by Alys Clare
Josse put his fingers to the throat and his ear to the gaping mouth, from which a blackened tongue protruded. As his senses confirmed what he already knew, Josse shook his head.
He sensed that someone had come to stand close beside him and Sister Phillipa’s low voice said, ‘Did I not succeed in saving him, Sir Josse?’
He laid the dead man carefully on the ground and, taking off his own cloak, spread it over the horrible spectacle of the ruined face. ‘Had you happened upon him soon after the rope tightened, your resourceful and brave action might well have helped, Sister,’ he replied. ‘But he is already cold and his limbs begin to take on the stiffness that follows death, so we must assure ourselves that any action we tried to take to save him came far too late.’
‘Sister Anne and I did not set out by this path,’ Sister Phillipa murmured. ‘Had we done so, we might have been in time.’
Josse looked at her and noticed how pale she was. Shock, he reminded himself, can manifest itself in other ways than in hysterical screaming. Straightening up, he took hold of Sister Phillipa’s hand, which was cold and clammy. Thinking quickly, he leaned close to her and whispered, ‘Sister, we must get Sister Anne back to the Abbey for she is beside herself and is in need of the infirmarer’s calming draught. Will you see her back, if Brother Saul and Leofgar go with you?’
‘But that means you would be left alone with the body, Sir Josse!’ she exclaimed. ‘I will stay with you, for two together will be better than one alone.’
She was courageous, there was no denying it, and he admired courage; indeed, he would have welcomed her company. But he did not want her to stay out there in the cold with him for the length of time it might take Saul to arrange and dispatch a party with a hurdle to fetch the body. ‘I will be quite all right, Sister,’ he assured her gently. ‘I have stood vigil by the dead many times and they do not frighten me.’
Her eyes met his. A very small smile touched her lips and she said, ‘And you would rather not have the additional worry of a woman who might pass out on you.’
He grinned back. ‘I have no fear of that, Sister. But you have had a disturbing experience and I would be reassured if I knew that you too were on your way to being tended by helping hands.’
She bowed briefly. ‘Very well, I will go.’
Brother Saul and Sister Anne had already started off down the path and now, for the first time, Josse looked over at Leofgar, about to ask him to take Sister Phillipa’s arm and help her along after them. What he saw quite surprised him, for Leofgar was almost as white as Sister Phillipa and he was staring down at the body as if he could see straight through the thick cloth of Josse’s cloak and was still studying the blackened, distorted features of the dead face. Perhaps, Josse thought, it is the first time he has seen violent death. Perhaps, despite the fine example of bravery set by Sister Phillipa, he cannot control his reactions. Well, if so, the sooner he puts distance between himself and the corpse, the better.
‘Leofgar?’ he said.
The young man slowly turned his head towards Josse, although his eyes remained fixed on the body. ‘Yes?’
‘Leofgar, please take Sister Phillipa back to the Abbey.’ This time Josse put a little asperity into his tone and to his relief Leofgar responded. As the young man stepped around the corpse and approached the nun, his features seemed to unfreeze and he gave her a comradely smile. ‘Come, Sister,’ he said, holding out his hand for hers, ‘Sir Josse is right, there’s no need for more than one to stay on guard here. Let’s help each other back to the sanctuary of the Abbey walls.’
She took his hand and Josse watched as the two of them strode off down the path, quickly catching up and overtaking Brother Saul and Sister Anne; Leofgar called out something, perhaps an assurance that he would alert the community to what had happened, and then he and Sister Phillipa, still rather touchingly holding hands, broke into a trot and hastened away. Leofgar might well have reacted like a green young lad on seeing the body, Josse mused, and I can’t really blame him for it was not a pleasant sight. But he’s pulled himself together, no doubt of that, and I am sure he will not falter again.
