Murder at Broadstowe Manor Page 10

  “Accounts not balance again?” Stephen asked.

  “They would if I didn’t have oafs for assistants. None of them could count their fingers on one hand and get to five.”

  “A sorry state of affairs for a professional such as yourself.”

  Tarbent regarded Stephen with narrowed eyes. “You want something.”

  “Well, a small something.”

  “Spit it out. What is it? Can’t you see we’re busy here? Running a town is an exhausting business. I can’t have my attention diverted by your social visits.”

  “This isn’t exactly a social visit. I expect that band of players has been by here.”

  “They came Friday. Bought a license to play at the market. Why?”

  “There was trouble with them in Hereford. A robbery of a wealthy man. Are you sure it’s a good idea to let them into town? If they cause trouble, it will reflect badly on you, now that you know, especially if the victim is connected. People are sure to find out . . . that it was your doing.”

  Tarbent blinked at the threat. “It’s too late for that. They’ve already paid for their license.”

  “Revoke the license.”

  “That means I have to give them their money back.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve spent it already.”

  “No, I haven’t spent it already.”

  “Well?”

  Tarbent hemmed and hawed. Perhaps he had already spent the money.

  “How much was the license?” Stephen asked.

  “A full shilling.”

  “That’s a lot. Is that the ordinary charge?”

  “They’re bound to make three or four times that, if they’re any good.”

  “I see.” Stephen counted out a shilling from the expense money Margaret had given him. “Here’s the equal of the license. Now send one of your clerks to tell them that you’ve changed your mind about it, and give them their money back.”

  Tarbent’s hand hovered over the pile of pennies. He swept them across the table. He found a leather pouch for it. He held out the pouch to a clerk watching in the corner, a bruise on his cheek and pen poised.

  “Arnald,” Tarbent said, “go tell that bunch staying at the Pigeon that I’ve reconsidered their license for this week’s market.”

  When Arnald had gone, Tarbent asked, “Why are you doing this? Were you the one robbed?”

  “No, an acquaintance was.”

  “Ah! Why not appeal against them?”

  “I do not have satisfactory proof yet. Only suspicions. Which I hope will be proved in due course.”

  Tarbent wagged a finger. “You are the wily one!”

  Stephen went down to the Pigeon at supper time. His mind was filled with anxiety and dread. He had arranged for the troupe to get word of the loss of the license late enough in the day that they could not leave and reach another town by sundown. He thought this would encourage them to stay one more night. All he needed was this one night. Or so he hoped.

  The bowling pitch was deserted when Stephen passed through the gate, as he had come out Linney Gate, a small sally port through the north wall of town, and down the steep slope to Linney Lane and thus reached the inn by the back way.

  He entered the back door; passed the kitchen, waving to the cooks laboring over the fire where a loin of pork was turning on a spit, smelling very good; and came to the front hall.

  Herb turned at his entrance. “Sir Stephen! What brings you here?”

  “I’m a bit tired of Edith’s food,” Stephen said. “The menu never seems to change. I thought I’d try something different.”

  Herb fell for the lie, since it implied that his food was good enough to compete with Edith’s, and he wanted to believe that. “Well, then, let me show you my best table.”

  Herb escorted Stephen to the table by the front window looking out on Corve Street. It was the best table in summer because of the view and the good light, golden and gentle with the setting sun, the sky clear and blue for a change.

  Stephen settled onto a stool as Herb said, “You are lucky today. We have braised pork for the discriminating palate.”

  “I saw that. I think I will indeed have some.”

  “I’ll bring it straight away, with bread, cheese and boiled cabbage. Or would you prefer the beans? What will you have to drink?”

  “Wine, I think. And I don’t mind cabbage, as long as you’re not stingy with the salt.”

  “Excellent.” Herb hurried to a keg to draw a pitcher of wine.

  Only then did Stephen allow his eyes to wander around the room, which was more full of diners than he would have expected. He had been relieved to see when he entered that the troupers were at a corner table. Now he locked eyes for an instant with the red-haired girl, Matilda. Normally when you looked at a pretty girl who was a stranger, she tossed her head and looked away. But Matilda held his gaze. She had the most remarkable blue eyes. He nodded with a slight smile. She looked grave.

  Herb brought a pitcher of wine and one of water, poured Stephen a cup, and left for the kitchen. Stephen sipped the wine. It was chalky and needed watering down, hence the pitcher of water. He was glad for that pitcher of water. It might enable him to keep his head for what was to come.

  Herb came back shortly with a wooden trencher of sliced pork, bread, and cheese, and a bowl of the cabbage.

  Stephen pushed a thick button of the pork onto his spoon and, expecting the worst, tried it. “Herb,” he said, “this is very good.” And surprisingly that was not a lie. The pork was both tasty and tender, not the least bit overcooked.

  While he ate, Stephen kept a surreptitious eye on the troupers in the corner. They appeared to be studying him with the same attempt to be covert about it. Eyes thrown over shoulders swept the room pretending to take in everything in the chamber, but lingered on Stephen before moving off.

