St. Peter's Fair (12 page)

“You
are sure? You’ve had little time to examine everything here. Best look round
thoroughly and make sure, before we report this to Hugh Beringar.”

“Must
I do that?” she asked, a little startled, even, he thought, a little dismayed.
“If there’s no harm? They are burdened enough with other matters.”

“But
do you not see, child, that this comes too aptly on the other? Your uncle killed,
and now his barge ransacked…”

“Why,
there can surely be no connection,” she said quickly. “This is the work of some
common thief.”

“A
common thief who took nothing?” said Cadfael. “Where there are any number of
things worth the taking!”

“Perhaps
he was interrupted…” But her voice wavered into silence, she could not even
convince herself.

“Does it look so to you? I think he must have been
through all your belongings at leisure, to leave them so neat for you. And
removed himself only when he was satisfied.” But of what? That what he wanted
was not there?

Emma
gnawed a dubious lip, and looked about her thoughtfully. “Well, if we must
report it… You’re right, I spoke too soon, perhaps I should go through
everything. No use telling him but half a tale.”

She
settled down methodically to take out every item of clothing and equipment from
both chests, laying them out on the beds, even unfolding those which showed, to
her eyes at least, the most obvious signs of handling, and refolding them to
her own satisfaction. At the end of it she sat back on her heels and looked up
at Cadfael, thoughtfully frowning.

“Yes,
there have been some things taken, but so cunningly. Small things that would
never have been missed until we got home. There’s a girdle of mine missing, one
with a gold clasp. And a silver chain. And a pair of gloves with gold
embroidery. If my thumbs had not pricked when I came in here, I should not have
missed them, for I shouldn’t have wanted to wear any of them. What could I want
with gloves in August? I bought them all in Gloucester, on the way up the
river.”

“And
of your uncle’s belongings?”

“I
think there is nothing missing. If some moneys were left here, certainly none
are here now, but his strong-box is at the booth. He never carried valuables on
such journeys as this, except the rings he always wore. I should not have had
such rich trifles here myself, if I had not but newly bought them.”

“So
it seems,” said Cadfael, “whoever took the opportunity of stepping aboard boldly,
to see what he could pick up, had the wit to take only trifles he could slip in
his sleeve or his pouch. That makes good sense. However naturally it was done,
he’d be likely to cause some curiosity if he stepped ashore with his arms full
of your uncle’s gowns and shirts.”

“And
we must trouble Hugh Beringar and the sheriff over so trivial a loss?” wondered
Emma, jutting a doubtful lip. “It seems a pity, when he has so many graver
matters on his mind. And you see this is only an ordinary, vulgar filching,
because the boat was left empty a while. Small creatures of prey have an eye to
such chances.”

“Yes, we must,” said Cadfael firmly. “Let the law be
the judge whether this has anything to do with your uncle’s death or no. That’s
not for us to say. You find what you need to take with you, and we’ll go
together and see him, if he’s to be found at this hour.”

Emma
put together a fresh gown and tunic, stockings and shift and other such
mysteries as girls need, with a composure which Cadfael found at once admirable
and baffling. The immediate discovery of the invasion of her possessions had
startled and disturbed her, but she had come to terms with it very quickly and
calmly, and appeared perfectly indifferent to the loss of her finery. He was
just considering how odd it was that she should be so anxious to disconnect
this incident from her uncle’s death, when she herself, in perverse and
unthinking innocence, restored the link.

“Well,
at any rate,” said Emma, gathering her bundle together neatly in the skirt of
the gown, and rising nimbly from her knees, “no one can dare say that the
provost’s son was to blame for this. He’s safe in a cell in the castle, and the
sheriff himself can be his witness this time.”

Hugh
Beringar had shrugged off his duties to enjoy at least the evening meal with
his wife. Mercifully the first day of the fair had passed so far without
further incident, no disorders, no quarrels, no accusations of cheating or
overcharging, no throat-cutting or price-cutting, as though the uproar of the
previous evening, and its deadly result, had chastened and subdued even the
regular offenders. Trade was thriving, rents and tolls bringing in a high
revenue for the abbey, and sales seemed set to continue peacefully well into
the night.

