A Holy Vengeance (13 page)

Bascot and Roget, meanwhile, were making their way along a well-worn track by the banks of the Witham. They had left their horses with the guard on duty at Stonebow, the principal portal that led out of the town, deciding to walk to their destinations. The captain had said there were three alehouses on this side of Briggate, as the road that led down to the bridge over the river was called, but that one of them was a very far piece farther along, and patronised mainly by the tanners who conducted their businesses in the area.

“Even the ale tastes of the urine and dung they use to soak the hides for tanning,” Roget said, “so I don’t think Wiger would go there.”

“And the other two?” the Templar asked.

“Both nearer and the closest one is much more likely,” Roget replied. “It is the alehouse where I arrested two of Ferroner’s apprentices for being drunk and starting a fight, so it might be that Wiger drinks there too.”

As they started off, it was just beginning to get dark and the day’s heat waning, freshened by a cool breeze coming off the river. As they passed through Saltergate, where the salt-makers had their market, and then continued down towards the riverside, they heard the high-pitched whistle of an osprey circling overhead giving warning to its mate that it was time to return to their nest for the night.

The area into which Roget led the Templar was rough despite the prosperity generated by the local manufactories, inhabited by the workers employed in the various trades and their families, along with bargemen and sailors from the docks. Both men were armed, Bascot with his sword and the captain had a broad-bladed dagger in his belt and was carrying a thick cudgel. The quarter moon above cast a dark glint on the sluggish waters of the river, and the buildings were all in shadow, lit only by the occasional flaring torch in front of a doorway. The air was filled with the aroma of fish from a catch that had been unloaded earlier in the day, and the heady scent of cinnamon and nutmeg wafted from a boat tied up at the quayside laden with a small store of the precious commodities. Mingling with these distinctive smells was the occasional whiff of urine from the tanner’s premises farther downstream, the odour of burning charcoal from the salt-maker’s premises and the pungent aroma of lye from a soap-maker’s manufactory. It was an area where honest toil was waged alongside thievery and drunkenness, a combination that the docks on the Witham had in common with other quays all over the world.

As they strode along the muddy path, the few men loitering in the streets made a quick retreat and disappeared. The captain was a feared officer and one not known for his patience with law-breakers. The additional threat of an armed Templar in his company made them even more nervous. As they walked, Roget explained to Bascot that down here on the riverbank, unlike in the town, neither he nor his men made regular patrols, but only a circuit once in every two or three weeks, just to remind any would-be miscreants that criminal behaviour would not be tolerated within Sheriff Camville’s bailiwick. It had been on one of these patrols that Roget had arrested the armourer’s men.

When they entered the alehouse that Roget had spoken of, they found it unkempt and dirty. The alekeeper was standing at the back of the room beside a couple of broached ale barrels, keeping watch on two slatterns serving customers. He was a short man and squat, with a huge paunch and lank, greasy hair. There were quite a few customers, all sitting at benches alongside a scattering of rickety tables, a motley crew of bargemen and industrial workers. The air stank of sweat and the yeasty aroma of ale, and the noisy hum of raucous conversation could be heard before Roget pushed aside the leather curtain that screened the doorway.

As Bascot stepped through the opening, Roget beside him, silence fell in the low-ceilinged chamber. The patrons suddenly all became intent on staring into their ale cups or found something of interest to gaze at on the other side of the room. The pair strode over to where the proprietor stood and the Templar nodded to his companion, who was already acquainted with the alekeeper, to speak to him first.

“I see that your trade has picked up since the last time I was here, Selso,” Roget said in a deceptively mild manner. “Not selling tainted ale anymore, I would reckon.”

The alekeep gave Roget a nervous look, and then glanced at the faces of his customers, who all, despite their seeming disinterest, were listening intently to the conversation. “Now you knows, Captain,” the alekeep replied with an uneasy smile, “that only happened the once, when my old wife, by accident, added some castor seeds to a brew she was making.”

Roget gave a snort of derision. “By accident, was it? I think, Selso, that perhaps it was you she was trying to purge and not your customers. And if she was, I wouldn’t blame her. It could be she was trying to rid you of some of that lard you carry round your belly. A gut like that—
ma foi
,
c’est incroyable—
is not one any woman would wish to have beside her on a pallet at night.”

