The Night Wanderer Page 4

Gurdyman didn’t answer. After a moment, he said, without turning round, ‘Will you hold up your light, Jack? Yes, yes, that’s right, just like that.’

  For what seemed like an age, there was silence, other than some faint squelchy noises as Gurdyman, who had extracted a small pointed silver instrument from some hidden pocket inside his robe, probed. I felt ill, and I had the strange sensation that the middle section of my legs wasn’t there. I think I made some soft sound, for Jack’s head flew up and instantly he was hurrying round the table, one arm around me.

  ‘Step outside,’ he said, ‘you’ve gone deathly white.’

  ‘No, I’m all right.’ I will not faint, I commanded myself. I managed to give him a smile.

  He didn’t look convinced. He stayed exactly where he was, at my side, where he could catch me if I fell.

  So total had been Gurdyman’s absorption in his task that he had missed the small drama. Looking up now, an expression of mild surprise on his face on observing that Jack no longer stood where he had before, he said, ‘I cannot support the teeth theory, but nevertheless I am very glad you raised it, Jack, for it compelled me to investigate more closely.’ He held out the silver instrument, on the tip of which was a tiny object, stuck to the fine point with a gout of flesh, or perhaps dried blood. ‘And look what I found inside the deepest cut!’

  I made myself take a couple of deep breaths. ‘What is it?’ I managed to say.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ Gurdyman admitted. ‘I need to examine it back in the crypt.’ He frowned at it thoughtfully, then carefully wrapped both instrument and find in a small piece of linen and stowed them away. ‘Now, what else is there for sharp eyes to observe?’

  The faintness was passing, and now I took on the role of student, helping my mentor as he stripped off the garments and carried out a careful inspection of the rest of the body. Not that we learned anything, for, other than the normal scars, swellings, and marks of ageing that can be seen on anyone past youth, there was nothing to see.

  We dressed the corpse again, and Jack drew the sheet up over the dead face. We turned to go, Gurdyman and I waiting by the door while Jack extinguished the torches. At the last moment, Gurdyman looked back at the body. ‘No other marks,’ he said very softly.

  ‘Yes, we have just established that,’ I said.

  ‘Do you not see the significance?’ he said, his face eager as he waited for my response.

  I visualized the body. One great wound, nothing else …

  ‘He didn’t struggle,’ I said, appreciating all at once what Gurdyman meant. I had already suspected as much – and mentioned it to Jack – on the grounds that Robert Powl hadn’t drawn his dagger. ‘He didn’t have time to put up his hands or his arms to protect himself. He didn’t try to run away, for there was no bruising or marking to indicate that his assailant held on to him.’

  ‘And so?’ persisted Gurdyman.

  ‘He was taken completely by surprise,’ I said.

  ‘Which suggests?’

  Now I saw the scene in my mind. ‘It’s likely he was jumped on from behind. Either that, or else the killer was so well concealed that his victim didn’t see him until he was right there on the path in front of him, claws reaching for his throat.’

  ‘Well done,’ murmured Gurdyman.

  As we followed Jack’s light back through the deserted village, round the castle’s foot and back towards the great bridge, Jack said quietly, ‘I wonder what business took Robert Powl out to that lonely stretch of river bank?’

  It was a great relief to be back in the twisty-turny house. Jack left us at the door – it had been fully dark for the return journey and he had drawn his sword – and urged us to bolt it. We didn’t really need to be urged.

  Gurdyman wandered off along the passage that leads down to the crypt. ‘Go to bed, child,’ he said over his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t you need my help?’ I knew what he was going to do, for already he was reaching inside his robe for the cloth-wrapped pick and whatever was stuck to its point.

  ‘No,’ he said firmly.

  With some relief, for, despite my resolve to be the ever-alert pupil, I’d really had enough for one night, I slipped away.

  ‘It is a fragment of horn, or claw,’ Gurdyman said in the morning. We were standing in the little inner court, the early sun pouring in, and he held up the object for me to look at. He had cleaned it, thankfully, and I saw a small pointed piece of hard matter, shaped somewhat like a steeply sided cone. It did indeed look just like the broken-off tip of a horn or a claw.

