Season of the Raven (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 1) (10 page)

"What?!" Stephen shouted, his voice rising to an almost girlish squeal, his face twisted in abject surprise.

As he fell silent, his brows remained high on his forehead, his mouth yet agape. In the next instant, the miller's son bent at the waist, grabbing the edge of the board beneath his father's feet, as if he feared he would fall. Yet bent in twain, Stephen clung to the wood, panting and trembling. The sound of his gasping breath echoed in the quiet courtyard.

Faucon wasn't the only man in the crowd left a little startled by the depths of Stephen's reaction. Alf shot a frowning glance at the dead man's son, then stepped to Stephen's side. He rested his hand on his new master's back as if to comfort. That brought Halbert's son upright with a start. Keeping his head turned away from his father, Stephen shook off his servant's touch and took a backward step from the bier, still gasping.

"Murdered?" Simon Fuller called out as a new muttering filled the yard. Men whispered to each other, spreading the startling news about Halbert's death back and beyond, to those who couldn't hear what happened in the mill yard.

The fuller pushed past all the others to make his way to Stephen. "What cause have you to say such a thing?" he demanded of Faucon, his tone and stance saying he spoke for all the men of this inquest, demanding the proof that was their right. "Did I not find Halbert beneath the wheel this morn, with the wrench that opens the brake right on the edge of the race this morn? Did we all not see our miller removed from that channel only moments ago? How can you say that he did not fall in and drown by accident?"

As Simon spoke, he offered his neighbor a quick pat on the back. Although Stephen accepted this touch without reaction, he didn't look in the shorter man's direction.

"Aye, what you describe is indeed what we saw," Faucon agreed, "but it was not the truth. Halbert's presence in the race was a ruse, one arranged to convince us that he had drowned. The one who killed him took great pains to hide the true manner of the miller's death. Unfortunately for Halbert's killer," Faucon again scanned the faces in the yard, meeting the gazes of the watching men eye-to-eye as he continued, "he did not know that a drowned man has foam in his mouth, and that his eyes will never be cloudy. Those are the signs that set me to seeking the true cause of Halbert's death. Now, look for yourselves and see that I am right."

Faucon lifted the fronts of Halbert's garments, pulling them back until the miller's face was covered and all of his torso, including his crushed left shoulder, was revealed. Even with his gaze aimed away from the bier, that caught Stephen's attention. He yelped, his distress giving way to dismay as he stared at his father's opened garments.

"You've ruined my father's clothing!"

"Not ruined. What was done was necessary and it can be repaired. We were looking for this," Faucon finished as he used his finger to trace a circle around the otherwise insignificant puncture wound in Halbert's chest.

"Here is the cause of your neighbor's death," he told the watching men. "I believe the one who killed the miller used an awl, or something like an awl, to do his worst to Halbert. This tool would be long and slender, for it slipped easily between his ribs to deal out death to him. Given Simon Fuller's tale of drunkenness, I believe Halbert Miller was senseless when it happened."

Faucon did not add that he suspected Halbert had not been killed beside the millwheel. There was no need.

"Nay, it cannot be," Stephen whispered.

His face had paled to a pasty white and he once again shook on unsteady feet. Then, even though he was too far from the bier to do it, he extended his hand as he meant to touch his father's wound. The next instant, he snatched back his fingers and crossed his arms tightly around his middle.

"Do you think as I do, Master, that our awl was used on him?" Alf asked him, his voice gentle, nothing but concern showing on his face.

The miller's son nodded, the movement of his head swift and jerky.

"Shall I examine the wound for you?" the workman asked.

Again the miller's son nodded. Alf stepped close to Halbert and laid his hand on the dead man's torso. Stephen turned his face to the side as if he could not bear to watch. As the workman moved his fingers around the wound, Alf's fair brows rose high on his forehead.

"Mother of God, there it is, just as Sir Crowner says. If the knight is right in his description of the weapon, then I fear this hole has a size I know all too well," he announced quietly. There was no need for him to speak any louder. The only other sound in the courtyard was the steady drone of bees.

Alf looked at Faucon. "There's a special awl we use to sew drawstrings into hempen bags when we use such bags. It's almost as long as my forearm, but as slender as my finger."

"I would like to see it," Faucon replied.

"Master?" Alf asked of Stephen.

One more time Stephen nodded mutely.

It wasn't until Alf had walked back through the crowd, heading toward the three-sided shed that filled one corner of the yard, that the miller's son found his voice. "Papa," he said to the dead man, "I shouldn't have left you alone. I shouldn't have gone."

With that, Stephen buried his head into his hands and sobbed.

"Cloudy eyes and no foam in his mouth, indeed. Who has ever heard of such things? And, hole in his chest or no, I still think that wheel killed him," Edmund muttered, and not for the first time since reclaiming his seat on the porch.

He'd returned the plank to his lap and once more had the parchment sheet stretched across it. With his nose aimed at the skin, he plied his knife, scraping off the words that had wrongly identified the cause of Halbert's death.

"Tsk! Look at the mess I'm making. I'm going to scratch right through the skin."

Faucon hid his smile. He gave his new clerk credit for doing no more than muttering his complaints. Nor did Edmund aim his dismay at his employer. In fact, had Faucon not stood near the stairs as he awaited Alf's return with the awl, he wouldn't even have heard the man. It almost felt like a victory.

A moment later, Alf pushed his way through the crowd once more. As he rejoined the shire's new coronarius, he set a long needle-like tool into Faucon's hands. "Here it is, Sir Crowner."

His use of the title for the second time made Faucon laugh. "You're not the only one this day to name me Crowner, but how came you to use that word for my name?"

