by Mel Starr
I walked slowly about the pile of blackened ashes and felt yet some warmth from what had been six or so hours before a great conflagration. The men scooping the ashes had come early to the work, to gather ashes before others might think to do so. But they had ceased their labor when they found the skull. This was clear, for the rounded cranium was yet half buried, eye sockets peering blankly at me from an upturned face. Well, it was a face at one time.
I saw a few other bones protruding from the ashes, enough that I was convinced that whoso was consumed in the flames went into the fire whole. But to discover if this was truly so I would need to sweep away the ashes and learn what bones were here and how they lay. I would await Hubert Shillside and his jury for that. And the ashes would cool while I waited.
Bampton’s coroner did not soon appear. Most of his jurymen had attended the St. John’s Day fire the night before, drunk too much ale, and cavorted about the blaze ’till near dawn, and had to be roused from sleep to attend to their duty. A sour-looking band of fellows eventually shuffled into view beyond the church.
When they had approached close enough to see the skull, one and all crossed themselves, then bent low to better examine the reason for being called from their beds.
I stood aside as Shillside collected the jury after each had circled the ash pile. I could have predicted their decision. There was, they decided, no reason to raise the hue and cry, as they could not know if a felony had been done, and even if ’twas so there was no evidence to follow which might lead to a murderer. A man, or perhaps a woman, was dead. The coroner’s jury could discover nothing more. They would leave further investigation to me. So said Hubert Shillside as his jury departed to seek their homes and break their fast.
Before the coroner left the place I drew him to where the three vicars of the Church of St. Beornwald stood. I asked the four men if any man or woman had gone missing from Bampton or the Weald in the past few days. They shrugged, glanced toward one another, and shook their heads.
“Perhaps some fellow had too much ale last night, before he came to the fire, and danced too close,” Father Simon suggested.
“Odd that no one would see him fall into the flames,” Father Thomas said. “Most of the village was here, and in the light of the blaze he would surely have been seen.”
“Would’ve cried out, too,” Shillside said. “No man burns in silence, I think.”
“Or woman, either,” I added.
“What will you do with the bones?” Father Ralph asked. “We should bury them in the churchyard, but must not do so ’till we know that the dead man was baptized.”
“And was not a suicide,” Father Simon said.
Were there any corpses to be found in England unbaptized, and therefore ineligible to be interred in hallowed ground? I thought not. And I could think of a dozen more acceptable ways to take one’s life than to dive into the flames of a St. John’s Day fire.
The vicars and coroner fell silent, staring at me. They wanted to know who had died, and whether or not he had perished in Bampton’s Midsummer’s Eve blaze. I needed to know how the man, or woman, had died, and, if possible, where. If the four men gazing at me expected me to provide answers to these questions, I had best begin the search.
The first thing must be to gather all of the bones. Mayhap there would be the mark of a blade across a rib to tell how death came, or perhaps the dead man had broken an arm or leg in some past accident, and the knitted injury might help to identify the corpse.
But I had no wish to go down on hands and knees in the still-warm ashes to inspect bones. I turned to the men who had found the bones, instructed them to sift carefully through the ashes, and place all bones into their wheelbarrow.
These fellows were not pleased to be assigned the task, but knew that their lord’s bailiff could make life disagreeable if they balked.
Unpleasant tasks are best accomplished quickly, and so after a moment of hesitation Lord Gilbert’s tenants emptied the ashes from their partly filled wheelbarrow and set to work with spades and rakes to uncover the bones. I had to caution them several times to use less haste and more care. The vicars and Hubert Shillside watched from across the ash pile as the stack of bones in the wheelbarrow grew.
Only a few minutes were required to discover and retrieve the bones. The men continued the work, however, finding nothing more, until I bade them desist. I assigned one fellow to follow me to Galen House with the wheelbarrow and told the others to watch for any bones they might have missed when they continued the work of recovering ashes for use upon their fields.
