Michael JECKS - The Leper's Return

The lepers themselves must be practicing some form of black art on the women of the town.

Simon took the hill from Crediton at a canter, Baldwin and Edgar at his side. It was a relief to be leaving the town behind them, and this was the first time in his life Simon had ever been glad to leave the town he knew so well.

He found himself considering this. The town itself hadn’t changed that much, he thought. He had left it some four years ago when he was given the job of bailiff of Lydford Castle, and before then he had always looked on Crediton as a bustling large town, infinitely bigger than Sandford, the small village where he was born, but still somehow comforting. Yet now he was pleased to be leaving it.

In part, he thought, it had something to do with his growing used to the space of Dartmoor. The rolling moorland held a fascination for him. It looked as though it had been blighted in some powerful battle between God and the Devil, with its withered bushes, the curious trees by the stream called Wistman’s Wood, where the oaks grew stunted, none of them reaching a height of more than a few feet. And then there were the swamplands, from where issued the awful cries of ponies and sheep as they struggled to free themselves from being sucked into the mire. It gave an impression of strength, of barren power, such as he had never felt before.

In contrast, Crediton now made him feel a little claustrophobic. It was so busy always, with people rushing about trying to make a living. On the moors, a few men fought with the ground to make it yield up its riches, digging and smelting the tin and the lead, or cutting the peat, but their numbers were so small compared with Crediton that when he rode out he could imagine himself alone, with no other man for miles around. On the moors it was possible to ride for hours and see no one. In Crediton a man could not avoid other people.

But it was more than simply this, he told himself. Crediton felt as if it had changed. The senseless murder of Godfrey had poisoned his feelings about the town more than he would have expected.

Simon Puttock had seen enough dead men to know that he was not simply struck by the unfairness of a man losing his life, nor by the apparent pointlessness of Godfrey’s end. No, it was more the fact that no one appeared to mourn Godfrey. His daughter, although she demonstrated the dutiful sadness of a child for her father’s death, was withholding things – of that Simon now had no doubt. The man’s servant, Putthe, who should have been loyal even to death, had also kept things to himself. In fact, the only person who appeared to regret his loss was that strange woman Martha Coffyn, and she was only the man’s mistress in an adulterous relationship.

“Thinking it all through again?” Baldwin asked.

“Was it that obvious?”

“Only when you sighed so loud! Godfrey’s passing would not seem to have caused anyone a great deal of pain, would it?”

“That’s just what I was thinking. The only real affection for him came from Coffyn’s wife, and that’s hardly a suitable love. I suppose it’s hard to say it, but would anyone be happy to know that the only mourner at his funeral would be a slut?”

Baldwin threw him a curious look. “Probably not, but I suppose I’d be more glad to have even one whore regret my passing than no one at all.”

“I expect you’re right,” Simon agreed. “All I can say is, I thank God that I have a wife and daughter to mourn me when I pass.”

“Yes, you are lucky.”

“Baldwin, I’m sorry. I know you crave the company of a wife.”

The knight gave a dry grin. “There is no harm in being proud of your wife, Simon. Any man could be proud of a woman like Margaret. And the same is true for Edith. She is a daughter any man would be pleased to call his own.”

“Yes. I am fortunate,” said Simon complacently. Then he pursed his lips and whistled, low and mournfully.

“All right, Simon. What is it?”

“What do you mean?” the bailiff asked.

“Why have you adopted that innocent demeanor? Why are you whistling like a slow wind soughing through the trees? In short, spit it out, whatever it is!”

“Baldwin, I really don’t know what you’re on about. All I was thinking was, what a pleasant woman Jeanne de Liddinstone is.”

“Oh, good God!”

“She’s good at sewing, too,” Simon mused, casting an approving eye over the knight’s new tunic.

“Hmm. Yes, she was most kind to make it for me,” said Baldwin, unconsciously fingering the embroidery at his neck.

“In fact, I should think you are a very lucky man,” Simon said judiciously.

“Simon…” Baldwin paused. It was hard to broach such a topic even with his closest friend, especially when he knew his servant was listening to every word. But Edgar had been his servant for so many years, it would have been unthinkable to send him away, and he knew in his heart of hearts he could trust Simon completely. “Simon, what would you do in my position?”

“Me? I’d marry her tomorrow. If you really love her, I mean, and certainly your expression when she appears seems to bear out that construction. Anyway, her lands are good, she’s beautiful, and her needlework is excellent.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Oh well, if you’re asking the best way to propose…”

“Simon, do you intend to be the most exasperating man alive, or is it just a skill you were born with? I mean, how in God’s name can I get rid of that damned gorgon who masquerades as a maid? What can I do about Emma?”

“Ah, now there you have me. I’ve never had that specific problem before myself. I’ll tell you who you should ask about her, though, and that is Meg.”

“Your wife?”

“She has thrown out more useless staff than anyone else I know of. If she can’t help you, no one can.”

“I shall speak to her.” With this determination, Baldwin settled to staring at the road ahead. They had hardly come halfway yet, and he shook his shoulders to settle his cloak more evenly, pulling at the trailing end until it came over his chest and kept the wind out.

“Baldwin, who do you think might have done this murder?”

The knight sat silently for some while, and Simon almost thought he hadn’t heard. He was about to ask the question again when the knight began speaking quietly and ruminatively.

“I know who I don’t think it is: Cecily. To me it seems highly improbable that she committed the crime, even though I am quite convinced she lied to us about the events of the evening. That makes me wonder why she should want to lie. The only logical assumption has to be that she is trying to protect someone – but we don’t know whom.

“Then again there is that dreadful little tranter. John could have tried to rob the place – in fact, that was my first thought, that he might be a drawlatch, and the robbery went sadly wrong when he was found – but that is not the case. The goods are back, so there was no theft.”

“Isn’t it possible that someone broke in to steal the plate and was found out? Maybe that’s why. It’s all back, because someone went to fetch it back?”

“If that was the case, why keep it secret? They’d call the constable to fetch it for them, and to see that the drawlatch was arrested.”

“Unless they wanted to take their own revenge. They might have thought it more suitable.”

Baldwin considered this. “You mean that John was the thief, and was beaten for his felony, rather than for his assumed adultery? If Coffyn hadn’t admitted his attack, I’d be tempted by that as a theory. But the fact is, Coffyn confessed to having him beaten. Thus we are left with why someone should steal the plate only to return it. In which case, why was it removed at all? Why do people move their plate?”