31 - City of Fiends (28 page)

‘When your father left the inn, was it in order to tail the maid? She had been making love before she died, according to the inquest.’

‘Of course it was.’

‘And she was dead when you all returned,’ Simon stated.

Gregory said nothing, but Simon saw his gaze slide away from him.

‘So that is why you’re so nervous. You think he’s the killer too,’ Simon breathed.

Alley off Combe Street

Emma de Coyntes refused to feel guilty. This death, while sad, was not her responsibility. It didn’t matter how much Helewisia looked at her in that accusing way of hers,
Emma wasn’t going to be a hypocrite and pretend a grief she didn’t feel. She hadn’t liked Juliana, and the fact that the woman was now dead was no reason for Emma to alter her
opinion.

Helewisia and Claricia both kept staring at her, as though she’d done something wrong, but none of it was anything to do with her, any more than the death of Alice had been.

Her conscience was clear. She felt her husband’s Bydaud’s gaze on her, and stared back. The sadness in his eyes made her want to go and hug him. But she couldn’t. Not here, not
now. Later.

Father Paul had stepped into the alley with a sense of dread engulfing him, as though the air here was somehow different from that in the rest of the city.

In some ways it was. The wind had picked up, bringing a constant reminder of the vats of excrement and piss out on Exe Island where the tanners worked. How any man could endure that life was
incomprehensible to Father Paul. His eyes watering, he held a strip of his cowl over his nose and mouth as he went, but all the while that feeling of congestion in his breast would not leave him,
and it only grew worse as he drew nearer to the group of men that comprised the inquest. ‘Dear God, don’t let me die before I right this,’ he murmured.

The Coroner threw him a bored glance as he approached, and continued with his questioning. Father Paul saw Baldwin, and purposely kept his distance from the knight. He didn’t like
Baldwin’s dark, intense eyes. They made him feel as though he should divulge every secret he had ever possessed, and it was an uncomfortable sensation.

Juliana was there just as he remembered her from last night. Blood had blackened the mud about her, and her ravaged features were hideous to behold. How cruel, when only yesterday she had been a
vibrant woman in her prime.

But Father Paul wasn’t here to see her. He had another purpose, and he would see it through. Licking dry lips, he blurted out, as loudly as he could: ‘I know why this woman was
killed. I know why they were both killed!’

‘What? Who said that?’ the clerk demanded, stretching his neck to peer at the crowd. The Coroner too was now staring.

‘I spoke: Father Paul of Holy Trinity,’ the priest said, walking bravely forward. He was shivering with nerves, but then he had been scared before. This was no worse than that
horrible occasion when he had first stood up in front of his own congregation. ‘I know who had reason to kill both of these women,’ he repeated.

‘You realise what you are saying?’ the Coroner said.

Sir Baldwin had stepped to his side, and spoke into his ear. ‘Father, I know you want to help, but reflect. This is a dangerous course on which you have embarked.’

‘I know what I do and say,’ Father Paul told him, and then he said, more loudly still, ‘I accuse Henry Paffard of the murder of his maid and of the murder of Juliana
Marsille.’

‘Me?’ Henry Paffard said.

‘How do you answer?’ the Coroner said.

Father Paul felt his lip curl in contempt at the sight of the merchant. ‘Look at him!’ he cried. ‘Can any man here doubt his guilt? We must arrest him until he can be tried in
the city court. He should be held securely so that the women of our city are safe. He killed Alice because she was demanding money from him, and then last night he killed Juliana. I know – I
saw him arrive with his cloak on after Juliana’s death scream.’

The Coroner turned his attention back to the priest. ‘Seeing a man wearing a cloak is no proof of a crime!’

‘He came to my church on Monday, two days since, and threatened me with exposure as a whore’s gull and liar because he saw me giving alms to two poor women at my door. The man who
threatened me had put on a sack to conceal his face, but he wore the cloak he wears now. Last night, when Juliana was slain, I was there in his house, and I recognised the cloak when he came home
just after her death. It was the same as the one worn by the man at my house. I accuse him, therefore, of the murders.’

