‘I saw him with her. I was taking a load of grain to be milled, and when I got to the place, I saw him. He had her pressed up against the wall, her skirts up around her waist, and he was kissing her all over her neck and face. Quite disgusting!’
‘How long did you watch them to discover it was disgusting?’ I asked.
‘Don’t be impertinent! As soon as I saw them, I turned the donkey round and came home again. It was horrible. An offence against God’s laws!’
‘You saw her face?’
‘Yes.’
‘And his?’
‘I didn’t need to see his face. She was turned towards me, and I saw his back. A big man. Who else could it have been?’
‘So you only saw his back? Did he turn? Did you see his face?’
‘No. What of it? There was only her and her father living there.’
‘What clothes was he wearing?’
‘A shirt, hose.’
‘The miller’s clothes?’
‘I suppose so. It was the miller, after all.’
‘Did she respond? Did she return his kisses, or try to spurn him?’
‘Oh, no! She made no effort to spurn him!’
‘So that is that, then,’ Sir Richard said. He sighed. ‘Harknet thinks Peter was a womanizing lecher.’
‘What did Sarah say when you spoke to her?’ I asked.
‘She said what I wanted to hear, I suppose. That Peter was a good man, a shoulder to lean on, that he was always there for his congregation, that he was there when Sarah needed him, after her man died. Peter was a decent, honourable priest.’
‘But she knew beforehand that he was your brother. She didn’t want to upset a Queen’s officer, did she?’ I stated. It was hardly surprising. Telling a man to his face that his brother had tried to rape her was not going to be conducive to happy relations.
‘And he said that the miller was … was doing that with his own daughter?’
‘Yes.’
Sir Richard shook his head, appalled by the depths of human depravity. ‘How could a man do such a thing?’
‘Yes,’ I said, but at the back of my mind, there was something about the story that sounded a little odd: off key – or just wrong. I had known cases of incest. Back at home at Whitstable, I knew several girls who were little more than the playthings of their fathers. But they didn’t respond willingly. They hated the unwanted attentions. One I knew threw herself from a cliff and was buried at the crossroads just outside town as a suicide. The hypocritical son of a whore, her father, wept like a baby, as though he had no idea what had led her to self-murder, but I knew, as did many of the people standing there at the grave. I heard that later the local priest went to the grave and begged God to accept her soul. No one thought it was her fault. I had never heard that she or any of the other girls had accepted their father’s unwanted attentions. The younger ones didn’t fight, but they all knew it was not right. Most wept and endured. None kissed their rapists back.
‘And it doesn’t help us, either,’ he said. ‘If the miller killed Peter, who killed the miller? And where is his daughter’s body?’
‘She must still be around here, I suppose. We shall have to continue to search for her tomorrow.’
‘Once this new fellow’s inquest is out of the way, aye.’
‘Have you looked at him to see how he died?’
‘Plain enough: a stab in the chest.’
‘But not frenzied, like your brother’s killing?’
‘Not that I could see, no. Just one blow, but struck with violence.’
A thought struck me. ‘Your brother was a cool, collected fellow. Could he have struck that blow? One thrust with a good knife and the miller was dead.’
‘Perhaps. Who killed Peter, then?’
‘Perhaps the daughter? She stabbed him in a mad passion, after seeing her father killed.’
‘And she buried her father? Think how heavy he must have been. She’d have been a strong wench to drag him all the way to that grave.’
‘No, Peter did. Perhaps he felt remorse at the murder?’
‘Which means Peter had a row with the miller, he killed the man and then dragged his body to the soft ground, where he could dig a shallow hole and leave the body there.’
‘Yes!’ I said.
‘And when he returned, the daughter had built up so much rage at the slaying of her father that she stabbed him like a berserker.’
‘Yes!’
‘And then she picked him up, threw him over her shoulder and carried him all the way to the road. Does that make sense to you?’
‘She could have done.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘She’s been described as a slim little thing, a light maiden, small and dainty. Remember?’
‘Perhaps, but she was in the street and covered with blood. Ben said so.’
‘If she was a small, dainty maiden, perhaps she had an accomplice? A young woman could have inspired a man to help her.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Perhaps she had another man here. Another lover?’
‘Another man? Really? How many lovers do you think she had?’ Sir Richard said, peering at me. ‘Any other ideas?’
I racked my brains. ‘Could it be that Peter stabbed the miller, another man helped the maid to bury him, and then they both followed Peter and killed him by the road?’
‘Why would they?’
‘Well, if he was taking advantage of the girl, maybe she saw him kill her father, and then had a friend help her to punish Peter?’
‘And perhaps pigs might sprout wings and fly? No, I don’t think so. The idea that Peter could kill a man is ridiculous.’
‘You said that about him carrying on affairs with women, but he did.’
‘Peter simply could not have killed a man. Now, if you say that he was a womanizer, I will accept that. I must. But the idea that he was a killer? No.’
‘Perhaps he saw the daughter kill her father, and she knew that he had seen her, and ran after him and killed him?’
‘You are forgetting that the first stab wound was while he was not wearing his clothes. No, he was purposefully slain without a shirt on, and then the stab wounds were added when he had been dressed.’
