A Holy Vengeance (9 page)

“You said ‘was,’” Bascot observed. “Did that change after the nuptials had taken place?”

“Not at first,” Constance replied. “But as time went by and she did not conceive a babe, she became downhearted. It was a great shame to her that she was barren, and she worried, I think, about the disappointment she was causing both her husband and her father.”

“I believe you went to her home on a few occasions,” Bascot said. “Was this after she was wed, or before?”

“Once before, and twice afterwards,” Constance replied.

“And what were your impressions of the relationship between your friend and her father and husband?”

The perfumer smiled as she spoke of Master Ferroner. “It was plain to see that he doted on Emma but he is, I think, a man who is shy in the company of women. He was very polite to me and seemed to welcome my friendship with his daughter but, on each occasion, made an early excuse to leave so we could talk, as he called it, ‘of female fripperies.’”

“And Emma’s husband?”

The smile left the perfumer’s face. “He is a handsome man,” she said quietly, “and Emma told me that, according to her father, he shows promise of great skill in the art of making armour.”

The Templar noticed that the perfumer had spoken of Wiger, the husband, in dispassionate terms, and not at all in the fulsome manner in which she had described Emma’s father.

“Do you like him?” he asked.

“I neither like nor dislike him,” she answered evasively. “I met him only briefly on one of the occasions that I visited Emma at her home.” She shrugged her shoulders. “He was courteous towards me, but since we did not speak much together, I had no opportunity to form an opinion of his character.”

Her reserve on this subject was obvious, and Bascot, sensing he had obtained all of the information she was able, or willing, to give, stood up and took his leave of her. With Gianni beside him—who had written down on his tablet all that Mistress Turner had said in the shortened form of writing that he used for taking notes—he left the cell.

Once outside Bascot asked Gianni for his opinion of the information the perfumer had given. With a flurry of hand gestures that the lad used to communicate with his former master, he made it plain that he thought she had more to tell about the murdered woman’s husband, Wiger.

“That was how it seemed to me also,” Bascot replied. “I, as well as you, received the impression that she does not hold him in high regard. When we go to the armoury, Gianni, we must take careful note of Wiger’s attitude and what he has to say about his relationship with his wife.”

As the lad nodded his agreement, Roget, who had been watching for them from outside the barracks, came up and asked how the interview had passed. At the Templar’s assurance that he had learned nothing to convince him of Constance’s guilt, Roget was relieved, and the three of them left the bail to go to the armoury.

As they reached the lower end of Mikelgate, the main thoroughfare of the town, and passed through Stonebow Gate, the Templar told Roget how he had decided to proceed when they reached the armourer’s place of business.

“There are indications that suggest this killing was not a random act of violence,” he said as they approached the banks of the Witham River, “so the victim must have been known to the murderer. Since she had spent her whole life up to the time of her death in her father’s house and all of his employees must know her well, it is possible the killer may be amongst them. A spurned lover perhaps, or someone of whom she had complained to her father for some reason. So first we must ascertain if all of Ferroner’s men were at work on the morning of the murder. If they were, then we must ask the armourer if there have been any employees he has lately dismissed that might bear him, or his daughter, a grudge.”

At Roget’s nod of agreement, the Templar went on to tell him that evidence had been obtained that indicated the murderer had hair of an auburn colour—adding a caution that this detail was to be kept privily between those involved in the investigation—which would help to eliminate any suspects that had hair of a different shade.

“But this information can only be used as a guide,” he added, “for even though it is unlikely that anyone who has hair of another hue is the person who actually committed the murder, that does not, as in the case of Mistress Turner, prevent them from being complicit in the act.”

Roget made no response except for a furrowing of his brows when Constance’s possible guilt was mentioned. Not wanting to give the captain false hope, Bascot refrained from mentioning that because of the perfumer’s seeming dislike of Wiger, he and Gianni were interested in learning more about him, lest it distort Roget’s objectivity.

When they arrived at the armoury, the casements that fronted the riverbank were open, as they had been when Roget had come on the day of Emma’s death. Although all of the employees in the workshop were busy at their trade, Master Ferroner was not amongst them. At their entrance, a tall young man with pale blonde hair came forward whom Roget told Bascot was Wiger, Ferroner’s son-by-marriage. The Templar regarded him closely. He was well set up in appearance, blue-eyed, with clean-cut features and broad shoulders, a man whom women would find attractive. Was it possible that this was at the root of Constance Turner’s dislike? he wondered. Had she become enamoured of her friend’s husband and arranged the murder so as to free him for herself? Bascot did not dismiss the notion completely, but his impression of the perfumer’s character throughout their brief acquaintanceship was that she was possessed of a high integrity and unlikely to succumb to such a base motive.

“I am come to investigate the murder of your wife,” Bascot told Wiger. “In order to do that I must gather all of the information about her that I can and, to that end, would like to speak to her father, yourself and all of the men employed here.”

