Murder For Christ's Mass Part 9

"When I went to the quarry on St. Stephen's day, I met a stone worker who told me he did not work in the pit, but had been labouring in the workshop at the end of Masons Row. Cerlo a.s.sured me the quarry was deserted on the day the clerk was murdered, but the workshop does not fall within the quarry master's jurisdiction and the mason may not have been aware of anyone at work in the building. There could have been someone there."

He shrugged his shoulders. "It is only a slim chance, lord, but one worth checking all the same. If one of the stone workers was coming up the road- as was the man I met on the day I went to see the mason-they may have seen the clerk's killer near the city gate and be able to identify him."

Camville nodded. "If there is the slightest chance of finding a witness, we must pursue it. Go and speak to Alexander, the master builder at the cathedral. He is in overall charge of all the stone workers, both in the church and the quarry. He will know if any of his men were in the workshop at that time."

As the two men turned to leave the room, Bascot asked the sheriff's intentions with regard to the silversmith. "I think, lord, Ta.s.ser has now told us all he knows. Do you wish to order his release?"

Camville had no need to ponder the question. "No," he replied decisively. "Coroner Pinchbeck has returned to Lincoln and is among the guests in the hall. He heard about the murders and, earlier this evening, asked how my investigation was faring. I told him I believe the silversmith is responsible but that, as yet, I am still collecting evidence to substantiate the charge. Pinchbeck seemed satisfied to leave it at that for the moment but, if I release Ta.s.ser, he will ask why and I have no desire to enlighten him. The silversmith should have told us earlier about Fardein's involvement with Brand. Since he did not, he has only himself to blame for the discomfort he is suffering."

Twenty-four.

THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER GIANNI HAD GONE TO the scriptorium, Bascot ordered a mount saddled and rode to the cathedral. He felt cleansed of the anger that had engulfed him the day before, having knelt by the pallet in his bedchamber once Gianni was asleep and begged G.o.d's forgiveness for his transgression, silently repeating the Confiteor in admission of his fault. Now, as he rode, he implored heaven to look favourably on his quest for a witness.

When he reached the church, he dismounted and walked up to the entrance. As he went through the huge portal, the soaring nave lay in front of him, and he genuflected at the marble font just inside the door. A stream of penitents was making its way to the chapel of St. John the Evangelist at the south end of the transept, where the body of Bishop Hugh of Lincoln had been interred in November of the year 1200. Many miracles had been reported by those who sought succour at the saintly bishop's tomb, and the number of hopeful supplicants increased daily.

As Bascot stood there, searching for a cleric who could help him locate Alexander, a secondary-one of the young men in training to become a priest-came bustling past. Accosting him, the Templar asked for Alexander. Although the secondary was obviously in a hurry, he nonetheless stopped and answered the enquiry courteously, pointing to a narrow set of stairs just off the entryway. The stairs led upwards and were almost hidden from view of anyone coming into the great church.

"The builder is usually at work in a chamber above," the young cleric replied. "If you go to the top of those stairs, you will find him in the room where plans of the cathedral are stored."

Mounting the small staircase, Bascot came out onto a tiny landing cluttered with tools, coils of rope and empty leather buckets and saw an open door leading into a low ceilinged but capacious room. Voices came from inside, engaged in a discussion about the possibility that one of the gargoyles protecting the mouth of a waterspout at the western corner of the church was damaged.

"It may only be the trough that is blocked," an authoritative voice said, "but I noticed water spilling down the sides from above the opening. If the stone surround has cracked in the recent cold weather, it will need repairing. Go up and inspect it, and let me know what you find. In the meantime, I will have two men examine the interior portion of the wall. There is leakage on the inside as well; I noticed it yesterday after the midday service was over. Now that the holy days are pa.s.sed and repair work will not disturb the services, the archdeacon has given me permission to do what is necessary."

