The Butcher of St Peter's: (Knights Templar 19) (13 page)

There was no defence against a little girl who wanted to take her father’s time. He couldn’t quite understand the idea of
men and women loving each other, but this, the affection for a child who had sprung from his own loins, was different. She
was all his, and entirely perfect in this foul world. She took his hand, squirmed her way into his lap, and began to tell
him, with expansive hand-movements, about her day. Her utter self-absorption was a source of amusement to him, but if she
wished to describe her doings to him, that was fine so far as he was concerned.

However, while she talked, only a small part of his mind was engaged with her prattle. Most of his thoughts were fixed on
the house where Daniel had died. The place where Daniel’s widow would now be living alone with her children. There was some
satisfaction in knowing that the danger posed by Daniel was removed – and if Juliana threatened to accuse him, he could still
kill her and her children. It would be a great deal easier to do so now that her husband was dead.

As Jordan listened with half an ear to his daughter’s chatter, Estmund was thinking of Emma.

Such a lovely smile. That was what everyone said about her when they first met her. She had that sort of childishness about
her. Like a girl who was only just a woman, with the slight clumsiness that came with youth, and the beauty of that wide,
appealing, open, innocent smile.

‘Oh, God! Why did You …’

No, he couldn’t frame the question. There was no justice in God’s stealing her away. The priest had tried to explain that
her act was sinful, that she was forever damned for her criminal decision to take her own life, but while he spoke all Est
could see was the way the smile had faded over time, just as their child faded and died in front of their eyes. Est had lost
a piece of himself when his only babe had breathed her last. A scrawny little bundle of bone and tight, starved flesh, she
was part of him, and when she was buried a part of Est had died at the same time. He had thought nothing could possibly be
worse than that dreadful emptiness.

And then Emma killed herself.

Ach, the horror of that night would never leave him. It never could. And now he longed so much for the family he had once
possessed that he would sometimes go and see other folk’s. Not to hurt anyone, just to look. To see what his little darling
girl might have been like now, had she lived. She would have been nine or so now. A little girl like that one of Daniel Austyn’s.
Perhaps if Emma had lived, they might have made another child, a boy this time. He could be like that lad of Reginald Gylla’s
– Michael. He was a good-looking little fellow. And then there was the Carters’ boy down in Stepcote Lane. All of them so
perfect, especially in their sleep. He would go sometimes to look at them, just to watch them as they slept, so perfect, so
beautiful, so unbearably alive and fit, when his own precious little petal was nothing now, only yellowish bones in
the red soil of the cathedral’s yard, unbaptized, a soul wandering lost in the wilderness, never to find her way to Heaven
…

‘Christ Jesus!’ he groaned, curling into a ball with the pain and grief. God had decreed this fate for him, and he had no
idea what crime he could have committed which merited so unkind a punishment.

A priest had once told him that he shouldn’t be concerned, because those who suffered most on earth would be the first to
enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Est had looked at him in horror. What purpose would there be in his walking through those gates
if he could never see his two loves? None.

There was a fresh sensation. It was like a lion’s claw in his belly, the nails raking his stomach from within, and the pain
wouldn’t leave him. He had to eat something. He had felt this before; many times before. It began as a griping like this,
and soon he would be curled up on himself, unaware of anything but his grief. One day, perhaps, if he was brave enough, he
would leave it a little too long, and his pain would overwhelm him, and at last he would leave this cruel world.

But not today. Today he needed food. Slowly, he unwrapped his arms from about his body and forced himself to stand. He was
lonely, so lonely … and so scared.

He kept seeing the look in that little girl’s eyes as he ran away. It terrified him.

‘How does he live? Does he beg?’ Sir Peregrine asked.

‘He has a house of his own, and he still works when he needs the money. I think that most butchers at the fleshfold use him
often enough, and they’ll let him take a cut of meat to keep him going. But he can’t work all the time.’

‘What else does he do, then?’ Baldwin pressed him.

‘He walks and he mutters to himself,’ Saul said stolidly. ‘He has been wrecked by the loss of his wife.’

‘Is it he who has entered other men’s houses?’ Baldwin asked.

