The Tolls of Death: (Knights Templar 17) (25 page)

There was a subtle alteration in tone that caught Baldwin’s attention. ‘So she would go to the castle for food and perhaps …’

Susan smiled again. ‘Like I said, no whoring for Athelina. No, she was the sort of woman to give herself entirely, never by halves. She loved her old man, Hob, and when he died, she never looked at another local man again so far as I know.’

Baldwin thought he caught that curious intonation once more, but as he glanced up at her, her face hardened. ‘Perhaps Athelina had a lover, one who was not a “local man”?’ he wondered. ‘One of the castle’s men-at-arms?’

‘Perhaps. She was still a handsome woman.’

‘How could she afford the house? The miller over there was apparently making money from her, and the first reason why everyone assumed that she had committed suicide was her inability to pay an increase in rent. How did she manage to pay before?’

‘I don’t know,’ the alewife said, making as if to leave.

‘Wait, Susan,’ Baldwin said firmly. He remembered the Coroner, who sat silently without evincing the faintest interest in the conversation. ‘We are investigating a murder, and
the Coroner here
is interested in all aspects of her life.’

Sir Jules coughed slightly to hear this. He had been enjoying his wine without being plagued by questions he must ask or people he should see. When Baldwin started questioning this maid, he had thought it was because the knight was interested in her for himself; he hadn’t realised it was in order to further the inquest. So far as he was concerned, the investigation could wait until his
official inquest. All this was speculation, nothing more. He tried to appear interested.

‘So, Susan,’ Baldwin continued, ‘do you know how she earned money before?’

‘No,’ she said, a hint of sulkiness in her tone. ‘It wasn’t my business. All I can say is, she was fine until a year or so back, and suddenly life was more difficult. Recently she’d been worried about money.’

Sir Jules decided to show he was also listening and wiped his mouth. ‘So you think that she might have grown despondent about money, and that made her occasionally lose her reason?’

‘Maybe. Sometimes.’

‘And what about the boys? How were they?’

‘They were worried about her, I suppose.’

Sir Jules said, ‘If she was murdered, who was most likely to kill her?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What of the miller there?’ he asked. ‘He’s a bully, cruel by nature. He could beat his wife, you say, but he holds his tongue against us – he sounds just the sort of man to kill a defenceless woman. Maybe this mention of whoring is because he desired her?’

Baldwin shook his head. ‘What do you think, Simon?’

‘I think he had no reason to kill. Perhaps he desired her, but so what? He probably desires you too, Susan. You’ve certainly the looks and figure to make a man love you …’

She dimpled.

‘But,’ Simon continued, ‘there would have been no purpose to his hurting her. He wanted her money, didn’t he? Anyway, she started getting strange a while ago, before Serlo increased her rent, which shows that there was something else that made her depressed.’

‘I agree,’ Baldwin said. ‘Whatever caused her to start to lose her mind may have had a direct influence on her end.’

‘But it may have nothing to do with her death,’ Sir Jules said. ‘After all, it could be a rapist who wanted her and decided to take her, with or without her agreement. Serlo the miller would be that sort of man.’

‘It’s possible, yes,’ Baldwin said. ‘But I think we would be remiss not to investigate all the possible solutions. And the fact of her melancholy is curious. You are sure, Susan, that you weren’t told why she was so suddenly afflicted?’

‘She wasn’t the sort of woman to confide in all and sundry,’ Susan said and went to serve another customer.

‘Should we question that miller now?’ Sir Jules asked.

Baldwin was tempted to say yes, but a glance at Serlo dissuaded him. The man was sitting slumped, head hanging miserably. Every few moments he would shake it as though in disbelief. He was past rage at the world, and now was sunk in grief.

‘No. He’s consumed too much ale. Wait until tomorrow. We can ask him then, before the inquest of his child.’

‘So we have learned a little today,’ Simon noted. ‘She was desperate for money. Fine until a year or so backalong, Susan said. Since then, the money dried up.’

