In truth, he had not given the inquest much thought. As he had said to Jeanne on the day the messenger arrived, he had no doubt that the murderer would be found. The fact that there was a rumour of cannibalism did not affect him. There had been plenty of suspected cannibals during the famine, and some were genuine, although most were simply unfortunates disliked by their neighbours. More often than not, it was their accusers who were thrown into Exeter Gaol or fined for lying.
Eating other humans was repellent to all but the insane. There was no doubt about that, of course, and yet… and yet sometimes a person could be in such appalling straits that there was no apparent alternative. Baldwin had heard examples of cannibalism during sieges, when all other foods were exhausted; more recently there had been reported cases during the famine. As people lost everything, as their crops wilted, their animals expired from lack of feed, as children swelled from malnutrition, it was not surprising that they should turn to the only food available: other men and women.
Baldwin had heard of such cases, yes – but not recently.
When the coroner stood and gazed about him imperiously, the whole room appeared to shuffle and move, all avoiding direct eye-contact. Baldwin saw young boys nervously casting their attention to the floor, while older men stared at the wall behind him. It was not unusual for villagers to feel bitter at the arrival of officials, he reminded himself, and turned back to his pot of watered wine, smiling to his wife.
Jeanne acknowledged his gesture, but she couldn’t help gazing at the people collected before them, and at one in particular.
He was the only man who appeared not to be intimidated by the presence of the coroner. Heavily built, he was fleshy of face, his jowls already blue with fresh beard, although he looked as though he had shaved that morning, from the two small cuts she could see which still bled beneath his right ear. His eyes were small, almost hidden in the folds of skin beneath his broad forehead, and his hair was a sparse horseshoe between ears and a bald pate, although unlike so many men she had seen, the dome of his skull wasn’t shiny; it was dull, with strands of individual hair sprouting. For some reason Jeanne took an immediate dislike to him.
‘Coroner, I am Alexander de Belston,’ he said in a low, deep voice. It was the sort of voice that inspired confidence, and his slow, respectful manner created an instant hush in the room. ‘I am reeve of the vill under the authority of the Baron of Oakhampton, my Lord Hugh de Courtenay.’
‘I am Coroner Roger de Gidleigh,’ Roger replied with equal formality and gravity. Jeanne saw that he had lowered his head and was giving the reeve a measuring look quite unlike his normal good-humoured grin. Then she realised that the coroner had, like her, been unfavourably impressed by the reeve. ‘Would you lead the way for the jury and witnesses?’
‘Of course, my Lord. Please follow me.’
Baldwin rose and held out his hand for Jeanne. She took it and walked at his side immediately behind the coroner and the reeve, and was unaccountably glad to hear the solid footsteps of Simon and Edgar behind her, and to feel Aylmer at her side.
Outside it was already warm, the sunshine all but blinding as they made their way up the roadway. The air was clean and fresh, with the tang of woodsmoke and cooking, but there was that strange silence again. Even the local dogs had stopped barking, she noticed, and the few miserable-looking mutts which were visible weren’t foraging, but slunk quietly out of the way of the throng.
It was a dismal group which congregated about the wall with the tumbled rocks all around, and although he didn’t expect them to be singing and dancing in these sad circumstances, Coroner Roger was surprised at the lack of noise here. It was as though all the folk waiting were drained, exhausted. He had seen people like this during the worst stages of the famine, but not since.
It must be due to the age of the victim, he thought. The destruction of children always seemed more poignant than the death of an adult.
‘The body is in there,’ the Reeve said helpfully. ‘Two girls saw the wall had collapsed, and noticed some material inside. They prodded at it and it tore, and the skull fell out. Naturally they ran screaming.’
The coroner crouched and touched the cloth which had attracted the girls. ‘This is no good,’ he muttered. ‘Baldwin, what do you think?’
‘If you try to pull her out you will damage her corpse and probably bring the wall down as well.’
‘Quite right! We shall have to dig, as I suspected.’
