Baynard's List (A Stephen Attebrook mystery Book 2) Read online

  Stephen touched the man’s face at the hinge of the jaw. The flesh was cold and the muscles there were rigid. He felt the man’s hand. It was rigid also. The dead man’s heavy wool coat was still wet from last evening’s rain. The drizzle had stopped sometime before midnight, which meant that he had died before then.

  He looked up at Gilbert, who was standing by with folded hands. He said, “Do you recognize him too?”

  Gilbert nodded. “William Muryet, Ancelin Baynard’s butler. A most unpleasant little man, although I hesitate to speak ill of the dead.”

  “Go ahead. He can’t hear you. Hell’s a long way off.”

  Gilbert sighed. “Well, Master Muryet owed us money. He has — or had — run up a rather sizeable bill at the Shield and paid only with excuses. It had got so bad that Edith was contemplating legal action.” He shuddered at the prospect of lawyers. “He owed many people a great deal of money, if the rumors are to be believed.”

  “Then the rest of town will be as sorry at his death as you seem to be. Now they won’t be paid back.”

  “They might if he left an estate,” Gilbert said dryly.

  “Well, don’t rush off to secure it, pitiful as it probably is — a few stray coins in a purse under his pillow, if anything. We’ve work to do here.”

  “Speaking of work, I wonder what he was doing here.”

  “Not paying off his debts, I’m sure.”

  “Probably not.”

  Stephen straightened up and addressed the crowd. “Who owns this house?” He gestured to the house that sported the stairs leading to a door on the third story.

  A tall, red-haired man named William Brandone had been watching in the crowd. He was a juryman in the town and the parish of Ludford. It was the duty of the jurymen to investigate the circumstances of any death in their district, report the facts to the coroner at the inquest, and collectively then to judge the manner and method of the death. He spoke up, “Mistress Helen Webbere, sir.”

  “Good day, William,” Stephen said. Brandone was a candlemaker in the town, and although not well to do, he was a respected craftsman. “Would you mind asking her if she would kindly donate the use of her table for viewing the body.”

  Brandone nodded to the man beside him, another juryman, who pushed through the crowd toward Mistress Webbere’s door.

  “Who was the first finder?” Stephen asked Brandone, who had obviously been here for some time.

  “Mistress Webbere’s son, a boy of eight. Name of Ivo. Says he was sent to fetch water and spied the body in the alley. Says he didn’t think much of it at first, that it was a beggar just sitting there. Went past it twice, and only on the third time noticed anything wrong.”

  “Told his mother, did he? And she summoned the watch?”

  “Yes, sir,” Brandone said.

  “And you found out about it and came right out.”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “An hour now.”

  Stephen approved of Brandone’s diligence. Jury service often meant a considerable sacrifice for small craftsmen like him. He obviously took his civic duty seriously. “Been asking questions? The usual inquiry?”

  Brandone nodded.

  Stephen was relieved. That meant he didn’t have to make inquiries of his own. This unpleasant business might be concluded in short order. But then the import of that Brandone had told him finally registered. “No one saw or heard anything, did they?”

  “Not that we’ve found so far, and we’ve talked to everyone in the houses all round.”

  Stephen looked up and down the stairway. “Not even Mistress Webbere or anyone in her family?”

  “No, sir, so they say.”

  “What do you think happened, William?”

  “I think he was drunk and fell down the stairs, sir.”

  Stephen eyed Brandone narrowly for a moment, then bent down and sniffed close to Muryet’s face. Sure enough, the sour smell of bad wine lingered about him, although the smell was not strong. “He doesn’t reek enough to suggest he’d been drinking so heavily he’d be liable for a fall.”

  Brandone said, “Or perhaps not drunk, but still fell down the stairs anyway. There’s a loose step near the top.”

  “Is there,” Stephen said.

