The Tainted Relic (25 page)

‘Is he from this city or a foreigner?’

‘I do not know. Ask the porters. One of them may know him.’

Baldwin nodded and the two left the brother in the doorway to his little hospital, yawning with exhaustion.

At the entrance to the hospital, Baldwin and Simon spoke to the gatekeeper. He was reluctant to tell them anything, other than the fact that he had been in his lodge preparing to lock up for the night when John, the East Gate porter, had arrived with three or four others and the man lying on his hurdle.

Leaving him there and walking the few yards to the East Gate, Simon muttered bitterly, ‘You would’ve hoped the bastard would want to help us find the man’s attacker.’

Baldwin shrugged. The system of fines to make sure that men turned up in court often led to their being less than helpful. ‘Let us see what we may learn from the porter.’

The lodge was built into the wall, a solid building with a thatched roof set at the back of the two towers about the gate itself, and the porter matched his home perfectly. His face was florid, topped with a messy rick of fair hair, and he was stolid and broad. His face was square, with small, hog-like eyes which held a suspicious leer, as though he doubted the integrity and honesty of any upon whom his eyes might alight. His grim expression was not improved by the sight of Simon and Baldwin. ‘What do you want?’

‘The man whom you took to the hospital yesterday,’ Baldwin said. ‘What can you tell us about him? Was he from the city?’

‘How should I know? So many come past here each day.’

Baldwin’s smile was wearing thin. ‘We need to learn who he is.’

‘Good. Do it and leave me to
my
work.’

Steel entered Baldwin’s voice. ‘Your work at this moment is to help the Keeper of the King’s Peace. If you do not, I will have you attached and kept in the castle’s gaol to contemplate your obstruction until the coroner holds his inquest, and I will ensure that all here know it is because of you that they are to be fined so heavily for finding the body.’

‘He’s not dead, is he?’ the porter demanded, but his arrogance was already dissipated. The First Finder of a body would be forced to pay a surety to guarantee that he would turn up in court at the trial, and if there was no proof that the dead man was English, the hated murdrum tax would be imposed on everyone in the area.

‘He wasn’t dead when you found him, was he?’ Simon pointed out.

‘If he was, I’d hardly have taken him to the hospital, would I?’

‘How did you find him?’ Baldwin asked.

‘A brat: Art. He said there was a man in the ditch out there.’ He pointed through the gate. ‘I wasn’t going to believe him, but he was a persistent little sod.’

‘Did anyone see how he got there?’

‘If they did, they didn’t say. Since the famine fewer men are prepared to help each other. No one wants to be First Finder. I dare say several saw him and chose to forget him.’

Simon knew that. Too often people would ignore a body at the roadside; they’d all grown inured to the sight of the dead. Half the population had died during the famine. ‘Did this helpful child Art say how he found the man?’

‘Someone paid him a penny to tell me. He showed me the coin–it was real enough.’

‘The boy, where is he?’ Baldwin snapped.

‘Art? Up at the market, I expect, the thieving little git. He’ll be up there scrounging something, same as usual.’

In Exeter, just as in the smallest vill, orphans tended to be protected. They could count on family or godparents to protect them and look after their property in trust. Masters would see to the needs of apprentices, sometimes neighbours the children of the family next door, with neither hope nor expectation of reward for their kindness, and in Baldwin’s experience such children often thrived. Cases of abuse were remarkably rare.

Apparently Art had been orphaned three years earlier. He was a scruffy urchin of twelve, with a shock of tawny hair that stuck up vertically from his head. His face was long, with intelligent brown eyes that considered Baldwin like an equal. The knight reflected that the fellow had probably experienced as much life as many men of Baldwin’s age.

‘You found a man yesterday, Art?’

‘Who says?’ he responded quickly.

‘The porter of the East Gate.’

‘I told him where he was, but I didn’t find him.’

‘Who told you about him?’ Simon asked.

Art stared at him and remained stony faced until the bailiff pulled a coin from his purse.

‘Don’t know him. He was all in black–black cloak, black hood, the lot.’

Simon sighed. ‘How tall? As tall as me?’

Art looked at him speculatively. ‘Maybe taller.’

‘And I’m almost six feet,’ Simon murmured.