Saul looked away as though unwilling to respond, but then nodded. ‘Who else? He means no harm, though.’

‘He’s killed a man,’ Sir Peregrine grated.

‘Nah! That wasn’t Est killed Daniel.’

‘You have even told us why,’ Sir Peregrine said. ‘Because Daniel was arse enough to try to beat him when all he wanted was
a patch of ground to bury his poor woman!’

Saul looked at him, but it was Baldwin who voiced his thoughts. ‘Why, though? Why wait all these years and suddenly attack
the fellow just now?’

Saul nodded. ‘I know him well. All of us do. I found him in my place a couple of times. Last time, I sat down with him and
gave him some wine. He didn’t speak, just wept silently. Not for himself, but for his daughter, I think.’

‘He wanted to rape your child and you let him stay there?’ Sir Peregrine asked, appalled.

‘I don’t know where you get ideas like that, Coroner,’ Saul said with quiet contempt. ‘Est is no rapist, nor is he a sodomite.
He just wanted to see my lad. I think that the only peace he ever knows is when he sees healthy children sleeping. He can’t
cope with them awake, but he is entranced by the sight of them asleep – and scared too.’

‘Why scared?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I think because he hates to think of them alone in their chambers with no one there to guard them.’

‘You put locks on your doors after he got in the second time, though?’ Sir Peregrine asked.

‘Why’d I do that? No, as soon as we moved our son into our own bedchamber, Est knew my lad was safe. From that day on, he
never tried to break in again. All he wants is to see children safe and well. He would never hurt them.’

‘But he might carry a knife to protect them from others,’ Sir Peregrine guessed. ‘And if a man appeared suddenly, carrying
a weapon, Est might be shocked into thinking that it was a murderer come to harm the children, and strike first. I think that
explains the whole matter, Sir Baldwin! Where does this Est live, Saul?’

‘Take us there, please,’ Baldwin said, but it was not a request.

Saul stood reluctantly. ‘I won’t see you hurt him. He’s no harm to anyone.’

Baldwin said soothingly, ‘I wouldn’t wish to see him hurt either. All I wish is an opportunity to talk to him, and find out
whether he was there that evening. Someone was in there, and did kill Daniel.’

As he made that statement, he suddenly wondered again. He was assuming that the evidence of Daniel’s wife was truthful, but
what if it wasn’t? What if she was lying? In that case, it might mean that there was no intruder, that the murder was a treasonous
attack by a woman on her husband.

As they left the inn and made their way eastwards along the road towards the alley where Estmund lived, Baldwin could not
but ask, ‘What of Daniel? Was he a good father? If Est was in there and saw Daniel beating his children, how would he have
reacted?’

‘Wouldn’t matter, would it?’ Saul shrugged. ‘Daniel was in his own home, dealing with his own family.’

‘True, but if Est saw him mistreating them, how would he respond to that?’

‘He’d not go in.’

Sir Peregrine scoffed. ‘You mean to tell me that after all these years of wandering the city to peep in at other men’s children,
because of losing his own, if he saw one of the little darlings being assaulted he wouldn’t do anything about it? It sounds
to me more as though he’d jump into that room and kill the man attacking the children he so adored.’

‘What do you say to that, Saul?’ Baldwin asked.

‘It’s wrong. Est wouldn’t pick a fight with anyone.’

‘Not even Daniel, the man who had prevented his burying his wife?’

‘If anyone would hurt Daniel for that, it’d be Henry.’

‘The man who was crippled by him.’ Baldwin nodded. ‘I shall have to speak to him.’

They were soon at the house, a scruffy place on the alley, one of a few of about the same size, but although Saul hammered
loudly on the door there was no answer. Baldwin looked at Sir Peregrine, who told Saul he could go, provided he
was available for the inquest later, and they waited until he had disappeared round the corner before speaking.

Sir Peregrine was first to speak. ‘I have lost a child and lover, Sir Baldwin. I know how I felt about it. And I can tell
you now: I would have slaughtered any petty-minded fool who told me not to bury her where I saw fit.’

‘Even now?’

‘Certainly. I would feel the same in ten years, or twenty.’

