The Malice of Unnatural Death

Chapter Twenty-One

Exeter City

Baldwin had knocked on enough doors asking to see the recently bereaved to recognise the signs, but there was something about widow Mucheton that struck him more than almost any.

It was not that she was beautiful. Even when her face was not ravaged with grief she would have been plain at best, with aface slightly too round, her eyes a little close-set, her mouth thin and hard. Her complexion was pale, but that was probablylargely due to the grief, Baldwin reckoned.

No, it was the obvious distress that affected him. So often women were so inured to the idea of death — it was such a majorpart of life, after all — that even when a close and loved person died, they would steel themselves and try to show littleof their misery. People simply did not show their feelings like that. A man or woman had to have pride, and believe in thepromise of the Church that they would see their loved ones again.

This woman would have none of that. She was distraught, and she was content that her neighbours should know it.

‘Mistress?’ Baldwin said quietly. ‘Would you mind if we were to ask you some questions? We seek your husband’s murderer.’

‘Come inside,’ she said after a moment. It was not that she was reflecting, more that she could only think slowly now, since theloss of her man.

It was a small room, but well maintained. The floor actually had some tiles set into the dirt to walk on. They ran to theedge of the hearth, which was delineated by a circle of little red stones, much the same rough stones as had been used tomake Exeter’s walls. A single chair stood near it, clearly Norman’s own, while a stool sat by a table in the corner. That Norman had been wealthy was proved by the two tapestries on one wall, but more generally by the feeling of comfort. Therewas a sideboard with pots and three pewter plates on it, a large box for clothing, and a pantry cupboard in a corner. Candlesilluminated the room, and Baldwin could see that there was a ladder climbing to the floor above. When he glanced up at it,he saw a pair of faces peering down at him: two children.

She made an effort to show that she was functioning, and offered them some food and ale, which Baldwin quickly declined, glaringferociously at the coroner as he did so. All to no avail.

‘Mistress, if you have a little good, strong ale, that would be most kindly received.’

The barrels, two of them, stood on a trestle at the far wall, and she took a pot from the sideboard to fill. But as she walkedfrom the shelves, her apron snagged at the edge. The whole structure moved, and two pots tumbled down to the tiled floor,where both smashed.

She stood as though stunned by this latest disaster. Pots and pans were not overly expensive, but to a widow with no income,to lose two at a stroke was a disaster. As Baldwin watched, her face slowly wrinkled with despair, and then her eyes closed as her misery overwhelmed her again.

‘Coroner, fetch her some ale,’ he commanded harshly, while he himself stood and took her hand to try to comfort her. It tooksome little while, but at last she drew some deep, shuddering breaths, and drank deeply from the cup which the coroner proffered.

‘Thank you, masters. I am sorry to be so weakly.’

‘Mistress, you deserve only sympathy after your sad loss,’ Baldwin said.

‘You are kind. I miss him so!’

Before she could dissolve into tears again, Baldwin patted her hand. ‘What did he do, your husband?’

‘My Norman? He was an honest man.’

‘Of course.’

‘He was an antler worker. He made combs and other devices.’

Baldwin nodded encouragingly. He knew of such workers: they would take a complete set of antlers and cut them carefully intodiscrete parts, and then saw each down to specific sizes. A comb would be made as a composite, with two blanks for each sideof the handle, more inserted between them with cuts to create the teeth, and usually another composite section, a sheath intowhich the teeth would be thrust for safekeeping. An antler could be used for making almost anything. Even the harder, bonierpart from near the skull itself could be cut into cubes and dots burned into it to create dice. Little would go to waste.

Seeing his calm interest, the widow wiped at her eyes and concentrated, sitting on her stool and sniffing.

‘Had he been working on the night he died?’ Baldwin asked.

‘That was Monday last. Yes, he’d been here in his room all day, and then when it grew later, he walked out to the tavern for a fill of ale.’

‘There was nothing apparently upsetting him?’