  He paid closer attention to the stairway now. It was just a series of wooden planks for steps set on a slender timber scaffold. It was obviously an old set of stairs, the wood gray and weathered and covered with moss in spots. Here and there some of the planks had been replaced with newer wood that wasn’t so gray and in a couple of instances was yellow and new. Stephen mounted the stairs, moving slowly and examining every step. Third from the top he found the loose one. The outer edge was rotting, the wood flaking with age, and had nearly come free from the nails intended to secure it. The plank rattled and tilted in his grip.

  Stephen descended the stair. “It’s there. Could have been the cause.”

  “But you’re not sure,” Gilbert said shrewdly.

  Stephen avoided his gaze and shrugged. He had ample reason for wanting more proof, since just last month he had mistaken murder for an accident, a lapse that had led to another man’s death.

  The man sent to fetch Mistress Webbere had returned with a woman of about thirty-five. She had a strong rather than pretty face, with the sort of broad jaw that would have looked well on a man but looked less well on a woman.

  “You’re Mistress Webbere?” Stephen asked.

  “I am.” Mistress Webbere spoke firmly in a high feminine voice that seemed odd coming from so masculine a face. It was a firm voice, used to command. “Your man tells me you wish to take . . . that into my house.” She gestured to the body.

  “Only for a short time. Until we’ve had a chance to examine him properly.”

  “I shall not allow it. It is unclean.”

  She had every right to refuse, although it surprised Stephen that she would not cooperate. He said, “Very well. William, Gilbert, could either of you arrange for a cart? We’ll take Master Muryet to the castle. They’ll have tables there they won’t care about dirtying.”

  Mistress Webbere nodded firmly, a slight smile signaling her satisfaction.

  Stephen gestured to the door at the top of the stairs. “What’s up there?”

  “A room.”

  “What kind of room?”

  “She rents it out,” Brandone said.

  Stephen nodded. Trust the townsfolk to know the business of their neighbors. “To whom?” he asked.

  “It’s not rented now,” Mistress Webbere said. Then she added hastily, “but it was last night. A woman took it in the evening, for one night only. She gave her name as Simone. She was a traveler in need of lodgings. My house is known in these parts as a place that gives a roof and a good bed to travelers at rates that are more affordable than other establishments.” She cast a sly glance at Gilbert, as if in challenge to the Broken Shield, which posed her some competition.

  Stephen exchanged glances with Gilbert. “And we are to believe that Muryet came to visit this lady traveler . . . just like that?”

  “I do not inquire into the business of my tenants,” Mistress Webbere said stiffly. “It is unseemly.”

  “You neither heard nor saw this Simone leave?”

  “I did not,” Mistress Webbere said firmly.

  The man who had fetched Mistress Webbere had returned with a small cart. Stephen saw it arrive and said, “Well, I suppose there isn’t much more we can do here. Let’s get him loaded and on his way.”

  He picked four men from the crowd to lift the body to the cart. They moved with obvious reluctance, for no one could relish this chore, although it was necessary. And once the body was in the cart, it was disturbing to see it there, rigidly upright as if leaning against an invisible wall, the head so completely and unnaturally turned around.

  The cart’s driver snapped the reins and clicked his tongue. The cart horse started forward and the cart gave a je
rk, rocking the body as it rattled down Corve Street toward town.

  Stephen and Gilbert fell in behind the cart. A number of noisy small boys tailed after them for the enjoyment of the spectacle until Stephen turned on them with a scowl and a wave of the hand, which caused them to scatter like a flock of frightened doves. Warily, they reconvened further away, where they kept cautious pace behind the cart, laughing and chattering at a safer distance.

  “It really could be an accident, you know,” Gilbert said when some measure of peace and isolation had settled on the solemn little procession. “This Simone could have been a lover with whom he had an assignation last night.”

  “If it was an assignation, it was a secret one,” Stephen said.

  “And he fell down the steps in the dark upon taking his leave.”

  “I suppose.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  “How could a fall down a flight of steps turn a man’s head around like that?”

  “I don’t know,” Gilbert said. “I really don’t know. I don’t suppose there’s no reason it could not, though. I’ve seen men with broken necks before. They weren’t much different than that.”

