The Death Ship of Dartmouth: (Knights Templar 21) (46 page)

Simon leaped on that. ‘Did he replace money just recently? About the time of this sailing, before Pyckard’s ship sailed?’

‘Yes,’ Hawley said steadily.

‘You know what he did, don’t you?’ Simon pressed him.

‘He sold information about people. What he heard in the tavern and gaming rooms, he would sell to whoever wanted it,’ Hawley admitted. ‘It must have been lucrative.’

‘Did he sell something to Pyckard in the weeks before the sailing?’

Hawley was still a moment, but then he gave a short nod. ‘Yes. I think so.’

‘That’s why you chose to forfeit your salvage, wasn’t it?’

Hawley didn’t reply to that. ‘If you want to learn more, you’ll need to speak to Strete. He may still be able to talk – but the men in there grow mighty impatient when they think someone may be unable to repay their debts.’

Strete had never known such pain. His skull ached from the buffets it had taken, but that was nothing compared with his cods. He had been kicked so hard, it felt as though they had swollen like pigs’ bladders, and all the while his arms were strained behind his back so that he must stand on tiptoes to relieve the agony so far as he could. Naked, he shivered with the cold in this dark chamber. He knew he was still at the tavern, but in a small storage room out behind the gaming hall.

He heard steps approaching, and whimpered to himself. They stopped at the door, and it opened, letting some light into the dim interior. He had to avert his face from the sudden flare of candle-light, but not before he had heard a muttered, ‘Sweet Christ in heaven!’ and a gasp of horror.

There was a ringing of steel, and he panicked, crying out, ‘No more! No more, I beg!’

He felt his wrists being jerked, and he wept. Then the terrible strain on his arms ceased. Without the rope to support him, he collapsed, falling to his knees. There was a sudden shouting, and he heard a clash of weapons, but he was all but incapable of comprehending. His entire concentration was fixed on his shoulders and wrists. The
sudden release had led to an anguish so entirely overwhelming that he was left shivering and weeping, unable to speak or even cry out.

‘You’re safe enough for now, Strete. Come with us,’ he heard, but he couldn’t respond. He was lifted gently to his feet. Another jerk at his wrists, and the ropes binding them fell away. There was a hand under each armpit, and he was helped to shamble and shuffle his way from the room. A cloak or blanket was pulled over him and wrapped about him, and he shuddered at the touch of another’s hands. All night the only contact he had received had been from fists. ‘Thank you … thank you …’ he said, over and over again.

Back at Simon’s house, they installed poor Strete in the rear parlour by the fire, and Rob, probably for the first time silenced by the sight of a figure in real distress, walked quietly to fetch water, wine and spices to make him a warming posset. Simon saw him staring in horror at the wretch huddled, shivering, on the bench.

Strete had been severely beaten. His hand looked as though it had been crushed or struck with a hammer. Certainly there was blood all over the swollen, ruined fingers. His face was unrecognisable, with his nose broken, lips mashed against teeth, an ear swollen and bleeding, and both eyes puffed and purple. They had almost completely closed, and as the men in the room talked, Strete turned his good ear to them like a permanently deaf man.

The Coroner had witnessed enough judicial beatings to be able to study Strete with a purely professional interest, but Baldwin had none of his objectivity. When he walked
into the gaming hall, Baldwin had politely asked to see the clerk, and only when he had gripped a man by the throat and asked again, this time with his dagger drawn, did he begin to display his anger. When he saw the body hanging with its arms bound behind his back, his mood became black, and Simon feared that he might kill the clerk, with his bare hands. However, Baldwin merely slapped him twice about the face and thrust him away, muttering an oath. He had gently taken the terrified, blinded victim and eased him down. The wrath had not left him, though. It remained with him even now. It was in his deep brown eyes as he watched Strete.

‘Strete,’ Baldwin said, ‘I think you know why we want to speak to you.’

‘I’ve done nothing.’

‘You have lied and stolen from your master,’ Sir Richard commented happily. He had found a chicken leg from somewhere, and was chewing on it. ‘That’s enough to have a good beating in any house.’

‘Not only that, I think,’ Simon said.

‘What do you mean?’ Sir Richard asked.

