The Malice of Unnatural Death

Chapter Eight

Warwick Gaol

The warder was back again. The crash of the great oaken door with the iron furniture was so loud, the noise of it echoed alongthe corridor. Even at the farthest end of it, Robert le Mareschal was stirred. He only prayed that the man wasn’t coming toquestion him again.

He had lost track of time. It was certainly a long while since he had gone to the sheriff and insisted on telling his story,how the figures had been made, whom they represented, how he and John of Nottingham had taken the figurine of de Sowe andpulled out the pin, then waited a moment and thrust it deep into the waxen figure’s breast. God, but Robert had been so scaredby then. He had almost fainted away with the fear. And then, when he heard of de Sowe’s death, there had been only an all-encompassingterror of what his master had achieved, and, together with that, a dread of his own fate.

The money was nothing. Money could buy nothing that mattered to him now. The whole affair had started with money, it was true,and then he had realised that it also gave him a chance to win his revenge on the faithless devils who had so ruined his father,but that was not enough, no, not by a long measure, to justify his own destruction.

It was when he heard that de Sowe was dead that he truly realised his peril, and only then did he take that terrible step, andgo to see the sheriff. And soon after he and all the others were taken and held in gaol. All twenty-five of the men who hadasked them to make the figures and kill the king and his favourites, as well as Robert and John of Nottingham. And John hadstared at him, and then smiled, as though he knew full well that the betrayal came from him, and Robert feared that more thananything: the knowledge that his master knew his guilt.

Because Robert knew — Christ Jesus, he knew! — that John of Nottingham was a truly evil man.

Exeter City

‘What do you think of this, Coroner?’ Baldwin said quietly as they made their way from the bishop’s palace, out through thepalace gate, and thence down to the southern gate of the city.

‘Me? I’d reckon he’s either lost a large part of his senses, or he has reason to know that there’s a dangerous document inthe messenger’s purse.’ Normally a man who would have a hundred filthy jokes to hand, the coroner was unusually quiet today. The seriousness of the matter had eradicated his sense of humour.

‘Is it likely that the messenger could have been killed for any other reason than the theft of his purse?’ Baldwin wondered. King’s messengers were almost never attacked or harmed. They were known by their small pouches with the king’s own arms onthem as much as by their uniforms.

‘A man might have seen him and desired to know what was held in his purse, I suppose. An off-the-cuff decision. A chance encounter. Man saw him, thought: “Nice little purse, wonder how much money’s in it,” ’ Coroner Richard proposed. He looked at Baldwin. ‘No. You’re right. He was murdered for this document,whatever it was.’

‘Which puts us in a very difficult position, old friend.’

‘Why?’

‘Because whoever killed that messenger must have known what was in his pouch, and desired it for his own reasons. And thatman therefore must be known to the bishop. He is probably in the bishop’s own household, because how else could a man havecome to know what was in the pouch?’

‘There was the messenger himself.’

Baldwin shook his head. ‘The messenger would be the last to know what was held in his pouch. He would only know the destinationof the message, not the content. No, it must have been someone in the bishop’s household who heard what was in it, and soughtto take it.’

‘Why?’

‘We cannot tell that until we have it in our hands. Perhaps blackmail, perhaps information that could be easily sold to someone?’ Such as the French king, he told himself. If Bishop Stapledon had written something defamatory of the queen, the informationcould be enormously useful to the king of England’s leading enemy.

‘Well, let’s go and check, then,’ the coroner said easily. They were already at the gate, and he motioned to their left, towhere the body lay, a beadle standing alert nearby.

Baldwin nodded, and crouched at the corpse’s side. The pouch was a small leather purse with the king’s arms painted carefullyon the side. It was well constructed, with a waxen coating to protect the contents against wind and rain, and the fasteningwas tight, so Baldwin found he had some difficulty in opening it at first. Inside were some small message rolls, each some four inches long, and two in diameter. He glancedover at the coroner, who stood now leaning against a wall, picking at his teeth with a small stick he had sharpened. He eyed Baldwin with a contented, untroubled look.

Sighing to himself, Baldwin carefully studied each seal before removing the pouch from the dead man’s belt and reinstallingall the messages in it.

‘Well?’ Coroner Richard demanded. ‘Was it there?’

‘No,’ said Baldwin, and he couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder towards the bishop’s palace. This would not be a surpriseto the bishop, he felt sure, but no matter whether it was or not, the fact was that Baldwin was being asked now to seek outa roll even though he knew nothing about the contents.

