The Canterbury Murders (5 page)

Chapter Eight

It took over two hours to question the rest of the staff. After Aquarius had been dismissed, Inglis brought in the two menservants who had carried up the water for the bath. This pair, ostensibly, was the last to have seen Molly alive, for no one else had reason, or claimed, to have gone to the antechamber between the time they left and Aquarius found the body. As such, they, too, were high on Gianni and Miles’ list of suspects, having ample opportunity for one of them, or both together, to commit the murder before they came back downstairs and rejoined the household.

When the steward ushered them in, he informed Miles that their names were Simon and Alfred before directing them, in an authoritative tone, to go and stand before the knight and answer any questions that were put to them. The older of the pair, Simon, was about thirty years of age, with a sturdy build and a bovine expression. The other, slimmer, but wiry, was not much past twenty years of age, with a shock of tow-coloured hair and bright blue eyes that seemed to hint at a Saxon heritage. Simon, when asked, said that he had been born locally, while Alfred told them he was from London.

When Miles asked them to tell about the duty they had performed just before Molly was killed, they explained that after bringing the tub and its base into the antechamber from a storeroom on the second floor, they had brought up heated water from a large cauldron in the kitchen, carrying it up the stairs in leather buckets.

“We had to make two trips, each of us carrying a pair of buckets both times,” Simon replied. “The king likes his bath deep.”

“And how long was this before the alarm was raised?” Miles asked.

The two men looked at each other, trying to estimate the time. “Must have been about an ’our,” the Londoner finally said.

“And was there anyone in the passageway, or on the stairs?”

“I didn’t see no one,” Simon said and Albert, with a shake of his head, agreed.

Gianni scribed a few words on his tablet and showed it to Miles. The knight read it and then asked, “Did you leave the antechamber together after you finished your task?”

“No,” Simon informed him. “I went up first on the last trip, so I was first to go back downstairs. Alfred was still emptyin’ his buckets when I left.”

“Then it would seem that you, Alfred, were the last person in the company of the victim,” Miles said, regarding the manservant with a degree of speculation.

The young manservant’s face blanched as he realised the implication. “I ’ope you don’t think as ’ow I snuffed ’er, lord,” he said anxiously, his London accent becoming more pronounced in his agitation. “She wus just fine when I left her. Laughin’ and jokin’, she wus, teasin’ me ’bout one of the maidservants she’d seen me talkin’ to that afternoon and askin’ if I fancied the girl. . . .”

Miles ignored his protestations and asked both men how long they had been in service in the townhouse.

“Ten years,” Simon answered, moving a little apart from Alfred as though to remove himself from the suspicion that had begun to taint the Londoner.

“So you must have met the washerwoman before, on the previous occasions that she came here with the king?”

Simon nodded.

“And how did you get along with her?”

“She was alright,” Simon answered. “But I didn’t have much to do with her apart from carryin’ the water when she needed it for laundering clothes or for the king’s bath, so we never spoke much.”

The knight nodded and turned to Alfred. “And how long have you been here?”

“A few months. I was given the post last summer.”

“And before that?”

“I wus a lackey for a draper in London.”

“Why did you leave his service?”

“He got really sick, and come to Canterbury to pray at St. Thomas’ shrine, to ask the saint to make ’im better. ’Is wife came with ’im, along with me and ’er maidservant, but the draper died just after we got here. Once he wus dead, ’is wife told me she didn’t need me no more and left me ’ere when she took ’is body back ’ome.”

“That seems a bit harsh,” Miles said. “Why did she not take you back to London before she dismissed you? Had you offended her in some way?”

“Not really, but she didn’t like me much,” Alfred replied with a shrug.

“And how did you come to be taken on here, at the townhouse?”

“I went into an alehouse arter the draper’s wife was gone, to ask the ale keeper if he knew of anyone who might give me work. One of the menservants from the townhouse wus in there havin’ a sup of ale and ’eard me sayin’ as ’ow I needed a job. He told me they wus lookin’ for someone to help out here with the ’eavy work, so I come along and talked to the steward and he took me on.”

The knight glanced at Gianni. Alfred’s story seemed thin, and it would be difficult to check the truth of it over such a distance with his former employer’s wife. London was a hotbed of intrigue, and notorious for the many criminals that abounded its streets. Was it possible that an enemy of John’s had hired Alfred to assassinate the king? Gianni gave a small shrug of uncertainty. Again, as with Aquarius, there was no proof of culpability. The lad splayed out his fingers slightly, signaling for his companion to wait, and then wrote down an instruction for Miles to ask Alfred the name of his dead employer and where in London his house and business premises were located.

