Murder for Christ's Mass tk-4 Read online

  “I think what your father means, Richard,” Bassett interjected, “is that if any coins from a hidden cache have been discovered, this silversmith-Tasser-has the means to melt them down in his workshop. Once that is done, who is to prove the silver was once part of a hidden cache? It would be an impossible task.”

  “Exactly,” Gerard Camville confirmed. “And Tasser is just the sort of miscreant who would do so. He has never been averse to lining his own coffers with wealth stolen from others.”

  “Ernulf told me you found the corpse of Fardein near to the castle gate, lord,” Bascot said. “Was it near enough to the gate tower that one of the guards might have seen him or the person that killed him?”

  “The apprentice must have been murdered before this last fall of snow, for he was buried deep under it,” Camville said. “That means he has been there for at least three, possibly four, days. The guards assure me that because of the weather, there was little traffic through the western gate during that time and only those who were expected came in or out; carters bringing loads of wood and a couple of charcoal burners with fuel for the castle braziers. The guards saw no one else nearby during the day, or at night either, and definitely not anyone carrying a torch or lantern. There are two small postern gates in the western wall of the city that are near the entrance to the castle; Fardein must have either walked to his death or been killed in the town and his body dragged to the spot.”

  Camville stopped in his pacing and cursed. “I am certain Tasser had something to do with these deaths. He is too clever to have wielded the dagger that killed them, but I am sure he is behind the murders.”

  “Do you wish me to interrogate him, lord?” Bascot asked.

  “I do,” Camville grunted. “And you do not have to worry about the niceties of your questions, although I still want my suspicion of a trove kept privy. Take Roget with you. Search the silversmith’s workshop and home; look for any item that may have doubtful provenance, especially coinage. You may be as rough as you like. Tasser has proved he rides a thin line between what is legal and what is not; you need not be concerned if you give him offence.”

  “If Tasser’s apprentice was murdered a few days ago, and the silversmith was involved in the crime, any incriminating evidence will have been removed from his premises by now,” Bascot said.

  “I know, but I want you to put the fear of God, and my authority, into him. If you shake his bones enough, he may let something slip.”

  Before he went down into the town to question the silversmith, Bascot went to the castle chapel to examine the corpse of Roger Fardein. Camville had told him there was nothing on the body to indicate a possible reason for his murder; the dead man’s scrip was still attached to his belt and had been empty except for two silver pennies, but the Templar wanted to inspect his wounds. In a previous case of murder, such an examination had provided an important guide to finding the perpetrator. He was hoping it might do so again.

  After sending one of the castle men-at-arms into town with a request for Roget, the former mercenary soldier who was captain of the sheriff’s town guard, to meet him near the silversmith’s workshop on Mikelgate, Bascot went into the chapel. It was a small place of worship and, except for morning Mass, most of the castle household attended services at the church of St. Clement just outside the north-west corner of the bail, but there was an alcove in the chapel where a bier could be laid to serve as a resting place for any who died within the castle walls. It was here that Fardein had been laid to await removal to his coffin.

  The silversmith’s apprentice looked to be about twenty-four or twenty-five years old. He had a broad face with a nose that was slightly flattened and dark red hair. His high cheekbones gave his face an almost oriental cast and the skin was riddled with broken veins, giving him an appearance of dissipation. The flesh of his face and hands was a mottled white. His clothes were of poor quality-a dark brown tunic of fustian and hose of rough wool. His cloak was of cheap material and bore no clasp, only ties at the neck to secure it. It was wet and bedraggled. Bascot saw the rent in the front of Fardein’s tunic and pulled the cloth apart to examine the wound. It was as he had expected from the sheriff’s description, a deep and jagged hole between the ribs over the heart. The incision appeared to have been made by a blunter, and broader, instrument than the narrow wound inflicted on Brand. The flesh around the wound was covered with blood that had dried after he was stabbed but later become viscous from its covering of moisture-laden snow.

