Michael Jecks - The Death Ship of Dartmouth

But as Bill left, Alred frowned again. That square face in the crowd kept returning to his thoughts. He only wished he could figure out why.

The house was a pleasing building, clearly recently built, with a solid oaken frame and well-limed cob filling the gaps. Simon knocked on a door that had been limed as well, and waited.

It took a little time for the door to open and a nervous-looking man peered out at him. ‘Yes?’

‘I want to talk to Master Pyckard.’

‘I don’t know that he’s ready to see people yet. He …’

‘Tell him the Bailiff of the abbey is here — the Representative of the Keeper of the Port. I need to speak to him now,’ Simon said roughly.

The face took on a still more anxious appearance, then the man slipped away, the door closing quietly behind him, a bar or bolt sliding into place to lock it, leaving Simon fuming in the street. Then there was the sound of slowly marching feet, and the rattle of the lock, and the door opened.

‘Bailiff? We’ve met.’

Paul Pyckard was a man of a little less than Simon’s height, with a face that was oddly skull-like. The cheekbones stood so prominently that in the shadow of the doorway it was hard to believe that there was any flesh covering them. His eyes were bright and hard, compelling as a snake’s, and when his mouth opened, his grey teeth matched the colour of his skin. Clad in a heavy robe with fur trimming, it was hard to imagine he felt the cold in this weather, but Simon wondered if that was because he was truly unwell.

‘Master Pyckard, I am sorry about your ship, but I wondered if you could help me. I want to know all I can about it.’

‘You’d best come inside,’ Pyckard said, and stood back from the door, shuffling like a very old man.

As Simon entered, he sensed a coldness that was nothing to do with the house. It was as though Pyckard himself was exuding a chilly atmosphere.

This was not the man he remembered. Last time they had met was only a matter of three weeks ago, and then Pyckard had seemed fit and well. He’d had the broad shoulders, hearty manner and bronzed skin of a natural sailor. His bluff character was in keeping, too. Simon had always thought that seamen were so used to risking their lives that they made the most of every moment on shore.

‘You see a difference in me?’ Pyckard asked as he led the way down the passage.

‘I confess, I was surprised to see how you have changed, master.’

‘It began some weeks ago. At first it was just a bit of a pain in my belly, and I grew short of breath.’ As if to confirm his point, he wheezed and coughed wretchedly. ‘No, I need no help, I thank you. After a little while, the pain began to grow. Ach, and now it’s with me the whole time. I cannot concentrate at all.’

‘You’ve seen a physician?’

Pyckard threw him a look that combined contempt and annoyance. ‘I am not so poor that I would seek to save money at the cost of my life, Bailiff.’ He continued on his way, leading Simon into a large parlour at the rear of the house, where he walked painfully to a large chair, sinking into it gratefully.

‘Sir?’

‘Yes. You want a drink?’ Pyckard asked.

The servant who had opened the door so nervously stood by the buttery at the far side of the room. Simon asked for ale, and Pyckard a quart of wine, and the man disappeared. At least Simon could now comprehend his trepidation. The whole household must be in fear of the thought of the death of the master.

While he waited for the drinks to arrive, Simon studied the room. It was obvious that Pyckard had enjoyed a successful life. His walls were covered in rich hangings, one a set of three hunting scenes that gleamed and glimmered in the light. His hearth was paved with bricks, while the rest of his floor had been tiled, the cost of which Simon could only wonder at. High overhead there was a louvre arrangement which was opened and closed by pulling on a rope. A sideboard with three shelves displaying highly polished pewter tableware added to the sense of opulence in the room.

The man himself was clearly unaware of it all. He sat uncomfortably, wincing every so often, shifting in his seat, grunting and sighing. His fingers rapped on the arm of his great chair as though in time to some internal music. When the drinks appeared, he grabbed for his jug, almost spilling the wine down his breast, and poured a large gobletful, all but draining it at the first draught.

‘Master Pyckard, it’s plain that you aren’t feeling well. Would you prefer me to come back later?’

‘That, Bailiff, could be a waste of your time if you tried it,’ Pyckard said with a twist of his lips that was intended to show humour. ‘I may not be here for much longer.’

‘This pain abates somewhat through the day?’

‘There are stupefactives which my physician has given me, but they work less and less well. No, there is no cure and no means of preventing the pain. I’ve confessed, and that took a weight off my soul, which helps a little.’ He looked past Simon’s shoulder to the tall window beyond. ‘There is some peace from that.’

‘Something you did in the past?’ Simon wondered.

‘Something that’s none of your affair, Master Bailiff!’ Pyckard snapped, but not rudely. He squirmed in his seat again. ‘So ask away. It’s what you’re here for!’

‘It’s your ship — the cog Saint John . I’d heard that there was nothing taken from her. Is that right?’

‘So far as I know, yes. I haven’t been to inspect her myself, of course. I don’t think I could walk so far. Christ alive! It is hard enough for me to walk to my door and back. Only two days ago I could walk about the town — but now? Nothing!’

‘Does it not trouble you that the ship was taken and her cargo left aboard? That to me seems most strange.’

‘There are many strange things in life, Bailiff. The Saint John was one of my older vessels, so perhaps these pirates decided she wasn’t worth the capture once they’d taken her.’

Simon tried to keep the disbelief from his voice. ‘You are suggesting that mariners would take her, and then leave her to burn, still with a valuable cargo on board, because they thought she was too old and not worth their time? Surely they’d have seen that from the outset? If the craft was not worthy of capture, they would have left her.’

‘You are not a man of the sea, are you, Bailiff? Let me explain. The ship was perfectly well worth taking from the point of view of the cargo, but she herself was — is — old. Perhaps they saw the second ship arriving and knew there was no time to move all the cargo from the John to their own ship. And the John is a slow beast. Seeing a faster ship appear over the horizon, they may simply have sought to destroy evidence of their crime. It could have worked, were Hawley and his men less fast and seamanlike.’

Simon fiddled with the long tongue of his belt, which dangled over his thigh. ‘Master Hawley caught the ship and put out the fire in a very efficient manner.’

‘He’s a good man, Hawley.’

‘It was fortunate that he appeared at that moment.’

‘Yes. But it was on the main route we both use.’

Simon nodded. ‘Do you have any idea who could have attacked her?’

‘On the open sea? Are you joking? It could be any one of a hundred hundred men. There are pirates from all over Normandy, the Breton lands … they come here and pick off what they can all the time. They’ve stopped their raids on the shore now, but our ships are always at risk. Then there are the men from our own coast. If a ship from a Cinque Port saw a ship in danger, it might wonder whether it was worth taking her and stealing the cargo rather than helping her to port.’