‘Warn me of what?’
‘Juliana is sure you killed her husband,’ Agnes said with an attempt at a chuckle. He was so cold, he was intimidating.
‘She knows more than I do, then.’
Agnes nodded, and her face eased a little as relief flooded her to hear his denial. ‘I never thought you did. It’s ridiculous. Why should you want to kill him? It’s just Juliana: she’s upset and I dare say in her present state she could accuse anyone of it. It must have been a draw-latch.’
‘Everyone has been talking about Estmund Webber, though. Why’d she accuse me?’
‘Maybe in the dark she thought she recognized you … but she can’t have, can she?’ she said lightly. It was a ludicrous idea — Estmund was a thin, weakly man, whereas Jordan was strong and hale.
‘Not me, no. I wasn’t there. I was gambling in the brothel outside the South Gate.’
There was something about his tone that snagged her hearing. It was a chill that seemed out of keeping. She put the thought to one side. Instead she pouted, hurt. ‘Why go there? Aren’t there gambling dens in the city itself? You don’t have to go out there. I know we haven’t had much time recently, but …’
He was standing now, with his back to her. ‘What else did she say?’
‘Eh? Nothing much. Only that you and Daniel never hit it off.’
‘Nothing else?’
There it was again, a certain edge to his tone that put her in mind of the long, cold stare of a viper before it struck. ‘No. What else could there be?’
‘I’d go back and make sure that she doesn’t try to tell anyone anything silly,’ he said, turning and facing her at last. ‘I wouldn’t want stories circulating about me for no reason.’ He smiled.
‘What sort of story could there be?’
He stared at her. Was it possible that this stupid bitch really didn’t know what he had been up to all these years? He had only picked on her because she was a way into the household of the sergeant, a fact which had made it all the easier to learn the simplest way to kill him. She must know; she must surely have guessed. That was why she was putting on this stupid front. Even as he stared, his head started to throb again. A very faint, keening whistle started to distract him.
It was only a short time ago that he had threatened to kill Juliana and her children, and since then he had not bothered to see Agnes again. There seemed little point. He was convinced that Juliana must have told her sister all about him. Agnes must know all that Daniel did. Except there was a vulnerability about her. Surely she couldn’t think that he was innocent. .
‘Well, you go back and speak to Juliana,’ he said.
‘Yes. Of course,’ she said happily, and she gave him a smile as she left.
She’d known all along that there was no truth in the silly story. How could anyone think that her darling man could murder? It was absurd.
At the door she turned to wave, and caught sight of a cold, dead expression in his eyes. Just for a moment she saw him stare at her almost like a butcher studying a hog to be slaughtered, and then it was gone and her quick apprehension left her as he smiled and waved back.
No, she had imagined that expression. Her man could never wear a look like that. He loved her … and then she was pulled up in the middle of the street as a terrible thought struck her.
Juliana had said Jordan had threatened her, but what if he desired her now? Perhaps Juliana had stolen his heart, just as she had taken Daniel’s when it was really Agnes he loved.
No. This was nonsense. Jordan loved her, and no one else.
If only he wasn’t already married. Agnes could wish Mazeline dead.
Chapter Twenty
The last time Baldwin had seen Simon Puttock, the bailiff had been leaving for Dartmouth again. Now, as he entered the Dean’s hall and saw the bailiff standing cupping a goblet of wine in his hand at the window, Baldwin felt for the first time very little joy.
When they had parted, only a couple of weeks ago, Baldwin had been sad to see his companion leaving for his new home, but that sadness was caused by the knowledge that he wouldn’t be seeing Simon again for some while. Now, seeing Simon here in the Dean’s house, he knew full well that there must be a good reason for the bailiff’s appearance. Especially since Simon had plainly ridden from Dartmouth and had come straight here without taking time for a rest. His hosen and padded coat were thickly spattered with mud of various hues: dull, peaty marks from around Dartmoor, lighter clay soil from the lands about Totnes, and bright red mud from nearer Exeter.
Tall and muscular, his features burned by the sun during his journeys in the last few months, Simon was a strong, powerful man with intelligence shining in his dark grey eyes. As the Abbot of Tavistock’s man in Dartmoor, he had come a long way since Baldwin had first met him seven or so years ago, and those years had been fairly kind to him. The only sign that he was over six and thirty was the greying hair at his temples.
‘I came as soon as your messenger arrived, Dean,’ he said warily. ‘Simon, God speed.’
‘Sir Baldwin, I should like to, er, consult you and Simon on a matter of some delicacy.’
‘Dean, I think that you should speak to the Coroner, Sir Peregrine, if you have any problems. I am still recovering,’ he added, indicating the sling which his wife had insisted that he must wear to come here.
‘Please, both, be seated. Ah, I appreciate your wounds have caused you some discomfort, and I only hope that my own request will not prove to be — um — onerous.’
‘My wife is packing as we speak, Dean, and I was hoping to be at Crediton before nightfall,’ Baldwin said.
‘Let me explain the problem, and then, if there is nothing you may do to, er, help us, then, um, you may feel free to leave immediately.’
With a bad grace Baldwin sat in a chair and listened. He knew the Dean. The man was damnably persuasive, and if he wanted Baldwin to remain here for a short while, it would upset poor Jeanne terribly. She was counting on returning home so that she could see their daughter Richalda again. It felt like too long since they had last seen her.
‘Sir Baldwin, um, we here in the chapter have had problems with the Dominicans, the Friars Preacher, for many years now. It all started when they — uh — began to encroach on our rights, just as happened in so many other dioceses. They took away some of our, er, flock by offering to listen to confessions, and we never thought that a good idea …’
‘Was it very expensive to lose the penances?’ Simon asked cheekily.
‘No, it, um, wasn’t that,’ the Dean said. He fiddled with the ring on his forefinger. ‘If a member of the congregation has committed a dreadful sin, they should, um, go and confess to their own priest. If they go to some itinerant Black Friar, whom they have, er, never met before and in all likelihood never will again, there is less, um, trepidation on their part. They will go to confession with a lighter heart. It must be less morally efficacious. And the penances may be entirely too light, which, um, means that they undermine the authority of the parish priest.’
‘I can scarcely believe that this is enough to cause you problems,’ Baldwin said.
‘It is not. They next, er, tried to take on our privilege of burying people. Of course, we have never, er, stopped them burying their own in their cloister. It is entirely right that dead friars should be buried on their own lands. But when they, er, try to take over lay burials, the whole matter changes. And that is what they have done. They took Henry Ralegh at about the turn of the century, and tried to bury him. That was so flagrant a, um, trespass, that we felt, some of us, that something must be done. So two members of the chapter hurried there with some servants as soon as we heard of it. Um.’