Murder for Christ's Mass - By Maureen Ash Page 0,54
his explanation and eased the pressure of the knife a little, Cotty became more garrulous. “’Twas easy to scale it, Captain. There’s some good toeholds on them stones ’cause the mortar’s beginning to crumble. I was up it in a minute, intending to climb along a wooden beam that edges onto the stone on Tasser’s building and get up to the clothier’s casement.”
He paused for a moment, his eyes glistening as he drew a deep breath and then went on. “But I never got onto the beam. I’d just got level with the floor of the top storey on Tasser’s house when I felt one of the stones was loose. I pushed it and it turned sideways a little bit, like there was nothing behind it, so I put my hand inside and felt around. It seemed like there was some bundles in there, so I grabbed ahold of one and pulled it out. It was that sack you took off of me that came out in my hand, Captain, the one with the jewellery inside.”
He stopped again, looking at Roget to see his reaction. When he got nothing but a slight increase of pressure on the knife, he winced and quickly finished his tale. “It was just then that the tocsin began to ring. I knew as how everyone would come out into the streets and maybe into the lane—for all I knew the fire could have been inside Tasser or the clothier’s house and I’d be burned to death—so I shoved the sack inside my tunic and climbed down. I thought I’d hide in the silversmith’s yard ’til I knew it was safe to come out.”
He threw a hateful glance at the guard standing at the door. It was one of the men that had caught him. “Looks as how I should of stayed hidden a bit longer.”
COTTY HAD HARDLY FINISHED SPEAKING BEFORE BASCOT and Roget were running from the gaol, Roget yelling at two of his guards to follow. When the little thief had spoken of “bundles” the Templar and captain had realised it was more than likely there were other sacks of valuables secreted in the hidey-hole Cotty had found. If Tasser had been alerted by Roget’s questioning at the houses along Mikelgate about the owner of the jewellery, the silversmith would, by now, have had time to dispose of the rest of the cache.
With the guards following, Roget and Bascot went immediately to the manufactory. The door was locked but Roget kicked it in. The blast of heat from the tiny furnace almost knocked them back as they entered. The silversmith’s two employees—the old man and his lackey—were busy at the crucible. At their feet lay a pile of candlesticks, cups and plates, all fashioned of silver. In the small crucible a half-melted salt cellar was fast disappearing in a molten pool, while a square-shaped mould on a nearby table was already filled with liquid silver. Tasser was standing alongside it. When Roget and Bascot entered, he looked up at the intruders with a resigned expression on his face.
“You have been quicker than I thought, Captain,” was all he said.
Ordering Tasser’s employees to leave their task and stand to one side, Roget bent down and examined the items lying on the floor. “Every one of these pieces has been reported stolen within the last six months,” he said to Bascot and then, to the silversmith, “You will not be able to convince either the sheriff or your guild you are innocent of conniving with thieves this time, Tasser.”
The silversmith nodded. “I am aware of that.”
Roget ordered his guards to take Tasser to the gaol and incarcerate him in one of the cells, but Bascot intervened and countermanded the instruction. “Take him to the castle and have Serjeant Ernulf place him in one of the holding cells. I think the sheriff will want to question him personally.”
Tasser’s face went ashen. Camville’s reputation for brutality was well known.
“Why am I to be taken to the sheriff?” the silversmith asked fearfully. “I am a wealthy man; I can pay a surety to guarantee my presence in the sheriff’s court.”
“A surety is not allowed for a charge of murder,” Bascot replied in a hard voice.
“Murder?” The word was a breathless squeak. “But I have killed no one.”
“Have you so quickly forgotten that your apprentice, Roger Fardein, was murdered just a few days since?” Bascot said. “I think perhaps it was your hand that dealt the deathblow.”