The Alehouse Murders Page 9

  When the last of the procession, a few members of the butcher’s guild, passed into the Minster, the crowd flooded behind, laughter and merriment cresting like waves in the wake of a boat. As the last of the revelers disappeared, Bascot and Gianni left the walkway and descended into the bail.

  The huge open space was almost empty, only the shrill cries of a goose girl shooing her errant flock back into their pen breaking the unusual stillness. A faint clanging could be heard from the blacksmith’s forge but it was halfhearted and stopped as the Templar and Gianni walked towards the main gate. Down the wooden walkway of the keep’s forebuilding, a party of nobles was descending. Bascot recognised Richard Camville, Nicolaa and Gerard’s son, in the lead, walking beside Conal, Philip de Kyme’s son-by-marriage. Conal was looking straight ahead, his bright fair hair riffling in the breeze and a sullen look on his handsome face, lips pursed and chin high. Richard kept pace with him, slicing a glance at his companion now and then, but saying nothing. Behind them came Gerard and Philip de Kyme, the latter red faced and angry, shouting words lost by distance to Bascot at the descending back of his stepson, while Camville laid a restraining hand on the arm of his friend.

  Suddenly de Kyme stopped and turned on the stair. Behind him and Camville were Lady Nicolaa and another woman that Bascot recognised as Sybil, de Kyme’s wife, a tall thin woman with a long face and sad eyes. She was watching her husband and son with an expression that was a combination of anger and grief. De Kyme mouthed something at her and she flinched visibly, then straightened as Lady Nicolaa, copying her husband, laid a hand warningly on her shoulder.

  At the bottom of the stairs, which Conal and Richard had just reached, Sybil de Kyme’s son turned and, his hand at his sword, started to run back up the steps towards his mother’s husband. As if with one accord, Richard Camville grabbed his companion forcefully about the shoulders and Gerard, his hand dropping to the blade at his belt, stepped in front of de Kyme. For a moment it was like a tableau as the four men, two young and two middle-aged, glared at each other. Then de Kyme tried to push Gerard aside and scrabbled at his own blade, shouting as he did so. Smaller and slighter, he had no chance of moving the sheriff, who stood like a rock barring his passage. Suddenly Conal shook himself loose of Richard’s grasp and marched back down the steps and across the bail in the direction of the stables. Richard, after a glance at his parents, shook his head and followed him. Camville released his sword hilt, laughed, and then flung an arm about de Kyme and led him off across the bail to the armoury, while Nicolaa and her companion slowly descended the stairs, Sybil de Kyme with faltering steps and an unsteady hand on the rail. Behind them came a group of other ladies, veils and sleeves fluttering, heads together as they spoke in whispers and gave covert glances at the back of Sybil de Kyme.

  As the group moved slowly towards the main gate and went through it, trailed by a few younger squires and pages, Ernulf appeared at the top of the forecastle steps, a linen-wrapped bundle under his arm. He saw Bascot and hailed him, signalling him to wait, then trotted down the stairs and over to where he stood.

  “A monk from the priory came while the procession was passing,” he said. “Brought the two dead youngsters’ clothing. Seems the nuns got ’em cleaned as best they could and dried ’em in yesterday’s sun before the storm came. Also said that Father Anselm is still alive, but only just. Seems none of his vital organs were damaged, as far as can be told, but he is very weak. Brother Jehan is dosing him with a potion to keep him asleep. Give the wound a chance to start mending.”

  Bascot digested the news and took the bundle from Ernulf. “I’m glad the nuns were so swift with the clothing,” he said. “Since it seems that Father Anselm will not be able to communicate with anyone just yet, I shall visit some of the drapers today and see if they can identify the cloth.”

  “Even if they do, it might have travelled far and wide before it was made into the clothes those two were wearing,” Ernulf opined.

  “I know, but it’s a logical place to start.” Bascot looked at the serjeant with a raised eyebrow. “What was the ruckus between the de Kyme’s?”

