After their repast, the sheriff’s men split up; Catchpoll departed to find out what he could about Edwin and Winflaed, and Bradecote went to seek out the priest of St Andrew’s. They agreed to meet again later, and pay a visit upon Robert Mercet.
Bradecote had little trouble in finding St Andrew’s Church, but the incumbent was more difficult to track down. The church itself was cool and empty, and the advice of a woman passing by with a basket of washing, which was to knock at the door of the small adjacent dwelling, proved equally fruitless. The undersheriff had no wish to be idle, but he was also keen to have Catchpoll present when he spoke to Mercet. He sighed, and went back into the church. He was surprised to see a dark-habited figure trimming a candle.
‘Father Boniface?’ Bradecote’s tone was uncertain.
The cleric turned. ‘Yes.’
There was no welcome in the voice, nor softening of the austere features. Here, thought Bradecote, was a man who would not show much understanding of the errors of his flock. He was quite young, perhaps only in his late twenties, but the stern demeanour aged him. He was tall, almost gangly, and the robe hung from him as though his body were the clapper in a bell. The ring of hair about his tonsure was very dark, and showed a tendency to wave, but looked as though such frivolity was frequently chastised by water and comb. The dark brows beetled over a finely chiselled face with hard grey eyes. Bradecote felt that pleasure of any sort was anathema to the man.
‘I am sorry, Father. I was here only a few minutes ago and could not find you. I tried your house also.’ Bradecote wondered why he was apologising to the man.
‘I came in through the sacristy door. How may I help you?’
‘I am Hugh Bradecote, the undersheriff. I wish to speak to you about the fire in Corviserstrete the other night. You raised the alarm, it seems.’
The priest nodded.
‘Yes. Heaven be praised that I was there! It is not the usual route I would have taken, but I had been considering a difficult problem, and, you know, I find walking is beneficial. My steps must have been guided.’ He shook his head. ‘I am glad that so many were spared, but, dear me, the old widow woman must have been hard of hearing or sound asleep, and in the bustle was forgotten. She died unshriven, and in the midst of her sin. It will go harshly against her.’
Bradecote was shocked by the stern edge to the priest’s last words.
‘Surely an old woman would have little left to confess?’ He tried to sound cheering.
Father Boniface stared at him stonily. ‘Assuming she had confessed all the earlier sins of her life, and not hidden them in her shame. The depths of iniquity suck many into it, and damnation is eternal.’
‘Yes, well …’ Bradecote had no desire to be given a lesson on the price of sin. He looked uncomfortable. A silence hung in the air until the priest broke it.
‘What is it that you hoped to learn from me?’ Father Boniface enquired.
Bradecote reassembled his thoughts. ‘Only to find out where you saw the fire first of all, and whether you saw anybody else about beforehand.’
The priest clasped his fingers together, and thought for a moment.
‘I certainly saw the fire in the wood store, and I think, yes, it may have already enveloped the dwelling next to it on the one side, but was only just spreading to the carpenter’s house at that time. It must have begun in the yard on the furthest side from the house. Once the alarm was raised so much happened all at once. Alas, fire is a most crafty enemy that can move swiftly, and yet with furtiveness. It could have already been smouldering ready to take other lives even as I saw it. We were fortunate that no other souls were lost.’
‘And did you see anyone else before you cried out?’
Father Boniface shook his head. ‘I was not concentrating on where I was walking, you must understand, so it is possible that someone could have stepped into the shadows and slipped past me, but I saw nobody.’
‘I think you should be more wary if you walk in the dark, Father. Not all the citizens of Worcester are honest.’
Father Boniface gave a tight smile. ‘Those that are less honest would also know that a priest would have nothing worth stealing.’ He held open his arms. ‘Would they steal habit and rope girdle?’
He had a point, acknowledged Bradecote. There seemed little more to be gained from the man, so Bradecote thanked him and withdrew.
Out in the open, he took a great gulp of air, though it was not as fresh as the country air he preferred. The cleric’s manner had been oppressive to the spirit, like a heavy black rain cloud. Bradecote headed for his appointed rendezvous with Catchpoll, hoping the serjeant had spent a more profitable hour, but when he espied him there was nothing in his demeanour to suggest he was bursting with news.
Serjeant Catchpoll had made the same assessment as his superior, and was caught between a feeling of pleasure that the undersheriff had not made some astounding discovery alone, and the weary recognition that there was an awful lot more work to be done.
‘So we can’t return to the castle crowing of our success like midden cocks, my lord,’ he concluded at the end of his report. He had tried the besom maker next to the Widow Edgyth’s dwelling, but the man had been little use. He had seen a fair number of young women tap at the old woman’s door, but then he had seen an equal number of men, young and old, and children too, with eggs or such to pay for the widow’s remedies. Catchpoll had described Winflaed, but the man had shaken his head. Fair maids, dark maids, fallen maids or old maids, he had not the time nor indeed the inclination to gawp at his neighbour’s visitors.
