The Malice of Unnatural Death: Page 13

  Even as he was thinking this, he saw the monk’s eye upon him, and he cleared his throat without knowing what on earth to say to the man. Then he sighed in relief. Ahead, through the gathering gloom, he could just make out the lines of trees moving in the wind. There was a wood ahead, and he began to try to work out where he was. From the direction he had taken, this should be the large wood just outside Gidleigh, where the moors lapped up against cultivated lands. Not far from here was Chagford, the bustling stannary town where they could be assured of a warm bed in an inn.

  The first light flicks at his face woke him from a mild daydream in which he saw a roaring fire, a pot of warming ale, and a heavy joint of beef or shoulder of mutton slowly roasting. The scene was so distinct and alluring, it was hard to dismiss it, but the insistent soft patters at his cheeks soon told their own tale.

  ‘Shit! Of all the foul fortune!’ He rested a hand fore and aft and turned in the saddle. Behind them, the sun was almost touching the horizon. They had only a very short time. ‘Right, Master Busse, you must continue straight ahead, and do not hurry. Keep with Rob there, so that he doesn’t become lost himself, and do not let him flag. Keep on in this direction.’

  ‘What of you, Bailiff?’

  ‘I am going to ride on to make sure that we have a store of firewood before all the light fades. In God’s name, I only pray I have time to gather enough.’

  ‘Then go, in God’s name!’

  Exeter City

  Master Richard de Langatre should have been grateful to meet these two men, perhaps, but just at the moment he was feeling more than a little disgruntled. It was humiliating to be grabbed by this beadle and his shabby little watchmen! What did they think they were doing? Was any poor professional to be man-handled like this without excuse?

  ‘We shall go to the Suttonsysyn near the guildhall,’ Baldwin decided. It was easier to ensure the cooperation of the coroner if mention was made of an alehouse of some sort, he knew.

  ‘That would be a good one,’ the coroner said approvingly, perking up considerably.

  The beadle Elias if anything looked even more harassed. ‘I can’t allow that, master …’

  Coroner Richard beamed down at him, but there was a steely glitter in his eyes. ‘I think you should remember to call us “sir”. Or perhaps “Keeper” and “Coroner”? Either way, my fellow, you will remember what your station is, and what ours is. Sir Baldwin here has just made an excellent suggestion. We will follow it.’

  ‘But I was ordered to deliver this man to the gaol.’

  ‘By whom?’ Baldwin enquired.

  ‘The sheriff. He ordered us himself. He said we had to come here, take this man, bring him up to the castle’s gaol, and keep the body of the dead boy at the house until the coroner could be called.’

  ‘Right, and now the coroner is arrived,’ Sir Richard boomed. ‘So do you go about your duties, and leave me to mine, eh?’

  ‘But I am to …’

  Baldwin stopped him. ‘You have delivered your charge into my custody. Now return to the house and take care of the poor fellow’s body. I shall see to this man.’

  With a nervous reluctance, the beadle finally agreed. He made one last effort to have a watchman or two remain with the knights, but Sir Richard was so scornful in his response to the idea that two armed knights could not subdue such a feeble-looking piece of human flotsam that the man soon gave up and submitted to their commands.

  ‘At last,’ Baldwin said. Coroner Richard was already signalling impatiently to the wench serving at the bar, and Baldwin sat on a barrel which served as a stool, and studied the creature before him. ‘Now, what manner of man are you, I wonder?’

  Robinet had seen them walk into the tavern, and now he saw the beadle and his men leave the place and begin to make their way back down to Stepecote Street and the house where the dead servant lay. Making a quick decision, he followed them.

  Outside the house there was one remaining watchman, a youth of maybe twenty, who stood nervously eyeing the crowd. Newt could hear him clearly as he called to the beadle, and even when the beadle was at his side, a hand on his arm, trying to calm him, the lad’s voice remained high and loud enough for Newt to hear every word.

  ‘They’ve been trying to get past me! There’s some want to stone the place and others will have it burned to the ground… they were going to beat me to get me out of the way, if I didn’t do what they wanted. That one there, look! He’s got a stone! Make him put it down!’

