The Night Wanderer

ONE

The death happened less than a week after my return to Cambridge. The season was autumn, the weather still mild and the leaves just beginning to turn yellow, bronze and copper: colours which made a pleasing contrast with the bright blue sky. The first frosts were still to come.

The body was found on the river bank, on a lonely willow-shaded stretch out to the west of the town. The throat had gone: torn out as if by a clenching fist with strong fingers and sharp nails. No human hand, surely, had that sort of force.

I’ve no idea why anybody thought it was a good idea to send for a healer. What did they imagine I would do? Join up the severed windpipe and put a patch on that gaping, yawning hole? Had I – had anybody – the skill, such an action might possibly have restored the corpse’s ability to breathe, but by then the poor man was past saving anyway because the ruptured vessels on the left side of the neck had allowed all the blood to drain out. By the time I got there, all we could do for him was pray for his soul.

And shiver with horror, for this was no ordinary death.

I had come hurrying back to the town and my studies with my mentor Gurdyman sooner than I had been expected, because I was following hard on the heels of Jack Chevestrier. We had got to know each other back in September, trying to help a lost woman find her way home, [1] and although our time together had been quite short, already I sensed there was a strong connection between us. In my sensible moments, I found it hard to understand how two such different people – a Cambridge lawman and a village healer from the fens – could have anything in common. But the fact remained that something had drawn us together. I had followed him back to Cambridge because I wanted to find out what it was.

I had already settled back into life with Gurdyman, who, when I presented myself at his twisty-turny house hidden in the maze of lanes and alleyways behind the market square, had looked up from his workbench just long enough to say, ‘Oh, you’re back,’ quickly followed by, ‘Go out and buy us a couple of pies, it must be long past noon,’ before diving back into whatever was absorbing him and ignoring me for the rest of the day. I was used to him, though, and I didn’t mind. Once we’d eaten, we got straight back into our work together; he’d been instructing me in the Nine Herbs Charm a few weeks back, before we’d been interrupted, and it soon became apparent that this was merely the first in a long list of powerful charms he was planning on teaching me. I reflected with considerable pleasure that I was exactly where I wanted to be: deeply involved in the studies that I loved with a mentor I greatly admired, and with the prospect of an intriguing friendship to pursue as soon as I had some free time. Life, I thought as the days went by, not without a little complacency and self-congratulation, couldn’t be much better, and happily I looked forward to the weeks ahead.

Which just goes to show that it is a mistake to take for granted the pleasure of calm, peaceful days where nothing much happens other than what you’re expecting will happen. As soon as I stared down at that throatless corpse, I sensed the presence of evil and, somewhere deep inside me where intuition counts for a great deal more than logic and reason, I knew the calm, peaceful days were gone.

I waited with the body while a lad ran to find an officer of the law. It had been discovered by a courting couple, who had slipped away to this quiet stretch of the river once their day’s work was done to enjoy some private time together before the cold of oncoming autumn made such outdoor assignations uncomfortable and impractical. The lad had come along shortly after the discovery, together with the boy who had dashed off to fetch me. He was now sitting hunched up some way down the track, as if determined to get as far away from the corpse as he could. He and his companion had been looking out for a shady place to fish.

I felt very sorry for the courting couple. They’d described to me how they found the body, or rather the young man had, for the woman was still too distraught to speak. She was only a girl, really, and apparently she’d fainted. The young man looked scared to death, watching her with anxious eyes, presumably in case she keeled over again. He really loves her, I thought. It was a strange thing to have noticed under the circumstances – probably I too was suffering from shock – but, nevertheless, I was heartened by that demonstration of the young man’s love. He hadn’t brought her out here solely to explore the plump young body, although that he definitely had done, for her gown was still unlaced. I would make sure to point that out tactfully, before he took her back to town. Perhaps she had wanted the intimacy as much as him, I mused, for men make a mistake if they think they always have to coax a woman, and…

My rambling thoughts were interrupted by voices and the sound of footfalls. Five men were coming along the path that ran along the river bank, one of them carrying a hazel hurdle. I recognized the man in the lead; he was, like Jack Chevestrier, one of the sheriff’s men.

My heart sank. It was only then, when I knew it wasn’t Jack who’d been sent to investigate the death, that I realized how hard I’d been praying it would be.

The law officer was a tall, skinny man with narrow shoulders, a prominent Adam’s apple and a face that came to a point, with a long, protuberant nose above a receding chin. His eyes, small, intensely dark and rather close together, increased the resemblance to a rat.