  ‘It’s a great shame,’ mused Gurdyman.

  ‘But isn’t it just what you expected?’

  ‘Yes, precisely!’ he said eagerly. ‘I expected it to be what it is, but I hoped it would be made of wood, or even metal.’

  I thought for a moment. ‘Because then you’d have had proof that this killing was the work of a human hand, wielding some frightful weapon, and not a savage animal.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Gurdyman agreed. ‘We might even have gone on to conclude that our killer had designed and manufactured his weapon purely with this murder in mind, to make us think an animal was to blame.’

  ‘But he was too clever,’ I said slowly. ‘Instead of satisfying himself with sharpened wood spikes or metal blades, he used a substance that has animal origins.’ I looked at Gurdyman. ‘You are quite convinced a human is behind this?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he breathed. ‘Now we – or, rather, your friend Jack Chevestrier – must begin to work out the motive.’

  ‘He—’ I began.

  But Gurdyman held up his hand. ‘Enough, Lassair. We have done what he asked of us, and already I have sent a message to tell him of my findings.’

  ‘A message! But surely the whole aim is not to spread panic, and if the messenger tells anyone else that you found a bit of horn in the body, it’ll only fuel the gossip!’

  Gurdyman sighed. ‘Child, it was a written message, not a spoken one. For one thing, I very much doubt the man to whom I entrusted it can read, even if he would be so foolhardy as to break the seal. For another, I was very discreet, and only said that my discovery did nothing to help the situation.’

  ‘And Jack will know what you meant?’

  ‘Of course he will,’ said Gurdyman robustly. ‘He’s a thoughtful and intelligent man, which is more than you can say for anyone else in Sheriff Picot’s organization, including Sheriff Picot.’ Before I could respond, he said, ‘To work! We have much to do.’

  We worked hard all that day and the next. I hoped constantly that there would be a visit from Jack; wouldn’t he want to discuss that fragment of claw, and the mind behind the creation of the dreadful weapon it had come from? Surely he would have found out much more about Robert Powl, and want to talk over with us what lay at the heart of the killing.

  He didn’t come.

  On the third day, the killer struck again.

  Very early the following morning, before Gurdyman and I had had a chance to put our noses out of doors, Jack came at last. Any pleasure I might have derived from seeing him was quickly subsumed by fear; I knew just by looking at his expression that something terrible had happened. He wouldn’t go out into the sunny little court – I guessed he feared being overheard, although the high walls made it unlikely – but spoke to us in the dark, narrow passage behind the closed door.

  ‘There’s been another death,’ he said shortly. ‘Same method.’

  ‘Who is the victim?’ Gurdyman asked.

  ‘Someone who works at one of the lodging houses on the quayside.’

  Lodging houses was the polite description. They were drinking dens and brothels, there to fulfil the needs of sailors a long way from home, although by no means used exclusively by them. My healer aunt Edild, my first teacher, had enlightened me on the subject of the diseases that spread in such places, and on occasions I had treated townsmen who had come to seek me out under cover of night, bitterly regretting the brief pleasure that had led to such painful and humiliat
ing consequences. Not that it was for me to judge, and my aunt had always impressed on me the importance of courtesy and kindness, no matter what the ailment. I had also learned to be extremely discreet; it was a healer’s first duty, and I would have kept my mouth shut even without the extravagant payment some of the town’s leading citizens pressed upon me.

  ‘Where was he found?’ Gurdyman was asking.

  ‘On the river, perhaps half a mile downstream from the quay.’

  Near to the road that led off towards Ely and the fens, I calculated. ‘Close by water again,’ I said softly.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought,’ Jack agreed.

  ‘The man was known to you?’ Gurdyman asked.

  Jack hesitated. He glanced swiftly at me, then away again. ‘It wasn’t a man.’

  Neither Gurdyman nor I spoke.

  ‘It is an even worse abomination, I think,’ Jack said eventually, ‘for a woman to have been killed in this brutal way.’

