The Boy-Bishop's Glovemaker (29 page)

‘Or was it something to do with the suspects?’ Baldwin mused.

Simon took another gulp and considered. ‘It’s feasible. What if he was concerned like you that the wrong man could be accused? You are worried about the apprentice, and maybe he’s worried about someone else?’

‘Who?’ Baldwin scoffed.

‘Don’t be stupid! There’s only one real suspect in Peter’s death, and you know it as well as I do: Jolinde. He’s the only man who had the chance. God’s bollocks! He even told us about his delivery of food. How easy it would have been for him to have slipped poison into Peter’s food. And he told us that he didn’t eat it.’

‘But what could lead Jolinde to kill Peter
now
when he had had opportunities for the last few years?’ Baldwin demanded. ‘There’s nothing to suggest that they had a row about anything.’

‘Jolinde’s girl said that they were a bit odd in the tavern.’

‘I think Claricia was more struck with the way that Peter snubbed Karvinel later on.’

Simon said slowly, ‘If the Dean realised that the evidence pointed to Jolinde, wouldn’t that be reason enough to get another pair of heads in to help the Coroner?’

‘I don’t see why.’

‘Baldwin, you’ve left your brains in bed with Jeanne. Think! The Cathedral survives on the money it wins from the city and the people living here. There are a number of wealthy men, but one in particular stands out in terms of potential income.’

‘The Receiver!’

‘Vincent le Berwe,’ Simon nodded. ‘The father of Jolinde, if our informer was correct. I think we have the Dean’s motive right there. He didn’t want to upset one of his major financiers by being responsible for having his son arrested, not unless there was absolutely no alternative.’

‘Vincent would be upset if his son was taken, presumably, although I’ve seen nothing to suggest that he is particularly fond of the boy.’

‘Just because he doesn’t have the boy in his house with him and with his wife, don’t hold that against him,’ Simon warned. ‘Just imagine that you had an illegitimate son twenty-odd years ago – then imagine that your only child with Jeanne had died. Would you inflict upon Jeanne the presence of your child out of marriage? It would be a dreadful reminder to her that she herself hadn’t provided you with your heir when a village slut could manage it perfectly happily. If Jolinde is his son, he
must
have some feelings for the lad.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘True, but there is the other aspect, which is that if Vincent was concerned, surely he’d have paid the Sheriff to see to it that the matter never reached the court with his boy. In the best courts in the land there is normally someone who can be persuaded by cash.’

‘Maybe Vincent would try that if his boy was actually arrested. But the Dean would still have the embarrassment of being involved with that arrest – and I doubt he wants that to happen to the man with possibly the biggest purse in the parish.’

‘The trouble is, we have no idea why Peter Golloc should have been killed. Unless he killed himself, as we said. And Jolinde had every opportunity.’

‘He had several with the very fair Claricia,’ Simon added with a leer.

‘Yes, yes. Vincent le Berwe surely fits into all this somehow, but I cannot see how. And there was something about Karvinel: he appeared very jittery when I asked him about the robbery. I suppose the attack could have unsettled him, but he didn’t seem to want to discuss the affair at all. That seems odd. Most people want to talk about their misfortune. He had all his money taken, but was reticent on the details. And I have to say that so much bad luck itself looks suspicious, when you add it all together.’

‘What, you think he conspired to have his goods stolen from him?’ Simon laughed.

Baldwin looked at him seriously. ‘There are other possibilities. He could have made a powerful enemy, for instance. You recall this man they all talk about as a vicious outlaw leading a large band of men – Sir Thomas of Exmouth? Perhaps he has a specific grudge against Karvinel.’

‘What?’ Simon grunted, tugging the cloak and blanket which served as his bedclothes more closely about him. ‘What are you saying, that this poor fool Karvinel has upset someone who can hire an entire outlaw band to give him a kicking? Does it sound reasonable?’

‘Remember what we were told about Karvinel’s legendary bad luck,’ Baldwin said, looking at his friend with a serious, worried expression on his face. ‘Karvinel lost his ship years ago, his house was burgled, then put to the torch, and finally this outrageous attack was sprung on him as he was approaching the city. Does that sound normal to you? How often have you known evil luck of that nature dog a man’s footsteps?’

