The Dead Don't Wai Read online

  ‘I am Roger of Ilford, Sir Coroner. I used to work with Father Peter, before he came here. I heard poor Mistress Dorothy scream and went to her aid. The body was that of her husband, but she is right. There was no blood about him.’

  I peered at him with interest. No, not because of his evidence: but if he knew Peter before he arrived at St Botolph’s, it occurred to me that he might have been the priest’s companion for some time. He would be worth getting to know, in case he knew of a box of gold.

  ‘There would have been a lot of blood, surely,’ Atwood commented. ‘Even if it had not spread over the roadway, it would have beslubbered his back and clothing.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Master Sexton,’ the Coroner said with heavy sarcasm. ‘When I require your aid, I will be sure to ask for it! You, Roger, you are sure of this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You used to work for the priest? How so?’

  ‘I was his sexton, sir.’

  ‘Here at St Botolph’s?’

  ‘No. Before that.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘St Mary’s at Ilford, sir.’

  Aha, I thought. So he had known Peter for some little while.

  ‘You must have got to know him well at Ilford.’

  ‘Yes, sir. He was a good master.’

  ‘And you got to know his wife as well, hey?’ Sir Richard asked, and the sexton flinched as though he had been struck.

  Sir Richard stood silently for a space before nodding to himself. ‘When did you leave that place and come here?’

  ‘When Peter’s wife decided to come to speak with her husband.’

  ‘But he had left her because of the law?’

  ‘Our sovereign Queen has returned the priesthood to the Catholic faith, yes, sir.’

  ‘You are not convinced about such a return?’

  Roger of Ilford’s head had dropped, and he looked about like a cornered rat seeking escape. ‘No.’

  ‘You wished to remain within the Church of England?’

  ‘I did. I felt I had taken vows in good faith and in earnest. I didn’t see that I could change like that,’ he said, snapping his fingers.

  ‘I see. So you decided to walk here with this priest’s widow?’

  ‘It would have been dangerous for her on the road alone.’

  Sir Richard studied the collection of children about Dorothy. ‘I can see that,’ he said drily.

  ‘I thought it my duty to protect her,’ Roger burst out. Even I could hear the desperation in his voice.

  Sir Richard studied the man for some little while. Then, ‘Where are you living?’

  ‘I have been allowed to sleep in the hayloft at the inn here.’

  ‘Not at the church?’

  ‘Father Peter had a sexton already. The man Atwood.’

  ‘Did he resent you coming here with the woman who had been his wife?’

  ‘Why would he?’

  ‘He might well wonder why you had sought to take on the protection of his illegitimate family. No matter. How was the body when you found it?’

  Roger looked close to tears. He had to struggle to control his feelings. ‘Peter was lying on his belly with an arm outflung, as though he was reaching for something or someone. He was at the edge of the roadway, as if he’d been pushed there, or knocked there by a cart.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I rolled him over, pulled out my dagger and held it over his mouth to see if he was breathing, but there was no misting of my blade; then I listened for a heartbeat, but I couldn’t hear anything. I was sure he was dead, as Mistress Dorothy said.’

  ‘She said he was alive a few moments beforehand. Did you see him?’

  ‘No,’ Roger said, throwing a quick glance at her.

  ‘And she said he was cold. Was he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I … I was distraught. He was an old friend. I knelt and prayed for him, and I confess that I wept. Mistress Dorothy was there, and we consoled each other for some little time, until a carter arrived. He agreed to raise the hue and cry, and soon others came to help us.’

  Yes, I thought, I wouldn’t have minded consoling her either.

  ‘Who moved the body from where it was found?’

  ‘I did,’ Roger said firmly. ‘No one helped me.’

  I could have groaned as Sir Richard chuckled. The fool thought he was being honourable, but every eye in the place could see that this fellow, with his narrow frame, could not have moved a dead cat. Every man there knew Dorothy had helped him. He could not have moved the body on his own. Any punishment for interfering with the Coroner’s inquest must be inflicted on both.

