The Chapel of Bones: (Knights Templar 18) (21 page)

‘Aye. Not pleasant for poor Henry Saddler, neither.’

‘You knew him?’ Matthew asked.

There was a sharpness in his tone which warned Thomas to be wary. ‘Who doesn’t get to know a man like him? He was famous for his workmanship, wasn’t he? It’s only a small city, when all’s said and done.’

‘I just wondered,’ Matthew said. ‘There was something about you …’

‘What?’ Thomas asked, feeling the ice settle at the pit of his stomach.

‘No, it’s nothing,’ Matthew said, but then he set his jaw. ‘It’s just that I had reason to hate him, you see. Henry was one of the men who attacked my master and killed him.’ He stared back at the chapel. ‘They nearly killed me too. So anyone would look on me as the murderer. I must be the clear candidate for guilt in their eyes.’

He faced Thomas once more, and the recognition which
Thomas had feared for so long was in his eyes today. Yesterday there had been nothing, but now, Thomas knew, Matthew recalled him from all those years ago.

Thomas had fled this place, and when he returned, he knew that there was a risk that someone might have remembered him. He hadn’t thought that Matthew posed a risk, but poor wounded Nicholas had arrived here, and suddenly all Thomas’s careful attempts to disguise his voice and his features seemed pointless.

He had made it his task to ensure that he knew always when the friar was likely to be in the Cathedral Close, and then he avoided the place. He daren’t risk being seen by him, for Nick would be sure to denounce Thomas if he saw him. How could he
not
accuse him – the man who had so cruelly scarred him all those years ago and blighted his life?

Thomas found his eyes dragged back to the chapel. A man was hurrying away, and Thomas wondered where he was going in such a rush. That was the trouble with the body appearing there just as Nicholas returned to the city: it meant that men’s thoughts were once more on the evening nearly forty years ago, when the Chaunter was killed. It brought the events back to life, in some way. The fact of Henry’s body being discovered in the chapel had made Thomas’s life here dangerous. If he had a brain, he’d pack his tools tonight, and take to his heels. He’d always be able to find work, and he could maybe explain himself to the Master Mason. Robert de Cantebrigge was going to leave before long, to go and inspect another building site he was managing. Thomas could tell him that he was sick of this city and persuade his Master Mason to take him too, when he left. It would be the best answer.

Except he couldn’t. Beforehand he had had little feeling for
this city. He’d been away too long to remember it with a child’s golden memory of delights and pleasures. Instead he had the one vision in his mind: his father’s body swaying in the breeze by the South Gate. That was no reason to remain here. Yet now he found he had another fetter that prevented his escape.

Sara. She had not yet recovered from the death of her husband and child, and Thomas felt a deep guilt that he hadn’t managed to ease her pain even slightly. He had given money, and he’d provided food, but that wasn’t enough. Whether he liked the fact or not, and in reality he hated it, he had a new responsibility in her. When he killed her husband, he caused the death of her son as well. Elias had died because he, like his mother, was desperate for food.

At least she still had the other son. Dan seemed a strong lad, from all Thomas had seen of him. Perhaps Dan would soon be able to find some form of work and help his mother. Then again, he might well leave her to her fate. Other boys did. And then what would happen to Sara? Thomas could guess all too easily. She’d a pleasing face and body, and if there was nothing else available, she would become just another member of the oldest profession.

Thomas didn’t want to see that. He wanted to make her smile again, give her back some self-respect and dignity. He would buy some more food with his money today and take it to her, he decided. It would be good to see her face light up at least for a short time.

It took a little while for Baldwin’s eyes to grow accustomed to the dim interior. ‘Dean, could you have a man bring me a lighted torch? It is very gloomy in here.’

While he waited, Baldwin studied the room with the door wide open. It felt like little more than a cell.

The body lay on the ground before him as soon as he had walked inside, and that fact gave him pause for thought. ‘Dean, do you know if anyone has touched the body? Could someone have moved it, for example?’

