A Deadly Penance Page 10

  “But when I left him, he was alive,” she said tearfully. “Truly, I did not know he was dead until the next morning.”

  “And where did you leave him, mistress?” Bascot asked. “Was he still in the chamber where you had met, the one at the top of the tower?”

  “No,” Clarice replied. “He was standing outside the door. He thought he heard a noise while we were . . . while we were inside the room, and feared it might be my husband. He bade me go down to the bedchamber below and stood at the top of the stairs while I descended.”

  “And was it your husband?” Bascot asked.

  “No, there was no one there; at least, I don’t think there was anyone. Aubrey did not light a candle. I went down the stairs in the darkness, feeling along the wall to guide my steps. After I entered the bedchamber, I got into bed. A few minutes later I heard footsteps pass the door and thought it was Aubrey returning to the hall.”

  “By that time, mistress, he was dead,” Bascot said harshly. “And the footsteps you heard belonged to his killer.”

  “I know,” Clarice replied miserably. She lifted her tear-stained eyes to the company. “That is what I realised when I learned that Aubrey had been murdered—that I could just as easily have been killed as well.”

  They asked her a few more questions and when Alinor suggested the murderer had been her husband, Clarice startled them all with a flash of hitherto unseen insight. “But it could not have been Simon,” she said. “My husband is lame—he broke his leg as a child and it never mended properly—and the footsteps that went by my door were unfaltering. He would be incapable of making such a swift passage.”

  That, at least, explained Adgate’s limp and further negated him as a suspect. When the suggestion was made that Adgate had hired someone to carry out the deed for him, she again shook her head. “My husband was not aware that I had taken a lover until after Aubrey was found dead,” she said miserably, her tears welling anew, “so he would have had no reason to do so.”

  Bascot asked her if Tercel had, during their times together, spoken of any enemies he had made in Lincoln and Clarice shook her head. “None that he mentioned. We did not . . . did not have time for much casual conversation together.”

  Finally, Nicolaa dismissed her and told the servant to admit her husband into their presence.

  Twelve

  WHEN THE FURRIER SAW CLARICE WALKING ACROSS THE HALL to where he was seated, he knew by the look on her face that she had admitted her adultery. Not for the first time in the last few days, he asked himself why he had chosen to marry such a vacuous young woman. And again, the answer echoed hollowly in his head—vanity. He had watched Clarice grow up in the tanner’s yard he owned, and where her father was employed, and had seen her beauty develop from the time she had been a small child. When she had reached the age of maturity, he knew it had been no coincidence that he had suddenly convinced himself that he should marry again and try, before death overtook him, to beget an heir to inherit his prosperous business. There were other women in Lincoln that he could have offered for, and would have suited him admirably for his purpose—young daughters of other merchants and tradesmen—but he had not taken the time to give any of them consideration; he had taken notice only of Clarice and her lovely green eyes, dwelling on the façade of her beauty and dismissing the emptiness that he had, even then, sensed lay within. And, if he further examined his conscience without self-deception, he knew that it had not been lust that had driven him, but the envy with which other men would regard him for having such a desirable woman in his bed.

  Not even for one moment had he ever considered that Clarice, coming from such an impoverished background, would dare to stray from his bed. He had thought she would be grateful that he, a respectable and wealthy merchant, had taken her in marriage, and that he had cajoled her into loving him by the expensive clothes and furs with which he had adorned her lovely body. How wrong he had been. While it was true that she carried out her duties in his shop well enough, he had soon realised it pleased her mercenary heart to touch and display the fine furs that he sold. Her soul was grasping, seeking only the gratification of her senses. She had no thought for anyone other than herself.

  With a surge of regret he remembered his first wife, his dear Martha. They had been wed such a short time before she was taken from him by death, and they had been so much in love. After she had died, fond memories of her had made him unable to countenance the thought of marrying again and the years had slipped by without notice. Now, with the folly of an aging man, he was wed to a woman who had proved no better than a whore. How ironic it was that if, by some chance, Clarice was with child, there was a more than a probable chance that the heir he had longed for had been sired by another man. For all his success in business, Adgate knew he had been a fool in his private life.

  Clarice came up and stood nervously beside him as the servant who had accompanied her back to the hall told Simon he was wanted in the solar by Sir Richard and Lady Nicolaa. Adgate gave his wife not a glance or a spoken word, just followed the servant across the hall and up the tower stairs. Before he went into the chamber, he tried to square his shoulders and exude a degree of confidence. He had no other option now but to tell the truth; that he had not been aware of his wife’s infidelity until the moment when he and Clarice had been told of the murder. Had it not been for his wife’s tears and tender murmurings of the dead man’s name when she heard the news, he would, even now, still be in ignorance of her unfaithfulness. Pushing aside the pain the memory caused him, he reflected that honesty had always been his guide in business; he must trust it would suffice now. If he was careful with a recounting of the facts, questions about any other entanglements he had with Tercel might not be asked.

  When he walked into the solar, the circle of nobles daunted him for a moment and he checked his stride. After a moment’s hesitation, he summoned up the courage to stand determinedly in front of them, and he kept his manner deferential as Richard Camville told him that his wife had admitted she had gone to keep a tryst with Tercel in an upper chamber of the old tower on the night he had been killed.

