31 - City of Fiends (26 page)

‘What if Father Laurence had been detained inside the Cathedral for some reason? We’d have to look at Paffard more closely, eh?’ Sir Richard said. He had consumed a brief snack
to ‘Keep body and soul together, eh?’ before leaving Edith’s house and Simon, seeing the expression on her face, felt sure that he was eating his daughter out of house and home.
It was tempting to suggest that they all eat at an inn, but that would offend Edith. The suggestion that they should dispense with her hospitality would be insulting. Better to remain here a little
longer.

‘If he left the Close for any reason, then we would have to recommend that he be held in the Bishop’s prison until his case could be heard.’

‘Hmm. You think him guilty?’

‘I am sure that he is concealing something from us, but what it is, I have no idea.’

‘We should speak to the others who live in the alley next to the Marsilles,’ Simon considered. ‘Perhaps one of them saw Juliana leave her house, and noticed if she was
followed.’

‘A good idea, Simon,’ Baldwin said.

They were soon in the Close, nodding to Janekyn at his gate, and to the beggars who plied their trade just inside the gateway. John Coppe was there, and smiled as Baldwin threw a penny into his
pot. Coppe had been a fixture in the Close for all the time Baldwin had visited. A sailor, he had lost a leg in a brutal fight aboard ship and now begged at his accustomed spot daily.

Baldwin stopped and returned to Coppe. ‘Do you know Father Laurence, the vicar?’

Aye, he’s known to me.’

‘How would you describe him? Is he a genuine, kindly priest, or one of those who mouths good words but has no real interest in men?’

‘Oh, you want to know how he treats a poor cripple, sir? I’d say he was one of the kindest vicars here. I’ve never heard a foul word from him, but once, when a horse was left
grazing on the grass there and knocked an old widow’s body from the cart she was resting in, waiting for her grave, he used some words then I’ve not heard since leaving ship. Apart from
that, he’s as mild in manner and speech as any I’ve seen. He’s brought me food too, before now,’ Coppe added pointedly. ‘And ale.’

‘Coppe, you are a disreputable vagrant who deserves the lash,’ Baldwin said.

Aye, Sir Baldwin. So, you’d like to share some o’ your food with me?’

‘I’ll think about it,’ Baldwin said, chuckling.

‘What was that for?’ Sir Richard asked as they carried on towards the Precentor’s house.

‘Just seeing if his opinion of the good vicar tallied with my own,’ said Baldwin. ‘And it does. Father Laurence struck me as a decent priest, not a killer.’

‘Which is not a great deal of help to us, is it?’ Simon muttered.

‘Perhaps it is, and perhaps it is not,’ Baldwin said. ‘But I think the vicar would be well advised to remain within the Close for his own safety.’

They reached the Precentor’s house, and were being greeted by a young clerk, when they heard the hubbub in the hall.

‘What is the matter?’ Baldwin asked of the clerk.

‘It is one of our vicars, I am afraid. He has disappeared.’

Sir Richard rolled his eyes.

‘I think that makes our case easier,’ Baldwin murmured.

Talbot’s Inn

Without his clerical robes, Father Laurence felt incredibly conspicuous, even though his tonsure was hidden beneath his cap and hood. With his height, he had to bend his head to
appear more like others, and walking in that way made him feel still more as though everyone was staring at him. It was most unpleasant.

He had arrived at this inn late last night. There were many inns and taverns in the city, but he was known in almost all of them. The city of Exeter was not very large, and this was one of the
few places that he had never frequented. It had a good reputation, so he had heard, but it so happened that it was close to the north wall, and this was an area the clergy rarely visited. So much
the better now, it would seem.

Clad only in peasant garments he had purloined in the Dean’s house from a pile of old servants’ clothes that were intended for alms, he had been directed to the noisome little
chamber out behind the stables, rather than the normal rooms. That at least was a relief. Sleeping out there with other poor folk who were staying the night, he felt sure that he would be all but
invisible. He had curled up about his bundle of belongings wrapped up in an old chemise, and tried to sleep.

It was impossible. All he could see each time he closed his eyes was his beloved’s face. He had loved, and his love had turned to misery. There could be no resolution for him. No return to
his past life, no possibility of love. He couldn’t bring such shame upon his Cathedral, for he loved it. No, he must give up all and find a new path in life. His adored had been so precious
to him – but no longer. It would be insufferable to remain here now.

Insufferable, to meet, to speak with, and never admit his passion. Or to accuse. At least if he were to denounce his adored, there would be some sort of cessation with that exposure. Perhaps it
would even ease his broken heart, just a little.

No, he must go. There was nothing else for it, since he had loved so strongly that he had willingly sworn to keep their secret, before he realised what the secret might be. And now he was bound
by that oath. He had sworn on the Gospels, and could no more break it than fly, no matter how much he wanted to. The thought of her face, screwed up with such diabolical glee had almost struck him
dumb with horror as she confessed to him. There were some women who took a delight in shocking, he knew, but never before had he been confronted by one. It was such a hideous experience . . .

The first dull gleams of daylight did not reach into this hovel, but the bellows of the stablemen and the clattering of buckets of drink for the horses was enough to waken a dead man. He was
sitting up as his neighbours awoke, his bundle in his hands, staring ahead grimly. Only when they were all rising did he climb to his feet.

He decided to do without food, and instead made his way along the roadway towards the East Gate, and there he joined the crush of folks preparing to leave the city.

It was there that he heard of the second murder, and he almost fell to his knees in horror.

This was no time for him to leave.

He must go back.

Precentor’s House

There was little that the Precentor could tell them when they finally arrived before him.

Adam was furious with himself. That
damned
fox-whelp Father Laurence! How could he reward Adam’s kindness in this manner! When he was found, Adam would ensure that he had the worst
of all possible punishments for this treachery. And now he had to explain and apologise to the good Keeper.

