The Butcher of St Peter's: (Knights Templar 19) Page 17

  Chapter Thirteen

  In his lodging at the cathedral, the Dean had still come to no conclusion, but he was concerned. He shouted for his servant. ‘Ah, um, yes. Could you fetch me …’ The name was bitter to his lips. It seemed certain to make his bile rise and choke him, but he swallowed his loathing and finished, ‘Canon Peter de la Fosse?’

  The arrogance of some of these younger canons had to be witnessed to be believed. When he was younger, no canon would have dared to go out of his own volition and attempt something like this. It would have been unthinkable. Quite impossible. The young fellow must have been—

  At the knock, he bit back his rising anger and called his visitor inside with a calm voice. ‘Peter. I thank you for attending to me so – ah – promptly. It is this matter of, er, the body of Sir William de Hatherleigh. Apparently the friars are quite annoyed that we have – um – taken it from them.’

  ‘Let them be. It was not theirs by right. In fact it was ours, whether they like it or not, and they should be glad that we won’t seek to have their actions investigated.’

  He was like a young Viking, this canon. His hair was short and tonsured, but what was left was bright burnished gold, and his eyes were as blue as a summer’s sky. Set widely in his broad, warrior’s face, they stared out at the world with a calmness that came entirely from an impossible self-confidence.

  Except, unlike most warriors, this perfect man had no scars. No pain had ever been inflicted on this fellow, no knock to show him what was right and what was wrong. Nothing. And to the Dean’s embittered eye he was as convinced of the correctness of his actions as only a man with no imagination could be.

  ‘What if they were to accuse us of – er – breaking the peace of their cloister? A gang of, er, truculent canons and servants intruding on their private chapel?’

  ‘They would fare no better than they did before, Dean. When they took the body of Sir Henry Ralegh. The chapter won that battle, and we’d win any other.’

  ‘Do you think so? Ah. And what would your Bishop have to say on the matter, do you think, when he gets to hear of it?’ the Dean asked sharply.

  ‘I am sure that he would applaud a man who took a resolute line with the friars again, Dean,’ Peter explained gently as though to a foolish old man.

  The Dean had many years ago affected to intersperse his speech with regular ‘ums’ and ‘ahs’ in order to slow himself and ensure that he was not talking nonsense. It was a foible which he enjoyed using, because not only did it achieve the primary purpose, it also gave him a useful trick which could be used to irritate others when he so wished. But when, as today, he lost his temper entirely, he was prone to forget the hesitations and leap into a verbal torrent that would erode the self-satisfaction of even the most pompous young canon.

  ‘In that case I am most glad, my friend, because I am about to write to him to explain how it is that an affair which took so much of our treasure to fight, which was caused by one foolish decision many years ago, and which has so far cost us almost a quarter-century of good will, has been renewed by one fool with a brain that is too full of self-conceit and pride to be of any use to the chapter. I was wondering how best to describe the monumental, overweening stupidity of a man who could have thought of antagonizing the very group of men who went to the extent of excommunicating him, our own Bishop, and I was failing – until you walked through my door and showed me your startlingly moronic self-satisfaction. Until then I was at a loss for words with which to tell him – but now I feel sure I need only use five: Canon Peter de la Fosse. And you may believe, Canon, that I exaggerate when I say that the Bishop will be most displeased. You may think that I am wrong. I can see from that faint, slightly embarrassed smile on your face that you believe me to be some doddering old fool who has no understanding of the real world, or of the true feelings of our Bishop. Let me say this, then, you cretin! I was with the Bishop when he was a canon, and I saw the pain and grief that stupid affair caused him. Bishop Walter is a kind man, a generous man, a man of vision and intellect, and it took him twenty long years to finally put that matter behind him, and now you have stirred up all the viciousness and the rancour again with one action! You unbelievable idiot! You have less between your ears than a chicken, and what you do have you cannot use.’

  The smile on Canon Peter’s face was now less embarrassed, more fretful. ‘But I was trying to uphold the privileges of the cathedral.’

