A Conspiracy of Wolves

‘You misunderstand.’ Braithwaite looked stunned. ‘I was relieved to hear you would undertake the task. The city needs you, Captain. When such things happen – we pray they won’t, of course, but–’

Owen motioned that he understood. ‘We’ve little time. Just tell me what happened here with the dog.’

Braithwaite wiped his brow. ‘The servants alerted us and we hurried out – it was a terrible sight. My poor Janet, the day of–’ He stopped, apparently realizing he was again venturing into unnecessary detail. ‘It was done so silently, so brutally. Who would do that to us? And then Paul requested, as he is in mourning for his sister’s husband and his old friend … and the dog, he was fond of the dog, as one would be … He asked that we not inform you until after the requiem mass. He wishes to be quiet with his grief, pray at St Helen’s …’ Braithwaite sighed, studying his clasped hands, avoiding Owen’s eye.

No doubt his anger was obvious. ‘Paul’s old friend Hoban was brutally murdered and he wishes me to delay finding the murderer?’ Owen made no attempt to soften his tone. They needed to understand the danger. ‘Does your son believe the murderer will courteously wait until Hoban and Bartolf are buried? And his own dog? Perhaps–’ Owen stopped as two servants entered, laying out wine, cheese, bread, apples, nuts.

As they poured wine into two bowls, Braithwaite said to one of them, ‘Ask Master Paul to step in, tell him we need to speak with him. At once.’ He seemed to have regained his senses with Owen’s outburst. Good. When the servants withdrew, he said, ‘I hadn’t thought how ridiculous it sounds. I see myself as a man of the world. But I return to such a horror – something I would never have dreamed.’ John Braithwaite shook his head, his eyes glazed with the shock of the memory. ‘I saw what they did to Bartolf. The ruin of such a good man. Why? I have no experience in such matters.’

Fortunate man, until now. ‘Is it true that no one in the house heard anything last night? Not a bark? A growl?’

‘So it seems.’ Braithwaite was quiet while a servant reported that Paul had already departed. He nodded and waved the servant off. ‘I am sorry, Captain. It appears he has already headed to the church.’

It would seem Paul was avoiding Owen. ‘Do I detect a doubt that no one in the household heard anything?’

Braithwaite had leaned forward to pour a little water into his wine. He sat back, moving the bowl to swirl the mixture, tasted, took a longer drink. Owen waited for the man to speak.

‘I do not like to tell tales, but in such circumstances polite discretion feels negligent. Though he is my son.’ A pause. ‘I sense that Paul is holding something back. His reaction to the slaughter of his dog was–’ He leaned forward to add more wine to the bowl, no water this time, wrinkling his forehead in thought. ‘He was not surprised. He’d expected trouble. Do not mistake me, he was quite shaken, and I do sense a deep sorrow in him, for my son has a passion for hunting dogs. Not long ago Bartolf sold Paul a pair of his dogs. Did you know?’

‘No. I did not.’

‘Ah, well, there you are.’ Braithwaite nibbled on a piece of cheese, nodding, suddenly frowning. ‘I see the fire in that hawk eye of yours, Captain. If you are thinking Paul committed these crimes you are wrong. He and Hoban were the best of friends. And he both respected and liked Bartolf. But, like I said, he’d expected trouble.’

‘Was Tempest one of Bartolf’s?’

‘Tempest? Oh, no, no he descended from a line of dogs stretching back to the pup presented to my son when he began to walk. Fierce dog – I was of a mind to take it from him, inappropriate for a child, but my father chided me for protecting the lad when I should be encouraging him to be a warrior. A warrior merchant?’ His eyes laughed, but his mouth twisted sideways in doubt.

‘So your son favors fierce dogs?’

A shrug and a nod.

‘Ever cause harm? Have there been complaints about his animals?’

Braithwaite shot his jaw forward, as if readying a verbal attack, but he checked himself. ‘When he was a lad … A boy’s mischief … But that is years past.’

‘Anyone injured? Wounds that proved fatal?’

‘No. Mischief, as I said.’

Answered too quickly. There was something there. ‘It might be important. I am here to help you, not to judge.’

‘One of his dogs was blinded by a muddy conger in the forest. Heartsick, he was. The lad cared for it with such tenderness …’ A tight shake of the head. ‘I suppose the three of them had bothered someone.’

‘Three of them?’

‘Olyf, Hoban, Paul – Muriel never warmed to them. She was younger …’

‘The dog was blinded in both eyes?’

‘No. Just one. Stone damaged it–’ He nodded toward Owen’s patch, then seemed to remember himself. ‘Forgive me, I did not mean …’

‘No offense taken.’ Owen was after something more interesting.

‘The hound was never right after that,’ said John. ‘I finally convinced Paul to put the poor thing out of its misery.’ A heavy sigh.