‘So he was stabbed in a bed?’
Sir Richard pulled a grimace. ‘He was stabbed in a compromisin’ position, I would guess. So who killed him? Not the girl, unless she had left him in bed, and went to fetch a drink and decided she didn’t like him anymore. And then someone helped her carry him to the road. Her father? And then she killed him, too. Or she killed her father because he had killed her lover? Ach! There is a logic to this, if I can only find it.’
‘Perhaps,’ I said. I pictured in my mind’s eye the scene: a young woman lying in bed, being bulled by Peter; the miller arriving, drawing his knife in a trice, stabbing once, the priest dying almost instantly; the girl beneath screaming and sobbing; her father smacking her, pulling the body from her, clothing him, throwing the body over his shoulders, walking up to the road through the village, letting Peter fall to the ground and leaving him there before walking home, where his daughter met him with a blade and stabbed him once. And then she picked him up and … no. The miller had been a big man in life. Perhaps the girl could have picked him up, but she could not have carried him all the way to his grave. Not on her own. She would have to be a strong, heavy-set peasant to pick up a man like the miller.
‘She couldn’t have dragged his body to where she buried him,’ I said. ‘Surely a dainty little woman couldn’t have pulled a man his size all the way to his grave.’
‘Daughter of a miller, don’t forget. A woman who’s grown lifting sacks of grain … It’s possible she could have.’
‘I can’t help thinking it would be more likely that a man like Harknet would kill him than his own daughter.’
‘Him? Why? Harknet already has little reputation, other than being a turncoat when it comes to his religion. What advantage would he get from killing the priest?’
; To that, I had no answer.
While we were talking, my eyes had strayed to Dorothy. The bruised eye was taking on all the colours of the rainbow now. I went to her, asking for another quart of ale. She nodded, turned and twisted the tap on the nearest barrel. Soon my blackjack was filled with a foaming brew.
‘Delicious!’ I said.
‘I am glad,’ she said.
‘When you found your husband’s body, it must have been a terrible shock.’
‘Yes. It was there in the road. I didn’t know what to do,’ she added, her eyes filling once more.
‘I am sorry, Dorothy,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
She rubbed her face with the heel of her hand, avoiding the great bruise, and avoiding my gaze. Since seeing her in the church, at best she had treated me with suspicion. ‘I’m fine. It’s just so sad. He was always such a strong man, you know? It seems impossible that he could be gone. I can still hardly believe it.’
‘It must have been horrible.’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was quiet and reflective. ‘I had hoped to win his sympathy, some support. I had dreamed that he would take me back, that he would relinquish his post in the Church and come to help us.’ She shook her head. ‘In my dreams, I had thought I would be reunited with him. And then to learn that he had been murdered …’
‘It must have been dreadful. Although, since you were here with the innkeeper, surely that would have coloured your husband’s feelings?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you know, sharing Nyck’s bed. That must have been a bitter pill for a husband to swallow.’
‘What would he expect me to do? I have no man to support me!’
‘No, of course not, but surely—’
‘We were fortunate that the landlord wanted help with the inn. It was only when I was rejected by my own husband that I sought comfort. I was lonely, and I needed a man’s support.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said.
‘And, yes, now I feel great affection for Nyck. He has been very kind to us.’
‘I see.’ No, I didn’t. But she had been desperate, and perhaps she had hoped that sleeping with the innkeeper would make her husband jealous and bring him back to her. The devious ways of women was a closed book to me. There was one thing that was still confusing me. ‘Mistress, at the inquest you said that there was only a short time between you seeing your husband in the roadway and catching up with him, when you found him dead.’
‘That’s right.’
Yes, it was confusing me. You see, arrant coward that I was, I could not understand how this woman could say that she had been the last person to see her dead husband without knowing that it must make her suspected as the murderer. I said as much to her.
‘I was taught to tell the truth. I had sworn to tell the truth at the inquest, and I did.’
‘Although you were clearly mistaken.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, we know you couldn’t have seen him there. He died in the bed of the miller’s daughter. That is where all the blood was. And it must have been some time before, if he was cold. A man just killed would be warm to the touch still.’
‘But I did see him. I swear it!’
‘You saw his face?’
‘No, but it was him. I recognized his clothes.’
‘He was wearing his religious garb?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘You don’t think another man could put on similar clothing to confuse people?’
She gaped at me. ‘Put on a priest’s clothing?’
‘It has been known,’ I said.
‘No one would do such a wicked thing!’ she protested. ‘It would be a terrible sin!’
‘Worse than being burned at the stake for murder and petit treason?’ I asked.
She glared.
‘So, I ask you again, as the woman who knew him best: are you quite sure it was him? Did you see his face? Did you hear him speak? Did you recognize his manner of walking? Did you see how he held his head? Did you see how he held his arms, how he paced, how he went faster or slower than he usually did?’
She looked at me with a sneer and was about to respond when another customer demanded a drink, banging his cup on the bar. Dorothy glared at me and went to serve him, leaving me leaning on the bar, waiting.
