[Roger the Chapman 02] - The Plymouth Cloak (15 page)

Silas returned her stare. 'Not to my knowledge, Mistress. I've never seen you before that I remember.'

I caught the housekeeper's eye and said with meaning: 'This is Silas Bywater, a former friend of Master Underdown.' I saw her rack her brains for a second or two before memory grasped the significance of the name. 'Of course.' She smiled. 'Many years ago now, when I lived on the other side of the river, I used to visit Plymouth market once a month for supplies. I recall seeing you in Master Underdown's company and hearing your name. You were a sea-captain in those days, unless I'm mistaken.'

'And still am, when the work offers.' Silas grinned complacently, pleased no doubt to feel that he was a well known enough figure in his native town to be pointed out and his face remembered by a good-looking woman, even if she was by now growing a little long in the tooth.

I rose to my feet. ‘I’ll go and look for my master,' I said reluctantly, disliking thoroughly the deception I was forcing myself to practise.

‘I’ll come with you.' Silas Bywater also got up, adding over his shoulder to Janet Overy: ‘I’ll stay for dinner, thank you kindly, Mistress. I have some unfinished business I want to discuss with Master Underdown.' He followed me outside into the hazy sunshine of the courtyard, saying curiously: 'So he's your master, eh? ' He looked at me appraisingly. 'That makes more sense. He'd need a good, strong, healthy, young bodyguard like you to keep him safe from all the people who wish him harm. And from what you let drop just now, there's been someone wishing him ill both at Buckfast and at Plymouth.' He laughed nastily. 'That explains the secret midnight flight. But whoever it was, it wasn't me. I want Philip Underdown alive, leastways until I get what the lying bastard owes me. I warned him that once I'd found him again, I wouldn't easily let go.'

He sounded genuine enough, but then it was in his interest to do so were he the murderer, because soon the body would be found and there must surely be an inquiry.

I walked towards the open gate, conscious of him hard on my heels. We had almost reached the shadowed archway when I heard the noise of wheels on the track beyond and voices shouting and hallooing for attention. Moments later, the cart used to carry logs up from the saw-pit, attended by the sawyer and his assistant whom I had seen the previous day, rattled over the cobbled underpass and came to a standstill in the middle of the courtyard, the flanks of the horse between the shafts sweating and heaving, the poor animal having been driven at a faster pace than he was normally accustomed to. But there were no logs in the cart today; only the sprawled, dead body of Philip Underdown.

CHAPTER 12

In the end, it was Silas Bywater who first stepped up to the cart.

'Knifed,' he said succinctly. 'Through the heart.' 'What? You must–' I had been going to say: 'You must be mistaken,' but I cut my words off short. I stepped forward to see for myself.

Philip was lying on his back, heaved unceremoniously on to the boards by the sawyer and his assistant, the strong features, beneath their coating of dirt and grass stains, waxen and somehow diminished by death. The eyes were half shut, the heavy lids concealing any final expression of surprise or horror at his approaching fate. The knees of his hose and the toes of his boots were caked with earth, where he had lain face downwards throughout the long hours of darkness on the water-logged river bank. The front of his jerkin, too, was discoloured, but mixed with the mud were runnels of a more sinister, rusty brown, which stemmed from the handle of a knife driven into his chest up to the hilt and firmly embedded in tissue and muscle.

'The back of 'is 'ead's been stove in, too,' the sawyer said with relish. 'Whoever done it, made a proper job of it, I reckon.'

A picture of what had actually happened to Philip was beginning to form in my mind as I realized that the knife might not have killed him. I felt sure that it had been the murderer's intention to stab him to death, but the aim had gone awry in the blackness, and Philip, although felled, had still been breathing. He had fallen forward, the knife in his body, and the killer had then looked for a means to finish his handiwork. My cudgel, which Philip had taken with him, must have slipped from his hand and been used to batter in his skull, thus completing the grisly business. I leaned a little closer to examine the shaft of the knife, but it was plain bone, undistinguished by any markings, and might have been bought at any curler's shop or market stall in the country.

