The Traitor of St. Giles (33 page)

Harlewin grinned but said nothing.

It was with a feeling of intense relief that Father Abraham heard the bells ring; he could now decently leave the house. Rising, he made his apologies to John Sherman, who scarcely paid him any heed, he was so deeply involved in a talk about Mediterranean wines and how to acquire them safely when Venetian galleys kept raiding shipping.

Walking to the door, the priest was about to leave when he felt a tug at his sleeve, and found Cecily Sherman at his side.

‘Are you leaving so soon, Father?’

‘I have much to do for the next service.’

‘Oh, don’t be so formal, Father.’

‘How do you expect me to behave with a woman who has blackmailed me?’

She chuckled. ‘Come, now. It’s nothing too dangerous, is it? And if your conscience gives you trouble, why, remind it that I would have been forced to suffer indignities and pain if you hadn’t backed up my story.’

‘You forced me to
lie
! You threatened to tell everyone otherwise.’

‘About your taking the knight’s horse? Yes, well, I hardly think that’s blackmail. I only pointed out that I should have reported your theft, after all.’

He glared at her. She was plump and attractive, but at this moment all he could see was how slender her throat looked. If he had the courage he would put out his hands and grasp it.

She continued, ‘And if everyone would then think, “Aha! so it was Father Abraham who killed the knight,” that would hardly be my fault.’

‘I didn’t kill him!’

‘No? Well, you have to admit it looks rather suspicious.’ She patted his cheek, smiled, and whirled around to return to the hall.

‘God forgive me, but I hate that bitch!’ Father Abraham hissed under his breath as he walked from the door and into the street. From here he could see his church, and he hurried to it, his steps given more urgency by his loathing of the woman behind. Only when he was almost at the gate to his yard did he slow, forcing himself to breathe more evenly and calmly.

At the church’s door he heard voices, and he paused, listening. After a moment he frowned and entered.

‘Felicity? And Avicia Dyne – what are you doing in here?’ he thundered.

‘So you weren’t seeing Cecily Sherman last night?’ Simon enquired mildly.

Harlewin choked on his drink. ‘Christ’s Bones! Who on earth . . .?’

‘We’ve been told you were with her the night Sir Gilbert died,’ Simon continued imperturbably. ‘That is why, it was put to us, you decided to murder Dyne – because you were womanising with Joan Carter, and something went wrong. You killed her to hide your rape, and arrested Dyne to conceal your crime.’

‘Me?
Me
rape her? Good God, man, do you realise what you’re saying? She was pleasant enough, but I wouldn’t have touched her – she was little better than a servant.’

‘John Sherman said you were in Earl Thomas’s pay,’ Baldwin mentioned as if idly.

‘I have helped him on occasion.’

‘For money?’ Simon pressed.

‘No! Anyway, what of Sherman? He’s not the most reliable man, you know. He keeps false measures. If officers go to check on him, he hides his bad ones in a compartment under his floor and shows only the good ones.’

Baldwin was not interested. ‘That is hardly our concern. Tell the Fair’s court. More important is that people have said you had Dyne confess so that your own crime would remain concealed and, when you could, you released him so that he could be killed by the girl’s father.’

Harlewin stared, then made a weak gesture. ‘You’ve certainly listened to a lot of gossip. All I can say is, it’s rubbish. I didn’t touch the girl. To be frank, Cecily Sherman has taken up my spare time lately, and when she wasn’t available, there was always Felicity or another prostitute in the town. I never had reason to hurt a woman who didn’t want me.

‘As for this stuff about Dyne – I
didn’t
arrest the sod, he escaped! He ran to sanctuary as soon as he realised he was being sought. I spoke to him there, but that was all. It’s my duty to speak to a felon claiming sanctuary, to ask them to surrender to arrest, but he refused. Said he knew he’d never get a fair trial.’

‘How did he seem?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Scared. How does any felon look when he’s been surrounded by the posse? He was there at the altar clinging onto that filthy scrap of linen they use for an altar cloth staring at me like he couldn’t believe he’d been found out.’

‘Or perhaps he couldn’t believe that he had been accused of killing his woman?’ Simon suggested.

Harlewin gave a dismissive snort.

‘Maybe he was simply horrified to learn that the woman he had intended marrying was dead,’ Baldwin mused.

