Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

But Henry wouldn’t see Est hang for a murder he hadn’t committed.

He was at the door to the old cottage now, and he glanced about him before sidling in, whistling. ‘Est?’ he hissed. ‘You here?’

The place was a tumbledown old cottar’s home, and it had been deserted long ago when the walls started to collapse. Now just the spars of the roof stood out like the ribs of some enormous animal which had swallowed him. The idea made his scalp tingle. A low cloud swept past, and he felt a chill enter his bones with its passage. ‘Est?’

He should be here. They’d agreed that he wouldn’t go anywhere, do anything stupid, until Henry had come back to talk to him and give him some more food. Est wasn’t going to show his face for a while, that was all, and hopefully the row’d calm down and he’d be able to return to the city without too much grief once they’d caught the real murderer. That was the plan Henry had elaborated to his friend, but now Est had gone.

Ralph was furious. As soon as his throat felt as though it was healed, which took a couple of large mazers of burned wine, he left his house and strode along the road in a rage to think that he, Ralph of Malmesbury, could be treated in such a cavalier manner. It was a disgrace that the man should think he could get away with bullying a physician. How dare he? Ralph knew some of the best men in the city — some who were as capable of violence as Jordan. Jordan should have realized that, Ralph thought, and suddenly a deeply unpleasant idea took root and began to grow.

Jordan must certainly know that Ralph knew many of the influential men in the city. It was hardly a secret. With his access to people like the Sheriff (a dangerous man in his own right!), surely Jordan should have been more anxious not to upset him.

The more he considered it, the more he grew to believe that Jordan was fully aware of Ralph’s position and the sorts of friends he had. Yet he had had no qualms about attacking him in the street, where anyone might have seen the assault. That seemed to show that Jordan knew full well that he was safe, no matter who saw the attack. In fact, he didn’t care whether Ralph reported the assault or not.

Well, it wasn’t actually a murderous affair, so the most Ralph could gain from it would be a fine levied on Jordan, and as he remembered the look in Jordan’s eyes Ralph began to realize that the man cared not a ha’penny for him or his friends. Jordan was convinced either that he’d win any case, or that Ralph couldn’t proceed with it.

This wasn’t Ralph’s city. He’d lived here some years, yes, but he wasn’t under the skin of Exeter yet, and it was one of those places where it took time to get beyond the apparent bonhomie and friendliness of the inhabitants to the real characters beneath. There was corruption there, of course. That was no surprise; a certain amount of greasing of palms was essential in any profession in any town, and it was hardly surprising that in a city like Exeter, which was so far from the King’s government, there should be a permissive attitude to all kinds of business. Some laws were very laxly enforced when they affected members of the city’s Freedom …

Ralph was not a member of that exclusive club. He hadn’t been born here, so had few rights other than those he could claim as the due of a man who had provided services to the men who controlled the city. That meant little power, in reality, although surely he was safer than someone with no influence at all.

Who had less than him, though? It was a sobering thought. He slowed in his hasty march.

It was an unpleasant reflection, but he had little in the way of real power. He was a stranger, a ‘foreigner’ as they liked to say about here. A man like him, who wasn’t born in Devon let alone Exeter, had infinitely fewer rights than a man like Jordan. Jordan’s word would always be taken rather than his.

Jordan’s word … suddenly he saw things clearly. ‘My whores’ he’d said, hadn’t he? He’d told Ralph to look after ‘my whores’ but to leave big men alone …

There were plenty of men here in the street, and Ralph gazed about him with a sudden sense of his own vulnerability. He could as well have been a woman in this place, he reflected, and had a sudden thought. Turning right, he went over to the Southgate Road, and was soon outside Betsy’s brothel.

A girl opened the door, her face pale and red-eyed this early in the morning, and she let out a little cry as Ralph pushed by her. ‘Where’s Betsy?’

She pointed, and he marched through the screens and out to the lean-to rooms at the back. The sound of giggling came to him from one of the rooms, and he threw open the door to find Betsy and a man in a large wooden barrel steaming with warm water.

‘Ralph? What on earth are you doing here?’

‘Betsy, I want to talk to you.’

‘You can’t, Ralph. I’m busy.’

‘Not too busy to help me now. I need to talk to you about Anne.’

The man in the bath with her was gazing from one to the other. ‘Who’s he, Bets? What’s he after?’

‘I am helping the King’s Keeper and Coroner investigate a murder,’ Ralph said.

‘Go and investigate somewhere else, then,’ the man sneered. ‘We’re busy.’

‘It’s Jordan, isn’t it, Betsy? It’s him owns this place,’ Ralph said.

Simon was feeling more than a little confused as they strode back along the lanes towards their hostelry. It had transpired that he too was putting up at Talbot’s Inn. He said nothing as Baldwin went up to his room.

‘Jeanne?’

She was on their bed, and sat up in a hurry. ‘Are you finished?’

‘I wish I was,’ Baldwin grunted. He went to her side, sitting and twisting his fingers into her own. ‘Jeanne, this will probably take another day or two.’

‘I thought we were going home to Richalda,’ Jeanne said. ‘I want my little girl.’

‘So do I. But the Dean has asked me …’

‘The Dean is more important than me and Richalda?’

Baldwin looked over to the window where Edgar stood gazing out. ‘Edgar, Simon’s in the hall.’ He waited until Edgar had left. ‘Jeanne, I want to go home too. My shoulder is giving me gip, the city is too loud and raucous, and all I want is you happy again and the freedom of my own manor.’

‘But?’

‘I have responsibilities. I am the Keeper, and if the Dean asks me to help, I think I have to. He’s anxious because this could develop into a fight between the chapter and the friars, and wants to avoid it if possible.’

‘And you?’

‘I want to go home with you. You are the only woman I love, the only woman I have ever loved; but just now there is a murderer wandering the streets of the city. I think that this man Jordan is involved, and if I can capture him, I should do so.’

‘So my feelings don’t matter?’

‘Of course they do. But so does duty. I am a Keeper. I have to investigate murders and catch the killer if at all possible.’

She nodded. ‘But I want my husband, not a King’s Officer. I want you to myself.’

‘And you shall have me. Soon. I shall try to find out what has happened here, and do so as quickly as possible. Then we shall leave Exeter.’

Sir Peregrine avoided the place for as long as his will allowed him, but then, in the late afternoon, he found himself unable to keep away.

‘Is Mistress Juliana here?’ he asked at the door.

Gwen eyed him speculatively. ‘No, she’s back in her own house now. Why, Coroner, you thinking of capturing her?’

Her tone of voice made him flush, especially when she started cackling like an old fishwife.

Crossing the road, he went to Daniel’s house and knocked loudly. There were some steps, and soon Agnes stood in front of him.