Brother Cadfael 04: St. Peter's Fair

said, rather, that she had a keen nose, and some knowledge of the distilling of spirits, and had accurately assessed the cause of her uneasiness. Somewhere in the grass close to her stall, he was now certain, a good part of that quart of liquor had been poured out generously over clothing and ground, no wonder the turf retained it. A taste of it, perhaps, to scent the breath and steady the mind, might have gone down a throat; but no more, for the mind had been steady indeed, when stranger stooped over its fleshly habitation, and sniffed at its flagrant drunkenness. Strangers, all but one! Cadfael began to see what could hardly be called light, for he was looking into a profound darkness.
    "It so happens," he said, "that we have some business with Walter Renold. Will you let us take your bottle back to him? You shall have the credit for it with him."
    "Take it, brother," agreed the carter cheerfully, unleashing the bottle from the shaft. "Tell him Rychart Nyall sent it. Wat knows me."
    "Nothing in it, I suppose, when you found it?" hazarded Cadfael, hefting the fated thing in one hand.
    "Never a drop, brother! Fair-goers may abandon the bottle, but they make sure of what's inside before they fall senseless!"
    The boards were stowed, the stripped ground lay trampled and naked, the cart moved on. It would take no more than a handful of days and the next summer showers, and all the green, fine hair would grow again, and the bald clay coil into ringlets.
    "It's mine, surely," said Wat, receiving the bottle into a large hand. "The only one of its kind I'm short. Who buys this measure of spirits, even at a fair? Who has the money to afford it? And who chooses it afore decent ale and wine? Not many! I've known men desperate to sink their souls fast, at whatever cost, but seldom at a fair. They turn genial at fairs, even the sad fellows get the wind of it, and mellow. I marvelled at that one, even when he asked for it and paid the price, but he was plainly some lord's servant, he had his orders. He had money, and I sell liquor. But yes, if it's of worth to you, that same fellow Philip here knows of, that's the measure he bought."
    A retired corner of Wat's large taproom was as good a place as any to sit down and think before action, and try to make sense of what they had gathered.
    "Wat has just put words to it," said Cadfael. "We should have been quicker to see. He was plainly some lord's servant, he had his orders, he had money. One man from a lord's household suborned to murder by an unknown, one such setting out on his own account to enrich himself by murder and theft, that I could believe in. But two? From the same household? No, I think not! They never strayed from their own manor. They served but one lord."
    "Their own? Corbiere?" whispered Philip, the breath knocked out of him by the enormity of the implications. "But he ... The way I heard it, the groom tried to ride him down. Struck him into the dust when he tried to stop him. How can you account for that? There's no sense in it."
    "Wait! Take it from the beginning. Say that on the night Master Thomas died, Fowler was sent out to deal with him, to get possession of whatever it is someone so much desires. His lord has spied out the land, told him of a handy scapegoat who may yet be useful, given him money for the drink that will put him out of the reckoning when the deed is done. The man would demand immunity, he must be seen to be out of the reckoning. His lord keeps in close touch, joins us when we go forth to look for the missing merchant. Recollect, Hugh, it was Corbiere, not we, who discovered his truant man. We had passed him by, and that would not have done. He must be found, must be seen to be so drunk as to have been helpless and harmless some hours, and must then be manifestly under lock and key many hours more. Ten murders could have been committed that night, and no one would ever have looked at Turstan Fowler."
    "All for nothing," pointed out Hugh. "Sooner or later he had to tell his master that murder had been done in vain. Master Thomas did not carry his treasure on him."
    "I doubt if he found that out until morning, when he had his man let out of prison. Therefore he brought Fowler to lay evidence that made sure the finger was pointed at Philip here, and while we were all blamelessly busy at the sheriff's hearing, sent his second man to search the barge. And again, vainly. Am I making sense of it thus far?"
    "Sound enough," said Hugh sombrely. "The