Ducking through the low arch of the doorway, Bascot found two men inside, poring over a ma.s.sive drawing on the floor. It was an extremely detailed outline of the cathedral walls, etched into a thin skin of lime plaster encased in a wooden frame and annotated with measurements of every elevation of the cathedral's structure as well as the differing sizes of stone blocks used in the walls and pillars.

One of the men leaning over the diagram was about forty years of age, sandy haired and wearing a serviceable tunic and hose of dark wool. From his age and confident bearing, Bascot surmised he must be Alexander, the master builder who had a vast array of workmen under his command-not only masons and stonecutters, but also roofers, scaffolders, mortar mixers, carters and general labourers.

The other man was much younger and clad in a leather ap.r.o.n similar to Cerlo's. As he listened to the orders Alexander was giving, he stood in an att.i.tude of respectful attention, his leather cap clutched in hands that were rough and cracked.

They both looked up as Bascot entered the room and, after the Templar had identified himself and his purpose for being there, Alexander bid the young workman go about his allotted task. The builder then gave Bascot his full attention.

"I cannot recall for certain if any of my men were in the workshop four days before Christ's Ma.s.s, Sir Bascot," he responded politely to the Templar's question. "But if you will allow me a moment to consult my rota, I should be able to tell you if any were or not."

Alexander went to a large open-faced cupboard standing on one side of the room and extracted a roll of parchment. After studying it for a few moments, he said, "Two of the stonecutters were in the workshop on that day." The Templar felt his pulse quicken with hope as Alexander went on. "We are currently engaged in finishing the chapel of St. Mary Magdalene as well as commencing work on a great window that is destined to be sited in the north transept. Such inside work is usually done while the weather is bleak and, since two pieces of stone from the quarry had been taken to the workshop a week earlier, I sent the cutters there to shape them from a template. Once their work was finished-and it took a few days to complete-the stone pieces were brought to the cathedral and put in place by one of the masons."

"Cerlo told me that none of the church's employees were in the quarry on the day of the snowstorm. Would he not have been aware there were men in the workshop?"

"Not necessarily. Only the quarrymen were under Cerlo's supervision, not the stonecutters." Alexander replied. "Unless he saw the men on their way to the workshop or coming back to the cathedral, it is understandable he did not know they were on the site."

The builder's face looked sympathetic as he mentioned Cerlo's name and Bascot said he had been told of the mason's failing eyesight.

"Yes," Alexander replied. "His is a sad case. He has worked here in the cathedral for quite a few years, since just after the earthquake in 1185, when he was one of those sent to Lincoln by the mason's guild to repair the damage caused by the tremors. Bishop Hugh, who was alive then and oversaw the restorations after his appointment as bishop in the year following the earthquake, was so impressed with Cerlo's work that he gave him a permanent post and allotted him one of the houses in Masons Row to use as a domicile. Now, after so many years of excellent craftsmanship, it seems tragic that Cerlo will be forced to leave."

Alexander's hazel eyes were full of compa.s.sion. "It is a fate that can come to any of us. I have kept him on long past the time I should have done, for his vision started to deteriorate some months ago; first the sight in one eye began to fail and then, a few weeks later, the other. He even spent a night in vigil, praying at Bishop Hugh's tomb, hoping the saintly man would favour him with one of the miracles he has extended to so many others but, sadly, Cerlo's plea went unheard. His guild will help him, of course, but he and his wife are not young and the combined loss of income and their home will be difficult to cope with. I have allowed him to carry out some simple commissions throughout the town-quite apart from his duties here-so he can store up a little money against the days of his leaving but, even so, I fear it will not be long before he and his wife are forced to live in a state close to dest.i.tution."

"Do they not have any children to help them?" Bascot asked.

"They have a daughter, who is married and lives with her husband in a village not far from town," Alexander said, "but, unfortunately, the daughter's husband, an osier weaver, does not earn much for his labour and they have a large brood of children. I fear any money Cerlo might have been able to save has been given to the daughter, to a.s.sist her with the purchase of food and clothing for his grandchildren. As I said, it is a sad situation for all of them."

