The Alehouse Murders by Maureen Ash Page B

same, forever moving. Gerard Camville had been familiare to King Henry, one of a coterie of young knights that the old king had kept about him and to whom he had shown much favour. Perhaps that was the key to the sheriff’s fractiousness, the losing of a lord who had been a just and fair monarch, as well as a friend. King Richard, against whom Camville had rebelled while the king was in the Holy Land on crusade, had fought with his father and, the rumour-mongers said, had caused King Henry’s death through heart-break at his son’s treachery. Even John, the present king, had failed his father in the end, siding with his older brother and King Louis of France to bring about Henry’s downfall. Now Camville was in the position of having to trust his wife’s friendship with one of Henry’s traitorous sons in order to retain the royal favour that he had once held so firmly from the father. It was not surprising that he was often in an ill temper.
    “I will also ask about the brooch, lady,” Bascot said, attempting to divert the sheriff from his train of thought. “It is not valuable, but it may be remembered, if only because it is so small and the design unusual for a brooch, rather than a ring.”
    Nicolaa picked up the tiny piece of jewellery and held it against her clothes. “Too small to be of any use except for the flimsiest of gowns,” she said, “almost as though it were to be worn under the outer clothing, hidden from view and unremarked except for the knowledge of the wearer. It looks familiar to me, but . . . it is probably only because it is a common design.” She laid it back on the table.
    “Are you sure the alewife has no part in this coil?” Camville asked suddenly. “If these people were given a sleeping potion first, then it could be that she did it. She would have a knowledge of the properties of herbs by reason of her trade, those both beneficial or poisonous.”
    “I think she is innocent of any complicity in the deaths,” Bascot replied. “She has not the wits for such scheming and is of too hysterical a nature for her husband to have trusted her with any secrets. And I took the herbs I found in the alehouse to the castle cook. They are harmless. Mistress Agnes is nothing more than she appears to be—a competent brewer of ale.”
    “It might prove worthwhile to question the harlots in Butwerk,” Nicolaa said. “They will know if one of their number is missing.”
    “I will do that,” Bascot assured her, “but I have some doubts that the girl was a bawd. Rather, I think, she was made to look like one.”
    “What makes you think that?” Nicolaa asked.
    “Her outer clothing was too big for her and was of cheap stuff, not like the undergarments from which I think that scrap was torn. Once I have all of the clothing from the nunnery, I will be sure of that assumption but, if I am right, it was put on her, along with the face paint, to give the impression that she was from the stewes in the lower part of town.”
    “And you say she was with child?” Nicolaa asked.
    “So Sister Bridget told me.”
    “Another life for which damned compensation can be claimed,” Camville said angrily.
    A flicker of irritation crossed Nicolaa’s face, so subtle that if Bascot had not been looking straight at her with his one good eye, he would have missed it.
    “You have done well, de Marins,” she said, rising from her seat. “Learn what you can about the cloth and the brooch. It may be the merchants of the town will be too busy to attend closely to your questions. You have permission to use my authority if you have need of it.
    “We best return to our guests, husband,” she said to Camville. “Tomorrow will be a busy day, even if this rain continues to fall.”
    As they prepared to depart Bascot thanked her and said, “I intend to visit the family of the dead Jew, as well.”
    Camville snorted. “At least I will not have to pay compensation for that death. Any property he owns will come to the