Michael Jecks - The Malice of Unnatural Death

‘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.’