Alfred answered a bit reluctantly, protesting that his former employer’s widow would have nothing good to say of him, but he finally gave the draper’s name and said that his shop was near a wool market in Lombard Street.

After putting questions to the pair similar to those that had been asked the bath attendant—if either knew of anyone who wished the washerwoman harm, or if they knew of a recent argument she had been involved in—and receiving the same negative answers, Miles dismissed the two men and they left the chamber with audible sighs of relief.

***

The darkness of the winter evening was drawing in by the time Gianni and Miles finished interviewing the remaining servants. Little information had been gleaned by their efforts. Most of the staff had each been in the company of one of the others at the time of the murder—the cook and his assistant cleaning the kitchen before retiring, the maids folding and storing away napery that had been used during the evening meal and the menservants damping down fires and dousing candles. The two grooms that John had brought with him from Normandy had both been in the stables, polishing the trappings and tack worn by the king’s horses, their alibi confirmed by one of the menservants who had been returning from the latrine in the yard when the alarm was raised.

At last only the steward, Inglis, remained and he, too, was unable to provide any useful facts. In common with the rest of the staff, he claimed not to have seen or heard anything untoward until the king shouted from the top of the stairs. Unlike the others, Inglis had been alone at the time, checking an inventory of the townhouse supplies in the room he used as a bedchamber, but just before the alarm was raised two of the maidservants had come and asked for his permission to retire and so were able to vouch for him.

All of the servants were shocked and the two maidservants distraught, one so much so that she had burst into tears while being questioned. After spending an anxious night downstairs while the king raged above their heads, it had not been until dawn’s light had risen and King John had left to escort Queen Isabella back to Dover that peace had fallen. Nonetheless, they all appeared to be telling the truth and neither Miles nor Gianni could detect any trace of falsehood in their statements.

“We do not have much to report,” Miles opined as he and Gianni rode back to Watling Street. “The guards would have been questioned by their captain, so the only other witnesses left to speak to are the two ladies who attend the queen. But I am sure that if they had seen anything untoward, they would have told the king of it before leaving with Isabella to go to Dover. So all that we have learned is that Aquarius and the manservant Alfred might be worthy of further investigation. I had hoped we would be more successful; it is disappointing.”

The lad gave him a knowing look and waggled his hand back and forth. Miles nodded his understanding. “Yes, I know. It has been only a matter of hours since the deed was done and I am being impatient.”

After remaining silent for a few moments, he said, “The next step is not one that I relish—viewing the victim’s body.” At Gianni’s commiserative nod, he added, “And once that has been done, we must find out whether or not the dead woman’s sister has been located. If she has, we can ask her if she knows of anyone who had a grudge against the washerwoman. It may be that the motive lies in that direction and has nothing at all to do with the king.”

Miles gave Gianni a sudden grin, and added, “But first, my young scribe, I must have some sustenance. My belly is gnawing at my backbone.”

Gianni returned his smile with enthusiasm and rubbed a hand over his own stomach as they rode the last few paces to the Watling Street townhouse.

***

In the castle, William Marshal had delayed his departure for the priory while John had a clerk prepare the letter to the Templar Order, wishing it to be sent without delay. Once the task was done, the king had declared, they could make the journey to the cathedral guesthouse together. While he waited, the earl shared a cup of wine in the hall with Nicholas Criel and quizzed the mercenary captain, Almaric Chacal, on the events of the night before.

“And you are certain it could not have been an intruder that killed the woman?” he asked.

The mercenary shook his head. “Positive. Two of my men were on guard inside both entrances, there was another at the landing stage by the river and two more kept watch over the stables and the outbuildings. I also made regular patrols of the premises myself every hour. It is impossible that anyone could have entered without being seen.”

“Then if follows that the culprit must be a member of the household,” Marshal declared.

Chacal shrugged, his impenetrable flat grey eyes showing little interest beyond exoneration of himself and the soldiers under his command. “That is how it appears to me and, if so, neither I nor my men can be held accountable. I was not given any dictate to keep watch over the servants, or to monitor their movements.”

