The Leper's Return by Michael Jecks

shelves, with doors underneath, and Baldwin gazed at it speculatively for some time. He opened the doors and peered inside. Both sides had pewter pots, jugs and plates stacked neatly, but hardly filled the space given. He shut it up again. On the shelves were some plates, of good quality, four on the bottom shelf and three on each of the others. A solitary jug stood next to a drinking horn of silver. Baldwin picked them up one at a time.
    “Good silverwork, this,” he said.
    “What is it, sir?” Tanner asked after glancing at Edgar in some confusion.
    “Hmm? Oh, only that Master Godfrey must have been a very wealthy man,” stated the knight with sudden resolution. He clapped his hands together. “Now, let’s see whether Putthe is ready to answer some questions.”
    6
    T he servant was resting on a cot almost hidden behind two massive barrels. He was pale, and opened his eyes with apparent pain, grimacing as he tried to focus on the three men standing in his buttery. The single candle was inadequate, and Baldwin sent Tanner to fetch more.
    “Stay there, Putthe, I only want to ask you a few questions,” Baldwin said gently, holding up his hand. As he did so, he noticed that the gesture gave him the same pose as Godfrey’s body next door. If a man was holding up his hand, he wondered, would he fall to the ground in that same position if he was struck dead in an instant? And if so, could he have been holding up his hand to tell a thief to stop?
    Putthe sank back with a grunt. He was a short man, with a grave, round face. Baldwin saw that he had thin lips, which opened and closed as he spoke with a strangely mechanical action that put Baldwin in mind of a helmet’s hinged vizor; opening only reluctantly, and snapping shut when allowed to. For such a ruddy complexion, Putthe’s eyes were a curiously pale, watery blue, making him look as if he was somehow incomplete; an unfinished mannequin. Above his eyes a band of dirty cloth encircled his brow.
    It was this bandage that was giving him the most pain now. His head felt as if it was splitting in half, the top being squeezed off by the pressure. Putthe grimly noted that whoever it was who had belted him hadn’t intended him to get up again in a hurry. As his skull touched the cloth of the bolster, he winced and the breath hissed through his teeth. His assailant had succeeded. He would be lying here for quite some time to come. “Sir, how can I help you?”
    “You know your master is dead, Putthe—do you know who could have done this?”
    “It was that mad Irishman!”
    “Did you see him?”
    “Tonight, sir, yes. Out in the yard. He’s been found here in the garden before. My master saw him there only a few weeks ago. Let him off, at the time, but said if he was ever found here again, he’d be—”
    Baldwin held up a hand again. “What were you doing this evening?”
    “Me? I was in here.”
    Baldwin glanced about him. There was the usual paraphernalia of the bottler’s place of work: barrels, jugs, pots and tankards. Two stools sat near each other at one cask. Beside them were a pair of large jugs. Glancing at Putthe, Baldwin saw him wince.
    Putthe had to close his eyes: the pain was like a dagger thrusting in at his temple. And his head was spinning—the world had gone mad! Godfrey’s behavior; the mistress’s weird determination to look after a common smith and permit the servants a free evening—and now this! Someone had broken in and the master was dead! Clutching at his head, Putthe moaned.
    Baldwin spoke gently. “I am sorry, Putthe, but I have to ask these questions. I assume you ran from here straight into the hall?”
    “That’s right.” Putthe tried to sit up, but settled himself back against the bolster. A thin dew of moisture shone on his forehead, making it glow in the candlelight. “I hurried along the screens and in through the door, and saw them lying there. I was about to go to them when I was tapped here”—he gingerly indicated