‘What’s all this about a body?’ he demanded belligerently. He looked at the young couple, a brief, lascivious grin twisting the small mouth as he took in the girl’s dishevelled gown, and then turned to me. ‘I know you,’ he said, jabbing an accusing forefinger at me. ‘You’re that healer girl. Did you find it, then, and reckon you’d try to save it?’ I noticed he hadn’t yet looked at the corpse, lying beneath the willows.

I paused to calm myself, then said quietly, ‘I didn’t find the body, no. This young couple did.’ The girl had made the discovery when, lying on her back, she had flung out her hand, then, wondering why it seemed to have landed in a sticky puddle, raised her head to have a look. That was when she fainted, and, as she started to come round, she’d been copiously sick. ‘Then these two boys came along.’ I pointed to the pair, standing a little apart and clearly trying to melt into the background. ‘One of them came running to find me.’

The lawman nodded, a sarcastic smile on his face. ‘Right, and you reckoned you’d act the hero and save a life? Is that it?’

He managed to make what would surely have been a laudable action into something faintly risible. I began to dislike him profoundly.

‘Saving lives is indeed what I am trained to do,’ I said, just about managing to sound polite, ‘but I realized as soon as I got here that there was no possibility of doing so in this case.’

‘Beyond your competence,’ the lawman said. He glanced at the two skulking lads. ‘They should have sought out someone with more experience. Some man,’ he added.

I made myself count to five, fighting down the hot, furious words. When I was pretty sure I could speak without spitting, I said, ‘The most experienced man in Cambridge could not have saved that poor soul.’ I hesitated, wondering if it was wise to show him up in front of his men, but then I thought, He deserves it, and went ahead. ‘As you would have seen yourself if you had bothered to look, the corpse has no throat.’

The girl moaned, bent over and threw up again.

The lawman went very white. I watched him, the struggle going on in his head clearly visible in his face. He took one step towards the body, saw the blood and hastily stepped away again. ‘Dead,’ he said, too loudly. Then, turning to the man holding the makeshift stretcher, ‘Go on, then! Pick it up! Don’t just stand there gawping, you’ve got a job to do!’

The man with the hurdle glanced at his companions and they all moved reluctantly towards the body. I took pity on them. It was hard to be expected to show courageous indifference to violent death, especially when your commanding officer so obviously couldn’t. I stepped between them and the corpse, and, bending down, took up a fold of the blood-stained cloak, draping it over the head and shoulders so that the dreadful wound was invisible.

The man with the hurdle gave me a grateful smile. ‘Thanks, miss,’ he muttered.

The four of them bent to their task. They handled the corpse with gentle hands, as if it could still feel.

The lawman was already striding back towards the town.

I waited until the men and their burden had gone. Then I turned to the two lads. ‘Save your fishing for another evening,’ I said. ‘Go home now.’ The lads needed no further instruction, and, as one, broke into a run and headed off; not, I noticed, in the wake of the officer and his men but up another, lesser-used path. It was a less direct route, but had the advantage of allowing them to avoid any further attention from the law. It was a sensible precaution.

I met the eyes of the young man and said quietly, ‘Can you look after her by yourself or do you want me to come with you?’

He stood up a little straighter. ‘I can manage.’

I nodded. Then, holding his gaze, I indicated the lacings on my own gown. For a moment he looked puzzled, then realization dawned and, turning to the girl, hastily he tidied her up. He glanced towards me and gave me a quick grin. ‘Thanks,’ he mouthed. Then, his strong arm round her curvaceous body and her head leaning trustingly against his shoulder, he took her away.

At last.

I stepped over to the place where the body had lain and began the careful search I’d been itching to do since I got there. The lawman should have done it – of course he should – but fate’s hand had sent a man who was squeamish around blood and dead bodies, and his one desire had been to get the corpse back to town and hand over responsibility to someone else. If Jack Chevestrier had been dispatched to the scene, matters would have been very different. I knew, for I had already seen him at work and-

With an effort, I made myself stop thinking about Jack and got on with my task.

I knelt on the grass, careful to tuck my skirts up to avoid the blood, and slowly walked my hands, palm down, all over the area where the body had lain. It was quite easy to identify, for as well as the mind picture I had concentrated on committing to memory while the corpse was still in situ, the grass had been bent and flattened.

The ground held no warmth. This poor soul had been dead some time.

Next I studied the pool of blood. It, too, was cold, and congealing, brownish in colour. Then, on hands and knees with my arse in the air and my face close to the grass, slowly and meticulously I went over the whole area. I didn’t find a thing.

