Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

Others noticed it. Even as the rest of the city was growing more relaxed and less fraught, as his own business developed and the ships began to bring in profit with every sailing, his mood darkened. About two years ago, he grew so irritable and temperamental that she wondered whether he might be unwell. There were stories of men getting brain-fevers and losing their minds; the worst were the men with the rage that forced them to stop drinking water even though they were gasping from thirst. Mad dogs could give that to a man with just a bite, probably because of demons inside them. But Reg hadn’t been bitten, he’d only grown more wealthy. Yet it appeared that as his success grew, so did his dissatisfaction. As the daily threat of death by starvation receded, his mood grew more gloomy.

There was only one explanation for this, she thought. Why would a man who was making so much money be miserable? Because he was unhappy with his wife.

She took a deep breath and wiped the hair from her eyes. At first, knowing that she’d lost her husband’s affection, she had been hurt. Hurt and withdrawn. It was terrible to feel that she wouldn’t know his comforting hugs and caresses any more, just as it gave her a grim feeling of her own mortality to know that her womb would probably never again bear a child. They had stopped trying. Once he had been the happiest beacon of her life, but now she was convinced that she had lost his love.

More recently that sadness had turned from misery to anger. She had learned that not only had he lost his love for her, he had actively sought it in another.

It was to his shame as much as hers that she had learned of his infidelity from her son.

‘Just who the hell is he, then?’ Sir Peregrine demanded of the luckless bailiff who had called him.

He was with a small group of men, peering down at the corpse Henry had found in the twilight of the alley.

The bailiff was a stolid man called Rod atte Wood, who tried to look away as he was questioned. ‘I don’t know, Sir Peregrine. He is no one I recognize. Not with his face like that, anyway. The man who found him is here.’

‘Bring him to me, then!’ Sir Peregrine fretted irritably while the First Finder was brought to him. ‘Now hear me, man: this body. You found it?’

The man was a noisome fellow, who reeked of old ale and sweat, clad in a thin woollen tunic over a linen shirt. His back was twisted, his right hand all but useless and held in a sling. From its wasted appearance, Sir Peregrine knew that the man hadn’t used it in many a year. His face was grey and lined, his cheeks sunken from malnutrition, and his hair looked as though it had once been dark like a Celt’s, but was now faded to a uniform grey.

‘I didn’t touch it, sir. I found him there because I tripped over the outstretched arm, but I didn’t know it was a man until I poked the cloth with my staff.’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Sir Peregrine snapped. ‘Save it for the blasted inquest, man. What’s your name?’

‘Henry Adyn.’

‘Really?’ Sir Peregrine glowered at him, and Henry felt a flaring of anxiety. ‘I want to speak to you. Where were you last night? Daniel Austyn’s been murdered and I’ve heard you were attacked by him and crippled. Did he do that to you?’

‘Yes. He took a pickaxe to me. I was lucky to live.’

‘You hated him?’

The bailiff cleared his throat. ‘Sir Peregrine, if I can …’

‘What?’

Rod shrugged expansively. ‘Look at him! He has only one arm. Could he truly kill a man like Daniel? Daniel was much more powerful. In the dark, a feeble old sod like Henry could hardly hope to win.’

Sir Peregrine reckoned he was right. He pulled the man’s shirt apart and saw for himself the dreadful scar that rippled and twisted his flesh. The arm and hand were wizened and shrivelled. ‘Can you hold a knife in that hand?’

Rod answered. ‘He hasn’t held anything in that hand since Daniel ruined it for him. And last night I saw him in the Black Hog from the early evening. He was very drunk when he left the place. I doubt he could hold a knife in his good hand. With one hand, he couldn’t have hurt Daniel.’

The Coroner nodded sharply. ‘Then he can be eliminated as the murderer, I suppose. Very well, Master Adyn, do you or anyone else in this benighted area know just who on God’s earth this man was?’

‘He’s familiar. I think I’ve seen him about the place. Mostly down near the docks — and out near the South Gate.’

The bailiff frowned and hunched down to squat by the body. He waved irritably at the flies that surrounded him immediately, and narrowed his eyes, turning his head to one side as he contemplated the features. ‘I think you’re right, Henry. He has the square face … same hair too … it’s hard to see, though, with that mess made of his face.’

‘Who, then?’ Sir Peregrine demanded. ‘I have another inquest to hold.’

The bailiff moved his lips as he stood, a searching expression on his face as he tried to dredge up an unfamiliar name. Then his brow cleared. ‘I know who it is! Mick. He was a sailor for a while, worked out of Topsham, but came to Exeter some few years ago. A bright lad, but too fond of the ladies, I think.’

‘What does that mean?’

Henry answered. ‘He was involved in the brothel outside the city wall near the South Gate. Used to go to the docks to tempt the sailors, telling them that he had access to a good sister or daughter or wife, whatever they wanted to hear. You know how a pander works.’

Sir Peregrine nodded. All men did. ‘And the brothel was out at the southern gate?’

‘There are a couple out there. One is mostly used by women who want some extra money — maids and others who don’t earn enough and have to sell themselves to make a little more. The other is a regular brothel, where the women all live in the place.’

‘Are these stews regulated?’ Sir Peregrine asked.

‘Only by the noise they make. If there are too many fights, we go and try to calm things down. Other than that, they aren’t doing any harm, so we tend to leave them to their own affairs.’

‘But you think that this man was a pander for one of the women?’

‘At least one. If he was working in the brothel, there’d be several wenches dependent on the men he could bring them. Each woman will only have one man a night, usually. So I’m told.’

‘Very good. In that case, prepare a jury for early tomorrow morning. Have someone guard this body until I am back then. You, First Finder: make sure you are also here for the inquest.’

‘I will.’

‘Do you know him, bailiff?’ Sir Peregrine demanded.

‘Yes. He’s Henry Adyn, lives in an alley off Pruste Street, don’t you, Henry?’

‘Then it’s your responsibility to make sure he’s here tomorrow. Fail and I’ll fine you, bailiff. Right: now we must see if anyone’s found this murderer Estmund. Have you seen him, Master Adyn?’

‘Me? No. I’d have taken him if I had.’

‘Good,’ said the Coroner, and left them there to hurry along to Daniel’s inquest.

Jordan filled his lungs and expelled the air with a contented grunt. ‘That was a good meal, wife. I feel ready to hurry off and slaughter dragons now. I’ll see you later. Keep warm for me. I may be needing comfort tonight!’

He rose and reached for his cotte with the fur trimming at neck and cuffs. It had been moderately expensive, but was not too ostentatious. Even the addition of the little strips of cheap fur had been carefully calculated. They were the marks of a successful man of business, but nothing to make another man stop to look again. There was nothing to demonstrate the wealth that Jordan had built for himself.