Josse put the matter out of his mind. There would be only a brief time before the hurdle bearers arrived to take the body away and he had work to do. First he inspected the ground beneath the branch from which the body had been suspended, but it was hard with the dry cold and, in any case, any informative footprints there might have been had been obscured by the lightly shod feet of the two nuns, by Saul’s sandals and by the boots of Leofgar and Josse. No help there, he decided. Then he went to look around the trunk of the tree. There were the prints of Saul’s feet; he had broken the thin ice on the edge of an all but dried out puddle and the marks of the hobnails on the thick soles of the lay brother’s sandals had made a sliding pattern in the mud.
There was another footprint too.
Josse hurried back to the dead man and studied his feet. He wore filthy boots of poor quality leather and the uppers had pulled away from the soles in one or two places. The backs of the boots were trodden down, as if the man had been in the habit of pushing his feet carelessly into them. Grimacing at the task, both because it took some force and because the man stank, Josse pulled the right boot off the dead foot. Then he carried it over to the base of the oak tree and compared it with the footprint there.
Interesting.
He laid the boot down beside the corpse – putting it back on the pale, naked and filthy foot would take time that he did not have and, besides, the infirmarer and her nurses would in any case soon be stripping the corpse in preparation for burial – and then he spat on his hands and shinned up the tree. He edged gingerly along the branch and, at the point where the knot was still tied to it, settled himself securely, winding his legs firmly together beneath the branch and, holding on with one hand, bending down to inspect the knot.
He traced the way in which the rope had been tied. That was interesting, too. Then he spotted something else. Leaning down, he teased out the small but revealing thing that was caught up in a strand of the knotted rope and carefully tucked it inside his tunic. He pushed himself back along the branch – funny how it seemed to be even further from the ground now that he was up there – and as he slid back down the oak tree’s trunk, he heard the hurdle bearers coming along the track.
Later, he and the Abbess waited together in the infirmary, outside the recess where Sister Euphemia had ordered the lay brothers to put the corpse. She would strip the dead man, she had said, have a preliminary look at him and invite the Abbess and Josse to join her when she was ready. She had just sent Sister Beata to fetch them and, as they waited there, the curtains parted and the infirmarer stood back to let them approach the cot where the body lay.
There was a strong smell of rosemary, combining refreshingly with some other flowery scent that Josse thought was geranium.
‘We’ve washed him,’ Sister Euphemia murmured. ‘He was lice-ridden and I didn’t want the little devils spreading.’
‘Quite so,’ said the Abbess. Josse, glancing at her, did not miss the swift expression of disgust that momentarily crossed her face. Then, like her, he turned his attention to the dead man.
The flesh was white and sparse; he had been a lean man, not very tall. Josse stared at the skinny arms and looked for several moments at the hands and wrists. The limbs were stunted and the legs slightly bowed, an effect often seen, Josse reflected, in the bodies of the poor who had never had quite enough to eat. Sister Euphemia had discreetly placed a folded sheet across the man’s lower trunk so that his groin and genitals were concealed; Josse raised the corner of the sheet and had a quick look, which told him little other than that the man had had gingery body hair and had not been circumcised. Replacing the sheet, he turned to stare at the head and face. The head hair had also had a ginger tinge, although less pronounced, and the man had been in the process of going bald. With a nod to himself, as if privately noting that some earlier possibility had just turned out t
o be true, Josse looked at the bulging eyes – Sister Euphemia had managed to close them – and finally at the open mouth with its protruding tongue.
Noticing the direction of his attention, the infirmarer said, ‘He had rotten teeth, Sir Josse. They’d have given him gyp, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Hm.’ Josse hardly heard; he was thinking. He put his hands either side of the head and, raising it from the cot, moved it gently around, from side to side, then backwards and forwards. Again he said, ‘Hm.’ Then he pulled out the small object he had found in the strands of the rope and put it on the cot beside the dead man’s head. Looking up at the infirmarer, he said, ‘A match, would you say?’
With a soft exclamation she bent to look more closely. She sniffed at the dead man’s scalp and picked up the few strands of ginger-brown hair that Josse had laid beside the head and sniffed them too. She felt the head hair – still damp from her own recent ministrations – and then the stray strands, rubbing at them between her fingers. Then, replacing the loose hairs on the cot and carefully wiping her hands on a clean piece of soft white linen that smelt of lavender, she said, ‘Aye, I reckon so.’