I sat back on my heels. Closing my eyes, once more I conjured up that image of the body and listed everything I knew about it.

It was that of a man; in late middle age, well-fed, plump-faced and clean-shaven, with neatly cut grey hair styled in a bob. He was clad in a costly robe of good wool in a bronze shade, faced with embroidered panels at the collar and the edges of the openings. He wore a hat, pulled down firmly over his brows so that even the violence of his death hadn’t knocked it off. Around his waist was a wide leather belt on which hung a purse and a short dagger in a gold-tooled sheath. His boots were of chestnut leather, supple and new, and there had been divots of muddy grass on the soles, as if he had dug in his heels to stop himself being dragged backwards.

I got up and went to check. Sure enough, a couple of paces away I found two indentations in the grass.

Reluctantly, I pictured the fatal wound. Death would have been pretty quick, and I supposed that was some consolation for the horror of its manner. The man had, I thought, been approached from behind. Feeling himself grabbed in strong arms, he’d have fought briefly, but futilely. Had the assailant turned him round to kill him? I had no way of knowing. The wound was deeper on the left side – where I’d noticed the severed blood vessels – so it had probably been done by a right-handed person, either reaching out as he stood before the victim or curling his arm round the front of the throat if he had stood behind him.

Finally, feeling more than a little queasy, I thought about that murderous hand. Was it a hand? A human hand? I shook my head, for it was dreadful to contemplate. The wound had looked huge as my horrified eyes had gazed down at it, and briefly I’d had wild visions of some nightmarish animal straight out of ancient legend, its murderously long, sharp claws spread on a huge paw, a hybrid of wolf, bear and lion.

But my sensible mind knew that such creatures had no existence outside the old fireside stories.

Did they?

All at once I was struck by the frightful realization that I was standing all by myself at the very spot where a chubby and wealthy townsman had met his appalling death. I was quite a way out of town, and it was rapidly getting dark.

I gathered up my skirts and fled.

Gurdyman was waiting for me when I got in. I was panting hard, sweaty, dishevelled, and still suffering the after-effects of my panic. I was touched to see a swift expression of relief cross his face; he’d been worried about me. Worried enough, I thought, to have abandoned his experiment down in the crypt and come up into the house.

‘I’m quite all right,’ I assured him as he shepherded me along to the little kitchen, where a pot of water was simmering over the hearth.

‘Sit.’ He pointed at the stool in the corner, and I did as he ordered. It was a great relief to rest. He poured water on to the contents of a mug he had set ready – some herbal mixture… I smelt valerian and chamomile – and handed it to me. ‘Drink.’

I blew on it and took a sip. He’d put a lot of honey in it, too. I sipped again.

After a moment, I said, ‘You’re treating me for shock.’

He nodded. ‘Quite so.’

I met his bright blue eyes. ‘How did you know?’

‘I sensed a great upheaval…’ he began in a soft chant. But then he grinned. ‘No I didn’t. But, child, you were summoned at twilight by a lad in a blind panic who said there was a body lying soaked in blood and the healer had to come as fast as she could, so obviously you weren’t summoned to pick daisies.’ He spoke lightly, but his eyes, still on me, were watching me with anxious intensity. ‘Was it bad?’ he asked softly.

I nodded. I went on sipping. The brew was wonderfully comforting, and I was already beginning to feel sleepy. Gurdyman stepped towards me and briefly rested his hand on my shoulder. ‘Go to bed, Lassair. I shall return to my workbench.’ And that’s where I’ll be if you need me, hung unspoken in the air. He trotted off along the passage. ‘We shall talk in the morning,’ his voice floated back.

‘In the morning,’ I repeated softly. Then, my eyelids drooping, I finished the drink, made my brief preparations and then clambered up the ladder that leads to my little attic room above the kitchen. I took off my boots and my outer garments, then fell into bed. Whatever soporific Gurdyman had put in my drink, he’d added it with a generous hand. I was asleep within moments.

The sound of voices woke me. I opened my eyes to see sunshine pouring in through the windows that overlook Gurdyman’s sheltered little inner court. It was full day; my mentor had kindly left me to sleep on.

Voices… Two male voices, Gurdyman’s and another.