‘That’s not the point. The point is, you have no rational explanation as to why someone should be, as you say, dogging Karvinel with such foul luck.’

‘No,’ Baldwin admitted.

‘It could as easily be someone else who could afford to pay for this Sir Thomas’s services. Until you know who is wealthy enough to pay him, you’ll never find out anything.’

‘We have to find out more, yes,’ Baldwin said slowly, and then he sat upright with a beatific smile on his face. ‘Thank you, my friend.’

‘Eh? What for?’ Simon demanded suspiciously.

‘Why, for showing me what I should do, of course,’ Baldwin said innocently and walked from the room.

Simon swore under his breath, then swore again when he saw his breath hanging on the air in front of him. Reaching forward he threw more logs onto the fire, and shivered glumly. He knew he’d never get back to sleep again now.

Jolinde walked from the inn to the cookshops, scratching at his head and yawning luxuriously. It astonished him how Claricia could work until late, bed him until he must run to the Cathedral for the early-morning services, and then welcome him back to her bed later in the morning without showing any apparent signs of exhaustion.

For his part, he was utterly tired out. Even when Claricia left him alone, he found it hard to sleep. He kept seeing poor Peter’s face in his last agonies, puking and fouling himself in his stall. And then there was the thought of the stuff. Where could it have gone? Not that Jolinde truly cared. He would never have thought of making off with it. It was tainted money, stolen from Ralph, the rightful owner.

‘So you are up early, Jolinde?’

‘Canon Stephen,’ Jolinde said. ‘You startled me.’

‘Most of the Secondaries are back in their beds trying to catch up with the sleep they missed during Matins and Prime. I am pleased to see that you need less sleep.’

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Jolinde said. It was nothing more than the truth.

‘You mustn’t concern yourself with your friend’s death, Jolinde.’

There was a kindness and gentleness in Stephen’s voice that made Jolly look up at him. ‘Canon?’

‘Your friend was a bad sort,’ Stephen explained. ‘I saw him on the day he died, late in the afternoon. He was a sinner, Jolinde, and quite undeserving of his position here. He committed a dreadful act, a truly awful crime, and I would not have you worrying yourself over his death. If he was deserving of forgiveness, God will recognise His own, but having learned what I did from him, I would scarcely think Peter could achieve a place at God’s side.’

Shaking his head sadly, he walked on a short way.

Jolinde could not speak. It was all too clear what Stephen meant: he had learned that Peter had stolen the money; even now he was blaming Peter for the theft of Ralph’s cash. It was terrible! Jolinde must do what he could to defend Peter’s name, but how?

Then the means came to him. He would admit to being responsible for the theft. It would destroy his position in the Cathedral, but he didn’t think he had any future there anyway, so that was no loss. No, he would confess to his own part in the matter and that would clear Peter’s name.

Except it might not, he realised. Men demanded tangible proofs, otherwise they might simply assume that a loyal friend was taking all the responsibility upon himself. And there was another point: they might decide that if he
was
truly guilty, he should not benefit from his theft.

He must find the money. That little purse with the filched cash could be produced to show that Peter was innocent, and could prove that he, Jolinde, had no intention of profiting from the theft.

Where the Hell could Peter have hidden it?

Justice was much on Henry’s mind. He had awoken with a backside still smarting from the lashing Gervase had given him the night before. The Canon had laid into him in front of all the other Choristers, taking a stiffened strip of bull’s leather and whipping Henry for all he was worth.

The memory made Henry’s eyes fill with tears of frustration. He had been made to look a fool and thrashed in front of all his friends and enemies when he was completely innocent! He’d not pushed Luke – he’d not even known the other boy was out there. No, he’d been working, keeping his head down, the sort of thing that Gervase kept telling him he should do, and look how he’d been repaid!

He wouldn’t be surprised if Luke had shoved his own face in the muck just so he could put the blame onto Henry. Henry was a fair-minded boy, and he accepted that there would be a certain justice in Luke getting his revenge like that, because after all Henry had made his life difficult often enough.

Henry cast a glance to his right where the cloisters lay. A naughty smile crossed his features as he recalled putting that beetle down the back of Luke’s neck. And then when he’d hit him with dung; it had been deeply satisfying, hearing that damp slapping noise. Brilliant! He had fled Luke’s justifiable rage, hurrying into the cloisters and out the other side, to the works where he had his refuge.