“Master Ferroner is not here today,” Wiger informed him. “He is too struck down with grief to put his mind to work. I have only come myself because some of the commissions we are working on are already behind schedule and cannot be left untended.”

“Nonetheless, I must speak to him,” the Templar said, noting that Wiger had been careful to justify his own presence in the workshop. Was his explanation a true one, or was he not as sorrowful as he wished to appear? “Where is he?”

“He should be at home,” Wiger told him. “We both kept watch over Emma’s body last night in the death house at St. Peter’s church, and did not return until early this morning. Unless he has gone back to continue his vigil, he should still be there. His house is just behind the workshop.”

Following the directions Wiger gave, the Templar, Gianni and Roget went out through a door in the rear of the building and could see, about five hundred yards away, at the end of a cobbled path, the armourer’s home. It was a handsome residence, not large but imposing, comprised of two stories, the walls constructed of timber frames inset with wattle and daub freshly painted with lime and with two of the casements, those on the ground floor, filled with panes of thick green glass, an innovation only recently come into fashion and that only those with means could afford. The edifice was topped with a sturdy roof of dark red tiles. A young maidservant answered their knock on the door and when Roget told her Bascot’s name and that the Templar needed to speak to the armourer urgently, she hesitated.

“I am not Master Ferroner’s regular housekeeper, lord,” she explained to Bascot in a tone of deference. “My aunt Thea holds that post, but she has gone to keep vigil over the master’s daughter at the church so he could come home and partake of some food, and she asked me to stay here until she returns. Her instructions were that I was to let no one disturb the master for any reason.”

“It is very important that I speak to him,” Bascot insisted, but not unkindly. “I would not be here otherwise.”

Reluctantly, she nodded and went to apprise the armourer of his visitors. A few moments later she returned and, telling Bascot that Ferroner had agreed to see him, led them into a small hall where he was sitting at a long oaken table. A trencher laid with an ample meal of bread, cheese and some cold bacon sat untouched in front of him.

He looked up at their entrance with red-rimmed eyes and gave a nod of greeting, and motioned for them to be seated across from him. Roget had formerly described the armourer to Bascot as a vigorous and genial man, but that depiction did not apply to him now. His massive frame was slumped on the chair on which he was sitting and his face was drawn with lines of sorrow.

The Templar told him that he had been sent by Nicolaa de la Haye to investigate the murder of his daughter, and had come to gather information about her in the hope it would lead to the apprehension of her killer.

“I have heard of you, Sir Bascot,” Ferroner said to the Templar in a drained voice, “and of the success you have had in seeking out the identity of those who commit secret murder. But while I wish you well in the hunt, finding Emma’s killer will not bring her back to me.”

“No, it will not,” Bascot admitted. “But it will bring justice to her soul.”

“Aye, you are right, I suppose,” Ferroner replied downheartedly. “But before I answer your questions, I would ask you one. While I was keeping vigil at the church last night, a kindly neighbour who had come to keep me company told me that the townsfolk believe that my daughter was slain through the Devil’s agency. Was his report a true one?”

“It is,” the Templar admitted, “but we have evidence that proves this fear may be groundless . . .”

“And I have reason to believe that it is not,” Ferroner interrupted.

“How so?” Bascot asked, startled.

Ferroner sighed heavily and went on to explain. “Many years ago a curse was laid on me by a woman who had a close relative skilled in magicking. She thrice damned me and laid a malediction on the woman I married, the children she bore me and my fortune—and it has now all been fulfilled. My wife is dead, and even though Our Lord protected my darling Emma until she grew to adulthood, her life has finally been taken, and what use will my wealth be to me now without them to share it? She told me that she would make life a hell on earth for me and that I would remember her as the one who put me there, and that is what has happened. No, the curse is the cause of it all, for it was laid by a woman I am now certain had concourse with Satan. There is too much coincidence for it to be otherwise.”

The Templar felt Gianni stiffen in the seat beside him at the armourer’s terrible statement, and even Roget, battle hardened as he was, stirred uncomfortably in his chair. Bascot became uneasy. If this tale of a witch being responsible for the murder was bruited abroad, it would strengthen the townsfolk’s belief that the Devil was involved and lead to increased alarm.

“Who was this woman,” he asked the armourer, “and what was the reason for her enmity?”

Ferroner paused for a moment, and then, in a guilt-ridden voice, gave his answer. “Her name was Lorinda and, about twenty-five years ago, before I was wed, I met her at the midsummer fayre and we became lovers. She seemed content enough with our liaison, but after a time, I began to suspect her purpose, for she began pestering me to wed her, saying I was her first lover and she would not have lain with me unless marriage was in the offing. I knew she was lying about being a maid before I bedded her—she was too skilled at lovemaking to have been a virgin—so I refused, saying I had no intention of taking her to wife. Her anger was terrible and we argued violently before we parted. I must admit that I was relieved to be rid of her, but then, one day almost a month later, she suddenly appeared in the marketplace on the riverbank and, in front of a crowd of bystanders, again demanded that I marry her. I was embarrassed at her making such a spectacle and once more I spurned her, but this time I used harsher words than I had on the previous occasion. It was then that she laid the curse on me.”