‘And have you tried around the silversmith’s?’
Catchpoll frowned. ‘Of course, my lord. Do you take me for a bumblehead?’ The question was clearly rhetorical. ‘A woman who lives opposite the fletcher was happy enough to tell me about the arguments she’s heard between Winflaed and her father, and says she thought the silversmith’s journeyman was smitten with the girl, but nothing more. Master Ash and Edwin have nary a cross word, it seems, and master treats journeyman like a favoured son, so there is no sensible motive for Edwin to start a fire, or rather get Winflaed to do it for him since he was with Master Ash when the fire was noticed. I asked the woman if she knew the old widow, and if she had seen Winflaed or her swain seeking her balms, but that meant nothing to her, I swear.’
‘And I have nothing wondrous to report from Father Boniface, other than I am heartily glad not to be one of his parishioners. They must pay heavy penance for their sins in that church, I tell you. But the priest could not say he saw anyone when the fire sprang up, nor if the wood store was actually the source of the fire.’
‘Then I suggest we get on and cheer ourselves with a visit to Master Mercet, my lord.’
‘Cheer ourselves?’ Hugh Bradecote raised a mobile eyebrow.
‘Indeed. He’ll make you want to commit an act of violence upon him, on behalf of the good folk of Worcester, but we should be able to put paid to some of his plans, and that is almost as good.’ Catchpoll’s eyes glittered at the thought, and his death’s head smile grew.
Mercet’s house stood on a fine burgage plot amidst those of Worcester’s wealthiest citizenry. The door was opened by a serving man whose demeanour was that of one keen to keep visitors out rather than usher them in. His gaze bypassed Bradecote entirely, as his eyes alighted on Catchpoll. They narrowed instantly, and he made to shut the door in their faces, but the serjeant stepped smartly forward, unceremoniously barging past his superior and keeping the door open by foot and hand. He smiled, which made the minion look even less comfortable.
‘Good day to you, Serlo. We was wondering if we might be favoured with a few minutes of Master Mercet’s so very valuable time.’ The tone was soft, and had it not been for an undertone of pure menace, almost apologetic. Serlo, not bright enough to read the signs, grinned.
‘My master is not seeing folk this afternoon. He is busy.’
‘Ah yes. So many pies to stick his filthy fingers into; so many widows and orphans to cast into the streets, eh? Well,’ Catchpoll paused and thrust his face forward into Serlo’s, ‘I think you did not understand. When I said “we wondered”, I really meant “we will”. Now run along like the faithful cur you are, and tell him the lord Undersheriff of Worcester and his old friend Serjeant Catchpoll are coming in for a little visit.’
Serlo rolled his eyes, caught between the knowledge that his master would be mightily displeased, and the growing fear that Catchpoll would do something unspecified but extremely painful. The latter prevailed. He bolted back down the gloomy passageway, and the sheriff’s men followed, not waiting for a response.
‘You have a way with words, Serjeant,’ remarked Bradecote, with the ghost of a smile.
‘Indeed, my lord, and it is closely linked to my ability to throttle the breath from vermin like Mercet and his underlings, given half the chance.’ Catchpoll grinned, and was still grinning when they stood before Robert Mercet in his hall. He was a well-dressed, plump man, with noticeably pudgy hands, incongruously angel-fair wavy hair, and eyes that were both calculating and unusually pale blue. He was sat at a table with a harassed clerk, and they were clearly engaged upon accounts, because a chequered cloth piled with counters lay before them.
He looked at Catchpoll and Bradecote, annoyance vying with a desire to appear unconcerned at the intrusion.
‘So you are the new undersheriff, my lord. Now what was it the last one died of, the flux or the pox?’ The voice matched Catchpoll’s for quiet menace, and the accompanying smile accentuated the insult.
Catchpoll said nothing, but Bradecote sensed him tensing. The undersheriff simply ignored the question.
‘We are investigating the unfortunate fire in Corviserstrete, which involved a death. Since it appears that you own some of the damaged property, we thought we should speak to you, Master Mercet.’
‘Quite so, my lord, quite so. A bad business.’ Mercet shook his head and tutted.
‘But not actually bad for your particular business, we find.’ Bradecote’s voice was very measured.
‘My property was burnt to the ground. How can that be good for business?’ The merchant tried to sound affronted, but it was not a good act.