‘That makes sense … but would you delay your assault until ten years afterwards? Why should Est have been so slow to avenge
the insult?’ Baldwin asked, his brow knotted.

‘I don’t know, but we shall hopefully discover that too before long,’ Sir Peregrine said. ‘Perhaps for now we ought to consider
searching for this Estmund Webber and calling the inquest into Daniel’s death. More can be learned there than here. If you
don’t mind, Sir Baldwin, I shall go and begin to arrange matters for the inquest itself. It should be conducted as soon as
possible. At least we now have a likely murderer, rather than the widow. Will you be able to attend this afternoon?’

‘I will be there,’ Baldwin said, but without enthusiasm. Just now his breast was giving him not a little pain, and he would
have preferred to return to his inn and his bed.

Sir Peregrine marched off back towards the street at the top of the alley, where he paused a moment. As Baldwin watched, he
saw the knight turn left, to head west along Smythen Street.

Edgar saw it too. ‘If I was a betting man, I’d think he was not going straight to arrange an inquest, but first to make sure
that a widow was not too distressed by the questions of his brutal associate.’

‘His associate must be brutal indeed for the noble knight to have noticed,’ Baldwin grunted, and began to walk slowly after
Sir Peregrine. ‘I crave a place to rest awhile. My bones ache within me.’

Agnes had gone, thank God! Juliana wasn’t sure that she could cope much longer with that supercilious expression of hers.
It was so knowing, and so accusatory, as if Juliana had ruined her whole life’s joy when she took Daniel from her. Well, that
was ridiculous, and Juliana wouldn’t think about it … She was so unhappy!

Hugging Cecily as her two children sobbed, she felt the tears welling again. Daniel was gone, and here she was with two little
ones to look after. ‘You’ll have to be brave for me, both of you. I can’t cope if you don’t help.’

The widow Gwen came in just then, carrying a tray of bread and cheese and some ale. Juliana sat in her seat with her arms
about Cecily and Arthur while Gwen asked one of her daughters to find a small table, and set the food down for them. Then
she sat at her own table, watching with sympathetic eyes.

It was not surprising that the children had no appetite, but Juliana was not going to allow them to go without their food.
She herself poured them their ale, and took a long draught herself before breaking the bread and cheese into manageable hunks
and distributing them to Arthur and Cecily. It was good of Gwen to produce her best plate – three fine pewter dishes – and
Juliana looked up in gratitude at this small sign of respect. Gwen smiled in return, but her own eyes were clouded with tears.
Juliana saw her gaze go to the children and realized that the gesture was intended for them rather than for her. No matter.

She pressed food on her children, forcing them to take bread and drink ale through it to make it more easily digestible, refusing
to let them reject it all. They must eat something.

That was one of the first things that people learned when
they survived the famine: no food should be turned away, because that would be to dishonour God’s generosity in providing
it. And although they may not be hungry today, there might be no food tomorrow. Juliana had no breadwinner now. They must
eat while they could.

When Gwen’s daughter returned to say that the Coroner had come to the door once more, it was a relief to Juliana. The children
were exhausted, the boy in particular was sagging. He needed a chance to lie down. Cecily was more reluctant to leave her
mother, clinging like a small limpet to a rock. Except Juliana felt little like a rock today. She had failed her husband,
and now he was dead she was committed to concealing the truth. For ever. She willingly passed both children to the young maid,
who was only a little more than fifteen herself, and had comforted her brothers and sisters when two of their number died.
Now she spoke soothingly to Juliana’s children and led them away to her mother’s chamber upstairs. There was a large bed there,
and the girl promised she would lie down with them to help them sleep. They wouldn’t be able to be left for some while.

When Sir Peregrine entered, Juliana looked at Gwen. The older woman grudgingly left the room. She would have preferred to
remain to protect Juliana from any harsh questioning.

‘My lady, I am sorry to return like this,’ the Coroner said gently, ‘but it is necessary that we arrange for the inquest at
the earliest opportunity. I have a responsibility to record the events of the night.’

‘I understand.’

‘And it must be before all the jury. I wanted to warn you …’ he waved a hand unhappily, ‘we must have the facts recorded.’