  Sir Richard continued his inquest with the carter and some locals who helped pick up the body, and then he called for the sexton to come and be questioned.

  Atwood had that casually negligent attitude I remembered so well. He stood next to Dorothy and smiled at the company all about.

  ‘You are the sexton to the dead priest?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you can identify him?’

  ‘Yes, the dead man was Father Peter,’ Atwood said, peering at the corpse.

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘The previous day, at Vespers. We completed the service, and then Father Peter left me while I tidied the church. I left there, oh, some while later.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘I don’t know. I know he had many calls to make most evenings. He liked to go and comfort the women who were deserving.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Atwood shrugged. ‘Only what I say. He was a good man and a better priest.’

  ‘Do you know of any man who would want to harm him, injure or kill him?’

  ‘Why, no. Everybody respected the good father.’

  ‘One man didn’t. Or woman,’ Sir Richard observed frostily. Then, ‘You told me that your old master, Master Blackjack here, might have killed him.’

  ‘Oh, I think you misunderstood me. I said, “No one could have wanted to hurt him. Only Master Blackjack in a rage would have attacked him.” You see, I was showing that only a man in a terrible rage could have wanted to hurt him. I didn’t mean my Master Blackjack actually had harmed him – how could he? I doubt Master Blackjack even knew of the good priest!’

  Sir Richard glared at him and was plainly preparing to blast Atwood, but Atwood had set his head to one side and now thoughtfully considered the body again, saying, ‘Of course there was one man. I saw him in the shadows as Father Peter set off from the church. He was in the little copse at the other side of the roadway, and I could have sworn that once Father Peter walked past, the fellow moved after him.’

  He stopped and turned to face the knight with a quizzical look in his eye.

  ‘Did you see the man clearly?’ Sir Richard said.

  ‘No, I fear not,’ Atwood said thoughtfully. ‘I wouldn’t want to try to describe him.’

  ‘Very well. That was the night before his body was discovered?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And we have heard that the body was cold the following morning. It could have lain there half the night.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Sir Richard remained fixed, and his eyes gradually turned down to the figure on the trestles. ‘But no one saw him until Mistress Dorothy happened upon him.’

  Atwood gave a lazy grin. ‘As you know, Sir Coroner, many people will accidentally fail to notice a body at the roadside, since discovering a body and reporting it will mean a man can be amerced. No one wishes to be fined just for discovering a man’s murder. But I dare suggest that the man’s widow’ – and here he bowed slightly to Dorothy – ‘would have more honesty than other passers-by.’

  ‘You have little faith in your fellow man,’ Sir Richard observed coldly.

  ‘Oh, I think I have plenty of faith in others. But, like you, I have experience of what others can do and try to do. We both know how evil men can be, I suppos
e.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Sir Richard said. ‘So, although you accused this man, Master Jack Blackjack, you now say you retract your accusation?’

  ‘As I said, with apologies, I did not mean to let you think that I accused Master Jack. I was making an observation about men generally.’ He smiled at me, and I felt it curdle my blood. ‘My dear master wouldn’t hurt anyone, I am sure. Not for love nor money.’

  It was a little while afterwards that we began the revolting task of viewing the body. I could see that the clerk helping the knight found that part as distasteful as I did myself. I have never been keen on the sight of a dead man, and to see a fellow stripped naked – his pathetic organs on display for all the world to mock, the sad flabbiness of his flesh now that all life and vigour has fled – is always indescribably sad.

  Then again, it was necessary to view the man and confirm who he was and how he had died.

  As to who he was, that was clear enough. He was a tall man with broad shoulders, and had the look of a man with whom it would be worth avoiding any disputes. I could easily imagine his fists being clenched, and the thought of them striking me was enough to make me wince and draw away. One thing was painfully obvious, and that was that the weedy Roger could never have picked up Peter’s body and carried him back to the village alone.

  I was intrigued when Peter was hauled over to lie on his belly, and the extent of the wounds on his back became visible for the first time. While Dorothy wept silently, her smallest children clutched to her thighs, the jury leaned forward with eager interest, and I confess I did lean a little myself. The drizzle had stopped now, and a weak, pathetic sun was fighting through the clouds overhead.