‘It’s fine to speculate – all I know is that he was accused and confessed.’

‘Did he give any reason why he’d never get a fair trial?’

‘Made up some cock-and-bull story about the girl’s father seeing to it he’d never be freed. Said Andrew Carter would pay off the jury.’

Baldwin scratched his ear. In his experience, when a jury presented the facts of a case before the justices, all too often the matter had already been decided in the jury’s collective mind. Usually that merely reflected the jury’s acceptance that the felon was a man with ‘common fame’, a notorious criminal; they would have him installed in gaol as quickly as possible. But often a rich man would seek to ensure the result he wanted by bribing officials or jurors to release his friends and adherents – or to punish his enemies. Philip Dyne would naturally have feared Carter’s reaction. Carter was rich: he could afford to bribe any number of jurors against him.

‘What then?’ asked Baldwin.

‘When he’d completed his time in there and made plain his willingness to abjure the realm, I made sure he confessed before witnesses and set him loose. No bribe, no arrest, just performing my duties. And when Andrew Carter and his brother looked dangerous, I held them back. I even drew my sword against them, if you would believe it!’

‘Where were you on the night Sir Gilbert and Philip Dyne were killed?’

Harlewin opened his mouth – Baldwin was convinced he was about to lie – but then the Coroner shrugged and grinned. ‘Why should I lie? I was with Cecily. As I was last night, really. Why hide it, if you already know her name? I was with her on the night those two died, at a mill I own to the west.’

‘Near Templeton?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Not far from it, yes. I rode back from there with Cecily during the night. We heard a lot of noise in the woods, and I sent her on to protect her, drawing my sword. Only a few moments later a man came out. Now I know it was Sir Gilbert, but then all I knew was that he looked dangerous to me: he had his sword out, and when he caught sight of me he demanded to know who I was. Well, I told him I was the Coroner, and he looked relieved. He said he was helping apprehend a felon and I promised to stay in the road in case the felon darted back that way to escape. Then Sir Gilbert turned and rode back into the woods.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I waited there quite some while, but saw nothing of Dyne. Actually I have to confess that I was surprised to hear that the fool had decided to turn outlaw. I wouldn’t have expected it of him. However, it had to be true if a knight like this fellow Sir Gilbert was helping seek him.’

‘Did you hear anything of Sir Gilbert’s death?’

‘I remained there for a while. There was one Godawful scream – I assumed it was Dyne. I saw no sign of anyone and it didn’t seem a good idea to go wandering about in the woods with three armed men on the loose so I just headed for home.’

‘Did you see anyone else on your way?’

‘There was no one on the road. Well, only one person, but he couldn’t have had anything to do with all this.’

‘Who was it?’

‘Father Abraham. I saw him come out of the woods and ride back for Tiverton as if all the hounds of Hell were on his arse.’

Much later, when Harlewin had left them, Wat waited until the last of the servants had left the buttery, and then wandered inside and filled a pot of wine. It tasted good and he finished it swiftly, refilling it.

The castle wasn’t so bad really, he told himself as he took a comfortable seat between the barrels behind the bar. It was just a bit quiet, and if he was lonely, surely that would change as people came back from the Fair. For now this was a pleasant, quiet room, and he might as well sit here with a drink while he waited.

Hearing voices from the yard, he jerked awake. Too often in the past his master had found him in the Furnshill buttery and tanned his hide. Hurriedly Wat emptied his pot and rose to his feet, dashing from the place. At the doorway, he was about to slip out when he saw the Coroner outside.

‘Hey! You, Toker, come here!’

Wat waited until they should have gone before slipping out. Harlewin was talking in a low voice to Toker, but soon the two parted as another man entered the castle’s gate. Toker beckoned him, calling, ‘Perkin!’

Before Wat could fix an innocent expression to his face and go out to the courtyard, he saw the two approach. Swiftly he dived back into the buttery, ducking down between two of the farther barrels.

‘Kicked me right up the arse, did Puttock, the bastard!’ the man called Perkin was complaining. ‘If I can get near him he’ll never do that again, the shit!’

‘I’ve already said you can kill him, all right? But the knight too, the black-bearded sodomite from Furnshill – we take him as well,’ Toker said. ‘There’s no point killing the bailiff alone. We have to kill his friend too.’

