Michael JECKS - The Sticklepath Strangler

Coroner Roger stood at the foot of the millstream and watched grimly as four peasants manhandled the body from the water. One day only had he been here – and now he had not only Aline’s death to sort out, but also those of Denise, Ansel the King’s Purveyor, and now another dead man to cater for as well.

There was nothing suspicious about this last death. Simon had already learned that the victim was Samson atte Mill, the screaming woman his wife Gunilda, and the younger woman with her their daughter Felicia. Coroner Roger knew plenty of cases where a miller had fallen into his own gears or millpond. Death from the paddles of his own mill was a common end for a miller. It was good to know that Sir Baldwin was at his side, for the knight was an excellent questioner, and yet Sir Baldwin remained mute as he watched. It served to confirm the Coroner’s opinion that the case was a simple matter.

The Parson was already at the side of the water, mumbling his words like a good priest, although it sounded as though he was slurring most of them. He was clearly drunk. It was a miracle he could stand without toppling. Roger looked meaningfully at Simon, who nodded resignedly, taking Gervase’s scrip and setting out ink and reeds and paper.

As the body was dragged from the water, the witnesses peered with interest. There was a dry retching and a boy of some twelve years fell to his knees and spewed. It wasn’t a surprise. Not many lads his age would have seen a man so mutilated.

The left side of the miller’s face was fine, but the right was a bloody mess. A long flap of skin had been peeled away from his scalp, like a skinned sheep’s head, and now dangled above his ear. Coroner Roger gave him a cursory once-over, but it was clear enough that the man was dead. There was no sign of movement at his breast, no breath, and his eyes were still and unfocused.

‘I am Coroner to the King, and I declare that this inquest into the death of…’ he glanced enquiringly towards Simon, who called clearly: ‘Samson atte Mill.’

‘… Samson atte Mille, is opened. Are all the men of over twelve years here?’

The Reeve stepped forward reluctantly. ‘They are all here, but couldn’t this wait until you decide the matter of Aline, daughter of Swetricus? We have our work in the fields to get on with and–’

‘Bearing in mind I have yet to decide on the fine to impose on you for concealing the death of Denise, daughter of Peter atte Moor, I’m surprised at your suggestion that I should delay this inquest,’ Coroner Roger thundered, and was glad to see that the Reeve bowed his head, abashed. Good, he thought. Just wait until I question you about Mary as well, you lying turd! ‘Now, who was the Finder?’

‘Samson’s wife, Gunilda,’ Alexander said more quietly. He cast Roger a pleading look, as if to beg that the Coroner would not be too harsh with the woman.

Coroner Roger made no sign that he had seen Alexander’s expression, but he didn’t miss its significance. He had no wish to make the woman suffer. ‘Mistress Gunilda, would you come forward?’

She could only walk supported by two other women, and as she was taken through her evidence, she turned regularly to them, weeping. The Coroner was calm and almost gentle with her. At his side, scribbling odd notes on the parchment, Simon thought he was seeing a new side to Roger, a more kindly aspect. Simon knew him to be a good companion in a tavern, an astute questioner who was keen to ensure not only that justice was seen to be done, but also that any infractions of the law were spotted so that fines could be levied, but seeing him cautiously question the widow of a man while her husband’s corpse lay before her, Simon thought the Coroner behaved with great sensitivity.

Gunilda was not a prepossessing sight. Short and sturdy, her peasant stock was plain in the squareness of her face, the coarseness of her features, the large, masculine hands. Yet for all that, she showed little of a serf’s fortitude. Instead her frame was racked with sobs as the Coroner prised from her the details of her man’s death. There was a bruise at the side of her face, an angry, painful-looking mark.

One of the women upon whom she leaned was the one Bel had been watching at the inquest earlier. She appeared anxious for the feelings of Gunilda, giving the Coroner a pleading look when she thought his questions too pointed or unsympathetic. It made Simon warm to her.

Samson had been worried about a grumbling from the main axle of the wheel for some weeks, Gunilda said, but he hadn’t bothered to do anything about it because there wasn’t much work coming in yet, not until the grain was harvested. Now, with the harvest soon to begin, he had decided to get on with the maintenance.

‘He was working on the machine?’ Coroner Roger asked.

With much wailing and many declarations that he ought not to have done so with the wheel still turning, but should have stopped the water at the sluice first, Gunilda agreed that he was. ‘I wouldn’t have thought he’d fall. I saw him lean over to reach the bearings with his hand full of grease. Then…’

‘How did he reach it?’ Roger asked, glancing at the wheel. It was massive, at least five feet in diameter, far too big for a man to reach over.

‘From that window,’ she said, pointing. There was a small hole in the wall with no shutter to close it, almost concealed behind the wheel itself. ‘He leaned out, and he was slapping the grease onto the axle when he slipped.’ There were more tears, but then she sniffed hard. ‘He tried to reach up with his hand to save himself, but it was filled with grease, and he couldn’t hold himself. He… he fell, and I saw the wheel come around and…’

‘That’s enough, mistress. I am sorry about your loss,’ the Coroner said. ‘Has anyone anything else to add?’

Simon cast an eye over the waiting people, but there was no movement. Nobody stepped forward to speak. Baldwin was silent, although Simon saw his attention was fixed on the woman with faint puzzlement.

‘Was no one else near when he fell?’ the Coroner asked again. ‘No? In that case I shall declare that I am certain that there was no crime here. Misadventure. How much is the wheel worth?’

The men before him shuffled their feet and looked at each other, and then Alexander, with a face like a man who had bitten into a crabapple thinking it was a pear, suggested, ‘Perhaps tuppence? It’s a very old wheel.’

Simon kept his face blank, and when he glanced about him, he saw that Baldwin was studiously avoiding his eye, and Simon knew he too was close to laughter. The amount was derisory: utterly unrealistic.

‘Would you say so?’ the Coroner asked jovially. ‘But surely not! Look at it, the wood in places is still quite green, isn’t it? Fresh timbers, I’d think. Do you really mean to tell me that this magnificent wheel is ancient?’

‘Perhaps it is not terribly old,’ the Reeve amended. ‘But then it can only be worth a little more. It is not a very large wheel.’

‘Eight pennies, and think yourself lucky I don’t demand a shilling,’ Coroner Roger said, losing interest in the process of haggling. ‘Does the jury agree?’

There was grumbling and several black looks, but the noise died when the Reeve gloomily nodded his head.

‘Good. I am glad that at least this has been cleared up,’ Coroner Roger said. He shot a look at the drunken priest. ‘I would suggest that he be buried as soon as possible, in this heat.’

It was as the crowd parted, slouching off back to the fields and gardens, that Simon saw her again. Nicole Garde had left the grieving miller’s wife, and now held Joan by the hand. Baldwin and the Coroner had already set off back to the vill’s inn, but Simon wandered over to speak to them.