Michael Jecks - The Malice of Unnatural Death

‘Perhaps. Nothing to do with me.’

‘Ah, but a man who knew something and didn’t let me know, that sort of a man would be of great interest to the king himself,wouldn’t he? Because a man like that might just be in league with the man who killed his messenger. The king would most certainly want to speak to him. Or have his expert questioners come and speak to him.’

At the thought of torture, Hal’s face changed. ‘Now, Keeper, there’s no need to think such things. I wouldn’t deceive you… I have seen a man who looked most odd, but it’s surely nothing to do with the murder of the king’s man. I wouldn’t haveheld back anything from his majesty.’

‘Tell me all.’

‘It was Tuesday evening. I was off to the tavern early with my son. I like a drink or two with him, and we were off to thelittle place near Bolehille that’s just opened. Well, we had some of the strong ale there, and when it came to be time toget home, I was a little weak on my pins. Art, he was all right, and he helped me along. I seem to remember seeing a fellowup in front of me. At least, that was what I reckoned at first,’ he added more quietly.

‘What was he like, this fellow?’

‘A shadow. Nothing more than a shadow. He moved along with the speed of a ghost. Slinking along in the darkness, he was. Ithought at the time that he was just a silly dream I had because of the ale, but now … the more I think of it, the less I think I was dreaming.’

‘It was not the dead messenger?’

‘Master, if I’d seen him , I’d have said so. No one wants to upset the king about the murder of his messenger,’ he said sharply.

Baldwin nodded. That much was almost certainly true. ‘What else?’

‘That is it.’

‘No. You are embarrassed or ashamed by something. What was it?’

Hal was about to repeat that it was nothing, but then he lowered his head and stared at his boots. It was hard to confess. He was a stolid man, and proud of his commonsense, but thatsight had given him more of a shock than he wanted to admit.

At last he nodded. ‘I heard about my neighbour. Old Willie Skinner there. He saw something too, the same night, I think. Afigure. I mentioned what I saw to him, and he told me he’d seen the same thing. A low figure. Except when he approached thefigure, it disappeared. Just like mine.’

‘Porter, any man can sidle into a shadow or into an alleyway without resorting to the occult,’ Baldwin growled.

‘Maybe so. But they do say that the devil can make his servants disappear. And witches can fly through the air.’

‘You say you saw a witch?’

‘You can laugh, but there are necromancers about who can look just like ordinary people if they want to. And they will killpeople, so they say.’

‘Who says that?’

‘You know,’ Hal said gruffly. ‘People. Will said he didn’t see where his man went, and neither did I. You can’t explain peopledisappearing like that.’

Baldwin looked at him with pursed lips. It was tempting to say that he could explain such manifestations all too easily, usuallyby the expedient of a convenient rope, ladder or trap door, but this man was already embarrassed enough. Instead he clappedhis hands together.

‘Good. In that case, come and show me where this all happened. Let us see whether I can conjecture a more natural agent foryour vision.’

‘You might have all the time you need, but I don’t!’ Hal spat, bitter at the impression that the keeper was amused by him. He waved a hand about him. ‘Look at all these people here! I have my duty to do until the gates are closed.’

Baldwin eyed him, and then he smiled. ‘I know,’ then: ‘fetch me your son. He can take me to see where you saw this … thisthing.’

Exeter City

It was done. John of Nottingham scraped away the last pieces of wax and let them fall to the floor as he stood back and staredat the last of the little models. Only when his hawkish face had studied them all for some few moments did he finally givea sharp nod to himself. If not pride, there was at least professional satisfaction in a job well done.

The mass he had attended at church had been enough to make him realise that he would have to make this last figure more… realistic , for want of a better word.

It had been a marvellous occasion. The crowd of city folk all standing and listening as the canons and vicars sang their refrains,murmuring the prayers … it made him feel quite nostalgic. All that part of his life was gone, though, naturally. He couldhardly return to Nottingham now. Everyone would be looking for him, the noted necromancer who had dared to attempt the assassinationof the most powerful men in the country.

Still, the ceremony had soothed his soul. The broad open space of the nave, cluttered and spoiled as it was by the rebuildingwork, was yet so enormous that it stilled a man’s heart to think of the effort that had gone into it, the adoration of Godwhich had impelled men to undertake such a project. All too soon, the mass was done and he was ushered out again with the ebb of the congregation, listening to people discussingthe priest who had officiated. Most concluded that he was still too new to his job. They felt sure that the following Sundaywould be better. It was Saint Catherine of Alexandria’s feast day, an auspicious day for any church. Surely the bishop wouldattend. Perhaps John should have him in full episcopal rig in honour of the feast day?

Others he knew would have taken a piece of the man’s elements. They’d have paid to acquire some of his hair, or some paringsfrom his nails, and incorporated those into the figure while making it, so that when the ivory pin was thrust into the heart,the little mannequin would transfer the damage all the more easily. Yes, that was necessary for those who were less powerfulthan John.

He had no need of such hocus-pocus. John of Nottingham was an artist. He did not require any paltry little additions, becausehe could make use of less tangible exhibits of the man’s soul. But accuracy was important. When he had been in the churchtoday, he had seen an error. The king was clear and obvious: his crown would make him stand out. But a bishop, a man who remainedin his cathedral close all the while, would be more difficult to pinpoint. Surely the demons sent to destroy him would needmore than a mere image of the man, they would need a closer likeness.

So, he had put more detail on the figure, given him more elements of his regalia, and finally — this was a touch of brillianceon his part, he thought — crafted a pair of spectacles on his nose. No one but Bishop Stapledon in the whole of Exeter wouldhave them, he thought. He had seen the bishop wearing them in the cathedral a couple of days ago, and it had made him frownat the time, but apparently they were for reading pages close to his nose. After all his work in the king’s exchequer, it was probably no surprise thatthe man’s eyes were suffering.

The bishop was carefully, almost reverently, picked up and set alongside the king.

He pinched at the bridge of his nose as he thought about the work he had yet to do. The tools of his trade were all laid outon the bench, where they had been fumigated and cleaned assiduously. Soon, when all his preparations were complete, he wouldset in train the process by which he would have the four men killed. And then he would have his money in full, and he couldtravel to extend his understanding of his magic.

It was then that he had the idea, and the marvellous perfection of it made him catch his breath. Looking at the figure, henodded as though already personally acquainted, and gave a dry smile. Yes. That was how he would do it.

His head was hurting, and he wandered to the grille which gave out to the roadway above. The light was fading. He could justsee the sturdy legs of a man standing near the wall above him. Stepping backwards to avoid being noticed, he knocked againstthe table with the tools, and carefully rested a hand on it to keep it stable. One item only rolled to the edge, and as itwas about to fall from the table he managed to catch it.