‘Not that I know of, no,’ the Dean replied. ‘Oh – ah – here’s a torch for you.’

Baldwin took the sputtering torch and held it aloft. Tutting, he called to the novice who had fetched the thing, and ordered him to hold it up while he investigated the man’s body.

Clearly he’d been stabbed in the back; there was no doubt of that. There was a neat tear in the material of his cloak and cote-hardie, and when Baldwin lifted the material and peered underneath, he could see the blood. Whoever had stabbed this man had managed to hit the right mark with the first blow: the blade had entered below the shoulderblade and must have punctured the heart at the first attempt. There was blood, but not much, and Baldwin was reminded of bodies he had seen before; when the heart was stabbed, often it would stop profuse bleeding, as though without the heart the body ceased to function.

Without moving the body, Baldwin studied the ground all about. There was dirt on the floor – hardly surprising given the amount of mud outside. No man could entirely clean his shoes before entering. Some of this now had formed dust, and Baldwin could see that there were the marks of many others. It would be impossible to tell which belonged to the killer or killers, and which had already lain there before this fellow had died. Then again, probably many Cathedral men had come in here to view the body. They too would be responsible for making their own prints. The dust couldn’t help him.

He crouched and studied the dirt nearer the body, wondering whether the man could have been killed elsewhere and brought
here – an unlikely possibility, but Baldwin preferred to reject no idea until he had evidence to justify its dismissal. Studying the ground nearer the body, there was nothing other than the mess of footprints and scuffmarks.

Rising from all fours to squat, Baldwin sighed. There was no possibility of learning anything from this corpse. Too many men had been here over the last couple of days, probably first of all making sure that he was truly dead, more entering to gawp and speculate. He’d seen it all too often before at murder scenes; people couldn’t resist coming to see what had happened. All he could hope was that the man who found the body would be a more or less reliable witness. The body had been moved several times, probably, and Baldwin would like to know how the corpse had lain when it was first found. Looking at the way the man was lying now, he wondered if he had been like this, face down, feet pointing back to the door, head in the chapel itself.

Time, he thought, to study the dead man, and he rolled the body over.

He was perhaps six or seven years older than Baldwin himself, about sixty. His belly was proud proof of his wealth if nothing else. His stomach was well-rounded, and his jowls would have made a bloodhound jealous. For all his girth, he was not an unattractive fellow, from what Baldwin could see. Although his eyes had closed as though he was sleeping, Baldwin could see that his features were pleasingly regular and there were laughter lines at either eye, making him a cheerful companion. And yet there was also a set of wrinkles at the side of his mouth and at his forehead which spoke of recent worries. It was possible that Baldwin wouldn’t have seen these if he had studied the face in daylight, but here with the flickering yellow torch flame, the man’s face was thrown
into stark relief. Clearly he had been worried about something before he died. Concern was etched onto his face like a pattern carved into leather.

Baldwin stood, staring down at the dead man. He glanced at the novice with the torch, a slightly green-faced youth who appeared to be gazing with fascination at a point on the wall some feet above Baldwin’s head.

‘Sir Baldwin?’ the Dean called. ‘Have you – er – discovered anything?’

Baldwin decided not to offer his observation that the man was certainly dead, and instead walked out to join the Dean.

‘He was definitely murdered. He could not have inflicted such a wound on himself with any ease.’

‘Of course he was murdered!’ snapped a voice.

The Dean gave the speaker a rather irritated look. ‘You – um – remember our Treasurer, Sir Baldwin? This is Stephen.’

‘I recall you well, Master Treasurer,’ Baldwin said smoothly. He hadn’t liked the Treasurer on the previous occasions they had met, and saw no reason to alter his opinion now.

‘Did you learn anything useful in there?’ Stephen demanded.

‘I should like to talk to the First Finder,’ Baldwin said after a moment. ‘What sort of a man is he? A stable sort? Intelligent, or prey to fancy?’

