Michael JECKS - The Crediton Killings

Peter had dropped into Margaret’s chair. “There was a boy there too? My God! What kind of a man could kill like that, in front of a young child?”

“Many, Peter,” Baldwin said.

“Yes,” Simon agreed tightly. “There are thirty or so like that who are staying even now at the inn.”

“What? You think this was done by one of the soldiers?”

“Who else could it have been?”

Peter Clifford leaned forward in his chair. “He’s right, Sir Baldwin. Who else but a man accustomed to rape and loot, murder and pillage, could do such a wicked, inhuman thing?”

“This woman was little more than a girl,” Baldwin said thoughtfully. “Why should a man kill someone he did not know? It makes no sense.”

“One of them just likes killing – that’s what I think,” Simon was definite. “He killed poor Sarra, now this woman. And probably her son too.”

“I fear you must be right,” Peter sighed. “Those poor young women. And that little lad, too.”

Baldwin looked from one to the other. “No,” he said at last. “I can’t believe that. Suppose Sarra was murdered by one of them; why should the same man kill this poor beggar? I can see no connection. It is quite possible that a man from the troop did murder Sarra, I accept that, but I see no reason to suppose that the same one killed the woman last night.”

“Are you saying that there might be two killers in the town?” asked Peter, appalled.

“Possibly.”

“What about Sir Hector?” Simon said. “He could have killed Sarra, and we know he was harsh toward the beggar yesterday. Perhaps he went out again and met her, and…”

“What motive would he have for going down that alley and killing her? No, I think we need to know more facts – such as, did he go out last night? – before we begin to speculate. In any case,” Baldwin made his way to the door, “I must try to find the boy.”

Hugh and Edgar were waiting in the hall. Simon’s servant was playing with Edith, and Baldwin left him, speaking to his own man. “We have to speak to Sir Hector. After his behavior with the dead woman yesterday, we need to find out whether he might have had a chance to kill her – though what his motive could have been, God Himself only knows. The woman had a young child – a boy. We must search for him first. He was there when Simon was attacked, and it’s just possible that he saw the murderer – if it was the same man – who knocked him out.”

Edgar nodded and left the room without a word. Baldwin knew he would be collecting their swords, and waited by the window, staring out at the town.

The attack upon Simon had upset him more than he liked to admit, even to Edgar. The fact that there were so many men who were, by their nature, uncontrollable, made him doubt whether he would be able to bring one of them to book even if he found conclusive evidence against him. Especially if it was Sir Hector… He had a force of thirty to protect him – sufficient to hold off all the townsmen if need be. Baldwin turned from the window, frowning in concentration. At all costs he must prevent any risk of a battle.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Hugh?” The knight cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Sir, I’d like to help this morning.”

“I think Margaret will need all the help she can get. And Edith needs to be watched.”

“One of Peter’s servants can look after her. And my mistress will soon be asleep, as will my master shortly. I’m not needed here. But I want to help find out who hurt my master last night.”

Baldwin pursed his lips. It was obvious that Hugh was deeply upset about the previous night’s events. He had looked close to tears whenever Baldwin had noticed him, staring for the most part at his master’s body. The knight could sense his need to try to do anything which could help bring the bailiff’s attacker to justice. “Very well. You are good with children; you can help most by trying to find the woman’s child. Go back to where we found Simon and her, and see if you can see any sign of him.”

It was hot and clammy outside and Baldwin’s mouth twisted in displeasure as he shrugged his tunic to lie more loosely over his shoulders. He had always hated muggy weather, ever since the time he had spent at Acre and in Cyprus. The air there was forever humid, in his recollection, and he disliked it intensely. He much preferred the dry heat of Auvergne and Bourbonnais. As soon as they left the cool stone building, the warm air assailed them, making the sweat tickle and itch under their arms and down their spine, and before they had gone far, Baldwin could feel that the back of his clothing was already wet.

When he threw a glance over his shoulder, staring out of town toward the east, he could see that the sky was as gray as the sea, and as intimidating. There was a subtle lightening on the horizon, but above, all was leaden, and that together with the humidity could only mean that foul weather was on its way.

The inn looked busy for so early an hour. When Baldwin and Edgar appeared, men scurried away from the door, and several of them pointed and muttered. One, who looked like Wat, grinned and leaned back against the doorframe, but the others all appeared to develop a sudden embarrassment, and none would meet Baldwin’s eye. The knight waved Hugh off to conduct his search of the alley, and then jerked his head at his own man.

At the door, Wat blocked their way, “Here to see someone?” he sneered.

“We wish to see your captain,” Baldwin agreed.

“I doubt he’ll want to see you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll soon find out.” Wat laughed and stood aside.

Baldwin hesitated, for the expression on the mercenary’s face showed something was amiss, but then he stepped forward and walked into the inn.

The hall was abustle with grumbling men, some rolling up blankets, other stuffing shirts and oddments into small sacks. Men pushed their way past him, carrying their goods out into the yard. Peering through the open doorway, Baldwin could see more men out there, tightening girths and fitting bridles to Sir Hector’s horses.

“Come,” he said grimly to Edgar.

They could hear him before they reached the solar block. “Dolt! Cretin! Moron! I said put it in that chest – that one there. Are you a fool? Are you deaf? God’s teeth! Damn you, you bastard!”

All of a sudden, Baldwin felt his mood lifting.

Without knocking, he lifted the wooden latch and walked in. The captain was standing over a servant, one of the boys whom Paul the innkeeper employed to help guests. Kneeling by the chest, his face red and his eyes damp, he looked as if he could have burst into tears at any moment, and probably would have done so if it wasn’t for the swearing and bellowing captain ordering him around.

“What do you want?” snarled Sir Hector.

“Why, to speak with you,” Baldwin smiled, and seated himself on the edge of a closed chest.

“What if I don’t want to speak to you?”

“You have little to lose. I only need to ask a couple of questions.”

“That may be so, but I, meanwhile, have to supervise this,” he said, kicking the boy as he spoke.

“Where were you last night?”

“What?” He stared, but after a moment his eyes slitted distrustfully. “Why?”

“Were you in the hall all night?”

“I said: Why?”

“A woman was killed. Stabbed, just like Sarra was in here. In that chest.” To add a degree of emphasis, Baldwin stared at the trunk open before the boy, who snatched his hand from it in superstitious awe.

“A woman? What woman? Another tavern slut? A harlot? What’s it to do with me?”

“That depends on where you were last night.”

“I was out.”

“Where?”