Ferroner looked at the Templar straightly. “When I first met Lorinda at the fayre she mentioned to me in passing that her grandam was a witch, and now, Sir Bascot, that both my wife and Emma are dead, I have no doubt that she, too, possesses the skill to conjure up a demon and has instructed it to slay my loved ones. How can I think otherwise when all the evil she intended has come to pass? It is all my fault—if I had not committed the sin of lechery and lain with her, my wife and Emma would not have died.”

There could be no doubt of Ferroner’s sincerity; it radiated from the tense set of his shoulders and the fear in his eyes. “What became of this woman?” Bascot asked. “Does she still live in Lincoln?”

“She never told me where she came from, just that she lived in a village south of town, and I never saw or heard of her after that day in the marketplace,” the armourer replied, “but wherever she went I am certain her sinister spell was the cause of the both of the tragedies that have blighted my life.”

The Templar knew he must try to dissuade the armourer from his premise, not only for Ferroner’s own sanity, but to forestall adding to the panic already invading the town.

“I sympathise for your losses, Master Ferroner,” he said, “but you told me this all happened many years ago. Is it likely that, even if this woman possessed the power, she would still be interested in extracting retribution after such a long time?”

Ferroner pondered the Templar’s statement for a moment. “Perhaps not, but how can I be certain?”

“By helping to catch your daughter’s killer,” Bascot replied. “Once he is identified and arrested, his purpose will be revealed, and then your fears can either be confirmed or laid to rest.”

“Very well, Sir Bascot,” Ferroner finally replied heavily, and only after a long moment of weighty consideration. “I will do as you ask, even though I think it futile. What is it you wish to know?”

* * *

The armourer listened carefully to all of Bascot’s questions and gave as detailed answers as he was able. When asked if any of his employees had been absent on the day that his daughter had been killed, he told the Templar that none had been away from work for the last two weeks, since the day when one of the apprentices had been taken with stomach gripes and unable to come to the workshop. He also stated that he had not had occasion to dismiss any of his workmen since their hiring, so there was no one with that type of grievance against him.

Disappointed, Bascot then asked how many people had been aware of Emma’s visit to the shrine. “Neither I nor Wiger, nor Emma herself, made any secret of our longing for her to bear a babe, so there was no reason to conceal that she was going to request aid of the saint,” the armourer told him. “All of the men in the workshop knew, as did my maidservant here in the house and, of course, Mistress Turner. Apart from that I cannot be certain; it is possible one of those we told may have mentioned it to an acquaintance but, if so, I do not know who they may be.”

The Templar then asked the armourer the extent of his fortune. “Your workshop appears successful, Master Ferroner,” he said, “and I would judge that you are a moderately wealthy man. Is that correct?”

The armourer nodded. “I have always tried to be prudent. Most of my earnings have either gone back into the business or been put by for Emma to inherit when I die. I do give a little to the church to help the poor, but it is only an insignificant amount.”

Roget had already told Bascot that Ferroner was known to be very generous in aiding those less fortunate than himself and surmised that the armourer’s “insignificant amount” would be substantial. He had a soft heart, Roget had said, and could always be relied upon to help anyone who was in need with funds from his considerable fortune.

The next question was a hard one to put to a man who was so distraught, but Bascot asked it nonetheless. “Now that your daughter is gone, is there another relative who will become your heir?”

With a glint of tears in his eyes, Ferroner gave his response. “If you are looking for a person who killed my Emma to gain profit, there is no one. She was the last of my line. I shall leave what I have to the church.”

Although he was reluctant to distress the armourer further, there was still the need to ask him to look at the weapon that had been used in the commission of the crime. Bascot took it from his scrip and placed it on the table.

“I know this will be distasteful for you, Master Ferroner, but this is the blade that took your daughter’s life. Have you ever seen it before?”

Steeling himself, the armourer picked up the knife, repugnance on his face. Turning it over once or twice, he examined it, and then tested its sharpness with the ball of his thumb. Finally he peered at the hilt and haft, and then shook his head. “If I had, I would not remember. ’Tis of ordinary craftsmanship, such as is made by blacksmiths throughout all of England and of a type that is commonplace. I can only tell you that it was not made in my workshop; the blade is too inferior.”

Although Ferroner had done his best to aid in any way he could, and Bascot felt that he had pressed the grieving armourer almost as far as he could withstand, there was yet one last question that had to be asked, and that was in regard to Emma’s marriage.