Silently Greencliff turned and pointed to the hedge that led at right angles to the road to keep his sheep from going into the woods beyond. There, in the darkness under the plants, they could make out a small bundle. To Simon it looked like a bundle of dirty rags lying in the space made by a fox or badger path, in the gap between two stems of the hedge itself, lying half under the plants, half in the field. He and the knight walked towards it, leaving Greencliff standing, nervously fiddling with his crook. Tanner imperturbable beside him. The two walked to the body, pausing three or four yards from it.
“Did you touch her?” Simon called back to him, frowning concentration on his face.
“No, sir, no. Soon as old Sam told me she was here, I came and stood where you saw me. I didn’t want to see her.”
Glancing back, Baldwin nodded. He could see that the boy’s footsteps had flattened a small area of grass, but no steps came from there, showing that the boy had been there when it began to snow and had not moved from there since. “Did you hear anyone this morning? See anyone?”
“No, sir.”
“What about last night? Did you see or hear anything strange?”
“No, sir. Nothing.”
His face was anxious, as if he was desperate to convince, and after holding his gaze for a moment, Baldwin nodded again, then cocked an eyebrow at the bailiff and pointed with his chin. “No tracks, Simon. We’ll never be able to see if anyone came here last night. At least no one has been here since it began snowing.”
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.
Baldwin and Simon were soon back. The knight mounted his horse and watched as Simon followed suit, then glanced over at Greencliff. “We may want to see you later – when we’ve had a chance to find out more. You live there?” He pointed with his chin to the longhouse at the top of a small rise. When Greencliff nodded, he wheeled round, checked the others were ready, and started off back to Wefford. By the time they had entered the trees again, he found Simon had caught up with him and was riding alongside.
Smiling, the knight gave him a quick look. “Feeling better?”
“Not really, no.” He was quiet for a moment, then said musingly, “It’s always worst just before you see them, isn’t it? It’s not knowing what you’re going to find that makes it more revolting. Once you’ve actually seen the damage, it’s not so bad.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Baldwin, the smile fading.
“Are you sure about the blood?”
The humour was wiped away like snow from armour. “Yes. She cannot have died there, not with the amount of blood she must have lost. Think about it: when you slit the throat of a pig or lamb, the blood sprays, doesn’t it?”
“Well, yes…”
“So too with humans. If she had died there, the leaves, the ground, everything would have her gore. No, she cannot have died there.”
“So where did she die?”
“Where?” His voice became lower and quieter, and he was musing as he continued, “That’s what we must try to find out.”
Yes, thought Simon. And why she was put there, too.
They clattered into Wefford at a little before lunch, and carried the wrapped figure into the inn, ignoring the protests of the owner, before calling for mulled wine.
Walking through into the dark interior, Simon strode over to the benches and sat, holding his hands out to the flames as if in a pagan ritual, feeling the numbness flee, only to leave stabs and prickles as sensation returned. Groaning, he stretched his legs towards the hearth and flexed his toes, grimacing in the exquisite pain.
After a moment he heard the curtain draw aside and the familiar stomp of his friend.
“God! Thank you for small gifts! That feels so good!” said the knight, baring his teeth as he stood close to the flames and sighed, “Innkeeper! Where’s my wine?”
Simon glanced at him. “I thought you believed in moderation with your wine?“
“When it’s this cold? Moderation, yes: but not to the exclusion of comfort,” he said, then roared again: “Innkeeper!”
He entered scowling, a look of bitter dissatisfaction on his face, and walked to the other end of his hall, disappearing through the curtain. After a moment he was back, carrying a pair of jugs and mugs on a tray which he set down between them. Turning, he was about to leave when Simon called him back.
“This dead woman, Agatha Kyteler,” the bailiff mused. “The name doesn’t sound local to these parts.”
“No, sir. She was quite new hereabouts. Only came here about ten years ago.”
“You seemed surprised earlier when you heard who had died. When we were questioning Cottey.”
“I was, sir. I heard her name only recently.” The man told of the visit of the Bourc and how he had asked about the old woman. Baldwin frowned as he listened but did not say anything, and ignored Simon’s questioning glance.
“What do you know about her?” asked Simon, his eyes on his friend. He felt nervous. It was clear that the knight was worried, and from what he had said of the Bourc’s visit when the Puttocks had arrived, he could guess why.
“Know about her? I don’t…”
“She was murdered, you know,” said Baldwin shortly, avoiding the man’s eyes as he toyed with the hilt of his sword in a vaguely threatening manner. “We want to find out who did it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So, answer!”
