The Alehouse Murders (25 page)

“Was it Brunner returning?” Bascot asked.

“It was, but I didn’t know that then. I heard voices, boots scuffing on the ground. Then there was a cry, and I heard a thud against the wall of the shack. Then silence. I was so frightened, I just lay there and didn’t make a sound. It was morning before anyone came. A monk, from All Saints. He was going to the lazar houses and saw Brunner’s body outside, I suppose. Anyway, he came in and found me and loosened my bonds.” She looked at Ernulf. “Then the serjeant’s men came and brought me here.”

Bascot looked to Ernulf, who nodded. “The monk saw Brunner lying on the ground and went to see what ailed him. Found him dead and then the girl.”

“I might have been killed, too,” Gillie wailed.

“You’re right, you might have been,” Bascot said sternly to stop her breaking into fresh sobbing. “So you had better tell us anything you know about this matter or else Brunner’s murderer may come looking for you.”

“But I don’t know anything, sir. Honest I don’t. Brunner told me to tell you that pack of lies the day you came to the stewe-house. Only he didn’t know that dead girl was pregnant, I swear, because he was as surprised as me when you said she was with child. All he kept saying was that there was someone who would do for him if he wasn’t careful, someone high-placed, and that person would do for me too because I knew about the lies.”

“He said someone high-placed, did he?” Bascot asked and Gillie nodded. “And he didn’t know who it was?”

“I don’t think he did,” Gillie answered slowly, taking a moment to consider. “He just kept saying he had been given a warning and he didn’t want to end up like the alekeeper.”

“We found this parchment tucked into his hose,” Ernulf said to Bascot, proffering a dirty piece of much-used vellum with black inky figures drawn on it. Bascot took the paper and looked at it. The meaning was plain, dead Wat with his skull broken and Brunner with a knife through his heart. When the stewe-keeper had received it he must have been alive and it had been sent as a warning. Now, it was the truth.

“The sad thing is that we nearly caught hold of Brunner while he was still breathing,” Ernulf said. “Just this morning, at dawn, that little serving maid from the brothel come to the castle gates asking for me. Said she’d seen Brunner yestere’en and had followed him as far as Pottergate. He must have been coming back with the food. A loaf and some cheese was found beside his body. The little maid couldn’t get away to tell me last night—trade was too brisk at the bawdy house—but came as soon as the doxies had finished their night’s work and were all asleep. If only she’d come before, we might have got to him before the killer.”

“Did you ask the maid if she saw anyone following Brunner?”

“I did. She says she didn’t notice. She was too intent on following Brunner, but she couldn’t go through Pottergate after him because the bawds would be expecting her back. Also, it was nigh on dark and she was nervous of going outside the city walls on her own. Her mother had sent her out for some wine, you see, and would be angry if she was gone too long. She’s a good little lass, but scared of her mother, I reckon. Anyway, she did just as I told her to do, as soon as she could. Just a shame it wasn’t earlier.”

Bascot returned his attention to Gillie. “You’re sure you haven’t forgotten to tell me anything? A name Brunner might have mentioned, or something about his connection with the alekeeper?”

“I don’t think so,” Gillie replied, her sobs forgotten as she tried to remember. “He just kept saying over and over again that we had to hide, and stay hidden.”

Bascot rose and, as he did so, she looked up at him, fear once again on her face. “What is to happen to me, sir? Am I to be punished for telling you those lies? I didn’t want to, Brunner made me. He really did.”

“I believe you, Gillie. And you will not be punished. You are free to go.”

“But where, sir? If I go back to the stewe-house, whoever murdered Brunner may come after me there. What am I to do?”

There was rising panic in her voice and he saw Gianni tense. Memories of his own plight at the time Bascot had found the boy must not be far below the surface of Gianni’s mind.

Bascot looked down at her and said severely, “Do you want to continue being a bawd, Gillie?”

The girl hung her head and gave it a little shake, then mumbled, “No, sir, I don’t.”

“Then do you want to go back to your family?” Bascot asked more gently.

Gillie looked up at him, tears streaking her face. “No, sir. Me da’ll beat me and that old hag he married will crow in my face forever. ’Twould be near as bad a life as a harlot’s.” She began to plead. “Isn’t there some honest work I can do, sir? I don’t mind what it is. I’m strong and willing. And I can clean and cook. Please, sir, don’t you know of someone who will give me a place?”