‘The missing purse from the man in the road? Someone took it, and although the churlish old devil Cynegils took what he thought he was owed, he left much behind. Someone else took that. Someone who passed by that way a little later – eh, Strete?’

Strete’s head hung disconsolately. ‘I didn’t think it would matter.
He
didn’t need it any more, and it was enough to save me a beating from my master, so I thought.’

‘So you took his purse and took the money?’

Strete’s silence was confirmation enough.

‘Very well. And you had information which you could sell for profit too. Who to?’ Simon pressed him.

‘Master Pyckard. It was about his wife.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘It was about the night she died. I heard that she wasn’t killed when the ship was wrecked. She was already dead.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Do you recall the sailor Hawley found dead in the ship – Danny? He was drunk with me one afternoon, and he told me. He had been on the
Saint Rumon
when she went down, and he told me that he’d seen Mistress Pyckard as the wave broke the ship. The water washed away the master’s cabin, and she was dead in there. Blood on her legs and clothes. He just thought it was the water did that to her, but later on he realised it wasn’t that. He’d been hearing her moaning.’

‘How on earth did he suddenly know that?’

‘It was when we heard Philip Kena’s wife being attacked. She was gagged – Vincent or Odo put their hands over her mouth to stop her screaming – but we could hear her trying to cry out. It fair put the fear of God into Danny. He knew he had heard that sound somewhere before. That afternoon, he suddenly realised it was the sound of a woman in terror with a man’s hand over her mouth.’

‘That sounds like a guess,’ the Coroner said.

‘Except the two of them were talking about her, and said she was just like a “French whore”. They’d been the two who killed Madam Pyckard. That’s what Danny believed. When the ship sank, it covered up their evil deed.’

‘Why didn’t he tell his master? He worked for Pyckard, didn’t he?’

‘Yes. Paul Pyckard saved him and his brother Moses. When it happened, all those years ago, he didn’t realise what he’d seen. He was nothing but a boy. It was only much later, quite recently, that he understood what must have happened.’

‘What of Adam?’

‘Danny thought Adam was innocent; he had done nothing with them. He was never their ally, and Danny saw him about the ship fighting to save her. No, it was only Odo and Vincent who were in the cabin with Mistress Pyckard.’

‘What made Danny suddenly tell you all this?’ Baldwin snapped.

‘I was there when he heard about the woman. I don’t know exactly what it was, but I think that later on, Odo was boasting about fondling Mistress Kena, saying how ripe her body was. Danny got all upset, and he shot from the room. Outside, when I saw him and asked him what was wrong, he said that Odo and Vincent had raped Mistress Pyckard. He was in a terrible state – really shaken up.’

‘What did you do with this information?’

‘I told Danny to keep his mouth shut or Odo would kill him. If he spoke of it to anyone, he’d be killed.’

‘He took your word for that?’

The battered man winced. ‘I warned him that if he told his master, poor Master Pyckard would die all the sooner from a broken heart. It would be kinder to let him die in ignorance of the truth.’

‘Kinder indeed! While
you
went to tell him instead,’ Baldwin commented sourly.

‘I needed money! I knew what would happen if I didn’t replace what I’d borrowed from Hawley. He’d kill me.’

‘What did Pyckard say?’ Simon pressed.

‘He said he was thankful for the information, and that he’d see what he could do.’

‘What of Danny?’

‘I don’t know. I have no idea what happened to him, the poor lad.’

‘Who killed all the crew?’ Simon asked.

‘I don’t know! I swear it! I wasn’t on the ship. I didn’t see what happened any more than you!’

Baldwin and Simon left Peter to the care of Rob, and took the Coroner out to the road.

‘It is clear enough who killed the men on the ship, then,’ Baldwin said.

‘Beauley,’ Simon responded.

‘His ship was there, yes. He is the only one who could have brought this ghost-like Adam back to shore,’ Baldwin said.

‘Hold hard!’ the Coroner exclaimed as the other two set off for Hardness. ‘What is all this?’

‘The answer to the whole riddle of the ship lies at Beauley’s house,’ Baldwin said, but refused to answer more questions until they had reached it.

Here they were directed out to the back of the property, where they found Master Beauley talking to a shipwright about a new vessel.

‘You are increasing your shipping?’ Baldwin asked,
glancing at the wright as he picked up a large scroll detailing expenses and listing requirements.