  ‘And why?’ Gurdyman said. ‘Robert Powl was a wealthy man, and, although we assume he wasn’t robbed, it is reasonable to postulate that his murder is somehow connected to his business affairs, or his importance in the community. But of what significance can a lowly tavern maid have been?’ It was chivalrous of him to assume that the woman had been a maid and not a prostitute, and for all I knew, he was right in that assumption.

  ‘I can think of nothing that links them, yet,’ Jack agreed, ‘save for the vague fact that both earned their livings from the river traffic; Robert Powl by providing a fleet of transport, Gerda by what she offered in the lodging house.’

  I wondered if he was being deliberately ambiguous.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said hesitantly, still working on the thought, ‘all that they have in common is that both were out by the river, alone, unobserved, when their assailant felt the compulsion to kill.’

  Both Jack and Gurdyman turned to stare at me. Gurdyman’s face wore a thoughtful, appraising expression. Jack looked horrified.

  ‘You appear to support the wild-animal theory after all,’ he said, ‘for isn’t that – an opportunist attack on a vulnerable victim – just what such a creature would do?’

  I shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘What were they doing out on the river bank, alone?’ Gurdyman asked. ‘Robert Powl’s presence there I can understand, for, being the first victim, there was nothing yet to fear. But this Gerda must have known about the first murder—’

  ‘They talk of nothing else down by the quay,’ Jack said lugubriously.

  ‘—and so why, then, would she be so foolish as to venture out?’

  Neither Jack nor I could come up with an answer.

  ‘I intend to go straight down there now,’ Jack said after a short pause. ‘I’m hoping someone will be able to tell me something: she had a message summoning her to go and meet someone, perhaps, or a man she was with asked her to venture outside, or she heard a noise and went to investigate, or—’ He shrugged.

  He had, it seemed, come to tell Gurdyman and me about Gerda’s murder before we heard a doubtless far more lurid and inaccurate version elsewhere. It was good of him, and I thanked him as I saw him out.

  He turned to look intently at me. ‘Please, don’t go out unless you have to.’

  ‘We have to eat,’ I pointed out gently.

  ‘Of course, but keep to the well-frequented places.’ He paused. ‘And I know I’ve said this before, but don’t listen to the gossip.’ He went on looking at me for an instant, then gave me a sort of salute and strode off up the alley.

  When, in the mid-afternoon, I went out for food, I found the marketplace humming. Probably everyone was out doing their provisioning while it was full daylight, and while there were plenty of people about. The pie stall on the corner was doing a brisk trade, and I was lucky to find anything left to buy. Not that it amounted to much; not enough, anyway, so I ventured further into the throng and managed to purchase a loaf, cheese, a string of somewhat soft onions and a small bag of apples.

  I had turned for home, resolving to do as Jack had urged and not stop to listen to what everyone was saying. But then there was a minor mishap – a little boy managed to evade his mother’s grasping hand, and, revelling in his sudden freedom, he sped away through the crowd and tripped up an elderly man, who fell heavily and banged his head. Lots of the stall-holders know me by sight, and I couldn’t have escaped even if I’d wanted to. Even as I put down my basket and crouched down beside the old man, someone was yelling, ‘Find that healer girl! She was here a moment ago, I just saw her!’

  The elderly man had a lump on his head and was a little dazed, but otherwise unhurt. I sat with him for a while, holding his hand, and presently helped him to sit up.

  ‘Ooooooer, I feel dizzy! I need to rest here a bit longer!’ he moaned, clutching on to me and managing to squeeze my breast.

  I bet you do, I thought. But he was my patient, he probably did feel dizzy, and the squeeze could have been accidental.

  ‘You mustn’t get up until you feel better,’ I said. ‘I’ll stay with you.’

  ‘Will you?’ He looked at me with trusting eyes, and I could see how grateful he was.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. Then, leaning closer so that only he, and not the small circle of goggle-eyed people standing round us, heard, I added, ‘But just you keep your hands to yourself, or I might change my mind.’

  He gave a delighted chortle of laughter. But, all the same, he folded his hands chastely in his lap.

