Bascot looked at Gianni and the boy shook his head. They descended the staircase and went out into the yard. There was an open-fronted large shed with a quantity of ale kegs stacked within, as well as a number of other vessels of varying sizes, all for the filling and transport of ale. Most of the smaller ones were made of leather and coated with pitch-blackjacks and piggins. There were some wooden communal drinking mugs, fitted with pegs to mark the space where a man could draw his share and remove the peg before passing it on to his neighbour, and a couple of large tankards fitted with a lid and spigot for purchasing ale to take away from the premises.
At the end of the yard, away from the alehouse walls, was a stone hearth on which rested a huge cauldron and nearby were small drying sheds for the grain of the malt. Behind this, set on a slight slope so that it drained away from the yard itself, was a privy, with loose planking forming a lean-to for privacy, and the midden behind.
On wooden trestles laid across two blocks of wood were the large smooth stones that were used for crushing the grain once it had been soaked and dried. Underneath, pinned by the weight of the stones, was a stack of clean linen cloths necessary for straining the malt after it had been brewed.
On one side, under the shelter of a shake roof, was an open wooden cart and a set of casks containing a little of the old brew for adding to and starting a new batch. Bascot motioned to Gianni and the boy clambered up into the cart. There were some empty barrels sitting on the floor of the cart, the lids removed. Gianni, reminding Bascot of a ferret after a rabbit, dived into each of the barrels, his dark curly-topped head reappearing after a few moments, each time shaking his head.
They next tackled the barrels that were stored in the shed. Few were full, for any good alewife does not keep her brew too long, but makes fresh batches almost continuously so that it would keep its flavour and be passed as drinkable by the official taster of the town. Between them, they inspected every barrel, working smoothly as a team, with Bascot, his weight set firmly on his sound leg, doing the heavy work of lifting the barrels down and removing their lids while Gianni, with his lithe and agile frame, crawled inside and felt around the murky interiors. It wasn’t long before the boy’s clothing reeked of old ale much as the corpses’ had, and there were no barrels left that had not been examined.
Bascot was disappointed. He was sure he was right in his surmise that the two strangers and the Jew had been murdered somewhere else and then secretly brought to the alehouse in empty ale kegs, but they had not found anything to confirm his suspicions. He had been hoping for some sign-a missing purse belonging to the Jew or the young man, perhaps a belt buckle or a thong from a shoe, a few strands of hair-any item that would have given his premise credence. He shook his head. Even if they had found such a thing, it would not have proved who the two strangers were, or where they had been murdered, or by whom. But it would have helped him, in his mind, to know that he was beginning to unravel the slightest part of the mystery that surrounded the deaths.
As he stood musing, Gianni had been clambering around amongst the barrels, looking at the planks and wheels of the ale cart, lifting the smaller vessels for carrying ale. Suddenly he clapped his hands together in triumph and Bascot turned to see him standing by one of the sturdy posts that formed the mainstays of the open-faced shed that held the ale casks. Gianni was pointing upwards, with a grin of triumph on his face. Bascot went to where he stood and saw, just above the height of his shoulder, a splash of bright colour caught on the rough wood of the post.
Reaching up, Bascot unfastened the scrap of red cloth that was caught amongst the splinters. It was only a few threads, no wider than a sparrow’s feather and slightly longer, and caught just where, if a man were to take a body from one of the barrels and hoist it onto his shoulder, it would catch and snag as he adjusted the weight. Bascot had no doubt that it had come from the dress of the dead girl. He cast his mind back to try and remember what she had worn. Sleeves of green-such as harlots wore, and cheap stuff-plain lace at the neck of her gown, the bodice and skirt a tawny yellow. But there had been red, too, at the back, a panel of it below the bodice and attached to the lace, as though it were an undergarment and not of the dress itself. He looked closely at the scrap of material in his hand. Lincoln was famous for its red cloth, called Lincoln Greyne or Grain. The colour came from the juice of an insect which was dried and crushed and was in much demand not only from the area around Lincoln, but from the rest of England and as an export to the continent. Bascot was almost certain that this was a small piece of that very cloth. If it was, it was expensive for a harlot to be wearing and, although it would not prove the girl was from Lincoln, it was probable that the cloth for some part of her gown had been purchased in the town. If she was a bawd, how had she come by it? From a rich patron? Or had she, in fact, been a harlot? Had she been merely dressed and her face painted to make her look like one? Was this scrap of cloth a piece from her own clothing, left underneath and covered with the tawdry gown which Sister Bridget had said was too large for her?
These questions and others flooded Bascot’s mind like a gush of ale from a barrel newly drawn. He did not know the answers, but suddenly it became important to him to try and find them. Perhaps the dead girl’s unborn child had prompted his determination; maybe his mind was beginning to recover from the trials of his captivity and the deaths in his family. He did not know, but of one thing he was sure: his premise that the bodies had been hidden in ale barrels was the right one. A scrap of cloth too expensive for the alewife to wear, and too high for her to snag it if she had, proved it. Even though he was no closer to discovering the identity of the two strangers, he felt elated.
Taking some candi from the leather pouch at his belt, he tossed one to Gianni, then popped one in his own mouth, and they sat upon the hard-packed earth of the yard and slowly sucked them, relishing not only the taste but their accomplishment.
Seven
Having decided that it was necessary to visit the alewife again, Bascot and Gianni left the alehouse and crossed over to St. Andrew’s church and enquired of the priest where she might be found. On learning that she was staying with her sister near Mikelgate, Bascot sent the man-at-arms on guard outside the alehouse to the castle, instructing him to bring back the serjeant, Ernulf.
It was but a short space of time before Ernulf arrived, looking a little disgruntled, for it was now coming up to the hour for the evening meal. Bascot told him what he and Gianni had found and Ernulf quickly forgot his irritability.
“So, the victims were already dead and in the yard before they were placed on the taproom floor,” he opined. “Then the alewife…”
“Unless she is deaf and blind, and has less wits about her than she appears to have, must have seen something. It is her task to brew the ale, cleanse the empty barrels, tidy the yard. She must have known there were three barrels that were either not empty or held a brew that was most definitely not drinkable.”
They set off down to the end of Steep Hill where it turned into Mikelgate. To assuage Ernulf’s hunger, Bascot bought a meat pie from a passing vendor whose tray was nearly empty. He also bought one for Gianni, whose capability for devouring anything edible was prodigious. Ernulf pronounced the pie stale, but Gianni seemed not to notice. His pie had disappeared down his gullet before Ernulf had even time to chew his first mouthful.
As they rode slowly through the press of people still busy readying the town for the next morning when the fair would begin, thunder began to rumble in the heavens. At first it was low and far off, but soon it came closer, and was so loud in their ears that the church bells ringing the hour of Vespers could hardly be heard. Just as they passed the large street that intersected with Mikelgate, called Clachislide, a procession pushed past them. It was led by a few of the more prosperous merchants of the town, including Rolf the Draper, Aeltheburt the Goldsmith and a man from Baxtergate who was a prominent baker. Behind them trailed other small tradesmen, all dressed in what appeared to be their best clothes, and conspicuously wearing badges, denoting their craft, on their sleeves.