‘It was a fellow called Paul. I do not think that he is – um – prone to fancy, no, although I have to admit that he is new to his role as annuellar. Perhaps he could be a little … ah … unreliable? We are fortunate, however, because he called for help as soon as he found the body, and the man who – um – went to him was Janekyn Beyvyn, our porter from the Fissand Gate.
He
is not prey to dark imaginings. A more sensible fellow you could not – ah – hope to meet.’

‘I am glad.’

‘Do you think you can learn who actually committed this terrible crime, though?’ Stephen blurted out. ‘It’s revolting to think of that poor soul’s corpse in there waiting until the blasted Coroner can be bothered to make his way here. The man responsible should be made to pay for this dreadful abomination. To slaughter a man in a holy chapel! It beggars belief!’

‘I agree,’ Baldwin said, but he felt, as he looked at the men before him, that he could not and should not deceive them. He sighed. ‘Yet I fear that even were Simon Puttock with me, this matter could prove to be beyond our powers of investigation. There is nothing in there to show who might have killed him. Perhaps I can learn more from the man’s family. Was he married?’

‘Yes, with a daughter, I fear,’ Dean Alfred said.

Baldwin shook his head slowly. It was one of his constant fears that he would die too soon and not see his child Richalda grow to graceful maturity. All he hoped was that, should he die, she would at least hold fond memories of him. As would his widow. That thought suddenly sprang upon him, and he had a sense of complete loss, perhaps a recognition that he had already lost Jeanne’s love. The idea was appalling. ‘I …’

‘You are well, sir?’ the Dean asked solicitously. ‘You have blenched.’

‘I am fine,’ Baldwin stated firmly. ‘Very well, then I must speak to this novice and the porter you mentioned, and then, perhaps, you could have a man guide me to the widow?’

‘Of course.’

‘I sent a messenger to Tavistock to ask the good Abbot whether he could release Simon for a few days to help me here,’ Baldwin started tentatively. ‘I do not suppose you have heard anything from Abbot Champeaux about that? A
messenger could have arrived here by now, I should have thought.’

‘No, I have heard nothing. Ahm – perhaps someone will come here later today?’ the Dean said hopefully.

‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said. He glanced at the chapel a last time and unaccountably felt a shiver pass down his spine.

A Charnel Chapel could hardly be thought of as a friendly, welcoming place: it was a storage area for those remains which would not naturally dissolve. The bones of many men and women lay inside there, under the ground, all higgledy-piggledy. It wasn’t surprising that the place should acquire a strange atmosphere all of its own. Of course Baldwin knew full well that he was not in the slightest fanciful, not like Simon; Baldwin was no romantic fool who heard ghosts and witches at every turn.

Yet he was aware of a curious shrinking sensation as he looked at the chapel, as though it was truly built upon death, and death would come here once more.

The German should be with them some time soon. Mabilla took a deep breath and rubbed her temples.

‘Mother, this is the right thing to do,’ Julia said once more.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Mabilla responded testily. She looked at her daughter again and gave her a weak smile. ‘I am sorry – I know you are as sad as I am today, but it is so hard …’ She could feel the tears welling again on seeing her daughter: so tall, so elegant, and so terribly distraught, her eyes red from weeping. It was a testament to her beauty that the desperation and grief which so ravaged her features did not devour her attractiveness. In many eyes her terrible anguish only added to her appeal.

They had both sat up late discussing their plight since the sudden shock of Henry’s murder. Their situation was doleful. Mabilla had gone through the ledgers with an experienced clerk whom Henry had oftentimes used before, and the result was not reassuring. Henry was owed a considerable sum from other members of the Freedom of Exeter, and Mabilla knew that she’d have to start implementing court proceedings to gather even a small part from most of these fellows.

In the meantime, the house was their sole real asset, and the two women must shift for themselves in any way they might.

‘It’s the only way, Mother.’

Mabilla closed her eyes. The shock of Henry’s death, followed so soon afterwards by the veiled threat in Will’s words,
was almost more than she could bear. Will had been so malevolent in his manner and speech: that alone had convinced her that she and her daughter both urgently needed a protector.