Ellis Peters - St Peter's Fair

“I have nothing to add,” said Ivo, “to what Mistress Vernold has so admirably told you. I saw the prisoner helped away by his fellows, and what became of him after that I have no knowledge. But here is a man of mine, Turstan Fowler, who says he did see him later in the evening, drinking in an alehouse at the corner of the horse-fair. I must say,” added Ivo with resigned disgust, “that his own recollection of the night’s events ought to be as hazy as the prisoner’s, for we took him up dead drunk past eleven, and by the look of him he had been in the same state some time then. I had him put into a cell in the abbey overnight. But he claims his head is clear now, and he knows what he saw and heard. I thought it best he should speak here for himself.”

The archer edged forward sullenly, peering up under thick frowning brows, as though his head still rang.

“Well, what is it you claim to know, fellow?” asked Prestcote, eyeing him narrowly.

“My lord, I had no call to be out of the precinct at all, last night, my lord Corbière had given me orders to stay within. But I knew he would spend the evening looking the ground over, so I ventured. I got my skinful at Wat’s tavern, by the north corner of the horse-fair. And this fellow was there, drinking fit to beat me, and I’m an old toper, and can carry it most times. The place was full, there must be others can tell you the same. He was nursing his sore head, and breathing fire against the man that gave it him. He swore he’d be up with him before the night was out. And that’s all the meat of it, my lord.”

“At what hour was this?” asked Prestcote.

“Well, my lord, I was still firm on my feet then, and clear in my mind, and that I certainly was not later in the evening. It must have been somewhere halfway between eight and nine. I should have borne my drink well enough if I had not gone from ale to wine, and then to a fierce spirit, and that last was what laid me low, or I’d have been back within the wall before my lord came home, and escaped a night on the stones.”

“It was well earned,” said Prestcote dryly. “So you took yourself off to sleep off your load - when?”

“Why, about nine, I suppose, my lord, and was fathoms deep soon after. Troth, I can’t recall where, though I remember the inn. They can tell you where I was found who found me.”

At this point it dawned abruptly upon Brother Cadfael that by pure chance this whole interrogation, since Philip had been brought in, had been conducted without once mentioning the fact that Master Thomas at this moment lay dead in the castle chapel. Certainly the sheriff had addressed Emma in tones of sympathy and consideration appropriate to her newly-orphaned state, and her uncle’s absence might in itself be suggestive, though in view of the importance of his business at the fair, and the fact that Emma had once, at least, referred to him in the present tense, a person completely ignorant of his death would hardly have drawn any conclusion from these hints, unless he had all his wits about him. And Philip had been all night in a prison cell, and haled out only to face this hearing, and moreover, was still sick and dulled with his drinking, his broken head and his sore heart, and in no case to pick up every inference of what he heard. No one had deliberately laid a trap for him, but for all that, the trap was there, and it might be illuminating to spring it.

“So these threats you heard against Master Thomas,” said Prescote, “can have been uttered only within an hour, probably less, of the time when the merchant left his booth to return alone to his barge. The last report we have of him.”

That was drawing nearer to the spring, but not near enough. Philip’s face was still drawn, resigned and bewildered, as though they had been talking Welsh over his head. Brother Cadfael struck the prop clean away; it was high time.

“The last report we have of him alive,” he said clearly.

The word might have been a knife going in, the slender kind that is hardly felt for a moment, and then hales after it the pain and the injury. Philip’s head came up with a jerk, his mouth fell open, his bruised eyes rounded in horrified comprehension.

“But it must be remembered,” continued Cadfael quickly, “that we do not know the hour at which he died. A body taken from the water may have entered it at any time during the night, after all the prisoners were in hold, and all honest men in bed.”

It was done. He had hoped it would settle the issue of guilt and innocence, at least to his satisfaction, but now he still could not be quite sure the boy had not known the truth already. How if he had only held his peace and listened to the ambiguous voices, and been in doubt whether Master Thomas’s corpse had yet been found? On the face of it, if he had had any hand in that death, he was a better player than any of the travelling entertainers who would be plying their trade among the crowds this evening. His pallor, from underdone dough, had frozen into marble, he tried to speak and swallowed half-formed words, he drew huge breaths into him, and straightened his back, and turned great, shocked eyes upon the sheriff. On the face of it - but every face can dissemble if the need is great enough.

“My lord,” pleaded Philip urgently, when he had his voice again, “is this truth?

Master Thomas of Bristol is dead?”

“Known or unknown to you,” said Prestcote dryly, “ - and I hazard no judgment - it is truth. The merchant is dead. Our main purpose here now is to examine how he died.”

“Taken from the water, the monk said. Did he drown?”

“That, if you know, you may tell us.”

Abruptly the prisoner turned his back upon the sheriff, took another deep breath into him, and looked directly at Emma, and from then on barely took his eyes from her, even when Prestcote addressed him. The only judgment he cared about was hers.

“Lady, I swear to you I never did your uncle harm, never saw him again after they hauled me away from the jetty. What befell him I do not know, and God knows I’m sorry for your loss. I would not for the world have touched him, even if we had met and quarrelled afresh, knowing he was your kinsman.”

“Yet you were heard threatening harm to him,” said the sheriff.

“It may be so. I cannot drink, I was a fool ever to try that cure. I recall nothing of what I said, I make no doubt it was folly, and unworthy. I was sore and bitter. What I set out to do was honest enough, and yet it fell apart. All went to waste. But if I talked violence, I did none. I never saw the man again.

When I turned sick from the wine I left the tavern and went down to the riverside, away from the boats, and lay down there until I made shift to drag myself back to the town. I admit to the trouble that arose out of my acts, and all that has been said against me, all but this. As God sees me, I never did your uncle any injury. Speak, and say you believe me!”

Emma gazed at him with parted lips and dismayed eyes, unable to say yes or no to him. How could she know what was true and what was lies?

“Let her be,” said the sheriff sharply. “It is with us you have to deal. This matter must be probed deeper than has been possible yet. Nothing is proven, but you stand in very grave suspicion, and it is for me to determine what is to be done with you.”

“My lord,” ventured the provost, who had kept his mouth tightly shut until now, against great temptation, “I am prepared to stand surety for my son to whatever price you may set, and I guarantee he shall be at your disposal at the assize, and at whatever time between when you may need to question him. My honour has never been in doubt, and my son, whatever else, has been known as a man of his word, and if he gives his bond here he will keep it, even without my enforcement. I beg your lordship will release him home to my bail.”