“Tell him I will call.”
The miller stared at me, unblinking, and said, “Why?”
“I should have explained. Lord Gilbert Talbot has charged me with the discovery of Margaret’s killer, as her body was found on his land.”
“My John had naught to do with anything like that.”
“I do not suspect him. But perhaps he may know something of Margaret’s friends or activities which might point me to the guilty party.”
The miller shrugged. “I’ll tell him you will call.”
Chapter 6
Bruce knew the way home and would have broken to a trot had I not held him back, so eager was he for oats and a warm stall. I was eager for my own warm hearth. Well, it would be warm after I renewed my fire. I had learned much this day. Whether it would lead me to a killer or was but gossip, I could not know. Such is the way with knowledge; we cannot know when we acquire it when, or if ever, it will be useful to us.
I was pleased to see the spire of the Church of St Beornwald rise above the nearly naked trees when I neared Bampton. The spire is impressive for a town the size of ours but not, perhaps, as graceful as some others. It is solid and substantial, like the villagers who worship under it.
It was near dark when I left Bruce at the castle and made my way to my own door. I lit a candle, built a small fire of the few sticks of wood remaining to me, and made a supper. Days were short. Nights were long. I should have slept well in preparation for a return to Burford, but I did not. Rather, I lay in the dark and reviewed what I had learned. But I could find no pattern.
As soon as dawn gave light I was at the castle gate. I had forewarned Wilfred the evening before, so he was prompt in releasing the bar and swinging open the gate. The marshalsea had Bruce ready. I swung my bag of instruments over his broad rump and set out for Burford once again.
I had seen several forests along the road to Burford which in the recent past had been coppiced, then left unattended; due, no doubt, to the reduced number of laborers available for the task. As I passed one of these thickets but a few miles north of Bampton, I heard a rustling in the grove and saw through the leafless saplings a sow and two of her offspring, which had thus far escaped the autumn slaughter, rooting for acorns in the fallen leaves. The sow raised her head suspiciously as Bruce and I passed, but determined that we were no threat and went back to plowing the forest floor with her snout. Her passage through the coppiced woods was clearly marked, and I idly scanned the upturned leaves as Bruce ambled past the scene. The pigs were soon lost to my sight, but as I turned to the road before me, I caught from the corner of my eye a flash of color which seemed out of place in an autumn wood.
I halted Bruce, and turned him to retrace our path. I peered into the grove, and there, a hundred feet into the forest, among the upturned leaves, was a patch of blue. I dismounted and made my way through the thick-grown pollarding to the object. One sleeve of a blue cotehardie lay above the fallen leaves where the rooting pigs had left it, and was thus visible from the road. I swept away more leaves with my hand, and uncovered the garment, stained and dirty, but whole. I lifted it from the mold for inspection. It was a gentleman’s cotehardie. A sumptuous one. It was cut short, in the fashion worn by young men who wished to show a good pair of legs. It was of dark blue velvet, woven in a diamond pattern, and lined with light blue silk. The long sleeves were cut in dags, ornamented with a trim of yellow velvet, and embroidered with gold thread. Even through its filthy condition, it proclaimed its owner a young man of pride and station. Its chiefest flaw, besides the earth and leaves accumulated on it, was a small slash, about two inches long, at the front of the garment. Dirt and mold clinging to the cotehardie obscured a dark stain about the tear. Only later did I discover this discoloration.
I found a fallen limb and used it to scrape about in the leaves, but found nothing more. I saw on closer inspection that the cotehardie might be dirty, but it was not worn or frayed. Indeed, other than the filth, it seemed nearly new. Its owner would not have discarded it in these woods intentionally. I thought for a moment that I might clean it and use it for my own. This idea I dismissed immediately. The garment was far above my station. I would seem foolish to observers who knew me. Perhaps in London I might wear it — or even Oxford — and be thought a young lord. But in Bampton people would snicker behind their hands at my presumption. And sumptuary laws, though mostly ignored, forbid a man of my quality wearing such a garment. I resolved to show the cotehardie to Lord Gilbert. It had an unusual pattern. Perhaps he would know its owner. I slung the cotehardie across Bruce’s muscular withers, where it remained for the day, and continued my journey.
The November sun was well up over Burford’s rooftops when I reached my patient’s cottage. The door swung open before I could find a convenient fencepost to which to tie Bruce.
“I remembered the wine,” the woman said by way of greeting.
I would have returned a salutation but did not know her name. I had been more interested in the information she could provide, and the condition of her toe, than the woman herself. I view this now as a flaw in my character, but it was a flaw I took steps to rectify when I understood it. I asked her name.
“Edith, Edith Church…account of I live behind the churchyard.”
“Well, Edith, I have brought my instruments. Shall we begin?”
“Aye. Sooner the better. I’ve had no sleep for days for the ache in me toe.”
I dragged her table out into the sunlight in the toft at the rear of her cottage. Neither of us desired spectators, which, if I performed the surgery at her front step, her shrieks would likely attract. I warned her that the procedure would be painful.
Edith peered at me beneath narrowed brows. “I’ve borne seven children — four yet livin’ — naught you can do to me toe will teach me anything about affliction.”
I could not argue with her logic, so got her on the table and went to my work. She was as good as her word. She stifled a groan or two, and twitched as I incised the offending toenail. That was all. I completed my work quickly, bathed the toe once more in wine, then helped the old woman to her feet.
“Do not wear a tight shoe until you see all redness depart from the wound. This might be two or three weeks.”
“Hah! Tight shoe? I’ve but one pair of shoes, tight or no. Will you dress it now?”
I seem to make a habit of explaining my surgical philosophy to patients. It is usual practice, I know, to dress a wound or incision, so I am required to explain why, in most situations, I choose not to do so.
“The wound may yield pus for a few days. Dab it clear, but do nothing to restrain the flow. If the pus turns clear and watery, and releases a putrid smell, send for me instantly.”
“Why so?” she asked.
“Because that will likely signify gangrene.”
Edith put her hand to her mouth. “What’ll you do then?”
“I must then amputate the toe…but I think that unlikely. Walk little, keep the wound clean of the filth of the streets, and raise the foot on a stool when you sit. I believe then all will be well.” So it was, for when Edith sent for me a few days later, it was not to discuss her toe.
I helped Edith hobble into her cottage and sat her in what was clearly her accustomed bench before the fire. The house was once grander than now. It was built with a fireplace. I drew up a stool, lifted her foot to rest upon it, then placed the remaining bench before her.
“Now my work is done. Yours begins. What have you learned?”
“’Twasn’t easy, gettin’ round town w’me toe as ’twas.” She waited, seeming to expect some agreement from me that her share of our bargain had been most arduous. So I agreed.
“Like I said, Margaret was never short of admirers. An’ she seemed to admire ’em right back. Folks I’ve talked to say as her Tom didn’t seem to mind over much. Told some as how ’twas a kind’a honor, bein’ chose by one as had as many choices as she’d want.”
“So Thomas Shilton was not the jealous sort?”
“Not regular. But they did have a quarrel, him an’ Margaret.”
“I suppose most lovers do, once in a while,” I replied. “When was this quarrel?”
“Some time past. In t’spring. A week or so before hocktide. Or maybe ’twas after hocktide. ’Bout then.”
