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France 1310: In the woods near Troyes, a forester stumbles across the body of a stranger. As Bailli Dubois begins his investigation, it becomes apparent that the wife of his best friend is implicated. Hopelessly compromised, the Dean of the Guild of Merch
A FATAL HOMECOMING A Jean Bellimont Mystery by Trevor Whitton Copyright 2012 Trevor Whitton This ebook is licensed for distribution through free-ebooks.net for your personal enjoyment only and may not be sold or reproduced in any way without the author's explicit agreement. All other copies offered via other channels are illegal and a breech of copyright. Although this book is provided free of charge, if you enjoy it a modest donation would be appreciated. Chapter 1 May 1310 - Troyes, Kingdom of France… Hugo the Forestier shook his head sadly as he inspected yet another dying tree. It was the fourth he'd found that morning, to add to the dozens he'd come across over the past month. What was decimating his forest he couldn't tell. His father would have known at a glance - but he'd been dead for three years, now. Hugo had done his best to learn all his secrets before he died, but found that the old man - although a very fine forestier - was a very poor teacher. ‘Its something that can't be taught,’ he'd explain impatiently to his frustrated son. ‘You can only learn the secrets of the trees by watching and listening to them over many, many years.’ ‘Listen to them? What do you mean, “listen to them”? Don't talk such rubbish.’ - to which his father would just hang his head and mutter to himself. Well, Hugo had tried to watch and listen, but the trees remained stubbornly mute. In his own way he had nevertheless managed to learn a great deal, and was now almost as well respected amongst the community as his father had been. In reality, he was the only person aware of his shortcomings, but that would quickly change once people noticed that the forest was dying. He ran his hand over the rough bark, half hoping it would give him a hint of what was wrong. ‘“Listen to them!” my father said. Well, if you're ever going to speak to me, now's the time to do it. No? Then there's little I can do to help,’ he said aloud. He shook his head and did one more circuit of the trunk. He could identify any one of a dozen diseases, but none that remotely resembled this. In the end, he broke off one of the afflicted branches in the hope that his friend in Saint Guillaume (a village some three miles away) could shed some light on the mystery. He tightened the rope harnessing the load of sticks on his back before continuing his daily search for kindling and inspection of traps. A light rain was falling now, and Hugo pulled the hood of his tunic over his head to keep out the worst of the damp. It hung down almost to his nose, restricting his vision to a small circle just ahead of his feet, but protected his eyes from the stream of water that was soon cascading over his face. Some days were better than others for a forestier - but ones like this came bottom of the pile. He stumbled over tree roots and more than once grazed his shin against a protruding rock, but he knew he had to clear the traps today or they'd be cleared by poachers and foxes tonight. The Commune of Troyes only paid him to watch and maintain the forest - they wouldn't care if he went home and dried himself beside his fire. As long as the trees were kept healthy (God willing, he'll be able to do something to make sure of that) and a daily load of kindling was supplied during the colder months to the various charitable institutions to which the Commune was committed, then no-one cared what hours he kept. There were no restrictions on which animals he was allowed to hunt and trap - a great privilege allowed only to the forestier and the local nobles, and one on which he greatly depended. There was no alternative but to plod on despite the rain. Soon he came to a denser part of the forest and his progress became more difficult. There was a lot more kindling to collect here, but tree roots barred the way in every direction and were treacherously slippery in the damp conditions. It was curiously quiet - neither bird nor animal stirred and the only sound came from the branches above as they rocked back and forth in the wind. He came to a particularly awkward root buttress and placed his palm against it for balance as he tried to climb over. Suddenly the moss covering the bark gave way and the load on his back forced him to lose his balance and topple sideways. At the last moment he tried to brace himself with his foot, but by now his momentum was too great. He fell face first into the mud, bruising his elbow and taking several layers of skin off his hand into the bargain. He was just beginning to think the day couldn’t get any worse, when he lifted his face from the mud and looked directly into the dead, staring eyes of a corpse. Suddenly the forest wasn't quiet any more. Chapter 2. Richard Beauchamp couldn't understand it. His wife Marguerite was usually such a gentle, even-tempered woman. He'd never seen her so much as raise her voice, but for the past few days she didn't seem to have a civilized word to say to anyone. She'd yelled at the fruit merchant because the apples weren't ripe (it was hardly his fault); she'd yelled at her step-son Etienne for breaking a ceramic plate (it was an old one, anyway); she'd yelled at Etienne's wife Beatrice for trying to calm her down; and here she was arguing with Richard himself. He was a tolerant man and generally didn't hold with husbands who wouldn't allow dissent from their wives - but he was nevertheless glad that no one else was around to see her challenge him in this way. ‘Please remember I am your husband,’ he said as the argument started to become heated. ‘I trust that I deserve your respect.’ ‘And please remember that Josephine is my daughter. I have every right to object to would-be suitors.’ For a moment Richard considered reminding his wife that Beatrice was also his daughter - albeit stepdaughter - and that (technically, anyway) it was he who would have the final say over whom she would wed. He stopped himself just in time, realising that, although this might be the legal situation, in reality Marguerite was right. ‘You can’t protect her forever, you know – and she’s already in her middle twenties. Etienne managed to have Mathilde wedded just last year, and time is quickly running out for Josephine.’ Mathilde was Richard’s granddaughter, and his son and daughter-in-law had had the devil of a time convincing her to get married. Despite the young woman’s initial reservations, she was now living happily with her new husband across town in their own handsome stone house near the Cathedral. ‘I know how old my daughter is,’ said Marguerite coldly. Richard decided to try a different tack. He began scratching absently at the faded upholstery on the arm of his chair and tried to look nonchalant. ‘I don't see why you still bear a grudge against the Bellimonts, anyway. Jean's a fine fellow, and his son Claude is making his way very well in the world. They were once a poor family, but Jean is Deputy Bailli in all but name these days, and Claude is a well-regarded and talented apprentice vintner. You need have no worries about his prospects.’ Marguerite gave her husband a withering look - one he'd never witnessed from her before and would never have guessed she possessed. It was alarming. He thought he knew this woman! ‘That's not what I have against him, as well you know,’ she said - slowly and emphatically. She was standing over him with her hands on her hips and an unbecoming scowl on her face. Richard shook his head sadly. The truth was that he had his own reasons for introspection lately – one recent event in particularly had given him cause for deep concern. Whatever transpired, he knew he had to keep the news from his wife at all costs. He forced his concentration back to the argument at hand, and tried once again to defend a family he knew to be good. ‘Surely you can't still hold a grudge against Jean? That was years ago.’ Marguerite didn't reply, but stood looking at her husband stony-faced. The room had quickly emptied of its inhabitants - servants and family alike - once the argument had started. The couple now had the solar to themselves, a small fire crackling on the hearth and the rain outside beating against the shutters. ‘For Saint Peter’s sake,’ said Richard once he realised he wasn't going to get a response, ‘the poor man even undertook a pilgrimage to Compostella to atone for the wrong he did you! What more can he do?’ ‘I have no particular argument with Jean Bellimont - but I do not want his son seeing my daughter. Absolutely not!’ And with that she suddenly burst into tears and stormed from the room, slamming the huge oak door behind her so hard that the whole house seemed to shake. Richard shook his head once again and chewed on his upper lip contemplatively. ‘There's more to this than meets the eye,’ he said aloud. ‘But for the life of me I don't know what it is.’ Bailli Henri Dubois cocked his head to one side and regarded his clerk closely. He could tell the man wasn't happy by the way he avoided his employer's gaze, and Henri wasn't going to stand for it. His underling had a strong tendency to get above himself sometimes, and it was a habit he intended to stamp out. He leant back in his chair, put his feet on the desk, and clasped his hands behind his head. It was a look he hoped conveyed both authority and disapproval. The two men couldn’t have been less alike – Henri was tall and still strikingly handsome despite his advancing years, and Jean was a good two heads shorter, bald except for the tufts of hair stretching from ear to ear around the back of his head, and presenting a less-than-flattering physique which seemed to grow more rotund by the day. He was also several years the other man’s senior, although he looked considerably older. ‘Something wrong, Jean?’ said Henri, a challenging look in his eye. Jean continued to write without looking up - merely shrugging his shoulders in reply. It was a mannerism that irritated his employer - although he could never explain why. He tried to appear casual, but it was an effort. ‘You disagree perhaps with my ruling on that possession dispute?’ Another shrug was enough to tip Henri over the edge. He jumped to his feet and walked over to his clerk's desk - hands on hips and legs astride. ‘Well what would you have done?’ ‘It was the old man's by right,’ said Jean, still without looking up. ‘But not by law - there's a difference!’ said Henri, thumping the table and nearly knocking over a jar of ink. The little clerk caught it just in time to avert catastrophe, then finally deigned to look up. ‘Unfortunately you're right. Too often ethical and legal issues conflict. I'm glad I don't have your job.’ The words were contrite enough, but they were delivered with just a hint of insolence. Henri was nonplussed how to respond, and finally settled for repeating his original question. ‘So what would you have done?’ ‘Me? I'd have broken the law,’ said Jean, going back to his writing. Henri continued to stand over his clerk, still unsure what to do. This was an ongoing quandary for him – should he correct his insufferable behaviour or learn from his wisdom? Was the fellow a fool or a sage? The scene was finally interrupted by the entry of the huge lieutenant, Francois. ‘What is it?’ snapped Henri. ‘A body, sir. Hugo the Forestier's found a body.’ ‘Recognise him?’ asked Henri, looking down at the body on the table a short time later. ‘Never seen him before,’ said Jean. ‘No doubt what killed him,’ said Henri, pointing to the deep gash in the man’s head. ‘A sword would you say?’ The Bailli shook his head. ‘No – more like a club. Blunt rather than sharp is my guess.’ The two men continued to contemplate the scene before them in silence, until Henri finally clicked his tongue and turned away. ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Jean, following close behind. ‘This is the part of the job I can’t stand.’ Henri had dealt with dozens of murders in his time, and Jean wondered why this case was any different. If it had been a child lying dead back there or a young woman, he could understand. But why get so upset over a total stranger? Henri must have sensed his clerk’s bewilderment. ‘Public display of the body for identification,’ he explained with distaste. Suddenly Jean understood. Public displays brought out the worst in everyone. People who were normally reasonable suddenly flocked to ogle the corpse. Henri spat on the ground and turned back to look at the poor wretch stretched out on the slab. ‘No one deserves such humiliation. Well – some do, I suppose. But it makes me sick. If I had my way I’d lock up the lot of them. Troyes would be much the better for it.’ Jean was in complete sympathy. After another rueful shake of the head, Henri bellowed for Francois, who appeared so quickly he must have been waiting outside expecting the summons. ‘Arrange for the Crier de Cite to announce a public viewing of the body for tomorrow morning, please,’ said Henri – almost regretfully. ‘Public identification?’ asked Francois. Henri nodded and shrugged. ‘As soon as possible, please. I want this matter cleared up before…’ ‘Before he starts rotting, sir?’ Henri pulled a face and nodded again. ‘You have a way with words, lieutenant. No doubt about that.’ ‘No point pissing around, sir,’ said Francois, before turning on his heel and setting off to get things under way. For a moment Jean was worried that Henri was going to vent his anger on the retreating back of his trusted servant, but his face quickly softened and he even managed an ironic smile. ‘At least I know I can rely on him to get the job done. Everyone in the city will be aware of the situation before the day’s close. Then I can look forward to all the madmen turning up at first light tomorrow.’ ‘Surely they won’t be here that early?’ said Jean sceptically. There hadn’t been the need to identify a body since he had begun working for Henri several years earlier, and this was all a new experience for him. His employer gave him a baleful look. ‘They’ll be lining up overnight!’ he said mournfully. 'In the meantime, I'd better have a word with Hugo the Forestier.' Chapter 3 Jean had tried to prepare himself, but the next morning was worse than he could ever have imagined. As Henri had predicted, there was a group of about twenty people waiting outside the Baillerie as Saint Jean's bells pealed for eight o'clock Mass. The body had been placed towards the end of the great hall under the largest of the glazed windows – all the better for ready identification. The crowd scrambled through fighting for the best vantage point as Francois flung the doors open, nearly knocking him over in the process. A man usually quick to anger, Jean was surprised at his restraint. 'I've seen it too often before,' he said in response to the clerk’s questioning glance. The crowd came and went as the morning progressed, and there was a constant murmur and almost a festive feel to the proceedings which was sickening to behold. Worst of all were those who seemed to get pleasure out of touching and poking the corpse, momentarily scattering the ever increasing flies in the process. Francois quickly sent them away with a growl, rolling his eyes and shaking his head at Henri, who watched from his office doorway at the top of the stairs. 'I told you it was unpleasant,' he said as his clerk vented his disgust. Jean shook his head. 'I just can't believe some of the people who've come here. Respected clergymen and merchants – and the women! I wouldn't have thought a woman capable of such uncouth behaviour. For the Good Lord’s sake – even the Dean of the Guild was here!' Henri flinched. Paul Grossin was recently appointed head of the town’s Council and Merchants Company (thanks largely to the influence and support he received from the Duke of Burgundy), and – despite being unpopular with both his colleagues and the populace in general - had aspirations of one day usurping the Bailli’s role in Troyes. He and Henri were constantly at loggerheads, and he also held a strong animosity towards Henri’s good friend Richard Beauchamp – the most powerful and popular guildsman and merchant in the town. 'I’m sure he only came out of a genuine sense of civic duty,' said Henri – fairly dripping with sarcasm. 'Why does he persist with this ridiculous ambition of his, anyway?' asked Jean, who never really understood how the man thought it could be done – to overthrow the King’s appointed Bailli. To his surprise, Henri seemed to take the threat seriously. ‘It’s not unheard of. In places where the Dean of the Guild is popular and the Bailli is not, the role wields considerable influence. Under such circumstances it’s been known for him to take over the judicial role – he holds the power anyway, in fact if not in law. I don’t think you realise just how fickle our Offices are, Jean. They are very much subject to political expediency. Fortunately, Grossin is about as popular here as weevils in a loaf of bread. Sadly for us all, both are inevitable.’ Having thus unburdened himself on the subject, Henri went back to the unpleasant pastime of watching the crowd. When Claire Vaillant saw her dead husband’s body lying stretched out before her, her first reaction was one of pure relief. It surprised her. Despite all that he had done to her, she hadn't realised quite how much she'd come to hate him. Upon reflection, it seemed fitting, somehow, that he should end up this way. From the time she'd left Paris in pursuit of him (although she hadn’t dared admit it to herself), part of her had been half expecting something like this to happen – he was that kind of man. Recalling all he had put her through, she was quite content to leave his body unidentified. Let him lie in an unmarked pauper’s grave, she thought – it was no less than he deserved. Besides, it was clear that he had been murdered. And to whom would suspicion fall if it were to become known who she was? A spurned wife from a distant town would be just the sort of person any Bailli would be willing to sacrifice without so much as a second thought. Bernard had left her a week earlier. She’d awoken one morning to find that he hadn’t returned from the alehouse the previous night – and her intuition was already warning her that something was seriously wrong. Her husband had his faults (and whoring was certainly one of them), but he always came home before dawn. Always. She went straight to his favourite public house and spoke to the Innkeeper, who told her that he had spoken of returning to his home town of Troyes - seeking [...]...to escape the debts he had incurred at the local gambling house Although she still showed traces of the beauty that had originally attracted her husband nearly twenty years ago, the lines on her face and wrinkled, dry skin betrayed her age Yes, her beauty was fading, and now she had lost her husband But that wasn't all No, not by a long way She discovered that his debts had now become her... was fast approaching for him to decide who that would be, and Claude had been doing all he could to demonstrate that it should be him It was a fine line he had to tread between initiative and arrogance The old wine maker wouldn’t take kindly to someone promising to introduce too radical a change, and to watch his precious legacy produce poor wine would be as bad as watching it run to weed He was taking... mean?’ Now it was the other’s turn to scowl ‘Of course I mean the dead man Who else?’ Francois didn’t reply, but continued to wait for the man to go on ‘It’s Bernard Vaillant,’ he said at last After the briefest of pauses he added – ‘He was the husband of Marguerite Beauchamp.’ Francois’ heart sank He was not what could be described as quick-witted, but even he could see straight away that this was... a clip around the ear Leclercq flinched and glared impotently at his attacker ‘Show some respect,’ growled the lieutenant ‘Leave it,’ said Henri curtly ‘I suppose that’s how Vaillant got wind that my predecessor was onto him.’ It was more of a statement than a question, and Leclercq didn’t bother with a reply ‘So what do you do now?’ ‘I sell vegetables at the market Came into a small plot of land a. .. was not good It was not good at all A short time later he was standing before Henri, watching his employer pace the floor as he knew he would ‘Oh shit!’ was all he could say, over and over again ‘The man’s sure?’ he demanded ‘Ask him yourself – he’s outside,’ said Francois, sharing a grimace of concern with Jean, who was sitting quietly in the corner Henri took a deep breath and made a beckoning gesture... her husband’s – now her – debtors She had nowhere else to go and no one to turn to The priest at Saint Severin had promised to help, and that was far from insignificant She took one, last look at the recumbent corpse, before turning away to begin her long journey home Claire Vaillant wasn't the only visitor from Paris that day who was acquainted with the deceased A short time after she had left another... left another stranger looked down on the lifeless body, and decided that his work was done Perhaps it wasn’t the ideal outcome – but it was one well within his brief, nevertheless His craggy features broke into a half-smile as he turned and made his way back through the crowd He rubbed slowly at the small scar on his neck – a habitual action he was hardly aware of – and shielded his eyes as he stepped... the harsh sunlight He looked left and right down the busy, neatly cobbled street (being an important market town, such expense was well justified), momentarily unsure which way to go There was no need for him to stay, but he was still reluctant to leave It was, after all, a pleasant town as provincial towns go, and it was particularly inviting in the warm sunshine With a nod and shrug to himself as he... began pouring ‘Firstly, I must explain that I deliberately left this patch in the corner of the vineyard to the vagaries of the weather last season – giving it no water at all The rest I irrigated as normal I think you’ll agree that the result has been interesting.’ Giles Monchet was a competent and wellrespected wine maker, and he didn’t take kindly to being told his trade by a novice His face began... turning back towards a particularly pretty young woman who had taken his fancy (the attraction was most definitely not reciprocated) Suddenly he stopped and frowned He looked back at the face of the dead man, vague memories stirring at the back of his mind On closer inspection there was no doubting the resemblance – but was it him? It had been many years, but the more he looked, the more certain he became . Claire Vaillant wasn't the only visitor from Paris that day who was acquainted with the deceased. A short time after she had left another. for him to stay, but he was still reluctant to leave. It was, after all, a pleasant town as provincial towns go, and it was particularly inviting