The coroner clambered over the wall and helped the reeve to follow. Baldwin left Jeanne with Edgar and went to join him. He knew Simon would prefer not to see the corpse: the bailiff had never fully appreciated the importance of the little signals which a body could give to an investigator.
A few flies were buzzing about the place as the reeve motioned to a man with a long shovel. Flies, Baldwin knew, were the inevitable partners to death. On a warm day, flies could congregate in moments, laying their foul eggs on open wounds and quickly infesting a corpse with maggots. Baldwin loathed and detested flies. He had seen too many in Acre during the siege. As people fell dead in the streets, struck by the massive stone missiles from the Saracen artillery, swarms would suddenly appear, smothering their faces and feasting on the blood.
But flies liked fresh meat, he reminded himself, and this corpse was old. Looking about him, he saw that, in fact, the flies were busy seeking food elsewhere.
The man with the shovel was working hard with the regular action of someone used to manual labour. His broad wooden blade had been tipped with a sharp steel edge, and it cut through the smaller roots which lay under the surface of the turf as he stood on the footrest carved into the right side, thrusting the blade deep into the soil, then levering it up and away, shovelling it into a neat heap behind him.
‘Once the body was discovered, we decided not to dig it up,’ the reeve said pompously. ‘It would have served no purpose and we didn’t want to disturb the remains until you arrived.’
Baldwin had already taken a dislike to this man. He didn’t know why, for most reeves were pleasant enough, and he had not yet had time to learn anything about this fellow which could give him cause for dislike, but there it was. As Alexander de Belston peered down into the growing hole, he started picking his nose, and the act grated on Baldwin. It was an insult to the body. There was a languid tone to his voice as well, as though Alexander was trying to show the coroner that matters such as this were rather beneath him. He did appear self-important, certainly. It was there in the way he sighed as he glanced up at the sun, estimating the time, and in the frown that passed over his face when a child in the silent crowd down in the lane spoke up and complained of thirst.
Baldwin studied the ground.
Standing here on the slope, he could appreciate that the wall was only low, some two feet high, when viewed from this side. Of course, from the roadway, the wall was quite high, almost the height of a man. He wondered whether this fact had any relevance.
‘God’s teeth!’ the peasant with the shovel swore, wincing.
Simon turned away from the melancholy scene.
He was down on the road with the crowd which had straggled up here. The poorest seemed to stick together, like a herd of cattle seeking protection from a dog, their status apparent from their threadbare clothing and drawn features. Near them were some twenty men and boys in slightly better clothes: wealthier farmers and franklins. These were the fellows who owned their own land, who didn’t have to literally slave in the lord’s strips. The labour of a villein’s body was owned by his master, and the villein must leave his own crops to rot when he was called to his lord’s harvest.
Looking over this lot, he reckoned that the men of Sticklepath looked less bovine than most. It was strange: in some towns and cities, he had heard that the lowest peasants could swagger and boast like franklins, but usually in the smaller hamlets folk knew their place, and would keep away from the likes of Simon and Baldwin. Here, however, he was conscious that men and women alike me
t his gaze with truculence. It was slightly alarming. This lot could become a mob, he thought, and unconsciously he tapped the hilt of his sword.
Ivo was there, too. His long face with its narrow nose was oddly intent as he stared up at the men working above the wall. However, Ivo was not thinking of the inquest, nor even of the child who was being exhumed.
There were so many children in Sticklepath, and this one had already been replaced. Peasants in this benighted vill bred like lecherous pigs, rolling and rutting in the dirt; it was no surprise the place was overrun with snot-nosed brats.
As the man cried and dropped his shovel, Ivo glanced up towards him. He knew well enough that this was a dangerous moment for the reeve and Drogo, for he had seen them burying the body near here; if it turned up now, his hold over the reeve would be ended. He shrugged. Oh well.
A small boy ran down the lane, narrowly missing Ivo as he passed, and the man pursed his lips. Illegitimate spawn of a sow and a hog! Next time the little sodomite tried that, he’d get a boot up his arse. See how he liked sprawling in the dirt.
