31 - City of Fiends Read online

  ‘I will inform the Coroner of your story,’ Baldwin said heavily. ‘He will have to know.’

  ‘Please!’ Laurence turned an anguished face to him. ‘If you do that, it will be bruited about the city. I would rather it was kept private.’

  ‘This is not a private matter,’ Baldwin said flatly. ‘This is an enquiry into a maid’s murder. I would have the truth, and if not, I would certainly not help you keep secret the little you have told us.’

  Laurence threw a look at Adam Murimuth. ‘Precentor, could you not intercede for me? There is nothing that can assist the matter of this girl’s murder. Can you not ask that it be kept secret?’

  ‘Why on earth should I? Really, this is the most ridiculous situation I can imagine,’ Murimuth said tetchily. ‘You deny guilt, but refuse to aid the good knights here, and then demand that I help you? No! Certainly not! I suggest you go at once and pray, because your heart must tell you that this silence is shameful. You are concealing something, Vicar, and I would have the truth confessed. You have failed in your duty to your cloth.’

  Baldwin turned back to Wolf as the vicar left them.

  ‘What’s ailing the fellow?’ Sir Richard muttered. ‘Cannot make sense of him. Denies all, but refuses to tell us anything that could corroborate his story.’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ Murimuth said. He had walked to his sideboard and filled three goblets. ‘He is a good man, I know: dutiful, honourable, and kind to all whom he meets. I cannot understand this attitude of his.’

  He passed the wine around, musing that if he could, it would be tempting to force the man to confess to what he knew. Murimuth had enough to contend with already without the recalcitrant vicar.

  ‘He is troubled,’ Baldwin said musingly. ‘He was firm, reluctant, but not defensive. A strange mixture. Precentor, could you ask this Father Paul if he recalls the conversation with Father Laurence? Especially if there was any means of telling when they parted. And I would ask that you have Father Laurence watched. Carefully: there is no need to worry him further. I would not wish him to compound his crime by fleeing the Cathedral. Meanwhile, perhaps I should speak to Henry Paffard too, just to ascertain whether there was any possible infatuation that the maid had for the priest? Paffard may, possibly, have heard something.’

  ‘Yet his son is rumoured to have had an interest in the girl,’ Sir Richard rumbled.

  ‘Yes,’ Baldwin said with a frown. ‘But Gregory appeared scathing about such an idea. He was most emphatic on the point. Whereas his father looked more deeply shocked. There is something troubling Henry deeply, which may possibly have a bearing on the murder. If he thought she was having an affair of the heart with a vicar, he could be ashamed or fretful, I suppose. She was in his care.’

  ‘Something troubling him?’ Adam Murimuth said with a sarcastic laugh. ‘I think there is enough to trouble all of us just now, wouldn’t you?’

  Holy Trinity Church

  Father Paul was recovering from a bout of coughing when the Coroner’s Clerk arrived.

  ‘Father, the wench’s body is ready for you now. The Fosser is coming to take her to the Cathedral.’

  The vicar rose and wearily went outside. His fit had ceased, but it had left him profoundly exhausted, and his head was aching now with a steady, thundering beat that made him wish to close his eyes.

  It took little time to walk to her, and as soon as Father Paul arrived, he found only a few men standing about idly, some little bratchets staring with goggling eyes at the form beneath the winding sheet. The Fosser from the Cathedral and Benjamin, Henry Paffard’s apprentice, were lifting the body onto a small handcart.

  ‘Stop that snivelling, Ben!’ his master snapped.

  Father Paul glared at Henry. ‘Master Paffard, it is right that the boy should mourn the passing of the girl.’

  ‘She’s dead, and that is an end to it,’ Henry stated callously, but there was a distinct redness in his eyes. He looked like a man who was mourning the passing of his maid, no matter how he spoke.

  Watching the men place the body on the cart, Henry jerked his thumb. ‘Ben, fetch my wife and the others. Then you may return to your duties.’

  ‘Benjamin must come with us, Master,’ Father Paul said. ‘He grieves for her too.’