It was a small gap in a wall in a cellar, near where the new workings met the old Cathedral tower. He had found it the previous summer in an idle moment, wondering what lay behind, and when he squeezed his way inside, he discovered that a wall had been knocked down, and beyond was a shaft going down. A ladder was propped, and he descended into a large, airy tunnel. He had no idea what it was for, but as soon as he discovered it he knew it was a perfect place to conceal himself. After any attack on Luke he would scurry down the shaft, dragging the ladder after him, and stay there, listening with beating heart and eager ears, feeling the thrill of the chase, even if from the prey’s perspective, mingled with the delight of the battle he had instigated.

Yes, he decided, if Luke wanted revenge, the easy approach would be to mess himself up, then pass the blame on to Henry. But hang on! That couldn’t be right. Luke wouldn’t even have known Henry was there. And his cry sounded genuine – really terrified. Henry shook his head doubtfully. It was very confusing.

He shuffled idly along the path that led around the Cathedral up towards the Choristers’ hall where he intended doing a little more work before attending his next service. That reminded him of his yellow orpiment. Someone had taken it. He’d known something was missing. The thought made him glower. He hadn’t finished with it.

He soon found the bottle on Luke’s desk. Henry picked it up and noticed how low the level had sunk. Huh! Typical of Luke to splash the stuff all over his pages. He was just lucky that his daubings always seemed to turn out to look so good. He put the orpiment back on Luke’s desk. There was no point in keeping it.

Even if he couldn’t draw and paint as well as Luke, he could at least take pleasure in the fact that he was going to be the boy-Bishop – and he could enjoy running about the streets with other boys.

Going to the door, he glanced out. The weather looked cold, but bright. There were several clouds, but at this moment the sun was beaming down on the city. Henry smiled. His arse was still bruised from the lash, but that happened yesterday, and Henry was nothing if not sanguine. Today was a new day, with new opportunities for fun. He stepped out.

He had only gone five paces when he heard a noise behind him. Henry was not so slow as Luke. In a split second he had darted to one side and ducked behind a tree.

There was a chuckle, and when he peered around the trunk, he saw Adam standing and rocking with mirth. ‘You should have seen the way you hurried off! Like a startled rabbit, you were, with a slingshot up the backside.’

Henry kept his mouth shut. There were loads of Secondaries and other clerks who enjoyed beating or bullying the Choristers. They largely got away with it, because they held out the threat of even more punishment if their victims told a Canon or Gervase. And even if Gervase was told, that was no guarantee that the perpetrator would be punished.

‘You’re lucky. I thought you were Luke. If it had been him, I’d have ducked his face in the shit again,’ Adam said comfortably. ‘Obnoxious little bastard that he is.’

Henry watched him with narrowed eyes as Adam walked to the Choristers’ hall, looking in through the doorway. ‘More candles here,’ he said, and walked inside.

Chewing his lip, Henry stood scowling at the shut door reflectively. He could go and tell Gervase, but the Succentor probably wouldn’t believe him. He’d think Henry had invented the story to make Gervase feel guilty, or perhaps to work off a grudge against Adam. No, Henry couldn’t go to Gervase. But there must be someone he could tell.

Yes, if no one else, at least Luke would be interested. He might not believe Henry at first, but Henry was prepared to forgive that. All he wanted was to make sure Luke realised Henry himself was innocent.

Anyhow, he couldn’t have picked up Luke and thrown him into the crap.

Luke was far too fat and heavy.

Coppe grunted as he eased his position. The cold was affecting his big toe. The toe of the leg he had left in the sea near France.

It was the same with the scar that so transfigured his face. The scar could predict with unerring accuracy when the weather was about to change. Now, looking up and snuffing the air, he could distinguish, over the scent of the woodsmoke, horse dung, dogs’ urine and mud, the metallic tang of the cold. There would be snow soon, he told himself with a grimace.

Snow was an additional burden to him. Not only would he freeze his arse off, sitting on the ground as he must, but he’d not see many folks either. They’d prefer to stay inside rather than pass by his station here.