Murder for Christ's Mass Read online

  De Stow motioned to a door near where the guard stood. “That leads through to the exchanger’s office,” he said. He then gestured towards a shelf where a set of scales and a pile of empty leather sacks were laid. “And that is where his assayer keeps his equipment. Usually it is stored in Legerton’s office but when they are both away, Partager brings it in here for safekeeping.”

  The Templar looked around the room. “You said you had four guards in your hire. I see only three; is the other off duty?”

  “He is,” de Stow said. “All the guards live in quarters in the yard at the back. I also keep two mastiffs there and the dogs patrol the grounds at night. The guards rotate their shifts, so that after working hours there is one on duty in here and one asleep in their quarters, while the other two are at liberty to spend some time in the town if they choose. If anything untoward should occur after the mint is closed, the inside guard would ring the bell to sound the alarm and bring the other man, and the dogs, to his assistance.”

  “You keep a secure mint, moneyer,” the Templar said. “Your precautions are admirable.”

  De Stow gave a smile of pleasure; it was obvious he was gratified by the compliment.

  Bascot nodded at the iron chests. “The coins you produce—are they kept in those chests?”

  “Yes, as are those brought in for changing. Two of them contain blocks of refined silver from the mine. As I said, the assayer tests all the old coins before they are melted down. He usually uses only a touchstone and his scales, but there are some occasions when he feels it necessary to assay the silver by melting it with lead in a crucible. When he wishes to do that, he uses my forge.”

  Bascot nodded. If any coins from the reign of King Stephen had been brought in to be exchanged, Peter Brand would have had access to the place where they were kept, but so would all the rest of de Stow and Legerton’s employees, including the guards. “I assume only you and the exchanger are in possession of keys to the coffers?” he asked de Stow.

  The moneyer nodded, patting the pouch he wore on his belt. “Each of them has three separate locks and a different key is required to open each one. I hold the master keys to all of them and Legerton has duplicates. We keep them on our persons at all times. Even when I lie down for my night’s rest, I place the keys in a strongbox beside my bed and keep the key to the box on a chain about my neck. I imagine Master Legerton takes the same precautions. I also check the contents of each chest every morning before work is begun and again at the end of every working day, to ensure that no discrepancy has occurred in the interim.”

  The security here would be difficult to infiltrate, Bascot thought, but if either de Stow or Legerton allowed himself a moment of carelessness with his keys, it would not be impossible for anyone with enough daring to steal them and gain access to the contents of the chests.

  “What about the silver ore you use—how is the security of that controlled?”

  De Stow gave Bascot a searching look accompanied by a cynical smile. His shrewd dark eyes took on a hard alertness as he said, “I assume you are asking these questions because you believe my clerk may have stolen coins or silver blocks from here and had them on his person when he was killed. Is that not so, Sir Bascot?”

  “It would provide a motive, moneyer, especially if the person who murdered him was aware they were in his possession.”

  De Stow shook his head. “My clerk was an honest man, Sir Bascot, but even if he had not been, he would not have had the opportunity to steal from the mint. Besides, Peter has been gone some days and I have been doing his job since he left. If there was a shortage, I would have discovered it by now, and there is not.”

  After pausing for a moment, he continued. “But, to answer your question. The blocks of solid silver from the royal mine are delivered to these premises by armed guards. I then weigh them to ensure they tally with the figures I have been given by the overseer of the mine and make separate checks all through the stages of production until they are turned into coinage. That is why I have need of a clerk, for there are many figures to be recorded, but I can assure you that I double-check all of them. There is no margin for error—or pilfering.”

  “I will take you at your word, Master de Stow,” Bascot replied. “Now I would like to speak to your employees. From what you tell me, Brand must have gone to the quarry late in the afternoon of the day he was killed. I want to ask if any of your workers know the reason he did so.”

