A Murder too Soon Read online

  It was, of course, what he would say if he had killed the woman. ‘Who do you think would have killed her?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Why are you so worried about Lady Anne and me?’ I asked.

  He looked away with every appearance of guilt. ‘Her maid, Alys.’

  ‘I don’t know her.’

  ‘She is a marvellous woman – so calm, so shrewd, so determined. I adore her.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her.’

  ‘No. She’s not here,’ he said, and then the banks burst and the words came in a torrent. ‘She and I are wed, but we cannot tell anyone yet. She did not have her mistress’s permission to marry. We feared that Lady Anne would be mightily angered if she were to learn, so we tried to wait until there was a suitable moment, but that moment never seemed to come. And now Alys is hidden away …’

  ‘Why?’ I asked as the fellow trailed away in his narrative. I was confused, for he said nothing for some while, and I gazed at him. His attention appeared to be taken up with the fascinating pattern of straw on the floor. ‘I said, why is she … Oh!’

  The proof of the maid’s behaviour, of course, would become highly visible in one manner. I could have kicked myself, I confess. The lad wiped at his face again, and would not meet my eye. Instead, he gazed over at the wall near my shoulder.

  ‘We didn’t think she would … when she missed her monthly … we didn’t realize that it meant … and now the child is on the way, and I ought to be with her, but I’m stuck in here instead, and …’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I cannot say.’

  ‘Squire, you are married to her! Do you not think you can ask for time to go and ensure that she is well? Any woman would surely understand that she has need of your company at this moment. Lady Anne would certainly understand. Your wife needs you.’

  ‘If I go, Lady Anne will know that we misled her.’

  ‘If you don’t go, your wife will think you don’t love her!’

  ‘What if Lady Anne decides my wife cannot return to her?’

  I shrugged. ‘Well? What of it? If she does, you must find your family a home, somewhere you can see them safely installed and where you can visit as often as you may.’

  ‘Alys would be sad to lose her position. She loves her mistress.’

  ‘Then she should have asked permission to marry sooner, rather than going behind her mistress’s back.’

  He nodded glumly.

  ‘Anyway, why were you so keen on what I may be planning? The lady is not your mistress, after all.’

  ‘I just thought that if you were intending something with Lady Anne, then I could earn her favour, let her know I knew her secret, keep her confidence. She might take Alys back with less reluctance, were she to realize that we could be of service to her.’

  ‘You may be of more service if you help determine who it was who cut the throat of Lady Margery,’ I said.

  ‘You think so?’

  I had been speaking without thinking, but now I considered my own impetuous comment and slowly nodded my head. ‘As matters stand, Lady Anne’s father is in a sore position. He must serve his Queen by holding the Princess prisoner, and he was to install Lady Margery in order to have a spy ready to warn, should the Princess conspire with others to the harm of the Queen. Not that she would, I am sure,’ I added hastily. A man could never be sure who was listening to a conversation, even in a small room like this, and I didn’t want to be denounced. ‘However, it was a sensible precaution for Sir Henry to take. Now that his intelligencer has been killed, there will be many questions asked about his suitability for his role, and whether he was as assiduous as he should have been in finding the murderer.’

  ‘As to that, surely he will uncover the man responsible.’

  ‘Perhaps. But once the manor is open once more, and the Coroner leaves with his men, who can say what will happen? Why was the woman killed? Was it a planned murder? Was it to win someone else’s favour, or the act of a madman?’

  The squire looked up and I saw that I had hit the mark. ‘To win someone’s favour?’

  ‘Who do you think could have killed her?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Where were you when she was killed?’

  ‘I was in the palace’s inner court. I had seen the seneschal and Lady Anne, and wanted to stay near the lady.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There is not much more to say. They were talking, so I left them to their discussions. Then, when they walked off, I walked after them. Lady Anne turned into the building, and Sir Henry stood for a while. After some time he strode off towards the hall himself. I trailed behind him.’

  ‘But you were alone?’

  ‘Do you mean to accuse me?’