When Kate agreed to wed a bailiff she did not consider, I think, that her husband would use her table to inspect a skeleton. Marriage may bring many surprises.
I told Osbern, for so the villager who accompanied me with the wheelbarrow of bones was named, to take his burden to the toft behind Galen House. Kate looked up from a pot in which she was preparing our dinner, and her mouth dropped open in surprise as I propped open the door to the toft and began to drag our table through it.
“There is better light in the toft,” I explained.
“For what?” she asked.
“Examining bones… human bones.”
Kate’s hand rose to her mouth. “On my table?”
“They have been through last night’s fire,” I said.
“You will place roasted flesh upon our table?”
“Nay. There is little flesh. Nearly all has been consumed. Bones remain. No man knows who it was that was in the blaze. I hope to discover some mark upon the bones which will tell who has died, and how.”
“Oh. You believe murder may have been done?”
“I have considered why a man, or woman, should be in a Midsummer’s Eve fire. Would they place themselves there? I cannot believe it so. Then why would some other lodge a corpse there? The only explanation I can imagine is that the person who did so thought the flames would consume all, flesh and bones, and so hide an unnatural death.”
Kate’s hens scattered as I dragged the table from the door and Osbern set his wheelbarrow beside it. In a few minutes I had emptied the wheelbarrow, heaped the ash-covered bones upon the table, and set Osbern free to return to his work at the ash pile.
Bessie, I believe, understood something of the nature of the business her father was about, for she stood in the doorway with her mother, clutching Kate’s cotehardie and staring wide-eyed at the pile of bones. Kate soon tired of watching me scratch my head and returned to her pot.
I intended to assemble the bones as they would have been a few days past when they held some man upright. As I did so I discovered that most of the small bones of feet and hands were missing. Either they had been consumed in the fire or were overlooked when the four tenants recovered the larger bones from the ash pile.
Several years past, when I was new-come to Bampton, I had stood in my toft over a table like this covered with bones. Those had been found in the castle cesspit, and in pursuit of a felon I had nearly sent an innocent man to the gallows. I breathed a silent prayer that the Lord Christ would turn me from error if I blundered so again.
When I had arranged the bones properly I began my inspection with the skull, and here the examination might have ended. Behind the right ear was a concave fracture. A few small fragments of the skull were missing, and those that remained showed a depression deeper than the width of my thumb. There was no indication of the injury beginning to knit. The victim had surely died soon after the blow was delivered which made this dent. The stroke had killed him, or rendered him senseless so that a blade could be used to end his life, perhaps with a slash to the throat, or a thrust into his heart.
I studied the remainder of the bones, but found no other marks upon them. I did not search these for a cause of death. I believed I had found that. I hoped to discover some anomaly which would help to identify the corpse. A broken limb, perhaps, which had healed, so that some friend or relative of a missing man who knew of a past injury might tell me whose bones lay up
on my table.
I turned the skull and examined the teeth. Only one was missing, and the others had few flaws. Here, I thought, was the skull of a young man. I took a femur from the table and held it aside my leg. I am some taller than most men, so did not expect the bone to match mine in length, but was surprised how short the femur was when compared to my own. ’Twas perhaps a woman, I thought, who burned in the fire, or a very short man. How to know?
I puzzled over this as I stood over the bones, and remembered a lecture from my year as a student of surgery at the University of Paris. The instructor had placed before his students two pelvic bones, one male, one female. That of the man appeared larger. Then he placed before us a plaster imitation of the skull of a newborn infant, and showed how a babe’s head would pass through the female pelvis, but would not do so through the opening in a man’s pelvis, even though the male pelvis seemed the greater.
A movement in the door of Galen House caught my eye. Kate had left her fire to watch my examination of the bones. She held Sybil in her arms.
