In the Blood (23 page)

His first thoughts were for Davy.

Before the last man had entered the cottage, Jowan was hurtling down the stairs thinking only that he must get to his friend.
 
He crashed into the first man who was on his way up.
 
He thrust an elbow into his startled face and sent him tumbling and falling back into the man who was following after him.
 
Jowan jumped and cleared them both.
 
He made it to the room where he’d left Davy and was confronted by a host of accusing faces.
 
He looked at Davy, lying on the floor, blood in his hair and on his face, and then at the man standing over him, his tipstaff recoiled from a recent blow.
 
Jowan barely had time to take the scene in before he felt himself falling.
 
He crashed to his knees and slid face first against the rough floorboards.

When he came to, Jowan was sitting at the table opposite Davy as they were earlier, only now they were both in handcuffs and from the look of Davy, both in pain.
 
Davy was holding his dirty shirt tails to the gash that started on his forehead and ran unseen beyond his hair-line.
 
As their eyes locked, Jowan thought he’d never seen Davy look so scared.
 
The air stank of rum laced vomit.

“At last.” a high and thin voice said.

Jowan stared into the crowded room.
 
There were several serious looking men staring back.
 
Some had lanterns; others carried crude but effective clubs.
 
Then he caught the brassy glint of a short sword guard: a hanger, the blade still secured in its scabbard.
 
He recognised the local Parish constable at once.
 
Everyone in the village knew him and few with respect.

The role of parish constable was newly appointed each year and ran for a term of twelve months.
 
There were several to each parish and they were supported by the night watchmen and people from the village if the arrest called for greater numbers.
 
Becoming a parish constable was like being called for jury service; everyone was expected to take a turn.
 
Most hated the position; some even tried to buy their way out, or employed the services of paid deputies.
 
But not Peder Trevanion.
 
He enjoyed the authority.

When at home, he displayed his tipstaff outside his house like a trophy so everyone in the village knew his status.
 
The tipstaff was the forerunner to the truncheon, usually shorter, about twice the length of the handle and often with a crown at the tip.
 
They were highly decorated in brass, bone or wood, sometimes hollow to carry an arrest warrant.
 
The idea was that the tipstaff would be tapped on the shoulder of the person being arrested.
 
Then the warrant was served.

Peder Trevanion’s tipstaff was more like a mace.
 
It was made of hardwood and was relatively plain.
 
The business end was a square edged block, painted black with a red crown and the date of appointment on the side.
 
And Trevanion liked to use it.
 
He regarded the customary
shoulder tap
as an act that served no other purpose than to lose him the advantage.
 
When Trevanion arrested you, the
tap
came much later, and the petite, almost feminine Trevanion was never braver than when he had an overpowering number of men at his command and the law on his side.

“I was beginning to think we’d be here all night,” he said as he approached the table.
 
“I could have killed you both for resisting.”
 
He leant on the table.
 
“But we don’t want to deny the public their sport, do we?”

“What are we supposed to have done?” Jowan asked.

“Oh, I think you know.”

Jowan feigned a blank look and Davy began to shake.

Trevanion snapped his fingers.
 
“Quickly!” he said.

A man with a lantern stepped forward and handed something to Trevanion who manipulated the item in his hand then let it fall.
 
The item caught at the end of a leather strap and a bright silver crucifix lit up.

“So you wouldn’t know who this belonged to or why it just happened to be at your house?”

“It’s not our house!” Davy said, unable to stop himself.

Trevanion thumped his tipstaff hard onto the table, splintering the surface.
 
“You think I don’t know this isn’t your own house, you flea-host!”
 
He raised the tipstaff to Davy and Davy nearly fell back off his chair.

Trevanion laughed.
 
Then he pushed the crucifix in front of Jowan’s face.
 
“You’re both in a lot of trouble.
 
You’d do well to cooperate.”

“I’ve never seen it before,” Jowan said.
 
“That’s the truth!”

Trevanion slipped the crucifix into his waistcoat pocket and smiled.
 
“So tell me...”
 
He turned to his men, looking amused with himself.
 
“How did such a thing come to slip from the neck of a dead man and land in a jug on the mantle in the next room?”
 
A sarcastic laugh broke from his thin lips as he turned back to Jowan.
 
“I’m sure we’d all like to hear that one.”
 

The men with him were silent, their faces unemotional.
 
None of them seemed to share Trevanion’s sadistic disposition.

Jowan thought hard.
 
They had been so drunk, yet he was sure he would have remembered finding a silver crucifix, and he was certain that if he had, he would have hidden it better than that.
 
He had no explanation, but he understood the implications well enough.

Trevanion sighed.
“Why don’t you confess to me now, eh?
 
Get it over with.
 
You’ll save everyone a lot of bother.”
 
He turned his needle eyes to Davy.
 
“What about you?
 
You don’t want to waste the magistrate’s time, do you?”

Davy shook his head and Jowan sat up with a jolt.

“Leave off him!”

Trevanion pushed his tipstaff hard into Jowan’s neck and left it there, forcing him down into his seat.
 
Then his eyes returned to Davy, who looked like he was about to be sick again.

“Come on lad,” Trevanion said.
 
“Do the decent thing.”

“Keep your mouth shut, Davy Fenton!”

