Michael Jecks - The Tolls of Death

‘Except his brother,’ Nicholas said.

‘His brother can be excluded from this,’ Simon agreed.

‘Although it’s odd. Alexander is the only man I saw on the night Serlo died. He was out near the tavern,’ Nicholas said.

Baldwin glanced up at him. ‘Why?’

‘No idea.’

Simon was peering into the middle distance. He sat back on his stool, resting against the wall. ‘We thought Serlo could have murdered Athelina. What if …’

‘What?’ Baldwin asked. He was thinking of Athelina again, and as he realised how relevant Susan’s comments were about the killer being known to the children, Simon squinted.

‘Well, if Serlo had a financial motive to do away with her, surely Alexander had the same one? He had a share in the cottage where Athelina lived. And Serlo had been taking gifts when it was Alexander’s money that paid for the farm of tolls. That meant Serlo was defrauding Alexander too.’

Warin was listening, and now he scoffed. ‘You’re simply guessing! Why should Alexander kill Serlo?’

Baldwin took a deep breath. ‘It was odd that Serlo should be killed just now — but what if Alexander wanted children, and had fathered Danny? Serlo had allowed his son to die, crushed in the machine. And then Serlo allowed his own son to die, once again through his own negligence. Would not any father be so appalled that his mind could be unbalanced?’

‘By Christ’s bones!’ Simon whispered suddenly as his eye caught Baldwin’s.

They were back in the vill late that evening. On the way they met with one other party, which included Richer, and left Gervase with them while Simon, Baldwin, Warin and Nicholas continued on their way.

‘What is your rush?’ Warin demanded as they clattered into the vill.

‘When there is something to be learned, there is always a need to hurry,’ Simon said shortly. It was galling to be so out of breath; he wasn’t as used to fast riding as he once had been. All he could think about now was a warm fire, the chance to throw off his clothes and commandeer a bench to sleep on or, failing that, a cosy hayloft, than confronting a murderer.

Baldwin looked entirely fresh again. He had the knack of absorbing any pain and weariness when he had mental activity to stimulate him, and now he was frowning at the road, deep in thought. Simon knew why. The idea that Serlo’s murderer could be his own brother was so appalling, and yet so logical, if Danny was Alexander’s son. That gave them the motive of revenge for Serlo’s negligence, added to his theft of the tolls. With regard to the death of Athelina, Alexander might well have killed her to remove her from the cottage which he and his brother owned.

‘There is another thing,’ Baldwin murmured as he drew up outside Alexander’s house. ‘The killer tried to strike again last night — at Julia. I had a feeling that the attacker was not Gervase, which was why I told Ivo to return to his woman and protect her.’

‘Why’d anyone attack her ?’ Warin asked.

‘Perhaps to distract us and confuse our enquiries? Or perhaps he detests women who have children out of wedlock. A jealous man whose marriage is barren might well form an irrational hatred of women who breed without effort.’

‘If the boy Danny wasn’t his, what then?’ Simon asked as they dismounted.

‘He must have been,’ Baldwin said with quiet certainty, and drew his sword before beating on the door with his pommel.

The door gave way when he tried the latch, and Baldwin entered warily, his sword at the ready. There was no sound from within, and he walked into the chilly room with the hackles rising on his neck. This felt like a dead house. It was a simple hall, with the hearth in the middle of the room, a pair of stools, a bench, and a table at one end. Tapestries hung from the walls and a thick layer of rushes covered part of the floor. A tripod with a big pot stood over the cold fire. At the far wall was a thickly rolled palliasse.

Baldwin had a dreadful premonition. As Simon and Warin walked in and stared about them, he strode to the palliasse and pushed it over. His worst fears weren’t realised, thank God. It fell open, displaying rugs and blankets, but no body.

He went through the screens passage to the buttery and pantry. Empty. He turned back and marched past the other two men, through the hall to the door at the rear. There might be a solar block where the couple slept, he thought, but when he opened the door, he found only another storeroom, containing two big chests. Baldwin looked at them: both were padlocked. By one there lay a number of bags. This, he thought, was where the man kept his wealth. And then he saw a small stain, and his belly lurched.

‘Simon! Bring a light.’

‘What is it? Oh, Christ’s bones!’

Baldwin was crouching at the long red trickle, and as Simon entered, he looked up, his face haggard. ‘This is my fault, Simon. I should have realised this before! It’s all my fault!’

He squatted, staring at the chest, while Simon fetched an axe. It didn’t take him long, and when he came back, he gave it to the knight. Baldwin swung it twice. At the second blow the padlock flew off. Baldwin took a deep breath and raised the lid.

There inside, neatly folded to fit the space, and with a small cushion under her head as though to give her some comfort, lay Letitia. The small stream of blood came from the savage slash in her neck, which had emptied the blood from her veins to form a pool in the bottom of the chest.

‘So it was Alexander,’ Simon breathed.

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said sadly. ‘He killed them all.’

Ivo had left Julia early, thinking that he’d be able to get back to the castle in time for Baldwin and Simon’s return, because he was keen to see whether they’d had any luck in their search for the steward. On his way, he heard hoofbeats approaching.

The first rider was a man-at-arms from the castle, who spat in his direction when he called out, asking whether they’d been successful. Ivo bit his thumb at him when he was safely past. Then a man Ivo had been friendly enough with rode past, and he shouted out that yes, they’d caught the bastard. The castellan was bringing him back, and God save him when he was thrown into the castle gaol, after what he’d done.

Ivo realised there was little point now in heading back to the castle. The place would be empty for some while, he had the news he wanted, and although the food was better in the castle, it was a long walk away and there were undoubted attractions to remaining in Julia’s bed. He wavered, but only for a moment or two, and then set off back towards the vill and Adam’s house.

The hall was dark and empty-looking when he arrived, and he walked straight through to the back, where Julia’s room was. Just as he rounded the corner, he heard a strange noise, a kind of loud report, like a wooden peg snapping. Then as he peered ahead he saw a line of bright light in the darkness from her open door, a figure standing in it with a large bar in his hand. He heard the man laugh, then a scream, and in that moment, he flung himself across the twenty feet or so of yard.

He caught the man squarely in the back, and hurled him into the room, narrowly missing Julia, who stood with her hands balled at her cheeks as she screamed. The sudden eruption of her lover caused her to fall silent for a moment, but then Ivo and his target fell onto her palliasse, almost crushing little Ned, and her cries were renewed.

Ivo felt a hand strike his temple, then nails raked along his cheek, but in the meantime he seemed incapable of finding his own target. The man squirmed and wriggled so much, Ivo could scarce guess where his head would be from one moment to the next, let alone hit it. There was a rasp, and then Ivo saw the knife. He reached for the hand that gripped it, but missed and caught the blade itself. He felt the shearing of his muscles and the grating of the knife against his bones, and was struck with horror as he realised his hand was ruined. If he could, this man would kill him, he sensed, and he grabbed for the nearest implement. It was the iron bar the man had used to break open the door. Ivo raised it, even as his left hand grew slick with his blood; then he brought the bar down upon the man’s head, once, twice, and then a third time, until he stopped trying to pull his knife from Ivo’s grasp.