Michael Jecks - The Malice of Unnatural Death

‘So who was the dead man?’ Simon asked.

‘I do not know,’ Busse said.

‘I had heard that there was a new tenant there, but I never met him,’ Langatre said. ‘My landlord, Michael, should know.’

‘Your fortune-telling fails you today?’ Baldwin asked suavely.

‘Who is this Michael, and where is he?’ Simon asked.

‘I am Michael.’

Exeter City

‘You will be arrested soon, and when you hang, I won’t be worried. I may die soon without any money, husband, but the knowledgethat you, who put my children into their grave, are dead, will be enough for me,’ Margie Skinner said.

She was sitting at her stool, back resting against the wall with her head jutting as it always did.

Will looked at her, then away. It was shameful. He ought to be able to look her in the face, but he couldn’t. To see thosefeatures, which were still so familiar and lovely in some ways, attached to this ruined body was enough to make his mind wantto burst for misery and horror. She had once been his lover, his beauty. Now she was a foul image of her former self, twistedand deformed by the heat of the fire, like a wax doll.

He had to get out.

‘Where are you going? Trying to run away from them? That coroner won’t let you escape him, husband. He’ll catch you and haveyou dangling. Not the sort of man to let such as you escape justice, is he? No!’

Her poisonous cackling followed him down the street as he walked away, his head hanging over his breast, blinking to clearthe tears.

This afternoon was quiet compared with some, and the air was crisp but dry. He was thinking about finding an alehouse, but somehowhis feet drew him back there , and soon he was standing at the posts that blocked off his house.

The space where Norman Mucheton had lain was clear now. Ivo had gone home as soon as the coroner had declared the inquestclosed and the men had carried the body off, so now there was just the stain on the ground where the man’s neck had bled overthe dirt. Will looked down at it and sighed.

From the ruins of his house there came a rending sound, and, as he turned to look, a beam that had once supported the upperjetty creaked round and started to move. Ponderously, it slid sideways, and suddenly fell to the ground. It crashed to theearth, raising a brown cloud of mingled soot and soil, which almost instantly dissipated.

The ruins were falling apart. Soon even this little memorial to his family would be gone. And then, when Margie and he haddied as well, who would remember his children?

No one. No one would remember them.

Michael stood before them perfectly content. There was nothing even these corrupt bastards could do to him. He’d done nothingthat would earn him a rope, and if they tried to hang him, he’d get the best pleader in the court to protect him. There wasnothing that couldn’t be bought with enough cash. He knew that if little else.

‘You are the owner of this house?’ Baldwin demanded.

‘Yes. It’s mine. Top rented to this fellow, Langatre. Undercroft to a stranger to the city, called John.’

‘From where?’

‘He said he came from Nottingham.’

‘Sad to say, he won’t return,’ Coroner Richard said. ‘He’s had his throat cut.’

Michael blinked. ‘When?’

‘You answer our questions, man! When did you last see him?’

‘Earlier today. I was here, and I visited him. He was perfectly all right then.’

‘How long ago was that?’ Baldwin asked. ‘It will help us to learn when he died.’

‘Only a short while after the end of mass. I attended the church as I do each Friday, and on my way homewards I saw him inthe street here. I exchanged a few words with him, and then continued. There were plenty in the street here who would haveseen us together.’

Baldwin studied him. Short and dark, this man enjoyed life, from the look of him. He had the florid complexion of a regularvisitor to the tavern, and a paunch to match it. From the look of him he was a moderately successful businessman, but therewas an odour about him. ‘You are a tanner?’

‘Yes. What of it?’

Baldwin shrugged. ‘You have been successful.’

‘Is that a crime now?’

‘If success is the reward for theft or illegal acts, yes.’

‘Do you accuse me of illegal acts? Do you think I am a …’

‘What?’ Baldwin asked silkily. ‘Do I think you are a …?’

‘Nothing, sir ,’ Michael said, with as much sarcasm as he dared. ‘I should scarcely dream of accusing any man in the city of taking bribesor promises of money in exchange for favours. A man who did a thing like that could look to a short life, eh?’

‘Do you mean to accuse me of breaking the law?’ Baldwin asked, and he was genuinely surprised rather than offended or angry. Theidea that a man might dare to think that he might have done such a thing was startling to him.

Michael stared at him. His small eyes were strained with his poor eyesight, and his peering manner, together with his loweredhead, made him look like a belligerent ox preparing to charge. ‘No,’ he said at last, reluctantly. ‘I’ve heard nothing aboutyou.’

‘Then who?’

‘There are stories.’

Baldwin nodded. There always were. If a man won a certain post, it was sure to be because he had paid well for it; when aman took on a new office, invariably the grantor of that office was thought to look prosperous. And often it was true.

There was no position in the country which did not depend upon a gift. And other officers made their own profits. The sheriff,for example, would often rig a jury at court, either to free the men who had paid him, or to see condemned those who wereenemies of powerful lords. A man could be taken and confined for no reason beyond a bribe paid by his enemy to the arrestingofficer.

It was interesting that this tanner should have taken such matters so to heart, though. Baldwin would expect it from others,but not a lowly leather worker. ‘Forget these “stories” for now, man. What can you tell us of this dead fellow?’

‘I have already told you all I know.’

‘There was a finger in his room. It could be a finger cut from a king’s messenger. Why would your tenant have that?’

‘Master, I inherited this house many years ago when my father died. He was a brewer and had run it as his own little tavern ever since he first arrived here from Warwick years ago,but when he was gone I saw no need to keep it as a drinking house and rented it out instead. The undercroft is damp and cold,and it is hard to coax money from any man for that. When this John of Nottingham came and asked for it, I was happy to rentit to him.’

‘How long has he been there?’

‘A matter of days. No more.’

‘But you say that he asked for you?’

‘He asked me for the room, yes. I suppose he had enquired in the city where there might be a room he could use.’

‘Did he say what he would use it for?’

‘No. I didn’t ask. Why should I? If it suited him, he suited me.’

‘Yes. I am sure he did,’ Baldwin said. ‘And tell me: you say your father came here from Warwick. Was he a freeman when hearrived here?’

‘Yes. He was no runaway serf.’

‘A man of some position, then, to have acquired his own house. And you turned to tanning.’

‘So?’ Michael said defensively. It was not an occupation that would appeal to all, but he had never regretted his choice ofcareer. ‘It makes me a good income.’

‘Yes, I am sure.’ Baldwin sighed a little. ‘Tell me, do you know anything about a man called Walter of Hanlegh?’

‘I have heard of him,’ Michael said suspiciously. He could sense Robinet tensing, and looked his way. The old messenger wasgazing at him with a scowl.