‘Are you quite well, Baldwin?’ Simon asked kindly.
‘Yes, old friend. I am well enough.’
They were all in the bishop’s hall: Baldwin and Simon, the coroner, and Baldwin’s saviour. Baldwin had also asked Langatre to come to speak to them.
‘So can you tell me what this was actually all about?’ Bishop Stapledon asked.
‘I think that it is quite clear,’ Baldwin said. ‘We know already that there was the assassination attempt in Coventry, when this John of Nottingham tried to make seven wax figures with a view to killing a number of men – among them the king, the Abbot of Coventry, a man called de Sowe and others. He succeeded in one killing, but then his assistant caught a fit of fear, and reported the matter to the sheriff. The sheriff tried to catch all those accused, but there were twenty-seven of them, and perhaps one escaped. John. He gradually made his way here, and found himself refuge in the city, where he managed to find a man who was inclined to help him. This Michael. Perhaps he knew what John intended, but it is possible he did not. Although I can quite see that it would look curious to any man to see how people died when John was near, it is possible that John had a control over Michael’s mind. He was very strong-willed.’
‘You mean that he did have some powers over others?’
‘He tried it on me. At the time I thought he was trying to force me to release him so he could escape, but maybe I was wrong. It is possible he was bending me to his will without my knowledge, and that I was the unwitting associate in his last plot – to kill me as well as himself. If he had succeeded, he might have killed Simon too.’
‘Why did he kill the messenger and take the message?’
Baldwin made a vague gesture with his hand. He still felt enormously weak after the near-death on the wall. Answering what seemed to him to be fatuous questions was hardly relaxing. ‘He saw the messenger, and he recognised him, I expect. You yourself told us, I think, that the messenger had brought news of the attempt in Coventry. It is quite possible that in a city the size of Coventry a messenger would be a not common sight. Perhaps John saw James there, then saw him here, and feared that he was about to be arrested again. He killed the messenger to empty his purse, found the note from you and kept it.’
‘Why?’
‘I think Master Langatre is in a better position to answer than I.’
‘Most magic, Bishop, relies on the use of God’s own power and authority, as you know. But when there is some evil to be done, a magician would need more. He would need to have some tokens to give added force to his work. For him to harm you, he would have had to have taken some part of you – parings from your nails, perhaps, or some hair. Or, so I would think, an example of your writing on parchment. Such as your writing on the note in the messenger’s purse.’
‘So what happened to it?’
In answer, Langatre picked up the figure from the table on which it lay. Simon had pressed the head back on to the neck, but now Langatre pulled it off again, and pushed his finger down into the body. ‘Aha!’ He pulled out a little roll of parchment. ‘Is this it?’
The bishop tried not to appear too eager as he took it and unrolled it. With an expression of intense satisfaction, he rerolled it and put it into his purse. ‘And the fingers?’
‘Twofold purpose to that,’ Baldwin said shortly. ‘One: to provide human flesh which would perhaps aid him in some magic later; or, two: to torture poor James to learn whether or not he had been sent here with news of John. And, of course, once he was sure that he was safe, he could not permit the messenger to live, or James would have gone straight to the sheriff and told him all about John. So he died.’
‘And the other man in the alley the night before?’
‘He was walking in a place where John thought he might find James. He died as an example of mistaken identity.’
‘I see. Then he killed this Walter of Hanlegh, because he was following him?’
‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. ‘Although I am surprised that a strong, powerful man like Walter, a man used to serving the king, would have been so foolish as to let a murderer get behind him. I should have expected only a messenger, or someone else who had spent his life believing that he was safe from such attacks, to have succumbed to so simple a ploy.’
‘Quite so,’ the bishop said. ‘Now, what of this girl Jen?’
‘I would like to think that she might become cured, Bishop, but it is clear that she will never be entirely safe in the city here. She could have a fit at any time, and that would mean that Sheriff Matthew – and his wife – would know no peace. In any case, they would never agree to have her back in their household, so I think that there is nothing for her here. I would ask that you find a place for her in a convent, perhaps. Somewhere where the abbess has experience of looking after the ill?’
‘I shall consider it. Certainly I feel sure that she is innocent of wanting to harm her friend. She has been weeping ever since I laid hands on her and demanded that the demon leave her. Yes. I agree.’
‘I am most grateful, my lord. And now, if you do not mind, I would like to leave and return to my bed. Simon, would you help me? I still feel very weak.’
Exeter City
They had only walked a matter of yards from the cathedral close when Baldwin started to murmur to Simon.
‘Did you like the tale? I set it up nicely, I think. What do you think?’
‘I liked it, but only because I thought it was real,’ Simon admitted. ‘What parts were false?’
‘There was little actually false, but there were some parts which were not entirely true. Ah, look, there is friend Robinet. How are you?’
‘I am fine, Keeper.’
‘Really? It occurs to me that I only met you after your friend had died. At the time there seemed no reason to doubt you, of course, but it is always a mistake to take a man at his word. Now so far as I know, Robinet was a tall, gangling walking man, a fellow used to strolling five-and-thirty miles every day. Yet you are stout and powerful, and you are swift to make decisions.’