  Ernulf shrugged, his seamed face set into disgruntled lines. “De Kyme woke with a head mazed with wine. Decided to ease the ache by blaming his wife for some imagined thing or other. Conal said some hard words about the treatment of his mother—quite right, too, by my way of thinking, the lady is ill-used by her husband most of the time—and de Kyme turned on him, like he usually does. Told the lad he was a sorry excuse for a man, let alone a knight, and said he wished that both he and his mother had never come into his sight. Said he had the hammer to make more sons, but Sybil’s anvil could produce only the like of Conal or nothing at all and he was going to set the matter straight. The boy took offence—as who wouldn’t?—and it was only by young Richard and Sir Gerard intervening that there wasn’t more than hard words said. From the way de Kyme spoke,” Ernulf added musingly, “it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s sent off to the archbishop for licence to have his marriage dissolved. He and Conal’s mother are cousins of a sort, even if distant. Could be grounds for consanguinity.”

  The serjeant rubbed his face with a distracted hand as he finished speaking. “Well, nothing to do with us and these murders, is it? Lady Nicolaa said as I was under your orders until the matter got sorted out. Do you want me to accompany you today, or have you another errand? I could take a walk down to Butwerk; ask among the prostitutes about the dead girl, if you like. Might help if I had her clothing, though. Someone might recognise it.”

  Bascot considered a moment. “Let’s go together, Ernulf. The drapers might be more content to answer my questions once they have assured themselves there are profits in the offing.”

  “And the harlots will be less busy this morning than tonight,” Ernulf agreed with a grin. “But it’s a fair piece for you to walk with that ankle, what with the crowds and all. If we get mounts, we can ride outside the walls down to the lower town. Be easier on all of us.”

  Bascot agreed and they walked towards the stables. Just before they reached the open gates, a large black stallion shot out, Conal on its back, kicking hard with his spurs. Behind him thundered another mount, a heavy bay ridden by Richard Camville, who was calling to his friend to slow his pace. Conal paid no attention, but galloped headlong across the bailey, scattering the goose girl’s flock once more, and rode through the west gate, across the drawbridge and out into the open countryside, Richard behind him. They left a cloud of dust and goose feathers in their wake.

  “Let’s hope there’s not more blood spilled before sunset,” Ernulf said sadly. “Lady Nicolaa’s trencher is already as full as it needs to be without de Kyme and the results of his bad temper adding to it.”

  “At least if there’s murder done amongst the de Kymes we won’t have to look far for the culprit,” said Bascot, not realising, as he spoke, that he would soon have cause to remember the careless words.

  Once mounted they left by the same gate as the two young men but at a more sedate pace. Dust whirls still lingered along the track that Conal and Richard had taken. Bascot, with Gianni riding pillion and the serjeant’s mount behind, descended the hill, hard under the lee of the castle wall to start with, then beside the stone boundaries of the city as they descended still farther, finally reaching the lower part of Lincoln town and the banks of the River Witham.

  Along the riverside a path led, beside which barges laden with goods lifted gently in the tide, and fishing boats and small coracles were moored. The water in this part of the river had been turned a muddy brownish grey colour by the effluence discharged from the vats of the dyers, most of whom had premises in nearby Walkergate. A few mangy curs patrolled the docks, snarling at each other and engaging in the occasional fight. The air was filled with the furious shrieks of scavenging birds as they swooped to pick up a dead fish or eel, vying for their prey with the rats that scurried under the wharves, black eyes and sleek fur flashing as they darted out of reach of the birds�
�� sharp beaks.

  The path along the bank led to High Bridge and the trio turned and entered the lower town through Briggate, horses at a slow walk, and made their way past Saltergate and Baxtergate towards Stonebow, the principal gate into the city. Once through its impressive arch, they bore east until they came to Butwerk, a poor suburb of Lincoln situated across the expanse of the Werkdyke, a huge ditch into which most of the filth from the surrounding area was thrown. Here, in Butwerk, were the stewes where the harlots of Lincoln lived and offered their charms for sale.

  Ernulf led the way to Whore’s Alley, the main street of the district. The buildings, like those in most of Lincoln, were of three stories, but these were more cheaply built and the top floors sloped inwards towards each other across the street, so close in some places that they seemed in imminent danger of collapse. Most of the casement shutters were closed, even though the day was well advanced, and the walls of the buildings were shabby, cracked in places and buttressed by timber that was warped and split. Except for a couple of bedraggled cats, there was no sign of life, just a sour smell from the rubbish overflowing the open drain that ran down the middle of the street.

