Shroud of Dishonour (15 page)

B
AILIFF
P
ETER
T
HORSON GREETED
B
ASCOT AND
R
OGET WARMLY when a maidservant announced their presence. On being told they had come to Grimsby on behalf of the sheriff of Lincoln, he readily invited them into his home. The bailiff was a man of middle years with a stocky frame and a belly that was beginning to thicken with age. A thick shock of greying yellow hair topped a face that was weather beaten, with bushy eyebrows above a pair of piercing blue eyes.

“You are well come,” he said genially. “Sir Gerard did our town a great favour a few years back by ridding the Lincoln road of outlaws that were plaguing some of the merchants leaving here with supplies. We are in his debt.”

Thorson led them to the back of the house and into a room where he transacted the business of his office. A large table sat at one end with inkpot, quills and piles of parchment on it. On the wall behind it was a large chart penned with indecipherable symbols that seemed to denote the times of tides. His wand of office, a finely polished piece of ash wood topped with three small scallop shells, lay on a small table alongside a jug of wine and some cups.

Bidding his guests be seated, Thorson called for a servant to pour them all wine and asked how he could be of assistance.

The bailiff listened without interruption as Roget told him of the murder of the prostitutes and the fact that the Templar Order seemed to be involved in the motivation for the crimes. The captain then went on to explain that there was a possibility that the death of a man from Grimsby, Robert Scallion, might have some connection to the murders. He was about to relate the circumstances of Scallion’s death when Thorson held up his hand to forestall him.

“I already know how Scallion died and that a Templar knight was accused of murdering him,” the bailiff said. “Scallion’s ship is in our harbour. It came into port three weeks ago; his crew sailed it back here from the Holy Land.”

Thorson looked directly at the Templar. “And I now understand the reason for your presence here, Sir Bascot. News of the death of the first harlot in Lincoln had reached us, but only that she was slain in a church, not that it was the chapel of your preceptory. And the second killing is, of course, too recent for tidings of it to have travelled to Grimsby. I expect that because there might be a connection between these recent killings and the charge that Scallion was killed by one of your brethren, you, as well as Sheriff Camville, are searching for a likely suspect among his family and associates. Am I correct?”

“You are, Master Thorson,” Bascot replied, relieved at the bailiff’s quick understanding of the situation. “And now that Scallion’s crew is also here, our investigation must be extended to include them.”

Thorson nodded. “Robert had only one relative, a sister. She is married to a local fisherman, Sven Grimson, and both are well respected hereabouts. I cannot believe she, or her husband, would be involved. Or even have the inclination to wish revenge for his slaying. She would not be surprised that he met his death in the manner that he did. The only wonder is that he was not killed in some such way long before now.”

The bailiff leaned back in his chair and explained the reason for his observation. “Robert Scallion was not a man of good repute. He seldom sailed into our port and, when he did, respectable townspeople kept clear of his company. Not only was he prone to an excessive consumption of ale—during which times he would usually start a brawl in whichever alehouse he happened to be in—there were also rumours that he practised piracy during his trips. A cordwainer who came to pick up some leather goods Scallion had brought from Spain claimed some of it was part of a shipment stolen from a boat that was carrying merchandise belonging to a trader in Boston. He said it bore the mark of a manufacturer in Rouen and had been pirated. But the cordwainer had no means of proving his claim and the charge was never substantiated. Nonetheless, the honest folk in Grimsby pride themselves on honest trading, and the cordwainer’s accusation did not sit well with them. When the king granted us a charter last year, many were reluctant to associate with a man possessing such a stained reputation. This taint, added to his uncertain temper and fondness for strong drink, made me think it unlikely he would live long enough to make old bones. And I suspect his sister felt the same.”

“Then I am surprised that Scallion’s men brought his ship back here,” Bascot said. “They could easily have sailed the vessel to another port and sold it or, if they had truly been engaged in piracy with Scallion, used it to continue their thieving ways.”

Thorson nodded his head. “And so they might have done, I think, were it not for the man who was Scallion’s steersman. His name is Askil and he, like Scallion, is a Grimsby man. They grew up together and it is well-known that, at one time, Askil hoped to marry Scallion’s sister, Joan. Even though she gave him no encouragement and married another, Askil retains his regard for her. Since Joan is her brother’s only heir, I believe Askil brought the vessel home for her sake, and hers alone. He also sold the cargo—which was mostly perishable goods, a type of onion that grows in the Holy Land and has been the main staple of trade in Robert’s family for a couple of generations—in one of the ports along the coast of France and gave her the proceeds.”

“Is it possible that this Askil might be the one we seek?” Bascot asked. “Do you think he is likely to be so enraged by his friend’s death that he would seek revenge, or perhaps because he thought it would console the woman for whom he has such affection?”

Thorson gave the question a few moments thought before answering. “I cannot judge his reactions with any certainty. To his credit, Askil was never involved in Robert’s forays into the alehouses and the inevitable fights that broke out. He usually stayed on shipboard during their rare visits here, so I have not had enough contact with him during these last few years to judge his character.” The bailiff shrugged. “It is possible, I suppose.”

“Is he in Grimsby?” Bascot asked.

“I believe so. Joan’s husband paid him to remain on board Scallion’s ship after its return, and keep watch over its safety while a new crew was found to man her, since most of those who returned with Askil have left the area. I suspect they have gone to one of the larger ports where Scallion’s reputation for piracy might not be so harshly regarded.”

“We would like to speak to the steersman,” Bascot said, “and also any remaining crew members that were in Acre when Scallion was killed. They may have details about his death that are unknown to us.”

