The Merchant of Death Read online

  Vavasour nodded.

  ‘Which brings up another question,’ Kathryn continued. ‘Or rather two. First, if Sir Reginald had a house in Canterbury, why come and stay here? Secondly, what, Master Vavasour, were you going to do with these keys?’

  ‘You are speaking the truth,’ Standon muttered. ‘We arrived in Canterbury on Monday. I and my escort were told to stay here; Sir Reginald and Vavasour left for a while and then came back.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Of course, Erpingham’s personal saddlebag is missing.’

  ‘Well, well, well.’ Colum smiled at Vavasour. ‘What do we have here? Were those tax panniers filled with rocks before Sir Reginald ever arrived at the Wicker Man?’ He leaned across and patted the little man on the shoulder. ‘What game is being played here?’ he demanded.

  ‘Master Murtagh.’ Standon held his hands up placatingly.

  Kathryn stared pityingly at Vavasour who now looked as if he was on the verge of swooning through sheer terror.

  ‘Master Murtagh,’ Standon repeated. ‘I cannot vouch for what Sir Reginald or Vavasour did, but when we first arrived here, the panniers containing the taxes were left with me.’

  ‘How do you know the silver was there?’

  ‘I asked Sir Reginald to open them before he left,’ Standon replied.

  The hard-faced serjeant coughed to clear his throat. ‘I’m no fool, Irishman. I do not want to end my life on a scaffold, either for robbing the King’s taxes or even on the suspicion that I did.’

  ‘Master Vavasour,’ Kathryn insisted. ‘So far you have committed no crime. If you tell the truth, you have nothing to fear.’

  The clerk stared at her and, in spite of his fear, Kathryn glimpsed a calculating look in the little man’s eyes. You are not as frightened as you pretend, she concluded; you are one of those who appear to dither, but underneath you are quite cold.

  ‘Sir Reginald does have a house,’ Vavasour explained. ‘A small, well-secured and costly furnished tenement in St. Alphage’s Lane.’

  ‘What does he use it for?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘As you said, Mistress, Sir Reginald did not really trust taverns or tavern-keepers. Sometimes he would reside there or use it to store valuable property.’

  ‘So, why did he come here?’ Colum asked.

  Vavasour shrugged, his thin shoulders wriggling. ‘I asked him the same question. Erpingham declared that he enjoyed the food, the hospitality and other people’s company.’

  You are lying, Kathryn thought. ‘Listen.’ She stretched her back to ease the cramps. ‘We have heard little good about your dead master, God rest him.’

  ‘Sir Reginald was thorough,’ Vavasour replied. ‘He was a skilled and ruthless searcher-out of the King’s prerogative. He cannot be faulted for that. He made his enemies but –’

  ‘But few friends,’ Kathryn finished.

  ‘He made no friends,’ Standon interrupted. ‘He was cold and hard in demanding what was the King’s.’

  ‘And the night he died?’ Kathryn insisted. ‘What you’ve told us is the truth?’

  ‘Erpingham ate and drank with us,’ the serjeant said, ‘then retired for the night. I saw no one else go up to his room. I owe nothing to Master Vavasour here but I can vouch that he spoke the truth: there was confusion over the wine cups and I saw no interference with them.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Colum interjected. ‘Did your master usually suffer from nightmares?’

  ‘He slept like a child,’ Vavasour replied.

  ‘So, what disturbed his sleep that night?’ Kathryn said.

  ‘If I knew that, Mistress, I’d tell you as I would anything else.’

  Kathryn thanked and dismissed them. The de Murvilles came next. They sat, clasping each other’s hands. Lord Alan was likeable: fresh-faced, he gazed candidly at her whilst he spoke softly with a gentle hint of self-mockery. Lady Margaret was pleasant enough though rather spoilt: her pretty face was pulled in a frown of bored indifference to the proceedings.

  ‘Must we really stay here?’ she asked petulantly.

  ‘Yes, you really must,’ Colum mimicked back. He leaned over to add, before Lord Alan could take offence, ‘Believe me,’ Colum whispered, ‘to kill a royal official is one thing. To murder a King’s tax collector and steal the Crown’s monies is another. My masters in London would have no qualms in seizing everyone involved and sending them to the Tower until a satisfactory conclusion is reached.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ Kathryn abruptly asked.

