The Butcher of St Peter's: (Knights Templar 19) (14 page)

Henry missed him. Just now he could do with a friend to talk to, but there was no one else he wholly trusted. Ach! What was
the point? He’d go home. He could take a cut through Barber’s Alley, a little passage that led behind Cook’s Row a couple
of lanes behind Daniel’s old place, and get home to Pruste Street that way.

His legs felt a little wobbly. They often did, since the day of the attack, but today they were more so. Perhaps he’d had
a little too much ale in the Rache. He wasn’t so young as he had been. The effect of the ale was to deaden the pain a little,
though, and he was less aware of the dull aches in his shoulder and back than usual.

The alley was here, and he turned into it. Dark and dank, the walls rose up on either side, the upper storeys jettied so that
they almost met overhead. Yes, he’d got a bit pissed. Too much ale, that was it. But what else could a man do when the enemy
who had done so much harm was at last dead as he deserved? The evil devil would soon be in his grave, and the sooner he was
there and dirt spread over his face, the better.

He felt something grab at his boot just as he was thinking this, and stumbled, almost falling. Looking down, he saw a filthy
darkened bundle, a long stick wrapped in material protruding from it. Some idle sod had thrown trash down here where it could
trip anyone walking by – not that it was likely to be much of a risk. This alley was hardly ever used, and the likelihood
of someone’s strolling down here was remote in the extreme. Whoever threw that stuff away had probably assumed that it would
lie there for weeks without anyone’s seeing it. Maybe it had been here for weeks already.

Idly, he prodded it with his staff. There was a strange softness about it, whatever it was, and then a fold of material moved
and he saw an eye. Even then his mind refused to accept what he could see, and he assumed it was a dog’s or a cat’s, until
the material moved further and he saw the nostrils, the nose chewed away by rats and insects, the vermin toothmarks at forehead
and cheek, the missing eyeball, and then, last of all, the moving mass where the throat had been.

Sabina wiped the food from her son’s face and kissed his brow, then smacked him lightly on the breeches as he ran outside
to play.

Other places were more worrying than this. In their house in Arches Lane a short distance from the priory of St Nicholas,
there was never too much fast traffic. Elsewhere there were always the dangers of runaway carts, fools racing their horses
or, God in Heaven forbid the thought, even occasional hazards from maddened hogs. One had entered a house in an alley behind
St Martin’s Lane not long ago and eaten a baby lying in her cot. That must surely be the worst thing to happen to a mother,
losing a child before her eyes, seeing it eaten by a ravening hog …

God be praised, but there were many dangers for a young child in a busy, go-ahead city like Exeter. Others had said sometimes
that Exeter was only a rural backwater, that for men who wanted to get on Bristol or York offered far more, and that a man
who wanted to be rich beyond his dreams couldn’t do better than to move to London, but that would never tempt her husband,
and Sabina was glad of it.

Born in Bishop’s Clyst just outside the city, she had thought it a big move to come up to the city. As a child she had seen
the smoke from all the fires over the hill, showing how huge the place was, and she could still remember how petrified she
had been on the first day she was told to go with her father to help him in the market. It had seemed so vast, this great
city with the red stone wall encircling it, and when she came closer and could appreciate the immensity of the gates, the
astonishing complexity of the streets and alleys, she had been certain that she could never live in such a place. She had
been delighted to return home to their tiny cottage at the end of the day. Exeter was too large, too fast-paced. Anybody living
there must grow
as intolerant, sharp and plain rude as all the people seemed to be. She wouldn’t want to become like them.

But as she grew older and began to search for a new life for herself, the attractions of the city began to make themselves
felt. She wondered what it must be like to live safely behind those huge walls, where there were inns to visit, markets with
fine silks and furs, the lure of dressmakers and cakemakers.