The captain’s comments brought a round of laughter from the men drinking ale, and the atmosphere relaxed a little.

“The reason we are come, Selso,” Roget continued, “is that the Templar here, Sir Bascot de Marins, is conducting an investigation into the murder of Robert Ferroner’s daughter and wants to ask you some questions about her husband, Wiger. Is he one of your regular customers?”

Cowed at being the butt of the captain’s joke, Selso’s answer was surly. “Used to be, but not anymore. He hasn’t been in here since he was wed. Thinks himself too grand now for the likes of me and my customers.”

“Do you know where he does drink?” Roget pressed.

Selso shrugged his pudgy shoulders. “How should I? I keep only my own ale, not everyone else’s.”

Roget grabbed the front of the man’s filthy tunic and lifted him off the ground. “Show some respect for the Templar’s rank, you filthy piece of
merde
, or I will accomplish with my fists what your wife failed to do.”

The alekeeper went white and began to jabber an answer to Bascot. “I’ve heard he drinks down in Dern’s place, lord, up by the city wall, but I don’t know for certain, I swear before God I don’t.”

Roget dropped the alekeeper and he fell to the floor. Ignoring him, the captain turned and spoke to the alehouse patrons. “Does anyone know where Wiger drinks, or where he is tonight? A free cup of ale for an answer,
mes amis
.”

Most of the customers shook their heads, but one man, a bargeman by the look of him, said, “Selso’s right, Captain. I’ve seen Wiger in Dern’s place myself the last couple of times I’ve been in there. I don’t go there often ’cause the drink’s too costly—Dern charges a fourthing more for a jug of ale than Selso does—so I only goes when I want to hire one of the doxies he keeps upstairs. The last time I went was just a few days ago and Wiger was in there then.”

“
Merci,
mon copain
,” Roget said to the informant and, taking a silver half-penny from the purse at his belt, threw it to the man. “Have your next cup of ale on us, and be careful that Selso pours it from a keg that his wife has not tampered with.”

Merriment broke out as the coin flew in a spinning arc and the sailor caught it deftly. As Bascot and Roget left the alehouse, good-humour had been fully restored.

Once they were outside, the Templar asked his companion if he was familiar with the alehouse that the sailor had mentioned.

Roget shook his head. “I know where it is, but that is all. We do not have any need to patrol there because, as the bargeman said, it is expensive and most of the patrons are men of means, merchants who own businesses roundabout here.” He gave a grin. “Burghers are not the sort to give the type of trouble I need to attend to. They settle their differences by complaining to their guild, or bringing a suit in the sheriff’s court, not by trying to break each other’s heads open.”

The captain guided Bascot up a different track from the one on which they had previously walked. It led, as Selso had said, towards the southern wall of Lincoln, and the ambiance improved as they left the riverbank behind.

“This alehouse appears to be only a little way from Ferroner’s workshop,” Bascot commented as Roget led them to a building they had passed on their trip to the armoury.

“Not far,” the captain replied as they went inside.

This alehouse was of very different type than the one they had just visited. Two flaring torches lit the entryway, the interior walls had been freshly washed with lime, and the floor lain with clean rushes. A goodly number of tables were discreetly placed about the room with a candle-holder on each one, and stout oak stools—some with wooden backs—were provided for seating. There was only one serving maid, but she was young and pretty, a vast improvement on the slatterns that had been in Selso’s establishment. Behind a counter at the rear of the room were half-a-dozen ale barrels and a couple of kegs of wine, with a row of mugs on a shelf above, some of wood but most made of leather or pewter. The room was half-full of customers, all dressed in garb of decent material, and mainly of middle years, with only a few younger men sprinkled amongst them. A couple of patrons had salt encrusted on the cuffs of their tunics, indicating they were probably salt-makers, and there was a man of about Bascot’s age whose hair and clothing were lightly covered with a fine sprinkling of a greyish white substance that appeared to be remnants of the ash that was part of the mixture used to make soap, suggesting he was a soap-maker. The Templar wondered if he might be Nan Glover’s son, or one of his employees.