Bascot looked at Ernulf. He knew the serjeant had a strong protective streak in him, especially for women and children. “Is there any need for another scullery wench in the castle kitchen, Ernulf? Or perhaps a girl to take out slops and help with the poultry?”

As Bascot had known, Ernulf, after a sympathetic look at the distraught girl, nodded his head. “I’ll find somewhere to fit her in. Just as well keep her under our eye for the moment, in case the murderer thinks she’s a threat. She’ll be safer within the castle walls.”

The serjeant gave Gillie a grim look. “But you listen to me, girl. You’ll be doing only the job of work you’re given and nothing else. If I hear of you lying on your back for any of my men, you’ll be out the castle gates before you can pull your skirts down, do you hear?”

Ernulf’s expression softened as Gillie promised contritely that she would do just as she was told. He then gave her over to the care of one of the grinning men-at-arms who had been standing on guard at the door, admonishing the soldier to take her straight to the cook. The chaplain, seeming relieved that his services were no longer required, made a hasty exit leaving Bascot, Ernulf and Gianni alone in the dingy cell.

“Well, we’ve found Brunner, but we’re no further forward than we were before he was dead,” Ernulf said.

“Perhaps we are,” Bascot replied, “even if it does not seem so.”

“How’s that?”

“When I went through the hall last night, after I had seen Lady Hilde, I am sure I saw Conal and his mother both still there.”

“They were. I saw them myself. Conal was playing chess with Richard Camville and his mother was keeping company with Lady Nicolaa and her sisters.”

“Then it should not be too difficult to find out if they stayed the night.”

“Richard and Conal were still playing when I made my last rounds. The ladies had gone to bed.”

“Then I am sure there will be witnesses aplenty to where they all slept, with the castle being as crowded as it is. Neither Conal nor his mother could have left through one of the gates without one of your guards seeing them, could they?”

Ernulf gave the question consideration. “Not if they left through one of the main gates. There is the postern, of course, but I keep it locked against intruders. It would be unlikely either of them would have access to the key, or could unlock it without making a disturbance. For all that it’s small, it’s not much used and makes a racket when opened.”

“Then whoever killed Brunner, it could not have been either de Kyme’s wife or his stepson,” Bascot said. He looked again at the parchment he held in his hand. “The person that killed the stewe-keeper and sent this are one and the same. By implication of the drawing of the alekeeper, Brunner’s death is connected to the murders in the alehouse. If it could not have been either Conal or Lady Sybil, then it is one piece of proof for their innocence.”

Ernulf looked doubtful. “De Kyme will say they used a minion.”

“So he will, but it will be a feeble charge unless he can come up with the person who did the deed and then connect that person with his wife or Conal. I think, Ernulf, that our murderer has made his first mistake. Find out for me, if you can, whether Philip de Kyme stayed at his manor house last night. And where his nephew and cousin were. Also Hugh Bardolf.”

“Bardolf? Surely you don’t suspect him of having a hand in this?” Ernulf said with astonishment.

Bascot explained to him Hilde’s opinion about the baron. “Even if he is not the one who did the deed, he may know more than he is telling. Especially if he has hopes of marrying his daughter to de Kyme once Sybil and Conal are disposed of.”

Ernulf nodded. Throughout the exchange Gianni had been staring at them, listening to every word. His young face was strained, his dark eyes full of consternation. He tugged on Bascot’s sleeve, and made a quick flurry of movements with his hands, rubbing the skin of his forearms and face and pointing at Bascot.

“What’s troubling the lad?” Ernulf asked.

“He is frightened of the leprosy,” Bascot replied.

“But why? He has not been in contact with the lepers and neither have you.”

Bascot gave a short laugh. “No, but he knows I soon will be.”

The serjeant looked at the Templar enquiringly. “Sometimes I think the boy knows me better than I know myself, Ernulf. I must go to the leper house. It is possible that one of the inmates or the monks that tend them saw something that may help us in our enquiries. I do not imagine your men stayed in the area long enough to ask many questions.”