  The Templar felt gently at the back of Fardein’s head and found the place where a blow had fractured the skull. It was a shallow depression, and had it been the only injury inflicted, there was a good possibility the apprentice would have recovered. Nonetheless, the clout would have been strong enough to take him out of his senses for a time and make it easy for his attacker to stab him, just as could have happened to the clerk.

  Fardein’s possessions had been removed and laid beside him on the bier. Bascot first examined the scrip. It was of rough leather and still fastened to the dead man’s belt. As the sheriff said, it contained only two silver pennies. Alongside it lay a dagger and a small cudgel, the latter made of solid hickory and of the type many men carried for protection. The Templar fingered it thoughtfully. Neither weapon bore any trace of blood. Why had the apprentice not used one of them to defend himself? Perhaps because he had known his attacker, or been assaulted from behind? These questions and more all needed to be answered, but it appeared that nothing likely to prove useful could be learned from the condition of Fardein’s body or his few possessions.

  Asking heaven’s forgiveness for his intrusion, Bascot rearranged Fardein’s clothing and left the chapel.

  Roget was waiting outside the silversmith’s workshop when Bascot guided his horse down Mikelgate to Tasser’s manufactory. There were a few people about, but not many, even though the streets had been shovelled clear of snow. Piles of dirty slush lay heaped in intermittent piles alongside the thoroughfare. Thankfully, the temperature had stayed above freezing point and although the cobbles underneath his horse’s feet were wet, they were not slick with ice. Bascot dismounted in front of the silversmith’s door and, tying the reins of his horse to one of the posts placed at intervals along the street, greeted Roget.

  The captain of Camville’s guard had a countenance that would strike fear into the heart of any miscreant having the misfortune to encounter him. Black visaged, and with the scar of an old sword slash running from temple to chin, he had a powerful, rangy build and an aggressive stance. He gave Bascot a smile as the Templar came up, revealing strong white teeth that were gapped in places. The two men knew each other well and had become friends over the time Bascot had been in Lincoln.

  “Hola, de Marins,” Roget said. “I got your message.” He looked up at the sign hanging above Tasser’s door, a wooden board painted with a picture of a silver cup on a blue background. “I hope you want my help to interrogate this chien. It would give me great pleasure to beat some truths out of him.”

  Bascot laughed. “The sheriff told me that he is not the most honest of men. I understand his criminal activities have given you some trouble in the past.”

  “More than I care to remember,” Roget replied. “Tasser is a thief of the worst kind. He lets others take the risk of stealing but ensures, by his slyness, that he garners the profit for himself. He is slippery, like an eel, and just as difficult to catch.”

  Bascot told him about the discovery of Fardein’s body outside the castle gate. “What kind of man was the apprentice? I have examined his body but that does not give me his measure.”

  “He was an apprentice in more than silversmithing to Tasser,” Roget said grimly. “As a child apes a parent, so did Fardein copy his master. He was often in one tavern or another, all of the lowest type, and huddled together with men who have had their noses clipped for thievery. I am sure he helped Tasser buy stolen goods but I have never been able to prove it.”

  Bascot considered t
his information and then said, “The sheriff thinks the body of the apprentice may have been taken outside the town through one of the postern gates. Either that, or Fardein walked through it willingly with his attacker before he was killed. How carefully are the gates watched by your guards?”

  Roget thought for a moment. “There is no gateward on any of them, but my men ensure they are shut and barred at curfew.” He shrugged, a Gallic movement of his shoulders. “But the gates are closed to keep intruders outside the city walls, not to prevent honest citizens from leaving. They are only sealed by means of an iron bar across the inside. It would be an easy matter to remove the bar and leave the gate open for a couple of hours without my guards noticing, then reenter the town and close it again. I will ask my men if they noticed anything untoward during their nightly rounds over the last few days, but I am sure they would have reported it if they had.”