  ‘Be damned to that!’ Henry said hoarsely. ‘I have a business to run, and Benjamin and the other apprentices have work to do. There is an entire set of plate to be made for the Sheriff, and a pair of bowls and goblets for the de Tracys. I cannot have my boys leaving their duties when there is so much to be done.’

  ‘The child here was under your protection,’ Father Paul said, resting his hand upon the shrouded head of the corpse. ‘It is your duty to her to see that she is properly buried, and that means her friends from amongst your household should be there. She requires their prayers.’

  ‘Oh, very well, if you insist,’ Henry said, waving his hand in irritation. ‘But hurry, Ben.’

  In a matter of minutes, the Paffard household was gathered. Father Paul watched as Claricia Paffard and her two sons came down the steps to join her husband, their daughter Agatha a pale figure behind her. After them came the family bottler, then Benjamin and two other apprentices, while Joan brought up the rear, wiping her eyes all the while. Father Paul stood at the front of the column and they began to walk to the Cathedral behind the Fosser and his cart.

  The hill to Carfoix was not steep, but in recent times the vicar had found it intolerable. Today, rather than be forced to endure a second coughing fit, he ordered the Fosser to turn into the Bear Gate, and from here they entered the Cathedral Close, walking with a slow, respectful tread to the great West Door, avoiding the masons’ tools and the other men working on the rebuilding. Father Paul could not but help a quick glance about him.

  He felt that same poignancy that so many others must have, whenever he surveyed the Cathedral. It was such a massive undertaking, to pull down the old building so it could be built up stronger and larger, ever more beautiful. Many Bishops had striven to make this glorious building still more magnificent, and all had died before seeing the fruits of their ambitions. Paul knew that he must die before this was complete, just as they had. There was no possibility of its being finished during his lifetime, sadly.

  They brought the body to the hearse in front of the Chapel of St Peter, and there set her down, and while Father Paul spoke to one of the vicars, arranging for candles and incense, the Paffard household stood silent. There were sniffs from Joan, and from young Thomas, Father Paul noticed, but all the others stood with restraint in every line of their faces.

  It was so sad to see them like this. No demonstration of sadness or affection, but from the youngest and the closest. All others were mute.

  Father Paul stood before them, staring at the cross for a long time, and then, before he began the service, he allowed his hand to rest once more on the dead girl’s head.

  ‘Poor child,’ he murmured, and his voice was clogged with tears.

  St Pancras Lane

  Baldwin and Sir Richard stood outside Edith’s home with Edgar standing respectfully a little way apart.

  The door opened at Baldwin’s knock, and the maidservant Jane stood, warily watching Wolf as he padded past her, walking straight to the fire and dropping before it with an audible thud.

  ‘Sir Baldwin!’ Edith cried on seeing him. She ran the first steps over the floor, just as she had when a child, and then catching sight of Jane’s disapproving face, slowed to a sedate maidenly pace, before throwing her arms into the air, beaming, and hurtling over the last few feet. ‘It is so good to see you again!’

  Baldwin smiled as she took his hands in hers, but then she was looking over his shoulder, once more the lady of the house.

  ‘Sir Richard, you are very welcome. I hope I see you well?’

  ‘Hah! My lady, how could any man not feel well at the sight of such loveliness?’ Sir Richard rumbled, walking into the room and bowing. ‘You grow more beautiful every time I see y
ou, and I can only assume God smiled benevolently upon your father when you were conceived, for clearly He has turned his face from Simon since then, if his own appearance is any form of evidence!’

  ‘You flatter me, Sir Richard,’ she said. ‘But you must both be hungry. Will you not join us in a meal?’

  ‘No, Edith. We are fine,’ Baldwin said, ignoring the mumble of disagreement from Sir Richard. ‘Is Simon awake? I would appreciate his assistance. And perhaps your husband’s, too.’

  ‘Peter is in his father’s counting-house this morning, Sir Baldwin. My father could take you there, I’m sure. He knows where it is – but he’s out in the yard with my son just now.’

  Baldwin and Sir Richard waited in the hall, and soon Simon was with them.

  ‘I hope you slept well in the Cathedral’s guest rooms?’