It was utterly
intolerable
!

‘My dear Sir Baldwin, it is with the very greatest embarrassment that I greet you today.’

‘Precentor, do not trouble yourself,’ Baldwin said firmly. ‘I only wish to ease your difficulties in any way I might. Can you tell me when he disappeared?’

‘Last evening. He was at Vespers and Compline of our Lady in the Lady Chapel, because I have checked with the Punctator concerned.’

Baldwin nodded. Punctators were stationed to mark off all those who attended services to ensure that canons and clergy did not slacken in their duties.

‘After that, nobody appears to have seen him. He should have returned to the house of the Dean, where he lived, but he did not arrive there. The Dean’s steward assumed that he must
have remained in the church to pray, but when he grew concerned at the lateness of the hour, he sent a novice to seek him. That novice had no luck in his hunt, and apparently Laurence did not sleep
in his bed. He has disappeared.’

Baldwin saw the cleric behind Adam make a hasty sign of the cross, his face alarmed.

‘He will have tried to leave the city, I expect,’ Baldwin said resignedly. After this latest set-back, it seemed to him unlikely that he would ever make his way homewards.
‘Have you asked the gatekeepers yet?’

‘No. Of course,’ Adam said, flustered. ‘Luke, go and enquire of all the keepers, and ask whether they remember him leaving the Close.’

‘If I may make a suggestion,’ Sir Richard said in an unusually low voice, ‘it may be quicker to send a boy to each of the city gates to ask if they saw a lanky great vicar.
Where did he come from, Precentor? Where was his home?’

‘He was from Marsh, over near Axminster.’

Sir Richard looked at Baldwin. ‘What do you think?’

‘He’d be mad to return home. It’s the first place anyone would look for him,’ Baldwin grunted.

‘I think so, too. So he’ll have gone to Topsham to the coast, that’d be quick; or he’ll have gone down to Cornwall,’ Sir Richard concluded.

Adam felt his mouth fall open. ‘You think so?’

Baldwin smiled sadly. ‘No, I do not. If he were to run, he would have taken the North Gate to head up to Somerset, I would imagine. The last thing on his mind would be to head further into
the Bishop’s See. He will wish to escape the Bishop’s demesnes.’

Adam felt a cold clutching at his breast when he saw the grim expression on Baldwin’s face. ‘Why do you say “if”?’

‘I fear that he may still be in the city. I only pray that he has not already been discovered,’ Baldwin said.

Church of the Holy Trinity

Father Paul had slept badly.

The shocks of the previous day had been enough to weaken his mind, and every so often in his dreams a mare would bring a scene of horror: poor Juliana; the hessian-faced attacker in the cloak;
the anguish of his almost broken foot; the punches, the kicks, and then, the appalling realisation as he saw Henry drop his cloak to the floor so carelessly that it seemed almost as if he knew the
priest must recognise it and did not care. Henry Paffard was a member of the Freedom of the City, and a piffling priest was of such little significance in comparison, that a gesture like this
clearly declared that Father Paul could go hang so far as Henry was concerned.

The mild-mannered priest raged at the conceit that could permit Henry Paffard to threaten him with exposure as a whoring hypocrite, and also to kill two women – for surely the murderer of
the one was the murderer of the other!

His anger was so acute it nearly choked him as he sat beside his bedroll. His foot was enormously painful still, and throbbed sorely as though in response to his fury. In a growing city like
Exeter, there were always one or two who were prepared to bully others in order to get their own way. All cities had the same mix of law-abiding, responsible citizens and irresponsible fools, but
to commit a pair of murders, and flaunt it before a man who knew, assuming that he would not dare to denounce him, was an insult to Father Paul’s robes. He could not allow Paffard to kill
again. He
would not
allow it!

Gritting his teeth, he began to rise full of determination – but then there was a sudden knock at his door, and he stopped and stared at it with alarm. Before he could cry out, it opened
and a tall man entered, shoving the door shut behind him. Under the hood his face was hidden, but the cloak was some dull, greyish colour.

‘You don’t scare me!’ Father Paul declared, trying to hide his fear. ‘I know what you’ve done, Master Henry.’

‘Master Henry?’ the man said with a dry chuckle.

Cathedral Close

There was no sign of Father Laurence, Baldwin was told. The South Gate had been closed correctly with the curfew, and there were two other men with the keeper there to confirm
that there had been no cleric of Laurence’s description seeking to leave the city in the hours before night. Both East and West Gates denied seeing him, and the only possible remaining exit,
the North Gate, had been a problem because the porter had been unwell. A stomach-fever had overwhelmed him the previous day, and he had been forced to spend much of the evening and night near the
privy. His son had shared the duty with a neighbour, but neither was reliable as a witness. Father Laurence could have left the city by that gate, and no one would have known.

A small group of freemen had gathered together in Carfoix before the sun had risen higher than the first quarter of the morning, and they were sent off to search for the vicar, with strict
instructions to harm him no more than was needful to persuade him to return with them to the city.

Meanwhile, Sir Richard, Simon and Baldwin spent their morning speaking with men who had known the vicar, trying to learn more about the man.

If ever there had been a decent, reliable vicar, clearly he was Father Laurence. If it were not for one miserable old man who stated repeatedly that there had always been something about Father
Luke he hadn’t trusted, there would have been uniform praise for him.

It was a surprise to Simon. He had been taught at the school at Crediton, and the priests who educated him had been fine, intelligent men, but even amongst them, if a colleague had been
discovered guilty of some offence, the others would tend to turn upon him. It was almost as though they felt the need of that release, to remind themselves that they were all ordinary men. And
their comments upon another’s behaviour could be vitriolic.