The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker (12 page)

He was appraising Baldwin in his turn, saying, ‘They guard their privacy jealously, do the staff here, but from what the Dean told me, they were preparing gifts of gloves for some of the more senior citizens for the Holy Innocents’ Day feast. You among them.’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin agreed. Simon remained silent, looking over the rebuilding work which continued around the Cathedral even today in this cold and miserable weather.

‘Well,’ the Coroner said, pulling his cloak closer about his shoulders, ‘the dead man, this Peter, was working in the Treasury – that is the building over at the north side of the Cathedral itself – and was tasked, along with his friend Jolinde Bolle, with delivering money and jewels to the glover who was to make your gifts. Except the glover himself is dead, murdered by his apprentice, and the apprentice denies taking the money. He denies killing his master, come to that, but they always do, don’t they? You asked me about the young man living with Peter, this Jolinde Bolle. If Peter
had
taken the stuff, Bolle could have been an accomplice. Maybe he got greedy – killed Peter and took what they had thieved rather than share it.’

‘Would Peter have known where the glover kept his strongbox?’ Simon interrupted.

‘I don’t know. Perhaps the glover took them to it.’

‘And then he killed the glover to conceal his theft . . .’

‘It’s possible.’

‘. . . Only to be robbed, and killed in his turn,’ Baldwin murmured. ‘It sounds complicated. Is it feasible that two murders could happen in so short a space of time?’

‘This is speculation, but two murders within a few days in a city this size is not unheard of. And what if Peter’s death was by his own hand? After all the Dean hinted at it: he seemed to suggest that if the lad
had
stolen the jewels and cash, he might have felt so remorseful that he could only see the one way out.’

‘Do you believe that?’

Roger stopped dead and placed his hands on his hips. He gazed up at the sky, then around at the Cathedral’s grounds. ‘Do I think he killed himself? No. If he did, where are the jewels now? It’s not too far-fetched to suppose that there were two murders, but that there were two unconnected robberies as well does stretch my imagination.’

Baldwin gave a dry smile. ‘Good. I would also add that I find it unlikely that a fellow would take a lethal dose of poison and then walk into his church to expire during a service.’

‘You say you’ve seen this Bolle about the city at night,’ Simon noted. ‘Couldn’t
he
have killed the glover and stolen the money? Perhaps Peter saw the jewels and recognised them – threatened to tell someone?’

‘So Jolinde Bolle placated him, said he would replace them or whatever, and then slowly poisoned his friend?’ The Coroner grinned cynically.

‘Yes, it does seem a little unlikely,’ Baldwin admitted. ‘What of the other people who live here?’

‘There are more than I can count: twenty-four Canons in the Chapter; the Dean and his four dignitaries . . .’

‘Go on,’ said Simon. ‘These places all have different groups of men. Who serves the Cathedral?’

‘There are the Precentor, the Sub-Dean, the Chancellor and the Treasurer. Then there are four Archdeacons, for Totnes, Barnstaple, Cornwall and . . . oh, for Exeter, of course. I think each Canon has his own Vicar; there are some twelve or so Secondaries like this Peter; fourteen Choristers; at least twenty Annuellars, the chantry priests. And there are all the other members of the clergy, too: clerks and sub-clerks to the Exchequer, clerks to the Lady Chapel, clerks of works, clerks of God knows what . . . There’s probably two hundred folk living here within these walls.’

‘They live within the grounds permanently?’ Simon asked. He had been educated by the Canons of Crediton Church and had a better understanding of the canonical life than Baldwin, whose Order had been divorced from other religious groups.

‘They all do, these choir members,’ Roger sniffed. ‘Keep themselves to themselves. Apart from a few of the youngsters they hardly ever mix with the likes of us, Sir Baldwin. We’re too far beneath them. Even the lowliest of the Choristers is probably looked upon as more important than you or me.
They
are all religious.’

Baldwin nodded. The whole of the Cathedral grounds had been encircled by great walls some twenty years before, while he was still abroad. It had been a surprise for him when he had first seen the precinct on returning. They made the Cathedral feel divorced somehow from the city itself. ‘I presume that the gates are all locked at night?’

