St. Peter's Fair by Ellis Peters Page A

turned
great, shocked eyes upon the sheriff. On the face of it—but every face can
dissemble if the need is great enough.
    “My
lord,” pleaded Philip urgently, when he had his voice again, “is this truth?
Master Thomas of Bristol is dead?”
    “Known
or unknown to you,” said Prestcote dryly, “—and I hazard no judgment—it is
truth. The merchant is dead. Our main purpose here now is to examine how he
died.”
    “Taken
from the water, the monk said. Did he drown?”
    “That,
if you know, you may tell us.”
    Abruptly
the prisoner turned his back upon the sheriff, took another deep breath into
him, and looked directly at Emma, and from then on barely took his eyes from
her, even when Prestcote addressed him. The only judgment he cared about was
hers.
    “Lady,
I swear to you I never did your uncle harm, never saw him again after they
hauled me away from the jetty. What befell him I do not know, and God knows I’m
sorry for your loss. I would not for the world have touched him, even if we had
met and quarrelled afresh, knowing he was your kinsman.”
    “Yet
you were heard threatening harm to him,” said the sheriff.
    “It
may be so. I cannot drink, I was a fool ever to try that cure. I recall nothing
of what I said, I make no doubt it was folly, and unworthy. I was sore and
bitter. What I set out to do was honest enough, and yet it fell apart. All went
to waste. But if I talked violence, I did none. I never saw the man again. When
I turned sick from the wine I left the tavern and went down to the riverside,
away from the boats, and lay down there until I made shift to drag myself back
to the town. I admit to the trouble that arose out of my acts, and all that has
been said against me, all but this. As God sees me, I never did your uncle any
injury. Speak, and say you believe me!”
    Emma
gazed at him with parted lips and dismayed eyes,unable to say
yes or no to him. How could she know what was true and what was lies?
    “Let
her be,” said the sheriff sharply. “It is with us you have to deal. This matter
must be probed deeper than has been possible yet. Nothing is proven, but you
stand in very grave suspicion, and it is for me to determine what is to be done
with you.”
    “My
lord,” ventured the provost, who had kept his mouth tightly shut until now,
against great temptation, “I am prepared to stand surety for my son to whatever
price you may set, and I guarantee he shall be at your disposal at the assize,
and at whatever time between when you may need to question him. My honour has
never been in doubt, and my son, whatever else, has been known as a man of his
word, and if he gives his bond here he will keep it, even without my
enforcement. I beg your lordship will release him home to my bail.”
    “On
no terms,” said Prestcote decidedly. “The matter is too grave. He stays under
lock and key.”
    “My
lord, if you so order, under lock and key he shall be, but let it be in my
house. His mother—“
    “No!
Say no more, you must know it is impossible. He stays here in custody.”
    “There
is nothing against him in the matter of this death,” offered Corbière
generously, “as yet, that is, except my rogue’s witness of his threats. And
thieves do haunt such gatherings as the great fairs, and if they can cut a man
out from his fellows, will kill him for the clothes on his back. And surely the
fact that the body was stripped accords better with just such a foul chance
crime for gain? Vengeance has nothing to feed on in a bundle of clothing. The
act is all.”
    “True,”
agreed Prestcote. “But supposing a man had killed in anger, perhaps simply gone
too far in an assault meant only to injure, he might be wise enough to strip
his victim, to make it appear the work of common robbers, and turn attention
away from himself. There is much work to be done yet in this case, but meantime
Corviser must remain in hold. I should be failing in my