their visit in a succinct fashion, saying Bascot and Roget were looking for a connection between the death of her brother and two recent murders in Lincoln.
“There were indications in both instances that the purpose of the killings was in retaliation for an act of betrayal by the Templar Order,” Thorson added. “Since it is alleged that your brother was slain by a Templar knight, Sir Bascot and Captain Roget are trying to find out if his death is connected to the murders.”
Joan’s cool gaze flicked over Roget and settled on Bascot. “So, Sir Knight, not only does one of your monks kill my brother, your Order now has the effrontery to accuse me of murder. Not the behaviour I would expect from men supposedly devoted to the service of Christ.”
Bascot answered her shortly, but kept his tone even out of respect for her sorrow. “We have not come to accuse, mistress,” he said, “merely to enquire whether there might be any valid reason to suspect your brother’s death may be linked to the murder of these two women.”
She kept her eyes on his face for a few moments, assessing him. When she spoke again, it was to Thorson. “I do not have any knowledge that would be pertinent to the sheriff’s enquiry, Bailiff. If someone is taking revenge on the Templars for my brother’s death, it is without my consent, or awareness.”
“And your husband, mistress,” Bascot asked, “does the same hold true for him?”
“I believe so, but if you wish to ask him yourself, you will find him down at the harbour. He is there with Askil, arranging for some minor repairs to the ship my brother owned.”
Joan lifted her chin as she said these last words, and added, “If you do find the man who murdered these harlots, I have no doubt he will be hanged. I wish the same fate awaited the Templar who killed Robert.”
Fifteen
“ By God, Thorson,” Roget exploded once they had left Joan Grimson in her house and were walking in the direction of the harbour, “I do not know how you can say you do not believe that woman is responsible for the murders. Her hatred of the Templars flows from her like an ocean tide. If she were a man, I would have no doubt that she was guilty.”
“That is because you do not know the history between her and her brother,” the bailiff replied calmly. “When their mother died, Robert was very young and it was left to her to look after him. Their father was a rakehell, just like Robert, and fell dead after a surfeit of wine a couple of years later. Joan took her responsibility seriously and was always berating Robert for his scurrilous ways. The last time Robert was in Grimsby, on a warm day last summer, Joan found him down on the beach after a night’s debauch, dishevelled and still in his cups. With him was a doxy from one of the brothels. Joan took Robert to task, lashing him with her tongue and threatening to disown him if he did not mend his ways. He left Grimsby later that very day. She did not, in fact, ever have the chance to speak to him again, not by her own choosing, but because of his death.” Thorson’s face was full of pity as he related the manner of the parting between brother and sister.
“It is more than probable that Joan now recalls her threat and is filled with remorse for her harsh words,” he continued. “And it is that, not any desire for revenge, which is causing her anger. Her words do not alter my opinion. I still do not believe she is capable of sanctioning murder. She is upright and well respected, as is her husband. Besides being the owner of three fishing smacks, Grimson’s father owns a thriving ship’s chandlery, which Sven’s younger brother helps his father run. The family is fairly wealthy, and has a good reputation. Why would they endanger all that, and the future security of their two children, by involving themselves in such terrible crimes?”
“You may be right, Bailiff,” Bascot said, “but, nonetheless, she cannot be discounted as a suspect, even if it is only of authorising someone else to carry out the murders on her behalf. If Joan’s husband, or the steersman, cannot account for their whereabouts when the two women in Lincoln were murdered, we must consider not only their involvement, but hers also.”
