[Roger the Chapman 04] - The Holy Innocents (26 page)

I saw the bodies of Martin Fletcher and Luke Hollis safely bestowed in the mortuary chapel, before leaving them to the ministrations of the Brothers. Pushing my way back across the crowded forecourt, I found myself unexpectedly accosted by Oliver Cozin. He was on foot and clearly not a member of the posse. He seemed irate.

'Master Chapman, I'm glad I fell in with you. You have , some explaining to do, sir, have you not? Damage to my client's property.'

I was confused, there being no room in my mind at that instant for anything other than the deaths of my friends. For however short a time I had known them, I had grown to count them as such; and Martin Fletcher, because of his likeness to his brother, had quickly found a special place in my affections.

'Damage?' I asked stupidly. 'What damage?'

'Don't play the innocent with me, lad!' was the sharp rejoinder. 'I am talking about the gallery, which now lies in ruins, thanks to your heavy-footed carelessness. For Mistress Harbourne says you fell through its floor.'

'She told you so?' I demanded, feeling betrayed.

'She told Master Colet when he observed the damage for himself, rightly deciding that she should not be held responsible for something which was not her fault.'
 

'The wood was rotten,' I answered truculently, at the same time wondering what else Grizelda might have been tempted to disclose.

'Quite probably,' the lawyer replied austerely, 'but you should have informed me of the accident when I called yesterday morning, and not chosen Mistress Harbourne to confide in.'

I was in no mood for such a scolding. 'If Master Colet thinks I shall pay for the repairs, he may rid himself of any such notion. I did you and him a favour by sleeping in the house, only to be turned out unceremoniously when my services were no longer needed. Good-day, sir!' And I turned to walk away.

Oliver Cozin caught at my sleeve. His tone was still frosty, but his words slightly more conciliatory.

'I mentioned nothing about payment, Master Chapman. But my client and I would have appreciated a little honesty.' He took a breath and forced himself to unbend even further.

'I am distressed to hear about these terrible murders. I understand that you befriended the mummers when they arrived in the town yesterevening. One of them, I am told, leaves a brother who is a monk at Glastonbury Abbey, known to you when you yourself were a novice there?'

The last words ended on a rising note of query, as though he could not quite credit that I had ever had so respectable a calling. I inclined my head in assent, and the lawyer continued with sudden warmth, 'Then let us hope that the lord Sheriff and the goodmen of this town have successful hunting. Such foul deeds cannot be tolerated. Although for some of our number to be joining the posse; he added, glancing with concern in his brother's direction, 'is inexcusable folly! Goodday to you, Master Chapman!' And he swung on his heel, elbowing his way through the crowd to Thomas's side.

I remained, wedged in a corner of the Priory forecourt, staring after him. It occurred to me that everything which had recently happened amiss in the good town of Totnes, was being laid at the door of the outlaws. No other explanation was even contemplated, so large did the wolf-heads' presence in the district loom in people's minds. Watching the swirl of feverish activity all about me, I sensed the underlying fear, which this morning's gruesome discovery had only excited still further. There was no gainsaying the fact that the robbers were evil men, and bore the stigma of murder as well as theft, but surely that did not make them guilty of every crime committed in the neighbourhood. Why should they have paused last night for wanton killing, without the possibility of gain? It made no sense. The killing, moreover, of two wandering mummers as poor and as homeless as the outlaws themselves, and for whom, if such men had feelings, they might have experienced a sneaking sympathy.

I thought of the burning of Grizelda's cottage. She had claimed it as an act of spite by the outlaws, and she could be right. Yet that same night, they had attacked the outlying homesteads of Dartington. Satisfied with their haul of plunder, why should they go out of their way to exact a petty revenge? Then there was the killing of Andrew and Mary Skelton. As recently as three days ago, when I first heard the story, there had been lingering doubts in a few people's minds as to the outlaws' guilt, but these suspicions were now forgotten, swept aside as unjust after the events of the past two nights. All the same, there were still too many unanswered questions about this particular crime for my liking. And whatever others might think, I knew that someone had tried to maim or even kill me; someone who could imitate the voice of a child; someone who was worried in ease I stumbled on the truth.

