Michael JECKS - The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker

‘No.’

‘But you’re saying he was stupid enough to kill his master and steal his money, intelligent enough to conceal the money where you can’t find it, but thick enough to drop his own incriminating dagger there on the floor by his master?’

‘Felons often make mistakes.’

Baldwin tilted his head to one side. Addressing the Coroner, he asked, ‘Did the boy’s blade match the stab wound?’

‘The wounds were about half an inch wide, while his blade was an inch at the base.’

‘Is the body…?’

‘It’s buried, Sir Baldwin,’ Coroner Roger admitted apologetically.

‘Well, at least tell me how many wounds there were.’

‘Seven at the front of his torso, all about the heart; another four in his back.’

‘So it was a frantic attack,’ Simon mused.

Baldwin was trying to calm himself but the excitement was almost overwhelming him. ‘Coroner, if a man is stabbed so many times, I’ve always found it was a berserk attack, not one committed by a rational person. And the dagger is always thrust in up to the hilt – bang, bang, bang. That would mean the wounds should be at least an inch wide. How long was the blade? Would it have gone from one side through to the other if forced hard?’

‘The glover was a big man, Sir Baldwin. No, the blade couldn’t have gone all the way through.’

‘Nonetheless, the lad’s blade was surely not the murder weapon. Did the apprentice show any sign of being wild? Did he appear ferocious? Enraged or mad?’

William de Lappeford cleared his throat. ‘There was no one else to arrest. Who would kill a happy-go-lucky fellow like Ralph for no reason? It makes no sense. At least we know that the apprentice was aware of the money. He must have wanted to steal it, that’s what we…’ He threw a glance at his Coroner. ‘It’s what I think, anyway.’

‘And you think,’ Simon pressed him, ‘that the death of the Secondary in the Cathedral ties up with Ralph’s murder?’

‘I don’t know.’

He was saved from further interrogation by the Coroner’s dry chuckle. ‘Enough! William, you may leave us now.’ While the sulking man stomped off, Coroner Roger said nothing, clearly amused by the discomfiture of the city’s Bailiff. Then: ‘I think that shows the standard of the local investigation. You heard, Sir Baldwin, how that fool of a Bailiff – saving your presence, Master Simon! – said the glover was stabbed? Well, his body was in the shop. If Elias was acting on a sudden whim or killing his master out of fear, having already robbed him, why should he have stabbed Ralph there, when the money box was in the house? Did Ralph tell Elias to go to his shop, then, when the robbery was discovered, did he accuse his apprentice, who was by then so petrified with terror that he stabbed his master?’

‘It is feasible,’ Baldwin commented doubtfully. ‘Yet I think the apprentice may well be innocent.’

The Coroner answered briskly: ‘Let me just say that I would appreciate a second opinion of the matter. I find it difficult to imagine that a weakly looking twerp like Elias could attempt to murder his master. Most people were fond of our Ralph, Elias among them. And there is another thing.’

‘I rather thought there might be,’ Baldwin smiled.

‘Put simply, Sir Baldwin, I have to wonder whether there is a connection between the death of the glover and the Secondary. And, if the two deaths are connected, how should I explain the fact that Elias was in gaol at the time of the second death? That is my difficulty.’

‘And you would like our assistance in investigating it?’

The Coroner smiled innocently. ‘If the Dean can ask for help with his dead Secondary, why shouldn’t I request your advice on Ralph Glover’s demise?’

A short while later the three men were seated at a table in Sutton’s Inn near the Shambles. Simon caught the eye of a girl and beckoned but she carefully turned from him to serve another man, presumably a local. It took the Coroner’s hoarse bellow to persuade the girl to deign to acknowledge them.

‘Sirs? Ale or wine?’

‘Wine for me,’ said Roger. Baldwin asked for a thin ale, while Simon ordered a strong winter brew and a meat pie. When she returned, Roger took his wine and eyed her contemplatively. ‘So you’ve taken to young clerics now, have you, Claricia?’

‘Who told you that?’ she demanded, a flush rising in a steady tide from her neck upwards.

While Roger questioned her, Baldwin studied her dispassionately. Claricia Cornisshe was pretty, in a very simple way: her pale-featured, oval face had high cheekbones and slanted, almond-coloured eyes under delicately curving brows. Her nose was slender and slightly tip-tilted, and her lips were full with a faint upward lift, as though she was considering sharing a joke.

But her humour was apparently in short supply as Roger spoke.

‘Your lover boy: Jolinde. His friend Peter, did you know him at all?’

‘Peter? He wasn’t the sort to come to an Inn. I wouldn’t want to entertain him anyway.’

‘But you’re happy to entertain this other one, this Jolinde?’ Simon asked. He had sunk a good half of his ale and suddenly the world was looking and feeling better as he took up his pie and bit into it.

She looked at him without interest. ‘Jolly’s different. He’s not all holier-than-thou. I doubt whether he’d manage to stay on at the Cathedral until he gets anywhere – not that he cares. He’s too grand to remain a cleric.’

‘Too grand?’ scoffed Roger. ‘What’s so grand about a pissy priest?’

‘He’s the son of Vincent de Berwe, didn’t you know? Jolly’ll be worth more than you when his father dies, Coroner,’ she stated tartly.

Claricia instinctively liked the look of both strangers with the Coroner. The older one, the one with the beard, had interesting features, with a jagged scar that reached from his jaw almost up to his temple, giving him a slightly rakish appearance. Apart from that, when his attention was on her she could feel his utter concentration, as if everyone else in the place could hang; he had ears only for what she herself had to say. It was immensely flattering.

The other, the Bailiff, had a vulnerability about him. His face had a rugged, lived-in look. Grey eyes returned her frank study with a hint of amusement, as if he was challenging her, but there was a lot of sadness in his face, too.

It was the bearded one who spoke first, while the Coroner sat back, grumbling.

‘Claricia, I wanted to ask you just a few more questions. Would you mind helping us?’

‘Don’t see why not. Depends. Are you trying to hurt Jolinde? I won’t see Jolly stuffed just to find a scapegoat for the Dean.’

‘There’s no risk of that. No, I just wanted to hear what you thought of the two boys.’

‘Jolly’s fun. That’s all. We’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks.’

‘You say he will inherit Vincent’s money?’ Simon asked.

She glanced at him, nodding slowly. ‘Vincent’s promised him. Jolly couldn’t make it as a priest. He hasn’t got the learning – or the willpower, to judge by what he’s been doing with me! And le Berwe hasn’t got any other children, so who else would inherit?’ There was a pride in the way she lifted her chin, as if daring them to condemn her. All trace of her flush was gone, and in its place she wore a knowing smile that made Simon grin and Baldwin cough with faint embarrassment.

‘And he was friendly with this Peter?’

‘They had lived together for many years. They were comfortable with each other.’

‘Sometimes even the closest friends can kill when tempers flare,’ Simon murmured.

‘Not Jolly. He’s not the sort to turn to a blade. He wouldn’t want to risk someone hurting him ,’ she chuckled, then saw their expressions. ‘What?’