I called to Kate to bring the babe to me. Sybil is four months old. Her head is larger than when newly born, but not much. I spread my hands about her head to measure, then went to a corner of the toft where mud from recent rain had not yet dried. I fashioned a sphere of the proper size from the mire, then returned to Kate and Sybil and the table of bones.
Kate drew back as I approached with the muddy ball. “What are you about?” she asked.
“Watch,” I said.
I held out the muddy orb to compare it in size to Sybil’s head. It was somewhat smaller, which was as I intended. I turned to the pelvic bone upon the table and tried to pass the mud ball through it. I could not do so. The opening was far too small. ’Twas the bones of a man which lay in the sun upon our table. A small man, who had lost one tooth.
Chapter 2
John Prudhomme has served as Bampton’s beadle since Alan was slain in pursuit of poachers. I sought John after visiting Father Thomas to tell him of my discovery and release the bones to him. He promised to send a clerk to Galen House who would transfer the bones to the church. Kate would be pleased to have them away from her toft and hens.
John was one of those who had raised the pile of wood for the St. John’s Day fire, and as beadle he walked the streets after curfew to see that all was as it should be. I found him hoeing his onions.
Word of untoward events passes swiftly through a small village. The beadle knew already of the skeleton in the ashes, although ’twas no more than three hours since the find.
“Have you seen any man about the streets after curfew in the past few days?” I asked.
“Richard Hatcher,” he replied.
“Was he near to the church, or the meadow where you built the fire?”
“Nay. Had too much of Alvina’s ale two nights past an’ was wanderin’ down Bushey Row seekin’ ’is house.”
“He lives nowhere near Bushey Row.”
“Aye,” Prudhomme grinned. “As I said, ’e’d ’ad too much ale, an’ Alvina’s careful not to water her ale so’s to avoid trouble with Ranulf.”
Alvina Yardley is one of Bampton’s ale wives, and Ranulf Higdon is the village ale taster, a position which he has held and jealously protected since long before Lord Gilbert brought me to Bampton.
“Did Hatcher go to his house? Have you seen him since?”
“Aye. Took ’im there. ’E was at the fire last night. Didn’t topple into the woodpile drunk, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”
“When you worked gathering limbs from Lord Gilbert’s wood did you notice anything odd as you piled the branches?”
“Nay. Who would? We collected the wood in Andrew Pritchard’s cart, an’ when ’twas full we brought the branches back an’ tossed ’em on the pile, then went for more. Paid no attention to what we’d already gathered.”
“Who would?” I agreed. “I didn’t really expect that you’d have seen a man under the pile.”
“You think the fellow was put there in the night?”
“Aye. I believe someone did murder, and thought the blaze would consume the evidence. Brought the corpse to the meadow when all good men were abed, dragged some of your branches aside and shoved the dead man into the opening, then covered him over again, so next day, when you brought more wood, you’d see nothing amiss.”
Prudhomme crossed himself. “Hope ’e was already dead. Hate to think we might’ve burned a man what was alive.”
“He’d been struck behind an ear strongly enough that his skull was broken. He’d not have been alive when the pile was set alight.”
The beadle seemed relieved to learn this.
“I must discover who it was that burned,” I said. “Have you heard of any man gone missing?”
“Nay,” John shook his head. “Not in Bampton. If I do so I will tell you straightaway.”
A beadle knows almost every man’s business in a village like Bampton. If he did not know of any man unaccounted for, it was unlikely any others would.
I left John and made my way to the castle. My employer, Lord Gilbert Talbot, would want to know of the discovery. I crossed the drawbridge, greeted Wilfred the porter, who tugged a forelock in reply, then sought John Chamberlain and told him of the bones.
“Heard of it already,” he said.
“Does Lord Gilbert know?”
“Don’t know,” he replied. “I’ve not seen him since I learned of the business.”
“Tell him that I fear a felony, and intend to seek more knowledge of the matter. I will tell him of any discovery.”
“I will do so.”