  “And look there.” Stephen pointed to Muryet’s dagger sheath, which the dead man had carried in an unconventional fashion, thrust into his belt across his stomach, tilting toward the right, so he could make a right-handed draw. “The sheath is empty. How could a fall make his dagger disappear?”

  Chapter 3

  The steward at the castle was no more anxious to have a contorted dead man displayed on a table in his hall than Mistress Webbere. After some delay, the coroner’s party was diverted to the gaol, which stood against the castle’s outer wall near the main gate. No one at the castle wanted to have anything to do with touching the body, although there was no shortage here of gawkers any more than there had been in Corve Street. So it fell to Gilbert and the carter to manhandle the corpse through the narrow door into the cell provided.

  The cell was a small dank room unfit even for horses which smelled so strongly of urine and feces and rotting straw that it made men want to gag. The carter did not waste any time fleeing from the horrid smell, leaving Stephen and Gilbert with the dead man, who lay on the floor in the shaft of light admitted by the open door, since there was no table. Stephen wished he could have fled too. It would have been better to conduct the examination in the well-lighted outer bailey, but he couldn’t bear to do it in front of the eyes of the small crowd which had gathered at the door. He went to the doorway and stood with crossed arms. “Get on,” he demanded. “Don’t you people have work to do?”

  After a few hard looks and obvious disappointment, the crowd broke up. Stephen stood there until the last of them had turned away. Then he went back into the cell.

  Gilbert knelt over the corpse, fingering the empty dagger sheath.

  “Perhaps it came loose,” Gilbert said, referring to the missing dagger. “They do that sometimes.”

  “They aren’t supposed to. You know that,” Stephen said.

  “What do I know about weapons?” Gilbert said. He folded his hands across his round stomach and leaned against the wall. It looked as though he was waiting for dinner rather than something far less appetizing. “Not my line of work, brawling. I am a man of the intellect. ”

  Stephen tipped his own dagger, a foot of slender steel which he carried on his right hip, upside down while still in its scabbard. A gift from his grandfather, it had been so much a part of his person since he was twelve years old that he hardly noticed it was there, but was keenly aware of its absence. “See how tightly the leather grips the blade so it won’t fall out? It’s made for that very purpose — to enclose the blade like a fist. Muryet’s is no different.”

  Gilbert sighed. “Well, it certainly seems hard to see how it could have fallen out.” He brightened at a thought. “Someone could have stolen it.”

  It was, Stephen had to admit, a more likely possibility. Was he wrong? Was he leaping to conclusions again? He hated to be wrong. He said, “Well, get on with it.”

  “Get on with what?”

  “Cutting his clothes off, of course. I’m not reporting this death an accident until I’ve had a look at every inch of him. This won’t be like last time.”

  “It’s your turn. I did it last time.”

  “And you’re the clerk. You’re supposed to do as I say.”

  “I’m also your landlord.”

  “Well, we’re not at the inn, so you’re not wearing your landlord hat now.”

  “I should start charging you rent, if this is how things are going to be.”

  “I’ll tell my cousin. I believe there’s some matter of a debt?” Gilbert and Edith owed Stephen’s cousin, the earl of Shelburgh, some debt that they were repaying by giving him room and board, although it was perhaps the meanest room in the inn, an attic space that you’d normally expect to house the boy who mucked out the latrines. Stephen had just been glad to have somewhere to go that hadn’t cost him anything, since he hadn’t any money. He had never been clear on the nature of the debt.

  Gilbert dug into his pouch for his knife, grumbling. “Can’t believe you’d bring that up.” He fingered the knife. It was the one that he used for various chores, including eating.

  Stephen could tell he was reluctant to use his eating knife on the dead man, so he took out his own knife and snapped it open. “Here, use this.”

