Eldred had brought with him. “Hugh de Vries has no oath helpers to stand beside him,” he said, “instead he has chosen judgment of Almighty God. He will endure the ordeal of fire and iron. Have you more to say on this matter?”
“I have said all the words I must,” Eldred told him. “If Hugh de Vries chooses this path, then I will not disclaim his right, but I do believe that the good Lord will find him guilty as my heart knows him to be.”
“You must not pre-judge,” Kendryk told him gently. “Eldred, this is now taken from your hands. Have your oath helpers step forward and name themselves and then declare their oaths and may the Lord ensure that they believe in their hearts what they swear with their lips.”
Treven was aware of the ripple of anxiety that passed through those gathered. This was no small thing that Eldred asked them to do. A man’s oath was made not just with the mouth but with the heart and soul and if a man should make a false declaration . . . Treven felt his belly grow cold at the thought of it. He looked again at Hugh, so calm and so composed and could scarcely believe that his friend was about to make just such a false declaration before both man and God. How could he hope to survive? A small part of Treven’s consciousness asked if this could ever be a true testing. Wasn’t it more a matter of will and fitness and strength than purity of soul or of intent? But Treven had seen younger, stronger men than Hugh die when their wounds festered. Men who had declared their innocence yet who had confessed as they died that the accusations against them had been true.
He turned his attention back to the dozen men lined up beside Eldred preparing for the forathe. “If any should have doubt, however small, or simply be in ignorance, then let none hinder his leaving and none later question his intent,” he said softly. “It is better to depart now, an honest man, than to swear false out of loyalty or misjudgement. Look now into your hearts and listen to what they tell you. Is your kinsman innocent? Can you truly swear to this?”
Though there were uneasy glances and foot shuffling, no one moved. In truth, Treven had expected nothing else. Eldred would only have chosen those men filled with conviction of his righteousness. “Then let the first step forward and so swear,” Treven commanded.
Somewhat to his surprise, Edmund moved from the end of the row and came to stand beside his brother facing Treven.
Eldred took a deep breath. “By the lord I do swear that I am guiltless of either deed or instigation of this crime. I neither killed my wife nor wished another to do so. I am innocent of the charge brought against me.”
“And I do swear by the Lord that this oath is pure and that Eldred is not false in the swearing of it. I, Edmund Scrivener, do assert and attest this.”
Edmund stepped back with a fierce look cast in Treven’s direction, pride in his eyes and his mouth set in a tight line. The next strode forward to take his place and Treven did not move or blink as the athas were one by one sworn by the oath helpers. Only when the Compurgation was over and Eldred stood before him a man declared innocent of all crime, did Treven turn slowly to face his comrade in arms.
He had been dreading this moment and was almost selfishly glad that the administration of the ordeal was a matter for churchman and not Thegn.
“Hugh. How do you plead?”
“As
I have always done. I swear by the Almighty that I did not by word or deed cause the death of Cate Scrivener, neither did I wish her death. I swear my innocence and, by God’s will, I will prove it now.”
It seemed to Treven that the speaking of the oath had unfrozen him. The rigidity vanished from his limbs and the pallor of his skin was replaced by a rush of blood. Hugh’s cheeks burned and his eyes brightened as though with fever. Treven almost moved to stop what would happen next. He must have taken a step because Osric lay a hand upon his arm. Kendryk’s stern look brooked no argument and reminded him that this was no longer his concern.
“Let the matter commence,” Treven managed, his voice raven- harsh. He nodded to the smith that they were ready and forced himself to watch as Hugh stepped forward.
Treven had never had reason to doubt Hugh’s courage, but the exercise of that courage had always before been in battle. If you know that you will kill or be killed, then choices are limited and often men not cut from warrior cloth will perform great deeds simply because they must. But this was different. This was unlike anything Treven had seen in battle and, though he had seen such ordeals three or four times in his life before, he still had no stomach for this deliberate wounding, so cold and so contrived.
With long tongs, the smith drew the iron bar he had heated from the flames. In the cold light it glowed with such fierce redness it was almost painful to look at. Two of Kendryk’s men had taken position either side of Hugh. Should he change his mind and try to run, they would be there to see this trial went ahead.
“You have one last chance to tell your guilt,” Kendryk informed him. “Plea now and we will hear you fairly and judge you according to your words.”
“I have made my plea,” Hugh told him angrily. He drew a deep breath and stepped forward, taking the glowing metal from the tongs with his own bare hand.
Treven gasped as Hugh’s hand closed about it. It was clear from the fierce contortion of Hugh’s face that he had not, even in his wildest imaginings, been prepared for such pain as the red-hot brand welded itself to his palm and fingers, the heat constricting the tendons and tightening his grip against the bar. The stink of burning flesh, born on the clear cold air, filled the open space. Around him, Treven could hear the gasps and sighs of those who watched, most of whom would never have seen such a sight before.