Simon leaned forward. “Were they here for long?”
“Long enough for four pints each.”
“Who left first of the two?”
“They went out together, just after the bell for compline.”
“And it looked as if they were friendly?” Baldwin said.
She considered. “Friendly enough,” she admitted at last. “Elias was never a great one for talking, but last night he seemed to get quite excited.”
“Excited?” Holcroft leaped on the word. “Was he excited enough to have a fight with the man, do you think?”
She threw him a bored, casual glance. “Come on, David, they didn’t pull daggers on each other in here, and that’s all I know. If they went out and had a fight, I never got to hear about it. I only just caught a glimpse of them going as it was. This is an alehouse; I was serving ale, remember? It’s not like I can pass the time of day with all my customers, especially when they’re already in a bad mood. He came back, though.”
Baldwin suppressed a grin. The alewife was a shrewd woman to deal with, and wouldn’t suffer fools gladly. “You say Elias returned?”
“Yes. He was out for a few minutes, then hurried back in and had a bit more to drink.”
Simon stirred. “Did you serve him?” When she nodded, he continued, “Did you see any blood on him?”
Baldwin watched her carefully. This was important. Killers were always blooded by their victims. The murderer of the corpse in the alley was bound to have been spattered-especially since he had hewn off the head.
She considered, then shook her head slowly. “No, none at all.”
Baldwin asked, “Did he bring a bag or anything with him when he came back?”
“No.”
“It means nothing,” Holcroft said. “He could have left the head in his house or somewhere.”
“Possibly,” Baldwin agreed, but dubiously. “This Elias-who is he?”
“He’s the man who lives next to Will Ruby’s shop,” said Holcroft quickly. “Runs a cookshop. The pile of rubbish was all his.”
“I think we should go and have a word with him, then.”
Baldwin and Simon walked from the room with Edgar. Peter hurriedly stowed away his pen and inks, and was about to chase after when he caught a curious expression on the alewife’s face. She was staring at the port-reeve with something like sympathy, while he looked at her with what Peter could only guess was mute appeal.
Elias sat down on his barrel and wiped a hand over his brow before peering up at the sun and yawning. His neck still ached after sleeping on his market stall’s trestle, and he was only glad that it hadn’t rained.
As another face appeared, he levered himself up and bobbed his head ingratiatingly. His customer reeled off a long order, and Elias blinked as he listened. As the string of instructions ended, he sprang into action and fetched the capon baked in pastry, ten roast finches and a rabbit. This being a fair, he quickly added the prices: eight pennies for the capon, one for the finches, and four for the rabbit, and then rounded up the amount to sixteen pennies. Grumbling, his client paid his money. He knew well enough that although the money was more than he would have to pay in the town normally, it was not so much as a London trader would have charged.
When Antonio da Cammino asked for a mackerel, Elias set it to cook beside his fire. He recognized the Venetian from the tavern the night before, though he didn’t know Antonio’s name. Antonio’s face reminded him of the previous night, and Elias took a long swallow from his pot.
He needed to. Seeing Jordan Lybbe again had been a shock, and then there was the horror in the alley. He wasn’t used to such sights. It had been all he could do to pour his drink when he had got back to the tavern afterward, and not tip the whole lot onto the floor, his hand was shaking so much.
Of course he knew he would have to pay the amercement for not clearing up the rubbish heap, but he couldn’t go back to it. Not now.
Two grimy children turned up, fresh from playing out in the meadows, demanding the price of all of the cooked meats on display, and trying to haggle. Elias was known among the town’s youngsters for being generous with his food. He took their money, but gave them a honey-coated roast starling each as well as the thrushes they had ordered. Then the fish was ready, and he served it to the patient Venetian.
Taking the fish, Antonio paid, then stood by the trestle and broke up the steaming, yellow flesh. When he caught sight of Elias’ gaze, he motioned to his meal. “It is all right to eat here, yes?”
“Oh yes, master,” said Elias, and was about to ask where he had come from, for he couldn’t recognize the accent, when Antonio waved to catch his son’s attention.
Pietro strolled over, Luke behind him, and surveyed Elias’ offerings, tossing a coin negligently. He pointed at a cooked leg of lamb, and when Elias had cut off a large slice, the young man flicked the coin down, then stood talking with his father, both conversing in a language Elias couldn’t recognize.
The crowd was growing now. Elias had to sit again, uncomfortably aware of the itching in his hands that heralded another fit of the shaking. The acid in his stomach was bubbling furiously like water boiling over a fire, and he took a good swallow of ale to calm it. Sitting under a hot sun, next to his brazier and fire, he felt as if he himself was cooking, and he longed for the hour when he could close his stall and fall on his blanket behind his trestle. During the three days of St. Rumon’s Fair, he had rented out his shop and rooms, so his stall would be his bed.
He belched and winced, saw the two men glance in his direction. At the expression on the younger man’s face he froze. It was a look of contempt so powerful that Elias could feel himself coloring. He made a deprecating gesture, but before he could speak, they had both turned and left.
As they made off, Elias found another figure darkening his stock. “Yes, sir? Oh…”
Friar Hugo held out his bowl questioningly, and Elias dropped a couple of starlings into it. “Thank you, my son,” he said as he walked away in the same direction as the Venetians.
“Christ Jesus!” Elias muttered, then stood as another figure appeared. “Sir, can I help you? Oh, it’s you.” At least he’s changed out of the dead man’s clothes, he thought to himself.
Jordan Lybbe grunted, but Elias could see that his attention was elsewhere, and when he followed Lybbe’s gaze, he could see that it was on the friar and the others. Without speaking, Lybbe left the stall and walked after them.
Edgar appeared to lose his lethargy as soon as they entered the bustling temporary streets of the fairground. All through the questioning and post mortem, he had been idle, looking bored with events, but now, as soon as they came upon the first series of shops, he became alert, casting about him with the intent concentration of a hound seeking a trail.
His master gave him a long, hard look. Edgar must be keen on his woman, and that augured badly for Baldwin’s own future. There was a worrying implication: if Edgar was to marry, would he still want to serve his master? There was a trend now for free men to leave their masters and buy property in towns, to become tradesmen. Baldwin did not know how he would be able to manage his estates without Edgar by his side, chivvying the villeins and making sure the business of the estate proceeded smoothly. It was with a sense of impending doom that he watched his servant.
They passed through the lines of gaily colored benches and trestles laden with cloths. Heavy, rough burels were rare now, though poorer villeins still had uses for the cheap and hairy material. Several of the local traders were selling gray and russet-colored material alongside “dossens”-the cheaper bolts of twelve yards length and one yard in width. Baldwin saw a monk discussing the quality of bolts with a dealer, and assumed that the thoughtful-looking cleric, who shook his head in disagreement only to put in a counterbid, must be the Abbey’s almoner.