Bascot added his commiserations to Alexander's and asked where he could find the stonecutters that had been in the quarry on the day of the snowstorm. The builder told him they were again at labour in the workshop on Masons Row, preparing blocks of stone for the extension of an interior staircase. Bascot, after thanking Alexander for his time, left the cathedral, mounted his horse and rode across the Minster.

As he urged his mount into a canter down Masons Row, he reflected on what Cerlo had told him about finding Peter Brand's body and wondered if it was the exact truth. If the motive for the clerk's murder had not been robbery, Brand's scrip may still have been attached to his belt when the mason found him. Had Cerlo's desperate need for money driven him, perhaps in collusion with the quarryman who had accompanied him that morning, to rob Brand before reporting the death? If so, had the pouch, as Gerard Camville suspected, contained more that just the one silver penny Gianni had found? And if it had, where were the coins now?

Twenty-five.

AS BASCOT WAS LEAVING THE MINSTER AND ON HIS way to Masons Row, Gianni was running down the stairs of the north tower, sent by Master Blund to bring a fresh supply of quill-wiping cloths from the castle laundress. As he neared the bottom of the staircase, he saw that the door into the hall was open and the voices of Miles de Laxton and Stephen's father, Ralph of Turville, could be heard in conversation. He slowed his steps, not wishing to interrupt them.

"Do you fancy another few hours in the wine shop, Ralph?" Miles was asking. "Your fortune was good the other night, it may be so again."

There was hesitation in Ralph's voice as he answered. "Much as I would like to, Miles, I cannot, for I promised to escort my wife into town this afternoon to look for new bed linen. Besides, I doubt whether I would again find such an easy opponent as I had the other night. They do not often come across my path."

"Legerton, you mean?"

At mention of the exchanger, Gianni paused in his descent and listened.

"I did not know his name," Ralph replied, "but he seemed sore upset at his losses."

Miles chuckled. "He has plenty of money to lose. He is exchanger at the mint and receives a handsome stipend for the post."

"I thought he was a merchant, but, nonetheless, he was very distressed."

"Yes, I noticed he seemed downcast as we were leaving," Miles said and then added thoughtfully, "I wonder if the rumours I heard could be true? I have been told Legerton is indebted to a couple of other players and is being very tardy in redeeming the notes of promise he gave them."

Ralph gave a snort. "'Tis just as well, then, that I did not take his pledge when he offered it to me."

As Miles began to speak of other matters, Gianni continued down the staircase, squeezing by the two knights with a polite nod as he did so. Walter Legerton was one of the men his master had questioned about the death of Peter Brand on the day Bascot and Gianni had gone to the manor house at Canwick. His home had been a fine one and handsomely appointed. It was difficult to believe he had not repaid money he owed. While Gianni could not see how Legerton's insolvency could have any connection with the death of the clerk, Gianni thought it might still be of interest to the Templar and resolved to tell his master what he had overheard as soon as he could. As he collected the wiping cloths, another, and quite separate, reflection about the ramifications of Legerton's debts came to Gianni's mind and he decided it might be worthwhile mentioning that to his master as well.BASCOT RODE HIS HORSE DOWN TO THE END OF Masons Row and stopped in front of the workshop, a wooden structure with large cas.e.m.e.nts punctuating each wall. The building was in one corner of a large yard where stone blocks of various shapes and sizes were piled alongside a couple of st.u.r.dy handcarts. Hitching his horse to a ring beside a small door, which was locked, Bascot walked around the side of the building and found the main entrance. As he walked up to the two large doors covering the opening, he could hear a distant braying from the nearby stables.

One of the doors into the workshop was ajar and the ticks and thumps of hammers came from inside. Bascot pushed the door completely open and stepped through.