  “Do that, Roget, but in the meantime let us see what Tasser has to say about the death of his apprentice. I want to know why he didn’t raise an alarm when Fardein failed to report for work over the last few days. Sheriff Camville has given his permission for us to be as forceful as we like with our interrogation.”

  Roget’s mouth split into a grin. “I am glad to hear it, mon ami. It will make this task one greatly to my liking.”

  Eleven

  Within an hour of the finding of Roger Fardein’s body, report of his murder had spread through Lincoln. The first to relate it was a chandler who had been in the castle ward when the guards brought the body into the bail. When the chandler left the bail, he related it to an acquaintance he met in Ermine Street. A few minutes later the chandler’s acquaintance told the story to one of the flesh mongers in the market and the monger, in turn, repeated the news to every customer who stopped at his stall. After that, rumour of the death, like the heavy rain that had fallen on Lincoln before Christ’s Mass, flooded through every street in the town.

  Two hours later, in a large room on the upper floor of Helias de Stow’s house, two women sat in company with each other. One of them, and the older of the pair, was de Stow’s wife, Blanche; the other was the spouse of the assayer, Simon Partager, a vivacious young woman named Iseult. They sat in front of a roaring fire, drinking watered wine heated with a hot poker. Blanche was stitching on a tapestry while her companion sat idle, toying with an expensive bangle encircling her wrist.

  The two women were not much alike in appearance or nature. The moneyer’s wife was a plump woman with plain features, but she had about her an air of competence while Iseult, although very handsome with long braids of corn-coloured hair and flashing eyes of deep blue, had a petulant manner. As she sat sipping her wine, there was a decided droop in her full red lips.

  “You have heard there has been another murder in the town?” Iseult said in an effort to make conversation with the woman across from her. Although their husbands worked together, they had little of common interest to share, but Iseult was bored and had come to the moneyer’s house in the hope that Blanche would be willing to engage in the gossip buzzing about the town.

  “Yes,” Blanche replied. “An apprentice to a silversmith named Warner Tasser, I believe.”

  Iseult nodded, becoming slightly more animated. “It is said that Tasser is responsible-that his apprentice became privy to the silversmith’s nefarious dealings and Tasser killed him to ensure his silence.”

  Blanche pursed her mouth in disapproval. Iseult had come to Lincoln with her husband two days before and was staying in the exchange while he assayed a quantity of coinage. The rooms above the exchanger’s office could be lonely while Simon was at work and Iseult had come to Blanche for company to while away the tedium. From prattle told to Blanche’s maid by the girl that served Iseult-which had in turn been repeated to Blanche by her maidservant-the moneyer’s wife knew that Partager had only insisted on his wife accompanying him to Lincoln because he feared she would be keeping his place in their bed at Canwick warm with his employer, Walter Legerton.

  Blanche flashed a glance from beneath her brows at the woman who sat across from her. Iseult was beautiful, it was true, but her prettiness was too bold for a married woman. Blanche was not sure if Legerton was the first man on whom Iseult had bestowed her adulterous favours in her short married life, but she was certain he would not be the last.

  “Many things are carelessly said after someone is murdered,” Blanche said reprovingly, “but that does not mean they are true. You would do well to remember, Iseult, that my husband’s clerk was also murdered. Would you be so anxious to repeat gossip that accused Simon, or my Helias, of killing him?”

  Iseult reared back in her chair, shocked. She did not particularly like Blanche and knew the feeling was mutual, but never before had the moneyer’s wife spoken to her in such acerbic tones.

  “There is no one who would dare accuse my husband of murder,” Iseult said defensively. “He is a respected man.”

  “So is mine,” Blanche said placidly. “But that does not mean they do not have enemies who would be only too pleased to spread gossip harmful to their reputations.” She gave Iseult a piercing look. “You should be more careful of repeating rumours, mistress. The Bible admonishes us not to judge lest we be judged. Are you so free of sin you have no fear of finding yourself a target for malice one day?”

