31 - City of Fiends (17 page)

‘Could she have come here, do you think?’ Simon asked the others, nodding at the women.

Sir Richard looked at the nearest. He smiled broadly and winked, and she gave him an arch grin, making her way over to him.

She was the better-looking of the wenches here, he thought. A cuddly figure, and pretty face, with a tip-tilted nose and freckles.

‘Hello,’ she said.

‘I don’t think I know you. What’s your name?’ Sir Richard said.

‘You can call me Poll.’

He eyed her affably. ‘Well, Poll, I am glad to meet you. You haven’t been here very long, have you?’

‘I’ve been here two months.’

‘You are a most welcome addition to the inn,’ Sir Richard said.

She giggled and tried to climb into his lap.

‘No, Poll. You see, I’m a King’s Coroner, and these gentlemen and I are looking into a murder for the Precentor of the Cathedral. Did you know the girl who died on
Saturday?’

‘Alice?’ Poll’s grin faded. ‘No. Not me.’

‘Did she ever come into the inn?’

‘No.’

‘But you knew her, didn’t you?’

‘I said no.’

‘I know you did. But you’re a young lass, and she was, too. Much the same age as you, I’d think. Don’t you meet with the girls about here?’

‘No, I don’t. They don’t want to mix with my sort in case they get thought to be in my business.’

‘I see.’ Sir Richard remained silent, staring at her.

Poll reddened and began to look about her. ‘Look, I can’t stay here all night.’

‘No, of course.’

‘I didn’t know her.’

‘But?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You didn’t know her, but you certainly know someone who did.’

Poll threw him an indignant look. ‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Who is it, Poll?’

She grumbled to herself, then, ‘Algar, the stableman’s boy. He was very keen on her.’

‘I see,’ Sir Richard said.

She went away, and he turned to the others about the table. ‘I knew it was a good idea to come here.’

The innkeeper returned with their ales and as he was distributing the drinks, Sir Richard leaned back on his seat, which creaked dangerously. ‘So, my host, where is this stable-helper
Algar? We would speak with him.’

Paffards’ House

Claricia Paffard heard the men leave with a mixture of relief and anxiety. Relief that they were going without causing any arguments, and anxiety about her husband’s mood
after being interrogated.

She had heard much of their conversation, and the tone of Baldwin’s voice had shocked her. It was so rude to speak like that to her husband, especially in his own hall! Henry was too
important in the city for someone to come and hector him as though he was some pimply lurdan suspected of brawling.

‘Mistress? Are you all right?’

She spun around to see that Ben, her husband’s apprentice, was staring at her sympathetically.

‘Yes, of course I am,’ she said huskily, averting her face in shame. He was only being kind, she knew, but the fact remained that he was Henry’s apprentice, and she
couldn’t discuss her troubles with him. It just wouldn’t do. ‘I am fine.’

‘You know if I can help, mistress, I would be glad to,’ Ben went on.

She could not look at him: she knew that his eyes would be full of compassion. He hated to see her sad, ever since the day he had found her cowering in the little room off the dairy after Henry
had thrashed her with his belt. Ben had covered her back with a blanket and helped her to the kitchen, where Joan and Alice had been working.

Not that it aided her much. To have that
whore
minister to her had been so demeaning. The bitch had been sniggering at her, she was sure. All the time that Joan mixed the poultice, Alice
must have been enjoying Claricia’s discomfort.

‘Once I was able to help,’ he said.

‘No,’ she burst out. ‘Leave me!’

‘Call me if you need anything,’ he said, and would have left the room, but then John entered.

Claricia saw how John’s suspicious little eyes went straight to the apprentice. ‘Thank you, Ben. That will be all,’ she said. Ben nodded to her and sidled past the steward in a
hurry, but John kept his eyes on Ben until he was out of the room.

‘You need to watch that boy,’ he said.

‘I know you don’t trust him. But he is harmless.’

‘You think so?’ John snorted. ‘He is your husband’s apprentice. Devious and dangerous, he is. What if he stores up conversations with you to share with your
husband?’

‘There is no harm in him,’ Claricia said with quiet certainty, and gestured for the old bottler to leave her. Alone, she stood staring at herself in a mirror on the wall. Her eyes
were haunted, remembering. Once she had been young and beautiful, the spoiled child of a rich knight. That was why Henry wanted her, for her noble position. Sad to say, after her father died in
that inconsequential little battle in Roslin, his lands were sequestered. Without a son, there was little possibility that the family would be renewed, and it was then that she realised she must
marry. And she found Henry a good husband. At first, he loved her. It was only in the last thirteen years or so that he stopped giving her that affection that a wife craves. Instead he paid his
attentions to others.

Especially that strumpet Alice.

Claricia was not sorry she had died.

She was glad.

Cock Inn

Baldwin eyed the boy without pleasure.

Algar was a short, scrawny wretch, with a thatch of tallow hair that appeared to be as full of filth as the straw in the stables it resembled. His grubby face was sly, and Baldwin felt the
lad’s testimony was unlikely to be reliable.

Sir Richard gave the fellow a long stare, after which he drained his cup of ale, waving it at the innkeeper for a refill.

‘So, boy. I think you know why we’re here. You knew the girl who was murdered.’

‘What girl?’

‘Right. We’ll begin again, and this time you’ll be best served to keep a civil tongue in your head,’ Sir Richard rumbled with a genial wave of his hand. ‘Otherwise,
I will have you taken outside and strapped until you holler for peace. Understand me?’

The boy’s expression darkened, but he nodded.

‘Now, we are here because we’ve been told to look into the girl’s death. You knew her, didn’t you? We’ll have the truth this time.’

‘I didn’t know her exactly. I liked her, that’s all.’

