29 - The Oath (57 page)

‘So, one of his acolytes,’ Baldwin said. ‘A common enough tale, if depressing nonetheless. But . . .’

Simon had seen that far-away look in his friend’s eyes before. Something had occurred to him. ‘Yes?’

‘Well, a man who was that vicious – would he not gain more pleasure from tormenting her than killing her? If bent on revenge, he could have watched for her daily, welcomed her loudly in the street, perhaps pressed near to her? All would drive the woman half-mad with terror, knowing that the men who had slaughtered her mistress and family were close. The satisfaction of that would be pleasing to most of the felons I have known.’

‘She didn’t panic,’ Simon said without thinking.

Baldwin’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘No knife-cuts on either hand.’

‘Are you sure?’ Baldwin frowned, and now Simon saw that all thought of his escape from Hereford was flown. ‘No marks at all?’

‘No.’

‘Was she slain in a frenzy? How many stab wounds were there?’

‘Only the one. She was stabbed straight to the heart.’

Baldwin let out his breath in a little sigh. ‘Well, if you are right about that, it sounds a great deal more like a tormented woman who stabbed herself to death.’

Simon shook his head. ‘No, Baldwin. If she had, the knife would have still been with her.’ Then the smile froze on his face.

Baldwin set his head to one side. ‘What is it?’

‘The knight . . .’ Simon said. ‘Sir Stephen was there the next day, and threw a knife into her grave. That knife could have been the one that killed her. He was there, and he threw the knife in after her!’

‘But what possible reason could he have had for killing her, when he was the Coroner for the city?’

Simon chewed at his lip. ‘I don’t know, Baldwin. But perhaps he knows something about her death he hasn’t told me yet.’

*

It did not take long to find Sir Stephen. He was out in the castle ward, drinking a pot of wine.

‘Sir Stephen. I am happy to see you, sir,’ Simon greeted him. ‘I feared you might have been hurt.’

‘What, in the battle, you mean? No, I was fortunate. The fight was almost over when I reached the King. But you have been injured, as I can see.’

‘I had a tumble from my horse,’ Simon admitted.

‘You are fortunate to be alive. It could have been deadly to fall in that mêlée.’

‘Sir Stephen, you do not know my friend Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, do you?’

‘Sir Baldwin, God’s blessings on you.’

‘And on you,’ Baldwin said. ‘Simon has been telling me of the terrible murders in Bristol. I have an interest in such matters. He said you investigated the Capon murders?’

‘Yes. An awful affair. Arthur Capon was a good man.’

‘You knew him well?’

‘He was known about the city,’ Sir Stephen said.

‘And then their maid was killed in her turn, I believe?’

‘A great shame. Her killers must have been out for revenge.’

‘Have you ever seen a woman killed as punishment or in rage with one simple blow to the heart?’ Baldwin said.

‘Why not? I know little of such things.’

‘But you are Coroner in Bristol?’

‘I was.’

‘Then surely you will have seen dead women many times. Raped, slain, and left?’

‘Oh, perhaps a few . . .’

Baldwin was frowning with disbelief. ‘And you think such a woman would be found with no defensive marks on her hands, slain with one single blow, and unraped?’

‘It is possible.’

‘And then, when she was being buried, you threw a knife in with her.’

‘That damned knife again.’ Sir Stephen looked annoyed. ‘It was the knife Squire William probably used to kill her mistress. I had seen it on the man often enough. Many recognised it.’

‘I may tell you, sir, that I am convinced the poor child was killed by her own hand. She had one blow to her heart: that is often the sort of wound a woman will give herself to end her life.’

‘Oh?’

‘So, please, you must not think that we are trying to entrap you over this,’ Baldwin said earnestly. ‘I just wanted to know why a knight would have thrown that dagger in the grave with her.’

‘It was because the dagger was the one that Squire William always carried about his person. That is all. It seemed fitting that it should be taken with her. A deodand for the dead.’