All through her childhood she would travel with her father to the city to sell their produce. He was a freeman, and maintained
a small orchard with apples and some pears, which he would sell at the market, while sometimes taking the windfalls and pressing
the juice from them to make scrumpy, which would often sell well at his door. It was good, he always said, to have his little
Sabina with him, because she would help attract customers for him. A small girl’s voice, he had said, would carry better and
sound sweeter than his harsh old growl. Now she knew that he had been pretending. It was helpful to have her there because
the women browsing the market stalls would see a pretty little face peering up appealingly, and would buy at an inflated price
‘to keep the child happy’.

Many assumed she had met her Reginald that way. He lived in Exeter, of course, but she didn’t know him from there. She met
him when he was passing by the farm gate one day and saw the bush tied over the door, the recognized symbol of the tavern-keeper
all over the country. All families tended to brew their own ale every so often, and because ale would not keep well for any
length of time the excess was sold off at the door. It so happened that Sabina’s mother had broached a barrel of scrumpy that
morning, and her father had tied up the bush at midday. Early in the afternoon, Sabina heard the sound of hooves, and when
she went to the door she saw the man who was to become her husband.

Tall and rangy, she had thought, at first with little interest, but then, when he started to chat to her and she saw how his
eyes wrinkled at the corners when he laughed, and she found herself laughing with him, almost against her own wishes, she
instinctively knew that she had found the man she would live with.

The wooing had been brief. In those days, people didn’t expect to hang about and consider different partners for long. It
was too soon after the famine. That had killed off so many, and this was the first summer which appeared not to be disastrous.
Yes, the harvests were poor through the following few years – in fact last year was pretty poor again – but at least people
could eat. Sabina fell pregnant not long after the wedding, and their son was almost seven now. A rowdy little lad at the
best of times, at least he was apparently unaffected by her moods.

They had been happy for most of the first few years, but then Reg’s attitude started to change. She wasn’t sure why it was
at first. He’d been happy-go-lucky all the time until the famine was well behind them, but it seemed almost that as life grew
less harsh, and people stopped dying, his easy-going nature faded.

Others noticed it. Even as the rest of the city was growing more relaxed and less fraught, as his own business developed and
the ships began to bring in profit with every sailing, his mood darkened. About two years ago, he grew so irritable and temperamental
that she wondered whether he might be unwell. There were stories of men getting brain-fevers and losing their minds; the worst
were the men with the rage that forced them to stop drinking water even though they were gasping from thirst. Mad dogs could
give that to a man with just a bite, probably because of demons inside them. But Reg hadn’t been bitten, he’d only grown more
wealthy. Yet it appeared that as
his success grew, so did his dissatisfaction. As the daily threat of death by starvation receded, his mood grew more gloomy.

There was only one explanation for this, she thought. Why would a man who was making so much money be miserable? Because he
was unhappy with his wife.

She took a deep breath and wiped the hair from her eyes. At first, knowing that she’d lost her husband’s affection, she had
been hurt. Hurt and withdrawn. It was terrible to feel that she wouldn’t know his comforting hugs and caresses any more, just
as it gave her a grim feeling of her own mortality to know that her womb would probably never again bear a child. They had
stopped trying. Once he had been the happiest beacon of her life, but now she was convinced that she had lost his love.

More recently that sadness had turned from misery to anger. She had learned that not only had he lost his love for her, he
had actively sought it in another.

It was to his shame as much as hers that she had learned of his infidelity from her son.

‘Just who the hell is he, then?’ Sir Peregrine demanded of the luckless bailiff who had called him.

He was with a small group of men, peering down at the corpse Henry had found in the twilight of the alley.

The bailiff was a stolid man called Rod atte Wood, who tried to look away as he was questioned. ‘I don’t know, Sir Peregrine.
He is no one I recognize. Not with his face like that, anyway. The man who found him is here.’

‘Bring him to me, then!’ Sir Peregrine fretted irritably while the First Finder was brought to him. ‘Now hear me, man: this
body. You found it?’

