He thought he could make out a scuffle, as if the child had retreated, then shuffled as he began to run away. More marks seemed to lead toward a wall. Rising, he followed after, every now and again lowering himself to make sure of the direction, until he came to a large patch where the muck and dirt had been flattened and dispersed. Going down on one knee, he studied it with bafflement. It was just before the wall, near a hole. Feeling a quick excitement, he dropped by the hole and gazed inside. It was dark and small, and he reached in with a hand, lying heedlessly on his back in the stinking filth. He could feel the sides and roof, and, stretching to his uttermost, he could just touch the furthest extreme. There was no child.
Standing and brushing the dirt from his shoulders, he felt a pang of compassion as he wondered whether it was here that the boy had been caught by the attacker. Maybe, he thought, the flattened patch was caused by the struggle between the two, the man catching hold of the boy who was the only witness to the attack on the bailiff, and possibly the cruel murder of his own mother.
If that was the case, he thought, resting his hands on his hips with a new determination, the people who lived closest must have heard the poor lad’s screams. He stared at the walls all round. There was no doorway on which to bang, but in the alley there were several. Striding out, he turned right and beat upon the timbers of the nearest.
The latch was slipped and the door creaked open; a small, dirty, anxious young girl peeped round it. Seeing Hugh’s fierce glower, her eyes widened in a panic and he realized that the door was about to be slammed. Immediately, he smiled. He also took the precaution of shoving his heavy boot into the gap. “Hello,” he said.
The grubby child looked at his boot with perceptible alarm, and her mouth opened to scream, but before any sound could come out, Hugh squatted reassuringly.
“I want to speak to your mother. Is she here?”
Casting a glance behind, the small face nodded, and soon, to his relief, there was an adult with them.
She was a little under his height, but with the sallow, gray complexion of the poor. Standing in the doorway, she could have been the sister of the murdered woman, and the apron and wimple which she wore in an attempt to appear respectable only added to the impression of sad dilapidation that permeated the buildings of the little alley.
“There was a woman killed here last night.”
“I know. Poor Judith.”
The name meant nothing to Hugh. “She was killed down that alley, which runs beside this place. Did you hear anything?”
“There’s always noises round a place like this. We heard lots of things.”
“A scream?”
“Only her boy. We never heard her.”
“You heard her boy?”
“Rollo? Yes. He was making enough noise to bring the roof down on our heads,” she said.
“You heard him, and you did nothing?” he asked, aghast. “That child might be dead; the same man who killed his mother probably took him and killed him. If you’d gone to him when he cried you might have saved his life!”
“Yes. And I might have got myself killed,” she said, wiping a grimy hand over her forehead. There was no remorse Hugh could perceive, only a weary acceptance. “What good would that have done the lad? Or her, come to that? I have five little ones to look after, now my husband’s dead. What do you expect me to do? Run out and get myself killed at the first alarm?”
Hugh could not help taking a step back. He was not known for his courage, but he was repelled by the dour cowardice of this woman. He could understand nervous people staying in behind their doors after hearing a shriek, but not when it was a child who was being attacked! In his home village, it was the norm for all to go to the aid of a neighbor in trouble, no matter what the cause. If a man was under attack, all would help him.
“Well?” she asked at last. “Do you want to see him or not?”
“Do you know where he is?”
Eyeing him with exasperation, she knocked her little girl on the head and sent her scurrying back into the house. Soon she reappeared dragging an unwilling boy, who held back in fear at the sight of a man.
“What’s he doing here?” Hugh asked, dumbfounded.
“I couldn’t leave the poor bugger out in the cold all night.”
“Did you see the killer?”
“No. All I saw was these two bodies on the ground, and Rollo with them, crying fit to break your heart, so I brought him in here and gave him some hot soup, and while I was doing that, men came and started clearing up.”
“You could have told us you had the lad here.”
“Don’t grumble at me! I did what I could, and that’s a lot more than many would do. I’ve even fed the child, and I’ve hardly got enough for my own, so don’t try to tell me I did wrong. I wasn’t going out again to speak to strangers after nightfall-how was I to know they weren’t men from the inn? They could’ve been friends of the man who killed poor Judith and the other one.”
“The other one wasn’t dead. He’s my master, the bailiff of Lydford.”
“Oh? Well, what’re you going to do with this one? He can’t stay here. We can hardly feed ourselves, let alone an extra mouth.”
“I will take him to my master.”
She nodded, and took the boy’s hand, but as soon as she tried to push him toward Hugh, the lad shook his head violently, eyes wide in the little face. Hugh held his hands out to him, but he stood his ground, lips beginning to tremble.
Sitting back on his haunches, Hugh eyed him speculatively. “He’s scared of me.”
“I wonder why that should be.” The scorn made her voice waspish. “He saw his mother killed last night, and you’re surprised he’s scared of men! Here…” She took the boy’s arm and dragged him forward. “Take him. I took him in because I thought it’d help, but he doesn’t want to stay here. He won’t even talk. You have him, and I hope he helps you.”
The door slammed firmly, and Hugh heard the wooden bolt being pushed across. He wouldn’t be speaking to the woman again. Rollo was standing as if petrified, his eyes massive saucers of fear.
The servant smiled ruefully. “Don’t worry. I think I got nearly as much of a shock as you. Are you hungry? You want some food?” There was no answer. The lad was as dumb as a stone carving. “Well, I think I do. Let’s go to the priest’s house and see what we can find.”
He started off, but the child was a dead weight, pulling back like a rabbit caught in a snare, his visage a picture of terrified misery.
“Look, I’m a friend. All I want to do is help you and make sure you’re safe. All right? Now-when did you last eat meat?”
For the first time, the urchin’s eyes met his. The little skinny body radiated hunger.
“I know where we can get you a thick slice of cold meat. Do you want some?”
Hesitantly, the child allowed himself to be steered toward the main street. Hugh walked happily, confident that he would find out who had attacked his master. This little lad had seen the blow being struck. It could only be a short time before they tracked down the assailant.
17
A t the entrance to the inn, Baldwin stood taking his leave of the captain. “I will get the messenger off as soon as possible,” he promised. “The men have had a good head start-are you aware if either of them knows Exeter at all well?”
Sir Hector shrugged peevishly. “I’ve no idea, but I doubt it. Neither of them is from these parts. John Smithson comes from the north, somewhere near St. Albans; Henry from a village near London-Wandsworth, I think.”
“Good. At least they will probably have some little difficulty in finding the right smith to sell the silver to. They will quickly lose any advantage they might have had from their early departure, as their head start will be frittered