The Earl of Pembroke studied the mercenary captain. He knew him only slightly, for Chacal had joined the de Socienne band only a week or two before John left Normandy. He had an aloof manner and seemed a little resentful that the competence of his men was being called into question, but Marshal could understand his attitude. He had been young and penniless himself once and, like Chacal, had found it necessary to ply his sword to earn his livelihood. Poverty was not an easy burden for a man to bear and he could not blame the mercenary for fearing John might dismiss him for incompetence.

“Well, the matter may soon be resolved,” Marshal said. “The king intends to ask the master of the Templars for the assistance of one of their monks, a man who has considerable experience in investigating such matters. With good fortune, he will be allowed to come and we may hope for a speedy resolution.”

At that moment, John appeared in the doorway of the tower and, after calling for a servant to bring his cloak, handed the constable his letter to Amery St. Maur. “Arrange for this to be sent with all despatch,” he ordered, “and see that the reply, when it comes, is brought to me immediately at the priory guesthouse.”

As the king and Marshal walked away, Chacal looked after them thoughtfully and then asked Criel if he was acquainted with the Templar monk of whom the earl had spoken.

“I have made his acquaintance, but his reputation as an investigator is known to me only from hearsay,” the constable replied. “He is a knight by the name of Bascot de Marins. He has a rare talent, apparently—solved a number of secret murders in Lincoln and gained the esteem of both Lady Nicolaa and the king.”

“Whether or not he catches the killer is beyond my interest,” Chacal replied dismissively. “I care only that he has enough skill to clear the stain on my reputation by proving it wasn’t an intruder that committed the murder.”

Chapter Nine

The cathedral bells were tolling Compline when Gianni, Miles and Clare set out for the death house in St. Alphege’s church, the dolorous peals soon joined by the bells of all of the other churches in the city, creating a canopy of rolling noise overhead. St. Alphege’s was some distance from Watling Street, situated in the northwest area of the city near the cathedral, and in the darkness of the winter evening the streets were almost deserted. A bitterly cold wind was blowing and Clare huddled deep into her cloak, trying to summon up enough inner strength to carry out the grisly task that lay ahead. She had encountered secret murder before, and most closely, when the young clerk she had promised to marry had been killed by a poisoner. Because it had been she who had inadvertently served the food containing the lethal dose, her grief had been all the harder to bear. Lady Nicolaa had given her great comfort at the time, and she was resolved not to let her aversion for touching a dead body overcome the need to repay the debt she owed her mistress.

The short service was over by the time they reached the church, the few parishioners who had attended hurrying home through the gate that led out of the precincts. They found the priest in the vestry, divesting himself of the alb and stole he had worn to conduct the service. He was an elderly cleric with a thin face and pedantic air. He read the letter of authority Nicolaa had given Miles very carefully before granting permission for them to examine the corpse.

“I trust you will show full respect for the remains of the poor woman,” he said, his almost fleshless lips pursed in disapproval. “Her life was taken against God’s will; it was a heinous crime, and one that should not be compounded by liberties being taken with her body now that she is dead.”

“I assure you that we shall not infringe on her modesty,” Miles said and gestured towards Clare. “We have brought Lady Nicolaa’s maidservant to perform any intimate inspection that may be necessary, and my companion and I will withdraw while she does so.”

The priest, not altogether satisfied, but forced by Nicolaa’s writ to give his assent, reluctantly agreed to show them to the death house and led them out of the church. “The dead woman’s sister is with the deceased at the moment,” he informed them as they walked towards a small stone building set alongside the graveyard, “and has brought a neighbour to help with washing and laying out the body. As is to be expected, she is most distraught. I must insist that you have a care for her sensitivity.”

Surprised, Miles said that he knew it had been King John’s intention to locate the washerwoman’s family, but he had not been aware that a relative had already been found.

“Maud Cooper is one of my parishioners,” the priest told them, “and I knew she had a sister serving as a laundress in the king’s retinue. When the unfortunate woman’s body was brought here, and I was told she had been King John’s washerwoman, I thought it possible she was Mistress Cooper’s relative. I sent for her to come and view the body and sadly, my supposition was correct.”

“I shall ask Lady Nicolaa to inform the king that Mistress Cooper has been notified,” Miles told the priest.