As they had been speaking they had approached the shore. The ground was sandy underfoot, with clumps of marram grass thick along the track. From this vantage point, the Norwegian cog in the harbour could be seen more clearly. The ship’s huge sail had just been rolled up and sailors were climbing the tall mast to check the rigging that anchored it into position while below, other seamen were doing the same with the shrouds that secured the mast fore and aft. The tide was half out, and a number of smaller vessels were either beached on the shore or bobbed at the receding water’s edge. Small fishing boats, a couple of wherries used for ferrying people across the mouth of the Haven River, and some coracles were among them. On the shore, near a wooden quay, the morning’s catch was being loaded into panniers on the backs of waiting donkeys for transport into the town. A few other fishermen were sitting up above the waterline mending nets and repairing shrimp pots. Overhead gulls swooped, some landing on the furled sails and railings of the cog, their calls raucous and feathers ruffling in the strong breeze. Farther out the large shapes of gannets could be seen as they made sudden plunging dives into the depths of the ocean in a search for food.
Sven Grimson was standing in conversation with another man, looking out to sea at a vessel anchored a little way out, a sturdy clinker-built ship with a sheltered cabin at the prow and a huge rudder fixed to the side of the craft. A pennant bearing three white scallop shells on a black background flew from the top of the mast, a replica of the image beside the door of Thorson’s home and on the tip of his wand of office. The name La Rodenef-the Roving Ship-had been painted on the bow. The vessel sat lightly in the water, the hold below decks now obviously empty.
In appearance, if he was truly a descendant of Grim, the Danish fisherman who had given his name to what had been just a little village over three centuries before, Grimson lived up to his heritage. Taller than average height and slimly built, Sven’s hair was pale blond in colour and his eyes a clear dark blue. He was dressed in a belted tunic of dark green with matching hose and had a light cloak thrown over his shoulders. Altogether, his appearance was a prosperous one, and there was a touch of haughtiness in his wide-legged stance.
The man with him was shorter and darker, with long brown hair tied back with a leather thong, and heavily muscled shoulders. His attitude to Sven Grimson seemed deferential as he stood patiently listening to the other man’s words, but there was no trace of obsequiousness on a face that had been tanned by sun and wind to the texture and colour of leather. At his belt was a knife, the sheath made of some type of fish skin, and he fingered the haft in an absentminded fashion while he and Grimson spoke together. As Thorson led Bascot and Roget up to the two men, the bailiff said in an undertone that the shorter man was Robert Scallion’s steersman, Askil. As the steersman turned his face towards them, the oddness in the colour of his eyes was immediately apparent. One was a clear pale blue, the other dark hazel, a striking difference that made his countenance seem strangely awry.
After introducing Bascot and Roget to the two men, Thorson repeated what he had told Joan as to the reason for the presence in Grimsby of a Templar knight and a soldier in the service of the sheriff of Lincoln. Both Grimson and Askil looked shocked when they heard the details of the two murders, and Grimson immediately denied, albeit in a less truculent manner than his wife’s, of having any complicity in the crimes.
“I will admit,” he said to Bascot in a straightforward fashion, “that I would like to see the Templar that killed Robert answer for his villainy, but I can see no purpose in murdering two women, or any other persons, for the sake of that animosity. Such deaths will not change what has happened or bring my wife’s brother back to life.”
Askil’s denial was in the same vein. “Robert was my friend and I mourn him,” he said simply, the vowels in his words flatter and harder than those usually heard in the local accent. “But I have no desire for revenge, nor have tried to take any.”
“Were you in the brothel on the night Robert Scallion was killed?” Bascot asked the steersman. Only a few details about the actual murder of the boat owner had been included in Master St. Maur’s letter and it was possible this man might have seen something or somebody that could help them confirm or refute whether Scallion’s death was connected to the recent murders.
Askil shook his head. “The ship was loaded with cargo,” he said, “and I stayed with it along with most of the crew. Robert went into Acre to see a spice merchant in one of the souks. He said that if he could get a good price, he had a mind to buy a small quantity of nutmeg and cinnamon to bring back with us to sell in one of the ports along the French coast. Whether he made a contract to buy some of the spices or not, I do not know, and neither did the crew member who accompanied him when he went into the town.”
“And it was from this crew member that you learned of your captain’s death?” Bascot asked.