Catchpoll gave a bark of mirthless laughter. ‘Because you’ve got men clearing the carpenter’s shop away to rebuild as a new lease, and undoubtedly at higher rent. No squabbling with Master Woodman about an increase, especially when he happens to be away on business and there’s just his little mouse of a wife and the brats to deal with. What a good time to clear the ground.’
The aquamarine eyes flickered. ‘Fair enough, there is an opportunity, a landholder’s opportunity, and I am too good a man at making money to ignore it, but the idea that I would set a fire … Jesu, what if it had spread? I have several messuages in that street.’ He paled at the thought.
Catchpoll was reluctant to leave the theory.
‘You wouldn’t have lit the torch yourself, but you employ enough gutter life who would do it without a thought if you willed it.’
Bradecote did not know Mercet, but did not think that the man was faking the edge of panic in his voice when he looked to his own person directly, and there was no trace of insolence or insult remaining.
‘My lord, Serjeant Catchpoll would accuse me of any crime committed in Worcester, if he had the chance. I am not involved in this fire, I give you my oath. You must seek your fire-starter elsewhere, and I have a likely culprit.’ He paused, aware that he had caught their attention.
‘And that is?’ Catchpoll did not disguise the wariness in his voice.
Bradecote tried to look only mildly interested.
‘Simeon the Jew.’
Bradecote looked at Catchpoll and then back at Mercet.
‘And he is likely to be guilty because … ?’ The undersheriff could feel the disappointment rising inside him before a word was spoken.
‘Because he is Simeon the Jew. They do not think like us, act like us. They do not care for the welfare of Christian souls.’ Mercet was sounding almost philanthropic. ‘They are guided by a desire for wealth, by whatever means. I have heard tales—’
‘Yes, but tales are just that,’ interrupted Bradecote. ‘Why, exactly, should this man,’ and he stressed ‘man’, ‘have set the fire?’
‘Why to discredit me, and to be able to buy up land at a good price, like a crow seeking carrion.’
Bradecote sighed. It sounded very unlikely to him, but he had never had any dealings with the Sons of Abraham, and knew he was no judge. Even if Mercet’s belief was in part the desire to thrust blame upon an outsider and rival, there was no reason why the man should be excluded from their investigation. He glanced at Catchpoll, hoping to read scepticism on his mobile features, but there was a frown of thought. Catchpoll was not discounting the idea out of hand.
There was a brief silence, then Bradecote roused himself.
‘Right. We will make enquiries, and I will see this Simeon. Thank you for your help, Master Mercet.’ The irony of his tone was lost on Mercet, who smiled. It was a smile, thought Bradecote, of relief blended with pleasure.
Catchpoll growled something indeterminate, which Mercet might, if he were so inclined, interpret as thanks, but which could just as easily have been an expression of gruff disappointment. The pair left the merchant’s house without another word, and only spoke when they had walked some way down the street.
‘I take it that that was not as enjoyable as you hoped, Catchpoll.’
The serjeant grunted morosely.
‘Was it because Mercet wriggled out from under your boot, or because you thought there was something in what he said?’
‘I would doubt the sun sets in the west if that whoreson bastard told me that it did,’ grumbled Catchpoll, ‘but there might, and I say it very grudgingly, be something there for us, my lord. Most like he is just trying to get us away from his own shady dealings, whether or not they include lighting fires, but you never know.’
‘I agree with your reading of his character, Catchpoll, but somehow I do not think this particular crime lies at his door. He was right that if the fire had spread further he would have lost other properties, and replacing several would be costly, even for him.’
‘Perhaps he had his men set ready to prevent such a spread.’ The serjeant’s tone lacked conviction. ‘If it is not him it is surely a pity. He’s one I’d love to see dancing at the end of a rope, though a strong rope it would have to be, with his weight.’ Catchpoll sighed. ‘One day I’ll catch him.’
‘But does he break the law?’ queried Bradecote, and encountered a look of disbelief as answer. ‘I make no claim for him being other than what you say, and morally corrupt, but he might manage that within the bounds of law.’
Catchpoll shook his head. ‘He’s clever enough to do trade that is legal, however unjust, but his love of making money, and at others’ expense, of a surety leads him over the bounds. I know it, and he knows I know it. He would not be able to resist it. I will get him, my lord, if I bides my time.’
‘And that brings us, in a way, to the trail he gave us. You did not jump down his throat at the suggestion that Simeon the Jew might be at the root of this, so what makes you consider it? What is this man like?’
‘That’s the thing, you see. I cannot tell you beyond where he lives and what he does for trade, and it is that that makes me wonder. I know something about most of the wealthier men in Worcester, and nigh on every shady character, which is sometimes one and the same but … but he is a mystery. He keeps himself quietly, not drawing attention to his dealings or person. That might be natural caution, but then again …’ Catchpoll frowned.
