‘I feel as though I’ve been given the whole of Devon and Cornwall as my plaything,’ Baldwin countered. ‘The relief is intense.’
Simon tapped his jug with his own. The pots met with a dull tone, and then both men drank deeply again.
‘You know, Baldwin, all I want now is to return to Bristol and see my wife and child.’
‘And I to get home once more,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘So you don’t intend to do more about the dead maid Cecily when you get to Bristol, eh?’
‘What more could I hope to learn?’ Simon said. ‘All the while I was thinking of her, it was really my own neck I was considering. I thought that Mortimer would see me arrested if he didn’t see me working. But I spoke to the maid’s mistress, then her lover, the priest, and learned all I could about Squire William’s inquest. There was little more I could do.’
‘Did you speak to those who were said to have attacked her with this Squire?’
‘No. But she must have been shocked to see them, I suppose,’ Simon said.
Baldwin nodded. ‘Well, if she saw them go into the Capons’ house and slaughter all inside, including her charge, it would be hardly surprising if it almost turned her mad.’
‘Indeed. She must have felt greatly threatened.’
‘And, if you are right, at least one went on to murder again. Not that it would be very sensible for them to kill her,’ he added with a frown.
‘Because they would be laying themselves open to another arrest.’
‘Yes. And so to kill her was madness, unless she posed a novel threat to them,’ Baldwin said.
‘She saw them; she pointed them out.’
‘You think one of them killed her for revenge? Foolish, but you can never tell why a man draws his dagger. Perhaps he was drunk. Or it was someone who sought to rape her? Was she a comely woman?’
Simon drew down the corners of his mouth and shrugged. ‘You know what a dead woman looks like, Baldwin. When dead, they are mere husks. There is nothing to show what sparks they used to hold in their eyes, how they would wriggle their backsides to tease a man, or how they could torment with their bawdy speech, is there? And even the plainest-looking wench can be attractive when she is talking about something that excites her.’
‘True. So perhaps it was rape, perhaps it was not. Poor woman.’
‘Admittedly there was no actual sign of rape,’ Simon remembered. ‘Sir Charles and I did look, but there was no bruising or blood. You know, where she would have…’ He did not need to finish. Baldwin knew perfectly well that Simon had always been affected with a curious reluctance to study dead bodies from close quarters, a trait that Baldwin found either touching or intensely irritating. Today, it was irrelevant to him. He was in too good a mood.
‘Well, if she was not raped, you are led straight to the obvious conclusion that she was killed as a result of her evidence. The Squire or his men did it.’
‘Not the Squire,’ Simon told him. ‘I believe he was dead already.’
‘So, one of his acolytes,’ Baldwin said. ‘A common enough tale, if depressing nonetheless. But…’
Simon had seen that far-away look in his friend’s eyes before. Something had occurred to him. ‘Yes?’
‘Well, a man who was that vicious – would he not gain more pleasure from tormenting her than killing her? If bent on revenge, he could have watched for her daily, welcomed her loudly in the street, perhaps pressed near to her? All would drive the woman half-mad with terror, knowing that the men who had slaughtered her mistress and family were close. The satisfaction of that would be pleasing to most of the felons I have known.’
‘She didn’t panic,’ Simon said without thinking.
Baldwin’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘No knife-cuts on either hand.’
‘Are you sure?’ Baldwin frowned, and now Simon saw that all thought of his escape from Hereford was flown. ‘No marks at all?’
‘No.’
‘Was she slain in a frenzy? How many stab wounds were there?’
‘Only the one. She was stabbed straight to the heart.’
Baldwin let out his breath in a little sigh. ‘Well, if you are right about that, it sounds a great deal more like a tormented woman who stabbed herself to death.’
Simon shook his head. ‘No, Baldwin. If she had, the knife would have still been with her.’ Then the smile froze on his face.
Baldwin set his head to one side. ‘What is it?’
‘The knight…’ Simon said. ‘Sir Stephen was there the next day, and threw a knife into her grave. That knife could have been the one that killed her. He was there, and he threw the knife in after her!’
‘But what possible reason could he have had for killing her, when he was the Coroner for the city?’
Simon chewed at his lip. ‘I don’t know, Baldwin. But perhaps he knows something about her death he hasn’t told me yet.’
It did not take long to find Sir Stephen. He was out in the castle ward, drinking a pot of wine.
‘Sir Stephen. I am happy to see you, sir,’ Simon greeted him. ‘I feared you might have been hurt.’
‘What, in the battle, you mean? No, I was fortunate. The fight was almost over when I reached the King. But you have been injured, as I can see.’
‘I had a tumble from my horse,’ Simon admitted.
‘You are fortunate to be alive. It could have been deadly to fall in that melee.’
‘Sir Stephen, you do not know my friend Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, do you?’
‘Sir Baldwin, God’s blessings on you.’
‘And on you,’ Baldwin said. ‘Simon has been telling me of the terrible murders in Bristol. I have an interest in such matters. He said you investigated the Capon murders?’
‘Yes. An awful affair. Arthur Capon was a good man.’
‘You knew him well?’
‘He was known about the city,’ Sir Stephen said.
‘And then their maid was killed in her turn, I believe?’
‘A great shame. Her killers must have been out for revenge.’
‘Have you ever seen a woman killed as punishment or in rage with one simple blow to the heart?’ Baldwin said.
‘Why not? I know little of such things.’
‘But you are Coroner in Bristol?’
‘I was.’
‘Then surely you will have seen dead women many times. Raped, slain, and left?’
‘Oh, perhaps a few…’
Baldwin was frowning with disbelief. ‘And you think such a woman would be found with no defensive marks on her hands, slain with one single blow, and unraped?’
‘It is possible.’
‘And then, when she was being buried, you threw a knife in with her.’
‘That damned knife again.’ Sir Stephen looked annoyed. ‘It was the knife Squire William probably used to kill her mistress. I had seen it on the man often enough. Many recognised it.’
‘I may tell you, sir, that I am convinced the poor child was killed by her own hand. She had one blow to her heart: that is often the sort of wound a woman will give herself to end her life.’
‘Oh?’
‘So, please, you must not think that we are trying to entrap you over this,’ Baldwin said earnestly. ‘I just wanted to know why a knight would have thrown that dagger in the grave with her.’
‘It was because the dagger was the one that Squire William always carried about his person. That is all. It seemed fitting that it should be taken with her. A deodand for the dead.’
‘I see. Yes. But there is one thing that confuses me, Sir Stephen. If, as I think, the woman died by her own hand, there was no dagger with her. So someone took it.’