  The moneyer called each of the men up in turn, the hammermen first, then the apprentices, and Bascot explained to each of them that he was conducting an investigation into Brand’s death on Gerard Camville’s behalf and wanted to know if the clerk had told any of them about his intention of going to the pit. The Templar also told Gianni, who was standing beside him, to take out his wax tablet and write down the names of each of those he interviewed and make a brief note of their responses. Most of de Stow’s employees looked apprehensive while this was being done, which was what the Templar intended. They were far less likely to lie if they knew their names were included in a report for the sheriff. Each of them denied having seen Brand after he left the mint on the day of his death or any knowledge of why he would have gone to the quarry. The three guards on duty were subjected to the same questions and gave the same answers, as did the one that was sleeping in the guardroom in the yard behind the mint when de Stow sent one of his employees to rouse him.

  Once Bascot had finished his questioning, he told de Stow he would also like to speak to Master Legerton and his assayer and asked if they were on the exchange premises.

  “Not today,” the moneyer replied. “The exchange was closed on the eve of Christ’s Mass and Legerton went to his manor in Canwick for the holy days. Partager will have gone with him, I expect. The men hired to guard the exchange would not remain here during that time, for they are only needed when Legerton is in his office. All of them should return tomorrow, when the exchange is due to open for custom.”

  Bascot told de Stow he would come back in the morning to speak to Legerton and his staff. The Templar then casually asked, as though in passing, about the condition of the coins brought in for exchange. “I suppose most of them are fourthings or halfpennies that need to be made into whole coin, are they not?”

  “Yes,” de Stow replied. “And there are always a few that have edges badly worn from usage. Sometimes there are a few coins from other countries included, but not often. The large number of foreign coins we are melting down today is an exception, rather than otherwise.”

  “When I was in my childhood,” Bascot added in an offhand manner, “I remember my grandsire complaining about coins from King Stephen’s reign being clipped, but I suppose the new design of a short cross brought in by King Henry twenty years ago stopped that illegal practice.”

  “It did, Sir Bascot. And when King Henry gave an order that all old coins, especially those from King Stephen’s reign, should be exchanged for ones of new issue, everyone was only too pleased to submit to his decree, for some of the parings were so deftly done it was difficult to tell whether a coin was short weighted or not. I do not believe there are many left from before King Henry’s time now, except for the odd single coin or two. I have hardly seen any these last ten years.”

  Reluctant to press the subject of coins from Stephen’s reign any further lest de Stow become suspicious of the reason for his interest, Bascot asked the moneyer to show him the room where Peter Brand had lodged. De Stow led him outside the mint and back into his own house, then through a door into the yard.

  “His room is up there, over the horse stall,” the moneyer said, pointing to a wooden building of two storeys with double doors at the bottom. A staircase wound up the outside wall. The top of the building was completely enclosed except for a small casement window and a narrow door at the top of the stairway.

  Bascot followed de Stow up the stairs and into the room where Peter Brand had lodged. It was neat and tidy, with a palliasse covered by a pair of thick blan
kets. There were few of the clerk’s possessions in the room; some blank pieces of parchment and some scribing tools lay on a small table, and a spare pair of hose and a lightweight summer cloak hung from a peg behind the door. On the floor near the bed was a smallish bag of heavy linen that Bascot told Gianni to open and search. When the boy did so, he extracted a tunic of good wool, another pair of hose and a small package carefully wrapped in a piece of soft cloth. Looking to his master for permission, he unrolled the parcel and found a tiny ring of silver gilt inside, which he handed to the Templar.

  Bascot glanced at the clothing and then examined the ring. “It would appear your clerk intended to return for this bag before he left on his journey to Grantham,” he said. “Not only would he have needed the change of clothing, I doubt whether he would have left without taking this.” He held up the ring so the moneyer could see it more clearly. It was fashioned in a design of clasping hands popular for betrothal rings. “A hopeful gift for your clerk’s sweetheart, I would think.”

  De Stow nodded sadly. “You are right, Sir Bascot. Its presence here also indicates that Peter lied to me.”

  “How so?” Bascot asked.

