Michael Jecks - The Malice of Unnatural Death

‘What do you think?’ Baldwin said as soon as they were alone.

‘Me? That prickle has something on his mind. This is nothing to do with the poor sod found dead, or I’m not from Welles. Ballocksto that! No, the blasted idiot thinks that he can gain advantage with the king if he holds that poor dolt, and if the goodsheriff sees profit in it, he’ll do it. I know him of old.’

‘So do I, and I hate to think that I might one day be at his mercy,’ Baldwin said. ‘If there has truly been an attempt onthe king’s life, and that of his … friend, then you may be assured that our little necromancer here will be sent to theking.’

‘I would not reckon his chances, were he to be sent before the Despenser, not if it’s true that the Despenser thought hislife had been endangered by a magician,’ Sir Richard said.

‘I think not,’ Baldwin said, with a sense of inner relief. It was always a fearsome thing to talk openly to another aboutthe king and his favourite. The rumour was that the King and Despenser were lovers, but that could well have been nonsense. However, the power and authority of Despenser was something that could not be forgotten. He had a long arm, and an infiniteability for hatred, so Baldwin had heard. Merely discussing him was hazardous, for if another overheard their conversation,and they were derogatory about him, he could be expected to seek them out. And Despenser did not seek mere punishment: hesought to destroy his enemies and take all their treasure for his own, impoverishing the families for ever.

‘Of course, it is none of our business,’ the coroner muttered. ‘We were asked to help investigate the murder of a king’s messenger.’

‘Why were you here?’ Baldwin asked. Coroner Richard was not usually in Exeter. He hailed from Lifton.

‘The Sheriff asked me here for a case before the Justices of Gaol Delivery, and when the body was found I was asked to comeand view it. I suppose it was known that I was a coroner for the king’s estate, so it was fitting that I should hold inqueston a king’s messenger.’

‘So it was known that he was a nuncius regis before you had even come to view him?’

‘No … at least, no one told me. I realised he was a messenger when I saw him — no one warned me that he was.’

‘Whereas I happened to be here in the town, so the bishop thought to engage me to help him,’ Baldwin mused. ‘It is peculiarthat he should seek to ask me to aid you.’

‘Means the man thought the theft of this roll could be embarrassing either to the Church or to him personally.’

‘What could be so embarrassing, I wonder?’

‘Be careful that your wonderings don’t catch you out!’ Coroner Richard laughed drily. ‘You know what they say: if you wishfor something too much, you might just win it … and live to regret it! This thing must be something of great importanceto the bishop, whether it involves national or Church matters. Either way, if you learn what is in the roll, you will surelycome to regret the fact!’

‘We must find the roll. That is the charge laid upon us.’

‘Aye. But if we want to learn what has happened to that, we have to find the murderer of the messenger. The man who killedand mutilated him must know about the thing.’

‘I wonder. I wonder.’ Baldwin sat with his chin cupped in the palm of his hand as he stared at the dying embers of the fire.

‘I should think that the fellow was most likely unfortunate, that he ran into some desperate footpad, and was killed.’

Baldwin slowly raised his eyes and stared at him. ‘You believe that? This messenger was caught by a stranger who knew nothingabout him, was held, had his finger cut off, and was then throttled while he scrabbled, even with his mutilated hand, to savehimself? And then, when the murderer had concealed his body and rested, he went to that necromancer’s house and killed hisservant in an attempt to kill Langatre too?’

‘Think of the alternative, Baldwin,’ the coroner said quietly, leaning forward and meeting Baldwin’s serious stare. ‘The alternativeto this being an unfortunate mistake is that it was intentional. Someone knew that this messenger was carrying a secret, urgentroll that could seriously embarrass the bishop, if no one else. And then the same fellow went to the necromancer to executehim for some reason.’

‘That is how I read the riddle.’

‘It supposes that the young fool in the sheriff’s gaol had an insight into matters far above his station, Baldwin. It meansthat fool has an understanding of national or Church affairs. Can you really believe that?’

‘Not for a moment.’

‘Nor can I. However, if the murderer thought that he was being pursued, he could have entered a house to escape? Perhaps hewas hurrying past the necromancer’s house, saw a man following him, and walked inside. He saw the servant, killed him, andthen heard that fellow Langatre in his room, so slipped in to do away with him too. The pursuers ran on …’

‘They could have assumed he was heading for the city’s gate. Stepecote Street leads down to the West Gate,’ Baldwin considered.

‘And then he hoped to escape. Except the neighbours heard something and ran to the house, and found one corpse and the necromancerstanding over it looking guilty. There you are! A simple story, well told.’

‘True. And it chimes well, but for one problem. As soon as the pursuers reached the gate, they would know he had not beenthat way. And they would have doubled back to seek him, and in doing so, they would have passed by a house outside which therewas a large crowd gathering. They would have thought to find their man inside.’

‘Perhaps. Yes, that is possible. And why not? Perhaps they did indeed find him?’

‘And there was no sound of a posse, either.’ Baldwin frowned. ‘If there were, we should have heard of it. So no. I don’t believeyour tale. In which case, there is still a murderer loose in our city.’

North-East Dartmoor

Simon shivered himself awake at regular intervals through the night. It was freezing, and although he was relieved, each timehe woke, not to have the added misery of rain, he was conscious of the soft hissing sound of snow falling gently on the trees.

In their shelter, there was so little space, it was hard to imagine that any of the three could roll over without hittingthe others, or knocking down a wall, but Simon was relieved to see that there was no sign of any gaps in the thatch over hishead. It seemed that nobody had knocked the shelter’s walls so far.

However, he was also aware of a growing sensation of pressure in his bladder. He hunched his shoulders, turned away from theother two, and faced the wall. Then he turned back and faced in to the middle. He lay on his back. No matter what he did,or how he lay, the pressure seemed to grow, like a wineskin that was sat upon. By degrees, the wine would leak from it… and that was how Simon felt now. That the building discomfort must find release.

At last the inevitability of his position became clear, and he grunted quietly to himself as he unwrapped his cloak and blanketand crawled from the entrance.

The fire was glowing gently, but there was no flame now, and when he looked up at the sky he could see only white-rimmed clouds. There was no way to tell what time of day it might be, and at the moment he hardly cared. All he knew was, it was the sortof hour of the night that was only good for monks. He grunted as he felt the chill of the cold air at his cheeks, and pulledhis cloak from inside the shelter. Wrapping it about his shoulders, he walked a short distance from their camp, and with enormousrelief opened his hose to empty his bladder.

As he retied the thongs that held his hosen up, he glanced about him. The snow had fallen, although mercifully not too heavily. From here, although the sky was clouded, he could still make out the moors just beyond the fringe of the trees. The top ofthe nearer hill gleamed with a light of its own, the snow shining grey.