The man was a noisome fellow, who reeked of old ale and sweat, clad in a thin woollen tunic over a linen shirt. His back was
twisted, his right hand all but useless and held in a sling. From its wasted appearance, Sir Peregrine knew that the man hadn’t
used it in many a year. His face was grey and lined, his cheeks sunken from malnutrition, and his hair looked as though it
had once been dark like a Celt’s, but was now faded to a uniform grey.

‘I didn’t touch it, sir. I found him there because I tripped over the outstretched arm, but I didn’t know it was a man until
I poked the cloth with my staff.’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Sir Peregrine snapped. ‘Save it for the blasted inquest, man. What’s your name?’

‘Henry Adyn.’

‘Really?’ Sir Peregrine glowered at him, and Henry felt a flaring of anxiety. ‘I want to speak to you. Where were you last
night? Daniel Austyn’s been murdered and I’ve heard you were attacked by him and crippled. Did he do that to you?’

‘Yes. He took a pickaxe to me. I was lucky to live.’

‘You hated him?’

The bailiff cleared his throat. ‘Sir Peregrine, if I can …’

‘What?’

Rod shrugged expansively. ‘Look at him! He has only one arm. Could he truly kill a man like Daniel? Daniel was much more powerful.
In the dark, a feeble old sod like Henry could hardly hope to win.’

Sir Peregrine reckoned he was right. He pulled the man’s shirt apart and saw for himself the dreadful scar that rippled and
twisted his flesh. The arm and hand were wizened and shrivelled. ‘Can you hold a knife in that hand?’

Rod answered. ‘He hasn’t held anything in that hand since Daniel ruined it for him. And last night I saw him in the Black
Hog from the early evening. He was very drunk when he left the place. I doubt he could hold a knife in his good hand. With
one hand, he couldn’t have hurt Daniel.’

The Coroner nodded sharply. ‘Then he can be eliminated as the murderer, I suppose. Very well, Master Adyn, do you or anyone
else in this benighted area know just who on God’s earth this man was?’

‘He’s familiar. I think I’ve seen him about the place. Mostly down near the docks – and out near the South Gate.’

The bailiff frowned and hunched down to squat by the body. He waved irritably at the flies that surrounded him immediately,
and narrowed his eyes, turning his head to one side as he contemplated the features. ‘I think you’re right, Henry. He has
the square face … same hair too … it’s hard to see, though, with that mess made of his face.’

‘Who, then?’ Sir Peregrine demanded. ‘I have another inquest to hold.’

The bailiff moved his lips as he stood, a searching expression on his face as he tried to dredge up an unfamiliar name. Then
his brow cleared. ‘I know who it is! Mick. He was a sailor for a while, worked out of Topsham, but came to Exeter some few
years ago. A bright lad, but too fond of the ladies, I think.’

‘What does that mean?’

Henry answered. ‘He was involved in the brothel outside the city wall near the South Gate. Used to go to the docks to tempt
the sailors, telling them that he had access to a good sister or daughter or wife, whatever they wanted to hear. You know
how a pander works.’

Sir Peregrine nodded. All men did. ‘And the brothel was out at the southern gate?’

‘There are a couple out there. One is mostly used by women who want some extra money – maids and others who don’t earn enough
and have to sell themselves to make a little more. The other is a regular brothel, where the women all live in the place.’

‘Are these stews regulated?’ Sir Peregrine asked.

‘Only by the noise they make. If there are too many fights, we go and try to calm things down. Other than that, they aren’t
doing any harm, so we tend to leave them to their own affairs.’

‘But you think that this man was a pander for one of the women?’

‘At least one. If he was working in the brothel, there’d be several wenches dependent on the men he could bring them.
Each woman will only have one man a night, usually. So I’m told.’

‘Very good. In that case, prepare a jury for early tomorrow morning. Have someone guard this body until I am back then. You,
First Finder: make sure you are also here for the inquest.’

‘I will.’

‘Do you know him, bailiff?’ Sir Peregrine demanded.

‘Yes. He’s Henry Adyn, lives in an alley off Pruste Street, don’t you, Henry?’