‘It would ease my pain to know that my husband’s murderer was being sought.’

‘There I can help you. My friend Sir Baldwin de Furnshill is already actively seeking the man who did this.’

She felt a faint wash of nausea. ‘Will he be successful at such a search?’

‘He is perhaps the most capable hunter of felons in the whole of Devonshire,’ Sir Peregrine said. ‘It can make him appear
disrespectful and … perhaps unnecessarily direct, but it is his way.’

‘I hate him!’

‘He always discovers who is guilty,’ Sir Peregrine said gently. ‘He will help us to learn the truth.’

‘I wish someone else would take on the matter,’ she said brokenly. ‘I thought him very blunt.’

Sir Peregrine felt his upper body lean towards her as though of its own volition, and only the exercise of strict self-discipline
prevented him from going to her side as she averted her head and wiped at the tears that had begun to trickle once more down
her cheeks.

‘I feel so alone!’

Juliana glanced at him, then away, as though to hold him in view could weaken her resolve.

‘My lady – please – let me help you.’

‘When Sir Baldwin questioned me, I found myself questioning all. I even wondered …’ She met his eye defiantly. ‘I even
suspected it could have been my sister. She and my husband had an argument, and she left our house. For a moment, when Sir
Baldwin asked about someone with a grudge against Daniel, I thought of her.’

‘It is only natural—’ he began.

‘No! Agnes could not do something like that!’ Juliana blazed.

Sir Peregrine hung his head. He could not believe a woman
could be capable of killing a man like her husband, and his conventional chivalric soul quailed at the idea that she might
hire an assassin. It was equally as impossible to think that this lovely woman could have a sister capable of such a deed.

Tentatively he ventured: ‘My lady, if there was anything I could do to help … You are very … I cannot imagine any
other woman being so brave. Now! I must go and organize the court. It will be held in the room where he died, of course. I
shall send a man to fetch you when we need you there.’

‘Thank you, Sir Peregrine.’

He nodded and bowed and left her, all the while trying to concentrate on the inquest: whom to order to attend, the bailiffs
he must call, the clerk who would record the details … but he remembered only the hint of a grateful, sad smile on Juliana’s
lips as he took his leave of her.

She was a woman to whom any man would be happy to lose his heart, he thought, and then he sternly thrust the thought from
his mind. Her husband had died only the night before. This was no time to daydream about her. He had graver duties to attend
to.

Henry was feeling every year of his age when he walked out of the Blue Rache and glanced up and down the lane. He was starving,
and had nothing saved, so rather than wander homewards and feel his belly rumbling there he made his way to Cook’s Row and
walked along it hopefully. Sometimes Tom would have a pie or pastry that couldn’t be sold which he’d offer to a beggar rather
than throw away.

He was in luck. Tom gave him a small pastry coffin filled with a sweetened apple and cinnamon custard, and he ate it quickly
as he walked up towards Carfoix, wondering how Estmund was. It would have been good to see Est, but not just
while the death of Daniel was on everybody’s lips, and he might be followed. Est would want to know all that Henry had heard.
Likely enough, he’d not believe anything Henry said, because everyone knew what Henry thought of the murderous shit. So far
as he was concerned, Daniel had lived far too long. His frenzied attack on Henry had effectually ended his life.

He could be followed. The first man the hue and cry had sought when Daniel was found in there had been Estmund. Whenever a
man was found inside another’s house, everyone immediately thought of Estmund. Who else, when the poor devil was known to
wander into other men’s homes all the time?

Nobody had ever felt threatened by the man. There was no need to persecute him further. Why hurt him? There was no evil in
him. To think that he could have drawn a knife on Daniel was madness. It was as stupid as thinking that Henry himself could
have overwhelmed the man.

But everyone wanted to find the felon quickly, and people remembered Est wandering in their homes. A man had to be sensible.
That was why Henry had gone to Est first thing, as soon as news of Daniel’s death was spoken in the street. He had hidden
his old friend in a small load of filth and taken him out of the city in his cart. No one was going to search for a man among
the manure. Est had escaped, and hopefully even now he was secure up in the Duryard.