“And
I have bought some spun wool,” said Aline, delighted with her day’s shopping,
“and some very fine woollen cloth, so soft—feel it! And Constance chose two
beautiful fleeces from Cadfael’s Welsh merchant, she wants to card and spin
them herself for the baby. And I changed my mind about a cradle, for I saw
nothing in the fair to match what Martin Bellecote can do. I shall go to him.”

“The
girl is not back yet?” said Hugh, mildly surprised. “She left the castle well
before me.”

“She’ll
have gone to bring some things from the barge. She had nothing with her last
night, you know. And she was
going to Bellecote’s shop, too, to
bespeak the coffin for her uncle.”

“That
she’d done on the way,” said Hugh, “for Martin came to the castle about the
business before I left. They’ll be bringing the body down to the chapel here
before dark.” He added appreciatively: “A fair-minded lass, our Emma, as well
as a stout-hearted one. She would not have that fool boy of Corviser’s turned
into the attacker, even for her uncle’s sake. A straight tale as ever was. He
opened civilly, was brusquely received, made the mistake of laying hand on the
old man, and was felled like a poled ox.”

“And
what does he himself say?” Aline looked up intently from the bolt of soft stuff
she was lovingly stroking.

“That
he never laid eyes on Master Thomas again, and knows no more about his death
than you or I. But there’s that falconer of Corbière’s says he was breathing
fire and smoke against the old man in Wat’s tavern well into the evening. Who
knows! The mildest lamb of the flock—but that’s not his reputation!—may be
driven to clash foreheads when roused, but the knife in the back, somehow—that
I doubt. He had no knife on him when he was taken up at the gate. We shall have
to ask all his companions if they saw such a thing about him.”

“Here
is Emma,” said Aline, looking beyond him to the doorway.

The
girl came in briskly with her bundle, Brother Cadfael at her shoulder. “I’m
sorry to have been so long,” said Emma, “but we had reason. Something untoward
has happened—oh, it is not so grave, no great harm, but Brother Cadfael says we
must tell you.”

Cadfael
forbore from urging, stood back in silence, and let her tell it in her own way,
and a very flat way it was, as though she had no great interest in her reported
loss. But for all that, she described the bits of finery word for word as she
had described them to him, and went into greater detail of their ornaments. “I
did not wish to bother you with such trumpery thefts. How can I care about a
lost girdle and gloves, when I have lost so much more? But Brother Cadfael
insisted, so I have told you.”

“Brother
Cadfael was right,” said Hugh sharply. “Would it surprise you, child, to know
that we have had not one
complaint of mispractice or stealing or
any evil all this day, touching any other tradesman at the fair? Yet one threat
follows another where your uncle’s business is concerned. Can that truly be by
chance? Is there not someone here who has no interest in any other, but all too
much in him?”

“I
knew you would think so,” she said, sighing helplessly. “But it was only by
chance that our barge was left quite unmanned all this afternoon, by reason of
Roger being needed with the rest of us at the castle. I doubt if there was
another boat there unwatched. And common thieves have a sharp eye out for such
details. They take what they can get.”

It
was a shrewd point, and clearly she was not the girl to lose sight of any
argument that could serve her turn. Cadfael held his peace. There would be a
time to discuss the matter with Hugh Beringar, but it was not now. The
questions that needed answers would not be asked of Emma; where would be the
use? She had been born with all her wits about her, and through force of
circumstances she was learning with every moment. But why was she so anxious to
have this search of her possessions shrugged aside as trivial, and having no
bearing on Master Thomas’s murder? And why had she stated boldly, in the first
shook of discovery, indeed without time to view the field in any detail, that
nothing had been taken? As though, disdaining the invasion, she had good reason
to know that it had been ineffective?