“I can arrange that, and gladly,” Thorson replied.

“And even though you assure us that Scallion’s sister is unlikely to have any involvement in the crimes, I think it would be worthwhile to speak to both her and her husband. Either of them might have knowledge that could help us determine whether Scallion’s death is connected to the murders in Lincoln or if we are chasing a false trail.”

T
HORSON SAID THAT THE HOUSE WHERE
R
OBERT
S
CALLION’S sister and her husband lived was within easy walking distance and suggested he have one of his servants stable their horses in a building behind his house.

“And, if it pleases you, I would also offer you an evening meal and a bed for the night. There is a roomy chamber upstairs occupied by the eldest of my three sons with more than enough space to spread two extra pallets.”

Both Bascot and Roget were grateful for the invitation and said so, since they had expected to have to find lodgings in a local alehouse. While Thorson summoned a servant to take care of the horses, the Templar and the captain went outside to wait for the bailiff.

“We shall have to try and find out for certain whether this Askil, or any others from Scallion’s crew, have been away from Grimsby over the last few days,” Bascot said. “If the steersman was loyal enough to undertake the long journey from the Holy Land to bring back his vessel, and the proceeds of the cargo, it sounds as though Askil’s attachment to the captain was a strong one. He could be the one we are seeking.”

Roget nodded his agreement. “And even though Scallion had no male relatives, it does not exclude a woman from having hired the villain who murdered Elfreda and Adele. We must take a close look at the sister and her husband as well.”

When the bailiff joined them, he took them down the main street of the town towards the harbour. The buildings on either side were mostly of timber infilled with wattle and daub, but a few were reinforced with bottom courses of stone and had tiled roofs instead of thatch. Some of them had shutters on the lower storey which were pulled up to display a shop front inside where clothing, leather goods and household implements were laid out for sale. Men carrying trays of bread, fish pies and lumps of pease pudding threaded through the people walking along the main thoroughfare, crying the excellence of their wares as they did so. There were at least three alehouses along the street, all with bunches of greenery hanging outside to proclaim that a new brew was ready for consumption.

“In the last few years our small town has thrived greatly,” Thorson said with pride. He pointed towards the harbour where the mast of a large cog could be seen jutting up above the horizon. “That vessel is from Norway, hauling timber, and last week we had a ship from Spain in port. A heavy squall out in the open water shredded her sail and the captain put in here for repairs. Truly the name of our little river, Haven, is apt, for us as well as those who sail on the open sea. Our safe harbour brings in much trade, and earns good silver from the fees that the shipowners pay to offload their cargos, as well as from the money they spend for supplies and in our alehouses and cookshops.”

About halfway along the main road, the bailiff turned off into a side street. “It is just along here that Joan and Sven Grimson live,” he explained, pointing to a house that was two stories in height. It had walls of stone and was set alongside others just as solidly built. “Sven has done well for himself these last few years. He has three fishing vessels—all of good size and sturdily constructed—and plies the local waters for herring and plaice. Now, with Robert’s death, he will be able to add the cog to his fleet.”

When the door was opened in answer to Thorson’s knock, a maidservant quickly ushered them into a large hall with a fireplace at one end and a solid oak table and chairs in the centre. To one side was an open-fronted cupboard laid with dishes and cups of pewter. The maid scurried away to call her mistress and, in a few moments, Scallion’s sister, Joan, came into the room.

She was a tall woman and large boned, with hair of deep auburn framed by the soft linen folds of a head-rail and secured over her brow with a broad strip of embroidered ribbon in the old Saxon fashion. Her eyes, pale brown in colour, were wide and deep set. Had it not been for the heavy lines of discontent that scored each side of her mouth, she could have been called handsome. Her gown, though of plain dark blue, was of good wool and the belt from which the household keys depended had been finely chased. All proclaimed her standing as the wife of a prosperous man.

She gave a greeting to Peter Thorson and the bailiff introduced his two companions, explaining the purpose of their visit in a succinct fashion, saying Bascot and Roget were looking for a connection between the death of her brother and two recent murders in Lincoln.

“There were indications in both instances that the purpose of the killings was in retaliation for an act of betrayal by the Templar Order,” Thorson added. “Since it is alleged that your brother was slain by a Templar knight, Sir Bascot and Captain Roget are trying to find out if his death is connected to the murders.”

Joan’s cool gaze flicked over Roget and settled on Bascot. “So, Sir Knight, not only does one of your monks kill my brother, your Order now has the effrontery to accuse me of murder. Not the behaviour I would expect from men supposedly devoted to the service of Christ.”

Bascot answered her shortly, but kept his tone even out of respect for her sorrow. “We have not come to accuse, mistress,” he said, “merely to enquire whether there might be any valid reason to suspect your brother’s death may be linked to the murder of these two women.”

She kept her eyes on his face for a few moments, assessing him. When she spoke again, it was to Thorson. “I do not have any knowledge that would be pertinent to the sheriff’s enquiry, Bailiff. If someone is taking revenge on the Templars for my brother’s death, it is without my consent, or awareness.”

“And your husband, mistress,” Bascot asked, “does the same hold true for him?”

“I believe so, but if you wish to ask him yourself, you will find him down at the harbour. He is there with Askil, arranging for some minor repairs to the ship my brother owned.”

Joan lifted her chin as she said these last words, and added, “If you do find the man who murdered these harlots, I have no doubt he will be hanged. I wish the same fate awaited the Templar who killed Robert.”