Shocked into wakefulness, I leapt out of bed, filled the bowl with water from the jug beneath the window, washed my face and hands and then, putting more water in a cup, took up one of the little twigs I cut specially and cleaned my teeth. My herb-induced sleep had been heavy, and my mouth felt as if it was lined with fluff. I pulled on my gown, re-braided my hair, tied on a clean head band and arranged my small coif, trying all the time to keep my movements restrained and quiet; I really didn’t want to give the impression that I was taking particular care with my appearance, even though of course I was. Then, boots in my hand, I climbed barefoot down the ladder.

My attempt at nonchalant sophistication was somewhat spoiled by the fact that I missed my footing and slipped down the last few steps, landing in a heap on the floor.

The conversation out in the court abruptly stopped and Gurdyman said, ‘Are you all right in there, Lassair?’

‘Fine!’ I said, my voice a squeak.

There was a pause, then he said – and I could hear he was smiling – ‘Aren’t you coming out to join us?’

So I did.

He and Jack sat opposite each other on wooden benches, with Gurdyman’s portable working board set up between them. Gurdyman was smiling at me indulgently. As for Jack, when I nerved myself to meet his eyes, I saw with a lift of the heart that he looked as glad to see me as I was him.

He got up as I approached and gave a sort of bow. He said quietly, ‘I heard you were back.’

I nodded. ‘Yes.’

Gurdyman endured a few moments of Jack and me looking awkwardly at each other, then said firmly, ‘Lassair, I expect you can guess why Jack is here. Come and sit down, for he wants to talk to you.’

I hesitated. If I sat next to Gurdyman, Jack might think I didn’t want to be near him, and if I sat next to him, it might make me appear too forward. So I pulled up a third bench and sat on that. Gurdyman shook his head in exasperation. Then, turning to Jack, he said, ‘Go on, then.’

Jack was watching me closely. ‘You were called out yesterday evening to attend to a wounded man down by the river, Gurdyman tells me.’

‘He was dead. The wounded man, I mean. I think the people who found him panicked, and sending for a healer was the first thing they thought of.’

‘He had been dead some time?’

‘Yes.’ I explained about the cold ground and the congealing blood.

‘I’ve taken a team out there this morning and organized a proper search,’ Jack said with a frown – of criticism for the inadequacies of the colleague I’d met yesterday? – ‘but we found nothing.’

‘I looked, last night,’ I said quickly. Had that been the right thing to do, or should I have left it to Jack? ‘I didn’t find anything either.’

‘What of the others who were there?’ Jack asked. ‘There were some lads, and a young couple, I believe. Would any of them have noticed anything, or picked up some object?’

‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘The two boys had barely got to the scene before one of them raced off to fetch me, and I don’t think it would have occurred to either of them to start searching; they were far too shocked. As for the courting couple, before they found the body they were only interested in each other, and afterwards, his sole concern was to take care of her.’

‘You don’t think it would be worth my while to find them and talk to them?’

‘No.’ He’d learn nothing, I was sure of it, and I would save them from the ordeal if I could.

Jack seemed to accept that. Still watching me closely, he said, ‘What are your thoughts?’

‘Er – What do you mean?’

‘Tell me what you observed, and what you conclude from it.’

I paused, trying to sum up my impressions and work out how to express them in a way that would be helpful. It wasn’t easy, especially when he was staring at me so intently. I had forgotten the clear green of his eyes. Get on with it, I ordered myself.

‘The man was wealthy and enjoyed a rich life, with plenty on the board and in the larder,’ I began. ‘He could afford good clothes, and he had recently treated himself to a costly robe.’ The wool had had that distinctive, new-cloth gloss and smell. ‘He wore fine boots, although he wasn’t much of a walker, for the wear on the soles and heels was uneven, and he probably turned his toes out at quite an awkward angle. He had a purse attached to his belt, as well as a dagger in a nicely decorated sheath.’ I stopped, thinking. ‘Whoever attacked him didn’t do it to rob him, because the purse was still bulging, and they took him by surprise. He didn’t have time to get his dagger out.’ I paused again. ‘The assailant jumped on him from behind and he dug in his heels as whoever it was pulled him over backwards. The killer tore out the throat, I would guess in one savage movement and probably with the right hand, destroying the windpipe, the gullet and the blood vessels on the left of the neck. The man would have died instantly.’ Suddenly I could see that awful wound again. I swallowed, fighting the light-headedness. ‘I can’t begin to imagine the weapon,’ I said. ‘You’d think it was the huge paw of some wild creature, only I don’t know anything that comes that big.’

Silence. I heard my last words, over and over in my head, like a fading echo. Anything that comes that big. Comes that big. That big. Big. How stupid I sounded.