“There is no need,” the priest replied with righteous self-satisfaction. “I sent word that I had identified her to the castle this morning and was most gratified, just an hour ago, to receive a message from King John along with the murdered woman’s belongings and a purse of silver for Mistress Cooper. In his letter the king asked me to convey his personal condolences for her bereavement, which was a great comfort to her.”

By now, they had reached the door of the death house and the priest opened it and led them inside. The chamber, set with half-a-dozen raised stone slabs resting on squat pillars, was icily cold and beads of moisture dotted the walls. On one of the slabs lay the washerwoman’s corpse, her remains covered with a linen sheet pulled up to the chin to hide the dreadful wound to her neck. Next to the bier stood a small brazier and a bucket, the latter full of water which had sprigs of rosemary floating on the surface. Faint whiffs of the fragrant herb drifted across the room, but the scent was not strong enough to dispel the miasmic odour of death.

Candles had been lit at each end of the bier and just beyond them, in the shadows, two women were sitting on a bench. One was of middle age and in obvious distress, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen from the tears that were trickling down her cheeks. The other woman, older and more composed, sat close beside her, one hand resting solicitously on her companion’s arm. They both looked up in surprise when Miles, Gianni and Clare followed the priest into the chamber.

While the cleric was introducing the woman with the tear-stained face as the dead woman’s sister, and her companion as a neighbour, Edith Bottler, Gianni peered intently at the victim. She had a broad and full face that, with life’s vital essence, would have been plump, but was now flaccid and sunken; beneath the thin cloth that covered her she appeared to be of medium height and well-fleshed, with brawny arms and shoulders. A strong woman, Gianni thought, and one who would not be easily overcome in a struggle, especially with another woman. Her attacker must have been a man, he decided, and a powerful one.

Gianni returned his attention to Maud Cooper as Miles explained the reason they had come. “The injury that took your sister’s life and any other wounds on her body must be examined, in the hope that by doing so we may discover the identity of the person who killed her.”

His words were met with a look of shock from both of the women. “Neither I nor the lad will be present while the inspection is carried out,” he hastily assured them, motioning to Clare. “Our companion will, for decency’s sake, perform the commission.”

Maud looked at him with a dazed expression. She was a little younger than her dead sister, perhaps approaching forty years of age, and with a frame that, although plump, was not as muscular as her sibling’s. Her countenance had a rather vacuous quality and she dithered for a moment until, finally realizing that Miles had been sent by the king, she overcame her confusion and agreed to the request. “King John has been most kind,” she said in a tremulous voice, “and is, I think, truly grieved for Molly’s death. It is my duty to obey his command.”

Edith Bottler now spoke. She was older than Maud and possessed of far more self-assurance. “We have just finished washing and laying out the body ready for wrapping in its shroud, lord,” she said to Miles, “and I can tell you for certain that apart from the terrible wound that took Molly’s life, the only other marks on her flesh are a deep bruise on her spine and a few smaller ones on her shoulder. The rest of her poor body has not been despoiled, thanks be to God.”

“Then there will be no need for a full disrobing,” Miles said thankfully. Speaking once again to Maud, he added, “But even so, it will still be necessary to view the injuries, and also to examine her clothing.”

Maud, stifling a sob, gave a brief nod and Miles and Gianni left the room with the priest as Clare, misgiving written large on her face, came forward. As the knight passed her, he whispered softly, “Take courage and remember that Lady Nicolaa is depending on you.”

Maud, still sobbing, remained seated on the bench, but Edith rose and went to stand on the other side of the bier. She had taken notice of the sempstress’s aversion and gave her a kindly look as she said, “I have laid out many a body in my time and, if you wish, will disrobe Molly for you.”

Clare accepted the offer gratefully and, as Edith removed the strip of cloth that had been laid across the murdered woman’s neck, felt her gorge rise. The slash across the throat had been a vicious one; it had gone so deep that it had cut through cartilage and muscle, almost severing the spine. Edith, supporting the corpse’s head, gently removed the loose linen headdress that had been placed over Molly’s hair and then, with a hand under the dead woman’s chin to keep the head steady, turned the body on its side. A single braid of thick dark hair fell aside as she did so and Edith pointed to a huge bruise just below the nape of the corpse’s neck. The mark was about the width of a hand wide, and just as long.

“See there, mistress,” Edith said. “It’s as though someone hit her with a club afore they cut her throat.” She moved her finger to point at some fainter marks on the corpse’s left shoulder. There were only a few of them, round and evenly spaced, as though made by the fingers and thumb of a hand.