‘What of his face?’ Baldwin tried. ‘Was he light haired or dark? Did he have a beard, a scar? Had he lost his teeth, had he all his fingers? Was there anything which could help us?’

‘He had bright eyes, and a cold voice. That’s all. Never took his hood off, so I never saw his face,’ Art said. ‘But I suppose he was like you. He had…you know.’ Art puffed out his chest and drew his mouth down into an aggressive line, scowling, clenching his fists and squaring his shoulders. ‘Your build. His arms were like yours. Strong.’

‘You saw all that under his cloak?’ Simon asked doubtfully.

The lad said scathingly, ‘It doesn’t take much to see how wide a man’s shoulders are, no matter how many cloaks he puts on.’

There was a cry from behind them, which Baldwin ignored as he leaned forward. ‘Are you saying he looked like a knight?’

‘Yes. But not some rich one like you,’ Art said, although with a trace of uncertainty as he took in Baldwin’s rather threadbare tunic with the red colouring faded from overuse.

Baldwin was about to defend his clothing when Simon murmured, ‘Baldwin!’

A man-at-arms was hurrying towards them with a pole-arm in his hands. ‘Sir Baldwin; Sir Baldwin! There’s been a murder, sir!’

In the early morning light Baldwin could see that the corpse had been a young man. He had blue eyes, fair to mousy hair, with eyes set rather close together, and a nose that was long; it had been broken. He was clad in dingy grey fustian with green woollen hose, from his leather belt dangled a short knife.

It was the tunic which caught Simon’s attention. The fustian was open from breast to cods, and his belly and torso had been slashed in a frenzied attack. His bowels spilled on to the alley’s filth, and the stench even so early was already repellent.

‘Christ Jesus!’ Simon muttered thickly.

‘He has been stabbed in the back,’ Baldwin said, after rolling the body over and studying the naked back. He saw Simon’s expression.

It was endearing to Baldwin that Simon was still squeamish; on occasion it could be annoying. Today, though, Baldwin could all too easily understand Simon’s reaction.

‘Why would someone open him like that?’ Simon demanded harshly.

‘A drunken brawl?’ Baldwin guessed. ‘Rage at some perceived slight? Whoever did this hacked at him like a madman.’ He turned to a sergeant. ‘Do you know who he is?’

‘I think his name’s Will Chard. He’s got a common fame as a draw-latch, I think.’

‘Where’s the First Finder?’ Simon demanded.

‘’Tis him over there, Bailiff,’ the sergeant said, jerking his chin towards a man slumped against a wall, his face in his hands.

They walked to him. Baldwin said, ‘What is your name?’

‘Rob, master. Rob Brewer.’

He was in his early twenties, Baldwin guessed, a scrawny lad in a faded green woollen tunic and heavy hose. About his neck was a worn cloak of some heavy but badly worn material. Once it would have been worth a lot of money, but now it showed its age. He looked terrified: his eyes kept returning to the body on the ground, to the blood all about.

‘You found this man?’ Baldwin demanded.

‘I was walking past and almost fell over him! Christ’s pain, but I’d have done anything to miss him!’

‘It is no surprise,’ Baldwin mused. ‘The sight…Exposing his entrails like that…’

‘Paunched,’ Simon said. ‘Like a cony.’

Rob whined, ‘Who’d do that to a man?’

‘Men will bait traps with rabbit’s guts, won’t they?’ Baldwin said. ‘Strew rabbit’s intestines about a field and wait, and soon a fox will arrive. Release the hounds and they’ll take the fox.’

‘You say this is a trap?’ Simon asked drily. ‘To catch what?’

Baldwin smiled thinly. A figure was hurrying towards them, a rotund shape clad in clerical black–a clerk from the cathedral sent to record their inquiry–and Baldwin beckoned him. ‘I doubt this was a trap. This looks like a vengeful rage…but revenge for what?’

‘I was up early to fetch bread from the baker’s, and found him on my way.’

‘Have you seen him before?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Never!’ Rob declared with a shudder. If he admitted he knew Will, they might decide he was a felon and arrest him. He had to protect himself, deny everything.

‘Where were you last night?’

‘In the Blue Rache,’ Rob said without thinking. Christ’s balls! He shouldn’t have said that! He closed his eyes and swallowed. ‘I slipped on his entrails!’