And
yet, thought Cadfael, studying the rounded resolute face, and the clear eyes
she raised to Hugh’s searching stare, I would swear this is a good, honest
girl, no way cheat or liar.

“You’ll
not be needing me,” he said, “Emma can tell you all. It’s almost time for
Vespers, and I have still to go and speak with the abbot. There’ll be time
later, Hugh, after supper.” Abbot Radulfus was a good listener. Not once did he
interrupt with comment or question, as Brother Cadfael recounted for him all
that had passed at the sheriff’s hearing and the unexpected discovery at the
barge afterwards. At the end of it he sat for a brief while in silence still,
pondering what he had heard.

“So
we now have one unlawful act of which the man charged cannot possibly be
guilty, whatever may be the truth concerning the other. What do you think, does
this tend to
weaken the suspicion against him, even on the charge
of murder?”

“It
weakens it,” said Cadfael, “but it cannot clear him. It may well be true, as
Mistress Vernold believes, that the two things are no way linked, the filching
from the barge a mere snatch at what was available, for want of a watchman to guard
it. Yet two such assaults upon the same man’s life and goods looks like
methodical purpose, and not mere chance.”

“And
the girl is now a guest within our halls,” said Radulfus, “and her safety our
responsibility. Two attacks upon one man’s life and goods, you said. How if
there should be more? If a subtle enemy is pursuing some private purpose, it
may not end with this afternoon’s violation, as we have seen it did not end
with the merchant’s death. The girl is in the care of the deputy sheriff, and could
not be in better hands. But like them, she is a guest under our roof. I do not
want the brothers of our community distracted from their devotions and duties,
or the harmony of our services shaken, I would not have these matters spoken of
but between you and me, and of course as is needful to aid the law. But you,
Brother Cadfael, have already been drawn in, you know the whole state of the
case. Will you have an eye to what follows, and keep watch on our guests? I
place the interests of the abbey in your hands. Do not neglect your devotional
duties, unless you must, but I give you leave to go in and out freely, and
absent yourself from offices if there is need. When the fair ends, our halls
will empty, our tenant merchants depart. It will be out of our hands then to
protect the just or prevent the harm that threatens from the unjust. But while
they are here, let us do what we can.”

“I
will undertake what you wish, Father Abbot,” said Cadfael, “to the best I may.”

He
went to Vespers with a burdened heart and a vexed mind, but for all that, he
was glad of the Abbot’s charge. It was, in any case, impossible to give up
worrying at so tangled a knot, once it had presented itself to his notice, even
apart from the natural concern he felt for the girl, and there was no denying
that the Benedictine round, dutifully observed, did limit a man’s mobility for
a large part of the day.

Meantime,
he drove the affairs of Emma Vernold from his thoughts with a struggle that
should have earned him credit
in heaven, and surrendered himself
as best he could to the proper observance of Vespers. And after supper he
repaired to the cloister, and was not surprised to find Hugh Beringar there
waiting for him. They sat down together in a comer where the evening breeze
coiled about them very softly and gratefully, and the view into the garth was
all emerald turf and pale grey stone, and azure sky melting into green, through
a fretwork of briars blowsy with late, drunken-sweet roses.

“There’s
news in your face,” said Cadfael, eyeing his friend warily. “As though we have
not had enough for one day!”

“And
what will you make of it?” wondered Hugh. “Not an hour ago a lad fishing in
Severn hooked a weight of sodden cloth out of the water. All but broke his
line, so he let it back in, but was curious enough to play it to shore until he
could take it up safely. A fine, full woollen gown, made for a big man, and one
with money to spend, too.” He met Cadfael’s bright, alerted eyes, rather
matching certainties than questioning. “Yes, what else? We did not trouble Emma
with it—who would have the heart! She’s drawing Aline a pattern for an
embroidered hem for an infant’s robe, one she got from France. They have their
heads together like sisters. No, we fetched Roger Dod to swear to it. It’s
Master Thomas’s gown, no question. We’re poling down the banks now after hose
and shirt. To any wandering thief that gown was worth a month’s hunting.”