By this time, the rest of the manor servants, those within earshot, had become aware that something untowards had happened. Mistress Overy and the two kitchen-maids emerged from the kitchen, the laundress and her helpers materialized through the clouds of steam issuing from the laundry door, the baker appeared, his apron covered in flour and his hands caked with dough, while Alwyn hurried across the courtyard from the main hall, his long dark-blue gown flapping about thin ankles. Seconds later, Isobel Warden came out of the servants' living quarters, the coils of red hair glinting in the sunlight and immodestly uncovered by a matron's hood. She wore a dress of dark green wool which reflected the colour of her eyes and did nothing to conceal the curves of her splendid figure. Philip might well have thought her worth taking any risk for.

For a long moment there was silence, while they all gathered round the cart to peer at its contents. I could almost see their first rejection of the evidence of their eyes, slowly replaced by dawning acceptance and mounting horror. One of the laundry girls screamed and gave way to strong hysterics; Alwyn visibly blenched; the two little kitchen-maids clung together for support; and the baker wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a trail of flour behind it. The two seemingly least affected were the housekeeper and Isobel Warden, the former having had enough tragedy in her life to be undismayed by this present demonstration of the harshness of fate, the latter unmoved for reasons I hardly dared guess at. Had Isobel known what to expect before she approached the cart? The lovely face, with its creamy skin and delicate pallor, gave away no secrets.

'Is he dead?" asked Alwyn, more to break his silence than from any doubts on the matter.

'Both back and front,' the sawyer replied, revealing himself to be a man with a morbid sense of humour. He added for the benefit of those not yet in the know: 'The back of 'is skull's been cracked open.'

The steward took a deep breath. In the absence of his master and mistress, the decision of what to do next rested with him and he found himself momentarily at a loss as to how to proceed. The violent death of one who claimed to be a friend of Sir Peveril under Sir Peveril's own roof was plainly a serious matter, and one that he felt ill-equipped to deal with.

'We'd better send to London to let Sir Peveril know what's happened. Meanwhile, someone must ride to Launceston Castle and fetch the Sheriff's officer from the garrison.' Alwyn looked around the circle of faces. 'Thomas Sawyer, you can do that. Get John Groom to saddle the grey mare when he returns from exercising the horses. If you leave within the hour and ride hard, you should be there by midday and return with the Sheriff's officer before nightfall. Were you the one that found him?'

Thomas Sawyer nodded, pleased with his sudden importance and delighted at the prospect of a day's freedom from the saw-pit and a chance to delegate all work to his assistant. 'I was going for a walk along the river bank to stretch my legs. It's cramping work, Standing in that pit for hours on end,' he added defensively. 'I fell over 'im. 'E was lying face down in the long grass by the water's edge. Almost nigh impossible to see 'im from the path, I'd reckon.' 'Yes, well, we'd better carry the body indoors,' Alwyn instructed. 'We'll set up a trestle in the great hall and lay it in there. Thomas, you and young Gerard can see to that. By which time John Groom should have returned with the horses and you can be off to Launceston. Then, Gerard lad, you go back down to the village and round up the rest of the men. Tell them what's happened. Colin and Ned are working on the east fence with Edgar Warden.' He turned to the rest of us with a sweeping gesture of one arm. 'Come! Let's go indoors. There's no point in lingering outside, and I think, Mistress every, a measure of strong ale for everyone would not come amiss. On second thoughts, perhaps wine would be more appropriate, and I'm sure Sir Peveril would not object in the circumstances. You have the key to the buttery.' 'I'll see to it at once.' Janet every swung briskly on her heel and shepherded the kitchen- and laundry-maids back into the house, the laundress and baker following behind, neither willing to let a measure of free wine go begging. And any excuse to break off work was always welcome.

As we entered the kitchen, I caught at the steward's sleeve, drawing him to one side. The mention of John Groom and the horses had presented me with another problem.

'Master Underdown told you something of the business he was on,' I said in a low voice. 'I shall now have to finish it for him. Can I stable his horse here until I can contact those who will have it collected?'

Alwyn looked faintly surprised. 'It will remain here. It was certainly the most valuable item in Master Underdown's
 
possession at the time of his death, and as that death has taken place within the pale of Trenowth Manor, the animal now belongs to Sir Peveril.' He raised his eyebrows at my obvious bewilderment. 'That is Cornish manorial law,' he explained. 'Is it not the same in England?'