Simon could all too easily imagine him; walking here just after dawn, down a dim alley with little light to show the way, and suddenly coming across this foul corpse. It must have been terrifying–although the lad must have been distracted not to have seen the mess, or smelled it, in even the dullest daylight. He leaned against a door, queasy, and had his weakness rewarded with a long splinter in his thumb. Swearing under his breath, he stuffed his thumb in his mouth.

Rob couldn’t help his eyes going to the pool of vomit near a doorway.

Baldwin continued, ‘You are sure you do not know him?’

‘Me? I…no.’

‘Which baker’s were you going to?’

‘Ham’s–behind Chef’s Street.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Out near the corner of Westgate Street and Rack Lane. There’s a little yard behind Elias’s stables. I live there.’

Baldwin glanced at the clerk and repeated: ‘Elias’s stables…You work there?’

‘Yes. I muck out and look after the horses. He lets me exercise them, sometimes.’

Baldwin nodded thoughtfully. He turned his back, staring at the cathedral’s towers. The workmen intent on rebuilding the place were like so many bees about a hive. ‘What were you doing here, then?’

Rob gazed at him. ‘Sir?’

‘This alley does head in the rough direction of the Westgate, but it’s hardly direct to or from the baker’s, is it?’

‘I wanted a walk–to clear my head after last night. I’d had a lot to drink, and I needed to clear my head.’

‘Were you alone in the tavern last night?’

‘Yes.’ Rob met Baldwin’s disbelieving eye with determination. No good could come from admitting he had been drinking with Will and Adam all night. It wouldn’t bring Will back.

Nor Andrew either, he reminded himself.

He looked a fool, Moll thought. Sitting there so forlorn, like a child who’d lost his mother. Telling lies like that was stupid. The Keeper might not know him yet, but as soon as he asked anyone else, he’d learn that Rob and his brother were close confederates of Will, and then where’d he be? In the shit, that’s where. He’d already told them he was in the Rache.

She’d not tell
them
, mind. She had enough problems with the law without courting more trouble from felons like Rob and Adam. No, better that the Keeper learned all he wanted from others.

Not that she could help much. She’d been upstairs with that poor bastard when Rob had knocked, and it was only when she saw the state Rob was in that she realized she could have been protecting a killer. References from past clients were all very well, but if this fellow was a killer…still, he’d run out like a scalded cat, and she was safe when he was gone, so that was that. Rob, though, he was different. If he wasn’t careful, the Keeper would put two and two together and realize Rob had been here earlier and found the body in the middle of the night.

He didn’t believe me, Rob told himself.

Christ, save me! When he’d run over that mess last night, he’d almost emptied his own bowels. His foot had stuck on something, and when he looked down he thought it was a lump of pig’s liver, until he realized it came from no pig, and that was when he collapsed and threw up. He couldn’t think straight.

It was like being in a trance. The First Finder always woke the neighbours to witness the death, and they raised the hue and cry together. Last night he’d banged on Moll’s door first because he recognized it.

Shit, she’d scared Rob! She’d had the door open in a flash when he banged on it, and a man pelted into him, running off into the night almost immediately. She told him the sod was nothing to do with this, he was a well-paying bedmate, but it’d embarrass his wife if she learned he’d been here, so Rob agreed to forget him.

Moll was clever. She took charge: he was drunk, as she said, and it would be better if he ‘found’ the body in the morning. Men had been executed for less than being drunk in the presence of a body, and if the city’s sergeants found an easy answer, they’d stop looking for a killer.

Now he thought about it, the man was curious. Strange for him to be up and bolt from a whore’s house just because someone knocked. If he feared his wife finding him, why didn’t he just hide and let her open the door? Rob wondered who the man was. All he’d seen was the shadow of dark cloak. He’d worn a cowl that covered his face; not that it was needed in the gloom of the alley.

Wandering here today, the previous night had seemed dream-like. Andrew missing, Will dead…he came back hoping it was a dream, but there was Will, so he raised the neighbours, and the hue and cry.

Not that it was much help. The neighbours were here now, shivering in the cool morning air. An old candlemaker and his woman, a dyer and a tawyer with a daughter. None of them sharp witted, none of them heard the attack. All denied hearing anything.

Neither had Rob, come to that. And he couldn’t have been far behind Will when whoever it was did this to him. The bastard was still warm when Rob fell over him.