Maureen Ash: Shroud of Dishonour

Camville readily agreed to d’Arderon’s suggestion. The tension was eased between the two men as the sheriff recognised the preceptor’s willingness, within the confines of the Templar Rule, to collaborate in the enquiry. He was also aware, more than most, of Bascot’s ability to seek out men with evil lurking in their hearts, for it had been on Camville or his wife’s behalf that the Templar had carried out his previous enquiries. The sheriff would have welcomed Bascot’s assistance for that proficiency alone.

Bascotand Roget accompanied the sheriff back through the preceptory gate and left him as he rode off back in the direction of the castle. Most of Lincoln’s brothels were situated in Butwerk and, as they guided their horses down the track along the outside of the city wall that led to the suburb, Roget told the Templar that the stewe to which they were going was run by a man named Verlain.

“I have been in that brothel before,” Bascot said. “Ernulf took me there when we were looking for the person responsible for the murder of four people found dead in an alehouse. I do not remember seeing the dead girl amongst the harlots we spoke to, but I remember the stewe-keeper. An unsavoury individual, with a face closely resembling a ferret’s. Ernulf did not seem to have a high opinion of him.”

Roget laughed. Ernulf was the serjeant in command of the castle garrison, a grizzled old veteran that was a friend of them both. “He is right. Verlain is a parsimonious bastard, and keeps his girls on short money if he can,” Roget replied. “But he is no worse than most and probably better than some. At least he does not physically abuse his bawds; not that I have heard, anyway.”

Entering Butwerk through Claxledgate, they rode past the evil-smelling ditch called Werkdyke and into a street named Whore’s Alley. The buildings here were dilapidated and of cheap construction, leaning towards each other as though in danger of imminent collapse. The shutters of every one were closed; it was too early yet for the bawds to be at work. A couple of mangy dogs scoured for scraps and a few crows were pecking at remnants of garbage in the refuse channel that ran down the middle of the street. The birds watched the two men with inquisitive black eyes.

Pulling their horses to a halt outside the first of the houses on the lane, they dismounted and Roget banged on the door of the stewe. It was some moments before the door was finally pulled ajar and the close-set eyes of the brothel keeper peeped through. Alarm spread over his face when he saw Roget and, when he noticed Bascot beside him, his features fell even further.

“Open up, Verlain,” Roget commanded. “I have some questions to ask you.”

Reluctantly the door was pulled open to its full extent and the visitors allowed entry. With an unctuous smile that revealed teeth black with rot, the stewe-keeper showed the two men across a shallow entryway and into a room where the harlots were paraded for inspection by prospective customers. A number of stools stood along the perimeter of the chamber and in one corner a table was laid with a flagon and wooden cups.

“Can I offer you both a cup of ale?” Verlain asked obsequiously. “It is not of the best brew, but palatable…”

Again Roget cut him short. “You have a girl who works here, hair as blond as a Saxon. What is her name?”

The question took the stewe-keeper by surprise. “I have two or three who are fair, Captain. There is Rosinda and Jolette…”

“Not fair, Verlain,” Roget said brusquely, “I said blond, the colour of a wheat sheaf.”

The stewe-keeper nodded. “You mean Elfreda, Elfie we call her.” He shook his head, running his hands nervously up and down the front of the greasy jerkin he wore. “She is not here at present, Captain, but perhaps one of the other girls would suit your purpose. They are all lovely maids…”

“I have not come to sample your wares, keeper,” Roget said roughly. “Elfreda-when did you last see her?”

“Not for the last three nights,” Verlain admitted. “She has probably gone to visit her daughter; she sometimes does that, although she usually tells me when she is going and this time she did not. If she has done something wrong, Captain, it is nothing to do with me. I keep a clean house, and obey all the town ordinances. My girls are inspected regularly by the bailiff and there are none with pox, of that I can assure you…”

Roget did not let him finish. “Elfreda is dead, Verlain. Murdered.” The stewe-keeper’s jaw dropped. “I want to know the names of all her customers,” Roget went on. “And to speak to the rest of your harlots; see if they can tell me anything about her movements on the night she was killed.”

Verlain almost fell over himself complying with Roget’s order. He quickly reeled off the names of a few men who had been Elfreda’s regular patrons although, he added, there were some whose identities he did not know, customers who came only infrequently.

Roget glanced at Bascot as the stewe-keeper came to a halt. One more question about Elfreda’s customers needed to be asked, but the captain was reluctant to do it. The Templar gave him a nod and spoke to Verlain directly.

“Among those customers you did not know, did any of them seem likely to be a Templar brother or one of the laymen from the Lincoln preceptory?”

His question took Verlain aback, and he stuttered to find the words to reply. “I am not sure… I do not know…”

“The truth, Verlain,” Roget interjected, the scar of the old sword slash that ran down the side of his face whitening as he gritted his teeth in impatience. “If you lie, I will tear your panderer’s heart out and feed it to the dogs in the street.”

Verlain’s furred tongue flicked out and worked nervously over his lips as he viewed the angry visage of the former mercenary glaring down at him. “I am not familiar with the faces of the men who live in the enclave, Captain, and so cannot swear to the truth of my answer, but as God is my witness, I do not believe so.”

Roget nodded, satisfied that the stewe-holder was, out of fear, telling the truth. Relieved that no violence to his person was forthcoming, Verlain scurried away to rouse the harlots who were, at this early hour, taking a hard-earned rest in the tiny cubicles on the floor above.

There were eight bawds altogether, most of them past the bloom of youth, but one or two still had a freshness in their complexion, even if their eyes had already acquired the hardness common to those who plied their trade. Most wore only a flimsy wrapper to conceal their nakedness, but a couple had cheap cloaks thrown over their shoulders. When told of Elfreda’s death, the younger ones began to weep, but the older bawds responded only by a tightening of their lips and one of them muttered a foul expletive beneath her breath.

All of them readily answered the questions the captain put to them. None had been aware that Elfie had not been in her bed on the night of her absence, or of any reason she may have left the stewe, except for one, an older prostitute named Sarah.

“She snuck out of the house a couple of days ago,” the bawd said. “It was early in the morning, just after my last customer-a greedy bastard who made sure he got his money’s worth-had gone. I heard her and asked where she was going…”

“Why did you not tell me?” Verlain interrupted. “You know I have been asking if anyone has seen her.”

The bawd looked at him with distaste. “Why should I? All you’re interested in is the money you’re losing by her not being here, not if anything untoward has happened to her.”

Roget quelled any further protest Verlain might have made with a glance and asked the bawd where Elfreda said she was bound.