His voice had dropped, and now it petered out altogether. He swallowed painfully once more, and took a long pull of the strong ale which Coroner Richard had ordered. ‘The bastard will be long gone now, I suppose.’
‘Perhaps so,’ Coroner Richard agreed, ‘but in all of this, who do you know who is enough of an enemy to hire a man to kill your boy and then try to kill you? What on earth would someone gain by killing you?’
‘You think it was a paid assassin?’ Langatre asked, visibly paling.
‘Hard to see who else it could have been,’ the coroner said imperturbably. ‘Surely you’d have known who it was, if it was someone who hated you that much, eh?’
‘I never saw his face.’
‘You don’t need to, do you? The smell of a man’s coat, his sweat, his breath … if it was someone you knew well, you’d have recognised him, sure enough.’
‘Perhaps, and perhaps not,’ Baldwin said. ‘However, I am intrigued by something I was told. The people opposite your house stated that they heard a scream and as a result people began to flock to your door.’
‘That must have been when I hit him with the alembic,’ Langatre guessed.
‘So I would presume.’ Baldwin nodded. ‘But in that case, it is scarcely likely that he ran away from the house. A man appearing, dripping with some foul concoction of yours, and clearly badly scalded, would have excited some comment, I think, unless your street is very different from all the others I know. He alerted the neighbours with his scream, according to your story. How else could he have escaped from the place?’
‘Well, he couldn’t. I only have a small house, and there’s no way out at the back.’
Baldwin was suddenly tense. ‘You mean there is no exit at all from the rear?’
‘No. Nothing.’
‘In that case, we should hurry back there! The man might still be inside the house!’
The beadle was surprised to see them all back so soon, and he eyed the necromancer with suspicion. ‘I thought you were going to take him to the gaol for me?’
‘Complain to the sheriff,’ Coroner Richard snapped. ‘Have you searched the house?’
‘Searched the … no! Why?’
‘Because the murderer may still be here,’ Baldwin said sharply. ‘Come!’
Leaving the nervous beadle at the door gripping his staff with both hands as though clinging to it for life itself, Baldwin and the others walked inside. Once over the threshold, Baldwin rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, and looked to Langatre.
The man was staring down at the body on the ground at their feet still, but he nodded grimly, and led the way into his workshop. ‘This is where he attacked me.’
Baldwin could see the mess where the alembic had been smashed. There was a foul odour of mustiness and sourness, much of which came from the pool of solidifying stuff among the shards of pottery.
The room was a good size, but the accumulation of curiosities had made it appear to shrink. There were shelves along one wall, filled with various forms of herb. Above their heads were gathered dried and wilted leaves, while a table groaned under the weight of skulls and parts of dissected animals. Another table held the tools of his trade: there was a needle, a staff, a sword – all strange items that stank with the same smell.
‘What is that foul odour?’ Coroner Richard demanded, picking up a black tunic with strange symbols on it and sniffing at it doubtfully. He drew it away from his face with a wince. ‘Christ’s bones, that is foul!’
‘Do not blaspheme!’ Langatre hissed. ‘You have no idea how dangerous such behaviour can be in a place like this! I depend upon God’s good mercy to protect me when I am working. I will not have myself endangered because of a coroner’s insolence.’
‘Fine – but what is that smell?’
‘I have to fumigate all the instruments before I can conjure up … it is just to cleanse everything, that is all.’
‘It smells disgusting.’
‘I seem to remember I thought the same the first time I smelled it. When you become a wise man like me, you tend not to notice such things any more.’
‘Rots your nose, does it?’ the coroner observed, and walked about poking at things periodically, before grunting to himself that there wasn’t space for a man to hide in there, and leaving the room.
‘Is he always like this?’ Langatre asked, watching him go.
‘N-o-o. Today he is being well behaved and inclined to kindness,’ Baldwin answered honestly. He gazed about him. ‘Is there anything missing in here?’
‘Look, what would a man take from …’ Langatre noticed Baldwin’s cold expression, and decided that his words could be saved. He made a show of walking about the place, casting an eye over the tables, but it was only when he was almost back at Baldwin’s side that his face took on a frown. ‘That’s strange …’
‘What is gone?’
‘My daggers. I have two knives – one black-handled, one white. They’re used in some of the magic preparations … they were here, but … my hat! Where’s my hat? There was a white leather hat here when I was taken by that moronic beadle!’
He was at a table far from the door. Baldwin glanced at it, then at the mess on the floor where the alembic had smashed. ‘You were here? So after he attacked you, this man would have had to step over you to steal them? Could he have done?’
‘No! There is no possible way … but why would anyone want them?’
It took little time to search the rest of the house. The place was small, with a larder and buttery opposite the door to his main room. At the far end of the building was a narrow wooden staircase which led up to the solar area. Warily, Baldwin left his sword sheathed, but pulled out his dagger, and cautiously ascended.