  Newt smiled to himself at the sound of the lad’s voice. There was enough anxiety in it to make a whining puppy sound bold. He was not sure what was best for him to do. At first he had an inclination to go to the beadle and ask him what was happening, but the sound of a foreign voice in the area might make one or two men wonder where he came from and what he was doing in Exeter. That was the easiest way to have himself taken and questioned he could think of. And he couldn’t afford that in case people had seen him with James. Perhaps seen them argue – or fight.

  No, walking up to a nervous law officer was not a good idea for him just now. Better that he should leave well alone … and yet he wanted to learn if there was anything about the man who lived here that could suggest he could have been guilty of the murder of James.

  His problem was solved when he saw the beadle jerk his thumb at the youth. Nothing loath, the fellow gripped his staff firmly and eyed the crowd with the truculence of a rabbit before squaring his shoulders and setting off up the hill towards Robinet.

  Newt turned and began to walk slowly up the hill, bent over as he went, his frame the very picture of decrepitude and weariness. When he heard the swift-pacing approach, he groaned and let himself sink slowly to his knee in the street.

  ‘Are you all right, father?’

  ‘Ach, fellow, it’s my old feet. They give me gip on occasion. Today I’ve been walking from the coast, and my old bones are weary,’ Newt lied, smiling bravely.

  ‘You want some help?’

  ‘Your arm as far as the flat way on top of this hill would be kind. My name is Jan, by the way.’

  ‘I am Ivo Trempole.’

  ‘It is kind of you, but I am sure you’ll be busy. You don’t really have time to help an old fool like me. You were down there at that house, weren’t you? Are you with the watch?’

  The lad grunted. ‘Not that I want it. I was voted to be the constable here, but it wasn’t my choice. I don’t like having to stand in front of a crowd of angry people for no reason. That lot were ready to throw rocks at me, you know? Why’d I want to do that, stand as a target for all the hotheads in the city?’

  ‘It must be hard. Is the man who lives there rich and important, then? Is that why the city has to guard him?’

  ‘No, he’s not all that important, no. He’s a necromancer,’ the fellow said, his voice dropping. ‘His servant is dead, and they say it was the master who was angry with his man, and killed him in a rage, if you can believe that! Imagine!’

  Clearly Ivo’s imagination was doing enough work for both of them, or so Newt felt. ‘Terrible. So he stabbed the lad and bolted?’

  ‘No, he didn’t stab him. He used a thin wire or something, and strangled him. Almost cut through his throat.’

  ‘But the master has run away, I suppose? A fellow known for using magic would hardly be popular, would he?’

  Ivo shook his head. ‘He didn’t run, the fool. His servant was there, still warm. It was obvious as the sun in the sky that he’d done it. No one else would go and kill a fellow for no reason, would they? No, it was him.’

  They had almost reached the top of the hill now, and Newt began to chat about other matters as though the murder was of little importance to him, and soon after, when they reached Bolehille, he took his leave of the watchman and hobbled slowly along Cooks’ Row towards the High Street. When he turned, once, to wave, Ivo had already disappeared. Still, to be safe, Newt continued hobbling and walking slowly until he reached the Carfoix, and only then did he star
t to walk in a more easeful manner.

  There was not much to be gathered there, he reckoned. But he had learned one useful point: the lad had been throttled with a thin ligature of some sort. Perhaps the same weapon as the one used on James; perhaps the same man was guilty of both murders.

  Yet so far as Newt knew, there was no one in the world who had any reason to dislike James apart from he himself. James had been a mild man, a calm lad with hardly a bad word to say about anyone. The idea that someone could have taken such a dislike to him seemed incredible. Yet, of course, he had managed to make Newt’s life a misery. If it hadn’t been for those unwary words of his, Newt would have kept his post, not been thrown in gaol, not suffered for months. And perhaps still be employed even now.

  He looked up and saw how the sun was fading fast. All the shops were closed already, and there was a bustle about the city as people prepared for night. He must find a refuge.

  Yes, instead of being happily employed, here he was. A corrodian from a far-off priory, all but friendless. Fortunately he still had one friend. Or did have until last night. He must go and make his peace with the man.