‘Then it’s your responsibility to make sure he’s here tomorrow. Fail and I’ll fine you, bailiff. Right: now we must see if
anyone’s found this murderer Estmund. Have you seen him, Master Adyn?’

‘Me? No. I’d have taken him if I had.’

‘Good,’ said the Coroner, and left them there to hurry along to Daniel’s inquest.

Jordan filled his lungs and expelled the air with a contented grunt. ‘That was a good meal, wife. I feel ready to hurry off
and slaughter dragons now. I’ll see you later. Keep warm for me. I may be needing comfort tonight!’

He rose and reached for his cotte with the fur trimming at neck and cuffs. It had been moderately expensive, but was not too
ostentatious. Even the addition of the little strips of cheap fur had been carefully calculated. They were the marks of a
successful man of business, but nothing to make another man stop to look again. There was nothing to demonstrate the wealth
that Jordan had built for himself.

His wife was quiet again. Good. She had learned. Only a few days before, he’d had to take his belt to her. She would keep
nagging him when he had other things on his mind. Actually, it had been the evening he’d been going to see
Mick and Anne. She’d told him that he should wear a thicker shirt to keep out the cold, and she wanted him to take a sword
as well in case of attack. In the end, he’d slapped her to shut her up. She was more trouble than she was worth. In fact,
if she hadn’t improved, he had been going to consider killing her too, just so that her whining would be stopped for good.
He didn’t need her body now. There were always his brothels, and if he needed women he could have them sent to him here, to
his house. Much easier and less expensive than a wife. The only thing that prevented his taking that action was the effect
it might have on Jane. He would never do anything that might hurt her feelings; not unless there was no other choice.

Still, Mazeline had been better today, and he was in such a good mood, he could have gone to see his wench and bedded her
again. She was a willing bedmate, and her enthusiasm spurred him on to greater efforts … but she was bound to be tied
up with all the legal nonsense that went with a murder. Probably had that new Coroner hanging round her neck. Best to leave
her alone for now.

Jane was in the hall as he reached the door. He smiled at her broadly. ‘I’ll see you later, little sweeting.’

‘I won’t go to sleep until you’re home, Daddy.’

‘Good. I’ll come and kiss you, then, if I’m late.’

Turning, he slammed the door behind him and stood a moment in his doorway, staring up and down Correstrete. There was a chill
in the air, but to him it merely smelled and felt like a perfect late autumn day. He had always loved this time of year. It
was a time when lonely men thought of warm thighs to lie between, and his profits were as good in autumn as in spring. Yes,
he’d go to his South Gate brothel first and see how business was since he’d taken Anne back there. She would have
given a stern warning to the men and women alike who worked for him.

It was a shame he couldn’t give the same warning to his wife when she misbehaved, but it was safer not to. Far better that
he should merely remove her if she grew fractious or difficult to deal with.

Baldwin would have been happier to plead his injuries as an excuse to avoid the inquest, but something made him rise and pull
on boots.

‘Do you really have to go?’ his wife asked solicitously. She didn’t like the way he favoured his arm as he pulled on his cotte,
his sore shoulder making him wince.

‘Perhaps not, but if I don’t go, I’ll never know what sort of a hash the good Coroner can make of a simple case,’ Baldwin
said lightly, but she could see from the way his brow furrowed a moment later that there was something about this case that
was giving him pause for thought.

‘Do you have any idea who could have killed the man?’ she asked.

He preferred not to discuss murders with her because her own parents had been slaughtered when she was young; she had been
taken to Bordeaux to be raised by relations. He always felt that it must be upsetting to her to discuss other killings when
death was so familiar and painful to her.

‘There are some possibilities,’ he admitted with a rueful smile when he saw that she would not give up in her pursuit of the
truth. ‘A man who appears to have an unnatural interest in young children for a beginning.’

‘Why is that?’