  ‘They are not your concern alone. If you have such concerns, you should raise them in chapter, so that wiser heads – and there are many wiser heads in the world than yours – can consider them. You should not in any circumstances go ahead on your own authority. You have none. You have violated a friary, and that could well cost you a painful penance. I suggest you go and consider it now. Be gone!’

  When the dumbstruck canon had left him, the Dean sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, sighing. Then he put his arms on his table and rested his head on them. ‘Dear God, why are we persecuted with such idiots?’ he wondered. ‘Would that You had made all men wise, for then at least reason might prevail in this imperfect world.’

  But he had business to attend to before he could succumb to the tiredness that threatened to overwhelm him. And as he lifted himself upright once more, there came another tap at his door. Groaning, he called to the visitor to enter. It was a short, round-shouldered vicar. He had shrewd grey eyes in a face that was ruddy and well-lined, and he entered now as an equal. The Dean and he had come to the cathedral close together many years ago, and they knew each other too well to be precious about their positions. The Dean was wealthier, more senior – indeed, under the Bishop, he was the most senior churchman in the chapter – but that changed nothing. Thomas of Chard knew his own place and he was more than content with it. He was a good vicar, and he was safe in his position. No one sought to oust him, whereas the Dean and the Bishop both had many men who coveted their posts. Safer and more peaceful to be in Thomas’s place.

  ‘Dean, I have been searching for the money as you asked, but …’

  Dean Alfred nodded resignedly. ‘And, let me guess: the coins are all gone?’

  ‘There is no sign of them. And naturally Gervase de Brent is very angry that they were stolen here in the cathedral.’

  ‘Tell him that he, um, cannot blame the chapter for the misbehaviour of one malevolent individual.’

  ‘He has asked that all should be searched for his money.’

  ‘Tell him not to be so foolish!’ the Dean said with asperity. ‘What, does he mean to strip and search all the canons? Or pull apart their houses? Or merely the lodgings of all the vicars, annuellars, secondaries, choristers, novices and servants? Um, no. We shall have to make good his loss, if he insists, I suppose. But it is a sore trial to throw away good money just because of a thief. He is sure that he had the money when he arrived here?’

  ‘Yes, it was stolen while he was in the cathedral church, he says.’

  ‘There are always men with light fingers about.’ The Dean sighed. ‘Is there, um, anything more to ruin and ravage my peace of mind? No? Then, um …’

  ‘Dean, there is one more thing.’

  ‘What, Thomas?’

  ‘Alfred …’

  ‘If you’re going to start speaking to me as an equal, should I lie back in preparation?’

  Thomas grinned. ‘At your age you should be lying down already, man. But there is one thing I have heard. My clerk Paul saw this man Gervase and was surprised to learn that he was making use of our hospitality. Two days before the money was lost, Paul was down near the southern gate of the city and saw Gervase walking in the company of a man towards the stews.’

  ‘You think that he was going there to be fleeced?’

  ‘Many a man will go there, pay his money, and have his purse emptied, so I’ve heard.’

  ‘So long as this is not based on your practical experience, Thomas,’ the Dean said.

  Thomas smiled, but then he lowered his chin to his breas
t and peered at his friend. ‘I don’t think you heard me aright, Dean.’

  ‘On the contrary. I heard and noted the days, old friend. More than that, I’ve almost decided on a course of action. Enough! Now, go, and leave me to my misery. Let me consider.’

  He stood, walked to the window and gazed out at the cathedral. As so often, the sight of the great church of St Peter seemed to clear his mind. He was unsure that the course of action he was contemplating was the most effective, but it was better than nothing, and might yield results. If there was a man with six extra marks in his pocket, it might be possible to find him.

  ‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘He can help us.’

  Returning to his table, he picked up a reed and began to scratch a message on a piece of parchment.

  Baldwin had attended too many coroners’ courts to be overly impressed by yet another. The atmosphere was one of near boredom, with many people standing about and listening as the Coroner opened the inquest, calling on anyone who knew anything about this murder to come forward and declare his knowledge.

