The False Virgin (43 page)

‘I demand you release me at once,’ he barked the instant he caught sight of the three men.

‘Master Richard Whitney?’ Grey stared down at him.

‘If you know I’m Richard Whitney you must also know I’m Master of the Butchers’ Guild, and I am not accustomed to being trussed up like one of my own pigs and left to
freeze to death in a forest. It’s a miracle I’m still alive after the way I’ve been treated.’

The forest wardens exchanged weary glances as if they’d been forced to listen to his protestations all night.

‘Coroner’s already inside if it’s him you’re looking for. It’s Sir Layton,’ one said, jerking his head towards the Hutt.

Grey nodded and pushed open the stout wooden door and peered into the gloomy interior. The Hutt was large enough to provide rough shelter for half a dozen men. Pallets and blankets were heaped
in one corner, while in the opposite corner were several boxes and barrels of pickled pork and flour. A bundle of dried salt fish swung from a low beam. Deer antlers and goat horns were stacked up
in a heap near the door. The thick stone walls were hung with spades, bows, bundles of arrows, coils of rope and mantraps, together with grappling hooks and long brooms for beating out fire.
Between them, hanging in what little space was left, were the bleached skulls of foxes and wild boar.

Two men were bending over what looked at first sight like a heap of cloth, but as they straightened up Grey could clearly see it was a man who lay crumpled up on the stone floor in a puddle of
his own dark congealed blood. His head was twisted to one side, revealing a gaping wound in his throat, wide enough for a man to put all the fingers of one hand through.

Growing up in a tanner’s yard strengthens a man’s stomach, and Grey didn’t flinch or avert his eyes, but found himself, as always, wondering what must go through a man’s
mind as he takes the life of another.

He stepped forward and briefly introduced himself, and the coroner frowned.

‘Cromwell’s enforcer? What business brings you out here then?’

‘I believe Master Richard Whitney – the man you have tied up outside – to be in possession of a reliquary that he was trying to conceal. It’s that reliquary I’ve
come for. I’ve no wish to interfere in your investigation into this death.’

‘Reliquary?’ Sir Layton shrugged. ‘You’ll have to ask the wardens about that. It was they who caught Whitney, red-handed too, in every sense. Gave a good account of what
happened. Observant men, the wardens. Makes a change from most of the witnesses I have to question. Most of the halfwits wouldn’t notice if their own backsides were on fire.’

‘The wardens saw the murder then?’ Grey said.

‘As good as,’ the coroner replied. ‘They were heading to the Hutt through the trees last night when they saw a rider come galloping up the other way. He sprang off his horse
and ran inside. Naturally, they ran towards the Hutt too, thinking it might be a poacher. Burst in to find Whitney kneeling over the body, his hands covered in blood. Soon as he saw he’d been
discovered, he barged the wardens aside and ran out, but one gave chase and threatened to put an arrow between his shoulder blades if he didn’t stop. He had the sense to give himself
up.’

‘So he’s admitted killing this man?’

Sir Layton gave Grey the kind of withering look schoolmasters reserve for particularly stupid pupils. ‘Have you ever known a man confess to murder except to a priest, and then only when
he’s standing on the gallows? Naturally Whitney said what they all say when they’re caught with a corpse: that he stumbled over the body in the dark and was just feeling to see if the
man was actually dead. But the forest wardens have slaughtered enough beasts to be able to tell how long a man’s been dead. They’re certain this man had only just been killed when they
burst in.

‘According to them it was a clear night. Said they could see the walls of the Hutt glistening in the moonlight as they were coming through the trees. They’re certain no one went in,
save for Whitney, and there’s only one door in or out.’ Sir Layton jerked his chin towards the small opening on the back wall of the Hutt, which served as a window. ‘A scrawny
child might crawl through that, but not a grown man.’

The man who stood beside Sir Layton was evidently his clerk. He grinned broadly, showing a mouth full of blackened teeth. ‘Master Whitney doesn’t have to admit to murder. He’s
been shouting his mouth off ever since we arrived about how he’s Master of the Butchers’ Guild. And you’ve only got to look at this poor sod’s throat to see it’s been
slit the same way as a butcher would cut the throat of one of his beasts. Be second nature to a man like him to whip out a knife and draw it across a neck quicker than you can say “I fancy a
nice piece of mutton”.’

