ear. Assuming that we construe that note properly.”
Two narrow beds occupied either side of the chamber. Between them was a small table, two chests, and on the far wall a fireplace. I pointed to one of the beds. “Search that mattress and bed clothes and I’ll do the same here.”
Silently we lifted and peered under the mattresses. I pulled back blankets but found nothing. I bent to peer under the bed but found only dust. Sir Roger completed his inspection of the other bed and likewise found nothing incriminating.
I stood and studied the chamber, then turned my attention to the chests. They had no locks, and the lids opened freely. In them were men’s undergarments, kirtles and braes, extra cotehardies, caps, combs, and one chest held a pair of shoes with outlandishly curled toes, of finest leather, such as young men of fashion like to wear. In this same chest I found a vial of some liquid. I removed the stopper and passed the vessel under my nose. ’Twas no poison, but clove-pink, useful when a youth might wish to make his odor sweet before a maid. But no hidden weapon was found in either chest – but for the clove-pink.
Perhaps we looked for the wrong thing. The anonymous informer had written that we would find herewhat we sought, but how did the writer know what it was we sought?
I stood in the center of the small chamber, hands on hips, and studied the shadowed room. If I wished to hide an incriminating weapon, where would I do so?
The pillows and mattresses had seemed a likely place, but examination had found nothing but goose feathers and chopped straw. The sun, now slanting through the narrow window, illuminated the fireplace and at the top of the opening I saw a brief glimmer of some white object, pale against the soot of the mantel.
The white fragment hung, barely visible, from the inside of the mantel. A place where nothing white should be, nor would it remain so for long in such a place. I stepped to the hearth, reached into the cavity, and drew from behind the mantel a scrap of linen cloth about as wide as my foot and twice as long. It had evidently been stuffed hastily into a crack between the stones, and a corner had fallen free, which I had not seen until the afternoon sun began to penetrate the chamber and illuminate the hearth.
The linen cloth was white, but not completely so. Nearly half of it was speckled with a reddish-brown stain. The fabric had been used to absorb blood. Was this Sir Henry’s blood? Was this what Sir Roger had been told to seek? Sir Roger thought so.
“Blood,” he said, “or I’ll swim the Isis on St Stephen’s Day.”
Both the sheriff and I had, in our work, seen much blood. There was no mistaking the stains upon the cloth.
“Sir Henry’s blood, you think?” Sir Roger continued. “Some man wished to hide it, so it’s not likely ’twas used to staunch a bloody nose.”
“Aye. Forced into the crevice between stones, it might have gone undetected, but a corner fell free.”
“So we’ve caught a murderer, eh? But which one? Two of Sir Henry’s squires occupy this chamber.”
“We must devise some way,” I said, “of learning which is guilty. If we bluntly ask, each will blame the other – unless both conspired against Sir Henry – and we might never learn the truth of the matter.”
“Hang ’em both. We’d be sure to have the guilty lad then.”
I turned to study Sir Roger’s face, but could not tell whether he was serious or spoke in jest.
“’Twould be best to be certain,” I said. “And if this is Sir Henry’s blood, the weapon which struck him down may be nearby as well. I don’t think a felon would cast away his weapon, then keep the fabric with which he wiped away the gore.”
“Keep both, or cast away both, eh?”
“Aye. Let’s return to the search. Perhaps there is in this chamber some secret place where an awl or bodkin may be hid. Such a weapon is slender and requires little cover.”
I placed the bloodstained linen
Two narrow beds occupied either side of the chamber. Between them was a small table, two chests, and on the far wall a fireplace. I pointed to one of the beds. “Search that mattress and bed clothes and I’ll do the same here.”
Silently we lifted and peered under the mattresses. I pulled back blankets but found nothing. I bent to peer under the bed but found only dust. Sir Roger completed his inspection of the other bed and likewise found nothing incriminating.
I stood and studied the chamber, then turned my attention to the chests. They had no locks, and the lids opened freely. In them were men’s undergarments, kirtles and braes, extra cotehardies, caps, combs, and one chest held a pair of shoes with outlandishly curled toes, of finest leather, such as young men of fashion like to wear. In this same chest I found a vial of some liquid. I removed the stopper and passed the vessel under my nose. ’Twas no poison, but clove-pink, useful when a youth might wish to make his odor sweet before a maid. But no hidden weapon was found in either chest – but for the clove-pink.
Perhaps we looked for the wrong thing. The anonymous informer had written that we would find herewhat we sought, but how did the writer know what it was we sought?
I stood in the center of the small chamber, hands on hips, and studied the shadowed room. If I wished to hide an incriminating weapon, where would I do so?
The pillows and mattresses had seemed a likely place, but examination had found nothing but goose feathers and chopped straw. The sun, now slanting through the narrow window, illuminated the fireplace and at the top of the opening I saw a brief glimmer of some white object, pale against the soot of the mantel.
The white fragment hung, barely visible, from the inside of the mantel. A place where nothing white should be, nor would it remain so for long in such a place. I stepped to the hearth, reached into the cavity, and drew from behind the mantel a scrap of linen cloth about as wide as my foot and twice as long. It had evidently been stuffed hastily into a crack between the stones, and a corner had fallen free, which I had not seen until the afternoon sun began to penetrate the chamber and illuminate the hearth.
The linen cloth was white, but not completely so. Nearly half of it was speckled with a reddish-brown stain. The fabric had been used to absorb blood. Was this Sir Henry’s blood? Was this what Sir Roger had been told to seek? Sir Roger thought so.
“Blood,” he said, “or I’ll swim the Isis on St Stephen’s Day.”
Both the sheriff and I had, in our work, seen much blood. There was no mistaking the stains upon the cloth.
“Sir Henry’s blood, you think?” Sir Roger continued. “Some man wished to hide it, so it’s not likely ’twas used to staunch a bloody nose.”
“Aye. Forced into the crevice between stones, it might have gone undetected, but a corner fell free.”
“So we’ve caught a murderer, eh? But which one? Two of Sir Henry’s squires occupy this chamber.”
“We must devise some way,” I said, “of learning which is guilty. If we bluntly ask, each will blame the other – unless both conspired against Sir Henry – and we might never learn the truth of the matter.”
“Hang ’em both. We’d be sure to have the guilty lad then.”
I turned to study Sir Roger’s face, but could not tell whether he was serious or spoke in jest.
“’Twould be best to be certain,” I said. “And if this is Sir Henry’s blood, the weapon which struck him down may be nearby as well. I don’t think a felon would cast away his weapon, then keep the fabric with which he wiped away the gore.”
“Keep both, or cast away both, eh?”
“Aye. Let’s return to the search. Perhaps there is in this chamber some secret place where an awl or bodkin may be hid. Such a weapon is slender and requires little cover.”
I placed the bloodstained linen
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