‘There was that old cripple, Sir Richard,’ William said with the brutal callousness of the young and healthy. ‘And some new fellow – Sir Edmund, I think his name is. He was walking about the place with his squire.’
Simon watched him arrogantly swagger off to rejoin his friends at a wine-seller’s bench.
‘What now, Bailiff? A brawl with a pot boy? Or a wench in a tavern?’ Mark Tyler asked sarcastically. ‘Christ! The way you question people, anyone would think you were determined to take on the Coroner’s job for him. Have you a genuine suspect? Or are you insulting people for personal enjoyment?’
Simon wasn’t in the mood for his hectoring. ‘Have you ever used the merchant and usurer Benjamin Dudenay?’
The herald’s face suddenly went still. ‘I have heard of him.’
Simon had seen his expression change. ‘Did you owe him money?’
‘A little, perhaps.’
‘Enough to want to kill him?’
‘The only man who seems to have the temper to kill is yourself,’ Tyler said neatly, recovering himself. ‘Two fights in as many days, Bailiff. Scarcely the sort of record Lord Hugh would expect, is it?’
Chapter Thirteen
Baldwin carried the hammer with him as he investigated the area, but there seemed nothing more to be found and soon he set off back towards the castle, swinging the murder weapon with a speculative air. It was heavy – weighed at least four pounds. Enough to crush a skull.
When he came to the gap in the hedge, he tried to guess the direction that the killer would have taken to get back to the jousting field. There was no sign of dragging grass, so he assumed that the body had been carried down towards the river.
He was beginning to feel a reluctant admiration for the murderer: a man who could persuade Wymond to walk all the way up here to look at a tree for timber, perhaps proposing a share in the profit; a man who could strike down even so ferocious a foe as Wymond, and drag or carry him back to his own bed and brazenly tuck him in. That spoke of someone with courage, mental resources and physical strength. Wymond was not tall, but he was solid.
Why put him back in his bed? Most people would surely have left the corpse up in the woods to be eaten by wild animals, concealing the evidence. Baldwin was convinced that the deed was done so as to leave a message. But was it for Hal – or someone else? And if so, who?
Baldwin set to wondering how the murderer had returned to the camp. He might have turned right, following the line of the old hedge. Working on this conviction that no sensible man would walk in the open carrying a dead body, Baldwin strolled near the trees, his eyes fixed upon the ground. It took little time to find tracks: boots sunk deep into the ground.
He walked faster now. The trail took him down to the ford where he himself had earlier crossed the river, and he nodded to himself with satisfaction. His guesswork had proved to be accurate.
But now he was unsure what to do. He still carried the hammer, and that would have to be given to the Coroner when he arrived; he could pass it to Simon for safekeeping in the meantime. Baldwin felt a pang at his belly and realised it was time he ate. He walked thoughtfully to the stalls and drank a pint of watered wine. At another stall he bought a pie and munched on it, sitting on a bench with a fresh pint of wine before him while he contemplated the people passing, wondering whether one of them was the killer. It was an unsettling thought.
He found his attention caught by a large knight.
Tall, strong, and with an expression that could melt moorstone, Baldwin thought that the stranger was an ideal suspect. If he was inclined to arresting people on sight based solely on their manner, this man would be the perfect candidate for a cell. Before long the knight looked about him and noticed Baldwin watching him. Baldwin found himself being surveyed with minute detail. He motioned to the jug of wine and the stranger gave a shrug and joined him.
‘Please allow me to serve you, sir,’ Baldwin said respectfully.
‘I am grateful.’
Both raised their pots and drank. There was a ritual to their slow introductions, for knights meeting at a tournament could well find themselves fighting and perhaps even dying at the other’s hand in a few hours.
Baldwin bowed his head and introduced himself. ‘Sir Baldwin de Furnshill.’
‘I am Sir Edmund of Gloucester. You will be challenging?’
‘I fear I am too old to be a tenant or venant,’ Baldwin chuckled. ‘No, I am here to watch.’
‘I see.’ Sir Edmund appeared to lose interest in Baldwin, his attention flying back to the people walking by. He was still furious at Sir John’s slighting words to him about winning back his wealth, and confused by the sight of Lady Helen.
‘I do not remember seeing you at other tournaments,’ Baldwin said, breaking into his thoughts.
‘I have been abroad.’
‘Ah.’ It was not easy to talk to this man, Baldwin considered. He caught sight of Odo and waved a hand in recognition. The herald inclined his head, but hurried on his way.
‘Was that Odo?’ Sir Edmund asked.
‘Yes. You know him?’
‘I have met him in Exeter – and France.’
Baldwin saw how his mouth snapped shut after saying that, as though Sir Edmund regretted saying so much, and Baldwin suddenly remembered the herald’s tale of his saving a Templar. Sir Edmund was not familiar to him, but it was possible that he had been a Knight Templar. He was old enough.
‘I scarcely know Odo. He is Lord Hugh’s man and I don’t see much of our lord, I am afraid.’
‘He is a good man,’ Sir Edmund said. ‘Have you heard about the murder?’
Baldwin, who had been hoping to bring their conversation round to Wymond, settled back more easily in his seat. ‘You mean the carpenter?’
‘Yes. Do you know anything about his death?’
‘A little,’ Baldwin admitted. ‘He was found in his own tent.’
‘I see. And is anyone suspected?’
‘We shall have to wait until the Coroner completes his inquest. Were you up last night?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘It seems that the murder happened after the curfew. The only people who should have been about were knights or squires. I merely wondered if you might have seen anyone.’
‘No, I didn’t. After eating I walked a little to clear my lungs. The room was very smoky and I felt the need for some fresh air. My squire was with me.’
‘But you saw no one?’
‘No. There were some servants about, but only few.’
‘Did you and your squire return to your tent together?’
‘No, he came after me. Why? You seem very interested.’
‘I am a Keeper of the King’s Peace and I like to solve little problems like this.’
‘Well, I am afraid I can’t help you,’ Sir Edmund said, standing abruptly. ‘My thanks for the wine, but I must go.’
‘Of course,’ Baldwin murmured graciously. ‘It was pleasant to meet you,’ he added as Sir Edmund stalked away.
Seeing a watchman, Baldwin stood and spoke to him. He gave the man the hammer, telling him to take it to Simon in the castle because it might be the murder weapon. Then, before he could buy another drink, he heard his name called. Turning, he saw a tall, slim woman with fair features, holding a swaddled child in her arms.
‘Margaret! It is good to see you again! And how is young Peterkin?’ He tentatively prised a scrap of material away from an ancient-looking face, which blinked and glared at him.
‘Careful, don’t put your finger too close; he’s teething,’ Margaret laughed. ‘Baldwin, it is good to see you too. Peterkin is fine, he’s growing heavier daily and occasionally, just occasionally, he allows me to sleep through the night. How is Jeanne – is she here with you? I hope you are enjoying fatherhood.’ She cast a quizzical look up at him. ‘Are you quite well? You haven’t had bad news?’