The Abbess, who had silently been watching, said quietly, ‘Where did you find the hair, Sir Josse?’
‘In the knot of the rope.’
‘The knot—’ She swallowed. ‘You mean the noose that was around his neck?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘The knot that bound the rope to the tree branch.’ She frowned, as if she knew that this was significant but had not yet worked out how. Since he was in much the same state, he added, ‘There is much here to puzzle us, my lady.’
‘Indeed,’ she agreed. ‘But our first task must be to try to establish the poor man’s identity, since surely someone, expecting his return, must soon miss him and wonder where he is.’
‘Aye. I had thought, my lady, of sending word to Tonbridge to ask de Gifford for his help?’
He turned the suggestion into a question and immediately she nodded. ‘Oh, yes. I could send one of the lay brothers, or ...’ She looked at him enquiringly.
‘I should be happy to go,’ he said, picking up her thought. ‘I will set out immediately.’
If Gervase de Gifford were surprised at having to return to Hawkenlye so soon, he gave no indication. As he and Josse rode back up Castle Hill towards the Abbey, Josse did what he could to answer de Gifford’s questions. He had already asked the sheriff whether any man had been reported as missing and de Gifford had said no, not as far as he knew.
Although neither man had spoken the thought aloud, Josse guessed that de Gifford was wondering the same thing that was occupying him: whether the dead man could be the absent Walter Bell. Arriving at Hawkenlye, they gave their horses into the care of Sister Martha and then went straight across to the infirmary.
The corpse lay alone on its cot behind the curtain; Sister Beata stood just outside the recess, as if to ensure that the idly curious should not be allowed to approach. Seeing Josse and de Gifford, she parted the curtains for them and stood back to let them enter the recess. Josse smiled his thanks and the sheriff paused to speak a few muttered words; it sounded, Josse thought, as if he were commending the care with which the dead were treated by the infirmary nuns, for Sister Beata gave a little bob of a bow and whispered that it was ever the Abbess’s and the infirmarer’s wish that due respect be given. Then, appreciating that he was keen to proceed, she stepped back and let the curtain fall behind the two men, leaving them alone with the corpse.
Josse observed de Gifford studying the dead face. After a moment he said, ‘Is it Walter Bell?’
The sheriff looked up and his green eyes were clouded with doubt. Then, unconsciously echoing Josse’e earlier remark, he said, ‘There’s a mystery here.’ Speaking softly so that nobody but Josse would hear, he went on, ‘It’s not Walter, it’s his brother Teb.’
Josse and de Gifford went next to report to the Abbess and Josse listened as, with admirable brevity of which the Abbess seemed to approve, de Gifford outlined what he had just discovered.
‘Yet it was Teb whom you suspected was coming to Hawkenlye to search for his brother Walter, the one who is missing?’ she asked.
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Are the brothers similar in appearance?’ Josse asked.
The Abbess nodded. ‘That was to have been my next question.’
‘You are both wondering, I would guess,’ said de Gifford, ‘whether my officer mistook Teb for Walter and it was in fact Teb who was missing and Walter who was looking for him.’
‘Aye,’ Josse replied.
‘There was a strong resemblance between them, yes, and I wish it were that simple.’ De Gifford gave a sigh and ruffled his hair vigorously as if trying to stir his brains into action. ‘But it was Teb in the tavern. My man was in no doubt of it.’
‘And you trust your man.’ Josse made sure that there was no note of enquiry in his voice; he was in any case quite sure that de Gifford would not use men whose judgement he questioned.
‘I do,’ de Gifford agreed.
‘Teb Bell is dead, then,’ the Abbess summarised, ‘and Walter, we must assume, is still missing.’ She looked intently at de Gifford. ‘Were the brothers close, would you say?’
‘Close?’ De Gifford thought for a moment. ‘Their lives were lived closely, my lady, for, as I told you, they were engaged in the same villainy and as far as I know they shared the same miserable hovel of a dwelling. But if I am correct in thinking that you are asking whether there was affection between them, then I can only say that, although I may malign them, I would doubt it. May I know why you ask the question?’
