A Holy Vengeance (20 page)

“It must have been Aliz who contrived Emma’s murder,” Nicolaa said decisively after Wiger was removed from the chamber, “and also subsequently arranged the second slaying at Greetwell in the hope that it would confuse our investigation. She has motive and, through Dern, access to villains who will kill for money.”

But Bascot shook his head. “I am still not certain of her guilt,” he said. “Or even that of Mabel. We have been shown that both of these women are manipulative, a trait they seem to have had in common with their mother, and that keeps bringing my mind back to Lorinda. It is almost as though she is still alive and scheming to confound us.”

“But she is dead,” Nicolaa exclaimed.

“So we have been told, lady, but only at third hand. Aliz herself did not witness Lorinda’s death, and then she told it to Mabel, who relayed it to us.”

“You think it possible that Lorinda still lives?” Nicolaa asked.

“I do not know, lady; I only sense that these murders were committed because of an old sin, not a recent one.”

All the way throughout the preceding interrogations, Gianni’s mind had been racing furiously as he had been trying to recall details of an incident that had been itching at his mind ever since the soap-maker had been questioned. As Bascot was speaking, the memory finally clicked into place.

It was part of his and Lambert’s duties to check the castle accounts for all supplies that had been received and, once the amount and cost had been certified, to then pass them on to Master Blund for authorisation of payment. One of these bills had been for soap that, Gianni was certain, had come from Master Glover’s manufactory. But it was not the fact that Glover had supplied the soap that now interested the lad, but the nature of the wording on the bill.

He had been struggling to remember the exact way in which the soap had been listed. It had been in the spring, he remembered, just before it was time for all of the bedding in the castle to be removed for washing by the castle laundresses. Along with five gallons of soft soap, which was in liquid form and used for general purposes in the kitchen, stables and the like, an order had been filled for thirty bars of plain tallow and ash soap for the washerwomen’s task, each weighing three pounds and cut into small tablets for easy usage. But, he recalled, along with these items there had been another account for three bars of hard soap, also cut into tablets, for the use of the laundress that took care of Lady Nicolaa’s personal linen. This soap had been much more expensive than the rest because it was scented and he had been struggling to remember if the name of the aromatic ingredient had been listed. Up until that moment, the lines on the bill had been dancing tantalisingly before him, blurry and indistinct, but now, suddenly, it came to him. It was cloves.

He laid his hand on the Templar’s arm to attract his attention and then, by means of writing words on his wax table and gestures, explained what he had recalled.

“Well done, Gianni,” Bascot said, becoming once more invigorated as he gave the lad an enthusiastic smile. “So far, this investigation has led down many false trails, but now, I think, you have steered us towards the correct one. This information may reveal the link we have been searching for.”

“How so, de Marins?” Nicolaa asked. She had been able to follow most of Gianni’s gestures and had read the words that he had written on his tablet. “That soap has a strong scent while it is in the bar, but is only faint on any item on which has been used, be it one’s person or clothing, and even then its perfume lingers only for a short time. Surely any aroma that remained on the murderer would not be strong enough for the little girl at Greetwell to have noticed it.”

“If it is only used for laundering or washing of the body, I agree,” the Templar replied, “but that is not the case with a person who has been involved in its manufacture. Just as a salt-maker has traces of the salt he processes on his clothing, the grease from the soap would adhere to the cuffs and tunic of any person who handled it constantly, and leave a very strong scent. And, I believe, there is a simple way to test Gianni’s theory.”

Bascot drew the knife that had been used as a murder weapon from his scrip and said to Gianni, “If I interpreted your words correctly, you said that the soap had been cut into tablets
before
being delivered to the castle storeroom?”

The lad nodded and the Templar leaned forward to a table that was near his chair where a lighted candle stood. Grasping the knife by the hilt, he carefully held the joint of the blade where the thin line of greyish grime was ingrained over the flame. As he did so, the oily grit sputtered and then the colour changed from grey to black as it began to melt. Almost at once, a strong smell of cloves pervaded the air.

Nicolaa gave an exclamation of surprise. “Sweet Jesu, that is soap residue!”

“It would seem so, lady, and that this knife was used to cut clove-scented soap bars into tablets before it was employed in the murder of Emma Ferroner. Our quarry is one of the men who work in John Glover’s manufactory.”

