Maureen Ash: Murder for Christ's Mass

Just as they were nearing the first of the houses, a man clad in a cloak of coarse wool came trudging up the road from the direction of the workshop. His head was covered with a peaked cap that had a square piece of leather attached to the back to protect his neck. All his clothes, as well as his face, were covered in a fine layer of stone dust. Slung over his shoulder was a bag of tools, an assortment of chisels and hammers, some of which were protruding from the top of the sack.

The Templar hailed the man as he drew near and asked for the mason. “I’m not sure where he is, lord,” was the reply. “I don’t work in the quarry; I just come to measure some pieces of stone in the workshop. But he might be at home.” The stone worker turned and pointed to the small row of dwellings. “All t’other lodgings are empty ’til the summer, but Cerlo lives all year round in the last one along.”

Bascot guided his mount to the dwelling that had been indicated, dismounted and, leaving Gianni to hold the reins of the horse, went up to the door of Cerlo’s house. Although it was small, the building was substantial in construction, with walls of stone and a roof of slate tiles. When Bascot knocked at the door, it was opened by a woman of mature years, with greying hair pulled tidily back under a linen coif and garbed in a dark blue gown. One of her hands was heavily bandaged and she held her arm awkwardly, resting it gingerly against her waist. Seeing the Templar badge on the shoulder of Bascot’s tunic, she quickly gave a curtsey of deference and, when he enquired after Cerlo, told him she was the mason’s wife and, if he would come inside, she would take him to her husband.

Cerlo was sitting at the back of the only room the dwelling possessed, a bowl of boiled wheat and a loaf of coarse rye bread on a small table in front of him. He jumped to his feet when Bascot entered and made haste to offer the Templar a stool and a cup of ale.

Bascot accepted the ale, but not the seat, and said, “I have come to ask if you know whether any of the quarrymen have been working atop the cliff face in the last two weeks or so, or if there have been any visitors to the site during that time who walked along there.”

Cerlo’s face registered surprise at the question and he pondered it for a moment before he replied. “There are a few masons from the town that come to buy stone, but I don’t recollect any having been here since afore Michaelmas. As to the quarrymen, ’tis only when there’s need to make a fresh breach in the west face they have cause to go up there, and we haven’t done any cutting on that side since summer. We do keep a few tools in the shack there, but it’s just a little way from the main road. They wouldn’t need to walk along the cliff top to get to it.”

Bascot nodded. The answer had been what he expected, but it dashed any hope the coin might have been dropped accidentally. The Templar could see Cerlo was wondering why the question had been asked, but Bascot did not enlighten him, merely thanked the mason for his time and the ale, and left the house.

Hoping information would be more forthcoming at Brand’s place of employment, Bascot and Gianni retraced their earlier passage through the Minster to Ermine Street and turned south towards the town. Once through Bailgate, the huge portal that separated the castle and cathedral from the rest of Lincoln, the Templar was careful to guide his mount slowly along the slippery incline on the other side of the massive arch-aptly named Steep Hill-and onto the main street of Mikelgate. Gerard Camville had said the moneyer, Helias de Stow, lived in a house next to the mint, which was situated in the lower reaches of town near the church of St. Mary Crackpole.

The streets were sparsely populated; most of the wooden shutters that protected the fronts of the shops were fastened shut and the fowl and flesh markets closed. It did not take Bascot long to ride down the main thoroughfare and reach the turn he needed.

As the Templar guided his horse towards de Stow’s house, he had to thread his way through a group of people queuing for alms outside St. Mary Crackpole church. It was an odd name for a house of God but the latter part of the name was derived from a corruption of the Old Norse words kraka for a water-crake and pol for a pool, because of the birds that had inhabited a large pond originally on the site. Most of the people outside the little church were women with young children, but there were a few men amongst them, all clad in clothes that were threadbare and did not afford much protection against the stiff breeze that had suddenly arisen. Some of the younger children were grizzling and many of the women had expressions of stoic fortitude on their careworn faces.

Just beyond the church gate and on the opposite side of the street was the mint, a strongly fortified building adjoining the exchange where Walter Legerton carried out his work. De Stow’s house was a sturdy stone-walled building of three storeys on the other side, and separated from the mint by a narrow passageway.

Bascot tied the reins of his horse to a hitching rail in front of the moneyer’s house, went up to the door and rapped on it. A young maidservant with a solemn expression answered his knock. When asked to inform her master of Bascot’s presence, she sniffed loudly, then nodded and led the Templar inside and to an inner door just off the entryway. Opening it, she announced the visitor’s name, and motioned for Bascot to go in.

Leaving Gianni in the vestibule, the Templar entered the room. It was large and comfortably, but not lavishly, appointed. On the surface of a table in the middle of the chamber were sheets of parchment, a quill and inkpot. The deep reds and greens in the tapestries that hung on the walls gleamed in the radiance of logs burning in the fireplace. Helias de Stow came forward before Bascot had gone more than two paces into the room. A short, round-faced man with an almost bald pate, the little hair that the moneyer possessed was dark in colour and grew in a long fringe from just above his ears down to his shoulders. His eyes were dark, and set deeply under sparse brows, giving him a sharp interrogative look, but his mouth was kindly set and generous in its curve.

“Have you come about the death of my poor clerk?” de Stow asked. When Bascot confirmed he had, the moneyer offered his visitor a cup of wine, which the Templar accepted. Once both men were seated and had full cups in front of them, de Stow explained how, the day before, Cerlo had approached him after the afternoon Mass at the cathedral and told of Brand’s death.

“Cerlo said that he believed Peter to have been murdered. Is that true, Sir Bascot?”

“It is,” the Templar replied. “The sheriff has sent me to gather as much information as possible about your clerk in the hope it will aid his search for the murderer. Cerlo will have told you that Brand’s body was found in the quarry. From the condition of his corpse, it would appear your clerk was killed four or five days ago. Do you know of any reason why he would have gone to the pit?”

De Stow shook his head sadly. “Not that I can think of. It is indeed puzzling. I gave Peter permission to visit his mother in Grantham over the holy days and thought he had left to go there.” The moneyer shook his head and flashed a contrite glance at Bascot. “It is to my regret that the last words I spoke to him were said in anger. He asked to leave early on his last day of work and I was annoyed by his request because there was still a lot of work to be done. Although I gave him permission, I also gave him the rough edge of my tongue.”

“And which day was that?”

“The fourth one before Christ’s Mass, the day the snowstorm started.”

“The road to Grantham would have been impassable by morning. Did you not wonder why he had not turned back and returned to Lincoln?”