But what was the truth? My thoughts came round full circie to be brought up short once more by the testimony of Bridget Praule, Agatha Tenter and Master Thomas Cozin that Eudo Colet had been out of the house when his stepchildren vanished. They had been there when he left, but had disappeared by the time he returned. He had had no opportunity to harm them.

Suddenly the Priory forecourt began to clear as the posse, with the Sheriff at its head, moved off. In moments, I was left with only the other onlookers for company, and I saw Oliver Cozin put a consoling arm around his sister-in-law's shoulders. The three girls huddled together for comfort as they and many others proceeded to the parish church to pray for their loved ones' safety. I went with them as far as the porch, but then walked on to High Street and turned left, downhill, towards the East Gate.

Granny Praule had water heating for me over the fire, and when I had shaved, she insisted that I sat down to breakfast.

'A shock like that needs feeding, lad,' she said, frying a lump of fat bacon in a skillet, and producing a slice of horse bread from a crock which stood in one corner. She cast a scornful, if affectionate, glance at her granddaughter, who was sitting on the bed beside Peter Coucheneed and holding his hand. 'I've no patience,' she went on, gnashing her toothless gums in irritation, 'with folk who fall over, like trees in a gale, every time there's a bit of trouble. If the good Lord had intended us to live in comfort on this earth, it stands to reason He'd not have needed to create the Hereafter. Bestir yourself; girl, and fetch that poor creature alongside you a cup more of my damson wine. He looks as if he needs it.'
     

To my protests that I was taking the food out of her and Bridget's mouths, Granny turned a deaf ear, and my offer of payment brought the vials of her wrath down about my head.

When she was young, she informed me severely, travellers had a right to expect sustenance on their journeys from whomsoever had the means to provide it, especially those of them who had suffered misfortune. She plunged a knife into the sizzling lump of bacon and tossed it on to the plate I was holding on my knees, pressing it with the flat of the blade so that the fat ran out and soaked into the horse bread. For this small consideration I was grateful, always having found the coarseness of such bread, with its mixture of peas and beans and bits of chaff, unpalatable.

When I had finished eating, I took Peter Couchaneed gently by the arm and urged him to his feet.

'Come outside,' I said. 'The air will do you good.' He followed me, docilely, like someone who had lost the power to think for himself and would do whatever he was told.

'What will you do now?' I asked him gently. 'It has to be thought of, in spite of your grief; and the sooner the better. How long have the three of you been together?' He roused himself a little, rubbing his forehead like a man awakening from a dream.

'A month,' he answered, 'perhaps six weeks at most. I fell in with them on the road from Southampton, where they'd spent the winter, and Martin suggested that I join them.'
 

‘Ah!' I was surprised by this. 'I thought you had all three been friends for some long time.'

Peter shook his head. 'No. Martin and Luke had known each other since childhood, leaving their parents' company, set out on their own, flying the nest as we all must do sooner or later. But I was a stranger to them until we met in the shadow of Romsey Abbey. It was Martin who saw at once that with my height, my thinness, my baldness, I was the perfect foil for Luke, who, as you saw, was short and stout and blessed with more hair than any man has a need for.' He smiled wryly. '"As a pair, you'll raise a laugh wherever we go” Martin said, and he was right, for people had only to see us side by side to begin to chuckle.' Peter's eyes filled with tears which overflowed and ran down his cheeks, his body racked with sobs. 'I thought I'd found a family to replace my own, who all died of the plague one summer. But now I'm alone again. Sweet Jesus! Why ever did we come to this accursed town? If only we'd known earlier about the outlaws.' i put my arms around him and hugged him, but I am ashamed to remember that the comfort I offered was absentminded. I was deep in thought.