The proprietor, Dern, was also a vast improvement on Selso. Tall, slim and dark-haired, he was fastidious in appearance, dressed in a dark tunic without stain or rent, and hands that looked as though they had been freshly scrubbed.

A quick glance around the room revealed that Wiger was not there. A few of the customers turned their heads to give a curious glance at the Templar badge Bascot wore on the shoulder of his leather jerkin, but their interest was only cursory and they paid little more attention.

Dern gave the pair a civil greeting when they approached him and then asked if they wished to be served with ale or wine.

“Neither,” Bascot replied. “I am here to speak to you in connection with the investigation that is being conducting into the recent murder of Emma Ferroner. Is her husband, Wiger, one of your patrons?”

“He comes in occasionally,” Dern replied cautiously, “but I have not seen him in here since his poor wife was killed.”

“Are there any particular customers of yours with whom he keeps company? Ones who might be considered friends of his?” Bascot asked, following up his intent to try to find a drinking crony of the victim’s husband.

“Not really. He is a genial man, and usually makes conversation with whoever happens to be in here when he arrives. Many of my patrons are friends of his father-by-marriage; he often sits with one of them, but not any in particular.”

The Templar took a moment to consider the alekeep. His answers had seemed accommodating but could be considered evasive, and had been intoned with a smooth urbanity that was grating.

Bascot nodded, giving the impression he accepted the explanation. “Does he ever visit the bawds you keep upstairs?”

“Not that I recall, lord. The women are usually hired by men that have yet to marry, or are widowed, to save them the trouble of going into town and visiting a stewe, and Wiger has—or had—a wife to warm his bed.”

Again the answer was suave, and spoken with an ingratiating smile that was patently false. Irritated, but sensing they would be hard pressed to extract any pertinent information from the alekeep, the Templar signed to Roget that they might as well leave.

“I would not trust that oily bastard to tell the truth if he swore it on the Virgin,” Roget growled once they were outside.

“Nor would I,” Bascot replied. “His answers were too smooth by far. It may be that he is just protecting his profits. Many a man grows garrulous in his cups and reveals more than is wise to his servitor. If Dern gets a reputation for repeating any indiscretions he hears, he would soon lose custom, but I would like to be certain that is the only reason for his reticence.”

“Do you wish me to take him in for questioning?” Roget asked. “It would give me great pleasure to wipe that smile off his face with my fist.”

The Templar thought for a moment. “Not yet. Let us first see if we can find out more about him. You know all of the drinking houses in Lincoln. Ask around among the alekeeps about Dern’s reputation. A man like that usually has something to hide and if we can discover what it is, we can use it to make him more forthcoming about Wiger. If you are unsuccessful, then it will be time to resort to harsher measures.”

* * *

Late that night the murderer lay on his pallet sweating profusely. It had taken all of his self-control not to flee when the Templar had walked into the alehouse where he was drinking. That damned monk, may the Devil curse him, was getting too close with his interminable questions. He now had no choice but to carry out the scheme he had devised earlier, and he must do it soon.

Early the next morning Bascot made his way to the castle. The night before, after he had left Roget and returned to the commandery, he had found d’Arderon still up and awaiting his arrival. Feradac MacHeth had been with him, both wanting to tell Bascot, as second-in-command of the enclave, that a place had been made ready for d’Arderon to take his corrodiary in an enclave in the south, near London.

“But I will not go until I learn whether or not you have been able to catch this murderer,” d’Arderon said to Bascot. “This is the last battle in which I will be involved, even if only on the periphery, and I will see it through to the end.”

As Bascot had nodded and taken his leave of the ailing preceptor, his throat was too choked with emotion to make a reply. D’Arderon had been one of the foremost of the Order’s champions when he was young and now he still refused to leave the field even though, by doing so, he was putting his well-being in jeopardy. He was a valiant soldier who would be sorely missed by all who knew him.

As he rode across the Minster grounds towards the castle, he silently sent up a prayer asking that he would be successful in his hunt for the murderer and that d’Arderon would live long enough to share the victory.

