Michael JECKS - The Crediton Killings

They continued on their way, and from the corner of his eye, Simon saw the woman walk out of the church with her child. She joined the street a little in front of him and his friend, and as he watched her, she approached Sir Hector, holding out her alms bowl like a supplicant.

“What?” Sir Hector spun as she spoke, scowling ferociously. “Who are you?”

His voice carried clearly over the hustle of the road, but the woman’s response was smothered. To Simon’s surprise, the knight fell back as if stunned, staring with horror. Mouth gaping, he stood transfixed. Suddenly he moved forward, struck her hand with a clenched fist, and shoved her roughly away from him. The bowl left her hand, whirling off against a wall, and clattered to the ground; a man walking by did not see it, and there was a loud crack as he stepped on it by mistake. She gave a shriek, both hands going to her head as she tried to take in this disaster. Simon thought she looked as if she could hardly comprehend such misfortune. He guessed that the bowl was not only her receptacle for gifts when begging, it was probably her sole means of gathering liquid. To lose it was an unbelievable calamity.

She sank to her knees, touching the two pieces of wood with a kind of bewildered despair, her son wailing beside her unheeded. Sir Hector watched her for a moment with a sneer twisting his visage, then turned back to his solitary vigil.

Baldwin pulled out some coins from his purse as he passed her, dropping them into her lap. “Buy a new bowl and some food,” he muttered.

Seeing them, she was too awestruck to thank him, and staggered up, hauling her son with her, to the shelter of the wall. She clutched the coins to her breast, staring at Baldwin with wild eyes before suddenly darting off.

“That was uncharitable, Sir Hector.”

The captain jerked around at the sound of mild reproof in Baldwin’s voice; for a split second Simon thought he was going to hit the Keeper. Evidently Edgar did too, for he hastened to stand by the side of his master.

“Sir Baldwin. You always appear just as I find myself out of spirits.” His tone was bantering, but to Simon he looked as if he was holding himself in with difficulty. The bailiff was not surprised. Beating a beggar was hardly the sort of behavior to enhance a man’s reputation – but then Sir Hector was a mercenary, a breed of man held in low esteem all over the world. It appeared odd that the captain should be ashamed of a brief loss of temper, a trivial incident, compared with some of his previous actions.

“You bought that blue tunic: Sarra wore it when she died. Why did you not tell me you had purchased it?” Baldwin’s face was set and angry. It was not only the beating of the poor woman, he was intensely annoyed at having to find out from the shopkeeper something which the knight could have told him that morning.

“I did not think it was something which concerned you. I still don’t.”

“I do. When did you give it to her?”

“Give it to her? You think I’d waste that much money on a…” Sir Hector’s voice had risen almost to a shout, and his jaw stuck out pugnaciously. His eyes moved from Baldwin to Edgar, who had taken a short step forward, so that if the captain was to attack Baldwin, he would have to expose his side to the servant. Edgar smiled thinly and the mercenary brought himself under control with an effort.

“Sir Hector, you have made me go off on a wild-goose chase when you could have told me the truth this morning. Who was the tunic for, if not for her – and why was Sarra wearing it?”

“I have no idea why she was wearing it. She must have found it in one of my trunks. I told you we’d argued earlier. She was trying to warn me about my best men, and I told her to go… Well, I did not see her again. How she came to wear that tunic, I have no idea.”

“Perhaps she thought you had bought it for her,” Simon suggested.

“Why should she think that?”

“Women do. You had argued, then she saw the new tunic. She might have thought you had bought her a gift to apologize for shouting at her.”

Sir Hector stared in disbelief. “Are you serious? Why should I do that? She was only a…”

“You have given us your opinion of her often enough before,” Baldwin interrupted smoothly. “There is no need for further repetition. When did you buy the tunic?”

“Yesterday, a day after I’d argued with Sarra. I was just about to go out, and I was in a hurry, when she burst in to tell me that Henry was about to foment disorder in the troop. As if he’d dare!” He turned and began to make his way at a slow amble back to the inn, casting around as if casually, but with enough diligence to make Simon think he was alert for a threat. Or was looking for someone.

“Isn’t it possible she was right?” mused Baldwin.

“No,” the captain snapped. “My men are bound to me. Whether they like it or not, they know that I am a man of my word – to them at least! If I was to be deposed, the last person most of them would want in my place would be Henry. He has an annoying habit of taking on new recruits and finding out their secrets, then blackmailing them.”

“You know about that?” Baldwin burst out, aghast.

“Of course I do. All the better for me to know I am protected. While the fool carries on like that, I am secure. The other men all hate him and fear me. He has their secrets bound in his purse, while I own their lives. All the time he does that, he costs me nothing, and yet the others wouldn’t think of supporting him in any kind of coup.”

“They might support another.”

“No. There’s none who would dare to try it. Besides, with Henry and John around, I would be likely to find out soon enough if they did. No, the idea is stupid.”

Frowning, Baldwin kicked a pebble from the path. “What did she actually say?”

“That she’d overheard Henry talking to John or someone and that he was planning to form the band round himself. No, wait a moment, that’s not right. She said Henry told this other person that he would not need to worry about me for long, that he would have his own band – something like that.”

“And then you went to buy the tunic.”

“I went out and saw the tunic, and bought it, and I said it would be collected later.”

“And when you returned?”

“I told one of the men to go and fetch it.”

“And you never saw her alive again, or saw the tunic until it was on her body?”

“That’s right.”

They were at the door to the inn, and Sir Hector stood defiantly as if daring them to enter with him.

“Out of interest, Sir Hector,” asked Simon diffidently, “which man did you ask to collect it?”

“Eh? Wat, I think.”

“And then what did you do?”

“I went out. I had only returned to the hall briefly. I saw Wat and went straight out again.”

“Why? Where were you off to?”

“To see someone.”

“Who?” asked Baldwin.

“Like I said, it is no concern of yours.”

“I think it might be.”

“You are welcome to think what you like.”

“Sir Hector, I am trying to discover who might have murdered the girl, and you are not helping.”

“I didn’t kill her and I didn’t see who did. Telling you whom I was about to meet will not assist you. I can only suggest you speak to someone else and try to find out who killed this Sarra.”

Simon scuffed the dirt of the pavement with the toe of his boot. “One thing seems odd to me.”

“The whole bloody affair seems damned odd to me,” Sir Hector said heavily.

“What I mean is, her old tunic was on the floor of her room, as if she’d kicked it off in her hurry to get changed into the new one. That was why I wondered whether she might have thought it was a present for her. If she had simply seen the tunic in your room and not thought it was for her, she might have tried it on – I suppose she might even have taken it to her room to try on – but she would not have let anyone see her.”