Mel Starr - The Tainted Coin

I hastened to help Kellet to his feet, and together with his assistant we lifted the corpse back upon the pallet. But when the chapman’s face was raised from the grass I saw there a thing which arrested my attention and caused his dying words to return to my mind. A small coin lay upon the turf where a moment before the corpse had lain face down.

When the dead man was again upon his pallet I searched in the grass and retrieved the coin. It was worn and corroded, and looked like no coin I had before seen. It was of tarnished silver, smaller than a penny, very near the size of a farthing.

Kellet and his assistant watched as I inspected the coin. The priest finally spoke, “How did that come to be here in the churchyard?”

“It fell from the dead man’s lips when he was turned onto the grass,” I replied.

“Is that what he meant when he said the felons had not got his coin? He had hid it in his mouth?”

“Perhaps.”

“’Tis an odd thing,” Kellet said.

“Aye. Words are inscribed upon it, and the profile of a king, but they are so worn I cannot make them out.”

“Why would men do murder for a small silver coin?” the priest asked.

I shrugged and said, “That is the service Lord Gilbert requires of me, to find who would do such a thing on his lands, and why.”

When the chapman was properly buried I walked to Aston and Cote and learned there two things. The man was named John Thrale, and he visited Cote and Aston three or four times each year. October was the latest month he was likely to appear, as roads would soon be ankle-deep in mud and travel would be cold, wet, and unpleasant. No one knew of a certainty where he made his home. A crone of Aston thought he was of Abingdon, but I mistrusted her memory.

Shadows lay long upon the ground when I returned to Bampton and Galen House. Bessie had discovered that, with proper use of arms and legs, she could explore her surroundings. Without constant supervision she is likely to cause herself some harm, as the fire is warm and inviting upon the hearth on a chill autumn day. So it is with men, who must be guided by the Lord Christ, else they harm themselves with the appealing but perilous things of the world. Kate was pleased at my return, as she then had an assistant to contain our daughter’s explorations, while she busied herself at the work of the house.

Kate asked what news, and I told her of the silver coin and learning the chapman’s name. I showed Kate the coin, and lamented that the letters stamped upon it were illegible. Kate took the coin from me, studied it, then turned to the hearth. From a corner of the fireplace she took a dead, blackened coal, then lifted the lid from my chest and drew from it a sheet of the parchment upon which I record accounts of events in Bampton. She placed the coin upon our table, laid the parchment atop it, then lightly brushed the coal across the two. An imprint of the coin appeared, and some of the letters circling the coin became readable. “CA_A_SIV ET F_ATR_S S_I” were discernible. With some study I was able to construe the letters which were worn away. The inscription read, “CARAVSIVS ET FRATRES SVI” — “Carausius and his brothers”.

Such words I had never seen on a coin, but I knew their meaning. No wonder the letters were worn, for lying upon my table was a Roman coin more than one thousand years old. How had the murdered chapman come by it? And why would two or more men murder him for it? The coin was not likely of pure silver, and was small, so its worth to a silversmith would be slight. Few merchants would exchange goods for it as they would not know its value. Had the chapman done so, receiving the coin in trade for buttons or a comb? Mayhap, but such dealing would not lead men to slay him for possession of a coin of so little worth.

I voiced these thoughts to Kate as she bustled about, preparing our supper. I would find more mutton upon my trencher this evening, but for this I was prepared. Perhaps on the morrow Kate would prepare a custard. Hope is a dish near as tasty as any other.

“Would a man perish to save a coin from falling into the hands of thieves?” Kate asked when I had concluded my musing and fallen silent.

I had been considering why men would murder to possess such a coin. Kate wondered why a man would risk a beating and death to keep it. I could discover no ready answer to either question, for as I would not attack another man for such small gain, neither would I risk wounds from those who demanded it of me if I refused to give it up.

It is useful in solving a felony to be able to set one’s self in the place of felon or victim. I could do neither.

Bessie awoke in the night, hungry, and so roused Kate from her sleep, but not me. I was already lying awake, sleepless, considering why possession of a small silver coin might lead to a man’s murder. There must be, I thought, more to this death than I suspected.

The old woman of Aston had suggested Abingdon as the chapman’s home, and as this was my only clue as to his residence, I resolved next day to claim Bruce at the castle marshalsea and seek what information I might of John Thrale. The old horse was given to my use when I accepted Lord Gilbert Talbot’s offer to serve as his bailiff at Bampton, and had carried me many miles in Lord Gilbert’s service, once all the way to Exeter. The elderly beast seemed pleased to leave his dark stall this day, but I think he was equally happy when our journey ended at the New Inn on the market square in Abingdon.

I had warned Kate that my task would require two days to travel to Abingdon and to search for some kin of the slain chapman (if, indeed, he had made his home there), then return, for Bruce is grey at the muzzle and will not be hurried. Bruce had carried Lord Gilbert at Poitiers, twelve years past.

I thought John Thrale might be best known among competitors and those who sold goods like his own, so I saw Bruce quartered in the mews behind the New Inn, and after I had consumed half of a roasted capon from the kitchen, I sought some business which sold items similar to those I found in the chapman’s cart. I discovered such a shop and manufactory but a hundred paces from the inn, on Bridge Street, and when I asked of John Thrale my search was ended. The proprietor knew Thrale, and was, in fact, the chapman’s supplier for the buttons and buckles he sold in villages about the shire.

This haberdasher of Abingdon was not pleased to learn of the death of a reliable customer, and was full of questions regarding the chapman’s demise. As there was information I desired of the man, I thought the exchange of information a fair bargain. In return for my recitation of what was known of John Thrale’s death, the shopkeeper pointed me to his house which, I was informed, was but a short distance away, upon East St. Helen Street.

John Thrale’s house differed from most on the street in but one way: behind, in a small toft, was another structure. This was the stable where Thrale kept horse and cart when he was not upon the roads seeking custom.

I had not thought to ask if Thrale was married, so thumped upon the door of his house to see if a wife would respond. Eventually a wife did, but not the chapman’s. From the next house on the street, where a sign identified a pepperer’s business, a woman appeared at the door, a child upon her hip, and said, “Ain’t ’ome. On ’is rounds, is John.”

“Is there no other, then, at home?” I asked.

The woman’s eyes narrowed in suspicion at this. Why, she was clearly wondering, did some well-dressed man, who knew so little of John Thrale, seek him?

“Nay,” she finally said. “What d’you want of ’im?”

I walked to the woman’s door and replied, “I seek nothing of John Thrale. The man is dead. I am bailiff of the lands where he was found, and seek any wife or children so the goods discovered with him might be returned to them.”