Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

Jeanne entered the tavern. It was a low-ceilinged chamber with a few crudely built wooden tables and some simple three-legged stools dotted about the place. Men of all ages stood or sat drinking from old chipped mazers or horns. She recognized many of them from the Coroner’s inquest.

A hush as she entered made her realize that this was a rough drinking den, and she wondered for an instant whether she had made a mistake in coming here. She was about to turn round and leave when she saw that the men had stopped watching her, and were instead staring over her shoulder. There was no need to worry for her safety in here, clearly. Edgar was too plainly a man-at-arms for anyone to try to best him.

Jeanne could not see the woman; it was only when Edgar touched her shoulder and pointed with his chin to a far corner of the room that Jeanne spotted her again.

She was older, maybe two or three and forty, and had not enjoyed a life of comfort, from the look of her coarse features and horny hands. When Jeanne sat opposite her, she studied Jeanne without respect.

‘What do you want?’

‘To buy you some ale,’ Jeanne said, proffering a coin.

‘Why?’

‘I want to know all you can tell me about the lady in the Coroner’s court just now. Why you dislike her, why others feel she was not truthful in there … anything you can tell me about her.’

On the way to the alleyway with the body, Sir Peregrine told Baldwin about the search for Estmund. ‘No luck at all, so far,’ he concluded glumly. ‘I had hoped to have him by now, some little success for the widow …’

‘I hope he’s not dead too,’ Baldwin said.

‘Why should he be?’

‘He might have seen the real murderer if he was there,’ Baldwin said.

‘Perhaps — or he was himself the murderer.’

Baldwin could see that Sir Peregrine was not going to let him forget his first suspicion about Juliana. His suggestion still rankled with the bannaret, and Baldwin was relieved when they finally reached the alley. Sir Peregrine lost his cold, distant manner as they looked over this new corpse.

‘I wondered if you might have known him?’ Sir Peregrine asked as they squatted by the body, swatting at the flies that buzzed about. ‘You know more people in this city than I do … the bailiff reckoned he was a man called Mick. He could have been a pander for the stews near the South Gate. What do you think?’

Baldwin was studying the corpse. ‘I don’t know him,’ he said at last, ‘but I can tell you that this was no accident.’

‘Obviously. His throat has been cut from side to side.’

‘And only the one cut, I think. It’s hard to tell with all these maggots, but there is no sign of a second cut on the flesh, and it looks as though the eggs were laid deep in his neck. No, he had his throat cut very deliberately. The head was almost severed.’

‘Was he tortured?’

‘You mean his nose and eye? No, I expect that was the work of a rat or something. There are many animals who’d find it difficult to refuse a free meal like this. Just be glad no hogs or desperate dogs found him first, or it would have been much more difficult to identify him.’

‘And he was dumped here.’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said pensively, staring about him. He studied the old blanket that had covered the body when it was found. ‘He could have died here, but I’d have expected more proof of it if he had … more blood. There’s a lot on this cloth, but you can see for yourself that there’s not enough to account for all that must have been spilled.’

There was no need to discuss that. Both men had fought in battle. They had seen how much blood a man’s body held, and they had seen how much would jet when a man was decapitated.

Sir Peregrine grunted his assent. ‘I had an archer beside me once in a mêlée in Wales when a mercenary took his head off with a knife at full pelt on a charger. His head was off in an instant, and a fountain of blood simply erupted from the stub of his neck! All of us about him were drenched.’

‘So this man was probably killed somewhere else and dumped here. Either for safekeeping until they could find somewhere else to throw him, or because they thought that this was as good a place as any.’

‘If it was a footpad, that would make sense,’ Sir Peregrine said.

‘Yes, except I’d have expected a footpad to leave him where he was killed, not to drag him all the way to an alley and cover his face. That does not seem to be in keeping. And if he was involved in the stews as a pander, fetching clients for the women, it’s more likely that this was a territorial dispute. Perhaps someone thought that he was growing greedy with another’s territory. Either because he was encroaching on agreed boundaries, or because he was taking over another man’s wenches … or because another pander wanted access to this Mick’s women. I’ve known all these cause fights and murder in my time.’

‘Before I forget — the man who found this body was Henry Adyn, the man who was injured by the sergeant many years ago. You may want to talk to him yourself, but I can say I doubt he could have killed Daniel. His wounds are extensive, and one hand and arm is more or less useless.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘Anyone who wanted to kill Daniel would have to be strong enough to fight and thrust with a blade.’

‘Then Adyn couldn’t have done it,’ Sir Peregrine said with certainty. He glanced back at Mick’s body. ‘At least this one had no powerful friends. If he had been a priest or a monk, the matter would have grown into a serious problem. Those arses always demand too much, and would have expected me to drop all other matters until I’d found their man. Well, so far as I am concerned, the death of even a simple pander merits a search for a killer. The murderer might kill again, and even if he doesn’t, he deserves death for ending a life and destroying a soul — you can bet your life this poor devil didn’t receive the last rites before his throat was slit.’

Baldwin looked at him appreciatively. ‘You will investigate this man’s death?’

‘To the utmost of my ability, such as it is,’ Sir Peregrine confirmed with a look of surprise. ‘What, you thought I’d not bother just because he was a minor felon himself? What do I care for that? I’ve fought alongside men, like the archer I told you of, who were almost certainly felons and outlaws, but were brave and loyal in battle. I’d never denigrate the English peasant. He may be foul and filthy, but he has a bold heart. This man might have redeemed himself. Perhaps he was trying to when he was killed? So whoever did this deserves to suffer. And if I can, I shall see him do just that.’

Ralph of Malmesbury was tired that evening. He sat back in his favourite chair with a mazer filled to the brim with spicy red wine warmed by his fire in his best pewter jug, contemplating his position in the world with a feeling of satisfaction. His wealth was everywhere visible from here: the golden threads in the tapestry on the wall, the cupboard with the three shelves filled with pewter plates, the large silver salt-cellar shaped like a crouching dog (the gracious gift from Lord Hugh de Courtenay’s steward some little while ago for relieving the pain of stones in his bladder), the fine carving on his table, the three benches and the chairs set about the chamber. Yes, he had been successful.

Even the location of his house here in Correstrete was proof of the good fortune which God had lavished on him. It was a fine building, on a large plot, with a goodly yard at the back which gave a magnificent view of the castle. Life had been good to him here in Exeter.

It was some years since he had first come to the city, and he was still noted as the most competent physician for miles, a position which he was determined not to lose.