‘I see. Yes. But there is one thing that confuses me, Sir Stephen. If, as I think, the woman died by her own hand, there was no dagger with her. So someone took it.’

‘And?’

‘You grew to know her, I suppose, in your duties as Coroner. It must have been very hard for you, and dreadful for her – to relive the murders in front of the jury, I mean.’

‘Yes.’

‘So if you came upon her later, and saw that she had committed suicide, it would be natural for you to take away the dagger so that people would think she had been killed by another, so that she would not be refused a Christian burial as a self-murderer.’

Sir Stephen licked his lips. ‘True, but . . .’

‘You see, Simon told me you were not there at the scene. You asked Sir Charles of Lancaster to investigate the murder, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. It was a difficult time. There was much to be done.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Baldwin smiled. ‘And it could have been . . . embarrassing, if you had been seen leaving that alley the night she was killed. Better to keep it secret. You saw her die, you took her knife, and arranged for another, less experienced in work as Coroner, to deal with her body, returning the knife to her when she was buried, yes?’ Then Baldwin gave a little frown again.

‘When I saw the dagger, I recognised it at once. It was the dagger Squire William de Bar had owned. Obviously poor Cecily was deeply distressed by the killings, and I thought she would appreciate the dagger as proof that Squire William would not be able to harm her. But she killed herself with it.’

‘I see. So you gave it away? That was most generous.’

‘A man may show largesse, even to a poor maid.’

‘It is possible, yes,’ Baldwin said. ‘So, you gave her the dagger, and she killed herself with it. And afterwards you took it from her to protect her memory and in order to falsely allow the Church to believe that she had not, in fact, taken her own life.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, let us draw a veil over matters, then,’ Baldwin said. ‘Although giving her the weapon that was responsible for her mistress’s death and her own might be considered a gift in bad taste, when you threw it into her grave.’

‘You may think so.’

‘I do. Tell me: why were you talking to her in that alley?’

‘What?’ Sir Stephen snapped. His stance changed subtly. ‘I have endured your questions, Sir Baldwin. Now I ask you: what do you mean by this?’

‘I mean nothing, my dear Sir Stephen. I merely try to isolate the truth from all the hints and vague glimmerings which I hear. It is my hobby. A harmless pastime.’

‘You have heard all I wish to say.’

‘I see. So why were you in the alley with her?’

‘I told you. I will say no more. Good morrow, sir.’

‘Because I was saying to my friend here that her death was inexplicable. And the more I consider it, the more significant I find it.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Just this. She killed herself with the very weapon that had ended her mistress’s life. That suggests to me that there was some conjunction of actions in her mind.’

‘What are you trying to say?’

‘Oh, that she felt guilt for the death of her mistress, perhaps?’ ‘Sir Baldwin, are you raving?’ Sir Stephen said impatiently. ‘This makes no sense! Why would she be willing to see her mistress killed?’

‘The reasons for the murder of a master or mistress are manifold,’ Baldwin said. His mind suddenly flashed to the face of Sir Roger Mortimer and the King. ‘Sometimes, it is because of a slight or perceived insult. Sometimes because of a real threat. Sometimes it is money that is the spur. So many reasons.’

‘Well, if you are right, the money did her little good, did it?’

‘True enough. Perhaps it was not just money, though. As I said, some will harm their masters or mistresses for less.’

‘Eh? This is nonsense!’ Sir Stephen said. ‘If you are trying to accuse me of something, say so and be done. Otherwise, leave me alone.’ He threw his hands up in the air and stormed away.

‘Simon,’ Baldwin said, ‘I am rarely convinced of guilt, but just occasionally, I can see it staring me in the face. And today, it was in his eyes.’

‘You mean he killed her?’

‘Yes. Which may mean that the whole story has been concocted. Simon, walk with me. I must discuss this with you again.’