Baldwin was convinced that this at least was true. The idea that this brutish fellow could have tempted Alice was a trifle hard to swallow.

‘Did
she
like
you
?’ Sir Richard asked patiently.

‘Dunno. She was often walkin’ past here. I used to see her. She was pretty.’

‘Did she come into the inn often?’

‘Not at first. But recently she’d started coming in.’

‘With whom? She wouldn’t enter an inn on her own.’

‘I’ve seen her with her master, Paffard, and his sons – that apprentice of his, too.’

‘Paffard used to bring her here?’

‘After they’d been about the city. They’d come here for a mess of pottage and ales before returning home.’

Baldwin could imagine them. A cheery group, the father bringing them in to one of the low tables, exercising his patronage with pride, for he was one of the richest men in the city. There were
not many who could compete with him when it came to demonstrations of largesse. They would walk in, Henry Paffard in the lead, then his sons, and last of all his apprentice and the maid, these last
only to show that their master was so wealthy, he could bring his apprentices and servants with him.

It was curious, nonetheless. Baldwin had not seen many men taking maidservants with them when they went to mess at an inn.

‘What of the day she died?’ Sir Richard continued. ‘Did you see her then?’

‘Not here, no,’ the boy said shiftily.

‘Where, then?’

‘It was late afternoon. My master told me to go and fetch a horse from the house of a clerk in Combe Street, and I was leading it back to the stables when I saw her. She was walking out
from her master’s house.’

‘From the alley, you mean?’ Baldwin asked.

‘No. She was coming out of the main door – as proud as a hen with a new chick, she was. Like she owned the place.’

Paffards’ House

Henry Paffard sat at his table for a long time after dark. John had already been in and banked the fire, so that it gleamed dully in the hearth, but John didn’t speak to
him. He rarely did. John was a servant from Claricia’s childhood whom she had insisted on bringing with her, and Henry was happy that the fellow was trained and effective in his job, while
not expensive. There were too many bottlers and stewards whom he had seen in his dealings about the city who cost their masters a small fortune.

John had set out a quart jug of wine before he retired, and Henry was more than halfway through it now. The wine didn’t help, though. His thoughts kept returning to those men with Peter
– Sir Baldwin, Sir Richard and their tatty friend Puttock. It had left him empty and drained when they had finished questioning him. He could see the contempt in their eyes when he spoke of
Alice. They seemed to think he had behaved badly.

They couldn’t understand. He wasn’t like them. Henry Paffard needed more women than others. He was strong, a tiger amongst the men of this city. Where he prowled, others ran or were
eaten. He had stronger urges – appetites, passions – than others. He couldn’t be measured by the same standard as other, lesser men.

That was their problem, after all. They were looking on him like some sort of equal. They didn’t realise who they were talking to. He wasn’t some shopkeeper who could be browbeaten.
He was Henry Paffard, member of the Freedom of the City, one of the richest men in the whole of Devon. In the country, perhaps.

Church of the Holy Trinity

The knock at his door brought Father Paul back from his reverie.

Since the service he had been thinking about that girl. Alice had been so pretty, it was a shock to think that she was dead, never to be seen again. And Paffard didn’t seem to want any
demonstration of affection. His sole concern was that, instead of being about their duties, his family and workers were all there at the Cathedral. It was all, from the look on his face, a
stupendous waste of time. And yet there were still those unshed tears in his eyes that appeared to belie his hard expression.

It was not only him. Claricia, he sensed, was just as miserable to be there. She had clearly not been fond of the girl – but if Alice was truly, as the rumours suggested, supplementing her
income by offering her body – Claricia would scarcely have been glad. A maidservant who flaunted herself, when Claricia had two sons in the household, both impressionable boys, and a husband
who must surely have an eye for such an attractive maid, would not have been a comfortable addition to her house. The bottler said nothing, but at least stood staring down into the grave with every
indication of sorrow, and when he was called away, he threw a look at Henry Paffard that was so full of vitriol, Father Paul was surprised it did not burn Henry where he stood.

‘Yes?’ he called as the knock came again. Father Paul slowly rose to his feet, stiff and weary, his mind still set upon Alice’s death. The creaking of his joints was louder
even than the crackle of his fire, and he grinned wryly to himself at the sound. There was no hiding the fact that he was an old man.

He walked to his door and set his hand on the latch – but then he felt a sudden inexplicable wariness. ‘Hello?’ he called.

The door instantly burst open, the timbers catching his forehead. He felt the door ride over his toes, pulling the nails from the quick, and would have screamed in agony, but for the man in the
doorway.

Father Paul looked up, and saw a tall man with a hessian sack over his face, clad in dark clothing, an old grey cloak hanging tight at his shoulders, who shoved him inside, slamming him against
the wall, face to the hard lime-washed plaster.

When he spoke, it was in a rough whisper that terrified Father Paul. ‘Shut up, little priest! Shut up or I’ll shut you up forever!’

‘What do you want?’

‘There are stories about you, Father. Stories that you use the bitches from the stews, that you fornicate with abandon, with two or three at a time. Stories I can back up, with witnesses.
Remember that, priest.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, man! I don’t keep women!’

‘What of Sunday? Two whores in here, in the House of God, and you bulling them both, here, in His holy place. You are obscene!’

‘My son, you don’t understand! I gave them food, and they left. I didn’t—’

‘You will forget what you saw.’

Father Paul looked up at him. ‘Forget what? I don’t know what you mean.’

The masked face pressed closer. ‘All you saw the night the girl died. You forget all you saw in the street. Don’t breathe a word of the people you saw there!’

‘For your soul’s sake, sit down, tell me what troubles you,’ Father Paul said, bewildered. ‘Perhaps I can help: let me pray with you.’