Grey crouched down and peered at the gaping wound in the man’s throat. The jagged and torn edges of the flesh were beginning to peel back as the cut skin dried. There was no arguing that
this man’s throat had been slashed. He straightened up.

‘Have you got the knife he used?’

Sir Layton shrugged. ‘Found one knife on Whitney, but that was clean. But a butcher would carry more than one – a knife for the table and another for slaughter at least. He doubtless
hurled it into the undergrowth as he ran from the cottage.’ He nudged the body with the toe of his shoe. ‘But if you know the murderer, Master Grey, do you recognise his
victim?’

Grey shook his head. ‘I hadn’t even met Master Richard until just now, though I knew he’d taken the reliquary, and I’ve not seen this man before.’

Sir Layton grimaced. ‘Pity. We need to identify the corpse and Whitney keeps saying he doesn’t know him, though I don’t believe him.’ He sighed. ‘But since we
don’t know where the victim comes from, the only thing we can do is take the body back to the village where his murderer lives and see if anyone there can put a name to him. If the two men
did know each other, it’s likely others will also recognise him.’

The body, wrapped in a blanket borrowed from the Hutt, was carried out to the wagon and the reluctant wagoner was persuaded, with the inducement of an even larger sum and promise of a bed in the
inn, to drive the corpse back to Blidworth. Two horses had been found, one belonging to Richard, the other was assumed to belong to the victim. Both were tethered behind the wagon. Richard was
hauled to his feet and had to be dragged to the wagon, for his legs were so numb from cold he could barely stand. He was forced to sit in the bottom of the wagon along with the corpse and the two
forest wardens, despite demanding to be allowed to ride home on his own horse and insisting he would not be carried into the village like a common felon. But he was told firmly by one of the
wardens that if he didn’t hold his tongue, there’d be a second corpse in the wagon before the journey’s end.

After Sir Layton and his clerk had departed, following the wagon, Grey and his men searched for the reliquary. They painstakingly took apart the stack of pallets and blankets, rooted through the
boxes and poked sticks down to the bottom of the flour barrels, a common hiding place for valuables in many households, but there was no sign of it. Grey even sent the men to search through the dry
brown undergrowth around the Hutt in case Richard had hidden it there, but they found neither reliquary nor knife.

Grey gazed into the mass of trees and heathland that lay all about him. Suppose Richard had hidden the reliquary somewhere in Sherwood Forest before he ever reached the Hutt? They could search
for a year and not find it. But why would Richard have cause to murder a man if he had already safely hidden the reliquary? Unless, of course, the man had seen where he’d hidden it and
Richard needed to ensure he couldn’t talk.

Grey caught his men glancing anxiously up at the sky. The pale winter sun was already tangled in the tops of the bare branches of the oak tree. They were right to be concerned; if they
didn’t set out for the village now they might still be on the forest track when darkness fell and no one but a knave or a fool wanted to be on such a road then, for even strangers knew it was
a notorious hunting ground for robbers and kidnappers.

Grey and his men reached the inn without mishap, and when he entered the ale room in search of supper, he found the coroner already seated at one of the tables, devouring a
large wedge of rabbit pie. Sir Layton, wiping the pastry crumbs from his lips with a stained napkin, beckoned Grey to join him and, when the serving maid appeared, ordered brawn and sharp sauce for
Grey and some of the roast tongue, which Sir Layton had evidently consumed as the first course. Grey, who didn’t care much for either dish, found his objections swept aside.

‘You’ll be glad to know we’ve identified the victim,’ Layton said breezily. ‘Man by the name of Edward Thornton, fellow guild member of Whitney’s, by all
accounts. It seems the two men fought a hard contest to become Master.’ He beamed contentedly. ‘It would seem the two men were rivals. Quarrelled, no doubt, and Whitney killed him. From
these past few hours I’ve spent in Whitney’s company it’s plain to me the man’s of a choleric disposition, loses his temper at the slightest thing, I’d say.
That’s why Whitney refused to identify Thornton, do you see? Knew as soon as we learned who his victim was, it would put a rope round his neck without question.’

