Michael JECKS - The Crediton Killings

She was dressed in a light blue tunic, embroidered with tiny flowers. Touching it, he could feel that the cloth was expensive, and he noted the fact with a raised eyebrow. A serving-girl would not usually be able to afford such material. Her head lay on a bolt of fine, golden fabric which Baldwin thought could be gauze, and her hair mingled with it. She looked as if she had just awoken from a slight sleep, her eyes freshly opened, and he half-expected her to smile and welcome her visitors.

“Help me get her out,” he said, and heard the harshness in his voice. It was one thing to find the corpse of a man, for men were born to fight and die, but quite another to find the body of a young and beautiful girl. The servant helped him, taking the knees and lifting while Baldwin grasped her shoulders. They set Sarra down alongside the chest, and Simon saw that her hands had been bound with another cord made from the same stuff as the gag. “So that’s how you died, then,” Baldwin muttered.

“How?” Simon asked, curiosity overcoming his squeamishness. Peering over the knight’s shoulder, he saw the stain on the clothing in the trunk. “Stabbed?”

“Yes. And viciously, too. Look, the thrust of the blade went right through her and damaged the cloth behind her. She was in there already, then, before being killed.”

Simon winced. “Why kill her?”

Baldwin glanced at him. “Why? Because she saw someone, I would imagine. She witnessed the robbery, and had to be silenced. What I would like to know is, why her killer bound and gagged her. Was he not going to kill her at first – and then something made him change his mind? No matter: she was stabbed and left to die alone in the darkness.” He gently rolled the body over. “Bring the candles lower. Ah, yes. One knife-wound high in her chest, on her left side.” He pursed his lips. “Another here, a little lower, just above the breast. From where they came out at the back, both were angled sharply.” He studied the cloth carefully in the inadequate light, trying to make sense of the marks on it. After a minute or two he sighed and looked up. “I’ll need to look more carefully in the daylight. It’s impossible to see anything in here.”

“The poor girl.” Sir Hector was standing above Baldwin staring down at Sarra’s body. The captain was clad in hose and boots, bare-chested, but wearing his sword – Baldwin assumed correctly that he rarely went anywhere without it. His torso was as white as a lump of goose fat making him look strangely young, but with livid pink stars and slashes of scar tissue from his career as a soldier.

“You knew her?” Baldwin asked coldly.

“She was a serving-girl here called Sarra.”

“Did you see her today?”

“Not that I noticed.”

“When were you last in here?”

Sir Hector looked round the little storeroom with distaste, “I am not in the habit of entering places like this. I watched to see that my chests were brought in yesterday when we arrived here, but I’ve not been in here since.”

Baldwin spoke to the servant. “Has anyone been in here today?”

“I was here this morning, sir – it was when my master asked for his tunic before he went out – but she wasn’t there then. I’d have seen her, and if I had, I’d have called for help as soon as I did, I’m sure.”

“So she was not here earlier. She must have been killed today.”

“Cole must have done it when he robbed me.” Sir Hector’s eyes were fixed on the body, but there was no mistaking his anger.

“Perhaps,” Baldwin said musingly. “Though it seems odd.”

“Sir, I didn’t kill her! You must believe me, I…”

Holding up a hand, Baldwin reassured the panicking servant. “Don’t worry, I’m only trying to see when someone might have come in here last. You say you were here this morning?” The man nodded, but his wary, dark eyes showed no lessening of his fear. “Early morning, or late?”

“It was early,” Sir Hector interrupted. “As soon as I rose.”

“Could anyone else have got in here? And if they did, would they have been seen?” Baldwin questioned, his eyes still on the servant.

“Anybody could have got in, but…” said Sir Hector heavily.

“Sir Hector, do you allow all your men to have access to your private chamber?” Baldwin asked coolly, spurred by the disruption of his questioning.

The captain hesitated. “No, but some of my men who are trusted can always gain admission.”

“Such as?”

“Servants, my officers… a few people.” He spoke reticently.

“And who are these servants and officers?” Baldwin asked suavely.

Simon wandered to the chest while Sir Hector, glowering, listed the men who formed his private guard, the men in whom he placed his highest trust, beginning with Henry the Hurdle and John Smithson.

The bailiff was, for the first time, feeling a prickle of interest. In the past he had found getting involved with murder enquiries distasteful: as an investigator he sometimes felt tainted by the evil of the act. Too often he had been plucked from his comfortable, safe home-life, and tossed headlong into wild and conflicting emotions, for, in his experience, at the root of all murders were passions which, for some reason, suddenly spilled over and became extreme. Such ferocity had always been a mystery to him, for Simon’s life had ever been moderate and relaxed.

However, since Peterkin’s passing, the security and certainty of his whole being seemed ill-founded, as if the sickness which had killed his little boy was now gnawing at the vitality of his entire family. After his son’s burial, Simon’s desire to dispense justice had withered, for he had little concern for others now his own life had been so cruelly wrecked.

But there was a poignancy to this killing. It was not merely the superficial resemblance of Sarra to his wife, it was the manner of the girl’s death. This murder was yet another proof of how unfair and cruel life could be. He had a sense that, if he could resolve it, he might in some way compensate for the unreasonably early death of his son. It would be a cathartic exercise.

Now that Peterkin was gone, Simon could feel the unnecessary death of another more keenly. If this had been a fellow who had died after a drunken brawl, or a man killed while arguing over a woman or a game, he would have remained unmoved, but the combination of the dead girl’s visage and the demeaning cache in which she had been stored fired his anger against whoever might have committed this crime.

Baldwin had returned to his study of Sarra’s body while Simon mused, and the bailiff watched with lackluster eyes as he used his dagger to slice through the cord binding her arms, then listened with half an ear while the knight talked to the captain.

“So we have to assume that this killing was done either by one of your trusted officers, or by a servant from the inn, or by someone who broke in through one of the windows.” He wandered over to a shutter and tested the heavy baulk of timber which held the doors closed. Moving it, he found it was heavy and fitted closely in its rests. “Not easy to shift that,” he muttered.

“It must have been one of the inn’s people,” Sir Hector growled.

“I doubt it.” Turning, Baldwin stared at him. “You have told me that you only permitted your most trusted men into this area. You would not want to have strangers wandering round your private apartments, would you? No, the only people who would have come in here were your men.”

“And her.”

“Her?” Baldwin glanced down at the body. “You allowed her in?”

“Yes. I liked her.” He stopped, looking at Baldwin as if expecting a rebuke.

“Hmm. I see, so she knew the silver was here, too. But unless she talked to someone, the most obvious suspects must be your own men.”