  Baldwin grimaced. ‘It would have been better without the snoring.’

  ‘Snoring?’ Sir Richard demanded.

  Baldwin ignored him. ‘There has been a murder, Simon – the killing of a maid who works for a man called Paffard. He’s a wealthy city merchant, and I thought your son-in-law or his father might know him.’

  ‘I see. Well, we can walk around there if you like.’

  It was only a short way. Charles, Edith’s father-in-law, had a new house only a stone’s throw from the Guild Hall, and as soon as Baldwin and the others were shown in, Peter rose from his table to greet them.

  He was a good-looking young man, still very boyish in appearance, but with a coolness towards Simon, Baldwin noticed. While Edith had been pregnant, she had been captured by men on the orders of Simon’s enemy, and Peter himself arrested and held in gaol. The memory still rankled, plainly. Still, he was polite enough to the two knights and Simon as he begged them to accept wine and cakes.

  Sir Richard smacked his lips after an enormous gulp that all but drained his mazer, while Peter spoke to Baldwin.

  ‘Henry Paffard? Yes, I know him well. He is a member of the Freedom of the City, as is my father. I hope to be a member too, one day. But that will be some while, obviously. It tends to be for men of proven acumen.’

  ‘There has been a murder in his household – a young woman who was his maid.’

  ‘He is a very honourable man. A leading merchant in the city, and one of the most important clients of my father,’ Peter said.

  ‘You do not need to fear that we will embarrass you with your father’s client,’ Baldwin said with a faint smile. ‘It is already thought that the man who committed this killing was heard fleeing. The porter at the Cathedral heard him. But sometimes it is possible to glean something about a maid from the household. I was wondering whether you would be able to introduce me to him? It would be rude and thoughtless to go to a house that was mourning a dead maidservant, and begin to ask questions, but if an introduction could be made . . . ?’ He left the question hanging.

  ‘Oh, well, I suppose that should be no difficulty,’ Peter said. ‘So long as there wouldn’t be any trouble with my father’s business.’

  Baldwin shook his head. ‘I foresee no reason for an altercation. It is only an enquiry into the maid’s death.’

  Rougemont Castle

  Sheriff James de Cockington span on his heel when the knock came at his door, and when he saw the nervous features of the pageboy, his expression darkened instantly.

  ‘You have Sir Baldwin with you, eh? Bring him in immediately! I will not have my—’

  ‘Sir, I am very sorry, I haven’t found him. However, I—’

  ‘You haven’t found him? Is this a guest-house for the bored and lunatic that you come here with that news? I want Furnshill here now, and you don’t come back until you can deliver him to me, you son of a whore!’

  ‘Sir, I . . .’

  The boy was shoved aside and a tall, lean man in blue particoloured clothing walked in. He gave a cursory bow, as one might to an equal.

  Sir James gritted his teeth, recognising the uniform. ‘You are most welcome, my friend. You have messages from the King?’

  He motioned to the page to close the door, flapping his hands, and then changed his mind. ‘Call my steward to me, boy, and then go to find Sir Baldwin. Understand?’

  ‘I only have a short time,’ the messenger said coolly when they were alone. He walked stiffly, as would a man who had spent much of the last week in the saddle, opening his little satchel as he went. Withdrawing a scroll, he passed it to Sir James.

  The steward had arrived, and now, taking a quick look at the Sheriff’s face, he bowed deeply and went to fetch wine.

  ‘Where have you come from?’ Sir James asked, his eyes on the scroll, and then, as the words sank in, ‘Christ’s ballocks!’

  ‘The King is at York,’ the messenger said suavely. ‘It was fortunate that I happened to be riding to Berkeley with other messages, and was made aware of the situation.’

  ‘Sir Edward of Caernarfon has been freed? Does my Lord de Berkeley have any idea who was responsible?’ Sir James continued, reading furiously.

  ‘It was the Dunheved brothers with a gang. The castellan was convinced of that. My Lord de Berkeley is on his way to join with the King to attack the rebels in Scotland, so the castellan is doing all he may. Men are riding all about the area, but no sign has been discovered as yet. The gang managed to break into the castle, ransacking the place, before taking the knight with them. Several men were killed, including a banker from the House of Bardi. The castle was in a terrible state when I reached it.’

