Michael JECKS - The Merchant’s Partner

Baldwin and Simon were soon back. The knight mounted his horse and watched as Simon followed suit, then glanced over at Greencliff. “We may want to see you later – when we’ve had a chance to find out more. You live there?” He pointed with his chin to the longhouse at the top of a small rise. When Greencliff nodded, he wheeled round, checked the others were ready, and started off back to Wefford. By the time they had entered the trees again, he found Simon had caught up with him and was riding alongside.

Smiling, the knight gave him a quick look. “Feeling better?”

“Not really, no.” He was quiet for a moment, then said musingly, “It’s always worst just before you see them, isn’t it? It’s not knowing what you’re going to find that makes it more revolting. Once you’ve actually seen the damage, it’s not so bad.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Baldwin, the smile fading.

“Are you sure about the blood?”

The humour was wiped away like snow from armour. “Yes. She cannot have died there, not with the amount of blood she must have lost. Think about it: when you slit the throat of a pig or lamb, the blood sprays, doesn’t it?”

“Well, yes…”

“So too with humans. If she had died there, the leaves, the ground, everything would have her gore. No, she cannot have died there.”

“So where did she die?”

“Where?” His voice became lower and quieter, and he was musing as he continued, “That’s what we must try to find out.”

Yes, thought Simon. And why she was put there, too.

They clattered into Wefford at a little before lunch, and carried the wrapped figure into the inn, ignoring the protests of the owner, before calling for mulled wine.

Walking through into the dark interior, Simon strode over to the benches and sat, holding his hands out to the flames as if in a pagan ritual, feeling the numbness flee, only to leave stabs and prickles as sensation returned. Groaning, he stretched his legs towards the hearth and flexed his toes, grimacing in the exquisite pain.

After a moment he heard the curtain draw aside and the familiar stomp of his friend.

“God! Thank you for small gifts! That feels so good!” said the knight, baring his teeth as he stood close to the flames and sighed, “Innkeeper! Where’s my wine?”

Simon glanced at him. “I thought you believed in moderation with your wine?“

“When it’s this cold? Moderation, yes: but not to the exclusion of comfort,” he said, then roared again: “Innkeeper!”

He entered scowling, a look of bitter dissatisfaction on his face, and walked to the other end of his hall, disappearing through the curtain. After a moment he was back, carrying a pair of jugs and mugs on a tray which he set down between them. Turning, he was about to leave when Simon called him back.

“This dead woman, Agatha Kyteler,” the bailiff mused. “The name doesn’t sound local to these parts.”

“No, sir. She was quite new hereabouts. Only came here about ten years ago.”

“You seemed surprised earlier when you heard who had died. When we were questioning Cottey.”

“I was, sir. I heard her name only recently.” The man told of the visit of the Bourc and how he had asked about the old woman. Baldwin frowned as he listened but did not say anything, and ignored Simon’s questioning glance.

“What do you know about her?” asked Simon, his eyes on his friend. He felt nervous. It was clear that the knight was worried, and from what he had said of the Bourc’s visit when the Puttocks had arrived, he could guess why.

“Know about her? I don’t…”

“She was murdered, you know,” said Baldwin shortly, avoiding the man’s eyes as he toyed with the hilt of his sword in a vaguely threatening manner. “We want to find out who did it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, answer!”

Sighing, the innkeeper poured wine for them, then sat and watched morosely as they sipped the hot, spiced liquid. “She came from far off. Some say from the Holy Land. I don’t know. Took the assart down behind the Oatway place, about a mile from here, out east.”

“And?” Baldwin’s eyes narrowed and Simon had the impression that he was sure the publican was holding something back. “Come on, man. You’re the innkeeper! You know everyone here, and you know all the gossip, too. What was said about her? Who knew her well? Who liked her, who hated her? What do you know about her?”

His eyes flitted nervously from the knight to the bailiff and back, then, as if afraid of what he might see in their faces, he stared at the flames. When he spoke again, it was in a low voice, not fearful, but slow and deliberate. “She weren’t wealthy, but always had enough to survive. Very clever, she was, and that upset a lot of people. She made them feel stupid. She was arrogant too. Didn’t suffer fools easily. Not without letting them know what she thought of them.”

“Her friends?”

“Ask the women hereabouts. They all knew her.”

“Why?”

He looked up suddenly, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “She helped them with their babies. When there was a problem with the birth – any problem – she helped them. She was a good midwife.” He almost mused as he spoke.

“So she’ll be missed?”

“Yes,” he thought, considering. “Yes, she’ll be missed by some.”

“Did anyone hate her? Could someone here want her dead?”

With a shrug, the innkeeper showed his indifference, but under the intensity of Baldwin’s gaze, he spoke with a defensive air. “Some might’ve. But you can’t believe what people say here! ”I hate him“, ”I’ll kill him“, ”He deserves death“, you hear it every day in here. When a man gets into his cups, his mouth runs away sometimes – it’s natural. You can’t believe it, it’s the wine talking.”

“Who has said that about Kyteler?”

“Oh! I don’t know. Many people have. They were scared of her. She seemed too clever, like I said. People get worried by women who’re too clever.”

“So who has said that kind of thing about her?” Baldwin pressed.

“Like I say, it means nothing. There’s a few have said things. Young Greencliff, he has. And old man Oatway.”

“Did they say why? Why they hated her?” asked Simon, leaning forward, his arms on his knees as he frowned.

“Why? Ha!” He gave a rich, low chuckle. “Oatway has the place between her assart and here, and he’s got chickens. About a month ago, he saw one of his chickens were missing, and when he looked he found its feathers, all in a line on the way to Kyteler’s place. He reckons it was her dog, but she swore it wasn’t.”

“If it was going out that way, it could have been a fox or anything, heading back to the wild; away from the houses and back to the forest,” said Simon.

“That’s what she said, too, but old Oatway wouldn’t have it! He reckoned it was her dog, right enough. Anyway, he went to her and said he wanted the chicken replaced, and she refused. Since then, he’s lost two more chickens, and he hates her, blames her for them.”

“Hardly enough to murder for,” said Baldwin mildly.

Simon glanced at him. “A chicken is enough meat for a week or more for two people. After the last couple of years, I’d say it was a very good reason to kill.”

“Well,” the innkeeper squirmed in his seat, “I’m not saying it’s not, but I still don’t think he could kill. Not old John Oatway.”

“No? What about Harold Greencliff?”

“Harry? No, I don’t think so. He’s a good lad. No, he wouldn’t kill.”

“Why did he hate Kyteler?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. Something happened, though. He came in here…”

“When?”

“Yesterday. Late afternoon, I suppose… Yes, it was just after dark, so it must have been about five o’clock. Anyway, he came in and took a pint of ale, and sat down over there.” He pointed at the far corner, near the screen leading to the inner rooms. “A bit later, a friend of his came in, Stephen de la Forte, and they got talking, and I heard Harry say that she was a bitch and if she wasn’t careful, someone would ”see to her“.”