  Iseult stood up, her nostrils flaring. “Any who would say evil words about me are just jealous, that is all.” She tossed her head and the heavy yellow braids under her coif slithered forward enticingly over her ample bosom. Her eyes narrowed as she reached for her cloak, which she had thrown over the back of a settle when she came in. “Women, especially older ones, always bear enmity towards those who are young and beautiful. Their comments do not interest me, nor do I take heed of them.”

  With this vituperative pronouncement, she flung the cloak about her shoulders and left the room. Blanche heard the outer door slam as Iseult left the house. The moneyer’s wife smiled to herself and went back to stitching her tapestry. Now she would not have to endure the burden of listening to Iseult’s inane chatter for the rest of the afternoon.

  At Canwick, Walter Legerton was sitting in the little chamber where he and Partager had spoken to Bascot. With him was his sister, Silvana. Together they were reviewing the household accounts.

  “You have been too generous with the gifts you purchased for New Year’s Day, Brother,” Silvana said in gentle admonition. “There was no need to buy that costly jewelled comb for Partager’s wife. The gold bracelet you gave her just a few weeks ago was surely enough to sate her hunger for expensive finery.”

  Legerton’s florid face flushed an even deeper red. “Simon is a good assayer. Whatever I give his wife is merely my way of showing appreciation for his industry.”

  Silvana gave him a sceptical glance. “Or that you value his wife’s company in your bed?”

  “That will soon be over,” her brother replied defensively. “It was amusing for a time, but my interest in her is waning.”

  “Then perhaps it is not wise to give her such an expensive trinket,” Silvana said thoughtfully. “Otherwise she will believe she retains your favour.”

  Legerton sighed. “You are right, Silvana,” he agreed. “I will give her something more in keeping with her position.”

  As her brother returned his eyes to the list of figures in front of him, Silvana felt a surge of affection smother her impatience with his lechery. She knew Walter was a weak man but she loved him dearly all the same. They had been together for many years now, ever since their father, a widower and a prominent silversmith in Lincoln, had died. Their sire, an upright and extremely moral man, had curbed Walter’s excesses while he was alive but, soon after their father’s death, her brother had sold the business he inherited and used the funds to buy the manor house at Canwick. Silvana had gone with him for, since the death of Walter’s wife in childbirth some years before, she had taken over the running of her brother’s household as well as the care of his two sons. It
suited them both; Silvana had never had any desire to wed and enjoyed the position of a married woman without the onerous task of bedding a husband, while Walter was ensured that the person in charge of his domestic affairs was one he could trust. Their fortune in life was bound up in each other, tied securely by the bond of shared blood.

  But lately Silvana had come to fear her brother was putting the financial security of their small family in jeopardy. She had advised him against selling their father’s business, but he had not listened to her, his eyes too eagerly set on living a life of ease away from the hard work of toiling in the silver manufactory. Once he had been awarded the post of exchanger-which he secured only by paying a hefty fee to the royal official who held the gift of the office in his hands-Walter had believed the commission he derived from the post would provide more than enough for him and his family to live on. But it had not taken long for him to realise that his hedonistic inclinations were proving far too expensive for his means. Entertaining and feeding the number of guests at Canwick during the feast of this year’s Christ’s Mass was too costly by far and Walter knew it, but he had invited all of them just the same, fearing he would be seen as parsimonious if he did not. Only Silvana knew of the desperate measures he was in and that he had borrowed money from one of the Jewish usurers in Lincoln to replenish his empty coffers.

  “Walter, you must curb your spending,” Silvana said gently. “Once Epiphany is over, and our guests have gone home, we must try to live simply. There is no need to have expensive viands at every meal and strew the manor house with costly trappings. If you do not bring yourself to practice more thrift, we will soon be reduced to penury.” The softness in her voice removed any sting from the rebuke.