"You're right," Luke agreed, as soon as Justin had concluded. "It does sound like a hired killing. But done at whose behest? Was I your only suspect? Flattering as that might be, where does that leave us now?" He looked quizzically across the table at Justin, and then scowled. "By God, you did not think that Aldith…?"
"Make yourself easy. She was never a suspect." A corner of Justin's mouth quirked. "In truth, I could not imagine any woman wanting you badly enough to commit murder."
"Likewise." The corners of Luke's mouth were twitching, too. "So who else wanted the man dead? Any family squabbles I ought to know about? I seem to remember Aldith telling me that the son was at odds with the old man, wanting to be a priest?"
"A monk. And yes, he is a suspect — one of several. The daughter is in love with Fitz Randolph's journeyman, but he was set upon wedding her to a wellborn widower. And Fitz Randolph's brother argued with him often about money and is now as nervous as a treed cat."
"'And a man's foes shall be they of his own household.'" Luke shook his head, then smiled ruefully. "I'm not usually one for quoting from Scriptures, but there is nothing usual about any of this, is there? How often do we find the Queen of England somehow linked to a goldsmith? Let's start with the ambush itself and track from there. Do you think you could identify the outlaws?"
"I never got a close look at the man trying to hold onto Fitz Randolph's stallion. He was uncommonly tall and big boned, but that is all I can tell you. I did see the one who did the stabbing, though. I can even give you a name; his partner called him 'Gib.'"
"Gilbert? There are more Gilberts roaming the countryside than we could hope to count. A pity he had not been christened something less popular, like Drogo or Barnabus. What did this 'Gib' look like?"
"Of middle height and build, with brown hair. I never got close enough to tell eye color for certes, but I'd say dark. As for age, I'd guess closer to thirty than forty. And he was Saxon, not Norman. They both were, for they were speaking English."
"You've a sharp eye," Luke said approvingly. "But is there anything you might have forgotten?" All business now, he leaned across the table. Justin had seen such single-minded intensity before, usually on the hunting field. "Sometimes a witness will overlook a small detail," Luke explained, "thinking it insignificant. Most often it is, but every now and then… I once solved a murder because the killer dropped a key near the body. Is there anything else that you've not told me?"
That was an awkward question, for there was a great deal Justin was concealing: that blood-stained letter, a royal captive in Austria, the shadow cast by the French king. "Well," he said finally, "there was something. It sounds foolish and most likely means nothing, but I thought I saw a snake."
Luke's hand froze on the flagon. "A snake?"
Justin nodded. "I know what you're thinking. Snakes den up during the winter months. So why would one be slithering about on the Alresford Road? But it sure as hellfire looked like a snake!"
"It was. I can tell you that for certes. I can also tell you who killed Gervase Fitz Randolph — a misbegotten whoreson known as Gilbert the Fleming."
Luke smiled grimly at the expression of amazement on Justin's face. "This is not the first time he has made use of that snake trick, so I can even tell you how he did it. He found a snake's burrow, dug it out, put it in a sack, and then flung it out into the road as the goldsmith and groom rode by. Nothing spooks horses as much as snakes do — it's an almost foolproof way to get a man thrown."
"That would explain why their horses bolted without warning. What do you know about this man?"
"That hanging is too good for him," Luke said harshly. "Gilbert is a local lad, although he long since moved on to London; better pickings there, I suppose. But he comes back to visit his kinfolk, and last summer he was implicated in a brutal double murder here. He ambushed a merchant and his wife on the Southampton Road, he and another devil's whelp. The man, they killed outright. After raping the woman, Gilbert took his blade to her, and left her to bleed to death by the side of the road. Our Gib does not believe in leaving witnesses behind; so much tidier that way. But the merchant's wife did not die, not right away. She lived long enough to tell about the snake and the ambush and to put a rope about Gilbert's wretched neck."
"Christ have pity," Justin said softly.
"I spent every waking hour hunting them down. We caught his partner, tried him, and then hanged him out on Andover Road. But Gilbert had the devil's own luck and somehow got away. I heard that he'd gone back to London and I warned the sheriffs there to keep an eye out for him, but London is a big enough log to hide any number of maggots. I suppose Gilbert decided enough time had gone by for him to risk returning. God rot him, but he has never lacked for nerve."
"Why is he called Gilbert the Fleming? You said he is Winchester born and bred; did his family come over from Flanders?"
"They call him that," Luke said, "because he is so handy with a knife. Have you not heard men say that there is nothing sharper than a Fleming's blade?"
Justin nodded somberly, chilled to think what would have happened to Edwin had he not gone back in answer to that cry for help. "Do you think you can find him?"
"If I do not, it'll not be for want of trying. At first light, I'll get the word out on the street, and we'll keep his family so closely watched that they'll not be able to burp without one of my men hearing." With that, Luke pushed the bench out and stood up. "I have to get back to the castle. I was in the midst of an interrogation when Wat came bursting in. I'll let you know what I find out about Gilbert. Meanwhile, de Quincy, stay out of alleys." He grinned, then signaled to the tavern owner. "Rayner, put his drinks on my account."
Collecting Wat, the deputy swaggered out, the focal point of all eyes. Justin caught the tavern owner's glowering in his direction and transformed the man's frown to a grateful smile by deliberately dropping some coins onto the table. He knew very well that Luke never paid for the bills he ran up in taverns and alehouses; he'd see free drinks as one of the many perquisites of his office.
After Luke's departure, the tavern patrons settled back to their drinks and their draughts games and their gossip. Justin slouched down in his seat, trying to ignore the curious looks being aimed his way. He needed solitude to assess what the deputy had told him. Could he truly trust Luke de Marston? If so, he'd gained an invaluable ally. If not, he might not live to regret it.
6
WINCHESTER
January 1193
Winchester Castle was easy to find; it claimed more than four acres in the southwest corner of the city. Justin was admitted without difficulty, for he had the password — the name of Luke de Marston. The sky above his head looked frozen and foreboding, and there was a threat of snow in the air. It may have been the weather, but Justin felt a distinct chill as he crossed the bailey. He knew the castle was often used as a royal residence, but he found it inhospitable and unwelcoming. Was it because he knew Eleanor had occasionally been confined here during those long years as a captive queen?
Or because he still had a few lingering doubts about Luke's good faith?
It was too late to worry about that, though, for Luke had come into view, swerving at sight of Justin. Falling into step beside the deputy, Justin gave him a sideways, curious glance. "So… how did the interrogation go? Did the suspect confess?"
"What do you think?"
"You missed your calling, Luke. With your knack for getting men to see the error of their ways, you ought to have been a priest."