Michael JECKS - The Crediton Killings

“The other one wasn’t dead. He’s my master, the bailiff of Lydford.”

“Oh? Well, what’re you going to do with this one? He can’t stay here. We can hardly feed ourselves, let alone an extra mouth.”

“I will take him to my master.”

She nodded, and took the boy’s hand, but as soon as she tried to push him toward Hugh, the lad shook his head violently, eyes wide in the little face. Hugh held his hands out to him, but he stood his ground, lips beginning to tremble.

Sitting back on his haunches, Hugh eyed him speculatively. “He’s scared of me.”

“I wonder why that should be.” The scorn made her voice waspish. “He saw his mother killed last night, and you’re surprised he’s scared of men! Here…” She took the boy’s arm and dragged him forward. “Take him. I took him in because I thought it’d help, but he doesn’t want to stay here. He won’t even talk. You have him, and I hope he helps you.”

The door slammed firmly, and Hugh heard the wooden bolt being pushed across. He wouldn’t be speaking to the woman again. Rollo was standing as if petrified, his eyes massive saucers of fear.

The servant smiled ruefully. “Don’t worry. I think I got nearly as much of a shock as you. Are you hungry? You want some food?” There was no answer. The lad was as dumb as a stone carving. “Well, I think I do. Let’s go to the priest’s house and see what we can find.”

He started off, but the child was a dead weight, pulling back like a rabbit caught in a snare, his visage a picture of terrified misery.

“Look, I’m a friend. All I want to do is help you and make sure you’re safe. All right? Now – when did you last eat meat?”

For the first time, the urchin’s eyes met his. The little skinny body radiated hunger.

“I know where we can get you a thick slice of cold meat. Do you want some?”

Hesitantly, the child allowed himself to be steered toward the main street. Hugh walked happily, confident that he would find out who had attacked his master. This little lad had seen the blow being struck. It could only be a short time before they tracked down the assailant.

At the entrance to the inn, Baldwin stood taking his leave of the captain. “I will get the messenger off as soon as possible,” he promised. “The men have had a good head start – are you aware if either of them knows Exeter at all well?”

Sir Hector shrugged peevishly. “I’ve no idea, but I doubt it. Neither of them is from these parts. John Smithson comes from the north, somewhere near St. Albans; Henry from a village near London – Wandsworth, I think.”

“Good. At least they will probably have some little difficulty in finding the right smith to sell the silver to. They will quickly lose any advantage they might have had from their early departure, as their head start will be frittered away while they search.”

“If they went to Exeter…” The captain broke off as an unearthly shriek filled the air. When he continued, his face had reddened and his voice shook with a bellicose resentment. “God’s blood! Do they have to do it in the damned street!”

Baldwin nodded. The sound of a pig being stuck was not one which upset him unduly, being only a natural background noise anywhere in the country at this time of year, but he could see that it might be irritating. The pig was jerking in its death throes as he looked over and nodded to the butcher, who stood back watching his apprentice with his thumbs hooked into his belt. Adam nodded back happily.

Then Baldwin was jerked round by the second high-pitched squeal of terror. At the entrance to the alley opposite, he saw Hugh clutching the arm of a small boy. The lad was keeping up a constant keening ululation as he tried desperately to free himself and escape back along the alley.

Baldwin shot a glance at the captain, then gasped.

Sir Hector’s eyes were fixed on the boy. His face was white with dread, and a nerve under his eye twitched as the strident wailing rose and fell. With a hissed curse, he swiveled round and marched back inside the inn.

Standing with his back to the cool wall, he waited until his heart slowed its agonized pounding.

The boy had seen him, had recognized him from the stabbing of his mother! He should have killed the little bastard when he had the chance. It would be foolish to let him live, when he had witnessed the murder… but before he could strike, the knight’s friend, that damned Bailiff of Lydford, had appeared, and he only just had time to hide in the doorway. The boy had proved useful then, attracting the man’s attention for just long enough… But when the bailiff fell, he had spent too long gloating at the sight of the man on the ground before he tried to catch the boy. By which time he had disappeared! He had evaporated like the dregs of wine from a goblet left overnight, except the boy didn’t even leave a residue: he merely vanished.

He had looked. Oh yes, he had looked. He had searched through the rubbish, swearing constantly, picking about among the scraps of cloth and timber, muttering to himself in his futile rage as he tried to find that tragic face with the enormous eyes so that he could close them and put out the weak flame of life that burned so deeply in them… But he couldn’t find any sign of the lad.

And then the noises had started. Subtle murmurings, the swish of feet, sibilant whispers, as people woken by the disturbance began to wonder at the sudden silence. He had heard a door being tentatively opened, and froze in quick alarm. If someone should come out and investigate, there was nowhere to hide: nowhere!

Then a door creaked, and he heard low voices, people talking in hushed, horror-struck tones. There was a pile of torn and rotten sacking nearby, and he leapt to it without a second thought, dragging the foul cloth over himself.

Footsteps had approached and faded, local inhabitants walking toward him, then exclaiming as they found the bodies and had turned back. People had seemed awed by the enormity of what they had discovered. Then there was a short pattering as those same people bolted for the security of their houses, and he was sure that he was alone at last.

Cautiously peeping out from under his covering, he had seen that the alley was clear once more. He had clambered out and quickly felt the woman. She was cooling rapidly; he knew she must be dead, for he had felt enough dead bodies in his time.

The bailiff was still alive and breathing – almost snoring, as if he had been simply snoozing after a good meal. The noise infuriated him. It was loud enough to waken the whole town! he thought angrily. He tugged his knife from its sheath, ready to stab, when the new noise stopped him. More doors opening stealthily; more voices. He had no time, he must make his escape. At least the bailiff had not seen him – he had not had the chance to spy his attacker before falling. Still holding the knife, the killer bolted, moving quietly on soft pigskin boots which made little sound on the packed earth of the alley. Only at the end had he realized he still held the dagger in his fist. He thrust it into its sheath and, with suddenly nerveless fingers, he had half-leaned, half-staggered to the nearest wall, where he stood with his hands dangling, staring over the road to where he had killed her.

She had deserved it, and so had he, the bastard, he reflected with satisfaction. And then a slow smile broke out across his features as he considered how his plan was going.

The same slow smile appeared now, and the thin layer of tension was banished from his face. She had deserved it, and so had he. And soon, surely, he would pay the price in full for his deeds. Unless – a frown twisted his face – unless that cretin of a Keeper of the King’s Peace should realize. He was known to be clever – what if he guessed at the truth? With a shrug, he put the idea from his mind. There was plenty of proof for the knight of Furnshill. The Keeper of the King’s Peace must realize soon what had happened.