The Leper's Return (10 page)

“Before we assume anything like that, do you know of anyone else who might have wanted to kill your master?”

“No,” said Putthe with conviction. “My master was a quiet man. He only ever helped other people. You speak to anyone, they’ll all tell you about Master Godfrey of London.”

“Yet you say John did hate your master enough to kill him.”

“And you are certain it was John you saw out in the yard?” Tanner asked again, dubiously.

“Why don’t you ask him! John was found in the back by the master some while ago; John was carrying on with Martha Coffyn; John needs money. If you’re right and the plate has gone, you can be sure it’s John has got it! And now, if you don’t mind, I need to get some rest. My head feels as if it’s going to fall off my shoulders!”

“It’s too late to see the girl now,” Baldwin said as they left the bottler. Tanner, could you go to her and ask if she will talk to us in the morning? Then go next door and tell the neighbor—Coffyn you said his name was, didn’t you?—well, say the same to him. And put a man on guard in the room with the body. I’ll want to study it again in daylight, in case I missed something. For now, I need to think.“ He went back along the screens and out through the door to the yard. Tanner and Edgar exchanged a glance before following him.

“What is it, sir?” Edgar asked as he joined his master.

“Hmm? Oh, it’s just that I was thinking if someone had killed Godfrey and run away immediately, he would not have gone straight through the front door. There are always too many people out there on the main street. No, I was wondering whether that someone might have come out here, through the back. And the more I stare out this way, the more I feel certain that the killer made off through the garden.”

“Ah,” said Tanner. “But he’s not the sort, Sir Baldwin.”

“You think so? He was willing to defraud the people of the town about losing his sight, wasn’t he?”

“Oh, that’s very different.”

“And what if he was trying to steal the plate and got interrupted? He might have knocked Godfrey down without meaning to kill him.”

“Do you want me to arrange for someone to keep an eye on him?”

Baldwin grimaced doubtfully, then shook his head. “No. If he was to run away, we’d soon catch him.”

“He’s no murderer, I’m sure, and I don’t think he’d break into a house either.”

“Neither do I, but that’s not what other people will think, Tanner,” Baldwin said softly, still staring out toward the little shack that lay only a few hundred yards up the hill. “Let’s just hope no fools take it into their heads to assume the worst of him, eh?”

As the trio turned away, Baldwin and his servant retrieving their horses and making their way home, John sat on his bed rubbing his sprained ankle.

The palliasse was thin now, and the rope mattress beneath was painful through the straw filling, but the little Irishman hardly noticed. In his mind’s eye he could still see that room, the two men on the floor, the girl lying near the window.

His heart was still beating furiously. The effort of stealthily making his way home had exhausted him. Especially since all the way he could hear the cries of the men searching for him; the men who would hold him to be hanged because of the sack on his back.

He was very scared; he had to make sure he wasn’t searched—not until he had managed to remove the sack of pewter concealed beneath the hay in his little barn and had placed it in a safer cache.

Edgar rose before the dawn, as was his habit. He was a little light-headed from lack of sleep, but he ducked his head in the bucket by the well, puffing and blowing with the cold as he towelled himself dry. Pulling on his tunic, he stood awhile watching the eastern sky as it lightened.

Ever since his time with the Knights Templar, he had enjoyed this early part of the day. It gave him a sense of serenity, as if he was alone in the world, and to enjoy it all the more, he sat on the old oak stump on which the logs were split. From here, by gazing along the length of the house, he could see the sky changing its color, tingeing the clouds with silver and purple, before suffusing them in peach. Almost before he realized, the darkness of the night sky was gone, and in its place was the clear, fresh paleness of the new day.

Only when the sun was beginning to rise above the hill did he stand and make his way into the buttery to prepare his master’s meal. Like most houses, Baldwin’s had a separate kitchen so as to prevent any accidental fire threatening the hall itself, but Edgar knew his master well: Sir Baldwin would want only cold meats and bread for his first meal.

The servant sought out a good quality loaf, and brought it together with a cold roasted chicken, a large ham and a joint of beef. These he distributed at Baldwin’s table in the hall, then he checked the fire. Wat, the cattleman’s son, had already been in and blown the embers into flame, stacking a small pile of twigs and tinder above. These were now blazing merrily enough, and Edgar carefully rested split logs on top, squatting beside it to keep an eye on it until the logs should catch. When there was enough heat, he would set the pot above on its stand. The knight might not like too much alcohol, but he enjoyed his cup of weak, warmed and sweetened ale with his breakfast.