Turning his mind to the investigation and the information that had been gathered so far, Bascot had to admit that this current enquiry was proving the most baffling of all the ones in which he had so far been involved. There were no obvious suspects, unholy implications had been suggested, and the only traces of the murderer were a commonplace knife, a few strands of hair and a scrap of fabric. He thought back over the long parade of witnesses that had been interviewed and the testimony they had given, beginning with Constance Turner, then moving on to the armoury, and suddenly realised, with a start, that there was one person who had been missed when he had questioned Ferroner’s employees—his housekeeper. She had been absent on the day that he and Roget had gone to the workshop and not been interviewed. He must arrange to speak with her without delay.

* * *

In the keep, Gianni sat in the small chamber that had been allotted him by Nicolaa de la Haye, reviewing the summary of interviews he had compiled the night before. His concentration had been sketchy when he had first started the work due to his preoccupation with the
strega
, but finally he had been able to turn his mind to the task and had worked late into the night to finish the report. It was, by then, near the midnight hour and he had decided that rather than go to his pallet in the scriptorium where he usually slept, and risk disturbing Master Blund and Lambert, he would take his rest on the floor of the chamber where he had been working. But his sleep had been fitful, and disturbed by murky dreams that vanished as soon as he tried to recall them, and he had been awake long before first light. As soon as it was time for early Mass, he had attended the service in the castle chapel and then raced back to the hall to grab some bread and cheese from the tables being laid for the morning meal before hurrying back to the chamber to re-read the report.

He had barely finished when a page knocked at the door to tell him that Sir Bascot had arrived and, with Lady Nicolaa, was awaiting his presence in the solar. Gathering up the summary and his wax tablet, he hastened his steps up to the large airy chamber at the top of the keep. When he entered, his mistress and the Templar were deep in conversation, presumably concerning the piece of parchment Lady Nicolaa was holding in her hand. As Gianni approached they both bid him good morning and his mistress motioned for him to take a seat on the stool beside her.

“We have just been discussing a message I received from Master Drogue, the apothecary I asked for assistance,” Nicolaa said. “He made great haste in complying with my request and late last night sent me the information he uncovered.”

She handed the parchment to Gianni and he scanned it quickly. In the missive, Drogue reported that he had spoken to all of the members of his guild and that the only record of Emma Ferroner ever having a requirement for their services was on an occasion five years before when Mistress Glover had come for a mixture to relieve a nasty cough that was plaguing her charge.

“As you will recall, Gianni, from the brief note I gave you of Mistress Turner’s testimony, this report completely belies it, for she stated that Emma Ferroner told her that, just a few months before her death, she had visited two apothecaries in the town requesting an aid for fertility. Either the dead woman was lying, or the perfumer is.”

The castellan leaned back in her chair and heaved a sigh. “This investigation is, I fear, developing into a mixture of falsehoods and contradictions which may prove impossible to unravel.”

She turned to Bascot. “Did you learn anything of interest last night when you went to the alehouses on the riverbank?”

“Nothing that is of immediate assistance, lady.” He told her about his and Roget visit to Dern`s premises and that, as neither of them had been satisfied with the answers the alekeep had given them, the captain was going to try to find out more about him to see if they could pressure him into telling what he knew.

“You believe his answers untruthful?” Nicolaa asked.

“More that he seemed too ready with them,” the Templar replied. “Almost as though he was expecting to be interrogated, and I would like to find out the reason why.”

He paused for a moment and then said, “There are a couple of other aspects, lady, that also merit further investigation. The first is that there is one other possible witness, Master Ferroner’s housekeeper, who was not questioned on the day we went to the armoury. She had daily contact with the victim and her husband and might be aware as to whether or not Wiger had any motive for wishing his wife dead. The second is that it might be profitable to try and find Lorinda, the woman who laid the curse on the armourer so many years ago . . .”

At that moment there was a loud knock at the door of the solar and Ernulf burst in. “I am sorry to interrupt you, Lady Nicolaa,” the serjeant said, red-faced from his hurried ascent up the stairs, “but another woman has been murdered—stabbed dead at the holy spring near Greetwell.”