The Alehouse Murders by Maureen Ash Page A

is: why?”
    Bascot was once again ensconced with Nicolaa de la Haye and Gerard Camville in the small chamber where he had given his report earlier that day. Roget had reported the attack on the priest to the sheriff and Nicolaa had summoned Bascot, to listen to his account of the affair and any other information that he had uncovered.
    Now, sitting at her table, she had carefully laid before her the scrap of material that Gianni had located and the little brooch that Agnes had found. Across from her stood Bascot, while her husband prowled restlessly about the room, his footfalls soft and sure despite the massive bulk of his body. From the hall below came the distant sounds of revelry as the multitude at the table enjoyed the entertainment of the tumblers and minstrels that their hosts had provided. Nicolaa and her husband had excused themselves from their guests to hear Bascot’s report, and Gianni had been sent in the company of Ernulf to get some of whatever food still remained after the vast number of visitors had eaten their evening meal. The occasional flash of lightning could still be seen through the opening of the small arrow slit set high on the chamber wall, but the rumble of thunder was decreasing in strength and seemed to be moving away to the east. The rain, too, was lessening in intensity and already the fresh smell of its cleansing fall could be felt in the air.
    “As to the first question, lady, I think that is the most likely explanation,” Bascot confirmed. “Before being put into the barrels, they were probably put to death by means of poison or suffocation—although the latter is not likely unless they were given a potion that would have rendered them insensible beforehand. There was no sign of a struggle on their bodies, as would be the case with at least one of them, if they had been smothered while still in possession of all of their faculties. What the reason was—I am afraid I cannot even hazard a guess. If Father Anselm recovers, or regains consciousness, he may be able to tell us who his assailant was, or at least the reason why he was attacked. It seems plausible that the person who assaulted him also committed the other crimes.”
    “You still haven’t found out who the two strangers are,” Gerard interjected, irritation in his tone. “That’s what I want to know. And if they have relatives who will come claiming compensation for their deaths.”
    “If Father Anselm is still unable to tell us what he knows by morning, then I will question the drapers and weavers in the town,” Bascot replied. “The material is a fine cloth, too rich for a prostitute to wear, unless she was the leman of a patron of substantial means. If it can be determined where it was made, it might provide an answer to her identity.”
    “There are weavers and cloth mercers aplenty in Lincoln now, and will be for the next week,” Nicolaa said. She picked up the scrap of material and held it in her hand. “It looks like the red Greyne that is made here in Lincoln, but . . .” She rubbed it gently between thumb and forefinger. “It seems a little too fine, too loosely woven.” She sighed and replaced it on the table. “I have no doubt Rolf the Draper could tell you, although I fear his mood is somewhat truculent at the moment.” She added this last with a smile. “He and his fellow townsmen were not best pleased with their reception tonight, or the rain that most probably drenched them as they left in hasty retreat for their homes.”
    “Bloody merchants,” Gerard said, stopping his pacing to refill his goblet with wine from a leather bottle on the table. “Whatever ails them they bleat and cry like lost lambs, pleading poverty while they count their silver in secret.”
    Bascot made no remark; neither did the sheriff’s wife. Camville resumed his pacing. Bascot could not ever recall him being still, except when he was eating. It was said the old king, Henry, father to both Richard and John, had been the