As they walked along the road, Baldwin mused over the death of this woman Cecily whom he had never met, never seen, killed because of a murder in which she had no involvement except as a witness. Anger pulsated through him as he thought that the man who could do that to her deserved the most vicious death the law could impose.

He recalled that Sir Hugh le Despenser was supposed to have tortured a poor widow to death. A Madame Baret had been caught by him, and tortured to agree to give up her dower and the lands belonging to her dead husband. This was one of the accusations levelled at him yesterday during his mock trial. And yet this maid Cecily had died for even less reason.

There were some boats drifting down the river, and Simon and Baldwin stopped to watch them for a while.

‘This all makes no sense to me,’ Baldwin said. ‘Why should that knight suddenly lose his temper like that, unless he thought we were coming close to the truth?’

‘Well, there is one explanation,’ Simon said. ‘If he was entirely innocent, and did as he said, and tried to hide her self-murder, surely he would grow peevish at being asked if he was responsible for her death?’

‘Yes. But did you not notice, Simon – he grew most unsettled when I suggested that she might have had some feelings of guilt from the murders of her mistress and the other Capons. When I said it, I was thinking that she could have felt bad to have survived the killings – I did myself when I was rescued from Acre, and it was the guilt as well as the gratitude that made me join the Knights Templar. But I think he took a different meaning. He thought I meant she was guilty of complicity . . . and then I thought, what if she were? Consider, Simon,’ Sir Baldwin went on. ‘If she had been guilty of such a crime, what could have motivated it?’

‘Money? Sex? Hatred? Jealousy?’ Simon guessed. ‘But from what I heard of her, when her family was killed, she was left wandering the streets until Emma gave her a position. So financial gain is unlikely.’

‘Sex is always a possibility. If she and Sir Stephen had been lovers, that would explain his mood,’ Baldwin said.

‘Hatred of her mistress seems unlikely,’ Simon said. ‘I have heard nothing from anyone that suggested she was anything other than a happy, loyal servant. And as for jealousy – well, again, surely there would have been hints if she were jealous.’

Baldwin rubbed his face. ‘Ach, maybe I am being too sensitive. The maid showed no signs of disloyalty, as you say. What is there to suggest that she was anything other than a loyal member of the household? A guess; an intuition. Nothing more.’

‘Except the fact that of them all, only she survived,’ Simon said. ‘Although they did kill other servants, I can think of one very good reason to spare her. If she had been an accomplice, at the inquest, she could have pointed out the guilty ones, Baldwin. The only person who could identify the felons was Cecily herself. Without her there were no witnesses.’

‘So if a man arranged for the murders, he had his accomplice in the house to point to Squire William, and at the inquest she did her job.’

‘And later,’ Simon breathed, ‘she saw some of the men released from gaol and
that
was why she was so overwhelmed with fear – because she knew that they would kill her for bearing false witness.’

‘And the man she ran to was Sir Stephen, who laughed at her, or maybe just told her it was her problem. He would have nothing to do with it. And so she killed herself in front of him.’

‘Why? Despair?’ Simon wondered.

‘Or in the hope that someone would have seen the two together, and accuse him of her death?’ Baldwin said.

‘So why did she help see the Capons killed?’ Simon asked.

‘I would wager that, since it cannot have been for money, it was for love.’

‘Love for whom?’ Simon said.

Baldwin frowned. ‘You don’t realise yet? Love for Sir Stephen.’

They made their way around the moat, back towards the castle. It was close to the gate, under a low roofway that served to protect a cart, that Baldwin saw his mastiff, and then spotted Jack. He smiled at the fellow, and was about to wave when he saw something behind Jack, a shape in the shadows of a doorway.

‘Simon? Look, behind Jack. Can you see that man who seems to be trying to hide?’

Simon peered out, and nodded. ‘Oh, don’t worry about him, Baldwin. He’s the man who advised me to meet the fosser who saw Sir Stephen throw the dagger in the grave. He has been with me ever since.’