Ivo loathed children. Always had. Mother had told him that he would love his own, but thank Christ there was no risk of that. His wife was barren, useless cow. Shame he’d ever married her. She was only ever a drain upon his purse, no good as a bedfellow or housekeeper. Couldn’t manage a servant to save her life.
It was as he was thinking of his wife that he saw her again, and felt his heart flutter: Nicky.
She had a natural grace about her, an elegance that was without comparison in this dump; it must be her French blood, Ivo thought. He had often heard it said that Frenchwomen had more style and grace than their English counterparts, and Nicky proved it. She was gorgeous. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her, strip her naked and lay her on his bed.
Caution made him glance about, looking for her husband, his brother, Thomas Garde. Tom was a jealous git at the best of times, and he hated Ivo. Jealousy, Ivo thought smugly. Here he was, manciple to the nuns at Canonsleigh, and Thomas no better than a peasant. If Ivo could, he’d get rid of Thomas, permanently. That would give him a chance to have a proper go at Nicky, without fear of interference. All he need do was think up the right plan… Of course, knowing Thomas’s temper, any attempt to trap him would carry certain risks. He’d have to be very careful.
It occurred to him that he should use Tom’s well-known temper against him – get him convicted of breaking the peace or something. Nicky would have to ask him for help then, and he could seduce her. Ivo groaned silently. It was a delicious thought.
Then he remembered his malicious comment the night before, to Sir Baldwin’s manservant at the inn. He had merely thrown out the suggestion that his brother could have been responsible for the recently discovered murder in order to drop Thomas in the shit. No man liked to be interrogated like a felon, especially someone as fiery-natured as Thomas Garde. Ivo sniggered nastily.
If, however, Ivo was somehow able to implicate him properly – Ivo might yet be grappling with his widow before too long.
Looking about him, he was relieved to see no sign of his brother, although he must be there somewhere. The only man he noticed was Bailiff Puttock, who was watching him closely. Ivo saw his gaze go to Nicky, as though puzzled by Ivo’s smouldering looks.
Ivo shrugged. He wasn’t the only man to show an interest in his sister-in-law. Finally taking an interest in the proceedings, he glanced back at the grave, and then a frown passed over his face as he heard people mention the name Aline and speak in hushed terms of a girl’s corpse.
‘But what happened to him?’ he said in astonishment.
Chapter Nine
When the peasant digging gave a shocked curse, Baldwin immediately peered into the grave. The man had exposed the ribs of a skeleton. As Drogo had suggested, this must be an old corpse.
Baldwin looked up and noticed the three men who had been with Drogo at the inn when he arrived. He nudged the reeve and pointed. ‘Who are they?’
‘Drogo le Criur’s men, the foresters. Young Vin, Adam Thorne is the man with the limp and the other one is Peter atte Moor.’
‘Tell them to come here,’ ordered Coroner Roger. ‘They can help this fellow instead of gawping.’
Vincent looked as though he might be sick when he saw the blackened bones protruding from the grave. Even Adam crossed himself as he limped over to it, a sad-looking man with heavily lidded eyes, but it was Peter atte Moor’s behaviour which struck Baldwin most: he sprang up onto the wall and stood gazing down into the hole almost hungrily. When the three men were in the grave, they began to tug gently at the fabric and somehow managed to lift the bones from the clinging soil.
‘Hurry up!’ the reeve called.
Baldwin noted that Alexander de Belston was no longer so languid. In fact, he looked very tense. He appeared almost stunned – but desperate to get the bones out of the grave.
By some miracle the material held until they had the headless corpse out of the hole and were standing before the coroner; then there was a tearing sound and the cloth ripped, spilling the discoloured bones in a heap at Roger’s feet.
‘Not an adult, then,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘No, sir. I think it’s a young girl who disappeared a few years ago,’ the reeve answered.
‘I see,’ Coroner Roger said quietly.
