Michael Jecks - The Malice of Unnatural Death

‘Why, are they safe?’ Rob asked innocently.

Simon shot him a look, then glanced at the monk beside him. Busse, he saw, was nervous. Good! Well he might be, Simon reflected.

‘No, but their spirits may lead us to safety,’ he said at last, and kicked his horse to greater speed.

Exeter City

Baldwin and the coroner had to stop a while for refreshment, for, said Coroner Richard, his belly was so empty, they wouldsoon hear it rumbling in Cornwall. After some persuasion, Baldwin agreed to visit a pie shop on Cooks’ Row, and then the twocould head down to Stepecote Street, where there was a man, so the watchman said, who practised magic.

It was hard to curb his impatience as the coroner prodded at all the pies on sale, before settling on a pair of matched pastrycoffins filled with beef in gravy. Richard de Welles munched happily as they walked. If he had had his way, they would havebeen ensconced in a tavern by now, and eating and drinking their fill. Although that was by no means Baldwin’s plan, he wasfully aware of the dangers of an investigation with the coroner. He had witnessed the hung-over anguish on Simon’s face everymorning only recently when the coroner had stayed with the bailiff in Dartmouth. Baldwin was extremely keen to avoid suchpain.

Stepecote Street was the main thoroughfare to the west of the city. It took all the traffic from the city out to the great bridge ofwhich Exeter was so proud, so was well metalled. As in all the streets, the centre held the kennel, the great gutter whichtook all the rainwater away from the houses before they could be flooded in severe weather. However, the kennel here stoodout more, because the street was so steep that the tracks on either side were flagged as a series of shallow steps. It meantthat little traffic other than pack-horses could come this way, but that held the advantage to Baldwin and the coroner asthey walked down that there were no wagons or carts to be avoided.

Richard de Langatre’s house was halfway down the street on the southern side. Baldwin had stopped a priest on their way, andhe had confirmed where the man lived, although he cast an eye over Baldwin as he spoke. He seemed of the opinion that menshould not consort with a necromancer.

Seeing his look, the coroner had smiled broadly. ‘Don’t worry, Father. We’re only going to consult him about a murder.’

The priest’s smile fled his face, and he hurried on his way up the hill.

‘Coroner, please,’ Baldwin moaned.

‘What? What did I say? Eh?’

‘What is going on down there?’ Baldwin wondered, seeing a small crowd. ‘Do you think that is the house?’

‘Looks like it,’ the coroner said. He took a massive bite from his remaining pie, then threw away the crust. ‘Let’s go andfind out,’ he continued, showering Baldwin and the road in crumbs.

There was a pair of young urchins, perhaps ten years old, standing on a cart’s wheel to peer over the heads to the door. Asthe coroner moved forward, trying to force his way through, Baldwin asked one of the boys what was happening.

The lad, a scrawny, Celtic-looking fellow with black eyes and a shock of unruly brown hair, looked down at him with a speculativegaze, but his companion, a mousy-haired fellow with a pale and unhealthy complexion under the filth on his flesh, snarleda curse. Only when the first noticed that Baldwin was weighing a penny in his hand did the two become more interested. Brownhair nodded towards the house.

‘There’s a man in there, they reckon he’s been summoning the devil. And now his servant’s been killed, and they’re takinghim up to the castle. Serves him right, too.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘This servant — what was her name?’

The boy curled his lip in disgust. ‘Girl? It was a lad called Hick.’

‘Oh? Was he about your age?’

It was the second who answered this time, with a dismissive contempt for all knights. ‘No. He was younger. Poor little shit!’

Baldwin nodded. ‘How did he die?’

‘I think he was strangled. They heard his screams from over the road, so I heard.’

‘I thank you,’ Baldwin said. He flipped the coin and the first lad caught it quickly, holding it in his fist and watching Baldwin as though half expecting to be deprived of this unexpected largesse.

Moving to the edge of the crowd, Baldwin leaned against the wall of a house and waited. He could see — and hear — the coronera short way away, bellowing at the top of his voice, but this small group was formed of interested Exeter folk, and they would not give up their places here at the ringside for any stranger with a loud voice. No matter how muchthe coroner tried to force his way on, the people hemmed him in so securely that he could make but little headway until atlast there was a shout and the people began to swear and curse, one or two flinging stones or rotten fruit. It was clear to Baldwin that the man who lived here was being pulled out to be taken to the gaol.

Baldwin waited a short while, but when he judged that the noise of the people was growing a little dangerous, he took a deepbreath and shouted, ‘’Ware the sheriff’s men! ’Ware! The sheriff’s men are coming!’

A few heads turned, some anxious at the thought of being arrested for rioting, but others saw him and glowered, one beginningto move towards him. Baldwin took hold of his sword hilt and drew his riding sword slowly. It flashed from the scabbard witha sibilant rush, and when he held it out the bright blue of the blade caught the dull light, the edge flickering grey anddeadly.

Now the crowd was thinning as the small party was pushing through from the house, and soon Baldwin was face to face with abeadle and three nervous-looking watchmen.

‘Who are you?’ the beadle demanded, his attention fixed on Baldwin’s sword.

‘Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace, friend,’ Baldwin said calmly. ‘And this is the coroner of Lifton, Sir Richard de Welles. Who are you?’

The rather red face of the coroner loomed over the beadle, glaring with irritation from being thwarted, and the beadle triedto square up to him, but one freezing look from Sir Richard made him appear to shrivel like a salted slug.

‘I am Elias, sir knight.’

‘Come, friend Elias, let us find a place to talk a while,’ Baldwin said.

‘Got to take this man to the gaol. He’s killed his servant,’ the beadle said.

‘Let us speak to him first, eh?’ Baldwin said with a calm smile.

Robinet had seen them at the house, and he was tempted to speak to them, but an in-built reluctance came to the fore evenas he considered it. The two had looked reasonable men when he saw them, first out by the body of poor James, and now at thenecromancer’s house. But there was a conviction in his heart that told him that he would have to be cautious. There were manywho would be keen to believe that he might have killed James.

Christ knew, there were plenty of times he’d have been glad to kill the bastard. Every time he’d thought of those days incarceratedat the king’s pleasure, he’d dreamed of doing it. The man he’d trusted for all those years, and the one who betrayed him.

Flashes of the previous evening were returning to him now. He’d met James first two days ago, when he was walking about thecity. James had been walking up from Cooks’ Row towards the guildhall, and Robinet had just left the little church of St Petrock,and was outside in the grim, cold morning, feeling the chill and considering returning to his room for a drink of warmed,spiced wine, when he felt himself jostled, and the clumsy tarse walked straight into him — literally walked straight into him.

‘Can’t you look where …’

‘Newt? Is it you?’

It was some satisfaction to see how James’s face fell at the sight of his old mentor. His face, which had been frowning in deep thought, blackened as he barged into Newt, but thenthere was a glimmer of appalled recognition before his face crumpled into utter horror.