  “Who holds the fee for these properties?” Bascot asked Ernulf. “I have not seen any of Butwerk listed among the Haye lands.”

  “There were a couple in the days of Sir Richard,” Ernulf answered, “but when her father died, Lady Nicolaa got rid of them.” The serjeant smiled. “He was a rare lecher, Sir Richard, although he didn’t have need to come to such whores as live here. But Lady Nicolaa didn’t want to have rents earned by prostitutes in her coffers, so she sold off all the properties here when she came into her inheritance.”

  He looked up the street to where it ended in a wall that had been built to contain the area. “Most of the houses belong to whatever stewe-keeper lives in ’em. Bought with money loaned by the Jews, of course. Usual arrangement, you know, the Jews loan the money for the purchase, then whoever has borrowed it pays it back, plus interest. Most of ’em manage to keep going and make a profit. The Jews are happy to have the property as surety for their silver and are satisfied if they only get the interest each year. But if trade slacks off and a stewe-holder can’t pay the interest then he has to sell and pay the Jew his money. Not too many have to do that, though. Whoring can be profitable if the girls are toothsome.”

  As he finished speaking, they turned into Whore’s Alley and Ernulf stopped his mount at the first door. He and Bascot slid down from their saddles and gave the reins of the horses to Gianni to hold. The serjeant banged on the wood in front of him, saying as he did so, “Probably all still asleep. I expect trade will be brisk tonight and they’ll need to have taken some rest. There’ll be customers aplenty once the daylight is gone.”

  His knocking finally brought a response. The door in front of them was pulled open, but just a cautious crack. Behind it was a shabbily attired individual with a face that closely resembled a ferret. His dark dirty hair fell down cheeks shadowed with week-old stubble, and his few remaining teeth were black with rot. Eyes sliding nervously from Ernulf to the Templar and back again, he asked, with a feeble attempt at heartiness, “What are you doing here, serjeant? Come to sample one of my beauties, have you?”

  “Not likely, Verlain. I don’t need a dose of the pox at my age.”

  “My wenches are all clean,” the stewe-keeper protested. “You know they are. The bailiff inspects them every week, just as he’s supposed to. I keeps the king’s ordinances, I do. And the town’s as well. No victuals or ale on the premises, no woman kept against her will, and I don’t charge any of the girls’ more than four pence for her room. If that’s why you’re here, then . . .”

  Ernulf stopped the man, whose voice had dropped into a whine. “If you’re such a saint, Verlain, how is it the city bailiff tells me he has to fine you regularly for breaking the very ordinances you’ve just told me you keep?”

  “Only once or twice, serjeant, only once or twice, when bad times was on me and I had need to pay my money to the Jew. I wouldn’t have broken the injunctions otherwise, I swear.” The stewe-keeper’s voice now had a grovelling tinge. “If you’ve come to check up on me, you must know that with the fair on . . .”

  Again Ernulf stopped him. “That you’ve got more wenches in your house than you’re supposed to have and that I might just find a pot or two of ale about the place. Well, if you have and if I do, then I might just let the bailiff know about it. Unless, of course, you answer my questions, and any Sir Bascot has to ask you.”

  Bowing, and unctuously assuring them of his willingness to comply with any wishes they might have, the stewe-keeper let his visitors into the premises, and they walked across an entryway lit only by the light of a guttering rush lamp and into a large room. Pushed against the walls were a number of stools and, in the farthest corner, stood a plain wooden table with a scarred and stained surface. On it were some empty tumblers and an unstoppered jack of ale.

  Ernulf raised an eyebrow as he looked at the forbidden liquor and Verlain hastily assured him it was only for his own and the harlots’ consumption. The serjeant nodded, then said, “Your women, all asleep, are they?”

  “Upstairs, resting,” the stewe-keeper confirmed.

  “Well, wake ’em up and tell ’em to get down here. We want to ask if they know of any doxy from round here that’s disappeared in the last couple of days, and to look at some clothes and see if they recognise them.”

