Michael JECKS - The Crediton Killings

“Yes, but he didn’t. He shot his mouth off to the bailiff’s man, and the Keeper will soon know what the old fool thinks.”

“All he can say is that we sometimes fleece recruits.”

“You sure?”

“Look, nobody saw anything. If they had, we’d know.”

“Oh yes? How many times have we seen the captain negotiating with others who thought they were winning, only to find he’d changed sides? You know as well as I do he’s able to hide his thoughts.”

“Yes,” John said, and stared gloomily at the inn. “What do you think, then?”

“No one knows we got the silver. I reckon we ought to get away while we can.”

“Get away?” There was an unmistakable note of horror in his voice.

Henry hunched his shoulders grimly, his mouth set into a determined gash. “What else can we do? The plate is hidden well enough, but it could be found. And if anyone guesses that we had a part in the theft, they’ll know who to blame for the murder.”

“I suppose so,” John muttered, avoiding his gaze.

Henry glanced round. Their flight would be easier if both left together. Two men could keep a lookout for pursuit more easily than one alone. He nodded, leaning closer to his friend, and they began to plan how they would make good their escape.

Baldwin was thinking of rags. They had finished their meal which, because today was Wednesday and therefore a fast day, was fish. Peter was known for the quality of his board, and Baldwin was pleased to see that he had stocked up well in anticipation of the Bishop’s visit. The larder and pantry were full, and the stew pond out at the back of the garden was full of pike and bream.

He turned the patch of material over in his hands, and then cast a glance at Margaret. “What do you think of this?”

“Hmm? Oh. What is it?” she asked, and took it from him, nearly dropping it when he told her where it came from.

“Don’t worry! She did not die of a contagion that can be passed to you by the cloth, unless metal contains its own poison. No, I was merely wondering what you thought of the material.”

Margaret weighed it in her hand. “It’s very good. The warp and weft are very fine and even, and the color is bright and fresh. I have no idea what could have created such an excellent dye.”

“Could it have been produced locally?”

Margaret gave him a feeble smile. She knew that the knight had no interest in cloth or materials, even though they were so important to the town. Anybody else living in Crediton, could have given the price, and told who produced the fabric and who stitched it together. Some would claim to know almost which sheep the hair came from. “Take it to Tanner. He will be able to tell you where it came from. Why, does it matter?”

“Perhaps not, but I would like to know where it came from,” Baldwin said, taking it back and giving it a cursory look before shoving it into his purse again.

Stapledon needed Roger’s help that afternoon, so the others left without him. When they reached the jail, the Constable was sitting on a stool in the doorway, a wide-brimmed straw hat on his head and jug of cool ale by his side.

As soon as he was away from his wife, Baldwin saw that the bailiff recovered a little of his evenness of temper, and the observation worried him. In his experience, when a man had a devastating loss, he turned to those in whom he could trust. In Baldwin’s terms that meant his man-at-arms, Edgar, who had been with him for so many years he was a close friend as well as a servant. Other similarly destitute Knights Templar had helped him to survive after the fall of the Order, giving him the aid he had needed, until he had been able to overcome his initial sense of despair; and his cure had been made complete once he had caught the man who had been responsible. In his case, he had been able to forget his grief once he had avenged his companions. With Simon, he feared there could be no similar cure. The bailiff had no enemy to catch, for it was a disease which had stolen his child. It was hard to imagine how he could find peace when he would not talk to his wife and try to make sense of their life.

Frustration at his inability to help his friend made him irritable, and when he recognized the snuffling sound as being the snores of the Constable, his anger flared. Kicking the chair, he sent Tanner sprawling.

“You are supposed to be guarding Cole, not sleeping, oaf!”

Blinking, and stifling a yawn, the Constable set his stool upright and grinned apologetically. He was surprised by the knight’s mood, having always found him even-tempered in the past. “My apologies, sir. I just dozed a little.”

“Never mind that. How is he?”

“I gave him some food for lunch, and he looked fine. It’s good and cool in the cell at this time of year; I expect he’s more comfortable than you.”

The knight had to agree with that. Overhead the sun felt as hot as a charcoal brazier, and under his tunic and shirt he could feel the sweat slowly dribbling downward. He tugged the patch of cloth from his purse. “Have you seen anything like this before?”

Tanner was a massive block of a man, tall and broad, with a face that reminded Baldwin of the wrinkled bark of an ancient oak tree. His mouth was a thin line in his face, and the lips always seemed to be pursed in disapproval, but the brown eyes were quick to smile and held a kindly light. Now he took the piece from the knight and studied it. “This is good quality cloth,” he said tugging at it and pulling free a thread, rolling it meditatively between his fingers. “And a good color, too.”

“It’s from the dead girl’s tunic,” Baldwin said, and the constable frowned at it.

“You want to know where it might have come from? There’s only one place I can think of round here, and that’s Harry Fletcher. All the women go to him. He has the best dyes usually, but I’ve never seen anything this good even from him.”

“I know his place,” Edgar said without thinking.

His master turned slowly and stared at him. Under the astonished gaze, Edgar reddened. “Perhaps you would like to lead the way, then,” said Baldwin suavely.

The shop was little more than a narrow shed, out toward the eastern end of the town, and Baldwin realized he must have passed it often, but he rarely took notice of this part of the road. He only went along it when he was on his way to Exeter, and when he returned he usually had other things on his mind, such as how he would survive the remaining miles to Furnshill.

Edgar stood a short way back, and Baldwin looked at him, intrigued. A brief glance was enough to show him that this shop was not the sort to provide a servant with the clothing he would require. Cloths of many types were displayed on the trestle table on the street, but almost all were brightly colored, and the other items for sale were designed to attract women – nets for hair, wimples, ribbons and flower-embroidered kirtles. Edgar had apparently developed a fascination in a heavy rounsey on the other side of the road. Charitably, Baldwin preferred to assume that his servant was interested in the intricately carved leatherwork of the saddle, or the gleaming blue-black coat of the heavy horse, than simply avoiding his eye.

The owner was a short, dumpy man in his late twenties. He wore a constant smile, and his twinkling blue eyes, Baldwin was sure, increased his trade significantly. They appeared to flatter and invite confidence, and the knight could well understand how Harry Fletcher managed to tempt the women of the town into his little emporium.

It appeared that he viewed himself to be the best advertisement for his goods. His tunic was voluminous, reaching down almost to his knees, and was of good quality velvet. On his head was a fine woollen coif, tied under his chin, and the cowl hanging down the back of his neck had fur lining and a long point. It matched his boots, which had the fashionable lengthened toes which were now so popular.