Maureen Ash: The Alehouse Murders

None of the victims had purses at their belts or were wearing jewellery of any kind. If any of the men had been equipped with dagger or sword, these too had vanished and there was no trace of any blade that might have been used in the stabbings.

Bascot looked at Ernulf. “Except for the alekeeper, these bodies have been dead longer than since curfew last night.”

Ernulf agreed. Both were too familiar with the state of bodies during the aftermath of battle to mistake the length of time it took for the telltale signs of deterioration to show.

“The death rigor has come and gone except for Wat. And there’s precious little blood for three people stabbed. The walls would be spattered with it if the deed was done in here. And there’s no sign of a struggle, either.”

Bascot knelt down beside the Jew, the nearest corpse to him. He lifted the hand that had not been molested by the rats. The nails were free of any skin or material that might have been torn from an attacker and, apart from the rent made by the dagger, his clothes seemed untouched. The young man and woman’s bodies and clothing were in a like condition. “I would think that all three were dead before they were stabbed,” he said. “The blood had already settled and the hearts ceased to pump when these wounds were made. There are no bruises. Whatever the means of their deaths, it has not left a mark.” He looked up at the serjeant. “Do you recognise any of them?”

“Two,” Ernulf replied succinctly. “The Jew-his name is Samuel. Cousin of Isaac that lives in the big house in Mikelgate. And the one over there”-he nodded in the direction of the body lying beside the ale cask-“that’s Walter, the alewife’s husband. The other two I’ve never seen before. The girl looks, by her dress and wig and face paint, to be a harlot, but she’s not a regular from the stewes down in Butwerk. I’d recognise her if she was.” He rubbed his stubble-encrusted jaw. “ ’Course, with all the strangers that we’ve got in Lincoln right now she could be some newly arrived country girl who decided to turn bawd in the hope of earning a few pennies. If she is she might have strayed out of the whores’ patch.”

The serjeant waved his hand towards the young man. “Don’t know about the lad. Could be a visitor come for the fair, or perhaps an apprentice new to Lincoln.”

If Ernulf did not know the two young people then it was most probable that they were strangers. In his short time at the castle, Bascot had come to realise that Ernulf seemed to know every person that dwelt within the precinct of the town walls as well as having an almost intimate knowledge of most of the buildings. Since Ernulf had spent all his life in the town, except for occasional sojourns abroad in the service of the Hayes, this was not surprising.

As fresh air came into the room from the opened shutters, it became a little easier to breathe in the fetid atmosphere. Bascot and Ernulf moved back towards the door. Near the entrance was a table, on its surface a candleholder with a burnt down stub and a pair of dice. Apart from that, and the two empty tumblers on the floor, the place was tidy and seemed to have been scrubbed within the last few days; even though the reek of ale was exceptionally strong, there were no obvious spills and the rushes on the floor looked fresh.

“Why bring three dead bodies in here and stab them?” Bascot mused. “Why not leave them wherever the deed was done? It is most strange.”

The serjeant shrugged. He had seen death too often to be much affected by it, and the bodies in the chamber were not, as far as he knew, anyone of importance-two strangers, a Jew and an alekeeper. “I’ll send for the infirmarian at the Priory of All Saints. The monks’ll take the bodies and see them ready for burial-the Christian ones, that is. The Jews’ll want to take care of their own, I reckon. Good fortune that one of the dead was a Jew. Otherwise the whole lot of ’em would be blamed for the murders. That’s usually the way it is. And that’s the last thing Lady Nicolaa needs, right in the middle of the biggest fair of the year, a hue and cry after any member of the Jewish community. Not good for trade, is that.”

Bascot flinched inwardly. His enmity towards the Jews had been the same as that of every other good Christian until he had been captured by the Saracens. It had seemed logical and just that they were to be hated as the race who had crucified Christ. But during his years of captivity there had, at times, been Jews imprisoned with him, especially after the great infidel leader, Saladin, died and his unruly family fought for control of the Muslim world. Bascot had come to know one of them well, a young Jewish lad named Benjamin. He and the Jew had never become friends, but with the enemy a common one, they had helped each other and it had been Benjamin who had been instrumental in Bascot’s escape from his Muslim captors. That Benjamin had lost his life in aiding the Templar was a fact that Bascot found hard to forget, just as it also made it difficult for him to blindly accept the premise that all Jews were unworthy of any emotion but contempt from a Christian.

Uncomfortable, he made no reply to the serjeant’s comment and Ernulf continued, “Will you want to talk to the alewife again? Seems strange she slept upstairs all night and didn’t hear her husband havin’ his head bashed in.”

Bascot, remembering the near hysteria of the alewife, reluctantly agreed that it seemed necessary to question her again and instructed Ernulf, while he was seeing her, to send news to the Jewish community of Samuel’s death.

Ernulf nodded in a brisk fashion at the instructions. “I’ll send one of my lads to do that after he’s been to the Priory. In the meantime, I’d best stay here. That crowd outside is not going to be satisfied until they find out what’s happened and it might need a firm hand to curb their questions. When you’re ready, we’ll go back and report to Lady Nicolaa.”

Bascot nodded, taking a last look at the bodies, particularly those of the woman and the young man, before he left. Death was fast removing the bloom of youth from the faces of these two, but there still remained vestiges of their vitality: the smoothness of the unlined cheeks, the bright hue of their hair, so similar in colour. It had been too soon for them to die, these two youngsters, especially from a cause as foul as murder. To die on a battlefield was one’s own choice; for a life to be taken in stealth and for the purposes of another was a grievous offence, not only to man but to God Himself.

Outside, as Ernulf had predicted, the number of curious people had grown and they were pestering the two men-at-arms, who stood firmly silent, about what had happened. When Bascot appeared, they drew back a pace, respectful of his knight’s rank and not a little intimidated by the small replica of the Templar badge he wore high on the shoulder of his tunic. He walked, unaccosted, across the street and into the church. The coolness of the interior and the smell of incense were welcome after the stifling aroma of death.

Several hours later, in a small carpentry shop hard by the church of St. Mary Crackpole near Mikelgate, the alewife, Agnes, sat with her sister, Jennet. She had ceased to cry but an occasional sob would still shake her ample frame and she was having difficulty sipping the posset made of herbs and honey that Jennet had prepared for her.

The two sisters were very different in appearance, for Jennet was tall and slim and the carrot-coloured hair that framed her thin sharp face still bore no traces of grey even though she was only three years younger than Agnes. In one respect, however, they had a similarity, and that was in strength. Agnes possessed it in her thick bones and sturdy flesh; in Jennet it evidenced itself in her mind, which was aggressive and quick.