  ‘I can count nine stab wounds on this man’s back,’ Sir Richard declared in a quiet tone that set the bells in St Paul’s ringing gently in London. He was at the trestle table now, studying and probing with his fingers. ‘One at the top, just to the left of his spine. It is inside the shoulder blade, between the second and third ribs. There are three others on the left of the spine – one that lodged in the spine itself, and two more to the right. Two final wounds are low down, at the line of the top of a man’s belt,’ he added thoughtfully, his hands reaching about his own back and measuring where the same wounds would have struck him. ‘The wounds are an inch in breadth, so the blade of the weapon must have been one inch broad. The depth’ – here he prodded with a forefinger, pulling it out and wiping the blood from it on the winding sheet – ‘the depth goes in deeper than my finger can reach, so it’s more than three and a half inches. It doesn’t reach through the man’s ribcage to the front of his chest, so less than eight inches, I would guess. The blows were struck quickly, I think it is safe to say.’

  ‘Sir Richard,’ Dick Atwood called. He was peering at the body closely. ‘There is a bruise on that wound,’ he said, pointing.

  The Coroner peered, and the jury, as one, craned their necks.

  ‘Yes, Master Atwood. Let it be recorded that the killer struck with full force. The weapon’s hilt has bruised the flesh. That indicates that the killer thrust as hard as possible, which means the blade struck as deeply as possible.’

  ‘Perhaps we should ask everyone here to show their daggers?’

  ‘Aye, perhaps we should,’ Sir Richard said, but he didn’t give the instruction. Rather, he stood contemplatively eyeing Dick Atwood, with what I could only consider was a measuring, doubtful expression. Dick did not appear concerned about enduring that serious stare, and just as I was convinced the Coroner was about to accuse him of participating in the murder, Sir Richard shook his head. ‘Any murderer will have disposed of his weapon, or at the least cleaned it, without doubt. No.’

  He turned away from Dick and beckoned me.

  ‘Master Blackjack. I came to arrest you last evening and brought you here, because that man Atwood claimed he used to work for you. Is that so?’

  ‘Yes. Although a more slovenly, useless—’

  Another man might have permitted a little asperity into his tone, but the Coroner was not so subtle. His bellow was like a gale. ‘Stick to the question! Never mind that! Stick to answering me! He alleged you knew this priest. Did you?’

  ‘No. I’ve never seen him before,’ I said heatedly. ‘I have not spoken to him or met him.’

  ‘What of the suggestion that you might have killed him?’

  ‘It is nonsense. Why should I do that?’

  ‘There are always many reasons. Perhaps you wanted his wife for yourself, or you fancied that he had insulted you, or you took a dislike to a man who would consider returning to the Catholic Church rather than honouring the newer English Church? There are many reasons why a man might turn to murder.’

  ‘Well, I did not. I was busy yesterday and the day before, and I can prove it. I didn’t know this priest and had no reason to wish him harm.’

  ‘I see. Do you know the widow there?’

  ‘You know I do. We spoke to her last night.’

  Sir Richard rolled his eyes heavenwards. ‘I meant – and I think you must know this – did you know the woman before last night?’

  ‘No. I had never seen her before last evening.’

  This time it was me who was treated to the judicial frown of suspicion. I was relieved when a man appeared in the doorway and hurried to the Coroner. ‘Sir? Is this what you wanted?’

  I recognized him as one of the tipstaff’s men. He held in his hand a bundle of dark material, wrapped up tightly like a travelling man’s pack, and as soon as he reached the Coroner, he passed it over.

  The knight took the pack to the table where the clerk had been scribbling. The clerk was finished for the moment and watched as Sir Richard unwrapped a jacket of dark material. ‘I have here the coat that the unfortunate fellow was wearing when he was slain,’ Sir Richard said. He held it up. ‘It was given away to a passing traveller, apparently, by Dorothy, the fellow’s widow. Luckily, the transaction was witnessed by Master Jonathan Harknet, who advised me this morning.’