In answer the Coroner pointed towards the city’s south gate. ‘Down there is the Palace Gate, called that because it’s opposite the Bishop’s Palace. There, in Bear Lane is the Bear Gate.’ He turned and pointed to their right. ‘Up there is Little Stile, for pedestrians only. Next is St Petrock’s Gate, which leads through the church itself. Then there’s the Fissand Gate, although many call it Broadgate now. And last,’ he said, turning and pointing back the way they had come, ‘there is St Martin’s up there, and the Bicklegh Gate. It’s called that because the Bicklegh family owns the house alongside. All of the gates are locked and barred from inside, every night, and only when the porter rises at dawn are they opened again.’

‘So this Peter would have found it hard to get out after they were locked?’

Coroner Roger gave a twisted grin. ‘Now, then, Sir Baldwin. What were you like when you were a horny young buck and you knew that women were over a wall waiting for a rutting? Jolinde Bolle has often been out in the alleys and streets; I’ve seen him myself.’

‘How would he get out when the gates were locked?’

‘Come on, Sir Knight! If the fellow is randy enough, he’ll find a way. And if Bolle knows how to get out, you can bet that his friend did too. And if they knew how to get out, they must have known how to get back inside again.’

‘It follows then that if this Peter was murdered with poison administered at night, then the killer is someone within the Cathedral, unless that person secreted himself in the grounds after the gates were locked last night or knew how to clamber over the wall,’ Baldwin continued musingly. ‘Anyone who knew Bolle or the dead clerk could have followed them and learned their route.’

The Coroner shot him a quick look. ‘In other words, anyone in the city could have done it.’

‘Let’s just see whether this poor devil was truly murdered before we leap to conclusions, eh?’

‘It’s the Dean who’s doing that. He hardly needs my help.’

Simon was unimpressed. ‘The Dean can invent what he wants. I’ve often seen priestly men like him. Their imagination is given too free a rein. Surely he has little understanding of the real world.’

‘Yes, Bailiff. Men like the Dean read books and learn more than is good for them, looking at odd stuff about all the temptations devils can throw in their paths to tease them. Think what it must be like! Temptations of the flesh tormenting them all the time and never allowed to touch . . .’

‘If they don’t they’ll be among the only clerics in the country who manage to keep from sheathing their daggers where they shouldn’t,’ Simon grunted. Although he had himself been brought up by Canons, he had grown more sceptical about the behaviour of religious men and women after his experiences in Belstone earlier in the year.

The Coroner gave him a contemplative look. ‘You won’t be surprised to hear that the younger clerks here are no different from the ones you’ve come into contact with Bailiff. It’s not only Bolle and the dead lad. Any of them will leave the precinct and run about the town when they get a chance, whoring and drinking just like ordinary lads. And why shouldn’t they? I doubt whether God would concern Himself with a boy who enjoyed natural pleasures.’

Baldwin was stung into objecting. ‘The Bible tells us that fornicating and wallowing in gluttonous behaviour is as obnoxious to God as it is to other men,’ he began, but Roger gave a short snort.

‘You think so, Sir Baldwin? If God cares so much, why doesn’t He send a thunderbolt every so often, hey? No, for my part I’ll believe my own priest, who tells me that so long as I apologise and confess before I die, I’ll be all right. Not that I admit to any wrongdoing, of course,’ he added with a twinkle.

Hawisia le Berwe was in the Cathedral as the Bratton Chantry priest began the Mass. Her husband had left the house before she was dressed, muttering something about a meeting he must attend, but it was no surprise to her. Staring at the altar, she closed her eyes with patient suffering and prayed for him.

She knew all about the rumours. Others saw him about the city; no doubt her own servants had told others that he rarely visited her bed any more. Her mother had heard a tale from some gossip or other, had written warning Hawisia that older men lost their urges, became phlegmatic and corpulent, and for a woman to find that her husband had deserted her was dreadful. Had he lost interest in her?

