with silver in one form or another. The dead man’s name is Roger Fardein and he was apprentice to a silversmith in the town.”
When Bascot went into the keep and up to the sheriff’s chamber, Camville confirmed the name and occupation of the man buried under the snow.
“Fardein was apprentice to a man named Warner Tasser,” the sheriff explained as he walked up and down the chamber, a cup of wine in his hand and his voice filled with fury. The good humour instilled in him by the success of the hunt was gone. The faces of Gilbert Bassett and Richard Camville, also in the chamber, mirrored the sheriff’s anger.
“Tasser is a man of ill repute,” Gerard went on. “He has been fined by his guild twice for debasing the silver content in pieces his workshop produces. And, a few years ago, he was implicated in having disposed of items that had been stolen-accused of melting them down in his forge and fashioning them into new ones. Nothing could be proven against him at that time, but I am certain he was guilty of the charge.”
Camville stopped in his pacing and banged his wine cup down on the table. “And now his apprentice is dead, killed in just the same way as the clerk. Both dead men were employed in a place where silver is kept. There is a link between the two murders; I am sure. And I would wager Tasser is involved.”
“You cannot be sure of that, Father,” Richard protested. “It may only be happenstance.”
Camville snorted. “Two men murdered in the same way, by a blow to the head and stabbed, and both left in a place where they would not be found quickly-what is there not to be sure about?”
“I did not mean they were not killed by the same person, only that it may not have been Tasser,” Richard replied. “He has not, as far as I am aware, any connection with the mint. His workshop produces only items for personal or household use, jewellery, cups, and that sort of thing.”
“I think what your father means, Richard,” Bassett interjected, “is that if any coins from a hidden cache have been discovered, this silversmith-Tasser-has the means to melt them down in his workshop. Once that is done, who is to prove the silver was once part of a hidden cache? It would be an impossible task.”
“Exactly,” Gerard Camville confirmed. “And Tasser is just the sort of miscreant who would do so. He has never been averse to lining his own coffers with wealth stolen from others.”
“Ernulf told me you found the corpse of Fardein near to the castle gate, lord,” Bascot said. “Was it near enough to the gate tower that one of the guards might have seen him or the person that killed him?”
“The apprentice must have been murdered before this last fall of snow, for he was buried deep under it,” Camville said. “That means he has been there for at least three, possibly four, days. The guards assure me that because of the weather, there was little traffic through the western gate during that time and only those who were expected came in or out; carters bringing loads of wood and a couple of charcoal burners with fuel for the castle braziers. The guards saw no one else nearby during the day, or at night either, and definitely not anyone carrying a torch or lantern. There are two small postern gates in the western wall of the city that are near the entrance to the castle; Fardein must have either walked to his death or been killed in the town and his body dragged to the spot.”
Camville stopped in his pacing and cursed. “I am certain Tasser had something to do with these deaths. He is too clever to have wielded the dagger that killed them, but I am sure he is behind the murders.”
“Do you wish me to interrogate him, lord?” Bascot asked.
“I do,” Camville grunted. “And you do not have to worry about the niceties of your questions, although I still want my suspicion of a trove kept privy. Take Roget with you. Search the silversmith’s workshop and home; look for any item that may have doubtful provenance, especially coinage. You may be as rough as you like. Tasser has proved he rides a thin line between what is legal and what is not; you need not be concerned if you give him offence.”
“If Tasser’s apprentice was murdered a few days ago, and the silversmith was involved in the crime, any incriminating evidence will have been removed from his premises by now,” Bascot said.
“I know, but I want you to put the fear of God, and my authority, into him. If you shake his bones enough, he may let something slip.”
Before he went down into the town to question the silversmith, Bascot went to the castle chapel to examine the corpse of Roger Fardein. Camville had told him there was nothing on the body to indicate a possible reason for his murder; the dead man’s scrip was still attached to his belt and had been empty except for two silver pennies, but the Templar wanted to inspect his wounds. In a previous case of murder, such an examination had provided an important guide to finding the perpetrator. He was hoping it might do so again.
