Michael Jecks - The Malice of Unnatural Death

Where was Richard de Langatre? Where had he gone?

‘Not until we’ve seen what’s in there,’ someone said, and then there was a nasty chuckle from someone. ‘We don’t believe inbenefit of clergy here, Brother. If you’ve killed an Exonian, you may just fall down a ladder or something on the way to thegaol.’

Others were sent inside as he spoke, and amidst the muttering Busse heard some cries, and he tried to struggle free at thenoise. He had to get away!

They had found the body!

Exeter City

Sir Richard de Welles and Baldwin saw Busse pulling this way and that, and although the coroner wore a happy smile on hisface at the sight, he remonstrated gruffly with the men who held him.

‘What is this, eh? A man of the cloth being held by you horny-handed peasants? Eh? Have you no respect for the Church? Youshould release him at once.’

‘He was in there, Coroner. We saw him come out just a few moments before, and there’s a dead man inside.’

‘What? Is it murder?’

The man who had spoken glanced around at his peers, but it was clear that none had been inside to see whether it was murderor not.

But Busse knew. ‘It was murder, Coroner. His throat has been opened from one side to the other.’

‘What is this, Brother Robert?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Have you had a part in a murder?’

‘It’s nothing to do with me! I had no part. I was with the sheriff until a very few moments ago. I came back here with Langatre,and we found this … body when we came here.’

‘A body in Langatre’s house?’

‘In the undercroft. We saw that the door to it was open, and there was a pool outside … blood, Keeper. Blood in a puddle like rainwater. It had drained from his body … Good God! I hope never to see a sight like that again.’

‘He’s lying!’ One of Busse’s captors had no doubts. ‘He bolted from there like a quarrel from a bow.’

‘If he is telling the truth and the man in there was killed by having his throat cut,’ Baldwin said mildly, ‘then God musthave performed a miracle indeed.’

‘Eh?’

Baldwin stepped nearer, and gestured with a hand that encompassed Busse’s torso. ‘To have cut his throat and not been smotheredin the fellow’s blood.’

The men gripping Busse gradually allowed their hold to loosen. It was clearly true. Although Busse’s sandalled feet showedsigns of blood, there was none on his body or his hands. ‘Sorry, Brother.’

‘You are forgiven, friends. You had no reason to consider me innocent,’ Busse said, although it was partly through clenchedteeth. However, that was less from anger than from an urgent need to stop his teeth from chattering. The sight of the bodyhad shocked him more than he could say.

Baldwin beckoned the coroner. ‘Let us go and view this latest body.’ He looked about him for Simon, but he reasoned that Simonwas never at his best in the presence of sudden violent death, and the bailiff would probably prefer to be saved studyingyet another. He would no doubt return shortly.

‘Yes,’ Coroner Richard agreed, but he shot a look at the miserable monk. ‘Don’t go anywhere until we’re back, though, Brother. Wait for us here, eh?’

Busse gave a dejected nod as the two men made their way to Langatre’s house.

Although the front door gave onto Langatre’s own little hall and the stairs which led up to the small second storey, there was a passagewayto the left side of the property. Originally Baldwin had assumed that this must lead to the garden at the back, but now herealised that there was another staircase here that led to the basement beneath the house. He stepped to it, and saw thatthere was indeed a series of stone steps leading down below the main house. And on all the steps there was the unmistakablesign of bloody footprints. Peering down it was easy to see where they came from. At the bottom, as Busse had said, there wasa thick pool of blood.

Descending, Baldwin mused that this must be how hell itself smelled. There was a strong, tinny odour from all the blood, butas he came to the rough elm boards of the door at the bottom, that was overwhelmed by the stench from within. Brimstone, sicklydecaying foulness, all with the cloying, repellent tang of death. He wanted to pull a fold of his tunic over his mouth toprotect himself from infection, for all knew that bad air, malaria , could kill, but it was impractical to try that down here. Instead he took a deep breath before entering, hoping to be ableto take in less air within the room, and carefully stepped over the blood.

It was dark. Even with the candles set about the place at different vantage points, it was still gloomy. There were two windowsat the front of the building, but the sun was at the rear of the house, and there was no ingress for light from that direction. Instead the two front windows served to provide all light and air. They were inadequate.

‘Christ’s balls, Keeper, I’ve been in brighter caverns!’ the coroner rumbled. ‘Fetch more light in here!’

There were four men in there, all standing about the body on the floor, which was only a matter of two feet or so from the door. When the owner of the house had built it, the undercrofthad been constructed with a drain from the staircase leading away from the place. Otherwise water could have flowed into theundercroft from the road whenever there was a heavy downpour. That was why the blood had flowed in a stream from the bodyto lie outside at the bottom of the stairs. Baldwin could see that, and take it in as he crossed the threshold, but then hewas at the body and squatting to one side so that as much light as possible from the doorway could fall on the corpse.

‘Langatre,’ he said coldly.

‘I was here with Busse, but he bolted,’ Langatre said. He was reserved, but Baldwin had seen many men so in the presence ofsudden death.

Clearly this had been an older man. He was pale, a little thin, but powerful in appearance. His arms had been strong, andhis jaw jutted with an obstinate look. Baldwin was not certain, especially in this light, but he reckoned the man must havebeen at least five-and-fifty. His eyes were wide — with shock, perhaps? — and the gaping wound where his throat should havebeen was foul. Blood had sprayed all over the room, smothering the table top in front of the door, spattering the ceiling… and yet there was nothing on the door itself or the wall behind Baldwin. There was a beam of oak sitting propped atthe wall, and Baldwin saw that this was used to lock the door. He wondered whether this man could have opened the door tosomeone he knew, turned his back to lead the man inside, and been grabbed from behind and slashed with a knife. That wouldclearly explain the wide pattern of blood: the killer had the victim’s forehead in his hand, pulling back his head and sostretching his neck. When cut, the vessels all gaped and gushed like fountains.

Baldwin had seen enough men die to know that this one would have had no chance to protect himself. Once the knife had severedhis veins, he would have been unconscious in moments.

‘Someone in here has been toying with sorcery,’ Langatre said.

‘Why do you say that?’ Coroner Richard asked.

‘These tools. Look at it all.’

Baldwin was peering at the table. ‘What was all this wax for, I wonder.’

Langatre didn’t answer. His mind, like Baldwin’s, was fixed on the attempt to murder the king by necromancy.

The room was filled with strange items. Baldwin saw some implements lined up on a table; a robe which had curious symbolsstitched onto it, similar to Langatre’s upstairs.

Langatre jerked his head. ‘I think we may have solved one murder, at least.’

The coroner was still standing and studying the body, hands on hips, as Baldwin crossed the room and gazed down at the thingon the table. ‘Eh?’