‘My man?’ She smiled. It made her look a little younger. ‘Nothing ever got to him. So long as he had his work in the daytimeand an ale or two at night, he was ever happy. So were we …’ Her eyes were drawn up to the children overhead. ‘We allwere.’

‘Why should he have travelled along that alley? Do you know?’ Baldwin asked.

Her face fractured again, and her mouth was drawn down into an upturned bow. She closed her eyes, but then opened them again,and now there was an angry glitter in them. ‘Those bitches over the way have been saying he was going to the stews, to visitthe draggle-tails in their brothels — but, sir, he wouldn’t have. He never did before. Always home here, he was, as soon ashe left the tavern. You ask any of the men there. They’ll all vouch for him. He was as honest as a man could be.’

Baldwin nodded soothingly, but he was not convinced. Many a man, in his experience, would find it easy enough to go and seea doxy after too many ales. His courage would increase with proportion to the ales drunk, and all fear of consequences — thepox — would disappear until morning.

She saw his doubt. ‘It is true, he never used to go to them. I gave him all he needed.’

‘Did he have any enemies? Did he owe money to anyone?’

‘Bless you, sir! He was successful. A better provider I could never meet. He always had money for us. That was how we couldafford this house.’

‘So he never worried about money?’

‘No. Only that day he had made plenty of money. He was off to the tavern to celebrate.’

‘But when he was found, his purse was gone.’

‘I know. And we needed that money without him.’ She sniffed. Then she shrugged resignedly. There would be many more disappointmentsin the years ahead, she knew.

‘We have heard that he used to wear a bone brooch, too. Is that right?’

‘Yes, sir. A great circle of antler, it was, with a long, thin pin to secure it. A lovely piece of his work.’

‘But not something which could easily be sold on?’

‘Bless you, no! Anyone who saw it would know it was my Norman’s.’

It was late that afternoon that Simon and his companions arrived at the West Gate. Weary and hungry, the three rode up Stepecote Street towards Carfoix at the centre. Simon intended to see that Busse was delivered safely to the cathedral, and then hewould find a place to rest, while he tried to work out how on earth he could keep an eye on the man as John de Courtenay hadasked. At the moment, he had no idea whatsoever how he might be able to do that.

The sun was already low in the west behind them, and the token warmth it gave was already a memory as they reached the Fissand Gate and asked the doorkeeper to let them through. Soon they were in the close, and could release their horses to wander andcrop the grass. Rob was left with them while Simon and Richard Busse walked stiffly towards the bishop’s palace.

‘I am most grateful to you, Bailiff, for your efforts on my behalf,’ Busse said.

Simon nodded absently. ‘Are you going straight away to see my lord the bishop?’

‘I must. It would scarcely be right to leave him all unknowing that I have arrived, and I wish to give thanks for our safedelivery.’

Simon nodded again, but wondered whether he ought to try to stay with Busse even as he spoke to the bishop. John de Courtenayhad made it clear that he wanted Busse watched at all times, but he could scarcely expect Simon to be able to listen in toevery confidential discussion Busse had even with Bishop Walter. That was stretching things too far.

Busse’s next words solved his little dilemma. ‘Why do you not come with me, Bailiff? You should also make your presence known.’ Thus it was that Simon and the brother were soon in the bishop’s palace, while Rob dealt with the horses and saw to theireffects.

Sitting at the bishop’s table in his hall, Simon felt the anxiety of the last day slipping away. In its place was a marvelloussomnolence. As Bishop Walter spoke to Busse, Simon drank some of the strong wine with which they had been plied as soon asthey entered, and knew it was having its effect. He could feel his eyelids growing heavy in the wonderful heat, and his headstarted to tip forward without his being able to prevent it. With a jerk, he drew himself up again, and took a deep swallowof wine to try to waken himself, but the result was not as he intended. He felt his chin fall to his breast, and then he hada struggle to keep his eyes open. Only when he felt his hand slip from his lap to begin its journey towards the floor, withhis goblet of wine still in his fist, did he lurch upright again.

‘Do we keep you awake?’ the bishop asked, but not angrily.