After sending one of the castle men-at-arms into town with a request for Roget, the former mercenary soldier who was captain of the sheriff’s town guard, to meet him near the silversmith’s workshop on Mikelgate, Bascot went into the chapel. It was a small place of worship and, except for morning Mass, most of the castle household attended services at the church of St. Clement just outside the north-west corner of the bail, but there was an alcove in the chapel where a bier could be laid to serve as a resting place for any who died within the castle walls. It was here that Fardein had been laid to await removal to his coffin.
The silversmith’s apprentice looked to be about twenty-four or twenty-five years old. He had a broad face with a nose that was slightly flattened and dark red hair. His high cheekbones gave his face an almost oriental cast and the skin was riddled with broken veins, giving him an appearance of dissipation. The flesh of his face and hands was a mottled white. His clothes were of poor quality-a dark brown tunic of fustian and hose of rough wool. His cloak was of cheap material and bore no clasp, only ties at the neck to secure it. It was wet and bedraggled. Bascot saw the rent in the front of Fardein’s tunic and pulled the cloth apart to examine the wound. It was as he had expected from the sheriff’s description, a deep and jagged hole between the ribs over the heart. The incision appeared to have been made by a blunter, and broader, instrument than the narrow wound inflicted on Brand. The flesh around the wound was covered with blood that had dried after he was stabbed but later become viscous from its covering of moisture-laden snow.
The Templar felt gently at the back of Fardein’s head and found the place where a blow had fractured the skull. It was a shallow depression, and had it been the only injury inflicted, there was a good possibility the apprentice would have recovered. Nonetheless, the clout would have been strong enough to take him out of his senses for a time and make it easy for his attacker to stab him, just as could have happened to the clerk.
Fardein’s possessions had been removed and laid beside him on the bier. Bascot first examined the scrip. It was of rough leather and still fastened to the dead man’s belt. As the sheriff said, it contained only two silver pennies. Alongside it lay a dagger and a small cudgel, the latter made of solid hickory and of the type many men carried for protection. The Templar fingered it thoughtfully. Neither weapon bore any trace of blood. Why had the apprentice not used one of them to defend himself? Perhaps because he had known his attacker, or been assaulted from behind? These questions and more all needed to be answered, but it appeared that nothing likely to prove useful could be learned from the condition of Fardein’s body or his few possessions.
Asking heaven’s forgiveness for his intrusion, Bascot rearranged Fardein’s clothing and left the chapel.
Roget was waiting outside the silversmith’s workshop when Bascot guided his horse down Mikelgate to Tasser’s manufactory. There were a few people about, but not many, even though the streets had been shovelled clear of snow. Piles of dirty slush lay heaped in intermittent piles alongside the thoroughfare. Thankfully, the temperature had stayed above freezing point and although the cobbles underneath his horse’s feet were wet, they were not slick with ice. Bascot dismounted in front of the silversmith’s door and, tying the reins of his horse to one of the posts placed at intervals along the street, greeted Roget.
The captain of Camville’s guard had a countenance that would strike fear into the heart of any miscreant having the misfortune to encounter him. Black visaged, and with the scar of an old sword slash running from temple to chin, he had a powerful, rangy build and an aggressive stance. He gave Bascot a smile as the Templar came up, revealing strong white teeth that were gapped in places. The two men knew each other well and had become friends over the time Bascot had been in Lincoln.
“Hola, de Marins,” Roget said. “I got your message.” He looked up at the sign hanging above Tasser’s door, a wooden board painted with a picture of a silver cup on a blue background. “I hope you want my help to interrogate this chien. It would give me great pleasure to beat some truths out of him.”
Bascot laughed. “The sheriff told me that he is not the most honest of men. I understand his criminal activities have given you some trouble in the past.”
“More than I care to remember,” Roget replied. “Tasser is a thief of the worst kind. He lets others take the