  ‘Dear merciful heavens!’

  ‘So, the castellan asks that you ensure that all are aware of the dangers, and that the city’s bailiffs are told to keep a firm lookout for any large parties of men riding about. Also, that you inform all the officers of the law in Devonshire of this, and that they should listen for any clues as to the whereabouts of the man who was King, of the Dunheved brothers, of William Aylmer, and all the others listed in that report.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Sir James replied, reading through the names carefully. Twenty-one had been hastily scrawled under the note.

  ‘If you would provide a clerk to copy the message, I will continue on my way.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Sir James agreed, and bellowed for his clerk. Soon he had sent the latter to copy the message, while the messenger was taken to the hall for food and drink.

  When Sir James was alone again, he sipped wine pensively as he considered the letter with its alarming news.

  He always prided himself on being with the men who were in power. It had occasionally been a delicate balancing act, but he had survived when weaker men would have allowed despair to overtake them.

  But this new situation would take some thinking through . . . What were the chances of Sir Edward of Caernarfon managing to gather enough men under his banner to wrest the crown back from his son? And would he be able to force his son to submit?

  Because if there was the remotest chance of that, Sir James de Cockington would want to be with him.

  Paffards’ House

  It was a relief to be back from the burial, Henry thought. Such a sad, horrible service, made all the worse by the body lying before them, a constant reminder of guilt, and his wife staring at him with resentment and contempt.

  Returning to his hall, he sat in his great chair and gazed at the wall with unseeing eyes.

  Alice’s death had been a shock, and was all the more unwelcome because of his other ventures. He knew that at any time soon, Sir Charles of Lancaster could arrive, and when he did, he would expect payment for the goods he had with him. That had been the original bargain. However, there were no funds in the house, not since his acquisition of the house up in Stepecoat Street. Still, it should be easy enough for him to persuade Sir Charles that he could sell the goods and find finance that way. He had no choice, in any case.

  He was still sitting in his chair when Thomas walked in. The youngster said nothing. He merely peered at his father with his pale, fretful eyes, and then trotted out of the room
again.

  It was so out of character, it tore at Henry’s heart. Thomas Paffard had always been an unruly little fellow, but with a smile so engaging that it was impossible to be angry with him – not for long, anyway.

  At six Thomas had already learned the basics of much of his schooling. He was quick to comprehend the figures on the sheets, and appeared to enjoy his sums so much that he had taken to carrying a wax tablet with him wherever he went. On it he would make calculations, and have his father’s clerks check his results. It was delightful.

  The lad was not merely a scholar, though. He was very much a normal boy, with the energy and noise that went with that class of creature. All through the day he would run and stamp, shout and slam doors: always happy. Loud, boisterous, exuberant, and intelligent, he was the perfect son for any man.

  But the noise had stopped a couple of days ago. The boy had been fond of Alice, as had they all.

  No, not as they all had. Henry had known her especially well.

  Henry covered his face with his hands, and wept for the loss of his lover.

  Paffards’ House

  ‘What is the matter?’ his older son asked.

  Henry hadn’t noticed Gregory walk in, and he couldn’t answer for a moment. He just turned and looked at him, while in his mind’s eye he saw Alice, her lithe body, her spirit. ‘Do you feel nothing for her?’ he managed.

  Since the death of Alice, Gregory had been blinking a lot. It was surely because he missed her too, but his demeanour was not that of a bereaved man, but rather of a child who’d lost a favourite toy. Lazy, ineffectual and unbusinesslike, he was not the man Henry had hoped he would become. Henry had wanted a strong son, one who was dedicated to the family and the business. Instead, he had a boy who was spendthrift, and possibly worse.

  ‘She was a good maid, I suppose. You were very fond of her, weren’t you?’ His tone was pointed, his manner accusing, and Henry felt a sudden anger.

  ‘Don’t speak to me like that! At least I grieve for the poor girl.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I suppose we all do in our own ways. Even you’re quieter than normal, Father.’