  The moneyer gave a regretful sigh. “When Peter asked to leave early on his last day of work, he told me he needed to do so because he had to pick up his good tunic from a fuller who was cleansing it. The fuller’s premises are on the way to the river where the boat Peter was to take lay at anchor. It would not make sense for him to go and collect his tunic and then come all the way back here just to get his extra hose and the ring. He would have taken the bag with him and collected his tunic on the way to the quay.”

  “Then he must have picked up his tunic on a previous day, for it is here and looks newly cleansed.” At de Stow’s disappointed nod of confirmation, Bascot added, “And the reason he asked to leave early must have been so he could go to the quarry for some purpose he did not wish to reveal to you.”

  “I suppose it must,” de Stow remarked glumly.

  A SHORT TIME LATER, BASCOT AND GIANNI LEFT DE Stow’s house and retrieved the Templar’s horse. As they rode past St. Mary Crackpole church towards Mikelgate, Bascot looked up at the sky. The pale blue above them was unmarred except for a few grey clouds and even though there was a bank of darkness in the east, he thought it unlikely that any rain or snow would fall during the next few hours. He turned his mount down Mikelgate towards Stonebow, the principal gate out of the lower part of the town and, once they had passed through it, went along Briggate towards the bridge that crossed the Witham River. The village of Canwick, where Walter Legerton had his manor house, was only about two miles’ distance from the river.

  While de Stow had seemed genuinely disturbed by the death of Peter Brand, and anxious for the sorrow it would cause his mother, Bascot had learned from his dealing with those involved in previous cases of secret murder that a perpetrator was often skilled at concealing his true thoughts behind a mask of innocence. If de Stow had been honest when he claimed he had only learned of Brand’s death through his chance meeting with Cerlo the day before, then Legerton, who had been absent from Lincoln for the last two days, might not yet have heard of the clerk’s murder. If that was the case, it might be profitable to witness the exchanger’s reaction when he heard news of the stabbing. If he was not involved in the clerk’s murder, or in the concealment of a treasure trove, his surprise would be genuine. But if he had some knowledge of the circumstances surrounding Brand’s death, he might not have sufficient cunning to conceal it.

  AFTER THE TEMPLAR AND HIS SERVANT HAD GONE, Helias de Stow went back to his chamber, reseated himself at his desk and stared blankly at the piece of parchment lying on its surface. Although he picked up his quill and dipped it in the inkpot, he still could not bring himself to write the words that would tell Peter’s mother her son was dead.

  De Stow sighed heavily, laid his pen down and rested his head in his hands, his fingers digging into the top of his bald pate as he did so. Peter’s death and the subsequent visit of the Templar had unnerved him. The moneyer had always taken pride in presenting a confident image to his family and employees but now he felt as though that facade was cracking. It had been a mistake to move to Lincoln, but it was an error he could not have foreseen. When Legerton had offered to recommend him for the post of king’s moneyer in Lincoln, it had seemed an attractive proposition. There were two royal mints in Grantham and the one in which de Stow worked had been the smaller of the two and of less consequence. The stipend for the Lincoln post was much higher than he had been earning in Grantham, as was the commission he, and Legerton, received on the amount of coinage that passed through their hands.

  The problems that plagued him had begun to arise during the move from one town to the other. He and Blanche had sent their furniture to Lincoln by river barge and, during the journey, the barge had capsized. All their belongings, except for some clothing and personal possessions they had taken with them on their journey by road, had been lost and required a considerable sum to replace. Then Helias had arrived at the Lincoln mint and found some minor equipment was in need of replacement—the bellows for the forge were starting to rot and two of the hammermen’s tables were full of woodworm. He had also been dismayed to discover that a few stones in the outer wall were loose and in need of repair. Although the latter was not extremely urgent, it could not be delayed too long lest the security of the mint be compromised. Legerton had assured the moneyer he would be reimbursed by the crown for these necessities, but the promised payment had not arrived. When the cost of bringing the mint up to a reasonable standard was added to the sum needed to replace most of the household furniture, de Stow’s savings had not been enough to cover the total outlay. He had been forced to take desperate measures to try to extricate himself from his predicament and was worried they would prove disastrous. And now there was Peter’s untimely death to exacerbate the whole sorry situation.