The chamber was a tiny space up in the eaves. Here the smoke from the fire rose and tainted all with the scent of charred logs and tar. Gripping his dagger, Baldwin climbed quickly inside. There was a palliasse on the floor with some blankets thrown messily to one side, and a small chest stood in the angle of the wall. Baldwin gazed about him, but there was nothing to see. No one could hide in this small space without being instantly spotted.
He returned to the ladder, and began to climb down again, but there was something that caught his attention: a faint odour catching at his nostrils. Stopping, he hesitated, and then climbed back.
‘What is it?’ the coroner called.
‘He was up here.’
Exeter Castle
Matthew was too unsettled to sit and drink. He went out into his court and, crossing over it, entered his kennels.
The dogs were slumberous after a long run with their master that afternoon, and although some eyes opened, and four tails twitched, there was little more by way of acknowledgement.
It was impossible to concentrate. His wife was lying to him, going and visiting that damned magician, just at the time when it was vital that they were quiet and avoided any such people. She was in enough trouble because of her family, and he was in a potentially lethal position because of this affair of the necromancer from Coventry. There was little he could do to control matters. They were controlling him.
At least there was one thing he could do. It would cause some anger when she heard what he had done, but he couldn’t explain why it was so perfect. He had ordered that fellow Langatre to be arrested on suspicion of killing his servant. That was fine, but the man wouldn’t be held for long, unless Matthew could continue to have him removed from the city entirely. And how better than to have him sent to the king to be questioned in case he had any part in the assassination attempt. Yes, Matthew would have him gaoled here, and send a man to take a message to the king.
Where were they? Langatre should have been here by now. The sheriff walked to the door, but there was no sign of the beadles who should have been bringing him to the gaol. No matter. They wouldn’t be long. No. He turned back to his hounds and scratched a bitch behind the ears.
Send Langatre to the king, and it would divert attention. A
nd his wife would not be going out to see him any more.
Two birds.
North-East Dartmoor
Simon gathered a massive pile of leaves by the simple expedient of kicking them into a heap. Here the wood was thickly laden with them so soon after the trees had shed them all, and in a short time he had several mounds ready to be used.
‘Are you finished?’ he called to Busse.
The monk was throwing fronds of fern atop the shelter, panting slightly with the unaccustomed labour. ‘Nearly.’
Simon walked to him and eyed the structure consideringly. It had grown into a shelter of some four feet wide by seven long, with a thick layer of greenery cast over it, so that it would be hard to see any of the wood that made up its walls and roof. He lined up some of the fronds more tidily, but then nodded to himself and started gathering great armfuls of leaves to bring back and throw over the shelter. He had to repeat the action many times before he was content, for he knew that to give them protection from the chill the leaves must be a good three feet thick, if he could manage it.
‘That should be enough,’ he said at last.
‘Thanks be to God,’ Busse said, and flopped onto the ground.
By some great good fortune the snow had only fallen thinly so far, and now there was a fine crust over all, like a morning’s frost. It was a relief to Simon, because he still had time to make a fire. It was essential, as he knew, that they should have heat. All of them were shivering even with their thickest clothes on. It was Rob in particular that Simon was worried about. He had little in the way of decent clothing, and Simon was anxious for him.
He had built a pile of twigs and branches, and now he pulled his tinder from his shirt and set it on a platform of thicker twigs. Taking his steel, he struck at it with the reverse of his knife’s blade, striking sparks and watching as carefully as he might. It was hard work, for the sparks blinded him in the gathering darkness, and he was unable to see the gleam of the tinder catching. Usually he was quick to strike a light, but tonight, with his fingers frozen and his belly empty, it took longer. Yet at last there was a small yellow-orange mote glistening, and Simon picked up the ball of tinder and began to blow carefully, softly at first, then more strongly. It took some minutes, but then, suddenly, he had a small explosion, and the middle of the tinder flared.
Setting it down, he began to set small twigs over it, and as they glowed and flamed he set slightly thicker twigs over them, until he had to break twigs urgently to keep up. Then, at last, he started to use thicker stems and set them about the fire until it represented a cone, the outside twigs all pointing upwards. Now, he felt comfortable enough to let Rob see to it. The boy lit the fire each day in Simon’s house at Dartmouth.
‘Well done, Bailiff. I don’t know that I would have survived without your help.’
Simon yawned. All he knew was that as soon as the fire was roaring and he had toasted himself before it for a short while, he was going to settle down in the shelter and sleep. He was exhausted.
‘What did you say about the spirits of the rocks at that place on the moors?’ Rob asked after a few moments. He was feeding the fire steadily, cracking smaller twigs between his fingers to build up a bed of ash. Already the first outer layer of twigs was burning through, and he must hurry to construct the second cone of larger twigs.
Busse smiled to himself. ‘It is a sad tale of the misbehaviour of children, I fear. One winter’s Sunday, the children from the area went out there to play at a game of some sort. Well, we all know that playing games on a Sunday is frowned upon by God, don’t we? So He came to them, and struck them all into stone. All the little boys from a whole vill. Just think of it!’
Rob was thinking of it. His face wore a look of shock.
‘Keep feeding the fire,’ Simon called, and Rob quickly jerked back into action.