  ‘No, Squire, but it would be easier if someone saw you. Was there anybody else at the inner court whom you saw who could have been involved?’

  ‘No, I was at the passageway, but I saw Lady Anne come along the passage and out through the door to the chamber where Lady Margery was killed.’

  ‘Was there anyone else?’

  He shrugged. ‘A large man, built like a cardinal,’ he said, and I thought of my Friar Tuck. ‘There was a slimmer fellow, too,’ he said, and described Atwood to perfection.

  ‘There was one other man out there,’ the squire said slowly. He shot me a look.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your master, the fellow Blount. He was out there too.’

  I laughed at first, but not heartily.

  The idea that John Blount would have tried to kill the woman when he had already ordered me to do so was clearly so ridiculous that I almost pointed out the foolishness of the idea.

  I was about to say, ‘Why would he hire me and bring me here to kill her if he was going to take the first opportunity to do it himself?’ Luckily I only got as far as ‘Why would …’ I felt the air turn to acid in my throat, and the effort of changing my speech made the words catch. My response was choked off and soon turned into a prolonged coughing fit as I realized that I was about to confess to being Blount’s paid, professional assassin. That was no way to enhance my position here.

  However, the thought remained: Blount had been in the yard and the idea that he could have killed the lady and set me up came back to me. If a man wished to commit murder and escape punishment, it would be easy to blame another, especially if the gull had been set up to appear to be the ideal suspect. I had been brought here to kill Lady Margery, and she had died. Blount had been in the yard at about that time, according to the groom. Perhaps Blount had found her and decided to cut her throat while she was alone, thinking that any blame would attach solely to the obvious felon: me.

  No. He had spent much time and money in recruiting me. Blount would not throw away that investment. Surely not. Not unless he had good reason, such as being accused of the murder himself. I had known many felons in my time and never yet had I found a man who would not willingly pass the blame on to an innocent, if it meant avoiding the rope himself.

  ‘I think it hardly likely,’ I managed at last without conviction. I wiped tears from my eyes and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm myself. It was not easy.

  ‘I know. You find it difficult to think that your master could be guilty of such a crime,’ the man said, oblivious to the real reason for my inner turmoil. ‘Who else was there, however? You yourself were in the next room with three witnesses, so you were secure. The man with one eye was behind the chamber, so he said. If anyone had rushed out, they must have pushed past him; the only other exit was the door to the yard. I would have seen a man running out there. No one did.’

  ‘You didn’t see my master slip inside, though, did you?’

  ‘Well, no … but that means little. How long would it take for him to slip inside while I was not watching, kill the woman and return to the yard? A matter of moments only.’

  Later, as I left him behind in the room and walked out into the courtyard, where I stood staring at the doo
r with blank incomprehension, I had to admit that he had a point. No one had come into the hall where I stood happily chaffing with the three maids. I would myself have seen anyone trying to escape that way. The killer could only have come past me, into the courtyard, or into the passage by the third door. Unless, of course, he had climbed the stairs. That was surely the route he must have taken, I thought.

  Except I had my doubts. Perhaps Blount had seen the woman go into the little chamber, and sought to take advantage of what appeared to be a heaven-sent opportunity? As Squire George said, he could easily have gone in there, cut her throat, and then returned out to the yard. What would it have taken? Moments only, and he could have ambled in his unconcerned way over to the trough and washed his hands of any blood that had sprayed on him. With his fastidious approach to fashion, wearing only black, any excess blood would be all but invisible. And no one else had displayed any signs of blood, I thought. Surely a woman having her throat cut like that would smother anyone nearby in gore? I had seen men have their heads cut off during the rebellion earlier in the year, and all had erupted with great gouts of blood. I felt nauseous again, but I knew I was right. The stains over the floor and walls in the chamber were proof of the effusion of blood.