‘Henry Paffard! I ask you again, how do you answer?’ the Coroner repeated.

‘I admit it. I am the murderer.’

Baldwin, watching him, saw how he resolutely lifted his chin, but did not look from side to side, neither at his wife, nor at his son and daughter. He looked very little like a criminal. Most
felons would have moaned and expressed remorse, but Henry Paffard stood erect and bold, for all the world more like a martyr than a villain.

Baldwin narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. There was, he felt sure, something amiss with this confession. And when he glanced at Gregory, he saw something he had never expected to see on the
youth’s face.

It looked a lot like admiration.

Emma felt the shock rushing through her from her toes to her head. It was so powerful, she thought she must fall, and she rocked on her feet even as the murmurs spread through
the crowds.

Henry Paffard had killed Juliana. Why?
Why?
It made no sense at all!

Emma could feel the eyes of Helewisia on her, and her face turned the colour of a beetroot with the knowledge that others were pointing and talking about her. The idea that Henry could have
killed Juliana because of Emma’s complaint was unthinkable. No. She was being ridiculous. The fact was, if Henry
had
killed her, it was for his own selfish reasons, not because of
anything that Emma had said or done.

‘Emma? Are you all right?’ Helewisia had crossed the alley to her.

‘Yes, of course I am,’ she said, a little more curtly than she intended.

‘You look upset. You cannot blame yourself. This wasn’t your fault.’

‘I know. And I thank you for your kindness,’ Emma said with a sigh. ‘I cannot be at fault if Henry decided to kill his maid and Juliana, can I?’

‘There must be some reason for him to do something so extreme. Henry is usually so rational and shrewd.’

‘Why cut off her lips?’ Emma said, and shuddered.

‘Because he wanted to stop anyone else threatening to talk about him? I don’t know.’

‘Talk about him?’ Emma repeated. It was a thought. If Juliana had been going to speak up about having witnessed him commit murder, say, that would explain the mutilation.

‘Poor Juliana,’ Helewisia said.

‘I will not change my thoughts about her,’ Emma said rigidly.

‘I think you should show more compassion and forgiveness now,’ Helewisia remonstrated gently.

‘She is dead. It matters little to her what I say or do,’ Emma said sharply.

‘You still offer no compassion, only pride?’ Helewisia said coolly.

‘I offer nothing at all. Juliana offended my daughter and me. Don’t expect me to mourn her. I feel sorrow that she has died, but that is all.’

East Gate

Sir Richard de Welles was happy to be seated in the saddle once more. He beamed at the men about him as he ran his eye over them. A scruffy bunch of churls, but with the hearts
of men of Devon, they would no doubt suffice.

It was not as though the task ahead was difficult, in God’s name. None of the porters at the gates had reported seeing a tall priest for a day or
so, which meant Laurence must have been disguised. Or, at least wore a thick cloak over his clerical garb. All these fellows need do was ride on and see whether they could overrun a clerk on foot.
Not a hard job, even in winter. Today, with the pleasant breeze and the sun trying to break through the clouds, it should be an agreeable task. Not even the prospect of a fight, he told himself
sadly. It was always heartening to think that a manhunt could result in some form of struggle at the end of the day. Made the effort worthwhile.

Still, with a horse beneath him, the sun overhead, he was as content as he ever had been as he led the makeshift posse from the castle’s street, into the High Street, and thence out by the
East Gate.

There were two Sergeants with him, and two-and-twenty men. As soon as he was outside the city’s walls, he commanded them to separate, and it was with only two men that he continued onwards
to Heavitree. From there he intended to make a wide sweep up towards the north. He didn’t think that the priest would have travelled more than ten miles if he left the city last night.
Perhaps he could have covered slightly more, but if he had, news of the posse would soon reach all the small farms and vills, and the peasants would be on the lookout for a man with a tonsure. Ha!
It wouldn’t take long to catch him.