‘We have not yet managed to speak to him. Perhaps we shall have a better idea about him when we have heard his story,’
Baldwin said. ‘He has apparently broken into many homes in the city, never hurt anyone, never given alarm, just watched the
children.’ He stopped and threw her a look.

It was quite exasperating sometimes, the way he sought to protect her from unpleasant truths. ‘And?’

‘And he lost his own wife and child in the famine. The fellow who told me about him said that his mind may have become unbalanced
because of the horror of finding his wife’s body. She committed suicide—’

‘The poor man! Their child had died?’

‘That was the reason for her suicide, yes.’

‘I find it hard to believe that a man who has suffered such a terrible loss could think to inflict a similar pain on another
family. Perhaps to steal a baby to care for, yes, but not to try to hurt one. Nor to harm the parent of a child.’

‘If he was provoked, if he thought that his own life could be in danger, perhaps then he could strike in order to defend himself.’

‘Perhaps … but why should he? If people knew that he was doing this, as you say, then why should he appear to be a threat
now?’

‘A good point: he must know he was not viewed as a danger to others, and he would not expect to be threatened. So perhaps
that makes him less likely to have been the murderer than I thought at first.’

‘Who else could have been involved?’

‘There was something,’ he began, then screwed his face into a mass of concerned wrinkles. ‘This is terrible. Please forgive
me for thinking the worst of people, my love, but I have to wonder. The man’s wife is concealing something – I can feel it.
She has a secret which she has not shared, and which she will seek to hide from us.’

‘It is not unknown for a woman to commit petty treason,’ Jeanne said slowly. Her own first husband had died of a sudden fever,
but had he not, she could have been tempted to end his life herself. When they had not conceived a child after many attempts,
he had blamed her for the failure. He mocked her and abused her in front of his friends, and had taken to physical punishments.
Yes, she could understand women committing that most dreadful of crimes.

‘But why should she do it?’ Baldwin asked aloud. ‘Did she hate him because he was a bully and beat her, or was there another
reason?’

‘Perhaps you
should
go, then,’ Jeanne said. She stood and took a heavy woollen cloak. ‘And I’ll come too, to make sure you are safe.’

Henry curled his lip. ‘So what will you do, then, Rod? Stay with me all the night to make sure I attend the inquest? Will
you share my bed?’

‘Shut up, Henry. You whine worse’n a baby. Christ’s pain, I wish my baby daughter was here. She may make a noise and shit
her clothes, but she makes less shit than you talk! Let me think.’

The bailiff was not a hard man, and more to the point he had other duties to attend to. It was all very well some bleeding
Coroner demanding his time and telling him he had to go and do another job, but there were other people who needed him, and
just now he could think of several tasks to be completed which would be impossible with this man in tow. ‘Look, Henry, do
you want to go to the gaol?’

‘No!’

‘Right, then. Do as I say. I’ll leave you free tonight, but I’m going to tell all the porters of the gates that you’re not
to leave
the city. All right? So if you try to get out of here, you’ll be arrested and thrown into a cell. That’s that. Now, you have
to come with me in the morning to the inquest, so make sure you sleep at home tonight, because if you aren’t there when I
arrive tomorrow I’ll find you, and I’ll take pleasure in having you weighed down with iron. You’ll have neck, wrist and ankle
shackles.’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Be sure you are, you old git. If the First Finder decides to ignore the Coroner’s inquest, the Coroner will get very angry,
and I don’t think you want to see him like that.
I
don’t, anyway, so if you piss him off, I’ll be even worse. Every sarcastic and painful comment he makes, I’ll take it out
on your hide with a club. Understand?’

‘Yeah, I understand.’

‘Good. Then get lost, you old shit.’

Henry took his leave with a grunt and a sneer, and left the alley as quickly as he could. The only place he could think of
going was the Black Hog. It called to him like a beacon of hope in the midst of this horror, and he was sure that he would
be able to forget, if only for a short while, all the foul details of Mick’s face and the wriggling mass of maggots at the
wound in his throat, if he could only get a pint of good wine inside him.