  De Stow took a sip of wine and tried to compose his thoughts. He must continue with the arrangements he had made and trust all would eventually be resolved in a satisfactory manner. Resolutely he picked up the quill and returned his attention to the composition of his letter to Peter’s mother, choosing his words carefully. He must try, as much as possible, to minimise the gor- ier details of her son’s death.

  Eight

  IN FRONT OF A BLAZING FIRE IN THE SOLAR, NICOLAA de la Haye sat with her female guests, all of whom, once Richard was wed to Eustachia, would be related to her by marriage. She was having difficulty in giving her full attention to the conversation of the other women, for her mind kept drifting to the conversation she had had with her husband the previous evening. Gerard’s concern that an unreported trove could be involved in the murder of the clerk was, in her opinion, well-founded.

  Tales of corruption among those who manufactured and distributed coins of the realm were not uncommon and, because it was now the season of Christ’s Mass, Nicolaa recalled the story she had been told of an event that had taken place seventy-five years before at this very same time of year. The first King Henry had been on the throne then and, having discovered that a number of his moneyers were guilty of abasing the silver pennies issued in his name, had summoned them to Winchester and confronted them with their crimes. One by one, and despite the fact that he and his court were celebrating the holy days of Christ’s birth, the king had sentenced them all to be emasculated and their right hands cut off.

  Nicolaa shivered, her diminutive, slightly plump frame overcome with a tremor of fear. If John believed that Gerard was part of any scheme that involved embezzling monies rightfully due to the crown, not even her friendship with the king, and the trust he had always placed in her, would deter him from subjecting her husband to the same harsh punishment.

  Her attention was caught by a remark directed to her by Egelina Bassett, Eustachia’s mother, who was voicing her concern that the weather would not hold fine for the day of her daughter’s betrothal. Egelina and Nicolaa had been friends f
or many years through the acquaintanceship of their husbands, and although Egelina was not an overly intelligent woman, Nicolaa was very fond of her and admired the loving firmness with which she had raised both of her girls.

  Eustachia was of a more serious mien than her younger sister, but had inherited her father’s acumen and would, Nicolaa thought, make a suitable wife for Richard. Her son had spent the years of his training for knighthood in Gilbert Bassett’s household and had always spoken of his admiration for the baron’s elder daughter, claiming she combined good sense with womanly grace. Although her son did not realise it, Nicolaa was sure Richard’s favourable impression of Eustachia was mainly due to the fact that the girl had the wit to discern that most men preferred a woman who listened rather than chattered. Eustachia was also sensible in the matter of her appearance; her colouring was dark, almost Italianate, and today she was wearing a gown of muted blue set with trimmings of dark green that contrasted subtly with her skin and gave it a rosy glow. While her features were not completely handsome—her eyes were set a little too close together and her teeth were crooked—her expression was pleasing, and she possessed an even temper. There was no doubt in Nicolaa’s mind that Eustachia was very fond of Richard; the castellan had seen the tender expression that came over the girl’s face whenever she looked his way. All in all, the castellan thought, the match was pleasing to both young people. Since marriages among the nobility were usually arranged for the purpose of forging a favourable alliance, it was not often the two people concerned embarked on a marriage based on love, or even mutual regard. That Richard and Eustachia would be an exception to this generality was a rarity for which Nicolaa was thankful.

  The castellan’s gaze went to Lucia, the younger of Egelina and Gilbert’s two daughters. The sisters were a contrast in opposites. Lucia had a pretty face that was always animated, hair of rich auburn and an entrancing smile that showed off her small even teeth to advantage. Even though she was only sixteen years of age, her figure was already lush, with a swelling bosom and lissom hips. At the moment, Lucia was speaking volubly to her cousin Maud of Turville about Maud’s son, Stephen, telling the boy’s mother that Stephen had been most interested in the gestures the Templar’s mute servant had been using to convey his thoughts to the clerk that sat beside him at the banquet last night. She was also expressing her opinion that she thought Stephen should be taught some of them.