  North-East Dartmoor

  Simon’s feet were out of the stirrups as soon as he reached the first of the trees. There was a low wall, but it had tumbled down long ago, and his horse trotted cautiously over the remaining rubble before stopping to crop the grass. Simon quickly took off the saddle and harness, and slipped a halter on him, tying it to a sapling nearby. The last thing he needed now was to lose the beast.

  As soon as that was done, he started to search for timber. The snow wasn’t falling in earnest yet, and he had some little while to gather firewood. In his breast, between his shirt and his tunic, was a thick handful of tinder which he’d found earlier on their way: old, dry grasses and some fine, thin silver birch bark he had pulled from a tree on the way out of Tavistock. These were wrapped in a fold of cloth with his flint, and he prayed that they would be dry and warm enough after being protected all day.

  There was time to worry about that later. First he had to find firewood. There were several fallen boughs, but each, when he touched it, felt sodden. They were too old and had been rotting and soaking up moisture for over a year. However, he soon came across a tree that appeared to have been recently struck by lightning. It was tall, a good thirty to forty feet, and he was cautious at first, in case a branch might fall on his head, but when he got closer and gave it a good push to test its strength, he heard the cracking. Grinning to himself, he pushed it, rocking it carefully, until at last it gave a creaking complaint, and toppled, crashing and crackling as it smashed through the other trees nearby, until it was down. All about it were the branches which had been snapped off, and now he started to hurry about, collecting them quickly.

  Hearing Rob and Busse, he snapped at them both to help, and continued stacking thicker branches which seemed to have some strength in them. The rest he tossed into a pile nearby. Then he began to lay the longer, straighter stems against the main tree trunk lying on the ground.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Rob demanded, watching him as children often watch the antics of their parents.

  ‘If you want to survive this night, Rob, find every small, dry twig you can. The best are those which have been dried on the tree and not on the ground. Those will be too damp. Just fetch as much as you possibly can. When you’ve built up a good pile, we’ll start a fire with them.’

  Rob shrugged and set off half-heartedly. Meanwhile Busse was watching Simon with an appreciative eye. ‘And what of me, Bailiff?’

  ‘Brother, if you could just help me to fix these boughs to the tree here, that would be a great help.’

  ‘You are building a low shelter?’

  Simon nodded. He had stayed out in the open before, usually with a large tree trunk to make a wall, and then built up a lean-to wall and roof with boughs to create a low but cosy hovel. However, it would not do for all three of them. Instead, he would have to form a shelter that used the trunk as a side wall, but which also had two walls with a roof.

  He found a large branch with a fork in it, and smiled. After hunting about, he found three more, and began building. First he gauged the wind, and moved to the leeward side of the trunk. Here he thrust the two shorter sticks into the soft soil, the forks uppermost. He found a sapling of more than six and a half feet, and took his knife to it, placing his knife’s blade against it and using a branch to hammer at it, ringing the bough, and then cutting a notch at the very bottom. Soon he could hear it crack as he pulled it, and then it came down. He set this in the forks, and braced them with the last pair of forked branches.

  Running to his saddle-bags, he pulled one open. He always carried some hempen cord for emergencies, and this was just such an emergency. Soon the whole was lashed together, and he could start to set thick branches from the trunk to his supported beam. These he tied with simple loops, and used all the spare branches he could find to make a side wall and block the bottom. Now there was a basic shelter.

  ‘Very good, if a little leaky,’ the monk observed.

  Simon said nothing. He was searching in the gathering darkness for Rob and growing fearful for the lad’s safety.

  ‘Don’t worry, Bailiff,’ Busse said. ‘He’s bright enough.’

  ‘He has little sense of direction. He has never been on the moors before,’ Simon said through gritted teeth. Bellowing Rob’s name, he was relieved to see a figure jerk upright only a few tens of yards away. ‘Hurry up!’

  ‘You see?’ Busse said.

  ‘Yes. Now, I need you to gather up as many ferns as possible.’

  Busse was startled. ‘Me?’