“Maud was told that her sister was found with her head hanging in a tub of water she had been making ready for the king to bathe in,” Edith remarked. “I reckon someone came up behind her as she was going about her duties, hit her on the back with a club of some sort and then held her by the shoulder while he used his knife on her throat. After that, she must have fallen forward into the water.”

Clare nodded. Edith’s calm assessment steadied her, and as Clare considered it, she thought the explanation made sense, except that it did not look as though a club had been used. If one had been, she thought, the assailant would have been far more likely to have smashed it onto the victim’s head and not her back. Pointing to the bruises on the corpse’s shoulder, she said to the other woman, “Or the bruise could have been made by the pressure of her assailant holding her down with his knee while he grasped her there, to keep her from struggling while he dealt the death blow. She looks to be a strong woman; I do not think she would have been easy to overcome—hence the need to pin her down.”

“Aye, you’re right,” Edith said with a glance of respect. “I never thought of that. You’re not as fainthearted as you look, mistress.”

Taking a few deep breaths to steady herself, Clare helped return the body to its original position and then said a prayer for the dead woman’s soul while Edith replaced the headdress and strip of linen. She then moved from the bier and went through the dead woman’s clothing, which was lying in a neat pile on a stool, alongside a cloth sack which Edith told her contained Molly’s few belongings.

The washerwoman had been wearing a plain grey gown of thickly woven material and a white head-cloth when she died. Both were still damp from contact with the bathwater, especially the head covering, and stained with blood. On the floor underneath the stool was a pair of sturdy boots, large in size and well worn, and a pair of thick knitted leggings which had been neatly rolled up and placed atop the footwear. In the bag that contained Molly’s belongings was another gown of almost the same shade of grey as the other, a spare head-cloth and a comb carved from bone. At the bottom were a few little keepsakes that the washerwoman must have collected over the years—a pewter medal bearing the image of Thomas Becket, a pretty little seashell with an iridescent hue on the inner surface and a brightly coloured peacock feather. Each had been separately, and carefully, wrapped in small squares of white linen. A lump formed in Clare’s throat as she examined them, imagining the pleasure the dead woman must have felt in handling her little mementos, and she reverently replaced the wrappings before laying them aside. She searched once more through the folds of the clothing in case she had missed anything, but still found nothing of significance, not even in the capacious pocket fitted into the skirt of the gown she had been wearing when she was killed, which contained nothing but a tiny sliver of scented soap and two silver pennies.

After thanking Edith for her assistance and expressing sorrow to Maud for the loss of her sister, Clare left the death house. Miles and Gianni were waiting outside alone, the priest having returned to the church. They listened with full attention as she told them of the bruises she had seen on Molly’s body.

“If your assumption about the manner in which she was subdued is correct, it is certain to have been a man who killed her,” Miles said. “The washerwoman was strongly built, and I doubt whether another woman, even if she took her by surprise, would have been able to overcome her.” Gianni gave a confirming nod and scribbled something on his tablet for the knight to read.

Miles read it and then looked at Clare, who was not literate, and said, “We need to ask Mistress Cooper some questions about her sister; whether or not she had any enemies here in Canterbury or mentioned any quarrels she may have had with others in the king’s household. Do you think she is composed enough to speak to us now?”

“She is very upset at the moment,” Clare replied. “I think it would be best to wait until her wits are clearer. In her present state, she may forget something that is important.”

“Very well,” Miles said. “I will find the priest and ask him where she lives, and also if he will kindly inform her that we will visit her tomorrow.”

As Miles and Clare went up the path to find the cleric, Gianni trailed behind, his mind working furiously over what they had learned. It was not much, he had to admit, and although he had admonished Miles for being impatient, he now felt the same way himself. In an attempt to ease his disappointment, he touched the wax tablet at his belt, its wooden cover smooth and familiar under his fingers. Perhaps while he made a written report of today’s findings, he thought, he might discern something that had been missed. He recalled the previous investigations when he had accompanied the Templar and how his former master took plenty of time to mull over the facts. He also remembered that Sir Bascot had always said that it was necessary to ask God for guidance and not to rely on intellect alone. Comforted by the thought, Gianni resolved to follow the Templar’s example and, as he entered the church in Miles and Clare’s wake, he fixed his eyes on the crucifix above the rood screen and sent up an earnest plea for heavenly assistance.