A blow from one of the men in the room saved Trevanion the bother, or denied him the pleasure.
 
Jowan slumped and rolled heavily to the floor.

Davy sprang up then, sending his chair flying back across the room.
 
“We didn’t kill anyone!” he shouted.
 
He backed against the wall holding his cuffed hands uselessly out in front of him as the constable’s men closed in.

Trevanion shook his head at Davy.
 
“Too much to expect a little honesty from the likes of you,” he said.
 
“But I’ll see you both swing.
 
You mark me!”
 
A cruel smirk cut across his face.
 
He holstered his tipstaff and made for the door.
 
“Bring them along,” he said.
 
They’ll answer to the magistrate.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

T
he man who had entered the exhibition at Bodmin Jail, distracting Tayte earlier, was on the move again on the other side of the display boards.
 
The sudden and only sound in the otherwise lonely museum drew Tayte’s attention again, pulling him away from a passage he’d just read, stating that Mawgan Hendry’s bag - a coarse woven haversack containing his money purse - had never been recovered.

Tayte craned his neck, following the footsteps to the spot where he knew the man had to appear.
 
He was more than curious now.
 
Yesterday’s warnings had left him on his guard and his sore head still served as a reminder that someone out there wanted him out of the way.
 
But just as Tayte expected the man to walk into view, the room fell silent again.
 
Goosebumps tingled on the back of his neck and as ridiculous as he suddenly found the situation, he could not look away.
 
He knew the man had to come this way.
 
He listened, but all he could hear was the rain outside, though lighter now, like radio static hissing in his focused mind.

A door banged over by the entrance.
 
It startled Tayte and he coiled instinctively towards the sound.
 
Then he heard what he thought to be a heavy bolt grate against its iron guides.
 
The footsteps started again.
 
He spun around, expecting to see the man at last, but Tayte was alone.
 
The late visitor was going back the way he’d come.

Tayte wanted to get up and cut him off at the door - find out who he was.
 
Instead, he scoffed at himself, surprised at the fragility of his nerves.
 
It was ridiculous to think that anyone would have followed him there.
 
He listened as the fast footsteps continued without stopping all the way back to the entrance.
 
He heard a brief exchange of words that were too low to make out, and then it was silent again.
 
He supposed that one of the doors at the entrance must have still been open, allowing the visitor to slip out, but the sound of the grating bolt earlier suggested that the place was closing up.
 
He turned back to the case notes, now reading the secular court proceedings of the trial of Jowan Penhale and Davy Fenton, for the felonious killing of Mawgan Hendry and the theft of his belongings; to which they had entered a plea of
not guilty.

Having found the crucifix and assumed murder weapon at Ferryman Cottage, Peder Trevanion’s sworn testimony proved strong evidence against the accused who were summarily interned at Bodmin Jail pending their trial.
 
The witness accounts of Jenna Fox and two regulars at the Shipwrights Arms, who were there drinking the night Mawgan Hendry’s body was pulled from the river, gave testimony to the fact that they had seen the accused leave the tavern that evening and shortly afterwards return in good spirits and with uncharacteristic generosity.
 
The actions of Jowan and Davy that night were described to the court as ‘carrying on like they’d come into money’.
 
To which the prosecution had proposed that the ferrymen had stolen Mawgan Hendry’s takings after they killed him, and had then squandered the money at the Shipwrights Arms immediately afterwards, hinting at their cold-hearted and insensate behaviour.

Tayte read how Mawgan’s mother had identified the silver crucifix that had been found at Ferryman Cottage early on the morning of the arrest, stating that she had given it to Mawgan on his eighteenth birthday.
 
She had broken down in the dock when asked to examine the crucifix, hearing for the first time that the gift which was intended to deliver her son from evil was alleged to be the very tool used to end his life.

Jowan and Davy’s defence appeared little more than a formality.
 
Only one noteworthy challenge was made at the end of the witness cross-examination, which concerned the information that led to the discovery of the crucifix.
 
The defence had asked the court to identify the source of the information and questioned its validity as lawful evidence under the circumstances.
 
But the challenge had been quashed with the production of an unsigned letter stating that, while the writer of the letter felt obliged to do their duty such that proper justice may be served, they wished to remain anonymous out of fear of reprisal.
 
The letter had been deemed admissible as evidence as the account matched the specific nature of the crime so well, detailing facts that could only have been known by someone who had witnessed the heinous act for themselves.

A hand on Tayte’s shoulder gave him a start.

“We’ll be closing shortly.”
 
It was the woman in the mint-green cardigan.
 
“Sorry,” she added, “I thought you’d seen me.”

Tayte gave a nervous laugh.
 
“That’s okay.
 
I was miles away there.
 
I’ll just be a few minutes if that’s okay.”

“Of course.”
 
The woman was studying the broken display cases.
 
“Mindless,” she said.
 
“Can’t have been valuable.”

“What was in them?” Tayte could guess at the answer.

“We had a notebook in this one.”
 
The woman pointed to the larger of the two cases.
 
“It showed the verse that’s been reproduced here.”
 
She pointed up at the display board.
 
“It was left to the museum by a relative of the victim,” she added.
 
“Such a shame.
 
I don’t suppose we’ll ever get it back.”