Nicholas strode indoors and called for wine. Marching through to his brother-in-law’s hearth, he stood staring at the glowing embers, rubbing his hands with a slow, pensive action.

It was a fascinating thought and Nicholas couldn’t think why it hadn’t occurred to him before. Of course Sir Gilbert had arrived in town with money! What would he bribe people with, if not gold? But he didn’t have anything on him when he turned up the night before he died – Nicholas could swear to that. There was nowhere for him to have hidden it: his horse was at a stable, he’d said, and he wouldn’t have left a hoard of gold and jewels in a saddlebag to be rifled through by some unknown ostler. No, he would have deposited it in a safe place, easy enough to find, but secure from prying eyes.

He realised the maid hadn’t arrived, glanced up, cried, ‘Hey there! I want wine!’ and returned to his musing.

Sir Gilbert surely didn’t know enough about Tiverton to be able to conceal his gold safely. It was possible he had left it in his camp with his man, but that fellow William Small had hardly got a penny to his name when he died. If he
had
stolen from the knight, he’d surely have bolted with it that same evening. He wouldn’t have hung around like he had.

No, Nicholas thought. The servant hadn’t taken it. It had been hidden somewhere by Sir Gilbert: in a place he knew, where he was comfortable that it would be safe. There must have been a special location nearby.

His brow slowly cleared, and Nicholas almost held his breath with joy as he realised.

Sir Gilbert – the Templar Knight
from Templeton
.

Father Abraham listened with the disbelief twisting his features into a cynical sneer as Felicity told of their meeting with Matilda.

‘What do you want of me?’ he demanded. ‘You say that this girl was killed by someone else, and that your brother the felon was—’

‘Philip was not a felon, he was murdered!’ Avicia declared hotly.

‘He never killed Joan – he wouldn’t have,’ Felicity stated.

‘And how can you be sure of that, woman? Did you know him well?’ Father Abraham demanded pointedly.

Felicity smiled. ‘No, Father, I didn’t. But I
do
know Andrew Carter.’

‘So? What of it?’

‘He murdered Joan so that she couldn’t tell of his incest.’

Father Abraham rose and walked to the altar. Kneeling before it, his mind worked furiously as he considered. If it was true that the merchant had carried on an incestuous affair with his step-daughter, he was guilty of a crime and deserved to be punished. Yet if he truly was guilty, then Avicia was quite correct and her brother had been killed wrongly – which meant that Andrew Carter was guilty of murder, and Nicholas his brother must surely be guilty of conspiracy.

It was a difficult matter and the priest had to remain on his knees for some considerable time while he thought through it all. If only it was as straightforward as the Knight Templar; that man’s guilt was known, was confirmed by the Pope himself, the leader of all the world’s Christians, more powerful and important than any king. Templars were condemned, excommunicate. They were anathema: accursed; consigned to perdition for all time. Sir Gilbert was an example of the most loathsome of mankind, a man who resorted to devil-worship for his own benefit.

At last he stood, grimacing as his arthritic joints complained. ‘You have made serious allegations. Before we go anywhere, I want you to swear to me that you are telling the truth. Come!’ He led them to the great book where it sat on its own pedestal. ‘Here, put your hand on the Gospels and swear it is the truth.’

He watched carefully while the two women made their oaths. ‘Very well,’ he sighed. ‘Let us seek the Coroner.’

Simon and Baldwin sat a while longer when Harlewin had left them. Baldwin’s head was gradually returning to normal under the influence of the strong Bordeaux wine, and his belly felt pleasantly numb, if a little acidic. Simon had ordered a pie and consumed it quickly, but Baldwin didn’t feel well enough yet to try the roasted coffins of gristle and offal that a place like this would offer strangers to the town.

‘Are we any closer to some answers?’ Simon asked as he settled back and began to pick his teeth.

‘It would appear not, but I think we are learning much.’

‘Such as?’

‘We had thought that there were only the two men, Andrew Carter and Nicholas Lovecok, out there when Sir Gilbert and Dyne died. Now we know that not only were Harlewin and his woman there, but Matilda, Sherman and the priest, as well as Sir Peregrine.’

‘And the knight’s man.’