Then, after what seemed hours, Gurdyman stirred and addressed Jack. ‘You have seen the body?’ Jack nodded. ‘Do you know who he was?’

Jack sighed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘His name was Robert Powl. As Lassair surmised, he was indeed a wealthy man, building himself a fine new house out to the north-west of the town, not far from where the quayside starts to peter out.’

‘He was a merchant?’ Gurdyman demanded.

Jack shook his head. ‘No. He had a fleet of river craft, and his business was the transportation of cargoes – goods, livestock, people – around the fenland waters and up and down the rivers between here and the coast.’

‘A lucrative business,’ Gurdyman observed.

‘Yes,’ Jack agreed. ‘He seemed to be doing very well.’

‘Has he family?’ I asked, somewhat sharply. It seemed more important to ask about the people left behind to grieve than about the poor man’s prosperity.

Jack met my eyes, and I sensed he knew exactly what I was thinking. ‘He was a widower,’ he said. ‘His wife died five years ago, and they had no children. He lives with a small household of staff, who have been informed of their master’s death and the manner of it, and are deeply shocked.’

‘And can any of them suggest why their master was killed?’ Gurdyman asked. ‘Had he enemies? Somebody he had crossed in business?’

‘We are enquiring, but it appears not,’ Jack replied. ‘Robert Powl liked to make money, and he was keen to use that money to make more, but then so do all successful men of affairs.’

‘Why, then, was he killed?’ I asked in a small voice. And in such a terrible manner…

Jack looked at me, his face full of sympathy. ‘I don’t know, Lassair.’ But. I could hear the but, although it wasn’t spoken.

So could Gurdyman. ‘But you have your suspicions?’ he said.

Jack looked from one to the other of us. ‘I have-’ he began, then stopped.

‘Go on,’ Gurdyman urged. He glanced at me. ‘You won’t scare Lassair. She is made of stern stuff.’

Jack drew in a breath. Then very quietly he said, ‘This death is not entirely unexpected.’

Gurdyman saw what he meant before I did. Leaning forward, he said, ‘There have been others, killed in the same manner.’

But Jack shook his head. ‘No – not people,’ he replied, in the same barely audible voice, as if he feared eavesdroppers out in the alley on the far side of the high enclosing wall.

‘Not people?’ Gurdyman echoed. ‘What, then?’

‘A rat, then a cat, and finally a dog. The rat was found by St Bene’t’s Church, under the tower. The cat was on the quayside, hidden under a pile of wood shavings left by a shipwright. The dog was curled round the lip of the Barnwell spring.’

I shivered suddenly, for all three locations seemed to be significant. St Bene’t’s has a well, said to be very old, in its churchyard. The tower, built by the Saxons, soars above it, and people say it’s haunted. The river can appear deeply sinister when you’re there alone, with the dark waters flowing silently by. And the Barnwell spring – the name is a corruption of bairns’ well, for traditionally boys and lads met there on the eve of St John the Baptist’s Day to wrestle and play – is very, very old. Legends abound concerning its origins and although nowadays it has lost much of its old magic, if you go there at sunrise, when the mists are gently floating above the grass, there is still an atmosphere; a whisper of ancient things.

And now dead animals had been left at each place.

‘Were they killed like the dead man?’ I asked.

Jack turned to me. ‘Yes.’

‘Throats ripped out as if by a sharp-clawed hand?’ For some reason I needed to hear it confirmed.

‘Yes.’

‘Have you any idea why?’ Gurdyman spoke quietly.

‘I-’ But Jack stopped, shaking his head.

‘Theories, then,’ Gurdyman snapped with uncharacteristic impatience. ‘I cannot believe you haven’t got a theory.’

Jack straightened up, gazing over Gurdyman and me at the wall beyond. ‘I understand that something similar has happened before.’ He didn’t want to tell us. You could clearly hear the reluctance in his tone.

‘When?’ Gurdyman spoke the single word like a bark.

‘A long time ago,’ Jack said. ‘But the pattern was the same. A mouse first, savagely killed and left in a churchyard. Then a hare, left by the river. The dog was found in a well that used to exist at the corner of the marketplace.’

‘And then a man? Precisely as has just happened?’ Gurdyman demanded.

Jack snapped his full attention on to him. ‘Yes, exactly the same,’ he said slowly. ‘As far as these present events have gone, it appears that this is an exact copy of what went on before.’

‘As far as-’ Gurdyman was saying.

But I didn’t need to listen to the rest of his exclamation, nor to Jack’s answer.

For I already knew.

The brutal murder of Robert Powl would only be the first.