  When Stephen had cleaned the trencher and the bowl, Herb returned to collect them. Stephen made a display of paying him from a fat purse, even though that was not normally required yet, since he had not finished his wine. The eyes at the troupers table took notice of that purse before Stephen put it back in his belt pouch.

  Stephen poured another tiny bit of wine in his cup, though trying to make it appear as if the quantity was much larger than it actually was. He sipped ostentatiously and looked out the window at the mowed fields across the street, where sheep and ravens were grazing on the stubble.

  Matilda came to the window not far away and looked out at this pleasant scene, pretending to admire the view.

  “I say,” Stephen said to her. “Care to join me in a cup?”

  Matilda glanced at Stephen as if to dismiss the suggestion. But then she said with some reserve, “Very well, sir.”

  She sat on the bench opposite him. Stephen fetched a cup from the bar since no servers were about. He poured her cup to brimming and his about a quarter full, adding some water.

  He raised his cup. “To your performance yesterday. I saw it. It was quite something.”

  “Thank you,” Matilda said, taking a deep draught. “I saw you there. You were with a little fat man.”

  “I am surprised you remember me. There were so many.”

  “You stand out in a crowd.”

  “I hope that’s a compliment.”

  She smiled.

  “I look forward to seeing your performance tomorrow,” Stephen said.

  That produced an angry look. “Our license has been cancelled. There will be no performance.”

  “Good Heavens, why?”

  “The town has decided we are undesirables, troublemakers.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “It happens.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “Go on to Shrewsbury, I suppose.”

  “The town’s loss.”

  “It certainly is.”

  “Your loss too, all that money you stood to make.”

  Matilda’s mouth became a thin line. “Yes.”

  “Your kind must liv
e on the edge, always close to ruin and starvation. Life is hard on the road.”

  “It is. I am surprised you would entertain the thought.”

  “I have been on the road. Not as a player, but as a wandering knight. Fortunately, I have come into my manor at last, so those days are behind me.”

  “You are lucky to be born into a life where such things are possible.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” Stephen raised his cup again. “But for the grace of God.”

  Matilda smiled and drank with Stephen to God’s grace, even though it had fallen unevenly upon them.

  From there, the conversation wandered into more friendly topics than poverty and ruin, and Stephen was able to make her laugh now and then, and the laugh did not sound forced at all. She had to be as good an actress as she was an acrobat. They drank and talked as the sun set and the night settled on Ludlow.

  At last, Stephen put down his cup and stood up, swaying a bit in what he hoped looked convincingly like he had had too much wine.

  “I must be off,” he said, “before they ring the curfew.”

  “You live in the town?”

  “Yes. I have a house there.”

  “For someone like you I’d think the curfew doesn’t matter.”

  “Well, it often doesn’t, actually.”

  “An excuse to go, then.”

  “I’ve an early day tomorrow.”

  “I see. And eager to get home to your wife.”

  “I have no wife now. It’s an empty bed to which I return.”

  “It doesn’t have to be empty.”

  Stephen paused as if considering this. “It doesn’t?

  “As long as there is a suitable gift in the morning.”

  Stephen paused again. “That is a possibility.”

  He held out a hand. Matilda took it as she rose.

  They went out the front door to Corve Street together.

  From Linney Lane to the town gate, the houses along Corve Street sat shoulder to shoulder, forming an unbroken wall on either side, except at one or two places. About halfway to the gate on the left, rested a timber house belonging to a certain Mistress Webbere, just before the road curved to the left and the ground began its rise to the summit of the hill on which the town sat. There was an alley at Mistress Webbere’s house where a stairway led up to the second-floor room she rented. Stephen knew this house well.

  About twenty yards from this alley, Matilda paused and said, “A moment. I have a stone in my shoe.”

  She bent down and wormed a finger in the top of her shoe.

  “There,” she said. “Got it.”

  She rose and took Stephen’s right arm.

  When they reached the alley, her grip tightened on his right arm with astonishing strength for a woman who appeared so small and frail so that he could not draw his dagger, while the snicking of the footsteps of the men behind them changed abruptly to pounding as they charged forward.

  But Stephen did not try for his dagger. Instead, he looped his right arm around and under Matilda’s left arm to obtain an underhook, then pushed down on her head and up on the underhook so she flipped onto her back. He punched her hard in the head so, he hoped, she would not interfere with what happened next.

  And turned to face his attackers rushing out of the alley.

  There were three of them.

  They rushed at him spread out, one to take his front and the others to take him on either side. In the dark, he could not see if they were armed, and there was no time to draw his dagger. So, he lunged forward with a left punch that caught the man in front in the face so that his head shot backwards and his feet forward. His body now horizontal to the ground, he went down with a great thud.

  Stephen turned to the closest man, the one on his right. He sensed rather than saw the club descending toward his head. He ducked to the left, caught the attacking arm, and punched the fellow in the head, then swept him off his feet, relieving him of the club as he hit the ground.

  That left the man on the left.