Was it simply chance which had decreed that the two men who had been friends since childhood, who had spent their lives in one another's company, should be the victims of this murderous attack, whilst the newcomer, a member of their band for only six weeks, should escape unharmed? Or was there some deeper, more sinister reason? Then I recalled the speech I had had, earlier, with Oliver Cozin and froze into stillness...

I became aware that Peter was asking me a question.

'What am I to do about the wagon? It belonged to Martin and Luke, yet it seems a shame to abandon it here to rot. Martin has family.., a brother...'

'Nick won't hay any claim to it, you may be certain,' I answered, determinedly cheerful. 'And where the rest of Martin's kin are scattered, or Luke's for that matter, I have no more notion than you have. Take the cart, use it for yourself I'm sure it's what both of them would wish, could we but ask them. And who around here knows enough to contest your right?'

He smiled gratefully, the advice being what he wanted to hear. 'I'll be on my way in a day or two, then, when I've seen Martin and Luke decently buried. Do you think Dame Prattle would let me remain here for a while with her and Bridget? I have a little money. I could pay my way.'

'By all means ask her,' I said, glad that his thoughts were taking a positive turn. 'I don't doubt but she'll agree. Moreover, she'll help you cleanse the mattress and the pile of costumes. Women understand these mysteries. My mother, God rest her soul, had remedies for any kind of stain, although she always said blood was difficult.'

But the mere mention of the word 'blood' was sufficient to start him trembling all over again, so I accompanied him back to the cottage and did his pleading for him. Not that Granny Praule needed much persuasion. She was delighted with any diversion in her humdrum life, especially one which would give her such standing amongst her neighbours. And the prospect of a little extra money pleased Bridget.

'And we'll take the mattress and the clothes down to the river, to the ford, and hold them under the running water,' Granny said. 'There's nothing like cold, running water for dealing with blood.' She patted Peter Coucheneed's arm.

'There, there, lad. Don't take on so. We must be practical, and it would be a wicked shame to throw those good things away, or burn them. No, no! A little time, a little patience and we'll have them almost as good as new.'

Feeling that Peter was now in good hands, I picked up my pack and cudgel.

'I must be going,' I said. 'I have things to do.' Granny sighed. 'You'll be away from here, I suppose. You've your living to earn.' She proffered me her wrinkled lips to kiss. 'Take care of yourself, lad. It's dangerous out there, on the roads. Where are you bound for?'
 

'London,' I answered. 'There's someone there I need to talk to. A woman.' Granny snorted derisively. 'You mistake,' t told her. 'Neither a sweetheart nor a leman. In truth, I've never set eyes on the lady. I shall be gone some weeks, but I'll be back. That, however, is for your ears only. If anyone should ask, anyone at all, you understand, I have left Totnes and resumed my travels.'

Granny Praule regarded me with bright, shrewd eyes.

'You can trust me,' she promised. 'But you're up to something, and you can't tell me otherwise. Go on, get along with you, but remember what I said. Take care!'

Chapter Seventeen

Before leaving Totnes, I again made my way uphill to the East Gate. The gatekeeper assumed a resigned expression when he saw me.

'What is it this time?' he sighed. 'Or do I wrong you, and you've finished asking questions?'

'My mother always said I had the longest and most inquisitive nose in Christendom,' I apologized. 'One more answer, if you will, and then I'm done.'

He shrugged. 'If I know it. Very well.'

'When the Sheriff and his men arrived last night, the mummers and I were just leaving the town.' The gatekeeper nodded in agreement. 'I would have sworn we were the last ones out before the gates were shut, but I have to confess I didn't glance behind me. Did anyone else follow in our wake?'
 

'Now that I really couldn't say.' The man pursed his lips. 'I remember your departure, because a cart's a cumbersome thing, however small and light, and sticks in the memory. I closed the main gates after you, but someone could have sipped through the postern without me noticing. It was a good few minutes later I secured that door. Yes, it's possible someone might have gone out on foot without being seen.'