'Not to my knowledge,' I answered drily. 'But I am not well versed in legal matters. The monks at Glastonbury taught me to read and write, but the acquisition of property was not considered a fit subject for novices, although no doubt I should have learned more had I stayed long enough to rise in the Church hierarchy.' Alwyn seemed more than a little shocked by such blatant cynicism and I decided that I had said enough. My tongue would get me into trouble one of these days, I thought. And the problem of what to do about Philip's flea-bitten grey had been resolved for me, if not in quite the manner I had envisaged. I directed Alwyn's attention to Mistress Overy, who had re-entered the kitchen carrying two large leather bottles.

These were duly opened and wine poured for everyone present. Several minutes later, Thomas Sawyer and his assistant Gerard came in to claim their share and to report that the body was now lying on a trestle in the great hall and awaiting the ministrations of the women.

'Someone should inform the parish priest,' I reminded the steward, 'that we shall be in need of his services. Fortunately, Master Underdown, like the rest of us, made his confession last night and was given absolution. Therefore there can be no argument as to the state of his soul at the time of death.' Even as I spoke, I wondered secretly about the truth of those words; but as far as Father Anselm was concerned he could bury Philip with a clear conscience.

Alwyn nodded. 'Thomas, you can call at the priest's house on your way and tell him what has happened. It being St Faith's Day, Father Anselm will be holding a special Mass, so if he cannot see you himself, leave word with his housekeeper or a neighbour. Now, if you've finished your wine, be off with you to Launceston. There's no time to lose if you and the Sheriff's officer are to be here by nightfall.' The sawyer grumbled a little at being forced to hurry, but he was too pleased by the prospect of a day's freedom to do more than mutter a single imprecation beneath his breath; a sop to his self-esteem. He would have thought poorly of himself had he not made some token of resistance against authority. He drained the last dregs of wine, replaced his cup on the table and squared his shoulders.

'I'm off, then,' he said. 'John Groom returned from exercising the horses ten minutes since. I'll be saddled up and ready to go before you can say "Knife!'" The infelicity of this last remark struck him like a blow and he reddened.

'Well... God be with you all. I'll return as soon as I can.' 'And I'll tell the others what has happened,' Gerard said, suddenly recollecting his earlier instructions from the steward. He slid out of the kitchen in Thomas's wake to escape a reprimand.

Alwyn stared after his retreating back with a measure of strong disapproval before returning to the disagreeable job awaiting his attention. He looked at Janet Overy. 'Will you and one of the girls see to the laying out?'

The kitchen- and laundry-maids, whose previous distress had simmered down to a nervous, wide-eyed whispering among themselves, immediately showed every sign of boiling over again into hysterics. The housekeeper silenced them with a swift reassurance.

'Isobel will help me, won't you, my dear?'

The younger woman, who had hardly touched her wine and was sitting at the kitchen table watching us all with a kind of bored detachment, answered indifferently: 'If you wish it.'

'I do wish it.' Janet Overy spoke briskly, trying to bring a little normality back into a situation fraught with horror and suspicion. 'We'll go at once. There's no reason for delay.' She turned to begin her preparations, pouring hot water from the pan over the fire into a big earthenware bowl, and directing one of the kitchen-maids to the linen-press for a clean nightgown, sheet and some rags. When these were assembled, she nodded again at Isobel Warden. 'Bring the linen, I'll carry the bowl.' She added: 'We shall be a while. I suggest the rest of you, if Alwyn Steward is agreeable, get back to work as quickly as possible. You will feel the better for it.'

The younger members of the household were inclined to doubt this wisdom, but the laundress ordered her assistants' return to the laundry in a voice which brooked no argument, and the baker said reluctantly that he must look to his bread or the loaves would all be burnt. The two kitchen-maids, under Alwyn's eagle eye, had perforce to resume their duties, both a trifle unsteady on their feet from the effects of the wine. They went to the opposite end of the kitchen and began chopping vegetables for dinner with an abandon which made me anxious for the safety of their fingers.