Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

And he had destroyed Cecily’s innocence. He had ruined her. Christ Jesus! He had broken his pact with God, and she had grown up.

In Jordan’s hall, Agnes felt as though she was in an alien place. It was so familiar — she had been here often enough with her lover when his wife was not about — and yet it seemed strange. Partly, perhaps, that was because she had seen Mazeline leaving as she came in. It was oddly shaming to meet her man’s wife here.

He had once told her that there was no need for her to fear his wife. At the time she had been comforted that he was so confident. Now she wasn’t so certain. It was something to do with the realization that his certainty might have been built upon his ability to scare Mazeline. At the time Agnes had thought he was simply being protective, meaning that he wasn’t scared of Mazeline’s temper, that he would weather any storms at home for an opportunity of making love with her, but now that she had seen the woman who was his wife, looking so cowed and beaten, she was suddenly struck with a sense of anxiety.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded as soon as she entered. ‘I didn’t ask you to come, did I?’

‘Hello, sweet,’ she said with a slight hauteur. ‘I am delighted to see you in so warm a temper.’

‘Did you see my wife just now?’

‘She was leaving as I came — she let me enter.’

He nodded curtly, and she could see that he was furious. ‘So you have probably upset her by coming in here. Why?’

‘I thought I ought to warn you, that’s all. Juliana knows.’

Suddenly his face was blank. Once Agnes had seen a man writing on a sheet of parchment outside a tavern, showing skill in the neat regularity of his letters. Another fellow came to watch, and, delighted, pointed to show it to a friend. His hand knocked the scribe’s jug and ale slewed across the wet writing, making it entirely illegible. Jordan’s face looked like that to her: in an instant all emotion was washed from it.

‘Warn me of what?’

‘Juliana is sure you killed her husband,’ Agnes said with an attempt at a chuckle. He was so cold, he was intimidating.

‘She knows more than I do, then.’

Agnes nodded, and her face eased a little as relief flooded her to hear his denial. ‘I never thought you did. It’s ridiculous. Why should you want to kill him? It’s just Juliana: she’s upset and I dare say in her present state she could accuse anyone of it. It must have been a draw-latch.’

‘Everyone has been talking about Estmund Webber, though. Why’d she accuse me?’

‘Maybe in the dark she thought she recognized you … but she can’t have, can she?’ she said lightly. It was a ludicrous idea — Estmund was a thin, weakly man, whereas Jordan was strong and hale.

‘Not me, no. I wasn’t there. I was gambling in the brothel outside the South Gate.’

There was something about his tone that snagged her hearing. It was a chill that seemed out of keeping. She put the thought to one side. Instead she pouted, hurt. ‘Why go there? Aren’t there gambling dens in the city itself? You don’t have to go out there. I know we haven’t had much time recently, but …’

He was standing now, with his back to her. ‘What else did she say?’

‘Eh? Nothing much. Only that you and Daniel never hit it off.’

‘Nothing else?’

There it was again, a certain edge to his tone that put her in mind of the long, cold stare of a viper before it struck. ‘No. What else could there be?’

‘I’d go back and make sure that she doesn’t try to tell anyone anything silly,’ he said, turning and facing her at last. ‘I wouldn’t want stories circulating about me for no reason.’ He smiled.

‘What sort of story could there be?’

He stared at her. Was it possible that this stupid bitch really didn’t know what he had been up to all these years? He had only picked on her because she was a way into the household of the sergeant, a fact which had made it all the easier to learn the simplest way to kill him. She must know; she must surely have guessed. That was why she was putting on this stupid front. Even as he stared, his head started to throb again. A very faint, keening whistle started to distract him.

It was only a short time ago that he had threatened to kill Juliana and her children, and since then he had not bothered to see Agnes again. There seemed little point. He was convinced that Juliana must have told her sister all about him. Agnes must know all that Daniel did. Except there was a vulnerability about her. Surely she couldn’t think that he was innocent. .

‘Well, you go back and speak to Juliana,’ he said.

‘Yes. Of course,’ she said happily, and she gave him a smile as she left.

She’d known all along that there was no truth in the silly story. How could anyone think that her darling man could murder? It was absurd.

At the door she turned to wave, and caught sight of a cold, dead expression in his eyes. Just for a moment she saw him stare at her almost like a butcher studying a hog to be slaughtered, and then it was gone and her quick apprehension left her as he smiled and waved back.

No, she had imagined that expression. Her man could never wear a look like that. He loved her … and then she was pulled up in the middle of the street as a terrible thought struck her.

Juliana had said Jordan had threatened her, but what if he desired her now? Perhaps Juliana had stolen his heart, just as she had taken Daniel’s when it was really Agnes he loved.

No. This was nonsense. Jordan loved her , and no one else.

If only he wasn’t already married. Agnes could wish Mazeline dead.

The last time Baldwin had seen Simon Puttock, the bailiff had been leaving for Dartmouth again. Now, as he entered the Dean’s hall and saw the bailiff standing cupping a goblet of wine in his hand at the window, Baldwin felt for the first time very little joy.

When they had parted, only a couple of weeks ago, Baldwin had been sad to see his companion leaving for his new home, but that sadness was caused by the knowledge that he wouldn’t be seeing Simon again for some while. Now, seeing Simon here in the Dean’s house, he knew full well that there must be a good reason for the bailiff’s appearance. Especially since Simon had plainly ridden from Dartmouth and had come straight here without taking time for a rest. His hosen and padded coat were thickly spattered with mud of various hues: dull, peaty marks from around Dartmoor, lighter clay soil from the lands about Totnes, and bright red mud from nearer Exeter.

Tall and muscular, his features burned by the sun during his journeys in the last few months, Simon was a strong, powerful man with intelligence shining in his dark grey eyes. As the Abbot of Tavistock’s man in Dartmoor, he had come a long way since Baldwin had first met him seven or so years ago, and those years had been fairly kind to him. The only sign that he was over six and thirty was the greying hair at his temples.

‘I came as soon as your messenger arrived, Dean,’ he said warily. ‘Simon, God speed.’

‘Sir Baldwin, I should like to, er, consult you and Simon on a matter of some delicacy.’

‘Dean, I think that you should speak to the Coroner, Sir Peregrine, if you have any problems. I am still recovering,’ he added, indicating the sling which his wife had insisted that he must wear to come here.

‘Please, both, be seated. Ah, I appreciate your wounds have caused you some discomfort, and I only hope that my own request will not prove to be — um — onerous.’

‘My wife is packing as we speak, Dean, and I was hoping to be at Crediton before nightfall,’ Baldwin said.