Rest Not in Peace by Mel Starr

difficult for a wealthy man to enter heaven, but it is also sure that it is hard for a poor man to escape purgatory. If Sir Henry had not lived a life worthy of heaven I doubt that my prayers, or any man’s, would send him there. But I keep such heretical views to myself. I am responsible for the care of a wife and a child. Perhaps soon two children. It would not do to provoke the bishops.
    Sir Roger approached and drew me from the grave and those who surrounded it as earth was shoveled atop the coffin. We were near the churchyard wall when he turned and drew from his pouch a scrap of parchment the size of my palm. “This,” he said softly, “was slipped under my door in the night, whilst I slept.”
    A few lines, hastily scrawled, filled one side of the fragment. The letters were so badly formed that at first I could not decide whether the words were Latin or English. A moment of scrutiny told me that before me was a message in English, written by some man unfamiliar with a pen.
    “The squire has what you seek,” was lettered in a crude hand upon the parchment.
    “Who has written this,” the sheriff asked, “and what is it that I seek?”
    “You are here to seek a murderer, are you not?”
    “Aye. Does this then say that one of Sir Henry’s squires did murder, or does a squire know who is guilty?”
    “Perhaps both. If one of the squires is the guilty man, the other may know of it. But why, I wonder, tell you in this manner? Why not speak of the knowledge directly to you?”
    “Aye, why not? The man who wrote this wishes to be unknown.”
    “Some knight or valet or groom knows, or believes he knows, who has slain Sir Henry,” I said, “but wants to conceal from you that he possesses such information.”
    “Which squire?”
    “Perhaps the man does not know. Or perhaps the squires worked together to strike down Sir Henry.”
    “Then what is it we seek?” Sir Roger asked.
    “Evidence. When we have returned to the castle I will tell Lord Gilbert that while others are at dinner in the hall we will inspect the chamber where Sir Henry’s squires sleep.”
    “You believe what the squire has is a thing, rather than information?”
    “Who can say? If some evidence is to be found in the squires’ chamber, it may be more readily discovered than knowledge, which men may more easily obscure from the view of others.”
    “Lady Margery wishes to set out for Bedford on Monday,” Lord Gilbert said when Sir Roger and I approached him. “What say you? Must she remain until this matter is resolved? We could require her men and maids to remain, and send her off with an escort of my own grooms. There will be men left behind at Bedford to serve her until those of her servants who are innocent of murder can be released.”
    “It may be possible for her to leave with her people… but for one,” Sir Roger said. He produced the scrap of parchment and Lord Gilbert frowned over the crude message while he considered its import.
    “One of Sir Henry’s squires did the murder?” he asked.
    “It is uncertain that this is what is meant,” I replied. “Sir Roger and I wish to absent ourselves from dinner. While all are in the hall we will search the squires’ chamber. Perhaps the murder weapon may be hid there.”
    “Ah. Very well. I will tell the cook to keep back some of the meal for you.”
    No doubt we were missed when Lord Gilbert’s valetsbegan to serve dinner, but no one asked, he said later, of our whereabouts, being perhaps too polite to seem nosey.
    The squires’ chamber was on the ground floor of the castle guest range, its ceiling low, and with but one narrow window of glass which looked out to the marshalsea across an open yard. It was mid-day, or nearly so, but the small window provided little light for our search.
    “What is it we seek?” Sir Roger asked as we entered the room. “A bodkin or other such device?”
    “Aye. Something long and slender which could be plunged into a man’s head through his