Justin was not about to explain that he'd had to see Claudine safely back to the Tower first. Quickly dismounting, he ignored Jonas's irritation. "What is going on?"
"Some young fools were sporting out on the ice when it cracked under their weight. Their friends managed to save one, but the other lad drowned. We've been trying to recover the
body."
"May God assoil him." Justin sketched a quick cross on the icy afternoon air, all the while wondering why Jonas would want him to see this poor drowned youth. "Do you ever get used to this? It cannot be easy, having to deal with death day after day."
"Nothing about this work is easy," Jonas said, then spat into the snow. "Come over here where we cannot be overheard, for I've news for you."
Hitching his stallion to a nearby bush, Justin followed Jonas across the snow. The serjeant shouted further instructions to the men on the ice, and then turned back to face Justin. "We snagged the body almost at once. But as we started to maneuver it within
grabbing range, it slipped off the hook and went under again."
Justin still did not understand why this sad death warranted such an urgent summons. "Bad luck."
Jonas nodded. "It was that. It was also the wrong body."
"What do you mean?"
"It was not the lad. I think it was Pepper Clem."
Justin drew a sharp breath. "Can you be sure?"
"Not until we fish him out. But I got a look at the face ere the body sank and it looked like him to me."
Justin was still dubious. "I saw a body pulled from the River Severn once. He'd only been in the water two days, but not even God could have recognized him, Jonas."
The serjeant pointed impatiently toward the lake. "I'd hate to think all that ice escaped your notice." He remembered then, though, that Justin could not be expected to have his specialized knowledge of dead bodies. "Cold water keeps a corpse from decaying," he explained brusquely, and was about to go into grisly detail when his men began to shout. "They've got one," he said. "Let's go see who it is."
Following Jonas out onto the ice, Justin saw that the men had been using poles with crooks on the end, like shepherds' staffs. One of these hooks had snared the victim's mantle, enabling them to drag him to the surface. By the time he and Jonas reached them, the men had pulled the body up onto the ice. When they turned him over, Justin felt a sickened pity, for he was very young, sixteen at most.
Jonas showed no emotion, gazing down at the drowned youth so impassively that Justin felt a chill; did the man never grieve for the dead? With a few terse commands, Jonas set two of his men to dragging the corpse across the ice toward the shore, where his stunned companions still waited. "Ask those cubs if they know where the lad lived. Someone will have to break the news to his kin, and like as not, it'll be me. And keep looking. We've got another body to bring up."
Justin moved aside, watching as the men continued the search. When Jonas rejoined him, he said quietly, "I get the feeling it did not surprise you to find Clem floating under that ice."
"He was not floating, not when the water's that cold. But you're right. I was expecting Clem to turn up dead. The fool tried to -" As they talked, Jonas had continued to scan the activities of his men, and reacted even before the first outcry. "They've hooked him. This better be Clem. We find a third body out here and I'm heading for the nearest alehouse.
The men soon had the corpse out of the water. He was sprawled on his stomach, his face hidden from view, but Justin thought the limp ginger hair did resemble the thief's. At first glance, his hands seemed to have been dipped in whitewash, and were queerly wrinkled; one of his feet had lost its shoe and it, too, showed that same chalky puckering. Justin braced himself as they shoved the body over onto his back. The face was so bloodless it seemed more like wax than flesh; the eyes were wide and staring, sand trickling from his open mouth, his skin scraped and abraded. But Jonas had been right; Pepper Clem's features were still easily recognizable.
The other men had gathered around and they stared down in silence at the body. There was no need to ask if he'd drowned. The cause of death was painfully obvious, and Justin was not the only one to avert his eyes from that gashed, mutilated throat. Jonas showed no such aversion and knelt by the body, studying Clem's wrists and then his ankles.
"Best to do this quick," he said, "for he'll start to bloat up now that he's out of the water, and in no time at all the stink will put a polecat to shame. I'm looking for rope burns, but it does not seem that he was weighted down. I suppose Gilbert did not think it was worth the trouble." No one else spoke, and he continued his examination of the corpse. "He's been in the water awhile; see all this sand in the seams of his tunic? My guess is he died last Saturday eve and took his final swim that same night, for the lake had not frozen over completely yet."
Justin swallowed with difficulty. "Was he... was he hit on the head first?"
"Possibly. Oh... you mean this?" Jonas asked, pointing toward the raw-looking wound that spread from Clem's right eyebrow up into his hairline. "That is not the Fleming's doing. You do not think the fish and crabs would pass up a meal like this, do you?" Glancing over his shoulder at Justin, he bit back a smile. "You're looking a little greensick, lad. I hope you're not going to feed the fish, too?"
Justin shook his head mutely. Those sightless eyes seemed to be staring up accusingly at him. First Kenrick and now Clem. How many more? The other men had retreated, for Jonas had been right in this, too; a foul, fishy odor was becoming discernable. Justin swallowed again. "I got him killed, didn't I?"
Jonas washed his hands in the snow, drying them on his mantle. "You have that backward. He almost got you killed."
"What are you saying?"
