31 - City of Fiends (16 page)

‘Yes, sir,’ she said reluctantly. ‘But . . .’

‘There is nothing more to be said. What, would you expect my wife to do this work? For shame!’

‘I have many duties, sir.’

‘I am aware. We shall attempt to ensure that the additional work is not onerous.’

Not onerous, she thought. Yet she was already busy all week. And he wanted her to take on Alice’s duties!

‘Well?’ Henry demanded. ‘Do you have an objection?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Good, because I would not like to lose you as well as Alice. She was an asset to the house. Be sure that you will be too. You know her duties, I think? In here, in our solar, you are to
keep all clean. Make sure that the fire’s lit, that the candles are all trimmed and ready . . . You will know. Now, you may go.’

She almost tried to object again, but in the face of his unflinching stare, she managed only a second flush, and with her head hanging, she hurried from the room, heart thudding painfully.

‘These idiots!’ he muttered. ‘God knows where we got them.’

‘Oh,
shut up
!’ Claricia spat suddenly, and walked from the room.

He was still in the hall a few minutes later, in shock, like a man who had stroked his pet pup only to have a finger bitten off, when there came a firm knock at the door and he heard old John
answer it, then announce.

‘Sir Baldwin de Furnshill and Sir Richard de Welles, sir.’

Paffards’ House

Baldwin and Sir Richard had told Simon about the inquest results and that a man had been heard running away from the area.

‘So, Simon, with luck we should be able to leave here very soon,’ Baldwin concluded. ‘Tomorrow morning, I hope to be able to advise Precentor Adam that either the murderer has
escaped, or that he remains in the Cathedral and his name is Father Laurence.’

‘What is the point of coming here to the Paffards’ house, then?’

Baldwin waited while Peter knocked at the door. ‘We are merely completing the task. Collecting facts. As you know, it is my belief that a murder is a story like any other. If we can
understand what the dead are trying to tell us, we can uncover the truth.’

‘But you know the truth, surely. The priest was there: he admits it.’

‘Yet he does not confess to murder – even though he would suffer little punishment, for his robes protect him. Why did he admit to being there? If he were the killer, surely he would
lie about that?’

‘So you think he’s innocent?’

‘I do not know, but I would like to be convinced that there was nobody else in the alley that night. Did the maid have a lover? Gregory Paffard was convinced she did not, but she did lie
with a man the day she died. And then was killed.’

‘Priests have taken women before now.’

‘Possibly, yes,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘But that would involve the priest being with her quite some time. How would that be, when he has already told me that he was only free for a
short time? Perhaps that was a lie, and Father Paul will expose him. We must speak with the good Father.’

He was still musing on these matters when the door swung open and John the bottler allowed them inside. He led them along a corridor, past a business chamber and a parlour, and out to a large
hall beyond.

As they walked, a door opened, and Baldwin saw Claricia Paffard standing there. She was a tall, well-built woman. Outside, Baldwin had scarcely noticed her because his attention was fixed on the
witnesses and Alice’s body, but now he saw Claricia more closely, he was struck by her appearance.

Once she would have been beautiful. Her hair was restrained decorously beneath her wimple, but her face was well-featured and very pleasing. She wore a long tunic of green velvet, bound about
her waist with a belt decorated with enamelled panels. There was rich embroidery at her throat and hem, and the overall impression was of a comfortable, wealthy woman, but for the expression in her
large, lustrous eyes. In them, Baldwin saw a despair that reminded him of something.

That expression nagged at him as he followed the steward into the hall. There, John stood aside to let them all in.

‘Ah, Peter! To what do I owe this pleasure?’ Henry said, rising from his chair.

Baldwin studied him. He saw that Paffard was under a strain. He tried hard, but could not hide his tension. ‘We met this morning, Master Paffard. At the inquest.’

‘Of course. Apart from you, I think?’ he said, looking at Simon, who introduced himself, and when he had done so, Henry continued, looking from one to the other: ‘I am at a
loss, I confess. How may I help you?’

‘How long had Alice been living here?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Some two years, I suppose – no, three. She was seventeen, and I recall she came here when she was but fourteen.’

‘She was happy?’

‘She was assiduous in the tasks given to her. I think she found satisfaction, yes.’

‘Did she have many friends?’

‘All the servants here would have been happy with her,’ Henry said quietly. ‘I am sure she wouldn’t have lacked companions.’

‘But what of men? She was young and attractive. Was there no one wooing her?’

‘If there was, I’d have had him thrashed, and if she had encouraged him, I’d have had her thrashed too, and thrown her from my door. I have a daughter of her age. I
wouldn’t have an incontinent maid under my roof fornicating with all and sundry!’

‘You take a strong line on such behaviour?’

‘There are many who relax their rules. I do not. It is not merely prurience: I have to consider the security of my house. If my maids were to bring young lemans here, any one of them could
be the first of a gang of picklocks who sought to steal in under dead of night to rob me. I will not have promiscuous wenches working here.’

‘That is very clear, I thank you,’ Baldwin said.

Simon could see from his friend’s expression that he disliked this merchant. Arrogant, bullying in manner, he was the archetype of the modern rich men whom Baldwin so detested.

‘So, you never saw her bring a friend into the house?’

‘Of course not!’

There was a kind of suppressed fury in his manner that intrigued Simon. Something Baldwin had said must have struck home, but he had no idea what that might be.