  ‘We were returning from Dover,’ Lord Alan replied. ‘My wife’s father is Constable of the castle there. We joined a small band of pilgrims and, because of the threatening weather, turned off into Canterbury.’

  ‘And you have lodged here before?’

  ‘On our journeys to Dover, yes.’

  ‘And did you know Sir Reginald?’

  ‘He was a tax collector in this county,’ Lord Alan said. ‘Regrettably, we fell under his jurisdiction.’

  ‘And did you have dealings with him?’

  ‘Where possible, not!’ Lady Margaret snapped. ‘He may have been a knight but he was base-born in his manners. He didn’t know how to treat a lady.’

  ‘Do you have personal experience of that?’ Kathryn asked.

  Lady Margaret blushed and glanced away.

  ‘We hardly knew him,’ Lord Alan declared. ‘When we found him here, we kept our distance. Never once did I, or my wife, even bother to notice him.’ He smiled wearily. ‘Little difference that made: Erpingham seemed pleased by the discomfort he caused.’

  ‘And of his death?’

  The young man ran a finger round the collar of his tunic.

  ‘At table we kept well away from him. Last night, he retired to bed. We followed sometime later. We heard nothing until Standon began pounding on the door early this morning.’

  After the de Murvilles had left, seeking permission to return to their own chamber, Tobias and his wife came over. Mistress Smithler smiled pleasantly; her husband, however, remained as ungracious as ever.

  ‘Will I be recompensed for all this?’ he moaned.

  ‘Any charges,’ Colum repeated, ‘must be sent to the Exchequer or to the guildhall.’

  ‘Did you like Sir Reginald?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ Tobias replied defiantly. ‘He came here often. He was a good guest, he ate well, ordered numerous meals and demanded the best stabling for his horses. Of course, I bloody well liked him!’ He threw off his wife’s warning hand. ‘Erpingham always settled his bills, except this one and who’ll pay that, eh?’

  ‘Why did he come here?’ Kathryn persisted.

  ‘We looked after him.’

  ‘For any other reason?’

  ‘If there was,’ Tobias retorted, ‘then he didn’t tell us.’

  ‘Did you know anything about him?’

  ‘He was a tax collector,’ Blanche Smithler said. ‘He was not well liked but his purse was well lined. We had no real dealings with him: our taxes are collected by the city bailiffs.’

  ‘Did he talk to anyone in particular?’ Colum asked. ‘Apart from Vavasour or Standon?’

  ‘He had long discourse with Father Ealdred.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘About anything in particular?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘They were in a corner where no one could hear them.’

  ‘And you never talked to him?’ Colum asked.

  ‘Very little,’ Smithler said. ‘We liked his money.’

  ‘And when he had the nightmare?’

  ‘We were disturbed,’ Blanche remarked. ‘But Sir Gervase seemed to have everything under control so we left it at that.’

  ‘And at the supper before he died?’

  ‘We joined our guests at table,’ the landlord replied. ‘We are good hosts. My wife was busy in the kitchen, running backwards and forwards; the cooks and scullions have to be supervised properly, otherwise sauces are spoilt and the meat is ill cooked
. Oh,’ the landlord cleared his throat, ‘and before you ask, Sir Reginald always demanded that chamber. God knows why! I tell you this, Master Murtagh, my wife and I know nothing about his death. We are concerned with profit and nothing else.’

  They got to their feet; Tobias strode away, his wife trailing behind him, smiling apologetically over his shoulder at Kathryn.

  ‘Remembering my Chaucer,’ Colum murmured, ‘Master Tobias Smithler would make a good physician.’

  Kathryn tapped him gently on the ankle. ‘Irishman, you are still in my ill favour.’ She smiled. ‘You look tired.’

  ‘Well.’ Colum stretched. ‘We’ll see the priest and go; sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. Or, as Chaucer’s squire says, “The nurse of good digestion is natural sleep.”’

  ‘I am sorry, Colum, we have still to go to Blunt’s house.’

  ‘Can’t it wait?’

  ‘I doubt it. Master Luberon was most insistent.’

  Colum was about to protest when Father Ealdred came across and sat down. Kathryn studied the priest closely: smooth-faced, his tonsure was neatly cut, his eyes friendly but guarded.

  ‘“And the last shall be first and the first shall be last,”’ Ealdred began, quoting from the gospels.