Alf gave a small shrug. "I heard Drue Tailor use it. Have I offended?"

"Not at all," Faucon said, still smiling as he turned his attention to the awl.

As Alf had said, it was long, almost the length of his forearm, and exactly the size Faucon expected given the hole carved into Halbert's chest. Unlike some awls, such as the one the cobbler's woman had been using to sew the boot, this one didn't have its eye in its point. Instead, it resembled Drue's much smaller sewing needles, with the eye and point opposite each other.

Nor did it have a handle. Instead, a loop of twisted hemp cording ran through its eye. No doubt this was how it was stored, by hanging the loop over a peg in a wall.

The cording looked new and no sign of blood showed on the iron needle. Faucon would have been surprised, and not a little disappointed, in the one he hunted if he'd found such stains. The man who'd killed Halbert had expended far too much effort hiding the means of the miller's death to be so careless.

Nay, as near as Faucon could tell thus far, Halbert's killer had made only one misstep.

He turned the awl in his hands, this time noting that the eye end seemed a little off. He looked at the damage from every angle. Not only was that end a little flattened, it was ever so slightly bent to one side.

He almost smiled, so great was his satisfaction. It was just the sort of bend he might expect to see had the flat of a dagger blade been used to drive such an awl into a man. Why the awl would deform under such pressure lay upon the anvil of the smith who'd made it. No doubt its metal hadn't been as well-tempered as that of the dagger.

"Has it always been bent like this?" Faucon asked Alf, pointing out the end of the awl.

The workman shook his head as he looked at it. "I can't say I've ever noticed that before today. Then again, I can't say I've ever looked at it that closely before now. All I can tell you about the awl is that it's old, so much so that Master Halbert had started threatening to replace it, and he's not a man who easily parts with coins." He offered the breath of a smile at that, then all humor left him.

"So was this tool used to kill my master?" There was nothing to hear in the servant's question save concerned interest.

"I cannot say that it was this particular awl, but I'm certain it was a tool very much like this one," Faucon replied. "Take it to Brother Colin and have him lay it beside the miller, so those who view him can witness the sort of weapon used by the one who killed him."

As Faucon laid the awl in the servant's hand, he asked, "Do you make your bed in the mill?" It was a legitimate question. Many tradesmen's servants took their nightly rest in their masters' shops, doing so to protect goods and supplies from thieves and vandals.

"I do," Alf said as he examined the damaged awl, turning it in his hands much as Faucon had done. Then he dropped his hand to his side and looked at his new coronarius. Nothing in the workman's mien suggested he was at all distraught, or even nervous at handling the suspect awl. Then again, to have killed Halbert in stealth and whilst the besotted man was unconscious in drunken slumber was cold-blooded, indeed. Someone capable of that was hardly the sort of man to flinch after the fact.

"Then tell me something," Faucon continued. "The fuller says he heard the wheel begin to turn late last night only to stop abruptly a little while thereafter. Did you hear the same?"

Alf's eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened until it was a hard line. He shook his head. "I fear not, although it shames me to admit it. Such was the day we had yesterday, Master Halbert and I doing our own work and sharing Master Stephen's portion, that, when I retired, I heard nothing at all from the mill or the wheel."

There was something in the way he parsed his words that caught and held Faucon's attention. "'Struth? You heard nothing when the fuller, whose house is at least a furlong from the race, was awakened by the millwheel turning?"

Alf gave a stiff shrug. His expression was shuttered, leaving nothing for Faucon to see but the blank look worn by all servants when they interacted with their betters. "What can I say? I heard nothing from where I slept."

Faucon kept his gaze on Alf. He'd heard it said some men could pick out the truth by studying just a man's eyes. If that were true, either he lacked the talent or Alf was innocent of Halbert's murder. No trace of guilt lurked anywhere in the workman's expression.

"A shame that, certainly for Halbert's sake," Faucon said. "Although we now know your master was already beyond rescue when that wheel began again to turn last night, if you had come out, you might have seen or apprehended the murderer. Perhaps you can tell me this, then. When I arrived this morning, the brake on the wheel was set. Since it's a sure thing Halbert didn't rise out of the race to set it, there's only one man who could have done it: the man who put Halbert into the water after he was dead."

Alf still stood easily, no tension affecting the line of his shoulders. His hands, including his right in which he held the awl, were loose at his sides. He continued to meet his better's gaze without flinching. It was uncommon boldness for one so humble.

"But why set the brake at all?" Faucon continued, using his words the way beaters used sticks, to drive their prey out into the open so the hunters could make a kill. "After all, the wheel had already stopped turning once Halbert was lodged beneath it. That had me pondering for a bit until I realized it was set because of long habit, because setting the brake is what this man always did.

"This morning," Faucon went on, "the sheriff's man couldn't move those screws with his dagger as he tried to open them. After the sheriff left, I watched how much effort it took for you to release the brake even using the proper tool. No easy feat, it seemed. Tell me, are you the only one strong enough to open and close that brake?"

It was an accusation framed as a question and aimed at one who had no right to refuse to answer. Nonetheless, Faucon expected Alf to say nothing. The workman surprised him.

"Nay, not at all," Alf replied with a shake of his head, his voice quiet and as flat as his expression. "Opening the brake is no one man's chore here, and you're wrong to think it difficult. It's just a matter of setting the wrench rightly on the screw. That is the purpose of the wrench, to make the screws turn with ease. Not only does Master Stephen do it, as did Master Halbert, but even the young mistress wields the wrench when we need a hand. It was only difficult this morning because of how my master was trapped beneath the wheel. That put pressure on the axle and thus on the screws. If you doubt me, I'm sure Master Stephen would be happy to let you try opening and closing the brake for yourself."