‘This good bailiff kept us all alive,’ Busse said eagerly. ‘My lord, he was able to construct a shelter in the midst of the storm,and with that and a little fire he kept us healthy. It was a miracle, out there in the wilds.’

‘This is true?’ the bishop enquired, his head tilted as he peered somewhat short-sightedly at Simon.

‘Our passage took us longer than it should have,’ Simon mumbled. ‘We had to halt up near Scorhill in the woods there. Otherwisewe could have been caught in the open, and we would have died.’

‘I owe you my thanks, then,’ Stapledon said. ‘It would have been a great loss to Tavistock were this excellent brother tohave perished.’

‘I did my best,’ Simon said.

‘Good. I have rooms set aside for you all — but, Bailiff, your good friend the knight of Furnshill is here in the city. Wouldyou prefer to join him at his inn?’

After a short discussion it was agreed that Simon and Rob would take rooms with Baldwin, and the bishop sent a message tothe innkeeper to make a room ready.

Then, ‘So, Brother Robert,’ the bishop said, turning back to the monk. ‘Will you need anything from me while you are here?’

‘No, my Lord Bishop. All I need is a few little items, and a consultation. When that is all done, I shall be returning to Tavistock. However, if the good bailiff doesn’t mind, I think that I may ask to return by the slower, but perhaps more reliable,route, over past Crediton, and thence to Okehampton and Tavistock.’

‘Perhaps you ought to consider that, eh, Bailiff?’

Simon opened his eyes and looked at the kindly bishop. ‘Yes. Yes, of course, Bishop.’

What sort of consultation did Busse need, he wondered.

John of Nottingham returned to his small chamber as darkness fell in the alley outside.

It was a peculiar little twilit world, this. The sun was long over the horizon before it could make any impact here in thealley. The buildings opposite were only two storeys high, but that was enough to blank off the sun most effectively in themornings. By the time it had struggled over them, it was already close to noon. And then the full daylight lasted for a merehour or so, before the sun had traversed the alley and moved back towards the west. All that could be seen down here was anarrow gap of blue high overhead between the jettied upper levels of the houses.

But that was all good for John. He liked the dark. The anonymity which he craved was here, and the result was effectual safety. Nobody who would want to harm him ever came down this way, and if they did, they would be hard pushed to find him, searchhowever diligently they might.

In the chamber, he wrinkled his nose at the smell of dampness, and then set to lighting his candles. He had some old tinder,which he struck his flint over, and by God’s good grace, after only ten strikes, he had a spark alight. Wrapping the tinderwithin a handful of dry wood chips, he blew steadily until a flame appeared, and then it was only a matter of lighting thefirst of the many candles. Taking it up, he walked about the room, lighting all the tapers and rushlights, and when he wasdone he set the candle on his table, and reached for the image.

It was good. There was no doubt about that. The crown was a perfect symbol to guide the demon to the king. There was onlythe one king, after all. John’s prayers would make that clear enough even to the most simple of demons. Setting that aside, he set himself to crafting the next man. This oneand his father were hard. One was large and heavily paunched, while his son was taller and slim, strong and powerful. It wasfrustrating, and after working on them for a while he set them aside to form the fourth man.

This was easy enough: he had to fashion the correct features first, but that was no trouble to the necromancer. He had seenthis man’s face often enough in the last few days when he had gone to celebrate mass. The clothing was easy. Clerical robeswere long and designed to be practical, rather than objects of fashion. The hat was easy too, of course. A mitre was no troubleto a man like him. And as he worked, he felt sure that the stooping appearance was perfect. The way that the mommet peeredfrom narrowed eyes caught the essence of the fellow perfectly. Before he came to Exeter, the last time John had seen him hadbeen when he had been walking the streets of London after attending a meeting of financiers, and John had almost been knockeddown by the man’s henchmen as they cleared the road for his passage. Stapledon had not even glanced in John’s direction ashe walked on, his eyes set into that little frown as he tried to focus on the way ahead.

Soon he would be finished, and the bishop could take his place beside the model of the king.