Michael JECKS - The Crediton Killings

Baldwin rested his chin on his fist as he looked from one to the other. “I see. Your openness does you some credit, I suppose. At least after this, we now know that Cole can be freed.”

“Yes, and Adam Butcher should be taken at once,” Simon agreed.

“Be careful,” Henry said. “He always was a hard man but now, since he’s learned of what his wife got up to, I think he’s more than a little bit mad.”

“Come, Simon,” Baldwin said, getting up. “Let us visit the butcher and see what he has to say for himself.”

Hugh and Edgar in tow, they made their way to the door, while Stapledon’s men remained with the two prisoners. Baldwin was about to go out through the front when he heard the scream.

Margaret had not felt so happy for weeks. Simon appeared to be getting over the shock of poor Peterkin’s death, and the return to Crediton after so many months up in the bleak countryside of the moors seemed to have done him good. She preferred not to consider how much of his returned color was due to the excitement of having another murder, or series of deaths, to investigate. It was more comforting to ignore that side of his nature, even though she was fully aware how much he enjoyed being involved in such enquiries. He was almost another man when there was a serious affair to be tried and justice to be sought.

There was no doubt in her mind: he was improved. It was there in the way he smiled at her again – he had stopped doing that after Peterkin’s death. In some way she knew that a part of this was due to the boy.

Rollo and Edith were playing together, their heads so close that they looked like a single creature. Every so often the boy threw a glance over his shoulder to make sure that Roger had not left him. Sitting on a low log which had been cut from an oak and was waiting to be separated into pieces for the fire, they looked like two small, and grubby, angels. The sun shone through their hair, making it flame into reddish halos with iridescent fringes; all they lacked was wings.

The poor boy, she thought, had little chance in life. Orphans like him were all too often without hope, relying on the charity of the parish for survival. Even the most basic requirements for life were often refused to a lad with no family. Others reasoned, with cause, that the cost of an extra mouth represented in food was not worth the possible reward later. Those who could afford to look after such a waif preferred to give their money to institutions for the general good rather than dissipating their efforts in looking after a single person who was likely, in any case, to die. What was the point of seeing to the worldly needs of a single child, when the same money could go to a church or abbey where the monks would be able to say prayers which would protect the souls of hundreds or thousands?

She mulled over this dilemma as she watched them constructing daisy chains, Edith giggling to herself while the boy seriously threaded one stalk through the next. Children should be protected and looked after, like any precious goods, but their value was regularly ignored. When a villein’s family suffered a lack of food, it was all too often the children who must do without, for their father needed the sustenance to be able to work his land and produce food for the future. Sometimes mothers would starve themselves in an effort to keep their children alive, but this was frowned upon. If the children could not survive, such was God’s will, whereas the mother should keep herself fit to look after the others and in order to be able to produce more. There was no sense in her killing herself to look after those who were unproductive.

Margaret knew it was sensible, but she did not like it. It would be impossible for her to watch her Edith die for want of food, for the young life possessed by her daughter was more precious to her than her own. The view that only adult life mattered because it was productive was incomprehensible to her.

Yet she did not want to have this extra little life attached to hers. It was difficult enough knowing that she had failed her husband by not producing the heir he needed so desperately to take the family forward, without accepting defeat by inviting a cuckoo into her nest. She knew of many families who were apparently plagued, like them, with an incapacity to breed their own boys. They were able to produce strong herds of cattle and flocks of sheep, their dogs and cats multiplied easily, and yet all too often there was this fundamental weakness: no sons to carry on the family name.

Rollo was a likable boy, and Edith thought he was the perfect playmate, but Margaret could not take him into her family. She would always be expecting him to meet her own exacting standards, and if he failed, she might lose her temper and remind him he was motherless. In any event, if she were later, as she hoped and prayed, to be able to conceive and bear a son for Simon, he must feel deserted again. The cuckoo would be supplanted.

“May I join you?”

“Of course,” she smiled, and patted the bench beside her. Stapledon dropped gratefully on to the log, and studied the children with interest.

“They appear to get on very well together,” he mused.

“Yes. It is nice for Edith to have a child of her own age to play with. I think she was bored before.”

“How is he?”

“He obviously isn’t over it, I would hardly expect him to be, but he seems calm enough so long as someone is with him. It’s when he’s alone that the fear comes to him again.”

“Yes.” Stapledon gave a grimace. “One shudders to think of what he saw. It would be enough to break the mind of many.”

“He’s young; youth often helps. There is a resilience in children which we adults often lack,” she said indulgently.

“Perhaps. But I cannot help but wonder what may become of him.”

In the pit of her stomach she felt the trembling nervousness. She dared not look at him, fearing that her eyes would give away her innermost thoughts. “Er… No, neither can I,” she said.

“It would be best for him to be looked after in a family, I suppose.”

“Yes – ideally, anyway.”

“But the right sort of family… It is hard to find parents who would be suitable.”

“Very hard.”

“Not, of course, that there aren’t many very deserving people in this town. Very deserving, indeed… But so much more could be made of him.”

“Er…”

“And then there’s the financial aspect. Few in Crediton could afford an extra mouth, one would imagine.”

Margaret nodded glumly, steeling herself to reject the suggestion.

“So tell me, Margaret. What do you think of this for an idea?” Stapledon turned to face her, his brow wrinkled in thought.

And then the cudgel struck him and he crumpled at her feet.

Baldwin’s hand was already tugging his sword from its scabbard even as the shriek shivered and died on the late afternoon air. His eyes went to Simon. The bailiff shoved him aside as he began to run for the garden. “That was Margaret!”

He and Hugh rushed out into the garden. Simon felt his heart pounding as his sword came free of its sheath with a slithering of steel. His wife needed him, and he would not fail her. Not this second time. For weeks he had avoided her when she needed him; he had tried to escape his own sadness by excluding her and thus preventing her from reminding him of his loss. The shame of his behavior, freezing out the woman who depended on him alone for her life, when all she wanted was to give him her support and offer her comfort to him, burned in his veins like molten lead.

There was another sharp cry of fear, then a keening wail of absolute, chilling terror, and Simon felt his scalp contract in reaction. He gripped the hilt of his weapon and led the way down the short staircase to the herb garden, past the trellis up which the roses climbed, and through to the lawn overlooking the meadow.