Mel Starr - Rest Not in Peace

Sir Roger was not pleased, I think, with my words. He frowned at me silently for a time, then spoke. “Very well… we will seek justice. How? We have clues. Three of ’em. What more?”

“A clue is a mistake,” I said. “Most of the time.”

Lord Gilbert’s eyebrow lifted again. “How so?” he asked.

“Felons seek to obscure their guilt,” I said.

“Aye,” Sir Roger agreed. “But those squires, one of ’em, anyway, made a mistake.”

“And someone knew of it and sent the message under your door,” Lord Gilbert said.

“I am not convinced of the mistake,” I said.

“Oh, why so?” the sheriff asked.

“I watched the squires when we entered the hall. You had the lampstand in your hand. There would be no reason for you to have it but that it was evidence of the murder. Neither of the squires seemed troubled, as one, at least, should have, had he hid a murder weapon in the lampstand. He would know he had been found out. This clue is too simple. A man cunning enough to slay Sir Henry in the manner he chose would not be so stupid as to leave evidence of his guilt where it might be readily found.”

“What then of the message?” Lord Gilbert asked.

“Someone, I think, wants to point suspicion at a squire, or both of them.”

“To turn us from his guilt?” Lord Gilbert said.

“Aye. What other reason, if the squires are blameless?”

“Mayhap the squires are guilty but skilled at deception,” the sheriff said.

“’Tis possible,” I agreed. “But everything falls to place too readily for my liking.”

“Bah,” Sir Roger scowled. “Scholars! Want to complicate matters which are simple. We’ve found a felon, or two, and you protest ’twas too neatly done.”

“Would two youths devise so devious a way to slay a man, then be so careless as to leave evidence of the felony where it might be readily found?”

“Wouldn’t have been,” the sheriff said, “but for we being told where to search.”

“And that’s another riddle,” I said. “Would the squires, one or both, be so careful to plot a hidden murder, then be so indiscreet that some other learned of their crime?”

Lord Gilbert scratched at his bearded chin. “So you believe some murderer hopes we will send one or both of the squires to a scaffold in his place?”

“I do not believe it so,” I replied. “But I believe it possible. Is there a lock upon the squires’ chamber door?”

“Nay. You think some man entered while the squires were away and placed in their chamber the bodkin and bloody cloth?”

“It could be done.”

Sir Roger puffed his cheeks, frowned, then spoke. “How could that be proved? If ’tis so, what mistake did the murderer make which will be a clue for us?”

“The bodkin and fragment of linen stained with blood came from somewhere,” I said. “If we can discover their origins we may find who has slain Sir Henry. And no man pushed an iron point into the lampstand with the palm of his hand.”

“Used a hammer, you think?” Sir Roger said.

“Or some such device. A rock would serve, or a small block of wood, such as would have been used to thrust the bodkin into Sir Henry’s brain.”

“Lady Margery wishes to return to her home,” Lord Gilbert said. To Sir Roger he continued, “What shall we tell her? When she leaves she will take the guilty with her.”

“Good riddance,” the sheriff said. “But tell her that if she wishes for her husband’s murderer to be discovered she must remain until the man is found out.”

I saw Lord Gilbert’s lips draw tight at the thought of Lady Margery remaining longer in Bampton Castle. Sir Henry was, at first, a welcome guest, but my employer had found his wife to be a greater burden even than Sir Henry had become. Little could please her. Her loaf was stale, or there was not enough wood delivered to her chamber to take away the morning chill, or the musicians and jongleurs Lord Gilbert provided for entertainment were unfit.

I produced the bloody scrap of linen from my pouch and displayed it before Lord Gilbert and the sheriff. Before it became so stained it had been purest white.

“To what use was this put, you think, before it was used to mop up a dead man’s blood?”

Sir Roger took the cloth from me and examined it. “Could be some fellow’s kirtle,” he said.

“Or some woman’s,” Lord Gilbert replied.

If this was so, the murderer was likely some gentleman in Sir Henry’s household, for grooms, or even valets employed by one so impoverished as Sir Henry was said to be, were unlikely to wear linen. Plain wool must do for such folk.

Next I held the bodkin before me. “To what purpose was this first put? Or was it made for the purpose of murder?”

Both men shrugged, being unfamiliar with tools. Men in their employ might know better the answer to that question.

“The farrier might have made such an object. Or Edmund,” Lord Gilbert said.

Edmund the smith is not a friend. His past behavior has required that I speak to him firmly, even threaten the fellow upon occasion. This was not a task I enjoyed, as the smith, like others who follow his craft, is a beefy sort while I am shaped like a reed along Shill Brook.

“Your farrier has already seen the thing,” Sir Roger said. “If he knew of it, seems to me he would have said, it being found in an odd place, where it was not needed to be.”

Lord Gilbert nodded approval of this theory. So it was left to me to seek Edmund Smith and learn what I could from him. I placed awl and bloody cloth in my pouch, bid Sir Roger and Lord Gilbert “Good day,” and set off for the castle gatehouse. As I left the solar I heard Lord Gilbert direct John Chamberlain to bring wine. The sheriff, whose duty this should be, would enjoy a cup of malmsey, or perhaps claret, while I sought enlightenment from a strapping man who dislikes me. His wife cares little for me, as well, but I have already written of that tale.

Being in no hurry to seek a favor of the smith, I lingered at the bridge over Shill Brook to watch the bubbling stream make its way to the Thames. How long, I wondered, would it take a twig to float to London? I picked up a bit of broken branch the size of a finger and tossed it into the stream. Would I discover Sir Henry’s murderer before it drifted past the Tower? I would not do so gazing into the brook. Pleasant things are oft unprofitable. Were it otherwise, all men would be prosperous.

For all his great strength Edmund must have feeble nostrils. The power of his odor is as great as his arms. The man does strenuous and filthy work, ’tis true, but seems not to mind the accumulation of grime and sweat which he seldom scours away.

So I was prepared for the fragrance of Edmund’s forge when I entered the place; a mixture of coal smoke, hot iron, and unwashed humanity. Edmund looked up from his anvil as my shadow darkened his open door, saw who it was who entered, then returned to hammering at a slab of red-hot iron. I waited while the work cooled. Then the smith placed it back amongst the coals and turned to his bellows.

“Have you ever made such a tool as this?” I said, holding the slender, pointed rod before him and trying to breathe through my mouth. I wondered if the smith’s stench would linger upon me so that Kate would demand I disrobe in the toft and bathe before entering Galen House.

Edmund squinted at the awl and mistook it for a nail. “Aye… make nails all the time. You never see one before?” he added sarcastically.

“’Tis no nail. Here, look closely. What is its use, you think?”

“Ah, a bodkin. Made one for Bogo Tailor. That was long ago, him bein’ dead nearly five years.”