‘So you are simply saying you cannot vouch for him.’
The serjeant nodded. Then he halted, like a hound testing the air for a scent. For a moment Bradecote feared he might have caught a hint of another blaze, but the man was miles away in his own thoughts. After what seemed an age, he snapped his fingers and smiled at his superior.
‘We’re linking the wrong folk with these fires, my lord.’
Bradecote said nothing, and waited.
‘We was looking at the link between Winflaed and Edgyth, but we should have been looking for a link between Reginald Ash and Martin Woodman. Just because the old crone died in the fire, it does not mean she was an intended victim. In fact, nobody remembered her at the time, so she was probably just an unlucky result of the fire.’
Bradecote frowned. ‘But the only link we have is Mercet, and I thought we had just agreed that he looked less likely than you would have hoped. The carpenter and silversmith are in different crafts, in different streets, and not even of the same parish. Where do we start?’
He was floundering, and too worn to care that Catchpoll knew it. The serjeant smiled, but the smile was more conspiratorial than victorious.
‘It might be best to leave the links between Masters Ash and Woodman to me, my lord, seeing as I know Worcester and, forgive me, you do not. Mind you, you’re likely to get more from Simeon the Jew if you visit him on the morrow.’ The smile grew to a grin. ‘He’ll appreciate being visited by nobility and your manners are much better than mine.’
Hugh Bradecote laughed, his weary pessimism suddenly dispelled, and did so without any feeling of guilt following it. Considering the fact later, he admitted to himself that throwing himself into an investigation was just the boost to the spirits that he needed.
Serjeant and undersheriff parted in the castle bailey. Bradecote wanted to sort his thoughts before having to sup with the castellan, and Catchpoll had to make sure that the men-at-arms on his watch-bill knew their duties for the next twenty-four hours. Before heading home, he slipped into the kitchen to share a jug of ale with Drogo, who was whiling away the lull between preparing the dishes for the castellan’s supper, and the mad rush to serve them up still warm.
The kitchen was hot, with interesting smells of herbs and stewing meat vying for dominance. Drogo was not to be found within, but sat upon a stool outside the rear door, where the shadows cast cool fingers amidst the mellowing sunlight.
Catchpoll, having already provided himself with a beaker in anticipation, sat down on the threshold, groaning slightly as proof of his ageing bones. Without a word, Drogo pushed the ale jug towards him with a dusty foot, and for a few minutes the two men sat in companionable silence, drinking. Eventually, Drogo smacked his lips with relish, and wiped his hand across his mouth.
‘Got your fire-raiser yet, then?’ His tone was conversational rather than interested.
‘Would it were that easy.’ Catchpoll did not sound overconcerned. He scuffed his toe idly in the dirt. ‘Investigatin’ is a bit like your cookin’.’ He raised his eyes to meet his friend’s, who regarded him with good-humoured suspicion.
‘Go on then, you old ferret. Tell me why that is?’
‘Well, you see, the basic plan is simple enough, but every time the ingredients are just a mite different and you never know whether it will end in a triumph or something only fit to feed to the dogs.’ Catchpoll’s eyes screwed up in silent laughter.
Drogo feigned outrage, but his shoulders shook.
Catchpoll remained silent for a minute or so, and then came out with a question.
‘Do you know Reginald Ash, the silversmith?’
Drogo squinted as he considered his answer. ‘Not to speak to, as such. Heard of him, mind you, because his work is well regarded, and then my first wife was a silversmith’s widow. That was a long, long time ago, God rest her. She knew the craft members, though of course Ash would have been only a journeyman then. Don’t think she liked any of them, much. A good Christian woman she was, but you should have heard her on their lack of charity.’ He shook his head. ‘Poor Emma.’
‘What about Martin Woodman, carpenter in Corviserstrete?’
‘Now Martin Woodman, he built a good oak cupboard for my brother-in-law, and made a fine job of it. My sister wed a man of means, you know.’
‘So you’ve often told me.’ Catchpoll pulled a face, and turned the grimace into an exaggerated yawn.
‘Alright, alright.’ Drogo raised his hands.
‘Don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of a connection between them,’ Catchpoll wondered, with studied nonchalance, ‘and Robert Mercet?’
‘Oh, so this isn’t just a friendly chat. You are after something, fox-brain. And there was me thinking you just liked to sit in the shade and have a drink with a friend. Ha!’ Drogo shook his head. ‘I’ve nothing you’d like to hear, but if they choose to be involved with Mercet they had best have their wits sharp about them.’
Catchpoll drained his beaker and got to his feet. ‘Oh well. I was only being hopeful. Best get home, and leave you to serve up something tasty for the lord castellan and my lord Bradecote.’