She shrugged and, to Josse’s eye, appeared suddenly diffident. ‘It seems that I am following a fruitless path but I wondered if the dead man – Teb – could have discovered that his brother had in fact died and had taken his own life because the loss was too great to bear.’
‘But, my lady, he—’ Josse began.
She misinterpreted his protest. Turning to him, diffidence changing smoothly to righteous indignation, she said, ‘Sir Josse, deep love is not the prerogative of the wealthy, the honest and the educated. Despite what the sheriff says about the Bell brothers, it is perfectly possible for a poor man, even for a thief or a murderer, to love his brother!’
Josse bowed his head. ‘Forgive me, my lady Abbess, but I would not dream of denying it. That was not what I was about to say.’
‘Oh.’ She looked slightly ruffled. ‘Then what were you going to say?’
He glanced at de Gifford, then back at the Abbess. ‘It is perhaps only to be expected,’ he began, ‘that the assumption will be made that a man found hanging at the end of a rope in an isolated spot has died at his own hand. In many such cases, I believe this is found to be true.’
‘But not in this one?’ de Gifford put in.
‘No,’ Josse agreed.
‘How can you be sure, Sir Josse?’ the Abbess asked.
‘Because of two things,’ he replied. ‘Firstly, I discovered a footprint at the base of the oak tree and, when I compared it to the dead man’s boot, it did not match. Neither did it match the footprints of those of the Hawkenlye community who found him, cut him down and brought him here. It’s possible, I accept, that someone else came along before Sister Anne and Sister Phillipa arrived and that this someone made to climb the tree to cut the man down but for some reason thought better of it. Perhaps he heard the sisters approaching and decided to run for it before anyone decided that his presence at the scene pointed to his guilt.’
‘You reason logically,’ de Gifford commented. ‘However, my inclination is to think that the footprint at the base of the tree is more likely to have been put there by whoever strung Teb Bell up. What is your second thing?’
‘I found a strand of hair entangled in the rope, just below where it was knotted around the branch,’ Josse said. ‘Sister Euphemia and I are agreed in our opinion that it belonged to the dead man.’
‘Does that no
t rather point to his having made the knot himself?’ the Abbess asked.
‘Again, it is possible,’ Josse allowed. ‘But I also noticed faint marks on the dead man’s wrists, marks that I believe were made by his having been tied with perhaps the very rope later used to hang him. I may be wide of the mark, but the scene that I see is this. Teb Bell is making his way to Hawkenlye, where he believes he will find news of his brother Walter. He is, let us say, concerned for Walter and he fears some harm may have come to him. Well, perhaps it has. Perhaps Walter has been attacked and killed and perhaps the killer, knowing about Teb, is lying in wait for Walter’s brother to come looking for him. Along comes Teb, perhaps armed with a knife or a stout stick—’
‘He usually carried both,’ de Gifford put in.
‘Very well! Along comes an armed Teb and the assailant, knowing as well as you, Gervase, about the cudgel and the knife, plays for safety and jumps him from behind. He slings a rope round Teb’s neck – and it’s then that the strands of hair become entwined – and perhaps loops another bit of the rope round Teb’s wrists so as to render him helpless. Then he pulls him across to the oak tree, throws the free end round the branch and, before Teb can do anything to save himself, hauls him off the ground so that he strangles to death. Then the killer climbs the tree and ties the rope in a knot, with the thought in mind that anyone recognising Teb will think what the Abbess just suggested. That Teb Bell hanged himself, perhaps from grief that his brother Walter cannot be found and is presumed dead.’
‘A clever murderer,’ de Gifford said slowly.
The Abbess did not look convinced. ‘Sir Josse, could that not still be what really happened – that Teb Bell took his own life – despite the two contrary indications that you describe to us?’
‘No, my lady.’ He looked sadly at her, wishing in that moment that he could agree and say yes, suicide was the more likely verdict. ‘For there is one more thing. You saw the body, did you not?’