The reeve’s voice was convincing, and so was the fact that no one in the crowd saw fit to dispute his words. However, there was something that interested Baldwin. ‘You saw that there was a body and left it covered?’
‘What else could it be when we found the skull, Keeper? Yes, I set a guard over it day and night. We are law-abiding folk here.’
Baldwin smiled suavely. The ‘Keeper’ had almost been spat out, as though the reeve held men like him in low esteem.
Alexander beckoned and one of his men came forward with the skull wrapped in a cloth. He set it down with the bones as though hoping the body might reassemble itself.
Coroner Roger glanced at the parson, Gervase Colbrook, who was licking his lips and staring at the skeleton. Feeling the coroner’s eyes on him, he picked up a reed and dipped it in his ink, ready to take down the details.
‘All right! Silence! Shut that brat up there!’ bawled Roger. ‘I’m the King’s Coroner and this is the inquest into the death of this child. Does anybody know who it was?’
‘Swetricus,’ the reeve called. ‘Come forward, man.’
Baldwin watched as a large man shoved his way to the front of the crowd and stood before them all, his head bowed. The knight recognised the shambling gait, the hang-dog stance. Swet’s demeanour was so like those of Baldwin’s comrades after the destruction of their Order that he felt a pang pull at his heart.
‘This is Swetricus, Coroner.’
‘What do you know of this, good fellow?’ Coroner Roger asked gently.
‘I recognise the cloth. It’s like Aline’s. My daughter.’
The coroner nodded. Swetricus had a steady, deep voice, but there was a slight tremble in it as his eyes slid down to view the pile of bones that might have been his daughter. ‘When did you last see her?’
Swetricus looked at Alexander with a pleading expression. ‘Four years ago.’
‘I see. What happened to her?’ Coroner Roger glanced down at the corpse again, wondering how someone could want to hurt a pathetic little bundle like this.
‘Sir, I don’t know. It was the middle of summer. I was out in the fields. She’d been there with her sisters that morn. First I knew was that night, when she didn’t come home.’
‘Did you search for her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Speak up, you dull-witted son of a whore!’ Alexander grated. ‘The coroner doesn’t have all day for you to order your brains!’
‘Just answer the question,’ the Coroner said, with a long, cold look at the reeve.
‘The Hue was raised. Didn’t find nothing.’
‘Really?’ The coroner’s voice was
quieter. ‘How old was she?’
‘Must have been eleven. Maybe twelve.’
That was a relief, Roger thought to himself. So often a father or mother had no idea how old their offspring were. ‘Did she have a boyfriend?’
‘No.’
‘She was buried wrapped in that material. Is that how her body was discovered?’
‘As I said, we didn’t uncover all of her,’ the reeve said. ‘When those wenches Joan and Emma tugged at the scrap of cloth, visible where the wall had crumbled, the skull fell out. There didn’t seem any point in trying to get at the rest of the body without an official being present, and I didn’t want it to be disturbed by wild animals, so we took the head to protect it and left the rest.’
‘Who was the First Finder?’ the coroner called, and Miles Houndestail stepped forward. He answered Coroner Roger’s questions clearly, telling how he had seen the two girls as they discovered the skull, how he had returned to the vill with Joan, and raised the Hue and Cry, contacting the reeve and the nearest four houses as the law required. He had insisted that the reeve should send for the coroner.
Belston himself was silent. Of the two villagers, Baldwin considered that the reeve looked even more depressed than Swetricus. The latter had lost his daughter, true, but now at least he knew what had happened to her. The reeve, on the other hand, was responsible for the fines which would be imposed. And they would hurt his pocket considerably.
Yet there was another point. ‘I have heard talk of cannibalism,’ Sir Baldwin said strongly, and the watching crowd gasped. ‘Could this poor child not merely have been raped and then silenced?’
The reeve turned to the coroner as though Baldwin had not spoken. ‘Everyone was hungry. You remember the famine. It was just natural to assume the worst.’
Liar, Baldwin thought. ‘May I take a look?’ he asked.
The Sticklepath Strangler Page 11