  I swallowed. Perhaps Blount fancied taking on the task himself. He might not have trusted me. Or it was a spur-of-the-moment decision: he saw an opportunity and instantly took it. It was logical enough. However, I was left with a distinctly unpleasant thought: what if he had always intended to do this? Could he have come here with his carefully selected black clothing, intending to kill the woman, and only brought me along as a scapegoat in case things went badly wrong and he was forced to discard me?

  Much as I respected Master Blount, I would not mistake my respect for him as in any way implying a reciprocal sense of loyalty. Although I had never given him cause to distrust me, the man was not beyond throwing me to the wolves, if he felt it necessary. He was one of those dangerous fellows who had beliefs. Personally I’ve always distrusted such folk as a matter of principle. Give me a man who has beliefs in one political character, or who believes in how he can make more bearable the lot of other people, and I will show you a man who has no scruples and will be prepared to kill in order to make another’s life ‘better’. Personally, I’m happy with my lot and would be much happier to be left alone to enjoy it.

  Blount was not formed from the same base mould. Rather, he would be prepared to see me slain in order to help his ambitions for the Princess and the Kingdom.

  Outside, I saw two guards. One seemed familiar, and I thought it could be one of the two who led Blount away after the fracas at the inquest. I walked to him and enquired as to where I might find my master, and was directed along the courtyard to a small doorway set into a wall.

  I went inside to the buttery and filled a costrel with ale, then went to the door to the gaol. There I tapped, and was soon rewarded by the appearance of a stooped, wizened old tatterdemalion with greying hair and the look of a man who had spent so many years drinking ale that the colour had seeped into his bones. His face was pale brown, and his eyes seemed bulbous, as though, were he to sneeze, they might both shoot from their fixings. A drip dangled precariously from the very tip of his nose. It remained there all the time I spoke with him, wobbling and dancing, but never quite disentangling itself.

  ‘The prisoner? Yes, he’s here.’

  ‘Can I speak to him?’

  ‘The prisoner? No. He’s to be held quiet.’

  ‘He’s my master. I wish to speak with him to—’

  ‘The prisoner? No, he’s got to be kept …’

  ‘Two pennies?’

  Suddenly, his hesitation was cured. My coins were snatched away as fast as an adder striking, and in a few moments I was standing at the door to the cell while the turnkey slowly pulled it wide.

  I peered in, recoiling at the smell of foulness that came out. It stuck in my throat. Inside was a cold, dingy, malodorous chamber. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, I saw thick moss, heard the steady dripping of water, saw little glimmers reflected from the large stone blocks of the walls.

  Then, in the farther side of the cell, I saw him.

  Master Blount didn’t look well.

  My master had been badly beaten. He looked up blearily like a waking owl, but he was pleased to accept the ale when I held it out. As he did so, there was a rattle and clank from chains at his ankles that restricted his movement. He drank thirstily and muttered his gratitude. If he had planned to kill the woman and then knock me on the head to keep me quiet, there was no evidence of shame or embarrassment. Rather, as soon as the ale’s level had reduced, he began to berate me for not bringing him comestibles.

  ‘I’ve not had time to find you anything. I came as soon as I learned where you were being held,’ I said.

  ‘You had time to visit the buttery,’ he said. ‘What would it have taken for you to find a small loaf of bread and a sausage or two? I’m not here revelling in the comforts of a full trencher of meat and gravy, you know!’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘And I’m only here because I tried to save you a hiding,’ he snarled.

  He was right there, and he had taken a good thrashing in my place, from the look of him. There was a cut over his right eye, and his hair was matted and thickened with blood from another injury. The fact that his knuckles were well bruised and scarred seemed to show that he had not taken the assaults on him meekly. Someone else was feeling battered after trying to hurt Master Blount.

  ‘Are you still safe?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I said.

  ‘Good. You need to get me out of here, though, in case someone tries to put the blame for this murder on you.’

  ‘How can they? I have witnesses.’

