‘Don’t kill me!’
Gerard sobbed, petrified with fear. It felt as though he had escaped one danger only to fall into a still worse one. When he had felt that awful knife at his throat, he had thought that he was going to die. It struck him as ironic that, having escaped the clutches of Reginald and the Abbot, he should have fallen among cut-throats and felons who wanted to kill him for the little money he had in his scrip. And then he had been startled as he recognised the voice: Joce!
He knew Joce, of course. Everyone did. The Receiver was recognised by everyone in the town because he was so powerful. He was responsible for all the money paid in tolls and fines, for justice and the smooth running of Tavistock. No one could live in the area without knowing Joce.
But Gerard knew more about him, because Gerard knew Art, his servant. Art regularly cursed his master. All masters would beat their staff on occasion, of course, but according to Art, Joce took a profound pleasure in beating his charge that went beyond all the bounds of propriety. And even in the Abbey, there were whispers about the recent heated argument between Joce and his neighbour over the midden heap.
If he were free of Joce, he could have giggled to recall that. The pile which had so incensed Joce had in fact been carefully put there by Wally and himself, making a decent pile of rubbish on which Gerard could climb to gain entry. Once he was inside, he went downstairs and let Wally in as well, and then the two searched out the pewter which had been stolen.
When Wally had seen Joce standing in the market for the coining, he had realised that the man’s house would be empty. And that led to his idea that he and Gerard could break in and steal back the pewter. They could share the profits, he said, although Gerard had refused his allotted portion. He had pointed out that he had no need of money. His reward was to ensure that the man who had ultimately led him to a life of felony would not benefit by it.
Wally had gone to Nob’s place and seized a sack, and then the two were inside. As soon as they found the locked cupboard, they forced it open and filled the sack with pewter. Then they heard the sound of a door. Fearing discovery, they swiftly shut the cupboard and bolted, and all but brained that foreigner out in the alley. Still, it had been good in a way. Wally had sold the stuff easily enough. Apparently the foreigner was looking for tin to mix with lead to make his own pewter, but he was soon persuaded to take the metal he was offered. He was not so scrupulous as to turn down an offer like that.
Scrambling to his feet as Joce lashed out again with his boot, Gerard gasped, ‘No, don’t hurt me, please!’
‘Where is it, you bastard?’ Joce grabbed Gerard’s shoulder, pulling him towards the knife.
‘I don’t know what you…’
‘Oh, you think I won’t dare to hurt a man of the cloth?’ Joce asked mildly, and then he slashed once, a long cut with the sharp blade.
There was no pain. That was the first thought in Gerard’s mind as he saw the blade, now bloody, dancing in front of his face. There was only a curious sense of disembodiment, as though he was watching actors on a cart. He felt as though there was a slap at his cheek, that was all, and then there was a warmth that spread from his cheekbone down his neck to his shoulder. The knife flashed again, red, as though it was itself angry now, and Gerard felt his nose break, then a dragging as the blade snagged on bone.
‘Stop! Stop!’ he cried, but Joce could scarcely hear him. His fist came again, this time thudding into Gerard’s shoulder, and the boy wept with the certainty that he was about to die. ‘Mother Mary! Sweet Jesus!’
‘Where is it?’ Joce demanded, his breath rasping in his throat. ‘I’ll kill you, you little toad, for trying to steal from me. Where is it? No one else could have got into my house. Where have you put all my pewter? What have you done with it?’
Gerard felt rather than saw the knife flash towards him, and in his terror, he fell before it could hit him. ‘It’s with the Swiss! Don’t hurt me again! Wally did it! He sold it to the Swiss on the moor.’
Joce stood over him, confused. He was so filled with rage against this thief who could steal all his carefully hoarded pewter that he felt he could burst, but at the same time he was overwhelmed at the thought of all the money which could be lost. He kicked Gerard once in the flank, then the leg, then the shoulder, short, brutal kicks meted out with an unrestrained fury.
‘Cheat me, would you? You little shit, I’ll kill you!’ he hissed.
He raised the knife to stab a last time, but as he did so, he heard a voice bellowing, ‘Hold, felon! Murder, murder, murder!’
There was a man on a horse, and he was cantering towards Joce. The great hooves looked enormous, and, struck with a fear for his own safety, Joce darted away, running for the safety of some trees nearby.
‘Sweet Jesus!’ were the last words Gerard heard as he slipped into the welcoming darkness.
They arrived at the grotty little chamber that comprised Emma’s home and stood outside. Baldwin eyed it grimly, the Coroner with reluctance, thinking about the fleas inside. It was Simon who finally marched up to the door and pushed it open on its cheap leather hinges.
‘Who are you?’ Cissy looked up and demanded.
It was a small room, smoky, ill-lit from the small window high in the northern wall, and although the reeds on the floor were not too foul, there was an odour of decay and filth. A pile of straw with a cloth thrown over was the bed for the children, who snuffled and wept together like a small litter of pigs.
‘I am the Stannary Bailiff. Are you Nob’s wife?’
‘Oh, God! What’s he done now?’
Simon grinned at the note of fatalism in her voice. ‘Nothing, Cissy. But I would like to talk to you about the murders.’
‘Very well, but keep your voice down. I don’t want to upset her any more. It’s taken me ages to calm her this much.’
‘Of course. Just this, then: your husband said that Hamelin came here with money. Do you know where he said it came from?’
‘He said he had sold a debt to Wally. One of the monks owed him a lot of money. A bad debt. Wally bought it.’
‘Did he say who owed it?’
‘No.’
Baldwin interrupted them. ‘It makes no sense. Why should Wally have bought a debt he couldn’t have redeemed? If the owner of the debt was a monk, there was no legal means of recovering the money?’
Cissy gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘You officials; you men! All you ever think about is simple things, like straight lines. Maybe Wally wanted to give his money to help Hamelin. Little Joel was ill, he was dying. Maybe Wally always wanted a child of his own and couldn’t bear to think that the child would die of starvation.’
‘It’s a leap of faith with a man like that Wally,’ Coroner Roger said cynically.
‘Is it?’ Cissy said. Then her jaw jutted and she faced him aggressively. ‘You say that when you don’t know the man? How dare you! I knew Wally for two years or more, and he was always polite and kindly. Never raised his voice to women, never caused a fight. When he got drunk he sat in a corner and giggled himself to sleep. Hah! And you reckon he was a violent, cruel man? I think that’s rubbish. He was quiet, shy, even, when he saw that old monk, but we know why now, don’t we? We’ve heard Wally had something to do with the monk’s wound. Well, I think Wally felt the shame of that, and I don’t think he’d have hurt another man in his life. So there!’
‘My lady, would you serve as my advocate, should I ever be accused of a crime?’ Baldwin murmured, and Cissy preened, grinning.
Simon said, ‘Tell me, before Hamelin was killed…’
At these words, there was a high, keening wail from the corner of the fire, and Cissy rolled her eyes. ‘Did you have to say that? I’ve only just got her to quieten down, and now you’ve started her off again.