While resting, Edgar found his thoughts turning to his master. Baldwin had been a kindly and loyal knight, but all that was about to change. Edgar knew he was looking forward to the visit of Lady Jeanne de Liddinstone, the widow he had met the previous year in Tavistock, and Edgar was convinced that he was set on wooing her. There was no surprise in that—the lady was very attractive, with her red-gold hair and bright blue eyes. Edgar contemplatively nodded his head. She was not the sort of woman he would necessarily select for himself, for he was nervous of women who were too independent, preferring those who were more amenable to his will, but he could understand how his master could become enamored of her.

And a wife about the place would necessarily mean change. She would want to keep an eye on her husband’s affairs, would want to ensure that he was properly looked after—and that might not mean in the same way that Edgar had looked after Baldwin for the last few years.

Then there was Cristine at the inn in Crediton. Edgar was aware that his feelings were drawn more and more toward her, although he had no idea why. She was pretty enough, it was true, but she was hardly the compliant, quiet type of woman he had always looked for before. Cristine was strong-willed and powerful, a serving girl with a quick line in repartee, and rather than being irritated and looking upon her as a harpy, Edgar was finding himself attracted to her as an equal. It was an alarming concept.

And if he fulfilled her expectation (and, he suspected, Baldwin’s as well), and married her, it would mean a total alteration to his life. Surely Jeanne de Liddinstone would view her with doubt, a courtly lady like herself. She would expect to have a young maiden to see to her sewing and mending, a girl who had been raised quietly, rather than a wench whose education had taken place in the taproom, and whose store of small talk related to raucous jokes told at the inn’s hall.

He gave a sigh as he gazed into the flames. When his master married, he would have to leave and start a new life in the town. There were surely going to be many changes soon.

“What’s the matter, Edgar? You’re mooning at the fire like a lovesick squire!”

“Sir Baldwin, your food is ready, but the fire is still too cool to warm your ale.”

Baldwin threw a sour glance at the tiny flames licking up from the wood. “Kick the lad who laid the damned thing and tell him to prepare it better next time, or we’ll use him as firewood to warm my drinks!”

“Yes, sir,” Edgar said, smiling as his master walked to his chair and sat down. Baldwin was one of that rare breed of men: someone who awoke with an easy, light-hearted demeanor. Although he sounded gruff, Edgar knew he was speaking loudly to make sure his voice carried out to the yard behind, where Wat should be stacking logs.

Baldwin made a leisurely breakfast, gratefully accepting a pot of watered wine instead of his ale. As he chewed, his mind was fixed on the body left in the hall of the retired goldsmith, and his ruminations made him glower in concentration. When Wat entered to stack logs by the fire, he noticed the knight’s expression, and dropped his load in fear. Under Edgar’s stern gaze, he quickly caught up the errant logs, which were rolling over the floor toward his master’s feet, and stowed them near the hearth before hurriedly making his way from the room, thankful that his clumsiness had not earned him the whipping he expected.

Edgar turned to his master as the door slammed. “I think he’ll be more careful about the fire next time, sir.”

Baldwin chuckled, but soon his face took on a faraway look again. He must return to Crediton and continue with his investigation into the killing of Godfrey—Godfrey of London. Baldwin mused over the name. “What sort of a man was he, I wonder?”

“Sir?”

“This quiet goldsmith. What sort of a man was he? Who would have known him best, do you think?”

Edgar scratched his nose thoughtfully. “I know little about him. He wasn’t a very sociable man, from what I’ve heard.”

“It might be worth asking at the inn whether anyone knew him,” Baldwin said slyly.

Edgar ignored his look. “Perhaps. I could see what I can find out, if you want.”

“Very well! When one has a spy ready placed, it’s wasteful not to make use of him—or her!”

“Quite, master,” Edgar said coldly.

“But we need to ask what these others saw as well,” Baldwin added, his light-heartedness falling away as he considered the problems ahead. “We have to see this neighbor and his guard, and the dead man’s daughter.”

“And the Irishman.”

“Yes,” Baldwin agreed. “And John.”

Yet he found it hard to believe that the tranter could have anything to do with it.