  ‘Witnesses can be coerced, bribed or otherwise enticed to change their story. Your three maids depend for their livelihoods on the palace. It would take little to make them feel so threatened that they decided to throw in their lot with, say, Sir Henry. After all, you managed it somehow, and one of them may be bright enough to realize the fact. Bedingfield may not intend or wish to bring about an injustice, but if he heard that you were employed as an assassin, he would surely respond.’

  ‘Oh, Christ’s wounds!’ That was enough to make a cold fist of steel grip my bowels. I had not thought of that before. ‘What should I do?’ I demanded.

  ‘First, stop bleating like a demented ewe! You need to speak with Bedingfield and persuade him that I am innocent.’

  ‘There was one man saw you in the yard when the hue and cry was raised.’

  ‘Excellent! Then go and let Bedingfield know.’

  ‘The man thinks you could have killed Lady Margery,’ I said.

  He gazed at me without speaking for a few moments. It made the atmosphere in the room rather tense. ‘If you hear others expressing a similar view, you may just have to use your knife on them too,’ he said.

  I said nothing to that. There was little I could say. Pointing out that I was not only terrified of the idea of being caught, but also that I was not used to killing people, seemed insensitive just now when he was depending on me as the key to his escape.

  ‘I can’t go round executing anyone who exhibits a sensible caution or suspicion,’ I said.

  ‘You can do all you can to get me out of here,’ he growled. ‘I don’t want to be left here to rot for the night. I expect you to secure my release.’

  ‘I will do my best,’ I said, with as much haughtiness as I could muster.

  Leaving him there, the chains clanking as he shuffled back to the wall with the costrel, I made my way out to the fresh air again. I felt a pang of sympathy for him. Yes, I know he had no particular liking for me, and that he would in all likelihood be willing to slit my throat for me, were he to learn that I was not the crazed murderer that he thought he had hired. Still, although out here there was an all-enveloping odour of horse muck, pig muck and all the other normal country smel
ls, yet was it vastly preferable to the scent of fear, pain and death that I detected in that little cell. I didn’t want to have to spend more than a few minutes in there, let alone an evening.

  The thought of that was enough to make me shudder like a man with the ague. I determined there and then to do all I could to liberate him from the cell.

  Bedingfield was sitting in his seat in the hall when I entered, the Coroner and his clerk beside him, and he looked up as I marched inside.

  He didn’t look happy.

  Bedingfield was not made for great events. He was not the sort of character who would seek to be thrown into matters of national importance. Rather, he looked like the kind of fellow who would be happier rising early and setting off with his hounds in search of a deer, returning for a hearty meal, and then settling with friends to roister and celebrate life by pouring wine down his chest and quite missing his mouth. He had the complexion of a man who had spent many hours in the saddle for pleasure, rather than from necessity, but now he was pale and fretful, unlike the Coroner.

  This was a very different character. His face was still fixed into that scowl of disapproval. Whether it was his piles or some other malady, I could not tell, but it certainly soured his nature. Whereas Bedingfield looked like a man restrained against his will, forced to sit indoors when he knew full well that outside there was a world of pleasure to be had from hunting and hawking, like a boy who must stay indoors with his tutor when the sun was shining and the world appeared fresh and new, the Coroner looked like a man who would avoid wandering outside in case his hosen were splashed with mud. He looked more at home indoors.

  ‘Ah, our First Finder is back, eh?’ the Coroner said, leaning back from the table with a quizzical expression on his face.

  ‘Master Bedingfield, I was wondering whether I could speak with you?’

  ‘Feel free to speak, Master …’ the Coroner leaned over to his clerk and peered down at a scroll. ‘Oh, Master Blackjack, is it? Aye. Speak out, then!’

  ‘I was hoping,’ I began, but then saw there was no point in beating about the bush. Apart from anything else, it was highly unlikely that Bedingfield could give any response without referring to the Coroner. ‘That is to say, I wanted to ask that my master, John Blount, be released from his cell. He only became involved in the fight because he saw me, his servant, being assaulted. Naturally, he tried to prevent the men from injuring me. He had the duty to protect me, as his servant. I would beg that you see your way to allowing him to be freed.’