Grey frowned. ‘I’d have thought Edward Thornton had more cause to kill Richard Whitney, not the other way round. After all, it was Richard who won the title of Master of the Guild.
Edward would surely have the greater cause for jealousy and may even have thought that, with Richard dead, he’d become the next Master. I’ve known monks commit murder over who will
become cellarer, so I supposed we can expect no better from laity.’

Sir Layton chewed thoughtfully on a mouthful of rabbit meat, before swallowing it. ‘Perhaps Thornton attacked Whitney first out of jealousy, as you say, but Whitney got the better of him.
He’s much the weightier man. Could easily have knocked him to the ground and then in temper killed him, though if he’s going to claim it was self-defence, he’ll be hard put to
prove it. We found no weapon on the corpse except for his knife, and that was still in its sheath.’

Grey poked listlessly at the unappetising slab of tongue. ‘But that’s the other thing. How did the two men come to be miles out in the forest? If they’d quarrelled in the
village, I could understand it, but what business would butchers have in such a remote spot?’

‘If, as you claim, Thornton was jealous, he could have lured Whitney out there to kill him. Ambushed him as he came through the door.’

‘On what pretext, though?’ Grey asked.

Sir Layton was beginning to look impatient. ‘Buying deer or boar for his butcher’s shop. I imagine the forest wardens often do a little poaching of their own, but they’d have
to sell their kills quietly, well away from the towns. Half the butchers’ shops in these forest villages are probably trading in poached venison. With the Christmas feasts almost upon us,
both butchers might have been after the same carcass and quarrelled as to who should have it.’

He pushed his trencher aside irritably. ‘Besides, it doesn’t matter to me why they went out there. My job is simply to determine how the man died, see the body is identified and make
sure Richard Whitney is arraigned at the next assizes. Who attacked who first is up to the judge and jury to decide.’ He glanced sharply at Grey. ‘And I’d have thought quarrels
among butchers were of no concern of Cromwell’s enforcers either.’

Layton was right, Grey thought, neither quarrels nor murders among butchers were any of his concern, except that one of those butchers had been trying to conceal a reliquary and now it was
missing. Whatever Richard had been doing out at the Royal Hutt, Grey was convinced he hadn’t been in pursuit of poached venison, and he wasn’t about to let Richard take the knowledge of
the hiding place of that reliquary to the gallows.

‘Stinks a mite in there, Master Grey,’ the constable said cheerfully. ‘Bailiff sometimes uses it to hold stray beasts. There’s certain men in these
parts would think nothing of hauling their animals over the pinfold wall to get out of paying the fine for letting them wander.’

They were standing in front of the village lockup, a small round building shaped like a dovecote, built to hold felons until the sheriff’s men could collect them, or to sober up drunks who
had got into a brawl. It was still too early in the morning for many to be abroad, but the few who were stared at them with undisguised curiosity. The constable was taking an age unlocking the
stout door. Although there were only three keys on the iron ring, the choice seemed to baffle him. Finally, the door creaked open and the constable stood aside.

‘I’ll have to lock you in with him, Master Grey, in case anyone tries to rush the door and help him escape, though I doubt even his own wife would do that. Terrible thing to do to a
man, and one of his own guild brothers. I thought they were meant to look out for each other. Master Richard near enough cut his head off, he did. You should have seen the mess.’

‘I did,’ Grey said shortly, and marched in.

In the few moments it took for the constable to slam the door shut behind him, he saw Richard blinking up at him. He was looking even worse today than he had been after his night in the forest.
His hair was matted with straw and his face was filthy, with dark rings under his eyes. There seemed to be a purple bruise on his cheek too, under the grime.

Once the door was closed, it took a few minutes for Grey’s eyes to adjust to the twilight. The only openings in the walls were two slit windows, and the pale winter sun barely penetrated
the chamber. The chamber felt so cold and damp that even though Grey was clad in a heavy winter cloak, his chest began to ache from sucking in the icy air. He shivered, wondering what it must be
like to be alone here at night. The thought of being locked up alone in the dark had terrified him since he was a boy.

‘Are you one of the sheriff’s men? Have you come for me?’ Richard sounded much more subdued than he had done yesterday.

Clearly the humiliation of being taken as a prisoner into his own village and then spending the night in this stinking filth had finally brought home to him just how much trouble he was in. Grey
was pleased by the change in his tone. It would make it easier to get him to talk.