  ‘I am sorry we had to keep you, Father.’ Kathryn caught his implied rebuke. ‘But, in these matters, it is best to question each individual.’

  The priest moved his hand, a delicate movement, as if absolving Kathryn’s offence.

  ‘Why are you in Canterbury? And why stay at the Wicker Man?’ Colum asked abruptly.

  ‘I am parish priest of St. Swithin’s in Meopham,’ Ealdred began. ‘A bustling, thriving parish. I thought I’d come and visit the shrine and buy supplies for my chancery: vellum, ink, new quills as well as provisions for Christmas.’

  ‘You visit Canterbury often?’

  ‘Once every quarter: I won’t return until Passion Week, then again at midsummer.’

  ‘When were you last here?’

  ‘Just before Michaelmas.’

  ‘And you always stay at the Wicker Man?’ Colum said. ‘Surely you have priestly friends in Canterbury who might give you comfortable lodgings?’

  Ealdred laughed nervously. ‘I prefer coming here.’

  ‘You seem concerned, Father,’ Kathryn observed. ‘Did you know Sir Reginald?’

  ‘He collected taxes in my parish.’

  ‘But did you know him well? After all, some of the guests say you were in deep conversation with him.’

  Ealdred looked angrily over his shoulder.

  ‘Father.’ Kathryn caught him gently by the sleeve. ‘We can’t sit and chat till the Second Coming: Erpingham’s death is an urgent matter.’

  The priest coughed and cleared his throat.

  ‘I was trying to hear his confession,’ he whispered. ‘Sir Reginald was a truly evil man, Mistress Swinbrooke. He flattered neither flesh nor face. He no more feared God than he did man.’

  ‘And yet you hardly knew him?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘The truth is, Mistress, Erpingham was a hard man. The others have probably told you: no widow was safe with him. He was a lecher born and bred. I sat in my confessional and listened to the stories of my parishioners. When I met him here I pleaded with him to change. I warned him of God’s judgement and the fires of hell.’

  ‘And what was Erpingham’s answer?’

  ‘He just laughed.’

  ‘Did he go to church?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘If he did, I never knew about it. As a tax collector, he often stayed days in my parish, but never once did Sir Reginald darken the door of God’s house.’ Ealdred’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I believe he was a warlock.’

  ‘A witch?’ Colum asked.

  ‘Witch, warlock, magus. There’s a woman in my village; she came and confessed to a terrible sin. How Sir Reginald had abused her and, in his passion, declared he had no love for Christ or his Church but put his trust in the Dark Lords of the air.’

  ‘Do you think that was true?’ Kathryn asked. ‘Why should a tax collector tell this to a woman he was seducing?’

  ‘Isolda is a young widow,’ Ealdred replied carefully. ‘Erpingham came to her house and said, for favours granted, he would ignore the tax assessment upon her. She had two bairns; her husband had been killed in the recent wars and so she agreed. The following night she sent the children to a neighbour’s house and Erpingham came back.’ The priest paused, pushing his hands up the voluminous sleeves of his gown. ‘You can guess the rest,’ he murmured. ‘But one thing Isolda remembers, she had a crucifix hanging in her bedchamber. Erpingham insisted that it be turned against the wall whilst he cast some light powder around the place, murmuring an incantation. Isolda asked him why and Erpingham made his reply.’

  ‘Was Vavasour or Standon part of this?’ Colum asked.

  The priest shook his head. ‘Standon is what he appears to be: a hard-faced soldier carrying out his tasks. Vavasour . . .’ The priest trailed off and pulled a face. ‘Erpingham’s shadow. A little weasel. It is wrong to judge anyone living or dead but Erpingham and Vavasour both richly deserved each other. Sir Reginald, I think, used to boast about his conquests to his clerk.’

  ‘Did you mention Isolda to Sir Reginald?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘No, I kept myself to generalities. Sir Reginald was a vindictive man and that poor woman would have suffered.’ The priest beamed with pleasure. ‘Now I’ll take good news back to her. God forgive me but I’m glad Erpingham is dead!’

  ‘Do you believe in ghosts, Father?’ Kathryn changed tack.

  ‘I believe in what St. Paul says, Mistress Swinbrooke: the devil goes about like a roaring lion seeking whom he may devour. You are talking of Erpingham’s nightmare? I say it was a judgement from God.’

  ‘And you know nothing about his death?’