‘But why were there two circles of stones there, then?’
‘Oh, the Grey Wethers are the first circle – the second was not the children, that was some youths who also went there to play on the Sabbath,’ Busse said. ‘And God was no more pleased with them than he was with the others.’
An owl called from deep in the woods, and Rob’s head spun towards it.
‘Don’t worry, though,’ Simon said. ‘There are no rocks in this wood. Not that I know, anyway.’
‘Oh. Good,’ Rob said, and then edged a little closer to Simon. He continued to set twigs on the fire, but now Simon could see that his eyes were as often on the woods all about them as on the flames.
Simon, nodding already, was only relieved to think that Rob would stay awake and keep the fire going for longer.
Chapter Fifteen
Exeter City
Robinet was soon at Master Walter’s house, where he knocked quietly. After a short period, there came the sound of bolts being drawn, and then the door opened a crack.
‘So you decided to come back?’
‘Walter, may I enter, please?’
‘I suppose. What’s happened to your old friend, then?’
Newt swallowed. ‘Someone murdered him out by the South Gate.’
Walter had been walking back into his hall, but on hearing that he stopped and turned slowly to Newt. ‘You kill him?’
‘Of course not!’
Walter gave him a sour look. ‘You leave here a day and a half ago, saying you were going to see the little shite, and now he’s dead, right? And where were you last night, then?’
Robinet held out his hands, palms up. ‘You know me well enough. Would I have grabbed him from behind and strangled him with a cord?’
‘Christ no! That would have been my way, not yours.’ Walter chuckled grimly. ‘You were always the kindly fellow who sought to placate people, and when you failed you just drew your sword and stabbed them while looking them straight in the eye. I was the devious bastard who made people disappear.’
‘So did you do it?’
Walter of Hanlegh turned to face him, a man slightly shorter than Newt, with a sharp, narrow face and close-set black eyes. As he met Newt’s stare, there was sadness in them, an expression almost of wistfulness, as though he missed his past calling. It had certainly paid him well over the years, as was proved by his house, a smart, new building with tiles on the floor, a brick fireplace and his own chimney, and even a solar chamber for his bed. His clothes were finely embroidered, the shirt made from the best linen, his hosen soft lambswool, his tunic bright and unfaded.
‘No, Newt. It was not me.’
‘Thank Christ for that, at least,’ Newt said with relief. ‘I thought you’d killed him just to save me from my stupidity.’
‘I would have – but a man has to make his own mistakes.’
‘Yes,’ Newt agreed. It did not help him learn who had killed James, but at least Walter had not succumbed to temptation just to help a friend. Not many men would have considered murder purely to aid a companion, but then not many men had been assassins in the pay of the king.
They were still in the house when the beadle appeared in the doorway. ‘Sir Baldwin? Sir Richard? There’s a man here for you.’
There was a tone in his voice that Baldwin instinctively disliked: a leering, amused note that jarred.
Sir Richard was not the sort of man to notice a subtlety like that, and he shrugged, grunted, and went to the door. Baldwin glanced at the still-anxious Langatre, and followed him. Outside stood a sergeant, but not one of the city’s men. This was one of Sir Matthew’s.
‘Well?’ Sir Richard snapped. ‘Be quick, man! I have been working too long already today and need my rest and relaxation. You are delaying me!’
‘Coroner, I have been told to come here to bring the necromancer to the sheriff. He is not to be tolerated any longer.’
‘He isn’t, eh?’ Sir Richard said with a sidelong look at Baldwin. ‘He is in my custody at this moment, and he’s staying with me.’
‘Sir Matthew wants me to take him. There are some matters about him which make the sheriff demand t
hat you turn him over to his personal custody, sir.’
Coroner Richard’s face underwent a rapid change. The benevolent expression with which he had been surveying the world suddenly became as bellicose as a Bishop of Winchester’s whore’s when she learns her client has no money.
‘You tell me that you are demanding this fellow when I have already said he’s safe with me?’
Baldwin quickly interjected. ‘Sir Richard, this fellow has no responsibility in the matter. He is only the messenger. Perhaps we should go with him to see the sheriff.’
‘That man?’ Sir Richard muttered with a leery glare at the sergeant. ‘Very well.’
The sergeant walked to Langatre and took his upper arm in his fist. ‘Try anything and I’ll brain you,’ he said.
Baldwin shook his head. ‘At the moment, sergeant, he is in my and the coroner’s custody, not the sheriff’s, and not yours. You will release him now.’
‘I have my orders, sir.’
‘I have no doubt you do. However, my orders to you are to release him. This fellow is innocent of the murder, and I for one want to know what the sheriff wishes to speak to him for, but I will not have him paraded through the streets like a common felon. I hope that is clear.’
North-East Dartmoor
In the event, it was Rob who succumbed to the cold first and went into the shelter to sleep.
They had set off travelling light, but Simon always ensured that he was prepared for foul weather. He could still remember one of his earliest experiences on the moors, when he had ridden out on his old bay rounsey and been caught by a sudden mist.
The Malice of Unnatural Death: Page 14
