“You are the woman who looked after Rollo, Judith’s son, the night before last,” Baldwin said. It was more a statement than a question, and she stopped wiping her hands, suddenly still as she stared at him. He continued gently: “We are trying to find out what happened that night, to seek her murderer. Will you help us?”
Slowly, holding his gaze, she nodded. She had heard screaming, and been too scared to go and find out what had happened. Some from the street had gone, and she had heard them muttering anxiously, talking about a body. That had decided her to remain safe indoors. She had heard footsteps, running away, and the arrival of a company, which Baldwin decided must have been himself and the others. Later there was a terrible sobbing, and, there being no other noise, she had dared to go out.
Rollo had been standing alone, fists clenched, staring at the ground. From what she said, he must have been staring at the spot where his mother had lain. She had brought him home, but had been unable to get a word out of him. He had simply sat and wept silently, starting at every new sound, allowing her to feed him some thickened soup, and gradually he had succumbed to his exhaustion and fallen asleep in her lap.
“I don’t see the man who took him away,” she finished suspiciously, her eyes going from one to another as she looked for Hugh.
“He is with Peter Clifford. Tell us, how well did you know the boy’s mother?”
“Judith? Not well. She was just always around, you know? Poor girl got herself pregnant when she was only eighteen or so, and that was that. The innkeeper, that’s old Dan, before this new one, was a hard man to work for. He tried to make the girls be friendly to the customers, but with Judith, he threw her out. Called her a slut; no better than a Winchester Goose.”
Baldwin nodded. Prostitution was common, for there were few other ways for a woman with no man to look after her to survive. If she had not been fortunate enough to be trained for weaving or embroidery, and could not get a job working as a huckster on the streets, there was no other way to support herself. In London, all the prostitutes were forced to live within Cock Lane, part of the Bishop of Winchester’s lands; he benefited from the rents, and they were commonly known as “Winchester Geese.”
“What did she do then?”
“Lived up to his view,” she said shortly. “Or down to it. Nothing else for her.”
“Did she have any friends? Family?”
“If she had any family, she’d have had a chance, poor girl, but no. Lots of people knew her, but I wouldn’t say she had friends. Only a few of us who used to give her the odd crumb when we had something to spare. For her boy, mainly. Rollo was always hungry; the little fellow never had enough.”
“Are you aware of any enemies she might have had?”
“That bastard who put her where she was, the one at the inn. I hope he rots for what he did to her.”
“Yes, but what about others? Were there many people who seemed to hold a grudge, or bear her ill-will generally?”
She thought a moment. “Several wives. They always had something against Judith; whenever their husbands were late home they’d blame her. Usually it was just that the men had drunk too much and had to sleep it off for a while, or they’d fallen down in the gutter. It wasn’t Judith’s fault.”
“Any in particular?” Baldwin probed.
“I don’t know. Widow Annie, over at New Barton, she has always resented Judith, but that’s because she has a thing with the Constable, and Annie never believed him when he said he was late because of some other reason. Annie was always the jealous sort.”
Baldwin thought of the widow-he had met her a few times-and shook his head. Annie was too respectable to think about murder, though her bitter tongue and taste for gossip and malicious rumors could shock sometimes. “Anyone else?”
“Only-” She stopped and frowned. “Mary Butcher, I suppose. She was always spreading nasty tales about Judith. And you know what they say.”
It was a confident comment, issued with a knowing look and prim wink, but Baldwin was lost. “No, I do not,” he said simply.
“Oh! Well, this captain, the one who did that to Judith-they say he met with Mary too. Seems like it was that close…Could have been Mary, not Judith who was with child.”
“Ah! Really?”
20
L ater, as they made their way back through the dirty alley toward the welcome brightness of the road, Baldwin glanced thoughtfully at his friend. “Why would all the women hate her so much?”
“I think it’s partly because of the chance that their husbands might bring home diseases, but also because prostitutes are seen to be evil. Why else would they not be permitted burial in consecrated ground? This poor woman will be buried out of the town somewhere. Everyone is a little scared of them in a small place like this, because they represent something different.”
“Not that different, surely?” Baldwin was puzzled. “Many women must have understood that she had no other way to support herself.”
“They would expect her to prefer to starve.”
“Her boy as well?”
“Yes. These people,” Simon said, stopping and staring about him, “have so many children, they place little or no value on an extra mouth. A death means more food for the survivors, and they can become quite hard about it. It is the way of the poor.”
“I suppose so.”
They had come to the street. Turning down it, they crossed over and walked to the butcher’s shop. The apprentice sat on the stool in the doorway, plucking chickens and stuffing the feathers into a small sack. He looked up as they approached. Picking up a knife, he broke the legs of the fowl in his lap and sliced round them before pulling the feet off, drawing the long, white tendons with them. Then he cut the head off and pulled the skin back to expose the neck.
“Where is your master?” Simon asked as they got to the doorway.
The boy looked up. “He’s out, sir,” he said, and bent back to his task, cutting quickly round the vent.
“When will he be back?”
“I don’t know, sir. He’s often out collecting beasts. Sometimes not back until late.” He pushed a finger inside the neck cavity, loosening the organs, then hooked two fingers in from the vent and drew the entrails free, dropping them on the roadside. “Today he’s delivering.”
“What of his wife…Are you going to clear this mess away?” Baldwin could not help himself asking it; the flies were maddening.
“She’s staying with her sister in Coleford. Left on Tuesday, sir.”
“Tuesday?” Baldwin frowned.
“Yes, sir. She had a blazing row with my master, and left just after.”
“When will she be back?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“You don’t know much, do you? Do you know that you are going to clear up this mess?” Baldwin said pointedly.
“Yes, sir.”
“You ought to have all this meat in the cool, too. It’ll fester out here in this heat.”
“As soon as my master is back, he’ll put it all in the store.”
“Why don’t you put it there?” asked Simon.
“My master thinks he’s been robbed recently. Some meat’s been disappearing. I think he blames me, because he’s locked the storeroom. I can’t get in.”
“Well, when your master gets back, tell him I want to see him,” Baldwin said. “I will be at Peter Clifford’s house.”
They left the apprentice languidly reaching for another chicken corpse, and made their way back across the