Two workbenches comprised of huge slabs of wood ran down the middle of the room, and smaller benches lined the walls. The surfaces of the narrower benches were littered with a variety of tools including dividers, set squares and touchstones. There were also pulleys, grindstones, rope, pieces of leather and rough sacking and, in a far corner, a cask of ale and a half dozen wooden cups. The air was cloudy with stone dust, and chips of limestone littered the floor.

Two men were at work on the central benches, a horn lantern with a thick tallow candle set alongside to bolster the daylight coming through the cas.e.m.e.nts. Both men were about the same age, some thirty-five to forty years, and clad in heavy leather ap.r.o.ns and caps. One of them was tapping a mallet made of hickory onto the end of a straight chisel as he put the finishing touches to an oblong piece of stone about five feet long, glancing at a wooden template lying on the bench as he did so. On the end of the stone facing Bascot, the stonecutter had engraved his personal mark. This would identify him as the worker who had dressed the stone and, once the piece had been a.s.sessed and deemed acceptable, ent.i.tle the cutter to payment for his labour. The details of the work were exacting and the hewer was using a pair of dividers to check the measurements of the stone against the template. It was obvious that excellent eyesight would be one of the prerequisites for those who laboured with the unyielding blocks and so it was not to be wondered at that Cerlo's diminishing vision would cause loss of his employment.

The other man was working on a larger stone block of approximately the same size and shape, but the surface of this one was still rough. The cutter was using a lump hammer-a heavy round piece of dense wood capped on one end with a thick sheet of iron-to drive the broad base of a tool called a pitcher over the stone and bring it to smoothness.

As Bascot walked in, the cutter smoothing the unfinished block cursed as his tool slipped and made a deep gouge. "If I find the cowson that took my hammer," he said, "I'll swing for him. I swear I will." He threw down the hammer he was using and, picking up one of the lanterns, strode over to the bench and began to root among the tools.

"There's no one would take it, you fool," the other cutter said. "Why would they? There's plenty more in that there pile."

"I've had that same hammer since I was an apprentice," returned the other in an aggrieved tone. "My old da gave it to me and 'tis the only one that feels right in my hand. Everyone knows it's mine for my mark is on the handle, but someone has borrowed it anyway and not returned it. . . ."

His voice trailed off as he found the elusive hammer and pulled it from the heap. As he turned back to his work, he saw Bascot standing at the door. The other cutter noticed the knight at the same time and both men pulled off the leather caps they were wearing and touched a finger to their brows.

Bascot told them why he had come. "Master Alexander tells me both of you were at work here on the fourth day before Christ's Ma.s.s. It is almost certain that Peter Brand, the clerk found dead in the quarry, was murdered on that day. I have come to ask if either of you saw anyone in the precincts of the quarry at that time, or perhaps on the road that leads to the Minster, someone you might not have expected to be here."

The men looked at each other, puzzlement warring with excited interest as they pondered the question. Finally, the one who had been looking for his hammer said, "I don't recall anyone, lord." The other cutter shook his head in agreement. "The sky was overcast that day-heavy with the snow that fell later-and the light was so bad we left early and went back to our lodgings in the town."

Bascot nodded, but repeated his question to ensure they had given it enough thought. "You are quite certain you saw no one, not even someone you knew?"

Both men again shook their heads. "No, lord. But 'twas hardly surprising since anyone with any sense would have done the same as we did, sought out a place where it was warm and stayed there. You could smell there was snow in the air. 'Twas not a night for any 'cept homeless beggars to be out, lord."

A rational statement, Bascot thought, but also one that dashed any hope of helpful information from the two men.

Thanking the men for taking time from their work to answer his questions, the Templar left the workshop and rode back along Masons Row. As he neared the small row of houses, Cerlo came out of his home. Mindful of his thought that the mason may have robbed Brand of his scrip, Bascot reined in his horse.

"I wanted to speak to you again, Cerlo. We now know for a certainty that Brand was killed on the day of the snowstorm, and must have arrived in the quarry just as dusk was falling. Are you quite certain you were not abroad in the pit at that time?"