He had ridden four or five miles when he saw the first group of men.

Three of them lying at the side of the road – and all hacked and stabbed to death.

Rougemont Castle

Sheriff James de Cockington was silent as he walked into his hall. He took the proffered goblet of wine, and went to his chair on the dais without speaking. Sitting, he took a
long pull of the wine, eyeing the group without expression.

In truth, he wasn’t sure how to proceed. Henry Paffard stood with his head bared, his hands free, while two sturdy men guarded him. The priest stood, resolute and determined, and there was
Sir Baldwin and his companion, and Simon Puttock.

‘Sir Baldwin, I would be grateful if you would keep your hound at your side,’ he remonstrated, seeing Wolf licking at his table.

Baldwin nodded to Edgar, who took Wolf outside. ‘My apologies, Sheriff.’

James de Cockington paid him no heed. ‘Coroner, speak, please. I am fascinated as to how this well-known and respected merchant comes to be in my hall.’

‘He has confessed before the jury to the murder of the two women near Combe Street.’

‘He has?’ De Cockington looked at Paffard. ‘So? Why did you do this?’

‘I feel remorse, but I think my actions must have been caused by my arrogance and greed.’

‘Arrogance I can believe – greed?’

Paffard shrugged. ‘I did what I did. I will pay the price.’

‘I fail to understand this. Can you not explain your reasons? No? Well, if you are determined to suffer the penalty, there is little I can do. You will be held in the castle gaol until
such time as the next court, and then you will be hanged by the neck until dead.’

Paffard paled on hearing those words, but he did not demur, and obediently walked out with his two guards when motioned to leave.

‘So, Sir Baldwin, it would appear the matter is resolved.’

‘So it would seem.’

‘And all because of this bold priest?’

‘The merchant tried to silence me with threats,’ Father Paul said. ‘I would not permit that.’

‘I congratulate you,’ the Sheriff said. ‘When there were so many clever minds set to learning what had happened and why, it took only a simple man in a tonsure to discover the
truth. Is that not a lesson to us all, eh, Sir Baldwin?’

‘It is fortunate that the fellow has admitted his guilt, is it not?’ Baldwin said mildly.

‘Why – do you think that makes him more or less guilty?’ The Sheriff laughed. ‘Perhaps, Sir Baldwin, it is time for you to surrender your warrant. A man of your age
should not be struggling on with work of this nature. It is enough that you have had so many successes . . .
in the past
. Now you are so aged, perhaps you should return to your hall, retire,
and enjoy the few years that remain.’

De Cockington smiled pointedly at the knight. He had never liked Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, and it was good to be able to score a point over him. Especially since he had seen to the exile of his
own brother. Poor young Paul. He had liked the women a little too much, but that was hardly a crime, and he had been hounded from the city and the country, thanks to this scruffy Keeper of the
King’s Peace. No, he didn’t like Sir Baldwin. Any embarrassment he could bring upon him would be worth the effort.

And Sir Baldwin’s tight expression gratified him. He only wished he could see it grow into one of genuine pain.

Near Clyst St George

Sir Richard de Welles had been in many fights in his long life, and the prospect of another held no concerns for him. He had a sword at his side, and although his mail was back
in his travelling chest at the inn, his padded jack was adequate for most blades, so he trotted forward to the bodies without fear.

All had died badly. Slashed and cut about, one with what looked like a nasty gash from a sword or axe blow, they had clearly been attacked by a strong force. Sir Richard saw a column of smoke to
the south.

‘These men are dead, there’s nothing we can do for them,’ he said, and beckoned his two companions to join him. ‘Down there, looks like a building on fire. I’d
guess there’s a small band about here which has attacked these men and others. We need to ride and see what sort of number of men there are. You two with me?’