  ‘It is not his jacket,’ Dorothy cried out. She looked appalled to see the coat appear. I wondered why she should care so much.

  ‘It’s easy to test,’ Sir Richard said. He lifted it up. ‘There is a series of stabs through the cloth.’ He took it to the body and laid it over the man’s back. ‘I can see that the wounds match … Wait! All bar one. That one is a stab wound on the left side of his back, which I think might well have punctured his heart.’

  He left the coat draped over the body and walked pensively back to the clerk. Standing there, Sir Richard cast a glance about the men standing in front of him, before his eye came to rest on the woman and her children once more. ‘Madam, I am deeply sorry to have to ask this, but I must do so. Do you know how he might have been stabbed without his coat, and then his coat arranged over his body, before he was stabbed again?’

  ‘I know nothing of this,’ she said, and I swear I thought she might topple. She looked so enfeebled at this news, although whether it was the sight of his bloody garment or the question, I couldn’t tell. Her denial that it could be her husband’s was transparently false, however. It only served to make her look guilty.

  It was then that Sir Richard held up the shirt. ‘You will see that there are only eight holes in this, too,’ he said, holding it up for the jury. ‘It is plain to me that the man was stabbed once through the heart while he was not wearing his shirt. That, to me, suggests that he was either undressed or wearing something else when he was slain. Later, he was dressed in his shirt and jacket, and stabbed eight more times to make it appear that he was killed on the roadway.’

  ‘How can you tell that?’ Roger blustered. ‘It’s impossible to guess all that from a shirt and a jacket!’

  Sir Richard turned to him and studied him. There was a sudden rainfall, and in the silence, all I could hear was the light rain pattering loudly on sodden hats and coats or cloaks. I took two breaths before Sir Richard spoke again, surprisingly softly. ‘The first wound killed him. Someone cle
aned his body after that, and there is little blood on the shirt as a result. The other wounds passed through shirt and coat, and there was some little bleeding shown on his garments, but only a small amount. If he had been alive, as my good friend Master Atwood pointed out, there would have been much blood. If he had been wearing clothes, they would have been heavily soiled. These were not, so he was already dead.’ He turned back to Dorothy. ‘Are you sure that there is nothing else you would like to tell me about your husband’s death?’

  The Coroner spent some time after that talking to the clerk, remarking on the quality of the garments and how much they were worth, the value of the weapon used to murder the priest, and the total of the fines he would have to impose for this appalling infringement of the Queen’s Peace. I have often thought that the sole purpose of the Coroner was, in the main, to squeeze the poor folk who discovered a dead body and make sure that next time a body turned up, they would walk on by, or, as so often happened, give the corpse a ride to the next parish, and leave others to bear the costs.

  While Sir Richard loudly discussed the fines, and the jury stood shuffling unhappily from foot to foot as they listened to the mounting costs of Peter’s death, the yeoman stood watching matters with a sort of smug anger, like a man who has predicted disaster and now sees his forecast come true to his own cost as much as to that of others. He threw an occasional glare in the direction of Dorothy, who stood as though rooted to the spot. It was plain enough that the poor woman was holding her tears at bay with the greatest of difficulty. Her oldest boy had gone to her now and thrown his arms about her; the fellow was almost a man, and plainly took his position as head of the household seriously. I noticed that she glanced at him and then averted her head. He looked at her with a hurt expression.

  I was intrigued by the yeoman. When the Coroner had mentioned the name Jonathan Harknet, the fellow had preened like a peacock, and I guessed that he was the owner of the name. Yet for all his personal pride, he was not popular with the others of the village. He stood alone, away from the other men. When the landlord of the inn came out with trays of ale, I noticed that he walked away from Harknet and instead made his way straight to the Coroner first, delivering a pair of pots to Sir Richard and his clerk, and then moved to Dorothy, giving her a pot of her own and one each to her boys. He deposited a jug on the floor for the family, and passed another to Roger of Ilford. A good, supportive host, I thought. I cleared my throat, but he appeared not to hear me.