Baldwin nodded. He glanced at Sir Jules. ‘What do you think?’

‘Me? Nothing. Let’s wait until we can hear what others say.’

Baldwin stared at him a moment, then looked to Simon.

‘Yes,’ Simon said. ‘I think we need to find a lover.’

‘A man,’ Baldwin said, ‘who could afford to support her and her children, who had the inclination to protect her and who, roughly a year ago, lost interest in her.’

‘He found a new lover,’ Simon guessed.

Jules narrowed his eyes. ‘He might have got married.’

Baldwin considered. ‘If he was enjoying himself with Athelina, would he have had time or inclination to woo another? I’d think it unlikely. And he’ll not be young. She wasn’t, and a man seeking a mistress almost always looks for a woman younger than himself.’

He stood and left some coins on the table before leading the others from the room. As they reached the roadway, the noise began to build again, with a harsh voice speaking, then a burst of raucous laughter. It was tempting to return inside, but then he reflected that there was little he could achieve. Perhaps he could have Serlo thrown into gaol, but that itself could serve no useful purpose. Or so he thought.

Later he wished that he had done exactly that, but of course by then it was too late.

Susan could see that Serlo was now very drunk indeed. It had grown dark outside, and as he drank, he grew more and more depressed.

‘She can’t love me any more. If she ever did before, she won’t now, will she? I love her, too. I loved Aumie and Ham, and now Ham’s dead, what’ll Aumie think of me? He’ll blame me too, won’t he? All I wanted was to have a good family, but it’s all gone. All gone! All because I couldn’t find anyone to look after them while Muriel was in her bed. How was I to know Ham would be scalded? I couldn’t tell.’

She knew his complaint was reasonable. There were few men in the tavern with them who wouldn’t have done the same; leaving their children alone, hoping that they would be sensible enough to avoid any danger. But it was a lot to expect of a crawling baby and a boy of four.

It was odd that Athelina’s boys hadn’t been able to call out the alarm. They were, after all, aged twelve and ten. Had they died first, or had she? Faugh! It was a horrible thought that she could have walked into her house and found both murdered, the killer
still there. No woman could do much if she walked in on such a scene. Except …

Susan considered herself ordinary enough, not dissimilar to Athelina in many ways. Surely if she had walked in to find a man doing that to
her
children, she’d have screamed and attacked. He’d have scratches all over his face, and even if he killed her afterwards, he’d remain hurt. However, no one in the vill had shown any such marks. Perhaps she had just fainted. Maybe that was it. She collapsed as soon as she saw her boys.

Or perhaps she was dead first. The two lads were out, and she was killed first, the boys next. But how could the killer have kept them both quiet? They must have screamed and shouted and struggled.

That was when she had the disturbing thought. It made her stop in her tracks, and as she stood, staring into the distance, she heard Serlo slurring coarsely.

‘Well, Sue? You want something? Looking for a man to tire you? I’m the one. Other men can’t sire a single child, but I managed two in three years. My seed’s good.’ He belched, and she turned to him with exhaustion tinged with anger.

‘You think you could raise more than a finger? I need a man to satisfy me, Serlo, not my own ale!’ There was a drunken chuckle which ran about the room as the other men appreciated her joke. She was angry enough to make mention of his son’s body cooling in the church, but she stilled her mouth.

‘Go home, Serlo,’ she told him. ‘You’ll have a hard day tomorrow, so go home now and sleep well. Angot, you look after him, eh? Make sure he gets there safely.’

There was a lot of argument at that, and some of the other men disputed her decision to close the doors, but she was tired.

She was also very worried by the revelation she had just had. The idea that the children could have been silent when the
murderer entered left her thinking she could guess who it might have been.

No, not worried. Petrified.

‘Come on, old Serlo,’ Angot said, and hiccuped softly into the night.

