The Medieval Murderers - King Arthur's Bones

‘Not if Boleton is right, and Spilmon has just learned his wife has had a lover for the last ten years. That would make Arthur’s bones irrelevant, while the relics in Daniel’s purse might be a coincidence.’

‘Of course they might,’ said Gwenllian flatly, wondering how he could even suggest such a thing. ‘But Boleton might be wrong, and Spilmon may still be in blissful ignorance. In which case I suggest that nothing can be gained from incautious words. You had better leave this to me.’

‘All right,’ said Cole, not bothering to hide his relief. He was not very good at the kind of subtle probing necessary to elicit answers without revealing what he knew. ‘I will just listen.’

‘I hope you are not planning to chop down Merlin’s oak,’ said Spilmon when he was close enough to speak. ‘You know the legend, do you not – that the town will fall if it is destroyed?’

‘A branch was lopped off two years ago, and look what happened then,’ added Kyng. ‘Lord Rhys stormed in and almost killed us all. We are lucky we survived – no thanks to some.’

‘The cheese-maker thinks to blame us,’ said Boleton to Cole, hand resting threateningly on the hilt of his sword. ‘But the raid was carried out by his countrymen, not ours.’

‘Actually the branch came off during the raid,’ said Cole to Kyng, although Gwenllian was sure the man knew it – he had just twisted the facts to make accusatory remarks. ‘It did not come down in advance, to warn of pending disaster. It was an accident.’

‘The tree does not allow accidents to befall it,’ said Spilmon. He sounded indignant on its behalf. ‘Everything that happens around it happens for a reason. Take Daniel, for example. His death was not a random act of violence, but will have a greater meaning.’

‘Really?’ asked Gwenllian, putting on her most winning smile. ‘What sort of meaning?’

Spilmon leaned towards her conspiratorially. ‘I heard odd sounds the night he died, and I am sure he was scrabbling about by its roots. Merlin’s oak does not appreciate tampering.’

Gwenllian glanced at Boleton. Cole had given the impression that the knight had already interviewed the residents of Priory Street about Daniel’s death, so why had Boleton not mentioned Spilmon’s testimony? It represented an important clue, after all.

‘I did not manage to speak to Spilmon yesterday,’ Boleton said, seeing her look and understanding what it meant. He was unconcerned by her immediate exasperation. ‘He was out when I did my rounds, and I forgot to return later.’

Gwenllian did not know whether to believe him. She turned to the grocer. ‘Did you see Daniel with a spade?’

‘No, but he walked past my house not long before these strange noises started, so it must have been him. The man was a fool, wandering about in a town that is the domain of violent robbers.’

‘Violent robbers?’ echoed Boleton, regarding him contemptuously. ‘Do you refer to the minor thefts that have occurred of late? Really, man! You exaggerate!’

‘And you understate!’ countered Kyng, stepping forward belligerently. ‘But I know why you make light of the matter – because you have failed to catch the culprits.’

‘Those scoundrels stole a fortune from me,’ added Spilmon before Boleton could respond to the charge. ‘And they are growing increasingly brazen. Did you hear that they had the audacity to attack the priory and make off with its finest cross – a great heavy gold one?’

‘A cross?’ asked Cole sharply. ‘I thought they had lost some altar dressings.’

Kyng sneered at him. ‘A cross is an altar dressing, constable .’ He managed to inject considerable scorn into the last word, and might just as well have said ‘stupid’.

But Cole was looking at Boleton. ‘You visited the priory and recorded their complaint. Why did you not tell me an item of such great value was taken?’

Boleton shrugged. ‘Because the modus operandi was different from the other thefts – it took place in a crowded priory and the culprit stole only the one piece. There was no need to bother you with it, not when you are so busy at the castle. And I am quite capable of investigating the business myself.’

Cole nodded acceptance of the explanation, although Gwenllian frowned. Why had Boleton used the term ‘altar dressings’ to describe the stolen property, when ‘cross’ would have sufficed? And was his intention really to save a busy man from worry? But there were more important issues to ponder than Boleton’s curious behaviour.

‘Where were you the night Daniel died?’ she asked of Kyng. ‘We understand you and Spilmon were notable by your absence at the vigil in St Peter’s Church.’

‘We had other business,’ Kyng replied smoothly, although the flash of alarm in Spilmon’s eyes did not escape Gwenllian’s attention. ‘Spilmon and I stayed in his house all night, going over ledgers. We can account for each other, but there is no one else to verify our tale.’

‘What about your wife?’ asked Gwenllian of the grocer. ‘Was she not with you?’

‘She was at the vigil,’ replied Spilmon.

But the cobbler had told them she was not, and he had had no reason to lie. Gwenllian could only assume that Mistress Spilmon had taken the opportunity to spend time with Daniel. But then how had Daniel come to die? Surely, if she had seen the attacker, she would have spoken out? Or had she tired of her monastic lover, and murder seemed a good way to end the situation?

‘No,’ said Cole, when Gwenllian pulled him to one side and suggested Mistress Spilmon as a culprit. ‘She was distraught when I told her what had happened. And I do not see her offering to clean his corpse if she were the killer either. She would have been keen to stay away from it.’

He had a point, and Gwenllian was beginning to feel frustrated. There were simply too many questions and too few reliable answers. She nodded a curt farewell to the merchants, and saw their relief. It aroused her suspicions, but she did not want to raise the question of Mistress Spilmon’s infidelity without good cause – not to spare the grocer’s feelings, but for the sake of the shy, colourless woman who was his wife.

Gwenllian happened to glance back at the two merchants when she was halfway down the street and saw them jump away from each other. Spilmon looked positively furtive, but Kyng had the audacity to wave. She was not sure what it meant, but there was something about their odd behaviour that set the glimmer of a solution burning at the back of her mind.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden appearance of Gilbert the Thief, who immediately shoved a cloth-wrapped bundle behind his back. Cole regarded him wearily.

‘What have you stolen now?’ He held out his hand. ‘Come on. Give it to me.’

‘I found it,’ said Gilbert defensively.

‘Oh, let him be,’ said Boleton impatiently. ‘It should be beneath your dignity to treat with such creatures, and he is not worth your time. Leave him, and I will deal with him tomorrow.’

‘Good idea,’ said Gilbert, beginning to edge away. ‘Thank you, sir. Feel free to come any time. I shall be waiting for you. We might even have a mug of ale together.’

‘Do not push your luck,’ growled Boleton, although Gwenllian could see he was amused by the man’s cheek.

But Cole did not find the situation funny. He moved suddenly, faster than the thief anticipated, and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. Gilbert squealed in alarm and tried to keep his prize out of the constable’s reach, but to no avail. Cole snatched it from him, shoved Gilbert into Boleton’s arms and began to pull off the wrappings. Then Boleton yelped suddenly, wringing his hand, and Gilbert darted away, disappearing down a nearby lane. Immediately Cole started after him, but Boleton yanked him back, hard enough to make him stagger.