‘Yes. I have some money set by, and I want another craft. Why are you so interested in the daily workings of a mere merchant seaman?’

Baldwin eyed him closely. ‘I am not impressed with men who kill for money and then use the money for their own benefit.’

Beauley’s smile broadened, but there was an edge to his voice when he said, ‘You accuse me of killing?’

‘Aye,’ the Coroner rumbled. ‘Odo and Vincent and their crew.’

‘I deny it! On my life, my mother’s life, and the Gospels, if you want. I deny I’ve had any part in killing any man against the law.’

‘Who did, then?’ Simon asked.

‘How would I know?’

‘Because it was you who took their bodies and the rest of the crew from Pyckard’s ship, naturally,’ Baldwin stated.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Adam.’

Beauley stared at Simon for some while, trying to guess whether he was bluffing or not. The silence was lengthy, but Simon remembered Baldwin once saying that when questioning a man, it was best to ask once and then wait until the other man gave an answer. It came, at last, in the form of another question. ‘He admitted the murder?’

‘Tell us what you did. He said you killed the men on your ship, and that you threw them overboard yourself,’ Simon grated.

‘He said
what
?’ Beauley glared. ‘The lying shit! They were dead when we came to the ship!’

‘Tell us your side of the story, then. Otherwise we may have to arrest you as well,’ Baldwin said.

‘Very well. I was paid, and paid well, as you can see, to race to catch up with Pyckard’s little ship. It would be waiting for us in the sea, so we were told. All we had to do was take on board the crew, and leave the ship looking as though it was scuttled. That was all.’

‘This was at Master Pyckard’s request?’ Simon confirmed.

‘Of course. Who else?’

‘How many died?’

‘Ask Adam – I wasn’t there. Certainly we took off eight men, including him.’

‘Did you know anything about the men aboard? About what they had done?’

‘You don’t think I’d have got involved if I hadn’t, do you? Of course I knew what they’d done. They raped poor Amandine and told everyone she died in a storm. Odo and Vincent were always prone to violence, especially when they had drunk enough. The fools raped her, killed her, and the ship crashed into the rocks, fortunately for them. It explained her death. Otherwise they would have found that hard to get away with.’

‘So you took these eight men from the ship and set it alight?’

‘No. It was Adam who burned the ship. Only superficially – Pyckard didn’t want the
Saint John
to be too badly damaged.’

‘Why all this subterfuge? Why not just have them stabbed in town?’ Baldwin demanded. ‘All this effort and trouble … it seems ridiculous!’

‘Ask his steward. Moses will tell you. He knew everything about Pyckard’s business.’

The three waited in Pyckard’s hall while a young servant went to find Moses. There was a jug of wine on the sideboard, and Simon lifted the lid and sniffed the interior. He poured a mazerful and lifted it in silent toast to the dead master of the house.

Pyckard’s mark was all over the place. His body might be in the church, but his soul yet remained here. His chair was still at the fire as though waiting for him to return to it; his cloak and hat sat on top of a chest in the corner of the room as though he had walked out to his privy for a moment before leaving to go and view his ships.

For all that, the room reeked of spilled ale and wine from his wake. From the sour odour near the sideboard, Simon guessed that several of his seamen had participated overenthusiastically in the celebration of his life and thrown up before returning to the drinking.

‘Lordings.’

Moses had entered quietly, like a monk. He was clad in black in memory of his master, Simon thought, and stood surveying them with a sad but confident expression, like a man who knew his position in the world and was content. The only indication that he was not completely at ease was the twitching of his fingers: he picked continuously at the hem of his sleeve. Seeing all their eyes upon him, he crossed
the floor noiselessly, to stand before them all beside his master’s chair. One hand upon it, he faced them resolutely, or, as Simon guessed, resignedly.

‘You know why we’re here,’ Simon said harshly. He waved his hand about the room, slopping the wine in his mazer. ‘Pyckard was a wealthy man, wasn’t he? He wouldn’t want to lose too much money. He couldn’t bear to lose a whole ship and the cargo too, could he?’

‘If you say so.’

‘So when he decided to punish the two who had killed his wife, he chose to do it in a way that wouldn’t damage his business.’