‘You appreciated my swiftness to decide to cut his hands off and release you.’
‘Oh, yes. I appreciated that enormously. I did not appreciate your quick decision to torture Michael, though. Even if the reasons were good, your methods were atrocious.’
‘If I had been successful, you would have thought otherwise.’
‘Perhaps so. But tell me: why the deception?’
Walter shrugged. ‘When your bailiff detained me, I already knew Robinet was dead. When we had eaten our pies he said he was going to have a look round, and when he did not return I went in search of him. When I saw my friend dead in that room, I was enraged; but then I realised that I might be able to turn it to my advantage. As a king’s man, I have had to kill before, of course, and it does not scare me, but if my enemy knew of my skills, it might make it harder to find him. I thought that if he thought he had killed me and not Robinet, he might try to come to find me to destroy me as well, thinking that I was a messenger who also might have known of him. If he knew that I was the king’s killer, and he had murdered the wrong man, he would be more likely to flee the city, and then I’d never catch him.’
‘I see. So, what now for you?’
‘I bought my little house here with a view to a new life. It would appear that events have conspired against me. Although I like this city, I do not think I could ever live here safely. I shall sell up and move away.’
‘That sounds to me like an excellent idea,’ Baldwin said. ‘I would do so swiftly.’
‘Very well. God speed, sir knight. And you, Bailiff.’
‘God speed, Walter,’ Baldwin murmured.
‘Well?’ Baldwin said a moment or two later. ‘Does that clear things up?’
‘Yes. A little.’
‘Only a little?’
‘There is still the first man to have died.’
‘You do not think that my explanation will suffice?’
‘No. No more than you do.
’
Baldwin nodded, and then looked away. ‘This is a sad story, Simon. I would appreciate your help in telling it. Come, let us find a friendly tavern.’
There was a favourite which the pair of them had used before, the Blue Boar, which lay a little way from the Palace Gate. Simon led the way, and soon they were sitting, legs stretched out before them, while a maid brought them large jugs of a sweet, light ale.
‘Well?’ Simon pressed him. ‘What is this story?’
‘It is the tale of an old man. He is sad, he is lonely, and he is guilty. His guilt comes from the night many years ago, eight or so, when he was the father of three little children, and owned a thriving business. He had a house in an alley not far from here. But he had extreme views. As a trader, he had friends all over the country, and one day he learned that a good, kind businessman and associate of his had died. Hanged when the king sent the whole posse of the county against one city. Bristol.’
‘The tax riots?’ Simon guessed.
‘Exactly. And shortly after that, there were rumours from Exeter that a man here was fomenting trouble. The king had no desire to see his treasure wasted in another costly adventure, so rather than wait until matters got out of hand, he sent a man here.’
‘Not Walter?’
‘I am afraid so. Walter came, he saw the man, and saw how to remove this little nuisance. He went late one night, and set fire to the man’s house. It killed his little children, and dreadfully burned his wife, but the man himself … well, he happened to be at the tavern that night. He knew nothing of it.
‘This man suffered the torments of hell over his lapse that night. He was ruined, because his house was also his store and factory, and all his goods were burned along with his property, but he was also saddled with a bitter, vindictive and vengeful wife. There can be few more hideous lives than that of a man who feels such guilt. And he had even lost the love of his woman.’
Simon took a long gulp of ale. ‘Will Skinner?’
‘Yes. I don’t know what happened that night, but I’d bet it was something irrational that simply made him snap.’
They finished their drinks and stood.
‘We can leave him, Simon. We could return to the inn and leave the fellow alone.’
‘We would never learn what made him do it, though,’ Simon said.
‘Do we need to? I am not so sure. And there is another thing,’ Baldwin added, looking about him. ‘Before Walter, or Robinet, whoever he is, managed to cut John’s hands from him, John shouted at us. He said he would see Walter and the sheriff in hell. Plainly he hated Walter for ending his life … but I should like to know why the sheriff was mentioned in the same breath as the man who was killing him. Yes. You are right. We should speak to Will Skinner again and hear what he has to say.’
Chapter Forty-Five
Exeter City
It was only a short walk to Will’s house, and once there, they asked Will to accompany them to where he had found the first body again, away from his wife. She appeared distressed to see Will being taken, but Baldwin was not of a mood to take much notice of her.
‘I’ve told you all I can, masters,’ Will said when he saw them standing in his doorway.
‘We want a little more.’
With a bad grace the watchman jammed a hat upon his head, took up his staff, and joined them.
‘Do you go the same route every day?’ Baldwin asked.
‘Yes.’
‘It reminds me of a story. A man who had lost his family in a fire. Every day this man walked past his home. Every day he relieved that nightmare. Simon, how would you live with yourself if you had lost Meg’s love and Edith and Perkin in the same night? It is hard to imagine how any man could cope. But he did. Until one night when he snapped. He was walking past his ruined old house, when what should he see but a man pissing in the ruins. It enraged him. Made him mad with anger, and he drew his knife and killed the man.’