Sighing, the innkeeper poured wine for them, then sat and watched morosely as they sipped the hot, spiced liquid. “She came from far off. Some say from the Holy Land. I don’t know. Took the assart down behind the Oatway place, about a mile from here, out east.”
“And?” Baldwin’s eyes narrowed and Simon had the impression that he was sure the publican was holding something back. “Come on, man. You’re the innkeeper! You know everyone here, and you know all the gossip, too. What was said about her? Who knew her well? Who liked her, who hated her? What do you know about her?”
His eyes flitted nervously from the knight to the bailiff and back, then, as if afraid of what he might see in their faces, he stared at the flames. When he spoke again, it was in a low voice, not fearful, but slow and deliberate. “She weren’t wealthy, but always had enough to survive. Very clever, she was, and that upset a lot of people. She made them feel stupid. She was arrogant too. Didn’t suffer fools easily. Not without letting them know what she thought of them.”
“Her friends?”
“Ask the women hereabouts. They all knew her.”
“Why?”
He looked up suddenly, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “She helped them with their babies. When there was a problem with the birth – any problem – she helped them. She was a good midwife.” He almost mused as he spoke.
“So she’ll be missed?”
“Yes,” he thought, considering. “Yes, she’ll be missed by some.”
“Did anyone hate her? Could someone here want her dead?”
With a shrug, the innkeeper showed his indifference, but under the intensity of Baldwin’s gaze, he spoke with a defensive air. “Some might’ve. But you can’t believe what people say here! ”I hate him“, ”I’ll kill him“, ”He deserves death“, you hear it every day in here. When a man gets into his cups, his mouth runs away sometimes – it’s natural. You can’t believe it, it’s the wine talking.”
“Who has said that about Kyteler?”
“Oh! I don’t know. Many people have. They were scared of her. She seemed too clever, like I said. People get worried by women who’re too clever.”
“So who has said that kind of thing about her?” Baldwin pressed.
“Like I say, it means nothing. There’s a few have said things. Young Greencliff, he has. And old man Oatway.”
“Did they say why? Why they hated her?” asked Simon, leaning forward, his arms on his knees as he frowned.
“Why? Ha!” He gave a rich, low chuckle. “Oatway has the place between her assart and here, and he’s got chickens. About a month ago, he saw one of his chickens were missing, and when he looked he found its feathers, all in a line on the way to Kyteler’s place. He reckons it was her dog, but she swore it wasn’t.”
“If it was going out that way, it could have been a fox or anything, heading back to the wild; away from the houses and back to the forest,” said Simon.
“That’s what she said, too, but old Oatway wouldn’t have it! He reckoned it was her dog, right enough. Anyway, he went to her and said he wanted the chicken replac
ed, and she refused. Since then, he’s lost two more chickens, and he hates her, blames her for them.”
“Hardly enough to murder for,” said Baldwin mildly.
Simon glanced at him. “A chicken is enough meat for a week or more for two people. After the last couple of years, I’d say it was a very good reason to kill.”
“Well,” the innkeeper squirmed in his seat, “I’m not saying it’s not, but I still don’t think he could kill. Not old John Oatway.”
“No? What about Harold Greencliff?”
“Harry? No, I don’t think so. He’s a good lad. No, he wouldn’t kill.”
“Why did he hate Kyteler?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. Something happened, though. He came in here…”
“When?”
“Yesterday. Late afternoon, I suppose… Yes, it was just after dark, so it must have been about five o’clock. Anyway, he came in and took a pint of ale, and sat down over there.” He pointed at the far corner, near the screen leading to the inner rooms. “A bit later, a friend of his came in, Stephen de la Forte, and they got talking, and I heard Harry say that she was a bitch and if she wasn’t careful, someone would ”see to her“.”
“And?”
“Oh, they left soon after. But that’s not to say he was really mad – he looked more sad to me, not really angry, just upset, so don’t go thinking he sent straight out to kill her. Anyway, they were back here a few hours later – before eight.”
“Who? Greencliff and de la Forte?”
“Yes. They came in again and settled down for the evening with some of their friends.”
“Where had they been?”
He shrugged. “How should I know? To get food or something, I don’t know.”
“How did they seem when they got back?”
“Oh, Stephen was noisier than usual, but I reckon they’d had drinks while they were out. It gets some people like that. Harry was quiet. He often is when he’s drunk too much. He’s a nice, quiet sort of a lad.”
“I see,” said Baldwin, but as he opened his mouth to say more, Tanner and Cottey came in from seeing to the body. Walking to the huddle of men at the fire, they sat and stared longingly at the jugs of wine until Baldwin gestured and the innkeeper rose with bad grace to fetch more, this time not forgetting himself.
The Merchant’s Partner aktm-2 Page 6