  “She also told us, furrier,” Richard added, “that she met with him on several previous occasions. Are you certain you had no suspicion of this liaison?”

  “No, lord, I did not,” Adgate said. “Not until the morning after he was killed.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Richard said bluntly.

  “Nonetheless, lord, it is true,” Adgate asserted.

  “You will have to convince me of the validity of that statement,” Richard declared. “The man who made you a cuckold has been murdered; that gives you a prime motive for killing him.”

  Adgate recoiled against the accusation, but he held Richard’s gaze firmly as he replied. “It was not I who murdered him, lord. From what I understand, Tercel was slain early in the evening. I never left the hall until I retired to the chamber my wife and I had been assigned by your steward. The other guild leaders I sat beside at the feast can confirm that.”

  “You could have paid someone to do the deed for you, Adgate,” Richard replied. “Lincoln is no different than other towns; one can always find a man who is willing to carry out such a service if the fee is handsome enough.”

  Adgate did not lose his composure at the suggestion. “As I said, Sir Richard, I had no knowledge of my wife’s infidelity. How then would I have reason to hire an assassin?”

  Bascot admired the man’s imperturbability, but he noticed that beads of sweat were forming on the furrier’s brow. Evidence of tension was entirely understandable in Adgate’s situation; to be accused of murder is not a matter to be taken lightly, whether guilty or not. Still, the Templar wondered if his agitation was due merely to the ordeal he was undergoing or if it stemmed from some other cause.

  Richard continued his questioning. “We have only your word to support your claim that you were unaware of Mistress Adgate’s unfaithfulness. And I find it hard to believe that you did not notice h
er attraction to Tercel during the times he came to your business premises. You are a successful merchant and therefore not, I would think, a man who is easily gulled. How is it that your wife was able to do so?”

  “I fear I was too complaisant in my affection for her,” Adgate replied tightly. “I was married before, and happily, to my first wife and remained so until she died. While I have experience in commerce, I have little in dealing with women, other than those who come with their husbands to buy my wares. Had I paid Clarice more attention, perhaps she would not have sought comfort elsewhere. Although my wife’s actions were inexcusable, I must admit that I am perhaps partly to blame.”

  The words galled him, but he had to admit they contained a modicum of truth. He should have been more observant and noticed that his pretty young wife had an inclination for licentiousness. Then he could have made an effort to forestall her infidelity.

  “Your answers are glib, furrier, and do not entirely satisfy me,” Richard proclaimed. “Nonetheless, I will accept your protestation of innocence—for now. You may go, but hold yourself ready to be questioned further in this matter.”

  It was with great relief that Adgate turned and left the room.

  AFTER THE FURRIER HAD EXITED THE SOLAR, NICOLAA, RICHARD, Alinor and Bascot discussed what they had been told.

  “I think Mistress Adgate is now telling the truth,” the Templar said, “but I am not so sure about her husband. Still, his testimony that he did not leave the hall is borne out by the others who were in his company, so unless he is lying about being unaware of his wife’s adultery and did, in fact, hire an assassin—and I must admit I think that unlikely—we must look elsewhere for the murderer.”

  “But where?” Nicolaa responded. “Who else would have had reason to wish Tercel dead? He had only been in Lincoln a short time. . . .”

  “But, even so, we must remember that he went quite often into the town,” Bascot reminded her, “and had time enough to make the acquaintance of any number of people within the city walls. It could be one of these that led to his death—suppose he took another lover besides Mistress Adgate and the other woman became jealous at sharing his attentions with the furrier’s wife, for example; or he struck up a friendship with a citizen in the town which became rancorous for some reason or another. There are many possibilities and the only way we can discover if any of them are worthwhile considering is to try and trace Tercel’s movements since he came to Lincoln—where he went and to whom he spoke.”

  “Not an easy task, de Marins,” Nicolaa said repressively.

  Bascot agreed, but added, “The chore may be made a little lighter, lady, if your own servants and that of Lady Petronille were asked if he mentioned, even if only in passing, any of the places he went in the town; whether he was in the habit of visiting a certain alehouse, or had a favourite pie shop, for instance. Any small detail they can recall may assist us.”

  Nicolaa rose from her seat with a sigh. “You are right, de Marins. Every possibility must be pursued if we are to prevent this murderer from escaping retribution. Richard and I will question all of the servants again and let you know when you return tomorrow if anything of import has been uncovered.”

  AS THE COMPANY ALL LEFT THE SOLAR, STEPHEN WHARTON, fifty miles to the southwest, had returned to his demesne and was preparing to travel to Lincoln. He did not look forward to the trip; it would take him the better part of two days and involve a stop overnight, probably at Grantham, but it was not the distance that was bothering him, it was what lay at the end of the journey. Richard de Humez had listened to his tale in near silence, the baron’s irritation gaining momentum long before the story was told. Wharton hoped Nicolaa de la Haye would be more understanding, for he truly had not intended any harm by concealing the flight of fancy in which Tercel had engaged. Now, as one of the grooms brought out his horse, saddled and ready for him to mount, he wondered if he had been too credulous in his deceit.