"I told you that I'd put the word out on the streets. What I learned was that I'd misjudged the little cheat. As craven as he was, Clem was even more greedy. You probably offered him too much, for he concluded that if you'd pay to find Gilbert the Fleming, mayhap he'd pay more to know you were on his trail. I found two witnesses who saw him meet Gilbert at a tavern in Cripplegate on Saturday eve a week ago. They talked briefly and
then left together. That is the last time Clem was seen alive. And when you turned up at the alehouse the next day as agreed upon, Gilbert was waiting."
Involuntarily, Justin's fingers cradled his slashed arm. It was still sore and somewhat stiff, but how much worse it could have been. That deadly blade could have lodged in his gut or stabbed through to his heart. "Clem told him what he wanted to know, how to find me. So why, then, did Gilbert kill him?"
"I'll tell you something about killing. Until a man has done it,he shrinks from it, makes of it more than it is. The first killing comes hard for most men. After that, it gets easier, a lot easier. For some, it gets to be a habit, or worse."
Jonas broke off to give orders concerning the disposition of Clem's corpse. There was a lot to be done and it was a while before he turned his attention again to Justin.
"You asked why the Fleming murdered that worthless little thief? Because it pleasured him. And that's also why there were men willing to talk to me about it. Not because they cared a rat's arse about Pepper Clem. Even a mother'd not mourn his loss. But it scares other men when they find one who takes too much joy in killing." That lone black eye held Justin's gaze, unwavering and unblinking. "As well it should
13
LONDON
February 1193
Sleep did not come easily to Justin that night. His bedsheets were still scented with Claudine's perfume. But the cottage's other spirit was not as welcome, for Clem's meagre ghost had followed him from Moorfields, and watched reproachfully from the shadows. When he finally slept, though, he did not dream of Clem or even Claudine. He was back in the Durngate Mill, feeling Kenrick's blood splatter upon his skin, and then the mill became Gunter's smithy and he was fighting again for his life, struggling to stave off the Fleming's thrusting blade. He awoke well before dawn to a cold hearth, ice skimmed over the water in his washing l
aver, and sweat on his brow.
The snow had continued during the night and was still spiraling down slowly from low-hanging grey clouds, large, fat flakes that seemed almost benign, an innocuous cousin of the snow that clogged roads and collapsed roofs and made winter travel so treacherous. Justin dropped Shadow off at the alehouse to play with Lucy, saddled Copper, and rode over to St Clement's Church on Candle-wright Street where he heard Mass and prayed for the souls of all the Fleming's victims. It occurred to him that his was probably the only prayer to be offered up for Pepper Clem, and that seemed the saddest possible epitaph for a man's misspent life.
Afterward, he arranged with the priest to give Clem a Christian burial and then left word for Jonas that he would pay for the little thief's funeral. He was still in a somber, reflective mood when he finally returned to Gracechurch Street, and he decided to leave Shadow with Lucy for a while longer. Gunter had gone off on an errand and the smithy was being watched by young Ellis, the neighbor lad who helped Nell out. Giving the boy a coin to unsaddle and feed Copper, Justin crossed to the back door and went out into the pasture behind the smithy.
Gunter's cottage did not seem like a city dwelling, for it was set apart on its own, surrounded by the fenced-in field and sheltered by several bare-branched apple trees. The garden once tended by Gunter's dead wife had long since shriveled under the neglect born of a long illness, but the holly she'd planted still thrived, bright splashes of green against the softly drifted snow. It was the snow, not the holly, that caught Justin's eye now. His tracks were still visible, not yet filled in. Beside them was a new set of footprints, leading straight to the cottage door.
Justin came to an abrupt halt. Gunter's cottage did not have a lock and key, for he'd never seen the need for such expensive protection. Instead, he'd fitted his door with a simple latch, a small bar which pivoted at one end and could be lifted from the outside by a latchstring. When Justin had left that morning, he'd taken the precaution of snagging the latchstring around a nail he'd driven into the wood. Now it dangled free, further proof that someone had lifted the bar and entered the cottage.
Justin was motionless for a long moment, considering. There was but one set of footprints. And the shutters were still in place, so whoever was within could not see his approach. He slid his sword from its scabbard. In one swift motion, he jerked up the latchstring and hit the door with his shoulder, shoving inward.
He came in fast and low, sword drawn. An oil lamp had been lit, its flame shivering in the sudden draft. A man was kneeling by the hearth, striking flint to tinder. He recoiled with a startled oath as the door banged open. "Jesu! Most men are content to open a door and just walk in. Leave it to you, de Quincy, to blow in like an ill wind and bounce off the walls!"
Justin was now the one to swear. "Hellfire and damnation! What are you doing here, Luke?"
"I happened to be passing by. What do you think?"
"I think that you nearly got yourself run through, and who'd have blamed me?"
They glared at each other, but their glowering gave way then to sheepish grins. Shutting the door, Justin dropped the bar back into place and carefully drew in the latchstring. "I'll confess that I'm glad to see you, Luke. At least now the Fleming will have a choice of targets."
"It sounds like you got somewhat confused, de Quincy. You were supposed to be the hunter and Gilbert the hunted, remember?"