It was much later than usual for him to be out. Usually he’d be up until dusk, and then he’d be off to his bed as darkness fell. Not much else to do. And Bab was a cheerful sort, thank God. Some men had wives who moaned and complained about their lot all night, but Bab was a good wife. She was happy to let him do as he wanted. She’d be there now, waiting for him to come home. He burped. She wouldn’t be over the moon if he let it out that he’d had a gallon or more of Sue’s best ale, mind. Better explain it was ’cos of poor Serlo.

‘Come on, poor old Serlo,’ he said companionably. ‘Time to go home.’

They had almost reached the bend in the track where the stream met it, more than halfway from the tavern, but it had taken them much longer than it would usually. Angot looked up and saw that the sky was clear. Above the trees the stars glittered and shone like pinpricks through a black veil. He had to pause, staring up in awe. God must be wonderful to have created that, he thought. Vaguely, he acknowledged that he wouldn’t have had any idea where to start. It was lovely, though. As a small silver fleece of cloud sailed across the sky, passing near to the moon, he felt his heart expand in pleasure at the beauty of the sight. And Bab would be lying on their palliasse back home, waiting for him.

‘Come on, old fellow! Time for bed.’

Serlo was dragging his heels, leaning on Angot and breathing stertorously, and from what Angot could tell, sweating profusely. No surprise there. The miller always sweated a lot. Usually smelled
like a rancid stoat, too. Never bathed, and his armpits were foul enough to be classed as weapons. Now, though, he appeared to take offence at Angot’s words.

‘Keep off me! You think I need help? Sod you! You go home to your wife, and leave me alone. I’m not in need of help from the likes of you. Think you’re so sober you can lead me like a pony? I’m all right!’

He staggered away from Angot, reaching out to grab a tree’s branch as he did so, the breath groaning in his throat, and he cursed bitterly as he started to retch.

‘Let’s get you home, Serlo.’

‘
Fuck off!
Leave me to myself, you prick! Get yourself off to your own home and leave me alone!’

Angot put out a hand to him, but Serlo slapped it away. In truth Angot would be happy to go. There was little point in his staying here if the miller didn’t want him. He shouldn’t leave Serlo in this state though, he thought as the other man brought up much of his ale, vomiting it in among the trees and swearing again as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Christ Jesus! That ale was bad.’

‘Come on, let me just help you to your door.’

‘Go away!’

Angot reflected that he had done the best he could. He shrugged, a little pointlessly since Serlo was throwing up again and not even facing him, and then he turned on his heel and stumbled away from the place. If he was quick, Bab would still be awake. It was a lovely night, after all, he thought to himself. A lovely night.

And so it was. The crescent moon was waxing, and the sky was alive with stars. Bats hurtled across the sky in search of their prey, and over the meadows there glided a white wraith, a barn owl, which plummeted as silent as starlight upon a shrew, and then, with an effortless waft of wings, rose again to lift over the trees at
the edge of the meadowlands. There he perched on a branch and devoured his meal.

Afterwards, he remained there, watching, his enormous eyes blinking slowly as he digested his food. He was above all the little creatures of the wood. He cared not for the souls of the animals which scampered and tussled below him. Although in human terms he was the king of all birds here, he had no interest in any other creature, other than those which he might consume.

He saw the shuffling, stumbling shape of Serlo, and he saw the other figure step out from behind a tree. As the knife rose, the blade shining with an oily perfection under the moon’s silver light, he blinked, but only once. He watched the blade fall, heard the loud hiccup, the whimper, and the sound of blade striking flesh – once, twice, thrice, and once more for luck. He observed the figure of Serlo crawling on as the life drained from him, saw the man walk alongside and kick him viciously in the head and saw him kick again at the dying man’s flanks. He saw the blade come down again, the fingers knotting in Serlo’s hair, yanking the miller’s head back to expose the throat, and saw the blade swipe cleanly across, like a scythe taking the corn. And then there was silence, other than the loud rasping breath of the killer. Soon even that was gone as the man picked up Serlo’s corpse and carried it down towards the mill.