“Eight or nine years, sir.” Putthe stirred the drink with his wooden spoon. Eight years! It hardly felt that long. It seemed as if it was almost yesterday when Godfrey had come out of the bedchamber with his face working like he was going to burst out sobbing. “It was after that my master decided to leave London forever and retire to the country.”
“What has he been doing since he came down here?”
“He has a small estate toward Exeter, sir, and that brings in enough money for his household. Then he also had stocks of gold and silver. I might as well tell you, he was helping people here in Crediton. He lent his money to people who needed it, people like Coffyn. He didn’t really need to keep himself overly busy. I think he was content.”
“And you said he found John in his garden and realized the Irishman was carrying on an affair with Mrs. Coffyn?”
“Yes, sir. It’s no surprise-the little git’s known for messing about with the women of the town.”
“I know,” Baldwin said dryly. “I’ve spoken to him about it before.”
Simon shook his head with a look of consternation. “It doesn’t make sense. If he thought John was making merry with another man’s wife-his neighbor’s wife, for God’s sake!-why didn’t he just tell the neighbor and let him sort it out?”
“Because he could never do that, sir. My master loved his wife, as I said, and I think Mrs. Coffyn reminded him of her, just a little, and he didn’t want to hear her being beaten or whipped, let alone killed. No, he thought it was better to stop John. Well, that was why he was out there each evening, to make sure the little sod didn’t get up to his old tricks.” 12
M atthew Coffyn stood at his table and glowered out over the fields behind his garden. The view from here was stunning, for now, in the middle of the morning, the sun was low over the hill, and every tree and bush stood out in relief against the green fields, each with a stark shadow like a warped copy of itself, creeping slowly across the landscape as the sun traversed the sky.
William’s news of the night before had kept him from sleep as effectively as his distrust of his wife. The idea that lepers could have invaded his land-could have polluted it with their obscene presence-made him feel physically sick. It wasn’t only that strangers had been into his garden, it was the fact that they were lepers.
Coffyn knew much about the disease. He sold cloth at every major market in the south of England, and often supplied bolts of cheaper material to priests and monks for them to give to lepers and other more worthy beneficiaries. It was while he had been staying at Winchester that he had heard from the almoner there how people contracted leprosy.
He was hazy about the details-he was no physician or priest-but the main principle he understood only too clearly. Lepers were afflicted because of their moral degeneracy; it was a physical manifestation of the sufferer’s wickedness. And that meant they were all evil.
Coffyn had spent his life unaffected by significant hardship. Throughout his apprenticeship he had enjoyed a good relationship with his master. When he had qualified and started out on his own, he already had enough expertise to be able to hold his own against almost all his competitors, and had never known want, not even when the famine had struck. Food had cost more than before, but he had not suffered as badly as some; he had merely to borrow more money. Although it was true that it was a lot more.
Many men who enjoyed such ease were prone to look on their poorer counterparts with sympathy and attempt to mitigate their worst hardships, but Coffyn was not of that stamp.
Just as someone who has never known want of food cannot comprehend starvation, Coffyn, who had never experienced a day’s illness, could not believe that those who were struck low with so debilitating a disease hadn’t brought it upon themselves. Life was God-given, and the condition of a man’s life was a reflection of the way he lived: someone with disease had committed a sin. To deny that would be to allow that God could make an error-and that was unthinkable.
No, someone who was so evil that God had smitten him with this most appalling punishment must be deserving of it.
With the righteousness of the frustrated, law-abiding citizen, he punched a fist into his hand. He knew it was wrong that lepers should be provided for. If they were evil, then why should they receive charity? It was nonsensical! They ought to be evicted; turfed out of the town and forced to wander somewhere else. All the time they remained in Crediton they must blight the town. How could God look favorably on a place where His chosen victims were harbored?
His eyes slitting with the intensity of his concentration, he slowly eased himself into his chair, and gradually a smile spread over his face.
“What do you think, Baldwin?” asked Simon as they left Godfrey’s hall. Edgar had already been dispatched to the inn to see what his charming spy could tell him, and the two were alone as they made their way up the hill toward John’s house on foot, leading their mounts by the reins.
“I don’t know what to think, quite frankly. It seems strange that Putthe should be so keen to transfer our attention from John to the smith, but I must admit I find it hard to believe the Irishman could have murdered Godfrey.”
“It was strange that Putthe should want to bring Jack into it,” Simon mused.
“That struck you too, did it? Yes, Putthe might have seen John out in the yard, as he first said, but if he did, someone had already knocked out Cecily and killed Godfrey. It could have been the smith, Jack, of course, but equally it could have been John. What I don’t understand is why John should have stepped back in to strike down Putthe if he had already knocked down the other two and was about to make his escape.”
“Maybe John didn’t realize Putthe had seen him? Or maybe he thought it was the only way to silence Putthe so he could run off.”
“But he hasn’t run off, he is still here,” Baldwin pointed out, stopping near the Irishman’s open gate. Inside they could see the man sitting comfortably on a stool with his back to the wall, sipping from a great jug of ale. “So why should a man attack someone like Putthe unnecessarily, and then not make a run for it?”
“He didn’t realize he would get found out,” Simon offered.
“After a murder, I tend to find most men prefer not to gamble on a thing like that-not when the stake is their own neck,” Baldwin said caustically. “A killer would have bolted. This man hasn’t.”
“By the same token, neither has anyone else from the town, have they?” pointed out Simon reasonably. “What’s good logic for John is surely good for another as well.”
“I take your point: whoever was responsible is brazening it out-and of all the people in this town, I can think of none better qualified than him. He lives by deceiving people.”
“You almost sound as if you admire him, Baldwin.”
The knight threw him a quizzical glance. “Do I sound so? I suppose I do, really. He is gloriously unashamed. All he does, he does to please himself, without embarrassment. Yet such a hedonistic attitude can be dangerous, especially in a small town like this. It’s too easy to make enemies.”
“As he appears to have done.”
“Yes, although I confess I believe that most of his detractors are inclined that way more as a matter of principle than from any genuine dislike for him. He just isn’t unpleasant enough to upset many people, and in fact most people like him precisely because he is cheeky and irreverential. There is something attractive about a man who treats you as an equal when you both know he is not.”
As they watched, John lifted his jug in salute, as if offering them a drink. Baldwin groaned. “Ah well, we might as well hear what he’s got to say for himself.”
John watched the two approach with a fixed smile on his face. There was no point being nervous, he knew, for any officer of the law would be likely to construe that as a sign of guilt. John had not survived the last few years by being incautious. He treated danger with great respect; it was just that his variety of respect was sometimes regarded by others as excessive flippancy.
“Sirs, I’m your servant. How can I help you, now? Are you thinking about buying something from me?”
“I think you know well enough why we are here, John,” Baldwin said mildly.
“Now, there I suppose you’re right. So could I tempt the pair of you to a little ale, gentlemen? You’re on my property, after all, and I consider hospitality to be one of the cardinal virtues.”
He was not surprised when the Keeper refused his offer; Baldwin’s views on alcohol were odd enough to have become a minor talking point in Crediton. Hearing Simon’s approval, John walked inside and was soon back with a
