’twas too neatly done.”
“Would two youths devise so devious a way to slay a man, then be so careless as to leave evidence of the felony where it might be readily found?”
“Wouldn’t have been,” the sheriff said, “but for we being told where to search.”
“And that’s another riddle,” I said. “Would the squires, one or both, be so careful to plot a hidden murder, then be so indiscreet that some other learned of their crime?”
Lord Gilbert scratched at his bearded chin. “So you believe some murderer hopes we will send one or both of the squires to a scaffold in his place?”
“I do not believe it so,” I replied. “But I believe it possible. Is there a lock upon the squires’ chamber door?”
“Nay. You think some man entered while the squires were away and placed in their chamber the bodkin and bloody cloth?”
“It could be done.”
Sir Roger puffed his cheeks, frowned, then spoke. “How could that be proved? If ’tis so, what mistake did the murderer make which will be a clue for us?”
“The bodkin and fragment of linen stained with blood came from somewhere,” I said. “If we can discover their origins we may find who has slain Sir Henry. And no man pushed an iron point into the lampstand with the palm of his hand.”
“Used a hammer, you think?” Sir Roger said.
“Or some such device. A rock would serve, or a small block of wood, such as would have been used to thrust the bodkin into Sir Henry’s brain.”
“Lady Margery wishes to return to her home,” Lord Gilbert said. To Sir Roger he continued, “What shall we tell her? When she leaves she will take the guilty with her.”
“Good riddance,” the sheriff said. “But tell her that if she wishes for her husband’s murderer to be discovered she must remain until the man is found out.”
I saw Lord Gilbert’s lips draw tight at the thought of Lady Margery remaining longer in Bampton Castle. Sir Henry was, at first, a welcome guest, but my employer had found his wife to be a greater burden even than Sir Henry had become. Little could please her. Her loaf was stale, or there was not enough wood delivered to her chamber to take away the morning chill, or the musicians and jongleurs Lord Gilbert provided for entertainment were unfit.
I produced the bloody scrap of linen from my pouch and displayed it before Lord Gilbert and the sheriff. Before it became so stained it had been purest white.
“To what use was this put, you think, before it was used to mop up a dead man’s blood?”
Sir Roger took the cloth from me and examined it. “Could be some fellow’s kirtle,” he said.
“Or some woman’s,” Lord Gilbert replied.
If this was so, the murderer was likely some gentleman in Sir Henry’s household, for grooms, or even valets employed by one so impoverished as Sir Henry was said to be, were unlikely to wear linen. Plain wool must do for such folk.
Next I held the bodkin before me. “To what purpose was this first put? Or was it made for the purpose of murder?”
Both men shrugged, being unfamiliar with tools. Men in their employ might know better the answer to that question.
“The farrier might have made such an object. Or Edmund,” Lord Gilbert said.
Edmund the smith is not a friend. His past behavior has required that I speak to him firmly, even threaten the fellow upon occasion. This was not a task I enjoyed, as the smith, like others who follow his craft, is a beefy sort while I am shaped like a reed along Shill Brook.
“Your farrier has already seen the thing,” Sir Roger said. “If he knew of it, seems to me he would have said, it being found in an odd place, where it was not needed to be.”
Lord Gilbert nodded approval of this theory. So it was left to me to seek Edmund Smith and learn what I could from him. I placed awl and bloody cloth in my pouch, bid Sir Roger and Lord Gilbert “Good day,” and set off for the castle gatehouse. As I left the solar I heard Lord Gilbert direct John
“Would two youths devise so devious a way to slay a man, then be so careless as to leave evidence of the felony where it might be readily found?”
“Wouldn’t have been,” the sheriff said, “but for we being told where to search.”
“And that’s another riddle,” I said. “Would the squires, one or both, be so careful to plot a hidden murder, then be so indiscreet that some other learned of their crime?”
Lord Gilbert scratched at his bearded chin. “So you believe some murderer hopes we will send one or both of the squires to a scaffold in his place?”
“I do not believe it so,” I replied. “But I believe it possible. Is there a lock upon the squires’ chamber door?”
“Nay. You think some man entered while the squires were away and placed in their chamber the bodkin and bloody cloth?”
“It could be done.”
Sir Roger puffed his cheeks, frowned, then spoke. “How could that be proved? If ’tis so, what mistake did the murderer make which will be a clue for us?”
“The bodkin and fragment of linen stained with blood came from somewhere,” I said. “If we can discover their origins we may find who has slain Sir Henry. And no man pushed an iron point into the lampstand with the palm of his hand.”
“Used a hammer, you think?” Sir Roger said.
“Or some such device. A rock would serve, or a small block of wood, such as would have been used to thrust the bodkin into Sir Henry’s brain.”
“Lady Margery wishes to return to her home,” Lord Gilbert said. To Sir Roger he continued, “What shall we tell her? When she leaves she will take the guilty with her.”
“Good riddance,” the sheriff said. “But tell her that if she wishes for her husband’s murderer to be discovered she must remain until the man is found out.”
I saw Lord Gilbert’s lips draw tight at the thought of Lady Margery remaining longer in Bampton Castle. Sir Henry was, at first, a welcome guest, but my employer had found his wife to be a greater burden even than Sir Henry had become. Little could please her. Her loaf was stale, or there was not enough wood delivered to her chamber to take away the morning chill, or the musicians and jongleurs Lord Gilbert provided for entertainment were unfit.
I produced the bloody scrap of linen from my pouch and displayed it before Lord Gilbert and the sheriff. Before it became so stained it had been purest white.
“To what use was this put, you think, before it was used to mop up a dead man’s blood?”
Sir Roger took the cloth from me and examined it. “Could be some fellow’s kirtle,” he said.
“Or some woman’s,” Lord Gilbert replied.
If this was so, the murderer was likely some gentleman in Sir Henry’s household, for grooms, or even valets employed by one so impoverished as Sir Henry was said to be, were unlikely to wear linen. Plain wool must do for such folk.
Next I held the bodkin before me. “To what purpose was this first put? Or was it made for the purpose of murder?”
Both men shrugged, being unfamiliar with tools. Men in their employ might know better the answer to that question.
“The farrier might have made such an object. Or Edmund,” Lord Gilbert said.
Edmund the smith is not a friend. His past behavior has required that I speak to him firmly, even threaten the fellow upon occasion. This was not a task I enjoyed, as the smith, like others who follow his craft, is a beefy sort while I am shaped like a reed along Shill Brook.
“Your farrier has already seen the thing,” Sir Roger said. “If he knew of it, seems to me he would have said, it being found in an odd place, where it was not needed to be.”
Lord Gilbert nodded approval of this theory. So it was left to me to seek Edmund Smith and learn what I could from him. I placed awl and bloody cloth in my pouch, bid Sir Roger and Lord Gilbert “Good day,” and set off for the castle gatehouse. As I left the solar I heard Lord Gilbert direct John
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