Michael JECKS - The Leper's Return

Edgar turned to his master as the door slammed. “I think he’ll be more careful about the fire next time, sir.”

Baldwin chuckled, but soon his face took on a faraway look again. He must return to Crediton and continue with his investigation into the killing of Godfrey – Godfrey of London. Baldwin mused over the name. “What sort of a man was he, I wonder?”

“Sir?”

“This quiet goldsmith. What sort of a man was he? Who would have known him best, do you think?”

Edgar scratched his nose thoughtfully. “I know little about him. He wasn’t a very sociable man, from what I’ve heard.”

“It might be worth asking at the inn whether anyone knew him,” Baldwin said slyly.

Edgar ignored his look. “Perhaps. I could see what I can find out, if you want.”

“Very well! When one has a spy ready placed, it’s wasteful not to make use of him – or her!”

“Quite, master,” Edgar said coldly.

“But we need to ask what these others saw as well,” Baldwin added, his light-heartedness falling away as he considered the problems ahead. “We have to see this neighbor and his guard, and the dead man’s daughter.”

“And the Irishman.”

“Yes,” Baldwin agreed. “And John.”

Yet he found it hard to believe that the tranter could have anything to do with it.

They took the ride into Crediton at an easy pace, for there was plenty of ice lying on the flat stretches of road, and where there wasn’t, the packed soil of the tracks spelled out another danger: it was all too easy for a horse to slip on a frost-hardened rut and sprain a fetlock; if cantering, a horse could break a leg. Baldwin had no desire to see his rounsey destroyed, so they rode along gently.

He went straight on past the goldsmith’s hall, past the little group of excitedly chattering townspeople, and in at the gate of Matthew Coffyn.

The house was set back a few tens of yards from the road, and Baldwin could study it as he approached. It was a new place, one of the most recent in the village, and unlike most of its neighbors, was built of local red stone. That itself boasted of money. The main hall was a broad gray mass facing him, like the long stroke in a capital “T.” At the right end was the barred top of the “T,” which consisted of storerooms with the solar above. Smoke from over the thatched roof showed the kitchen lay behind.

He and his servant dismounted at the door. Their appearance had been noticed by a burly man who stood at the threshold. He bellowed over his shoulder, and soon a young groom came running, taking their mounts from them and leading them away to be watered.

Baldwin gave a short grunt of disgust. In his youth, men took on their positions with dedication. The old way was for a man to give himself unreservedly to his lord for life, in exchange for which he would receive clothing, equipment, food and lodging, each depending upon his status. As his lord’s power waxed or waned, so would his own prospects. The modern vogue for men to sell themselves purely for money made them no better than bankers or lawyers. A man like that was undertaking only a cynical financial transaction with no concept of true duty. He would transfer his allegiance on the promise of more cash.

“Sir?” the man said questioningly.

He put Baldwin in mind of a wandering mercenary. It wasn’t the clothing. He was clad like any town-dweller, in simple ochre tunic and linen shirt. There was not even a sword about him, only a long-bladed knife dangling at his hip. He had alert, cheerful eyes, and his mouth seemed on the verge of smiling. His posture was relaxed, his thumbs comfortably stuck in his belt, eyeing the knight with a look of respect – but only that respect due to an equal.

But the negligent pose was itself an act. The man was ready to defend the door against anyone who was foolish enough to attempt to force it. Baldwin could see that in his stillness, and more especially in the way that his attention flitted from Baldwin to someone in the street behind the knight, and back again. That was why Baldwin knew he had been a soldier. He had the warrior’s instinct of keeping an eye out for danger.

“I am here to see Matthew Coffyn.”

“And your name, sir?”

“You may tell him that the Keeper of the King’s Peace is here,” Baldwin said easily.

The guard nodded affably, then glanced behind him. “Go and tell your master, and hurry about it! Please come with me, sir.”

They followed him along a broad screens passage, and into a wide hall. It was as Baldwin had suspected. Six men, all sitting at tables, were enjoying their first whet of the day, supping ale from large pots and wiping their mouths with the back of their hands, eyeing him suspiciously. For all that it had the charm of a garrison, Baldwin could see that the hall was well-appointed. Above the entrance was a carved minstrel’s gallery, and the dais at the far end was deep enough for twenty to sit at table. In the middle of the floor was the hearth, with a cone of timbers smoldering quietly inside a ring of moorstone blocks. He counted seven good-sized tables, apart from the two large ones on the dais.

But even with the tapestries, all of which displayed hunting scenes, there was an atmosphere that belied the apparent homeliness of the scene. The men were plainly not the servants of a prosperous man, they were little more than brigands, and the rolled palliasses and packs against the wall were proof enough that the garrison slept and lived here.

Matthew Coffyn was seated at his table, and Baldwin studied him as he was led to the merchant’s presence.

Coffyn was a tall man, Baldwin saw, with a paunch and thick neck that were testaments to his wealth – he could afford as much food as he wanted. For all that, he had a miserable appearance, with a pointed, weakly chin and thin lips under a straight, narrow nose. His eyes were dark, and met the knight’s with a curious sadness. Yet there was also a petulance about him, giving the impression of a spoiled child. This was added to by the shock of unkempt, mousy hair, which gave him the look of a youngster, and also by the signs of nervous energy. Although Coffyn was quiet and sat very still in his seat, every now and again his hand would go to his mouth, and he would worry at his nails like a dog seeking to extract the very last vestige of meat from a whitened bone. Baldwin could see thin red marks on two nails where Coffyn had already chewed them to the quick and drawn blood.

Much of this Baldwin came to notice later, as they spoke. His initial thought was, this man is vain and arrogant. Still, Coffyn rose to his feet as Baldwin came to his table, and welcomed him with every sign of respect, begging him to sit at the merchant’s side, and pressing him to accept wine. Edgar stood behind his master, while Coffyn waved at the men at the table, and gradually, with an ill humor, they filed out.

“You are here because of the terrible event last night, of course?”

Baldwin inclined his head in assent. “I understand you were the first to find him?”

“That’s right. It was a horrible thing to come across. Poor Godfrey! Do you have any idea who could have done it?”

This last was said with a sudden flash of his eyes, and Baldwin was struck with the conviction that the man already had his own suspect filed and catalogued in his mind – and tried and hanged, too. The knight sighed. People were so often willing to allocate blame and condemn on flimsy evidence. All too often, he knew, it came down to prejudice or pure malice for another. “Not yet, sir.”

“Fear not, Sir Baldwin. God will show you who was responsible.”

“In the meantime, could you tell me what happened last night?”

Coffyn motioned to his bottler, and the man refilled their cups. “I was away yesterday; I had to go to Exeter. It was lucky I came back when I did, because I’d been expecting to stay overnight, but my business was swiftly completed, and I managed to return a little after dark. I had only been home a little while when I heard someone shout from Godfrey’s place…”