‘It was not a long time, and the woman might well have come slowly, in her state.’ Bradecote did not sound convinced by his own idea.
‘Both true enough, my lord, but it is not far from where the lord Osbern fell, and if the son did for him and jumped upon his horse again to rush and be seen, then the grey mare would have been trying to follow.’
‘He could have secured the reins to a bough?’
‘And risked the animal pulling away faster than he expected, or not at all, and some cry would be raised if the lord had not returned after a while, for there would be someone waiting to take his horse. It would have looked very strange indeed if he was found as if robbed, yet his horse was neatly tethered by the body. We have also that there had to be time to cast away the clothes, and, mark you, there is the burying of the dagger and hiding the hat and cloak, which would mean going through the village, or round it to be safe, and adding more time.’
‘Yes, though the dagger might have been buried the day after. We were not looking for it in particular, nor was Baldwin watched every hour of the day following. Had we taken up his loathed brother, Hamo, he would not have needed to hide it, and could simply claim to have discovered it sometime in the future, if he wished to wear it.’
‘Fair thought, my lord, but you still have to ask why he would leave the clothing in two places.’
‘Because Hamo had gone to the north when he went hawking? No, I am a fool. He could not have known that Hamo had gone hawking. If he had planned it all and wanted to remove the unwanted Hamo, his argument that Hamo paid cut-throats to do the deed did not need the lad to be out of the manor. That was just chance, a good one for him, and he was always keen to advance the idea of killers doing it for silver.’
‘But no thieving killer stuck that knife up under the lord Osbern’s ribs, and nor would they have been allowed so close.’
‘I know, Catchpoll. So if it has to be Baldwin or Raoul Parler that makes Baldwin the more likely, but … he is likely and unlikely in the same breath.’ Bradecote shook his head. ‘Everything he has done since has honoured his sire in memory, the acts of a devoted and grieving son, and I would swear he means them too.’ He shook his head. ‘You know what, I think I am getting some of your serjeanting sense, and that definitely tells me there is something we are not seeing, or not seeing the right way.’ The last word was said slowly, and a look of intense concentration furrowed the undersheriff’s brow. ‘Catchpoll—’
At which point Walkelin galloped into the bailey and pulled his horse up short. It was an impressive entrance, though his serjeant was not going to look impressed at all.
‘Not here to tell us there was nothing of interest then, young Walkelin,’ murmured Catchpoll, as Walkelin almost threw himself from the saddle. He was a little breathless, not that he had galloped all the way from Worcester, but that the Lench horse was not as eager as the animal from the castle stables and had needed a lot more urging to move at speed.
‘No, Serjeant, and that Raoul Parler is a nasty bastard, real nasty.’ Walkelin looked at Bradecote. ‘Even though he is a lord, my lord,’ he added, a little apologetically.
‘Rank does not come into it, and I happen to agree with you. Now, get your breath, and tell us what you found out.’ Bradecote sounded calm but was keen to hear what Walkelin had discovered. The serjeanting apprentice did as ordered but spoke before he had all the breath he needed.
‘He went to Worcester sure enough …’ Walkelin took another gulp of air, ‘but he did not stay, and left the morn of the day the lord Osbern was struck down, my lord. What is more, he was in killing temper and was seeking him out most particular.’
Walkelin had the satisfaction of seeing both his superiors look taken aback.
‘Why was that?’ asked Catchpoll, simply.
‘Well, I went to find the Widow Brook, but she was not at home, and I spoke with a neighbour, the sort as looks and gossips. She told me that the widow had been visited by the lord who looked down his nose at folk, but also said as she, the neighbour that is, had told him he need not look so pleased with himself, since there was another lord who came to the widow’s door and stayed within. She described that lord as one shorter, fatter, with a red hat and a badge upon it, amber bossed.’ Walkelin delivered this nugget with some triumph.
Catchpoll gave a low whistle through his uneven teeth.
‘And then?’ Bradecote felt everything they had learnt so far had been in half-tales and had confused them.
‘I went down to the riverbank, where the widow was doing washing. Easy it was to pick her out. What he had done to her, the lord Parler …’ Walkelin shook his head. ‘Her face was a right mess, all huge bruises and deep black eyes, and I glimpsed blue marks at her throat, Serjeant, the sort you have told me about in the past, when a man shakes a woman and half strangles her. She moved as the man Edgar will move now, in pain. He half killed her, and that’s a fact, and her unable to defend herself.’
Bradecote’s face was grim, though Catchpoll just nodded.
‘So the lord Raoul was killing-mad and wanted the lord Osbern’s blood. Seems a good chance he got it,’ the serjeant remarked, ‘and then went on to celebrate in Evesham