  ‘If you want to sleep dry and not freeze, you’ll help me now. We need to cover this shelter in ferns and leaves – anything. And we need to be quick, before that snowstorm starts!’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Exeter City

  As the light outside faded, Baldwin and the coroner demanded candles, and remained sitting with the man who had dared to make use of demons to achieve his ends.

  Or so it had been said.

  Baldwin was not prey to fears about men such as this. He was perfectly comfortable with the notion of an all-powerful God who would remove the foolish from the world without any need for his help. And there was not too much to be fearful of about this fellow. He did not inspire terror in Baldwin’s breast.

  ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘In Exeter, you mean? Or Stepecote Street?’ His voice was harsh and rasping, and sounded forced, as though it took a great deal of effort to speak at all. The pain he suffered was clear: he kept swallowing, each time wincing, and his eyes were watering freely.

  ‘Either,’ Baldwin said, but this time more gently. ‘Take your time, friend; your voice is clearly giving you trouble.’

  Langatre was a chubby fellow who was little more than thirty years old, Baldwin decided. He had the weakly chin of a man who was not destined for greatness of any sort, but there was little enough malice in his eyes. Rather, he displayed more the appearance of a man who laboured under a great fear.

  ‘I was born in Langatre in Kent. I suppose I arrived here in Exeter about ten years ago, and I’ve been plying my trade here ever since, although it was only two years ago that I learned the deeper, more subtle arts, and that was when I took on the house down the street.’

  ‘The dead boy?’

  ‘Oh, God! Don’t remind me! Poor lad! I don’t know how I’m going to tell his mother about this!’

  ‘Tell us first, then,’ the coroner rumbled, unconvinced. Like Baldwin, he had seen too many felons deny their crimes and then burst into tears in an attempt to evade punishment.

  ‘Gladly, lordings. I was in my workshop when there was a knock. I heard it distinctly, and heard my fellow go to answer it. I was involved in some important work at the time, making a special potion for a client, and could not pay attention. Well, I heard this strange tapping, as though someone was knocking on my workshop
door, but ignored it, because Hick knows – knew – not to interrupt me when I was working, and then, as I was carrying my alembic to cool, someone dropped a noose about my neck and tried to draw it tight.’

  Baldwin motioned with his hand and Richard de Langatre shrugged, lifted his cowl, and opened the front of his tunic.

  Immediately Baldwin was struck with the similarity of his wound to the one on the king’s messenger at the South Gate. ‘You saw his face?’

  ‘No. He was behind me all the time. I don’t mind telling you both, it was a terrifying experience. I thought I would surely die!’

  ‘Why didn’t you? He was pulling hard,’ Coroner Richard commented.

  ‘I know that well enough! He was pulling so hard, I couldn’t even get a nail under the cord.’

  That much was true. Baldwin could see where he’d tried to jam a finger under the weapon: there were several scrape marks where his nails had scrabbled. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I destroyed a perfectly good alembic … lost a valuable potion, rot his soul! I swung it over my head at his, and I fancy he’ll be well scalded by now.’

  ‘He shouldn’t try to rob people, then, should he?’ the coroner growled.

  ‘What then?’ Baldwin pressed him.

  ‘When I was free, I grabbed for a knife, but he saw me and kicked me in the belly. God, but it hurt! Well, as soon as I could get up again, I realised he’d fled. I grabbed a weapon just in case, and went out, and that was when I almost fell over poor Hick’s body. He was just lying there, right by the door. And he’d been attacked in the same manner, with something round his neck – a leather thong, I think.

  ‘Well, I wanted to call for help, so I went to the door and threw it wide, but when I did so, I couldn’t speak! No one could hear me, and I had to wave my hands about and make a fuss before anyone noticed me. And when they did, the damned fools thought I’d gone mad. When they saw poor Hick lying there dead, they assumed I must have killed him myself, and they looked on me as a dangerous madman! I was going mad, to think that the killer had escaped and might even now be hiding about the place, so I tried to explain, and then tried to go to find him, but all I got was a poke in the ribs from some cretin with a staff, and then a crack on my head to keep me quiet. Then the bastards wanted to put me in the gaol! When my voice is back, I shall have words with that man. Bloody Elias!’