‘Not pissing. He’d puked. Right there where their bodies had lain.’
He could see that scene again in his mind’s eye as though it was only last night. There was the little line of three bodies near the alley itself, all set out neatly, their faces yellow in the glow from the flames as his house burned, and then, as though there were only moments between the two occasions, he saw Mucheton heaving again, vomiting over them. Except no – they weren’t there by then. It was some years since they’d died. ‘But I thought he was throwing up over them. I couldn’t bear it. It was right where they’d been. And here he was … Well, he fell back against the wall. I went up there, and peered through the slats in the fence, and I could see where he’d done it. So I turned to speak to him and almost fell flat on my face. He was right there, passed out. So I … I don’t know why, it was just in my head to do it. I drew my knife and ran it about his throat.’
Simon studied the man. He remained still now, his hands gripping the slats of the fence as he stared in at the house where he had once been happy. And now all was lost.
‘I have one more question, Will,’ Baldwin said. ‘The man you killed in the undercroft. Why was that?’
‘You think you know so much, don’t you? You know nothing. Michael, his father came from Warwickshire, all right? And Michael is an old friend. When John tried to kill the king, the Sheriff of Warwick was one of the conspirators. So when the whole thing went wrong, he declared that John had died in prison, and freed him. He told John to come here. He thought Exeter should be safe enough for him. And then, of course, he arrived only to see the messenger he’d last seen in Coventry. He assumed the man must be here to warn the sheriff and others about him.’
‘Which was a concern?’ Simon questioned, thinking about the bishop’s suspicions about Matthew.
‘We didn’t want him to learn about John any more than the bishop.’
‘So you assisted John in killing the king’s messenger?’
‘We saw him with that other man,’ Will said. His voice had grown cold, quieter and more distant, as he stared back at the house. ‘I hoped it was his friend. But I didn’t know then … we knocked him out when we took the messenger, and John cut off his finger to learn what was in the purse and what the man had in his head. We knew that there was something worth knowing – but he wouldn’t admit it. So we had to kill him. John was an expert in that. Throttled him with a little weighted cord, and then hid the body in the garbage heap.’
‘And you found him there,’ Simon said. ‘Why? That must have brought attention to you.’
‘I was sure he was a friend to that assassin. I wanted him to suffer loss as I had. And to make him fear. John said to leave him concealed, but I would not. Why should I?’
‘This man, the messenger’s friend,’ Baldwin said. ‘How did you know he was the one who had burned your house?’
‘People saw him here about that time.’
‘I see. And who told you?’
‘Michael. He was trying to help me.’
‘Of course he was,’ Baldwin said sarcastically. ‘He was so keen to help you that he destroyed any vestige of peace you could have found. So – did John kill the man in the undercroft?’ Baldwin was listening carefully to each word, Simon saw. He didn’t look at Will’s face or eyes, he was noting every cadence of his voice instead, his eyes picking up on every twitch of Will’s hands and feet.
‘Oh, John had nothing to do with that. He left the room for a few moments, and I saw that man going in. I wasn’t planning to kill him, I swear, but as soon as he sidled in, it was obvious he knew what John was attempting. So I followed him in. You know what was ironic? He thought I was only there because I was one of the city watchmen. He opened the door and let me in properly when he saw me. So I cut his throat for him.’
‘Just so you could silence him,’ Simon said, but then he understood. ‘No! Because you thought he had set fire to your house!’
‘It was him …’
Baldwin snapped: ‘How do you know that?’
Will waved a hand
, but then stated firmly, ‘The messenger – James. He confirmed it. Said the king sent an assassin to Exeter to destroy someone who was creating trouble – me! The king didn’t need that, not when he had just lost battles against the Scots, and had suffered from Bristol’s rebellion. He didn’t want any more trouble from the west. So he sent a man who killed my children. Well, Keeper, I’ve repaid him.’
Simon and Baldwin exchanged a look. It was Simon who wondered aloud, ‘James the messenger told you that was the man?’
‘No! He denied it, the lying snake! But he couldn’t deny that the man had been here when my children died. I remembered seeing him just at the time, although then he was wearing the livery of a messenger for the king. It was clear, though. James could deny it was him, but who else could it have been? There was no one else in the city at the time. Didn’t matter how much pain John gave him, he wouldn’t change his mind, even though we knew the truth. He could deny that messenger’s part all he wanted but I knew the truth.’
There was no one else in the city at that time who was so plainly a stranger, Baldwin told himself. That was why Newt was dead. It made him feel a dreadful heaviness of spirit to think that Newt could have been killed for such a reason – because he had been remembered in the area at the time of Will’s disaster. And the man who was truly responsible, Walter, had escaped because he was unnoticeable. As a spy and assassin should be. His invisibility was his protection – and caused Newt’s murder.
The Malice of Unnatural Death: Page 40