“No, and nor do I blame them,” Ernulf replied. “They came at the monk’s request, got the girl and left Brunner’s body to be disposed of by the Priory. No one in his right mind would go into a leper house if he didn’t have to. And neither should you. Lady Nicolaa would not ask it of any man, nor will she of you.”

“I am a monk, Ernulf, just as those who go to care for the lepers. Few of them take the disease, for God gives them his protection. I must trust that He will do the same for me.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t pay to stretch the Good Lord’s patience too far,” Ernulf muttered.

Bascot laughed. “I will be careful not to take unnecessary risks, I assure you.”

The Templar looked down at Gianni, saw the boy’s eyes were filled with tears. He knelt down beside the lad, clumsy on his ankle. “Do not fear, Gianni. God has led me into this mystery, I must believe that he will protect me while I try to unravel it. Stay with Ernulf until I return. I will not be long.”

U
NFORTUNATELY, BASCOT DID NOT LEARN ANY MORE about Brunner’s assailant at the leper house. At the lazar community he was directed in his visit by the monk who had found Brunner, a Brother Thomas. The monk was a rubicund man with a rolling gait, who looked as though he would have been more at home on the deck of a ship than tending the sick. His face was broad and fat, and his tonsure left the remainder of his hair sticking up like stubble in a shorn field. He had a ready gap-toothed smile and pudgy, capable hands. Only the gentle expression in his dark grey eyes belied the roughness of his exterior, along with the caring manner in which he treated his patients.

The lazar houses were within a low-walled enclosure and were of simple construction, but clean and dry. On the south side, at the far end of the main buildings, the enclosure opened out into a field in which there was a vegetable and herb garden and a byre which housed a few cows. Chickens clucked in a small coop and some sheep grazed in a walled pasture beyond the garden. Other monks were in evidence, tending to the chores of caring for the garden and animals helped by one or two inmates who were still well enough to do so, their diseased limbs wrapped in clean linen and large hats of straw shading their faces from the heat of the sun.

“The shack where the murdered man was found is beyond the pasture,” Brother Thomas told Bascot. “There are a few tumbledown buildings there, which were once all that the lepers had to shelter them. When Hugh of Avalon became bishop of Lincoln some few years ago he was much distressed at the terrible state in which these poor unfortunates were living, so he chivvied the people of the town into giving enough material and alms to build the new hospice which you have just seen. He is a saintly man, the bishop. Would that all men were as good as he.”

Brother Thomas led Bascot to the place where Brunner had been discovered. Gillie had been right, the buildings were hovels, most with caved-in roofs and insect-infested walls.

“It was I who found the dead man,” Brother Thomas explained. “One of the sheep had strayed during the night and I was looking for it when I saw what I took to be a bundle of clothes in the grass. I thought perhaps some kind soul had left them as a gift for the community and went to examine them. It was then that I discovered the terrible deed that had been done.”

“And the girl?” Bascot enquired. “How did you know she was in the shack?”

“I did not. I merely went in to see if the dead man had perhaps left some clue to his identity in there. Inside I found the girl, lying on the floor, bound hand and foot and too frightened to cry out for help. She was much distressed, poor creature.”

Brother Thomas’ face became solemn as he showed Bascot the interior of the shack. There was nothing inside, just a dirt floor on which was a pile of mouldy straw and the length of rope with which Gillie had been tied. There was no sign, either inside or out, of the blade that had ended Brunner’s life.

“Do you have much trouble with beggars or other unfortunates using these shacks?” Bascot asked Thomas.

The monk’s wide face creased into a smile. “No, we do not. There are few desperate enough to intrude so near the inmates of the hospice and risk infection. Besides, as you can see, there is little to make use of.” He looked down sadly at the spot where he had found Brunner. “The slain man must have certainly been in dire circumstances to have sought refuge here.”

“He was, Brother,” Bascot replied. “And whoever killed him must have been just as desperate.”

Bascot did not enter the hospice where those lepers too sick to leave their beds were tended by the monks. However, he still took the precaution of washing his hands in a laver of wine which was kept near the entrance. “We do not know how the disease is spread,” Brother Thomas had told him, “but the ancient Greeks thought much of the cleansing properties of wine and so, under Bishop Hugh’s instruction, we always wash our hands in it before we leave.”