  “Is this about that whore found murdered in the alehouse, serjeant?” Verlain asked. “It weren’t no girl of mine, that I promise you. I don’t have to wake ’em up for you to ask ’em. I can vouch for their answer.”

  “Can you?” Ernulf said sarcastically. “Well, unless I hear their answers myself—and without you prompting their replies—I might think as how you know more about that murder than you’re telling. And if I think that, then I might consider that maybe I should drag you by the heels and hand you over to one of Sheriff Camville’s men and let him ask the questions.”

  No more threat was needed. The stewe-keeper almost ran from the room in his haste to acquiesce with Ernulf’s request. Within moments half a dozen sleepy-eyed harlots were standing in the room before them. They were in varying stages of undress, ranging in age from young to old. Some had a jaded prettiness, but most looked haggard and, without exception, wore an expression of irritation at being disturbed from their rest. Once the bawds heard the reason for which they had been summoned, however, they all willingly examined the clothing and listened carefully to Ernulf’s description of the girl who had worn it. But even so, none could remember any girl of their acquaintance that was missing nor, they claimed, had they ever before seen the clothes held out for their inspection. Bascot did not interrupt Ernulf as the serjeant spoke to them, merely watched the women’s reactions closely. As far as he could tell, none of them seemed to be lying and when Ernulf looked at him to see if he wished to ask anything further, Bascot shook his head.

  As they left the stewe, the keeper’s voice rasped grat-ingly in their ears as he wished them good fortune with their quest and, with obvious relief, shut the door behind them.

  Eleven

  THROUGH A CHINK IN THE SHUTTER OF AN UPPER STOREY casement, a stewe-keeper in a house at the far end of Whore’s Alley watched Ernulf and Bascot as they knocked at each door on the street in turn. The watcher was a man of middle years, with thin straggly hair that had once been yellow and was now stained by dirt and time to the colour of greasy pewter. He had a face much like a loaf of unbaked bread, soft and lumpy, but his eyes were sharp and almost as black as currants. His name was Bernard, but because when he was younger he had been called Le Brun on account of the darkness of his eyes, Bernard had been corrupted into Brunner and it was as such that he was known.

  He waited nervously as the serjeant and the Templar made their slow progress down the street. He knew that they would soon arrive at his own door and he waited with indecision, uncertain as to whether to ta
ke refuge in flight over the wall or to stay and do as he had promised Wat the day before the alekeeper had been found dead. Brunner had never thought matters would come to such a pass. Wat had merely told him there was a goodly pile of silver to be had if he gave the alekeeper one of his harlot’s old gowns and was to tell anyone, if asked, that the girl who would be wearing it was known to him as a prostitute.

  Never had he thought that murder would be involved. Nor had Wat apparently, since he had not foreseen his own death. The alekeeper had hinted that the money would be forthcoming from someone of high birth and Brunner had assumed that the whole charade was designed to compromise some girl who was, perhaps, dunning a young lord to marry her. It wouldn’t be the first time hot blood had led to rash promises which were later regretted. During his time as a stewe-holder he had seen more than one young buck get heartsick over a fresh little doxy. A few beddings were usually all that was needed to make the ardour disappear.

  When Brunner had heard of Wat’s death, and that there had also been a dead female dressed as a harlot along with him, he had felt the sharp taste of dread rise on the back of his tongue. To dispel it he had reminded himself that only Wat had known of Brunner’s involvement and, if any enquiries were made, he could simply deny knowledge of the dead woman or her dress. The gown had only been an old shabby one, after all, belonging to a harlot that had died the year before. That thought had comforted him until yesterday night when, after all his wenches were tucked up in their rooms with customers, he had found a scrap of parchment lying on the bed in his room. Brunner couldn’t read, but it wasn’t necessary to be literate to understand the drawings that had been limned on the paper. In black ink two prostrate figures had been sketched, one with a broken head and the other with a knife stuck in his heart. It was easy to identify the man with the crushed skull for he had a huge belly just like Wat and a barrel of ale had been pictured standing beside him. The other, blood pouring from the wound in its chest, had black eyes inked in, just like his own. He knew it for a warning that he must keep to the story Wat had told him to tell and, if he didn’t, he would be as dead as the alekeeper now was. The sour taste of fear had quickly returned.