* * *

Within moments, Ernulf had raced downstairs and brought the soap-maker back to the solar. Bemused by the speed with which he had been pushed up the stairs, Glover stood before Nicolaa and the Templar as a man dazed.

Bascot held the knife out in front of him. “Is this a tool that is used in your workplace?”

Glover looked at it and nodded in confusion. “It is very like them, yes.”

“Have any of these knives been reported missing lately?”

“How did you know that?” the soap-maker asked in astonishment. “My overseer in the workshop came to me only a couple of days ago asking permission to order a replacement for one that seems to have disappeared.”

“This is the knife that your overseer could not find. It was left at St. Dunstan’s shrine after being used to stab Emma Ferroner.”

“By the Virgin, it cannot be,” Glover exclaimed, shocked to his core. “Are you certain?”

“We are,” the Templar said firmly. “How many men do you employ to cut the blocks of hard soap into bars?”

“Only one,” Glover replied, his voice shaking. “And the hiring of him was one of Aliz’s recently increased demands to maintain her silence about the relationship between herself and Mabel. He is Garson, half-brother to my wife and Aliz, and also to Dern.”

“There was yet another illegitimate child born to this woman?” Nicolaa exclaimed. “How many more are there?”

“I am only aware of three, lady,” Glover replied. “My wife, Mabel, her half-sister, Aliz, and this other half-brother, who Lorinda bore to Dern’s father before Mabel left to return to Nottingham. But since neither my wife nor Aliz have seen their mother for many years there may be more, although they would be younger than Garson, who is about nineteen years of age.”

“And Garson,” Bascot pressed, “he has only been in your employ for a short time?”

“Yes,” Glover said. “According to Aliz, he arrived in Lincoln a couple of weeks ago and came to see her, claiming he was destitute and needed work. She immediately sent him to me asking, as I said, that I put him to work in the manufactory as part of the ‘favour’ I owed her. I have never mentioned him to Mabel as I did not wish to trouble her with the news that she had yet another bastard relative living nearby.”

“Then Lorinda must have kept him with her after she left Coleby all those years ago,” Nicolaa said. “Does Aliz know if he stayed with his mother until her death?”

The soap-maker grimaced. “I never asked her, lady. She simply told me that he had come to her for assistance, needing work, and she had agreed to help him.”

“What is his appearance?” Bascot asked. “His height, girth and colouring?”

“He is of medium stature and slim,” Glover replied. “And his hair is similar to Mabel’s, dark auburn.”

Bascot glanced at the castellan, and she returned his look. Both were fairly confident that the identity of the murderer was now discovered. To be absolutely certain, Bascot asked Glover one last question.

“Was Garson in the manufactory on the morning that Emma Ferroner was killed?” the Templar.

“He is not there on any morning, Sir Bascot,” Glover told him. “He works at night only, from Compline until two hours after midnight.”

“So he should be at the manufactory now?”

Glover nodded and the Templar stood up, elated. The end of the hunt was in sight.

* * *

Minutes later, and after cautioning John Glover not to tell anyone of Garson’s culpability, even his wife, Bascot and Roget were riding towards the manufactory. On the way down Mikelgate, they stopped at the town gaol to pick up Ivo and Cerlo. John Glover had told them that the manufactory would be empty except for Garson and one other employee, an older man who acted as vat-tender, and kept watch over the soap cauldrons left simmering through the night. They did not expect their task to be a difficult one, but had decided to take the two guards to stand outside in case their quarry should manage to exit the building.

By the time they rode through Stonebow gate and turned onto the path to the manufactory, dusk had fallen and the sky above was growing dark.

The soap-maker’s building was silent as they approached. Large and high-roofed, it had wooden casements fitted to the walls that could be pulled up during hot weather, in the same fashion as the armoury. These were closed now, with only a few vents at the top of the walls left open to let in air. Soft wisps of steam puffed gently through them and out into the gloom.

The Templar and Roget left their mounts a little way from the entry door, which was open, and, while Ivo was left to stand sentry at the main entrance, Cerlo slipped around the side to keep watch over any other doors that gave egress from the building. The odours of the river were strong here, overlaid with the acrid stink of the fats bubbling in the soap cauldrons. Bascot and the captain entered the building as quietly as they could, finding themselves in a cavernous chamber with two concentric rings of a dozen hearths built into the earthen floor. All had fires burning in them with vats of varying sizes placed on grills over top of them, and steam was gently rising from each of the cauldrons. The atmosphere was one of Stygian gloom, the only light other than the glow of the fires coming from a pair of torches flaring high on the walls at the back of the chamber. Below the torches were tables on which had been placed long, uncut bars of soap, and behind were two small doors which, by their size, appeared to be internal ones leading to storerooms at the rear of the premises.

