‘Woman, who is dead? Who is it?’ he cried as he ran to her.
He was not the first to arrive at her side. Before him was a decrepit watchman, who stood helplessly wringing his hands. Peter grabbed her hands and kept them still, trying to impose his stolid calmness upon her. He stared into her maddened eyes and spoke soothingly. ‘Come now, woman. You know me, don’t you – hey? You know who I am. I’m Peter the almoner. Now what’s all this about a murder? Who’s dead? Where is he?’
‘Help us! He’s in the alley! He only came home last night, and now he’s dead! In the alley, outside our door!’
Men were gathering about her, fingering their weapons, wondering whether they should be chasing after a murderer, and if so, whom they should seek. Peter shoved his way through them all, hurrying back along the alley from which she had come.
It was a noisome little place. Not much more than a couple of yards wide at the entrance, but with extended buildings reaching out overhead, some all but touching, and shutting out the sun so effectively that he felt as though he was swimming through an almost impenetrable murk.
He knew which was Emma and Hamelin’s house. If he didn’t, he soon would have, from the sounds of wailing children.
It was a tatty building, with the plaster falling from the walls and the lathes exposed. In the winter there would be terrible draughts whistling through, Peter thought absently. It said little for the couple that they hadn’t done the same as so many other peasants, and made a thick, sticky paste from the glutinous earth that lay all around to patch the wall to shut out the winds. But Hamelin was a miner, he remembered, so he probably rarely had time, while his wife was permanently exhausted from raising and feeding her brood.
Some of them were outside now, and as Peter approached, one young lad turned his head to him. With a shock of horror, Peter realised that the darkness about the fellow’s face was not the darkness of the alley, but was blood, great red streaks down both cheeks. His hands and fingers were covered in it, and he had transferred the blood to his face as he wailed.
At his feet was a mess of broken shards of pottery. At first that was all Peter could see, but then he realised that there were feet protruding into the alley, and he felt his heart sink further. He approached, making the Sign of the Cross as he squatted beside the body.
‘Who is it?’
Nob had followed the noise and now stood at his side, shaking his head.
‘I think it is that poor girl’s husband,’ Peter said.
‘Hamelin? Could be, I suppose. Christ Jesus, what a mess! He has been stabbed, hasn’t he?’
Peter hardly heard him. He was considering the man’s position. ‘He was dragged here and thrown on top of this pile of rubbish. Why should a man pick up another and throw him atop a midden? It would seem a strange way to treat a body.’
‘Hey, you looking for sense in a murderer? Come on, Brother. There’s no point in that. Look for sense in a tavern full of drunks more like!’
Peter glanced at him, and his expression made Nob silent in a moment. ‘This man has been murdered, Cook. Take those children away and see to them, and tell someone to advise the abbot. And in the meantime, stop your idle chatter!’
Chapter Twenty-one
‘I have heard much about you,’ Simon said. He avoided the eyes of Baldwin and Coroner Roger, but instead leaned forward, holding Rudolf’s gaze. ‘I think you paid Wally money for a sack at an inn in Tavistock, but you have broken no laws. The trouble is, you are fearful of being accused of his murder because he died soon after you saw him – especially since you took his sack from him.’
Rudolf could feel Anna’s fingers tighten about his own hand, but he didn’t look up at her. She was reminding him that they had the two secrets to preserve now: there was the boy as well. Rudolf ignored her. He was measuring Simon, staring deeply into his eyes and gauging whether or not he could truly trust him. ‘It is easy to arrest a foreigner and convict him of crimes he knows nothing about,’ he said at last.
‘It is as easy to accuse a man wrongly as it is to allow an evil man to go free,’ Simon countered. ‘All it takes is for the innocent to hide the truth, for the innocent to be accused and the guilty to walk free. What would you do, friend? See the innocent hang, or see the guilty caught and made to pay?’
‘Make the bastards pay!’
Simon grinned. ‘We have no wish to see the innocent suffer, but we are all King’s men. We have to try to catch the guilty. Would you help us?’
‘What is all this?’ Coroner Roger asked silkily. ‘I have heard what you’ve said, Bailiff, but I confess, I am confused. You talk of pewterers and money, but this man tells us he is a mere actor and entertainer. Which is true?’
Simon smiled, but maintained his eye contact with Rudolf. ‘Friend, we do not want the wrong man, but to catch the right one we need to know the truth. How could we persuade a man to tell us the truth?’
Rudolf gave a deep sigh, then motioned to his wife to fetch more wine. ‘I met the dead man in an alley in Tavistock,’ he began, and Simon knew he was hearing the truth. ‘He was jumping from a window in a big house with limed woodwork and a blue painted shield above the doorway. In his hand was a sack, filled with metal. I caught his accomplice, but he was a monk.