‘Did you see her in the company of a priest?’ Baldwin asked. ‘A vicar from the Cathedral?’

‘I said to you—’

A vicar is hardly the same as a young apprentice draw-latch, Master Paffard,’ Baldwin said bluntly. ‘Not many would attribute to a priest the same imperfections you attribute to
others.’

‘I saw no priest here. No. And she had no need of a vicar from the Cathedral. She was well served by the vicar at Trinity Church.’

‘Do you know of a Father Laurence?’

Henry shook his head quickly. ‘He’s from the Cathedral?’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. ‘He actually found the girl
before
Joan – but he denies killing her.’

‘The bastard! He denies it? You should question him most vigorously. Put him to the
peine forte et dure
until he confesses!’

‘We cannot do that, as you know. I shall definitely tell the Precentor of your suggestion, however. I am sure he will be pleased to do as you suggest,’ Baldwin said suavely.

Combe Street

Joan was glad to be out of the house when she was sent to empty the washing barrel. She carried it laboriously down to the street, and gazed into the gutter. There was a dead
rat and a dog blocking the way, and she carried the water a little further, tipping the heavy bowl beyond them so they wouldn’t dam the flow.

It was hard, doing all this work. Still, it was good to be out in the open air, even if the daylight was dying.

‘Hello, Joan. How are you?’

‘Peg – hello. I’m all right, but you’re about the first person to ask me. My own household are so bound up with the trouble Alice has put them to that they don’t
give me a thought.’

‘It must have been awful. Anastasia’s been desperate to get any bloodthirsty clues she can. I’ve told her to stop playing the ghoul, but you know what she’s
like.’

‘Yes.’ Joan shivered. She had herself been a young girl until Saturday, she thought.

‘Here, I heard you say the priest was running past. Was it the man from Holy Trinity? He’s been less good than he should have been,’ Peg said, eager to change the subject now
she noticed the sudden greenish tinge of Joan’s face. ‘Are you well?’

‘Yes, I’m fine. What do you mean about Father Paul?’

‘He’s been entertaining whores, according to two of the stable boys I heard talking about him. Apparently he takes them in at night. He says,’ Peg added with a roll of her
eyes, ‘that he’s just praying with them and feeding them. I’ll bet I can guess what sort of payment they give in return . . .’

Suddenly John the bottler was with them. ‘Well, you shouldn’t listen to such gossip, should you, Peg? Joan, back inside, girl, before Sal starts shouting for you. And I’m sure
you have work to get on with, Peg, eh?’

Cock Inn, Southgate Street

Peter left them as they walked from the Paffards’ house. He looked troubled after their meeting with Henry Paffard, and Simon felt a fleeting guilt in case it could cause
problems for his son-in-law, but then he reflected that the merchant had been rude and hectoring. He probably wasn’t used to being questioned in such a manner. It was enough to make him angry
when confronted by a trio such as Baldwin, Sir Richard and Simon. In any case, the man had probably forgotten all about them by now, Simon reckoned. He would be sitting at his great table with a
silver goblet, thinking about his business no doubt.

And now he looked up with a feeling of impending doom as Sir Richard stopped outside a rough-looking inn with a great sigh of contentment. Simon recognised his expression. Usually it portended a
bad headache for him on the morrow.

‘You know, it was in here that I was told the jest about the cleanest leaf. Did I tell you that one? Eh? What is the cleanest leaf in the world? Eh? Can’t get it? The Holly, because
no one would wipe his arse with one! Eh?’ He laughed uproariously, and Simon chuckled for his benefit. Sir Richard was a kind man, and while his jokes sometimes missed the mark, to offend him
would be like upsetting Baldwin’s Wolf. Easily achieved, but mean-minded.

Sir Richard de Welles strode into the inn, narrowly missing the low beam near the door, and stood looking approvingly all about him. It was a large establishment. There were stables behind,
which were reached by an alley between the wall and the inn itself, and at the rear of the hall were three large rooms with palliasses liberally scattered for those guests who needs must spend the
night here. For those who could not afford a palliasse in the communal sleeping quarters, there was a lean-to with straw spread on the ground.

‘I’ve used this inn on several occasions, and while the bedding charges are usurous, I am very content with the quality of the ale,’ Sir Richard boomed happily as he advanced
on the host. ‘Your best ale, Keeper, and bring it quickly!’

The owner of the inn glanced from Sir Richard to Baldwin, Simon and Edgar with a grimace. ‘Can you keep his voice down? He drowns out all my other clients put together.’

‘We shall do our best,’ Baldwin assured him. ‘Although it may not be good enough.’

‘Aye. It’d take a charge of chivalry to silence him,’ the innkeeper said sourly as he walked to his barrels.

The place was full of merchants and traders who were finished for the day. There was a group of five at the farther end of the room where the innkeeper had his bar, all talking in that loud
manner that denoted a good quarter-gallon of strong ale each. A pair of apprentices were playing at merrils nearer the doorway, and in a great huddle stood porters and leather-aproned smiths with
cooks and a pair of priests, all chatting animatedly. It was, Simon thought, a gathering that summed up the city itself. There were the men who made money, those learning how to, and the people who
moved goods around the city from seller to buyer, and all overlooked by the priests. And there were the women, of course, going from man to man in the hope of winning a few pennies. Wolf looked
around once without interest, and lay on the rushes near the fire.