Looking away from the palace, he found himself wondering how many people within the city walls could be carrying a roll justlike the one which had been stolen.

Dartmoor

‘I hope you do not mind my observing,’ Busse said, ‘that you seem to be rather reserved today, Bailiff. In the past you havealways struck me as a happy fellow, but today you are reluctant to speak to me.’

‘No, no. I am just thinking about my wife,’ Simon lied. ‘I had been hoping to go straight to her when I was called back to Tavistock. Being sent on this journey was not in my mind.’

‘I am sorry, Bailiff. I had no idea. I did not want company myself. It was only the insistence of others that led to my acceptingyour escort. I would much rather you returned home, if you wish to, than continued with me to a meeting you have no desire to witness.’

‘I am sure that it is best that you have company on such a long journey,’ Simon said shortly.

They had left the abbey and crossed the river by the old bridge, then taken the steep lane that rose from Tavistock headingeast and north up to the moors themselves. It was Simon’s intention to cross Dartmoor towards Chagford, and then head easttowards Exeter. They would probably have to take it relatively slowly because the monk was unused to such journeying, but Simon was hopeful that no matter what happened he should be able to return to his home within the week.

‘But why? Because I am elderly and infirm? I have been living here on the moors for more than twenty years, Bailiff,’ themonk declared with a look of bafflement.

Simon could have snarled with annoyance. The sole reason for his being here was the one which he could not admit: that hewas spying. ‘The moors can be dangerous. You know that.’

‘There are many dangers in the world,’ Busse commented, looking about him. There was a furze bush nearby, and he trotted toit, reaching down and picking some of the brilliant yellow flowers and popping them into his mouth.

Simon agreed with that, glancing at Busse from the corner of his eye. He had no intention of admitting that he was afraidof no earthly dangers quite so much as the supernatural, but even as he watched the amiable monk at the gorse bush he wasaware of the spirit of the moors, the spirit of old Crockern. If a man treated the moors disrespectfully, Crockern would takehis revenge. There were many stories of how farmers would seek to change the moorland to suit them, but the moors would alwaysrevert, and the farmers would be ruined. No man could beat Crockern.

But for all that, the day was clearing nicely, with the grim clouds floating away, and the sun appearing every so often. Hillsin the distance flashed bright in the light, then darkened as clouds drifted past, and from this higher point Simon couldsee the shadows washing over the hills like an ink poured over them. It was a thrilling sight, and one that made his heartleap for joy. No more sea and arguing sailors, no more John Hawley complaining about the amount of customs due on his imports,no more bickering between his neighbour and his servant …

‘How far is it, then?’

Simon glanced down at the urchin at his stirrup. ‘I will tell you when we are nearly there,’ he grated. Rob was limping. Simonhad insisted on buying boots for Rob before they tried to cross the moor, but the lad’s feet were unused to them, and Simonhad a feeling that he would take them off before long. He saw no need for such things, when he had never worn them before.

‘But how much longer is it?’

Rob was peering ahead, eyes narrowed as the sun came out again, and suddenly Simon appreciated his interest: this was a ladwho had never before travelled more than perhaps three miles from the house in which he had been born. He was a mere childwhen it came to experience of the world, and here he was, anticipating a visit to the largest city for hundreds of miles. He might never see such a place ever again. Although he had no comprehension of the distance to Exeter, he was as excitedas a puppy with its first stick at the thought of it — and probably petrified in equal measure.

‘We should be there tomorrow,’ Simon said. ‘It’s a long walk from here. Perhaps forty or fifty miles? And the ground is not so easy as most of the way from Dartmouth to Tavistock. How are your feet?’

‘This ground’s fine,’ Rob said. ‘But God’s ballocks, that’s a long way to go.’

‘Sooner we get on the sooner we’ll arrive,’ Simon said more curtly, nervously shooting a look at the man who wished to beabbot.

As if feeling his eye on him, Busse winked at Simon. ‘I can see that a prayer for the easing of profane comments from themouths of children could be a good idea.’

Rob frowned, then pulled a face that seemed to indicate that his respect for the monk was not increasing. Not that Simon reckonedit was because Rob was concerned that he might have offended the monk with his language; it was more that Rob hated beingdescribed as a child.

Exeter City

The messenger had been pulled free of the pile of rubbish and lay face down on the packed earth beside the roadway. When Baldwinenquired, Coroner de Welles confirmed that he had given the body a cursory inspection. The inquest would be in a day or soas usual, and the body would be stripped naked and rolled over and over in front of the jury so that they could see and witnessall the wounds. So far, the coroner had merely watched the body being pulled from the rubbish, and briefly glanced at it beforeseeking Baldwin, who was kneeling at its side now, examining it carefully.

