Michael JECKS - The Leper's Return

“Hmm? Oh, only that Master Godfrey must have been a very wealthy man,” stated the knight with sudden resolution. He clapped his hands together. “Now, let’s see whether Putthe is ready to answer some questions.”

The servant was resting on a cot almost hidden behind two massive barrels. He was pale, and opened his eyes with apparent pain, grimacing as he tried to focus on the three men standing in his buttery. The single candle was inadequate, and Baldwin sent Tanner to fetch more.

“Stay there, Putthe, I only want to ask you a few questions,” Baldwin said gently, holding up his hand. As he did so, he noticed that the gesture gave him the same pose as Godfrey’s body next door. If a man was holding up his hand, he wondered, would he fall to the ground in that same position if he was struck dead in an instant? And if so, could he have been holding up his hand to tell a thief to stop?

Putthe sank back with a grunt. He was a short man, with a grave, round face. Baldwin saw that he had thin lips, which opened and closed as he spoke with a strangely mechanical action that put Baldwin in mind of a helmet’s hinged vizor; opening only reluctantly, and snapping shut when allowed to. For such a ruddy complexion, Putthe’s eyes were a curiously pale, watery blue, making him look as if he was somehow incomplete; an unfinished mannequin. Above his eyes a band of dirty cloth encircled his brow.

It was this bandage that was giving him the most pain now. His head felt as if it was splitting in half, the top being squeezed off by the pressure. Putthe grimly noted that whoever it was who had belted him hadn’t intended him to get up again in a hurry. As his skull touched the cloth of the bolster, he winced and the breath hissed through his teeth. His assailant had succeeded. He would be lying here for quite some time to come. “Sir, how can I help you?”

“You know your master is dead, Putthe – do you know who could have done this?”

“It was that mad Irishman!”

“Did you see him?”

“Tonight, sir, yes. Out in the yard. He’s been found here in the garden before. My master saw him there only a few weeks ago. Let him off, at the time, but said if he was ever found here again, he’d be…”

Baldwin held up a hand again. “What were you doing this evening?”

“Me? I was in here.”

Baldwin glanced about him. There was the usual paraphernalia of the bottler’s place of work: barrels, jugs, pots and tankards. Two stools sat near each other at one cask. Beside them were a pair of large jugs. Glancing at Putthe, Baldwin saw him wince.

Putthe had to close his eyes: the pain was like a dagger thrusting in at his temple. And his head was spinning – the world had gone mad! Godfrey’s behavior; the mistress’s weird determination to look after a common smith and permit the servants a free evening – and now this! Someone had broken in and the master was dead! Clutching at his head, Putthe moaned.

Baldwin spoke gently. “I am sorry, Putthe, but I have to ask these questions. I assume you ran from here straight into the hall?”

“That’s right.” Putthe tried to sit up, but settled himself back against the bolster. A thin dew of moisture shone on his forehead, making it glow in the candlelight. “I hurried along the screens and in through the door, and saw them lying there. I was about to go to them when I was tapped here” – he gingerly indicated his bruised skull – “and down I went. Next thing I know, I’m in here, lying on my palliasse.”

“Was there anyone in the room in front of you when you entered? Obviously someone was behind you, but did you see anyone near the window?”

“I ran straight for the hall. As you can see, I had to turn into the screens passage from here, facing the door to the garden, and turn right into the hall itself.”

“So what did you see?” Baldwin asked impatiently.

“Sir, as I ran through the passage, I had a clear view of the yard beyond. John of Irelaunde was out there.”

“You saw someone out there?” Tanner scoffed, returning with more candles and setting them on barrels. “From how far? Across a darkened courtyard, and at night too? Your brains are addled, man!”

“I know what I saw.”

Baldwin studied his obstinate face. “I wonder. How can you be so sure it was him?”

“I know John well enough. He hurt his ankle recently, and this man was limping a bit, but for another, there was light in the yard. The master was nervous about the men from Coffyn’s place, like I said, and had a torch burning so no one could get at the horses or equipment without being seen.”

“You are seriously suggesting that a weak little fool like John could kill your master?” Baldwin asked, and picked up his cup once more.

Putthe could see that he wasn’t convinced. The knight settled back in his chair, peering at him over the top of his drink with a magisterial air. He looked like a benign cleric giving absolution for a minor sin. Shaking his head, Putthe knew he would have to provide the last clue. “Sir, you don’t understand: John of Irelaunde was known to my master.”

“Speak plainly – I am no mindreader.”

“My master found John crossing the garden – his garden. He thought John was using it as a covered shortcut through to somewhere else.”

Now Putthe could see he had the knight’s attention. Baldwin slowly set the cup down again and leaned forward with both elbows on his knees. “Why should he pass through here to another garden?”

“There are rumors about the man’s liking for women – especially those who are young and bored,” Putthe said, looking away.

“You mean Martha Coffyn?”

The servant nodded. “That’s what I think. That’s what my master told me.”

“I too have heard this,” Baldwin murmured, and shook his head. “Why should he come in here and beat you, your mistress and your master? The fact of his adultery is no reason to murder. But you may not be aware of the other thing – did you notice the sideboard tonight?”

Putthe threw him a glance of blank incomprehension. “The sideboard? What do I care about that?”

“Putthe, the sideboard looks empty to me,” Baldwin explained. “Could you tell me what should be displayed, so that I can verify what is left there.”

The bottler grimaced in concentration. He recalled: “On the top shelf there was a pair of silver plates and a drinking horn; on the next was a row of six pewter plates and a silver salt-cellar, shaped like a swan; on the next was another row of six plates, but there were two large flagons as well… and on the last shelf was a row of eight smaller plates.”

“And you are quite sure of that?”

“Of course I am!”

“Much of it has gone, Putthe.”

“What?” The injured man started up from his recumbent position, winced, grabbed at his forehead and slowly eased himself back. “That just proves it, then! It was that miserable Irish bastard. He knocked us out to steal all the stuff, and now he’s got clean away!”

“Before we assume anything like that, do you know of anyone else who might have wanted to kill your master?”

“No,” said Putthe with conviction. “My master was a quiet man. He only ever helped other people. You speak to anyone, they’ll all tell you about Master Godfrey of London.”

“Yet you say John did hate your master enough to kill him.”

“And you are certain it was John you saw out in the yard?” Tanner asked again, dubiously.

“Why don’t you ask him! John was found in the back by the master some while ago; John was carrying on with Martha Coffyn; John needs money. If you’re right and the plate has gone, you can be sure it’s John has got it! And now, if you don’t mind, I need to get some rest. My head feels as if it’s going to fall off my shoulders!”