The recollection of that message made Hawisia smile now. No, Vincent still showed her plenty of affection. When a man left his wife, he showed little concern for her feelings; that was what she had heard from other women who tried to broach the subject with her. Some were women who had lost their husbands to the warmer, more acrobatic beds of younger courtesans. Thinking Hawisia was a new recruit to their ranks, they had spoken candidly of their search for their own new bedfellows, seeking out younger men who would appreciate their wealth and patronage. Hawisia was appalled by their behaviour. It convinced her that they were dishonourable and it was hard for her to maintain her calm and courteous demeanour with them.

For Hawisia was a polished hostess. She knew that in order for her to be accepted she must befriend all the women who visited. Especially the wives of the more influential men in the area. That was why she had been so meek and deferential to Jeanne when she had visited with her husband Sir Baldwin. Hawisia knew that she must not shine compared with the wife of so important a man.

Not that he had looked particularly impressive, she reflected, listening with half an ear as the priest began to preach his sermon – badly as always, she sighed. Rumour had it that he had only won his post owing to the size of his father’s pocket, and listening to him Hawisia could easily believe it.

Her husband was often not with her because he was very busy with his work. Hawisia knew that. She could trust him; he was a good husband to her. And she was immensely proud of him. He kept her well, and now he had his senior post in the hierarchy of the city there was every possibility of greater rewards. It wasn’t as if he didn’t love her any more. It was all down to business.

First, she knew, he had been fretful because he feared that Nick Karvinel would persuade enough of the members of the city’s Freedom to support his bid to become Receiver. The post was important. Of course it restricted other business because the holder couldn’t leave the city without a special licence from the Mayor, but even so, the potential for making a small fortune was there.

If Karvinel had got it, poor Vincent would have been dreadfully damaged. His career would have suffered – or so he told Hawisia. And
he
would have suffered from the loss of face before his peers. Not that she was terribly concerned by what impact that might have upon her; to her the most important aspect would have been the hurt and disappointment felt by her husband. She didn’t want to see him shamed.

But then Karvinel had suffered disaster after disaster, one after another, in an unending sequence. It had been quite strange really to see how the strutting, arrogant little man who had begun his campaign to win the Receiver’s job the previous year had gradually gone downhill. Then he had been Vincent’s leading competitor in the city, someone to be reckoned with. No more. Now Karvinel was no sort of a threat whatever. And Hawisia had a shrewd idea why: because Vincent had ruined the man.

He was too bright to risk his own neck, of course. When Karvinel lost his ship and entire cargo, it wasn’t because Vincent had stolen it, but Vincent le Berwe still had family who lived in the Breton lands on the northern coast of France. It wouldn’t have taken much to send a message to them about his enemy’s ship, and although that was five years ago, he had never fully recovered from that blow.

The beauty of Vincent’s efforts after that lay in their subtlety. The robbery from Karvinel’s house that left him so anxious about even his own home – especially when the second robbery occurred. Both times Karvinel was away with friends of his and Vincent’s; Vincent himself was with them. The perfect alibi! Nobody could connect Vincent with the thefts or the arson attack on Karvinel’s house.

But Hawisia knew that there were plenty of men who would consider anything – maybe even murder – if the money was good. And Vincent could afford to pay well at that time.

The priest finished; the service was over, and Hawisia left by the great door. She saw Adam as he hurried about his duties and smiled at him.

‘Adam, how are you?’

‘Well enough, my Lady. Too much work as always.’

They exchanged a few words and then she continued home. Once there, she asked her servant where Vincent was, but he replied that the master was in meetings at a tavern with other merchants, so Hawisia walked through to the hall and asked for some thin ale and bread to break her fast.

Her routine had been like this much of the time recently. Vincent was rarely about when she came home from church. He was so worried about his work.

So far they had managed to keep news of the disaster from their friends – once those foxes got to hear about it, they’d all want their debts returned – but the truth was bound to slip out soon. It was ironic, really, after Karvinel’s problems, since it was Vincent’s ship which had caused their financial troubles, only in his case it wasn’t pirates, it was the normal maritime risks. It had struck a rock. Only two sailors survived to tell the story and the cargo was lost.

That was why Vincent was so engrossed in his work. He was desperately trying to cover himself, carefully investing what little money he had left into a variety of new ventures.