Soon she was back.
‘I am sorry, mistress, I didn’t mean to question your words,’ I began, but she suddenly held up her hand. There was a faraway look in her eye now, and no anger.
‘I think you might be right. Peter had a slight limp. When he was a young man, he fell in a rabbit hole, and it broke his leg. He was never recovered from that. When he moved quickly, that injury always showed – but the man I saw on that day had no limp. He moved along swiftly. He had his head down, too, but I thought that was just Peter trying to ignore us as we followed him.’ She frowned, staring into the middle distance. ‘It wasn’t him, though, was it? I was bitter and angry because I thought he was turning his back on me and the children, and all the while he was already dead. Stabbed to death and left at the roadside.’
And then the tears really started in earnest.
I almost touched her shoulder in sympathy, but pulled my hand back; I didn’t want another misunderstanding. A movement made me look up. There was a figure in the doorway, and as soon as I saw him, he slipped out. It was Dick Atwood again!
Grateful for a reason to leave Dorothy, who was standing with her apron over her face, shoulders jerking, I downed some of my ale and then turned and went after him. I had never had the feeling that I could trust Dick. I was certain he must know something about what had happened to the priest. And then it occurred to me that his build was not dissimilar to that of Father Peter. He had a similar breadth – was of a similar height, too. Someone seeing him run away from them could easily confuse him for Father Peter, I thought – even a wife who loved him and knew him, if her vision was blurred by her feelings of betrayal, her emotions confused by his apparent disregard. The hurt her husband had caused her had made her mistake someone else for him. And that other person had been clad in clerical garb. Which might mean he had known that the priest was already dead. And if that, what better time to go to the priest’s home and church to see whether a legendary box of gold might not be available? I darted into the back room and gazed about me, but Atwood was not there. Turning, I went out through the front door and stared up the road. I couldn’t see him, so I turned to look the other way, and as I did, I felt his knife at my throat.
‘Evening, Jack,’ he said with a chuckle in his voice. ‘How are you?’
When I say that I grabbed his hand and pushed his knife away, you will be able to tell how angry I was feeling. It is usually my habit, born of long experience of the dangers of courage, to squeak and bolt when confronted by a weapon, especially one in the hands of Dick Atwood. Indeed, one part of my brain was looking on in horror as I said, ‘What have you been doing? You imitated the priest, didn’t you? You dressed up like him, because you knew he was already dead, and you went on up the road to the church to search through all his things, didn’t you? It must have been a shock when you heard his widow calling to you, but you thought you had the perfect way to walk to the church in full view of everyone, didn’t you? Dressed like a priest, no one would stop you.’
‘Interesting,’ Atwood said. He wore a vaguely perplexed expression, staring at me rather like a man who had stroked his family pet only for it to bite him. Well, I didn’t care. He had insulted me and my intelligence for the last time.
‘Well?’
‘You do realize that I have not the faintest idea what you are talking about?’
‘Of course. As usual, you are the innocent abroad, aren’t you? Except this time you’re quickly getting out of your depth.’
‘Yes, well, this is all very interesting,’ he said, ‘but I do have to be getting on with things. Have you managed to discover where the gold might be hidden?’
‘
What?’
‘The gold,’ he said patiently. ‘Where it might be? The abbey’s gold from Ilford, remember? You were going to help hunt for it?’
‘Me?’ Of course, I hadn’t forgotten. The box of gold in the church had weighed as heavily on my mind as … well, as a box of gold would. ‘No, I have no idea. You must have searched the church on the day that the priest’s body was discovered, I suppose?’
‘I did go up there and look about quickly,’ he admitted.
‘And?’
‘There was nothing there that I could find. But it did occur to me that it could have been hidden in a grave or somewhere similar. The only problem is, it’s hard to get up there to search, and, in any case, the only fresh digging that there has been was the priest’s own grave. All the others appear to have been there for an age.’
He looked sad at the thought.
‘Then maybe he spent it. Or there never was any money,’ I said. ‘You have been hunting a chimera all this time.’
‘Perhaps. But he who never dares will never succeed in any undertaking. Now,’ he added, smiling disarmingly, ‘what will you do next?’
I was immediately suspicious. When Dick Atwood tried to be charming, it was always time to run or put on armour. I took a step back. ‘Finish my ale,’ I said.
‘But, Jack, if the story I was told is true, there is more than enough for both of us. We only need to find it, and we can do that. Just you and me, Jack.’
‘You may not have noticed, Dick, but there has been a series of murders here, and I am here to help the Coroner.’
‘A series?’
‘Yes! Father Peter, the miller and possibly his daughter, too. No one has seen her for days.’ I gazed at him with suspicion. ‘Have you something to do with them?’
‘Me, Jack?’
‘Have you?’
‘I’m hurt you could even think something like that, Jack.’
‘That’s not a denial.’
‘Jack, just think: I saved you at Woodstock.’
‘You tried to kill me during the Wyatt Rebellion.’
‘That was ages ago,’ he said airily, waving a hand as if to dismiss the past.
‘Did you have a part in any of those deaths?’
The Dead Don't Wai Page 21