  “Very kind of you.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  Gilbert put his knife away and knelt by the corpse. Taking Muryet’s coat by the collar at the back of his neck — eerily just below the chin — and sawed through the fabric of coat and shirt down to the belt at the dead man’s waist. The belt gave some resistence, but the knife was sharp and was soon through it. Because the dead man’s arms were still stiff and unbendable, Gilbert had to cut through the sleeves too. Shortly, the man’s clothes on his upper body were in shreds on the ground and Gilbert quickly sliced through the stockings. As much as he might demur from this chore, it was one he had often done. For years he had been Sir Geoffrey Randall’s clerk, and now, at Sir Geoff’s withdrawal from active service although he still held the office and its considerable emoluments, served Stephen. Or was supposed to. When he was done, he stood and gave back the knife. “You may examine, your honor,” he said.

  Stephen sank beside the now-naked body and examined it closely, starting at the head. He ruffled the hair, looking for wounds, and found none on the scalp. There were the ones already noted on the face and he passed quickly over them. He noted several bruises on the upper back about the shoulders, one on the ribs under the right arm and none on the buttocks or backs of the legs. He heaved the body on its back as if it was a piece of furniture. The front of the legs and pelvis were an odd bluish-red, marked by strange streaks that seemed to mimic the wrinkles that might have been left by clothing such as a broad whitish band that obviously had been left by the man’s belt. Even the outline of the buckle was evident. There were no obvious bruises or suspicious marks of any kind except for a bruise on the right shin, but it looked old and healing.

  Shadows cast upon the body made him look up. Brandone and the other jurymen stood about the doorway. Distaste showed upon their faces. Although they were well accustomed to the gruesome indignity of death, the sight of the contorted and naked body, part marble gray and part bluish-red, might be more than they were used to. Or maybe it was the stench of the gaol.

  “I’ve brought the rest of the fellows, sir,” Brandone said. “I thought you might like to get the business done as soon as possible.”

  Stephen stood up and nodded. Sometimes inquests were held in formal places, under roofs and around tables with chairs and benches to sit on. Other times, he was learning, they were held quickly in the open air. The main thing was to get a consensus about what had happened. Stephen wished he had thought to have water fetched so he could wash his hands before they got started. It seemed unclean to touch anything
after what he had just done.

  No one was inclined to enter, so Stephen stepped outside into slanting sunlight that seemed more golden and fresh than usual. A little breeze washed away the gagging smell and stung his face. There was a rickety bench outside the door. Stephen sat down on it. Gilbert settled beside him and the men sank onto the grass without waiting for his permission. Although there was a considerable social gulf between them, like Gilbert they acted as if they weren’t much aware of it. This might have rubbed other men wrong, but Stephen, poor as he was, had no inclination to stand on frail dignity and hollow pride.

  “Have you found out anything new?” Stephen asked Brandone.

  A dozen heads wagged.

  “No one saw or heard anything?” Stephen said.

  “Not a thing,” Brandone said.

  “I can’t believe that a fall down those stairs wouldn’t make enough noise to attract someone’s attention,” Stephen said. “Particularly in Mistress Webbere’s house.”

  “Not if they were dead asleep,” one man said.

  “Or dead drunk,” another added.

  “Drunk?” Stephen turned toward the speaker, a heavy set man named Thomas, a tanner.

  “Helen Webbere’s been known to swill a bit more than her fair share, ‘specially since her last husband died. Neighbors found her passed out in a ditch down from the White Staff last spring.” The White Staff was an alehouse this side of Corve Bridge, which was just up the road from the Webbere house.

  Brandone grimaced. “Lay off, Tom. That was just after her old man passed on. She hasn’t had that much trouble with drink.”

  “Tommy’s mad at her because she won’t diddle him,” a man in the back said.

  That brought a laugh. Thomas’ face got red. Stephen smiled. He reckoned the accusation must be true.

  “Did you find a dagger anywhere about?” Stephen asked Brandone.

  Brandone looked puzzled. He shook his head. “No, never saw a dagger. Why?”

  “Muryet was carrying one, but it’s missing. It’s not in its scabbard. I thought it might have fallen out when he fell — if he fell.”