‘You think he could have taken a lever to this, then filed the nails and hammered the first one back in again without waking the household?’ Baldwin smiled. ‘No, this was planned and executed with skill. And the man must have come here when the house was empty.’
‘You mean he heard of a time when all would be out of the house and came here to do this then? It would have been a brave thing to do.’
‘Scarcely,’ Baldwin said coolly. He replaced the block of wood on the panels of the shutter and pushed it. The nails soon bit into the shutter and held the block in place, apparently firmly. ‘Yesterday was Monday; the day before was the Sabbath. I fear someone planned to come here and kill him on Sunday. A dreadful crime to contemplate on a holy day.’
‘Or any other.’
‘True … Daniel mentioned a man who’d caught this nocturnal visitor, did he not? Reginald Gylla, wasn’t it?’
He strode round the house with his head lowered in thought. At the front door, he stopped and called to Daniel’s maidservant. ‘Yesterday your master spoke of a man — Reginald Gylla? Do you know where he lives?’
The woman nodded and gave directions to a house up near the Priory of St Nicholas.
‘Good. And now we should enjoy some refreshment — is there a tavern nearby?’
‘Yes, sir. Left up the street.’
‘And who would know most of this stranger who enters houses at night?’ Baldwin pressed her. ‘Estmund Webber.’
She blanched and looked about her. Then, ‘Ask old Saul at the tavern. He’ll be there at this time of day, and he can tell you all you need to know. You ask him.’
He should have realized the depth of the mire into which Jordan would drag him, but Reginald was too content to be able to sleep with a roof over his head, to feel his belly filled once more, and to know that he didn’t have to worry about starving again, not for a while.
On his way to the market for a treat for his wife, he recalled those days.
They had changed direction soon after the sale of the pardoners’ goods, and almost immediately Jordan started looking for a place to rent. Soon he was the proud master of a small brothel, and that one grew into a trio, one in Exeter near the East Gate, one just outside the walls at the South Gate, in case the city grew more censorious about such activities, and a third in Topsham, to catch all the sailors. Reg hadn’t wanted any part of the businesses, but Jordan wanted a friend, a man he could trust, to help him. Reg had little choice unless he wanted to upset Jordan, and no man with sense would want to upset Jordan. So no, he had remained quiet, and helped. He had invested in the venture, and when the profits began to flow, he had taken that money and used it to buy small loads on a ship that traded between Bordeaux and Dartmouth. Soon he was building a profitable business.
Jordan had more ideas. As the whores began to bring in more money, he started to look for new schemes to increase his wealth. He scorned legitimate business, because the profits were lower and the risks higher, so he said. The only risk in prostitution was that another man might persuade one of his women to leave him for another pander, but if that was the case, Jordan would threaten the man and scare him off. If he couldn’t, he’d destroy the fellow. And often the woman too. He had no time for women who were disloyal to him. Or men.
The memory of the night before Daniel had attacked poor old Ham came back to Reg and he felt sickened once more.
Once Mick had been a man whom Jordan had trusted. It was that which had made Jordan’s rage so extreme, probably. He lost all his inhibitions when he was confronted with betrayal, and would seek to destroy any man who stood in his path. That, for the man who was betraying him by taking his wife for a tumble, was a source of terror. If Jordan ever came to hear of Reg’s infidelity — and Mazeline’s, of course — he would tear them limb from limb in his blind fury. There would be no holding him back.
‘Hello, Reg.’
The sound of Jordan’s voice made Reg’s heart leap so violently, he felt sure it must burst from his body. ‘Sweet Mother of God …’
‘Friend, I can only say thank you, but if there is ever a favour you need from me — well, let me know,’ Jordan said. ‘And for now, here’s a token.’
He thrust a purse into Reg’s shaking hands, and then strode away in a hurry. Reg gripped the bag, staring dumbfounded, and only when Jordan had disappeared from view in the crowds did he untie the thongs at the neck and stare in at the coins that shifted and moved with a merry tinkling ring as his entire body shook with reaction.
The tavern at the end of Daniel’s alley was called the Black Hog, and Sir Peregrine hesitated at the door.
‘You really wish to enter here?’
‘Sir Peregrine, believe me, you will go into worse places than this as Coroner,’ Baldwin chuckled, and ducked under the lintel. To see bold, political Sir Peregrine so anxious made him want to laugh.
It was not so bad as some of the rougher alehouses at the north-western corner of the city. Until recently the Franciscans had lived there in their little convent, but the insanitary conditions were not conducive to prayer, and when several friars had died they petitioned to acquire another block of land. Now, although their church remained, the only other recognizable feature from the convent days was the huge open midden that flooded the roadway in front of the church. Baldwin knew several of the alehouses along that way, because they were particularly useful when he was seeking a man who was inured to a life of felony.
Now, however, he was looking for a man who would appear more respectable, if the maid’s whispered description was anything to go by. Soon Baldwin spotted him: a burly figure sitting at a table with a large pot before him and the contented expression of a man who was already much of the way down his first quart of the day.
‘Master Saul?’
‘Aye? Oh. Keeper.’
‘You know me?’
‘Seen you about the place, Sir Knight. Who doesn’t recognize you? What do you want from me? My pigs are-’
‘This is nothing to do with your pigs, master. A man was murdered last night and we are attempting to learn why.’
Saul glanced from one to the other. ‘So you’re looking into Daniel’s murder?’
Sir Peregrine peered at him closely. ‘You know of this?’
‘We don’t have that many murders of sergeants even in this street, sir,’ Saul said simply. ‘People have been gossiping about his murder all morning.’
‘And who do the people blame?’
‘There are many who had reason to want to see him suffer. Daniel was a dedicated sergeant.’
‘Do you obey the law?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you like him?’
‘For my part, yes. Not everyone did, though.’
‘Such as?’
‘Henry Adyn, for example. He was dreadfully wounded by the sergeant. Daniel hit him with a pickaxe and took away half his chest. He’s still half crippled. Works as a carter.’
‘Where is he to be found?’
‘Usually in here, but today he’s not around. I think he has a place down just off Pruste Street.’
‘In the meantime, have you heard of a man who enters bedrooms and studies the children in their sleep?’
Saul let out a guffaw and slapped his thigh. ‘Who hasn’t? Everyone knows about Est, poor soul.’
‘Est again?’ Sir Peregrine asked, drawing up a stool and sitting opposite him. ‘He’s the man we need to know about. Tell me: who is this Est?’
John took Robert with him when he went to visit the cathedral close. At the Ercenesk Gate they strode past the grinning gatekeeper with their heads held low in humility, ignoring the sniggers and ribald comments of the porter and a couple of lay servants. Instead, fingering their crosses, John and Robert made their way down the track worn in the grass that led over the cemetery towards the great west door of the cathedral.
The sun was shining again now after a short period of gloominess when clouds had blanketed the sun and blocked its gracious warmth, and John had felt the desolation of loss at that time.