He looked up at de Welles. ‘Your conclusion?’

‘You can see for yourself. The man had a thong pulled about his throat. Dead fairly quickly, I should think, although it wouldn’thave been pleasant. He struggled. Look at the marks on his neck, eh?’

Baldwin peered frowningly at the thin line about the pale, slightly bluish flesh. ‘Yes. But not a simple leather thong. Ifyou look closely, you can see that there is a weave in the bruise. I should think that this was either a woven leather cord,or a hempen one. But very fine. Perhaps it could have been either, although if I were the assassin I should aim for leatheras being stronger and safer. I see what you mean about the marks, though.’

‘Yes, he fought back as he might, poor devil.’

Baldwin nodded. All along the thin line of the bruise left by the ligature there were scratches and scrapes. He had seen themoften enough, as had the coroner: when men were hanged with their hands unbound, they would often struggle to release thecord in this way, scrabbling with their fingers at the cord, desperate to tug it free and give themselves some air. This manhad tried in his desperation to hook his fingers under the cord and pull it away; his nails had made these sad little futilescratches. The blood had run heavily to the right side of the neck.

‘Look here — this is strange. It is as though blood had been smeared over his throat, for none of the scratches under thecord could have bled enough for all this.’

‘Aye, so perhaps the killer was himself wounded. I wondered whether the poor fellow managed to get a knife out and mark hisassailant. Perhaps he stabbed the man’s hand?’

‘Indeed. Yet if he succeeded in that, surely he would have cut the thong that throttled him? A man would not fear a scratchfrom a knife compared with strangling, would he? But there is blood.’ His gaze moved over the rest of the body. ‘What else?’

‘If you open his tunic, you will see he was stabbed, but only when he was already dead. Once he was on the ground, the killer thrust a dagger into his breast — I suppose he wantedto make sure, hey? No other reason for it. The knife was long and thin. I reckon at least nine inches long, because that’show far into his body the hole goes, and about an inch at the hilt, from the look of the wound.’

‘And he was stabbed after death because the wound did not bleed.’

‘Not at all. The man opened his tunic and stabbed him through the heart.’

A good job for someone, Baldwin told himself. Somebody would win these clothes, and at least this way they were undamaged.‘The body was in the rubbish there?’

‘Yes. Well concealed, too. If it wasn’t for the hog finding him, he’d still be there now. Might have been there for a yearor more, the way the lazy bastards about this town leave their trash all over the place. Look at the stuff here! Blasted disgrace! Wouldn’t let it happen at Lifton, I can tell you.’

‘I think that a hundred like Lifton could be easier to maintain and police than a city the size of Exeter,’ Baldwin murmuredpatiently. ‘So you say he was fully covered in the stuff?’

‘Apart from his hand and the forearm. The hand was pretty badly chewed, as you can see.’

Baldwin nodded and peered closely at the hand. It made him frown. Certainly it looked as though it had been mangled by theteeth of a hog — the forefinger and middle finger were gone, and there were deep lacerations in between the bones where thehog’s teeth had sunk through the man’s flesh … but then Baldwin stared again at the stumps where the man’s fingers hadbeen removed. ‘What do you make of this, Coroner?’

‘Hey? Hmm. Didn’t look so closely at the thing. It didn’t kill him, and the hog had been chewing pretty well at his hand. Why?’

He leaned over Baldwin’s shoulder as he spoke and then his brows rose and he tutted to himself. ‘I think I am perhaps themost stupid rural coroner whom the king has ever had elected to post. Who could have done that, then?’

Baldwin was still studying the clean cuts where two fingers had been snipped from the hand. ‘Anyone. Someone who is used tobutchery, or a man who is used to skinning, or a cook … the number of men who could be practised in this kind of neatwork are too numerous to count. More interesting is why someone would have wanted to do such a thing to him.’

‘Torture, you think?’ Coroner de Welles guessed. ‘Punishment, for something the fellow had written?’

‘Those are both perhaps possible,’ Baldwin said. But in the back of his mind he was recalling a story he had once heard ofanother case, when a man’s finger was removed. It had been carefully cut from a living man’s hand for use in maleficium.

Baldwin was not superstitious, and he often laughed at Simon Puttock’s credulity, but even in broad daylight, with the noiseof people pushing and shoving their way past him on the road only yards away, he suddenly felt a sharp chill at the thoughtthat there could be a sorcerer working here in the city.