  Thirteen

  AT RISEHOLME, ALL OF THE CHILDREN, EVEN THE RELUCTANT Willi, marvelled at the comforts they were experiencing. The refurbished old barn was snug and secure, with lime-washed walls and a dirt floor that was clean and hard packed. A fire blazed in the middle of the large space, the smoke escaping through a hole in the newly thatched roof, and over the embers hung a huge cauldron filled to the brim with an appetising broth thickened with barley and root vegetables. Each child had a pallet stuffed with clean straw and, best of all, a blanket to cover them at night. Twice a day they were each given a cup of milk—a rarity that some of the children had never tasted before—and three small loaves of coarse bread to share. In their short and desperate lives, they had never before been so well fed or warm and each of them revelled in their good fortune. Even the youngest, little Annie, had stopped grizzling and her older sister, Emma, was beginning to blossom at being relieved of the little girl’s demands. The other girl, Joan, although still maintaining her near silent demeanour, now accompanied her monosyllabic responses with a tremulous smile.

  After they had first arrived, the bailiff, a stern-faced man who, despite his intimidating demeanour, spoke to them kindly, had shown them around the property and told them where they were allowed to roam and where they were not. All of the buildings—a small and sturdy stone-walled manor house, a newly built barn used for storing grain and root vegetables, a large byre with a dozen milch cows, an enclosure with a few pigs and a shed where cheese was made—were out of bounds for the present, he explained. Once they had become used to their surroundings, the boys would be expected to muck out the cowshed and pigsty and the girls to tend a vegetable plot at the rear of the main building. He also told them that, when the summer came, they would help to gather apples and plums from the fruit trees in a large orchard that abutted the inner compound and assist with gathering the harvest from the fields of wheat and barley to the south. But until then, he said, and while they put some “meat on their sparse bones,” they would be expected to keep the barn in which they were living clean and tidy; their pallets were to be rolled up neatly every morning and the boys were to fetch fuel from the woodshed and tend the fire while the girls were to empty their slop bucket once a day and sweep the floor.

  As the bailiff, a man named Stoddard, looked at the thin little faces of the youngsters, his heart swelled with pity. Lady Nicolaa had promised all of the Riseholme servants a bonus each Michaelmas for the extra work the children would cause but, even if that had not been so, Stoddard would have welcomed the chance to help these poor unfortunates and he knew the rest of the servants felt the same.

  Now, on their third day at Riseholme, as the children rolled up their pallets and were looking forward to breaking their fast, Mark motioned to Willi to come a little aside and said, “It’s a good place here, inn’t it?”

  Willi was forced to nod his head in agreement, and Mark, who felt he owed it to his new friend to dissuade him from a foolish course of action, said, “You knows as how you’d be a right silly beggar to leave and go back to Lincoln, don’t you? We’s got everything we needs here. Why go back there and be hungry and freezin’ cold again?”

  Willi set his mouth in a stubborn line. “ ’Cos I’se got to go and find my da, that’s why. How will he know where I am? Only orphans is allowed to come to this place and I ain’t one, so he’ll never think to look for me here, will he?”

  “But what if that murderer sees you?” Mark asked. “’Spe-cially if your da ain’t come back yet and you got no one to protect you. You could be killed stone dead like that man up on the ramparts.”

  “I’ll have to take my chances,” Willi replied stoutly, but despite his brave words, the young boy was fearful. The person he had seen near the tower had looked straight at him as their glances met and was sure to know him if their paths chanced to cross again. Mark was right; it would be more sensible to stay at Riseholme, but Willi was desperate to find his father who, if he had chanced to earn a few pence, might spend it in an alehouse if Willi was not there to dissuade him
. His father had not always been a tosspot. They had lived in a village not far from Lincoln until last spring when Willi’s mother had died of a fever. Up until then, his father had worked hard at his trade of thatching and they had a little cot to live in, provided by the high-ranking cleric who held the land in return for the fee of his father’s labour for two days a week. But when Willi’s mother died, his father had taken to drinking all his hard-earned pennies away in the village alehouse and had not turned up for work. When the cleric had threatened eviction if the terms of the fee were not met, Willi’s father decided he would go to look for work in Lincoln, and so they had come to the town. But thatched roofs were not, due to the town’s bylaw, in common use within the town and prospective employers had not been plentiful. On the few occasions that his father had been fortunate enough to earn a few pennies repairing thatch on small buildings such as barns or outhouses in the suburbs, the coins had been squandered in an alehouse before Willi could persuade his father to spend them on food and shelter. Finally, they had been reduced to begging in the street or lining up with other indigents for alms from the church. It had been then that his father had declared he would go back into the countryside to find work and told his son to wait in Lincoln for his return. Willi knew he had to be in the town when his father came back for him; if he was not, they might never see one another again. He would rather take the chance of being murdered than losing his da forever.

  As the two boys parted company to attend to their chores, neither of them noticed that Joan, maintaining her usual silence, had crept up close to them and listened to their conversation.