St. John’s Day passed, and no man spoke of friend or neighbor gone missing. I thought that I might visit nearby villages, Cote and Black Bourton and Alvescot, to learn if some resident of those places had disappeared. ’Twas Saturday when I made up my mind to do this, so put off the travel ’till Monday. But after mass on Sunday visits to these places were no longer necessary. So I thought.
Father Ralph had sent the pax board through his congregation and given a benediction when I saw an ancient crone leave her place and totter toward the altar. Everyone else moved toward the door to the porch, so her direction briefly caught my attention. Some old woman who sought words with a priest, I thought, and dismissed her from my mind.
I did not know this woman, but had occasionally seen her upon village streets. She lived in the Weald, and with her husband worked lands of the Bishop of Exeter. No concern of mine.
We were slow leaving the churchyard, Kate and I, because Bessie wished to walk rather than be carried. The babe will become a lass with an independent nature, I think. Much like her mother. Kate would more likely ascribe stubbornness to an inheritance from me.
The world and all in it is new to Bessie, and she must stop to investigate flowers, insects, and the stones of the churchyard wall. So it was that we had not yet passed through the lych gate when Father Ralph hastened through the porch and called my name – loudly enough that I might hear, but not so as to be unseemly in a churchyard.
I turned and saw the vicar motion to me to return to the porch. I sent Bessie off with Kate to Galen House and returned to the church. On a stone bench inside the porch I saw the grandmother who had sought out the priests while I and others left the church. Father Thomas and Father Simon stood beside her. ’Twas Father Ralph who spoke.
“Here is Herleve Mirk with unpleasant news.”
I looked down upon the old woman and waited for her to speak. “Gone three days now,” she said. “Never so long before.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Peter… me husband.”
“You are of the Weald?” I asked.
“Aye. Half a yardland of the bishop.”
“She and Peter are villeins,” Father Thomas said. “We offered tenancy but they refused. Peter said he was too old to change and intended to go nowhere but the churchyard when his days were done.”
“Your husband has been gone three days, yo
u say, and has disappeared before?”
“Aye. Wanders off, does Peter. Comes home on ’is own, or folks seek ’im an’ bring ’im back.”
“How old is your husband?”
“Dunno,” she shrugged. “’E lost track. Older ’n me,” she smiled toothily.
The vicars looked at me under frowning brows, their lips thin. Could an aged man be he who had burned in the St. John’s Day fire? None wished to be the first to suggest this.
“Folk in the Weald been seekin’ Peter since Thursday. Asked Father Ralph what more can be done. Losin’ ’is wits, is Peter, though truth to tell ’e never ’ad much wit to begin with. Never went off so long before,” she repeated.
“Where did he go when he wandered away in the past?” I asked.
“Often went to the wood toward Cowley’s Corner. Said ’e liked to watch the squirrels. An’ twice we found ’im sittin’ on the bank of Shill Brook, watchin’ the water… just watchin’ the water.”
“Sometimes he would return?” I said.
“Aye. At first he come back before night, but since Easter I’ve ’ad to send Aelred to find ’im.”
“Aelred?”
“Our lad. When Peter didn’t return Aelred went out Thursday eve to seek ’im. Two others of the Weald went with ’im. Could find no sign of ’im. I’m fearful ’e’s layin’ dead in the forest, or fell into Shill Brook an’ drowned. Come to ask Father Ralph for help, the vicars bein’ the bishop’s men hereabouts.”
The woman fell silent and looked from me to the three priests. Neither I nor the vicars wished to tell Herleve of what had been found in the St. John’s Day fire, and as she had not mentioned it, she likely had not heard of the morbid discovery. Surely there were folk in the Weald who knew of the bones, and also knew that Peter Mirk was missing, and would associate the two facts. If so, no man or woman wished to bear the bad news to Herleve.
The silence became oppressive, and Herleve spoke again. “Why does no one speak? Do you know what’s become of Peter? Will no man tell me?”