  ‘No, Mistress, I do not.’ Ealdred pushed his chair back. ‘May I go now? I have yet to celebrate Mass.’

  Kathryn wondered about the priest’s relationship with Isolda but decided to keep a still tongue. Ealdred got to his feet and was about to go, then abruptly sat down again.

  ‘Mistress Swinbrooke, surely you understand what I say? Especially you?’

  ‘Why do you say that, Father?’

  ‘I know about you, Mistress. You have a good reputation in the city. Father Cuthbert at the Poor Priests’ Hospital speaks highly of you.’

  Kathryn blushed at his compliment.

  ‘You are a widow, are you not? You can feel for poor Isolda? Your husband,’ the priest rushed on, ‘Alexander Wyville, he left with the Lancastrians to fight at Barnet?’

  Kathryn stared past the priest watching the cat in the inglenook carefully cleaning itself. Alexander Wyville, she thought, the wife beater, the drunken oaf. She glanced back at the priest.

  ‘I am not a widow, truly, Father. As Father Cuthbert must have told you, I do not know whether my husband is alive or dead.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Ealdred said.

  ‘Why, Father? I am not.’

  Ealdred caught the anger in Kathryn’s eyes and swiftly excused himself.

  ‘You have a clacking tongue, Mistress Swinbrooke,’ Colum muttered. ‘The poor fellow was only asking for sympathy.’

  ‘Irishman,’ Kathryn replied, ‘he has my sympathy but my husband Alexander Wyville has not.’

  Colum was distracted by this sudden turn of events. ‘Surely news must soon come through of his whereabouts?’

  Kathryn rose to her feet and turned to look out of the window.

  ‘Colum, if I have told you once, I have told you a hundred times. I married Alexander Wyville and he turned out to be a drunken bully who deserted me to seek his fortune in the Lancastrian camp. If he is dead, then God have mercy on him! But if he is alive and returns, I shall ask the church courts for an annulment of our marriage.’

  Colum sighed; any mention of Wyville always enraged Kathryn.

  ‘Well.’ He got to his feet. ‘For the time being,
we are finished here.’

  They called for Luberon and as the clerk hurried downstairs, eager to be away from that lonely, sombre room, Colum summoned the guests.

  ‘You are not to leave here until these matters are finished.’

  ‘And the corpse?’ Smithler asked.

  ‘Have it sheeted and coffined,’ Colum replied, ‘and taken down to one of the city churches.’

  ‘Holy Cross,’ Luberon intervened. ‘Such corpses are always buried there. If anyone later wishes to claim it, they will be free to do so.’

  Colum and Kathryn wrapped their cloaks around themselves and followed Luberon into the tavern yard whilst Tobias Smithler brusquely slammed the door behind them.

  ‘A pretty pottage,’ Luberon murmured. He stared up at the sky: the clouds were now beginning to break and a weak sun was struggling through. ‘But we should be grateful for small mercies: the snow has stopped.’

  ‘A thaw has begun,’ Colum cheerfully remarked. ‘I told you, Kathryn, by nightfall Canterbury will be awash.’

  Kathryn stared up at the window of the chamber where Erpingham’s corpse lay.

  ‘Aye,’ she replied. ‘But will we be any wiser about events here? What do you think, Irishman?’

  ‘“What is a farthing worth when split twelve ways?”’ Colum replied, quoting from Chaucer.

  ‘Oh, sweet Lord,’ Kathryn breathed. ‘None of your homely wisdom now.’

  Colum gestured back towards the tavern. ‘A man has been killed,’ he continued softly. ‘He goes up to his chamber with a goblet of wine. His door and window shutters are locked and bolted. No one visits him nor does he leave again. Yet the next morning he is murdered and the King’s silver is gone.’

  ‘I wonder where it is?’ Luberon piped up. ‘I mean the taxes?’

  Colum gestured helplessly round the yard. ‘You could hide every coin of the realm here.’ He nodded back at the tavern. ‘Either one or all of them are lying.’

  ‘What I find suspicious,’ Kathryn declared, ‘is their deep hatred for Erpingham; it is no coincidence that some, or all of them, were in that tavern when he died.’

  ‘Let’s leave it for a while,’ Colum suggested. ‘Mistress Kathryn, I am freezing, starving and I need a few hours sleep.’

  ‘We have to visit Blunt’s house,’ Luberon declared sharply.