Mel Starr - Rest Not in Peace

“One more of what?”

“Portpains.”

“You sent six to the laundry yesterday?”

“Thought so. Must’ve been seven.”

“Because you found only seven where there should be eight?”

“Aye,” Humphrey agreed.

“I will accompany you to the laundry. We will see how many are there,” I said.

The pantler locked the pantry door, then hobbled after me past the kitchen to where the laundresses labored. Kettles of water, soap, and soiled clothing boiled upon a great hearth. The heat and steam were onerous on a warm summer morn, but the work would be pleasant enough when winter cast a chill over all other corners of Bampton Castle.

I stood at the laundry entry, where a cooling breeze kept the heat at bay, and watched as Humphrey approached a woman who seemed to be in charge of the place. I have served Lord Gilbert at Bampton for three years, yet I did not recognize the laundress. Perhaps her crimson cheeks and sweat-beaded brow rendered her unrecognizable to me.

The pantler spoke, and through the steam I saw the woman shake her head. Humphrey spoke again, and waved his arms about to punctuate his words. Again the laundress shook her head, more vigorously this time. I saw Humphrey then point to a shelf, visible through the steamy space as through a winter fog, and the two walked to it. Folded upon this shelf were stacks of white fabric; Lord Gilbert’s table linen, I decided.

I watched as the laundress approached one of the pale piles and began to count through the stack. Even from my place across the room I could see that when she reached the number six all of the folded linen on that part of the shelf was accounted for.

The pantler’s head swung to the other stacks of folded linen on the shelf and he gestured toward them. The laundress seemed to sigh, then turned to the remaining table linen and carefully sorted through the mounds. She completed the work, turned to Humphrey, and with palms upraised before her indicated to him a lack of success. The pantler spoke again, then turned and walked as quickly as he could from the shelf to my place at the door.

“Lost one,” he declared when he faced me. “Incompetent woman! Lord Gilbert will hear of this. Portpains is made of finest linen. Cost near a shilling.”

“And one of your portpains is missing?”

“Missing? Aye… some wench in the laundry has stolen it. Be sold to some burgher in Oxford soon, if not already.”

“It could not have disappeared from the pantry?”

“Nay. ’Ow could it? Me an’ John Chamberlain’s got the only keys.”

“Is the pantry ever left unlocked while you attend other duties? Before dinner, for example, or after?”

“Well, aye, but not for long. My work don’t take me far from the screens passage when settin’ things out for Lord Gilbert’s dinner. You gonna see to this theft, you bein’ bailiff?”

“Aye, I will. But I ask you not to speak of the loss.”

“Best not to let the miscreant know we’re on ’is trail, eh?”

“Aye. As you say.”

The blood-soaked linen fragment was stolen from the pantry, of this I was now convinced. But was it taken while the pantler was about his work, or did some man gain access to his keys? Or to John Chamberlain’s keys? The thought raised another question.

“You are no longer a young man. Lord Gilbert assigned a page to assist you last year, and learn your tasks, did he not?”

“Aye. Young Andrew.”

“Is his work acceptable?”

“Aye… most times.”

“Why is he not here to aid you in preparing for dinner?”

“Helps Cuthbert, also. Should be here anon.”

Cuthbert is Lord Gilbert’s butler, and no sooner had Humphrey said this than I heard the light footsteps of a youth approach the screens passage from the kitchen. Andrew is a beardless youth of fifteen years or so, orphan since plague returned to strike down his father seven years past.

The youth broke his stride when he saw me at the pantry door with his superior. I did not know much of the lad. I had even forgotten his name until Humphrey reminded me. But Andrew knew me, and when his lord’s bailiff shows interest in a lad’s life and work most youths are convinced no good will come of the matter.

“Andrew, come here, lad,” Humphrey demanded unnecessarily, for it was clear the youth was bound for the pantry. In response to this command Andrew’s countenance went from light to heavy more quickly than I can tell of it.

“Master Hugh seeks a thief, and we must help him find the felon.”

I had told the pantler that the missing portpain must not be named, so interrupted him.

“Have you seen any man loitering about the pantry door before or after dinner, whilst the door was ajar, in the past few days?”

The lad seemed to tremble before my gaze. Why? Did my question or my office frighten him? Or did he quaver for the result of his answer?

“N-n-nay,” he finally blurted.

“Have you seen any man enter the pantry but for Humphrey?”

“N-nay. No man.”

Something in his tone caught my attention. “No man? Who, then? A woman?”

Andrew looked to Humphrey as if seeking guidance, but the pantler returned only a stern frown. The youth finally spoke. “The lady what’s a guest of Lord Gilbert.”

“Which lady… the lass, or Lady Margery?”

“The lass.”

“Why did you not speak of this?” the pantler said through tight lips. Then to me he said, “Why would a knight’s daughter steal a portpain?”

I saw a gleam of understanding flash in his rheumy eyes even as he asked the question. “You think the maid helped slay her father? Cut that bloody piece from what she took?”

“Mayhap.” To the youth I said, “When did you see this?”

“Three, no, f-four days past,” he stammered.

“Did you see her enter the pantry and leave it?”

“Nay. Didn’t see ’er go in… only come out.”

“What did she carry?” the pantler asked.

The page hesitated, considering, I think, whether he would find himself in more trouble by telling the truth or by deception.

“She was puttin’ somethin’ up the sleeve of ’er cotehardie,” he finally said.

Stylish sleeves for a lady’s cotehardie are voluminous, but it seemed to me unlikely that the Lady Anne would try to stuff a portpain into one. “What was it she hid there? Could you see?”

“Had some of m’lord’s silver, spoons an’ knives.”

Gentlemen and ladies who dine at Lord Gilbert’s table bring their own knives and spoons, as is the custom, but I knew that my employer kept a supply of silver utensils in the pantry for occasional use. I have found need of them upon the occasions I dine at the castle, but they are seldom brought forth, as they are rarely needed.

“Where,” I asked the pantler, “is Lord Gilbert’s tableware stored?”

Humphrey nodded toward the pantry door. “In a wooden box.”

“Is the box locked?”

“Nay. Pantry’s locked, so no need for a lock on the box… so I thought.”

“How many knives and silver spoons are kept there? When did you last count them?”

The pantler now seemed as ill at ease as his assistant. “Don’t count ’em regular, like.”

“When did you last do so? How many knives and spoons are stored in the pantry?”

“Twelve of each,” Humphrey said.

“Go count them now.”

The pantler turned and entered his pantry. He disappeared behind the open door with his candle and I heard what I assumed to be the lid of a box fall upon a shelf. It takes little time to count a dozen knives and spoons, even less if some are missing. Humphrey appeared from behind the door, raised his palms, and said, “Eight knives an’ ten spoons. That’s all as is there.”