  Daniel was studied where he had fallen, and then the jury watched closely while the figure was stripped of all his clothes and was slowly rolled over before them so that all could see his wound. There was only the one, of course. No one had expected to see more.

  The first witness was Daniel’s wife, and Baldwin was interested by the attitude of the neighbours as she stood. Her face was partly concealed by a veil, but there was no mistaking the animosity of the crowd. A muffled hiss came from the back of the group and Baldwin was shocked to hear it repeated by others. Many seemed to hate her, especially, he guessed, the women.

  She spoke clearly enough; she was quite collected, and gave her evidence briefly: she had been upstairs asleep with her husband, and was woken by a noise. She woke Daniel, and he, because he had suffered break-ins before, grabbed his sword before hurrying down the stairs. She followed, but only to see her man grappling with another dressed in dark cloak and hood, so she thought. Her husband had always insisted that candles and rushlights were extinguished before bed to prevent accidents. He had attended too many burned buildings and uncovered too many scorched and blackened corpses to want to see that happen in his own house. Thus it was that she could not describe the attacker’s face. He was not known to her, so far as she knew.

  When she saw the fight, she thought she had screamed, and on hearing her the two men had lurched together. Her husband had gasped in pain, and the attacker fled with his knife in his hand. He hurtled through the window even as Juliana ran to her daughter’s side and shielded her eyes, screaming for the hue and cry. Later she hurried her children from the room when she was sure that her man was already dead. There was nothing more she could have done.

  Baldwin reckoned she made a good witness. She was beautiful, calm, and rational. Her evidence made sense, and … Baldwin still did not trust her. There was something missing, something that this audience knew about. As Juliana turned away, he heard another hiss of disapprobation, and marked a woman at the back. He decided to speak to her after the inquest.

  The rest of the court went ahead without Baldwin’s learning much more. So far as he was concerned, the interesting two people to speak to were Juliana and Estmund, but the bailiff appeared looking bashful and admitted that no one had been able to find Est. He had disappeared earlier in the day. Then a man asked who else had been in the street.

  It was suggested that a man called Jordan le Bolle had been an enemy of the dead man. Jordan was called, and stood before the crowd with a stern, resolute air about him. He declared that he had not been in the area of the dead man’s house, so had seen nothing; he named three other men who had been with him all that night outside the city walls, and each of them acknowledged the validity of his alibi.

  Then Jordan held up a hand. ‘Many of you here know that Daniel and I were not friends. For my part, I had nothing against the man, but he was convinced that I had done something wrong. I haven’t, and to show my good faith and my respect for this brave officer, I hereby offer a reward of three pounds to any man who can show who the killer of Sergeant Daniel truly was. This I swear on …’

  The rest of his words were drowned out as some in the crowd cheered, although Baldwin saw that the woman at the back was curling her lip. Others appeared as unimpressed. They had something against this man too, then.

  As soon as order was restored, the Coroner made his pronouncement: the sergeant had been murdered, that the murderer was a man with a knife, and that the knife was deodand, but in the absence of the blade itself he was declaring the forfeit to be three shillings. There were enough people to declare Englishry, so the murdrum fine was not relevant, but Sir Peregrine declared that the man Estmund was suspected, and when seen should be captured and brought to him. On that final point, he declared the court closed.

  Baldwin immediately turned to Jeanne. ‘I want to speak to that woman there, the one with the green tunic with red embroidery. See her? I will be back as soon as I can, but she seemed to hate the dead man’s wife, and I want to know why. Wait for me …’

  Before he could hurry off after her, a man reached him, forcing his way through the crush. ‘Sir Baldwin? The Coroner would be glad of a moment’s consultation with you.’

  ‘Not now. I have to go after someone. She may be able to help us with this murder.’

  ‘Which? This here or the other?’

  ‘Which other?’ Baldwin snapped.

  ‘The one in the alley.’

  Jeanne saw how he was torn. ‘Husband, let me speak to the woman. You say she seemed to despise the widow? I shall seek to learn why.’