They took the ride into Crediton at an easy pace, for there was plenty of ice lying on the flat stretches of road, and where there wasn’t, the packed soil of the tracks spelled out another danger: it was all too easy for a horse to slip on a frost-hardened rut and sprain a fetlock; if cantering, a horse could break a leg. Baldwin had no desire to see his rounsey destroyed, so they rode along gently.

He went straight on past the goldsmith’s hall, past the little group of excitedly chattering townspeople, and in at the gate of Matthew Coffyn.

The house was set back a few tens of yards from the road, and Baldwin could study it as he approached. It was a new place, one of the most recent in the village, and unlike most of its neighbors, was built of local red stone. That itself boasted of money. The main hall was a broad gray mass facing him, like the long stroke in a capital “T.” At the right end was the barred top of the “T,” which consisted of storerooms with the solar above. Smoke from over the thatched roof showed the kitchen lay behind.

He and his servant dismounted at the door. Their appearance had been noticed by a burly man who stood at the threshold. He bellowed over his shoulder, and soon a young groom came running, taking their mounts from them and leading them away to be watered.

Baldwin gave a short grunt of disgust. In his youth, men took on their positions with dedication. The old way was for a man to give himself unreservedly to his lord for life, in exchange for which he would receive clothing, equipment, food and lodging, each depending upon his status. As his lord’s power waxed or waned, so would his own prospects. The modern vogue for men to sell themselves purely for money made them no better than bankers or lawyers. A man like that was undertaking only a cynical financial transaction with no concept of true duty. He would transfer his allegiance on the promise of more cash.

“Sir?” the man said questioningly.

He put Baldwin in mind of a wandering mercenary. It wasn’t the clothing. He was clad like any town-dweller, in simple ochre tunic and linen shirt. There was not even a sword about him, only a long-bladed knife dangling at his hip. He had alert, cheerful eyes, and his mouth seemed on the verge of smiling. His posture was relaxed, his thumbs comfortably stuck in his belt, eyeing the knight with a look of respect—but only that respect due to an equal.

But the negligent pose was itself an act. The man was ready to defend the door against anyone who was foolish enough to attempt to force it. Baldwin could see that in his stillness, and more especially in the way that his attention flitted from Baldwin to someone in the street behind the knight, and back again. That was why Baldwin knew he had been a soldier. He had the warrior’s instinct of keeping an eye out for danger.

“I am here to see Matthew Coffyn.”

“And your name, sir?”

“You may tell him that the Keeper of the King’s Peace is here,” Baldwin said easily.

The guard nodded affably, then glanced behind him. “Go and tell your master, and hurry about it! Please come with me, sir.”

They followed him along a broad screens passage, and into a wide hall. It was as Baldwin had suspected. Six men, all sitting at tables, were enjoying their first whet of the day, supping ale from large pots and wiping their mouths with the back of their hands, eyeing him suspiciously. For all that it had the charm of a garrison, Baldwin could see that the hall was well-appointed. Above the entrance was a carved minstrel’s gallery, and the dais at the far end was deep enough for twenty to sit at table. In the middle of the floor was the hearth, with a cone of timbers smoldering quietly inside a ring of moorstone blocks. He counted seven good-sized tables, apart from the two large ones on the dais.

But even with the tapestries, all of which displayed hunting scenes, there was an atmosphere that belied the apparent homeliness of the scene. The men were plainly not the servants of a prosperous man, they were little more than brigands, and the rolled palliasses and packs against the wall were proof enough that the garrison slept and lived here.

Matthew Coffyn was seated at his table, and Baldwin studied him as he was led to the merchant’s presence.

Coffyn was a tall man, Baldwin saw, with a paunch and thick neck that were testaments to his wealth—he could afford as much food as he wanted. For all that, he had a miserable appearance, with a pointed, weakly chin and thin lips under a straight, narrow nose. His eyes were dark, and met the knight’s with a curious sadness. Yet there was also a petulance about him, giving the impression of a spoiled child. This was added to by the shock of unkempt, mousy hair, which gave him the look of a youngster, and also by the signs of nervous energy. Although Coffyn was quiet and sat very still in his seat, every now and again his hand would go to his mouth, and he would worry at his nails like a dog seeking to extract the very last vestige of meat from a whitened bone. Baldwin could see thin red marks on two nails where Coffyn had already chewed them to the quick and drawn blood.