Cerlo shook his head but, still holding his head in a c.o.c.ked manner to compensate for his failing vision, moved his eyes slightly sideways as he mumbled an a.s.surance he had remained in his house all day. It could be a sign he was lying, Bascot thought, or at least not telling a complete truth.

"Your answer seems evasive, Cerlo," he said. "I want to know why."

Cerlo looked down, his weathered face hidden from view as he said, "'Tis only that I should have gone down into the pit that evening, lord, and I didn't. While I was acting for the quarry master, one of my duties was to ensure the covers on the equipment were secure at night. But, just as I was on my way out the door to check all was in order, my wife spilled a cauldron of hot pottage over herself, all down her arm and hand and even some on her foot. She was near to faintin' and I had to help her, but by the time I'd got her seen to, it was dark and the snow had started to fall, so I left my task in the pit undone. That's why I went out so early on the day of Christ's Ma.s.s, lord. I was worried the sledges would be damaged and I would lose my post for dereliction."

Even though Bascot remembered seeing a bandage on the hand and arm of Cerlo's wife on the morning he had gone to their home, the mason's words had a false ring to them, as though he was using the incident to cover an omission in his tale. The mason's next statement, however, rang as true as one of the bells in the cathedral tower. It quickly disabused the Templar of the notion that Cerlo had robbed the dead clerk of his scrip. The mason lifted his head and, turning his dimmed eyes in the direction of the cliff top, said with heartfelt emotion, "If I had of gone out that night like I should of done, then perhaps I could have prevented that thievin' b.a.s.t.a.r.d from murdering young Master Brand."

Twenty-six.

BASCOT'S MOOD AS HE RODE BACK DOWN MASONS Row was one of disappointment. His questioning of the stonecutters had not gained any information, and Cerlo's pa.s.sionate words made it seem unlikely the mason had robbed the clerk's corpse. He felt frustrated. It was as though the elusive facts he sought had been buried with Brand and Fardein's bodies underneath a screen of swirling snowflakes.

He slowed his horse, an even-tempered grey, as he approached the gate, trying to place the little he knew of the sequence of events on the night of December twenty-first in some sort of order. As he did so, a pile of refuse caught his attention. Comprised of pieces of broken stone, old shards of timber and leafless branches of dead trees, it was about thirty feet from the gate into the Minster and heaped against the high stone wall that encircled the cathedral ground. As Bascot looked at it, he could have sworn he saw one of the branches move. The quarryman's remark about only homeless beggars being out on a night of such terrible weather as the one when Brand was murdered came into his mind and he guided the grey towards the pile. As he approached it, the horse tossed its head slightly and gave a soft whicker.

Bringing the grey to a halt, Bascot sat regarding the pile and, after a moment or two, thought he could see an eye watching from the depths of the debris. Dismounting, he walked towards the heap. He felt, rather than saw, the presence of something living within it. It was probably only an animal-a feral cat or even a rat-but he decided it was worth investigating and, as he drew close enough for his feet to almost touch the edge of the discarded material, he caught sight of a fringe of dirty blond hair above an eye that could only be human.

"Come out," he called softly. "I mean you no harm."

There was no response. He hunkered down so as to be on the same level as the person who was hiding, putting his weight on his right foot to take the strain from the old injury in his left ankle. Reaching into the scrip at his belt, he extracted a silver penny and held it up in plain view. "If you show yourself," he said quietly, "you may have this."

Slowly the screen of dead tree limbs parted and a head came into sight. It was a young girl, her hair a dirty blond mat above an equally filthy face. She looked to be no more than six or seven years of age, and her fear was palpable, only overcome by the lure of the shining coin Bascot held in his hand.

Reaching towards her, the Templar held out the penny. The child's hand, the fingernails torn and ragged, darted out and s.n.a.t.c.hed it from his grasp. Before she could retreat into her hiding place, Bascot took another coin from his purse. "You may have this penny as well if you will talk to me. I promise I will not hurt you."