When Bascot and Roget slipped through the entrance, they immediately saw the vat-tender that Glover had mentioned. He was atop a metal ladder resting on the side of one of the larger vats and, with his hands protected by thick leather gloves, was using a long metal paddle to stir the contents. He turned his weathered face towards them as they came in and would have spoken had not Bascot brought his fingers to his mouth in a gesture instructing him to keep silent. Another motion indicated that he should descend the ladder and, when he had done so, Bascot walked up to him and asked, in a low tone, if Garson was on the premises.

The man gave a nod and pointed to one of the inner doors at the back of the workspace. Just then, the door opened and a young man of slim build and with dark hair came out. “That’s him,” the vat-tender whispered.

Roget gave a start. “
Sacré
, that
cochon
was in the alehouse when I arrested Dern and Aliz,” he exclaimed. “Leave him to me,
mon ami
,” he said to Bascot. “He will not escape me a second time.”

At the captain ran towards him, Garson took to his heels, heading for a door in the side of the building. Roget shouted at him to halt, but Garson took no notice and the captain sped around the vat nearest the door and skidded to a halt with his cudgel raised menacingly, blocking escape. Foiled of his intent, Garson spun around and ran back the way he had come, dodging around the back of another vat which, like the rest of the receptacles, was steaming with a hot solution of animal fat and lye, and disappeared from view. Roget immediately gave chase, but he was not quick enough to stop Garson from seizing one of the huge iron paddles heaped in a pile on the floor and, using it as a lever, upending the vat behind which he had taken refuge. With a clatter and a cloud of fiery embers, the cauldron fell on its side and the incandescent liquid gushed out, spattering down one side of Roget’s body. The captain roared with pain, and the Templar, warning the vat-turner to stay well clear of the fracas, ran to assist him, racing around the other side of the soap kettle with drawn sword in his hand.

Garson, seeing the Templar in front of him, and all routes to freedom gone, backed up against the wall, eyes wide with fear. Brandishing the iron paddle he was still holding, he made a feeble attempt at defiance, but the pitiful weapon was soon knocked aside by Bascot’s sword.

“You are taken,” the Templar growled, pushing the tip of his blade into the base of Garson’s throat. “Come quietly, or I will split your filthy gizzard wide open.”

* * *

Fortunately, Roget had not been too badly burned. His feet had been protected by the boots he was wearing, but his right leg, above his footwear, had been splashed with the noxious soap mixture, as had one of his hands. The vat-tender, having watched the pursuit of Garson with amazement, grabbed up a bucket and sped quickly towards a row of barrels filled with water at the back of the room and, scooping it full, ran to where Roget stood cursing with pain.

“Water will ease the burning,” the vat-tender yelled and tossed the bucket’s contents over the captain’s scalded limb. Then he ran back for more water, this time grabbing a second bucket as well, and instructed the captain to plunge his burned hand into its cooling depths.

After several repetitions of the procedure, the blistering pain slowly began to fade.
“Par Dieu
,
”
Roget exclaimed, taking a deep breath of relief, “now I know what the flames of Hades must feel like.”

As the vat-tender applied a salve made of comfrey kept in the manufactory to treat burns and then bound Roget’s leg and hand in strips of linen, the captain looked up at the Templar and said, “I promise you, de Marins, I will enjoy seeing that
bâtard
hang, knowing that he will suffer a burning torture like this in hell for all eternity.”

At that moment, Ivo, alarmed by the shouting he had heard from inside the building, came through the door, short sword in hand. When he saw that the murderer was taken, he walked over to the captain.

Taking in the upturned vat, the slimy mess of soap steaming on the floor and Roget’s soaked hose, he said with a smirk, “Just a suggestion, Captain, but the next time you decide to take a bath, it might be wiser to wait until the soap has cooled before you apply it.”

His jest brought another stream of invectives from Roget, but it eased the tension in his face and, looking down at his scalded flesh, he let out a great roar of laughter. “I tell you, Ivo, it is of no matter. I would drown myself in hot lead to free Constance and that is what has been done.”