Michael JECKS - The Merchant’s Partner

He was right. There was no mark to upset the snow that now lay almost half an inch thick on the ground, the heavily cropped grass just poking above the surface. Shrugging, Baldwin walked the last few yards to the body.

It lay partly under the hedge, face down. The lower half projected back into the field, while the head and torso were shielded under the protection of the plants and free of snow. They could see the black of the old woman’s upper garments.

“Wait,” said Baldwin and stepped forward slowly to crouch, his dark eyes flitting over the ground, along either side of the body, back the way they had come, up to the hedge, then back to the inert figure itself. When he spoke, his voice was a murmur. “The weather has been so cold there’s no mark on the ground: it’s too hard. Even if there were, the snow would have covered them. I don’t think even a hunter could see a spoor under this.”

Simon nodded, dropping to a knee and peering back the way they had come, past Tanner and Greencliff to the hedge that bordered the road. Their own footsteps were distinct, flattened prints in the snow, but the snow had started while they were inside the inn. Now he could not even see Cottey’s marks from when he had first seen the body. Glancing back at the knight, he asked, “Could she have come from the woods? Through the hedge?”

“No. No, I don’t think so,” came the pensive reply as the knight peered up. “Look. The twigs aren’t broken. No, it looks like she fell from this side. Maybe she died right here.” He chewed his lip and considered. “Let’s see her face. Simon, come on. Help me move her.”

The bailiff gave an unwilling grimace. This was the part he loathed, the first shock of seeing the corpse, of seeing the wound that killed. Sighing, he tentatively took hold of the body by the hips while Baldwin carefully moved up, taking the shoulders and rolling her over. He suddenly pulled back and exclaimed ‘God!“

“What?” said Simon, nervously shooting him a glance.

Baldwin stared back, his shock slowly giving way to a quickening interest. “I’m not surprised he was upset! He was right when he said the throat was cut – her head’s almost off her shoulders!”

They carefully carried the figure a few yards away from the hedge and set it down on the snow-covered grass. Slowly shaking his head, Simon stood, hands on hips, while Baldwin knelt and studied the body carefully. The bailiff stared down at the sad little collection of cloth and flesh, thinking how pathetic it looked, this sorry little mass that had been a person – if only a villein. He was still staring when Baldwin rose.

“Whoever did this wanted to make sure. As Cottey said, she couldn’t have done this to herself.”

Looking down, Simon could see what he meant. The bones were still connected, but the flesh was cut so deeply that the yellow cartilage of the windpipe could be seen as a perfect tube in the sliced meat of her throat. Wincing, the bailiff gasped and turned away, swallowing quickly. Shutting his eyes and taking deep breaths, he gradually soothed the oily feeling of sickness in his belly. He heard the low chuckle of the knight and the footsteps crunching on the dry snow, but kept his eyes shut a little longer.

“Simon, come and look at this!”

His eyes snapping open, Simon turned and strode away from the body towards the hedge where the knight crouched. At his approach, Baldwin stood, and Simon was surprised to see his puzzled frown. “What is it?”

“Do you see anything strange here?”

The bailiff swallowed. His stomach was still turbulent after his shock, and he was in no mood to play games. He opened his mouth to give a sharp retort when he saw the pensive concentration in the knight’s eyes. The words were stopped in his throat and he felt his gaze drop to the area where they had found the body.

Where she had lain, her image remained on the grass and earth. Snow bounded the lines of her legs. None had fallen under her, nor had the frost touched the ground. Apart from some twigs and flattened leaves, he could see nothing. Shrugging he looked up at the knight questioningly. “She was obviously lying here before it snowed,” he hazarded.

“Maybe I’m…” Baldwin broke off, then span and stomped back to the body. Reluctantly the bailiff followed.

Although he tried to avert his eyes, Simon found that they kept returning to the hideous wound, and his belly began to feel like a cauldron of stew on a fire, bubbling and thickening, making him belch. The bile rose to sting his throat, and he winced at the rough acidic taste. The corpse seemed to hold no fears for the knight, who took the head in both hands and turned it first one way, then the other, peering into the gash and at the yellowed cartilage of the severed pipes. He stared at the blue, pinched and drawn features, into the unseeing misty eyes, before rising again and frowning down, slowly walking round the body and contemplating it with his head on one side.

“I saw this woman on Saturday,“ he said softly. ”I didn’t know her name then. She was just some old woman on the road. I’ve never even spoken to her, and now I must find out who murdered her.“ He stopped his musing and looked up at Simon. ”Sad, isn’t it?“

“Oh… yes.”

The knight gave a short grin. “That’s not the point, though, Simon. Sad it may be, but there’s something wrong here. Can’t you see? She had her throat cut. She must have bled like a stuck pig! So where’s the blood? Eh?”

For all Greencliff’s nervousness, Tanner was pleased to see that he was happy enough to help carry the corpse back to the wagon while Simon and Baldwin subjected the hedge to a close scrutiny. The boy even took the blanket from his shoulders and helped the constable wrap it around the thin, frail figure, setting it beside her and rolling her into it, but while the constable took the shoulders, he could not help but notice the way that Greencliff’s eyes kept going back to the gap in the hedge where Agatha Kyteler had lain.

The old constable had seen many corpses in his life, brutally wounded figures after a battle, men who had bled to death after their limbs were hacked off or who suffered slow and painful deaths from stabs to the stomach, and the sad, tortured bodies of the people that tried to cross the moors in bad weather. For him, they were the worst, their hands contorted into grasping claws as they tried to drag themselves those few extra yards to safety, their faces twisted and staring with anguish, even in death. He was understanding of people who were revolted by the sights, although he bore them with equanimity, but he was faintly surprised that Greencliff should be so calm in the face of his previous apparent fear.

It was when they reached the hedge that led to the road that he realised he was wrong. Greencliff went up the incline first, stumbling backwards. At the top he paused and Tanner caught sight of his face. The boy was not just nervous: he was terrified, and the constable was about to urge him on impatiently, “She’s dead, boy, she won’t care if you drop her now!” when he saw the boy’s glance flicker over to Baldwin and Simon, and the realisation hit him like a bolt from the sky: he was scared of the knight, not of the body!

From that moment, the constable kept a wary eye on him. They managed at last to heave the body down into the track, and from there it took little time to toss it unceremoniously into the back of the high wagon. Again, the constable saw that the old farmer did not move. He too seemed petrified. Even when the old woman’s corpse hit the wagon and made it lurch, Cottey stayed staring resolutely ahead, shoulders hunched as if against the cold and elbows resting on his knees.

“Come on, Sam,” Tanner called. “Let’s get her back to Wefford.” Cottey whistled and clucked to the mule, but neither spoke nor turned, and the constable shook his head in a quick flare of disgust.