Slowly the child pushed her head and shoulders into view. She was pitifully thin and reminded the Templar of the time he had first seen Gianni. Like the boy, this little girl had sores on her face and her eyes were devoid of hope. Compa.s.sion flooded through Bascot. There were many such children in every town in England and, indeed, all over the world, but their desolation never failed to instil a deep pity in him.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Whatcher want to know fer?" the child said, her eyes suspicious.

"So I may call you by it," Bascot replied. "But if you do not want to tell me, it doesn't matter."

"Me name's Mary," the child said grudgingly, her eyes still on the penny the one-eyed knight was holding.

"Do you live here all on your own, Mary?" Bascot asked.

The girl's eyes grew hard. "No, I doesn't. My bruvver lives here, too. He'll be back any minute. And he's bigger than me, much bigger." Her voice faltered as she took in the solid muscular build of the man in front of her and the sword that hung from his belt. No matter how much larger her brother, he would be no match for the strength of a grown man trained to arms. Bascot had thrown back his cloak as he crouched down and the child's gaze slid to the Templar badge on his tunic. It seemed to rea.s.sure her a little, but not much.

Not wanting to alarm her further, Bascot edged back a s.p.a.ce. "If your brother returns while I am here, there will be a penny for him, too," he said. "I only want to speak to you, Mary, nothing else."

The small face relaxed slightly, but her eyes remained wary. "Whatcher want to talk about?" she asked.

"I want to know if you and your brother sleep here at night."

Mary gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. "Most times we do. We ain't breakin' no law when we does," she added defiantly. "The guards only chase us away if we stays inside the wall, not outside."

Regrettably, what she said was all too true. There was a fair number of beggars in Lincoln, just as in most towns, but unless they could find a sheltered spot within the city walls where they would be safe from discovery by the town guards, they were forced to go outside.

"I know you are permitted to stay here," Bascot said. "That is not why I wish to speak to you. I want to ask if you, or your brother, were here on the night of the snowstorm, just a few days before Christ's Ma.s.s."

"What if we were?" Mary retorted.

"Then I would like to know if you saw anybody down there, on the track by the shed." As he spoke the Templar gestured behind him, toward the path that veered off Masons Row. From this vantage point, the top of the cliff face above the quarry could just be seen, as could the shack that sat atop it.

"We might o' done," Mary said, her confidence growing and her eyes still fixed on the penny.

The Templar extracted another coin from his scrip. "I do not want any lies, Mary. If you do not tell me the truth, then the pennies will go back in my purse and not into your hand. If you did not see anybody, then say so, and the pennies will still be yours."

The child gave him a measuring look and, after a few moments she nodded. "We did see some men," she said slowly. "The first one came just before it got dark. I was by myself then, my bruvver didn't come back 'til later, just after the second man come."

"What did he look like, the first man?" Bascot asked, holding his breath as he waited for her reply.

"He were as tall as you," Mary said, "and wore a brown cloak. It were a good one," she added wistfully. "He weren't riding a horse, nor was the man who came after. The first man walked down the track to the cliff top and just stood there, like he was waitin' for someone."

That must have been Peter Brand, Bascot surmised. "And the second man; was it light enough for you to see what he looked like?"

"Not much," Mary said. "There were a little bit of moon, but all I could see was it gleamin' on his shoulders. Looked like he didn't have as fine a cloak as the first man what come."

Roger Fardein, Bascot thought. Ta.s.ser had been correct in his a.s.sumption that his apprentice had been following the clerk. "And the second man, did he go and speak to the other man?"

Mary shook her head vehemently. "No. He hid, crept up behind the shack that's down there when the other man wasn't lookin'. That's when my bruvver come. We stayed in here close and tight, in case one of them saw us, and watched."

"Were both of them there a long time?" Bascot asked.