  But then help arrived: Randel, the gate ward, and four of his mates.

  Two of the other gate wards tackled the third attacker as he turned to flee. They collapsed in a tangle of thrashing arms and legs. Another warden lifted the man Stephen had knocked out while Randel took on the fellow Stephen had swept off his feet.

  Stephen went to Matilda who had got to her hands and knees. He tried to force one arm behind her back. She started to struggle. She had enough strength in her little frame for three men, and he was not able to get her under control until two of the wardens came to his aid. But at last they got her pressed down on her stomach and her arms behind her back so that they could be tied with a leather thong.

  “That was more work than I expected,” Randel panted when they had all the troupers secured. “I should have charged you more.”

  “Let’s get them to the gaol,” Stephen said. “Or will I have to pay for that service separately?”

  “No, although I don’t think the boys would mind an extra tip, for good service.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Chapter 14

  Stephen led Matilda into the guardroom at the castle’s main gate. He would have let her sit on a stool, but she continued to worm about as she had done all the way here, so he pushed her down into a corner. He took the stool for himself.

  They regarded each other for a long time, Matilda with hatred and Stephen trying to keep his expression as blank as possible.

  Randel stuck his head in the room. “The others are all tidy and secure.”

  “Good,” Stephen said. “Can you get another candle? This one may not last long enough.” There was half a candle left on a table by the far wall. It should be good for an hour yet, but there was no telling how long the questioning of Matilda would take.

  “So, we’ll hang then?” Matilda asked at last.

  “I expect so. Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “I have some questions. If you answer them truthfully, I may reconsider my presentment against you.”

  “Ha! Fat chance of that! Your sort always lies.”

  “Be silent and you hang for certain. Answer me, and take a chance that you live.”

  Matilda’s mouth pursed in thought. “You’re the one who had our license cancelled.”

  “I did.”

  “What made you think we’d try a robbery?”

  “You are predictable.”

  “Come now, you couldn’t have known.”

  Stephen smiled. “I took a chance. It’s what you did in Hereford, a robbery on the night before you left. I saw no reason to expect you would change your habit. I imagine that’s what you do in every town.”

  Matilda looked nervous about the mention of Hereford. But she did not deny a robbery there.

  “Tell me,” Stephen said, “what happened with Rogier FitzHerbert.”

  “How well do you know Hereford?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Then you probably know about Grope Lane.”

  “Everyone in the county knows about Grope Lane.”

  “So, you know it’s run by this woman, Squinty Peg.”

  “I knew she had some influence there.”

  “Ha! She runs it like a lord. No one takes a shit but she knows about it and gives permission.”

  “What does this have to do with Sir Rogier?”

  “Everything. Things been tight with the band. Hereford’s a rich town, but our takings weren’t that great. We got expenses, you know? The horses cost a lot in hay, and the boys have tendency to spend too freely. So, I was trying to make a bit of extra change in Grope Lane. Squinty found out about it and sent her boys around to put a stop to it. They would have beat me right good to boot, but she saw I needed money and she had a scheme to get some.”

  “Money from FitzHerbert? That’s bold.”

  “She had a boy who served him, that Martin. You know about him?”

  “We’ve met, after a fashion
.”

  “Well, then, Martin had let slip that FitzHerbert had a full five pounds in ready coin just lying around in his bedchamber. You’d think it’d be safe there, but Squinty, she’s a cunning one. She had a plan. She had me dangle myself in front of Martin and FitzHerbert at that bathhouse down by the river. She said Martin wouldn’t fail to resist.”

  “Why do that?”

  “Because Martin had refused to steal the money. He said it was stupid, that it would kill the goose.”

  “That’s what Squinty told you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, you’ve dangled yourself.”

  “Yeah, it was easy. Martin is a horny bastard. He said FitzHerbert likes to watch him do the girls and the boys. So, we went back to FitzHerbert’s house.”

  “So, did you steal the money?”

  “Sure.”

  “How did you manage that? You didn’t have them jumped on the road by your two friends, did you, and strong arm them into giving it over?”

  “You know about Bill and Hank, do you?”

  “They were found, after.”

  Matilda looked sad. “Yeah, it ended bad.”

  “We’ll get to the ending in due course. How did you pull off the theft?”

  “Squinty knew we’d be going back to the house for some fun. She gave me a powder to put in the wine. It put them both to sleep. So, I got the key from around FitzHerbert’s neck, where I was told it would be, unlocked the chest and that was that. There, at least.”

  “Tell me about the ending.”

  “I came downstairs and left the house through the back door, where Bill and Hank were supposed to be waiting.”

  “Supposed?”

  “Squinty was there with ten of her boys. Bill and Hank were already dead. I only got away because no man alive can hold me or run me down.”

  “Until tonight.”

  “Well, there is that. But you were lucky. You’ll never get another chance.”

  “Squinty got the money?”

  “Every penny. It was too heavy to carry and get away. Anyway, one of her lads yanked it out of my hands first thing.”

  “Did you happen to notice a letter in the chest with the money?” he asked.