Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

‘Let me see the physician.’

‘He is busy.’

‘Good,’ Baldwin said, showing his teeth to the pimply youth at the door. ‘Because I am too. That should mean we can save each other time, should it not? I will wait here in the passageway. Tell him I am here.’

‘Who are you?’

Baldwin looked at the boy. His manner was insolent in the extreme. Baldwin dropped his gaze to the lad’s boots, scruffy, scratched and scuffed, and then took in the holed and tatty hosen, the faded but at least whole tabard, and the acne-ridden face. ‘If you are an advert for his business, boy, I’d suggest he remove you instantly. Tell your master that Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, lord of my own manor, Keeper of the King’s Peace, and Justice of Gaol Delivery is here, and … boy?’

‘What?’

‘If you are so rude to me again, I will have you arrested for possessing a face that could curdle milk. I have the power, you know.’

Agnes woke with the anger still simmering.

Her sister was incapable of honesty: stealing men from other women, trying to pretend that she was a good sister by taking Agnes in when she lost her home, only to throw her out when she found a lover … She had no honesty at all.

After the sad break-up of her affair with Daniel, Agnes had not run weeping to the nearest man. She had bottled up her sadness and grief and behaved in a manner more becoming. Where Juliana would doubtless have grabbed by the cods the first man who appeared, as though to prove her ability to ensnare another, Agnes kept herself under a tight rein.

She had always possessed that ability of focusing her thoughts inwards. Where some folks cared too much what others thought, Agnes had the ability to ignore it. She really didn’t care what anyone thought. All that mattered to her was her own feelings, and this, she thought, was a better way to live. A maid couldn’t go through life worrying about what other people thought all the time. There were certain proprieties to consider, but apart from them a maid should not worry. Better by far to worry about yourself, and let the opinions of other people look after themselves.

Juliana had denied lying, but that itself was a lie. She must think that Agnes was a fool if she thought she was going to convince her of that. And then she had said she knew who the murderer was, as though Agnes should stop asking questions about it! Why shouldn’t Agnes be interested to know who had killed her brother-in-law? It was only natural.

Anyway, lying to the Coroner was stupid. He would learn the truth, given time. He seemed a most assiduous investigator. Agnes would like him to investigate her ! And if he didn’t find out what Juliana was hiding, God would. To lie under oath was a terrible thing. No, Juliana was a fool, and the sooner she came to realize that fact, the better.

With that thought came another, though. If she was lying, why was that?

Agnes suddenly had a clear memory of how Daniel had reacted when he learned that she had invited her lover to the house. Daniel had first gone entirely white, as though in horror, and then flushed with fury and begun to accuse her of being little better than a strumpet from the stews; at the time she had been convinced that his anger was merely proof of his foolish care for the nicer proprieties of life in the city, not wanting it to become known that his own sister-in-law was enjoying a lascivious relationship with a married man. Adultery was a dangerous crime.

But now she was intrigued. Perhaps the man’s rage had not been caused by the fact that Jordan was married, but by some other reason. Juliana had said before that Daniel hated Jordan and didn’t want him in the house, and perhaps that was in part his attraction for her; yet what if there was some other reason for Daniel’s loathing? He only ever appeared to take a violent aversion to those who threatened his authority as sergeant … could it really be true that Jordan was a felon?

She had never really confronted that possibility before. In the past she had automatically assumed that Daniel’s attitude to Jordan was based on his hatred of adultery, but now she considered the possibility more seriously. Juliana had appeared to feel that the man responsible for Daniel’s death must be protected — that was why she was lying about him. She said, because he had threatened her and the children. But there must be some other reason why she was holding back. Jordan couldn’t have killed Daniel.

And yet … there was a circular common sense to the idea that Jordan had indeed killed Daniel. The two men had hated each other for quite some years to her knowledge. It was only her bringing him into Daniel’s home that had led to the explosion, but she knew that Daniel and Jordan had avoided contact whenever possible, only occasionally nodding stiffly to each other in the street or at other encounters. Perhaps her lover was indeed a felon. And perhaps he had, as Juliana had appeared to imply, killed Juliana’s husband.

Agnes was entirely still for some time as she considered this, and then she made a decision. She put on a clean apron, her best wimple, and went out into the street. She had business to attend to. No matter what she thought of her dead brother-in-law, she was not going to consider maintaining a relationship with his murderer. If Jordan had done it, she would see him pay for the crime.

Ridiculous that Juliana should try to conceal his guilt. Perhaps she just didn’t want to upset Agnes with the truth.

Baldwin waited only a short time. Soon the scowling youth returned and, with his best approximation to courtesy, invited Baldwin to follow him.

The knight found himself brought into a pleasant hall, not vast by any means, not a great hall like the one at Tiverton, nor even so broad and deep as his own at Furnshill, but a goodly sized room for a house in a city none the less. It was tastefully decorated with tapestries, and had a good three-shelf sideboard displaying rows of plate, all of good quality.

Ralph himself sat on a comfortable-looking chair near the fire roaring in the middle of the floor. ‘Sir Baldwin, is your shoulder worse?’ he asked, with what Baldwin considered to be a rather hopeful air.

‘No, I thank you. I am feeling well today. Well enough to leave Exeter for home. I wanted to make sure that there was nothing more you felt I should do,’ Baldwin lied smoothly.

Ralph’s brow lifted in surprise, but then he shrugged and told Baldwin to remove his upper clothing so he could look at the wound again, and passed him a large glass bottle for a urine sample.

While Baldwin used the bottle, Ralph gave his shoulder a cursory look, and then took the urine from him, holding it up to the light and frowning as he peered. ‘Yes, this looks good now, and the wound appears to be healing still. I should think that you are well on the way to recovery, Sir Baldwin.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ Baldwin said heartily, beginning to pull his shirt back up over his shoulder.

‘So why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?’ Ralph said.

‘You don’t believe I’m here for my shoulder?’

‘Of course not. You’re a knight. You know full well what a bad injury looks and feels like. Not that you’ve taken yourself to a physician often from what I’ve seen. I can imagine your telling your wife to make up some of her family concoctions rather than trusting yourself to some overpaid and incompetent star-watcher like me. Isn’t that so?’

Baldwin smiled widely. He studied the man for a few moments, then said, ‘Send your servant for some wine and let’s talk awhile, Ralph.’

‘Go on, Geoffrey — and not the cheap barrel. Bring us some of the Bordeaux.’

When they were alone, Baldwin leaned forward. ‘Ralph, I am concerned about that girl in the brothel. Her suicide and the murder of her pander both point to someone else’s being involved, but I have a feeling that there’s unlikely to be enough evidence to find anyone.’