"Good of you to point that out to me." Moving to the hearth, Justin helped Luke to get the fire going. "How did you find out where I was? The entire street is in a conspiracy to keep my whereabouts secret - and there are none more stubborn or suspicious than Londoners!"
"You need not tell me that, for I've already met the hellcat over at the alehouse. I might as well have been speaking Welsh, for all the good it did me. 'Justin who? Never heard of the man.' And the chill got even worse when I admitted to being an under-sheriff. They do not fancy the law much hereabouts, do they?"
Justin laughed. "I'd love to have seen that, you and Nell locking horns. So how did you win her over?"
"By sheer perseverance. I would not go away, kept insisting that we were allies. I even stretched the truth enough to claim we were friends. Finally it occurred to me to show her your letter, proof that I could be trusted. But then I had to wait whilst she sent for the priest, since he is the only man on the street who can read, and she was not about to take my word for the letter's contents. If they protect you half as well from Gilbert the Fleming as they did from me, you've nothing to worry about!"
Justin was looking around the cottage in vain for food or drink to offer Luke; they'd have to go over to the alehouse and coax Nell into cooking a meal. But that would have to wait, for he'd been doing some rapid mental math. "Today is the fourteenth, only ten days since I sent that letter. You must have ridden for London as soon as you got it. Why?"
Luke's smile was triumphant, and a trifle smug. "Whilst you were playing cat-and-mouse with the Fleming, I was having better luck. Remember Gilbert's unknown partner? Well, he is unknown no longer. We're looking for a lout named Sampson, one of Winchester's least-loved sons. I daresay the entire town heaved a great sigh of relief when he fled with Gilbert. Unfortunately, we never lack for felons, but at least Sampson is London's worry now - and ours."
"Good work, Luke. But are you sure this is the man? I doubt that I could identify him."
"From what you told me about him, he is young and strong and stupid, no? Well, Sampson has an ox's strength and an ox's brains, powerful enough to hold onto a terrified stallion and dumb enough to call out Gilbert's name. Moreover, he is known to have worked with Gilbert in the past, and he disappeared from Winchester at the same time as Gilbert did. I have no doubts that he is our man. Do you think he could also have been in on your London ambush? The hellcat told me - very grudgingly - about that attack on you in the smithy last week. I assume one was our friend the Fleming. Was Sampson the other?"
"No, I think not. The man in the smithy was nowhere near as tall and strapping as this Sampson. Also, he had a London accent, and you say Sampson is a Winchester lad. But you are right about Gilbert. He did indeed come calling, knife in hand."
"That is the third time you've encountered the Fleming in one of his killing moods and lived to tell about it. Your guardian angel must be putting in very long hours these days." Scorning the sole rickety chair, Luke seated himself cross-legged on the foot of the bed. "Do you think that means Gilbert and Sampson have parted company?"
"Well... you say Sampson is none too clever. But we know Gilbert is, for certes. He might well have decided Sampson was too risky a partner and cut him loose. Gilbert knows London, would have no need for Sampson here. He swims in these waters with ease, one more shark amongst the rest. I'd wager they went their separate ways once they reached the city."
"That makes sense," Luke agreed. "Of course Sampson could be dead, then. People around Gilbert do seem to die at an alarming rate."
"Possibly. But you say Sampson is big and mean spirited and knows Gilbert's ready way with a knife. He'd not be that easy to kill. It might have been simpler for Gilbert just to let him go off on his own."
Luke nodded thoughtfully. "What sort of help are you getting from the sheriff?"
"He agreed to let one of his serjeants assist me, a man named Jonas. Are you familiar with him?"
"I'm not sure. I met several of the sheriff's men on past visits to London. He might be one of them, I suppose."
"Believe me, Jonas is not a man to be forgotten. If you'd met, you'd remember. In his own way, he is as formidable as the Fleming. So you and he will probably take to each other like long-lost brothers," Justin added wryly. But almost at once, his smile faded. "Luke, there is another death to be charged to Gilbert's account. A wretched little thief and cutpurse named Pepper Clem. No one grieves that he is gone. But his murder ought not to be forgotten. Even the least of us deserves justice."
After experiencing Jonas's indifference, Justin half expected Luke either to shrug
or scoff. But the deputy merely nodded again. "I seem to remember Scriptures saying something about birds: that not even a sparrow falls to earth without the Almighty's knowing. If that holds true for sparrows, it must hold true, too, for 'a wretched little thief and cutpurse.'"
Justin studied the other man for signs of mockery, did not find them. "You could have sent me a letter about Sampson. You did not need to come on your own. Why did you, Luke?"
"I could say I fancied a trip to London. Or that I knew you'll get yourself into trouble on your own. Or that I've always been one for being there at the end of a hunt. Why do my reasons matter?"
"They do not," Justin said, but it was a lie. Luke's reasons mattered very much, indeed, to him. There could be a less innocent explanation for the deputy's sudden appearance here. John had passed through Winchester on his way to the port of Southampton. Had he sent Luke back to London to be his eyes? As little as Justin wanted to believe that, he could not dismiss the suspicion out of hand. He dared not. He'd made some mistakes so far, but the greatest mistake of all would be to underrate John.