  The small drama was over and our audience melted away. So it was only then, as the throng cleared a little, that first I saw the man standing on a box in the middle of the market square and then, as he flung his arms wide and launched into his tale, heard him.

  I knew him by sight. He was one of those who earned a crust with their storytelling, turning up on feast days and market days, wherever there is a crowd to be entertained, and acting out the old tales, myths and legends. I’d often stopped to listen to him, for he was good, and had the ability to hold his audience’s rapt attention.

  I had a feeling I knew precisely what today’s tale would be about; there was, after all, only one thing people would want to hear.

  Jack had told me – warned me – not to listen. But, detained there still tending my randy old man, it seemed I didn’t have a choice.

  This was the story I heard.

  FOUR

  ‘There was once a greedy merchant who had been born with every privilege yet, as is often the case with such men, always wanted more,’ the storyteller began, launching straight into his narrative. A fat-bottomed woman in front of me shifted, and I saw him more clearly. He wore a new coat – business must have been rewarding recently – and he had been freshly shaved and barbered. His eyes were dark and shiny as a robin’s in his lean, tanned face, and he let them roam over the audience, making sure we were all attending. We were. Moreover, as soon as his light, carrying voice had begun the tale, more people had stopped what they were doing and joined the listening crowd.

  ‘The greedy merchant bartered and bargained,’ the storyteller continued, ‘he bought cheap and sold dear, and his fortune grew and grew, but still he wasn’t satisfied. He married a beautiful woman, and she gave him an even lovelier daughter’ – he paused to run lascivious eyes over the young women in the audience, some of whom simpered and giggled – ‘but he wanted more. He wanted more precious daughters to marry off to wealthy men who would reward him well for the privilege, and he wanted sons who he would force to work for him so that his enormous wealth increased still further. But his beautiful wife grew sick, and she died.’ A dramatic little pause, the storyteller’s face assuming an expression of deep sorrow.

  ‘Some said her death was from a weary, broken heart, for she knew her husband did not love her for herself but only for the children he wished to father on her. And then do you know what happened?’ He glanced around the intent crowd, eyebrows raised. A man said, ‘No! What?’ and there was some laughter. ‘Well, I’ll
tell you,’ said the storyteller with a smile. ‘The greedy merchant was left all alone, for, no matter how many women he flattered and courted and tried to impress with his fine house and its rich furnishings, his elegant horses, his gorgeous raiment, his jewels and his gold, none would have him. He was growing old now, and his character showed in his face, and the ladies he wooed knew better than to accept him.’

  ‘Serve him right!’ a woman’s shrill voice observed in an indignant tone.

  ‘His beautiful daughter grew towards womanhood, and he put her in a costly litter lined with goose-down mattresses and pillows and the softest woollen blankets and hung with silken curtains, and he scoured the land with her, displaying her to all the richest lords and noblemen. Most of these fine men offered for her hand, for as well as a lovely face she had a sweet, gentle manner, and it was easy to fall for her, and so the greedy merchant decided that the only thing to do was to set up an auction, and let the competing suitors bid for her hand.’

  There were several mutterings, and someone said, ‘The bastard!’

  ‘The day of the auction came,’ went on the storyteller. ‘It was summer and the sun was out, shining with a smiling face in a deep blue sky, yet right on the eastern horizon there could be discerned, for those who troubled to look, a small dark cloud. However, few could tear their fascinated eyes away from the spectacle of the greedy merchant’s daughter, up on a high wooden platform in the middle of the market square—’

  Suddenly he paused, then, looking around, his eyes wide as if only then noticing his surroundings, he said, ‘Very like to this square, if not the self-same one!’

  There was a gasp from someone at the front.

  ‘There she was, the beautiful daughter’ – he picked up the tale – ‘sitting on a silk-covered throne and dressed in the most gorgeous gown in a shade of sea-green which exactly matched her eyes. The marketplace thronged with people, and the suitors had a job of it, elbowing their way to the front so that their bids could be heard. Meanwhile,’ he added, lowering his voice dramatically so that as one his crowd all leaned forward to hear, ‘the dark cloud on the eastern horizon had grown bigger and closer.’