  Baldwin chewed at his lip, but there was little time. ‘Very well, but Edgar, you go with her and protect her. If she is so much as scratched, I’ll have you whipped!’

  Edgar smiled lazily and nodded. In an instant he and Jeanne were forging a way through the people leaving the room. Baldwin knew his threat was not necessary: Edgar would protect Jeanne with his own life if need be. He had sworn to serve Baldwin to the death in Acre, where Baldwin had saved his life, and the vow was as relevant to him now as it had been all those years ago.

  ‘Right,’ Baldwin said. ‘Take me to the Coroner, but go slowly. I have a healing wound, and would not see it exacerbated by undue urgency on your part.’

  Agnes was impressed by her sister’s performance. Cool, rational and clear, she had the manner of an experienced witness when asked about the night before. Although she was close to tears on occasion, her voice remained steady and her demeanour collected.

  And yet …

  There was one thing about her that was odd. There was a curious quirk in her manner that wasn’t just the misery of bereavement. Surely it was obvious to all listening to her?

  Anyone could see that her behaviour was extraordinary: the way that she didn’t quite break down, her chilly calmness; both showed that she knew more than she was telling. It was the same when they were children, and their parents had accused Juliana of a crime she had committed. Then she’d behave the same way, stolidly telling the story she wanted them to hear, perhaps including some of the truth, but never all, never those parts that would have incriminated her.

  Perhaps it took a sister who had grown up with her to spot when she was lying. This mob couldn’t tell. As far as most of them were concerned, she was a poor widow-woman now, someone to pity. Nobody had guessed at the truth.

  And then she realized they had. There were some noises from the back of the room, snorts and hisses which echoed well about the place. Even the Coroner heard, because Agnes saw how his jaw clenched when there was a fresh outburst, and his eyes went to the source as though, were he to spot the man or woman responsible, he might have them attached to appear before the magistrates at the next court.

  The sound didn’t disturb Juliana. She stuck to her tale even as the noise rose and swelled, and then, as the bailiff and his men shoved their way through the crowd, disappeared entirely.

  Some
people had guessed she was hiding something, and Agnes wondered what it was. Juliana couldn’t be hiding the identity of the killer, could she? She had loved Daniel. If she was concealing something serious, the shame would be awful. It would serve as the final rock placed upon the grave of her family. The Jon family, whose name she still bore, had already suffered enough.

  Their fall had been unforeseen. They had collapsed so very suddenly.

  When Daniel married Juliana, she and Agnes belonged to one of the leading families in the city. Their father and grandfather had both been successful merchants, and the family was worth a fortune in treasure. Although the famine affected them, it was not a disaster yet. But within a year the famine had bitten harder, and they were ruined.

  She could not comprehend what had happened. Somehow their money had been frittered away. Small amounts here and there for the daily running of their household became awesome sums as food grew more expensive. Fodder was all but unobtainable by the second year, and grain for human consumption was ridiculously expensive. Then the servants began to leave to see whether they were needed back home, and never returned, either because they died on the journey, or because there were no adults at home to be helped any more, and the servants had to remain to look after the inevitable orphans. Before the end of 1317, they had lost all. There was nothing left. And then Father died.

  That they were not alone in being close to destitute was no comfort. They had lived in an excellent house in Correstrete which they had been forced to sell for a ludicrously low sum, and Agnes and her mother went to live with Juliana and Daniel. For a little while, that was fine, except that once, shortly after her mother died, Agnes had suffered a lapse.

  It was after a Christmas feast, the first when food was readily available again, in 1318; when all had consumed rather too much wine with their food. Juliana had been married over a year by then, but remained weakly after the lean years before. Declaring herself unwell after eating too much, Juliana had lurched from the table. Agnes had helped her out of the parlour and up the stairs to the small chamber she called her solar. To Agnes’s mind it was little more than a servant’s chamber, but no matter. She helped Juliana to the bed and watched her lie down and close her eyes.