The Malice of Unnatural Death:

by Michael Jecks

  ‘The trouble is, old friend,’ he said as they approached the gatehouse itself and turned right to stand before Will Skinner’s dilapidated property, ‘we have no idea why anyone should want to harm a king’s messenger. The idea that a man should cut off a messenger’s fingers, too, is bizarre. I can only assume the fellow was being harmed in order to force him to answer some questions – simple torture.’

  ‘Why would someone want to torture the messenger?’ Simon scoffed. ‘The pouch was there to be taken. No need to harm the fellow first.’

  ‘What if the messenger was aware of some other aspect to the note? Perhaps the bishop decided not to put all into writing? If there was some other part to the message that he dare not even commit to paper, something so dangerous that he could only put it into the messenger’s head – what then? Perhaps a man might cut off his finger just to prove he was determined enough to stop at nothing to learn what the messenger knew.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Simon admitted. ‘But it is too wild. Who would have learned of something of that nature?’

  ‘If the bishop had a man in his room while he briefed the nuncius,’ Baldwin pointed out, ‘that man might have heard something. And then, if he had a brother, or a friend, out here in the city itself, he might have been able to contact him, tell him to take this fellow …’

  ‘And then he caught the wrong man on the first night?’ the coroner rumbled.

  ‘Many thieves and felons are less bright than the common dog in the street,’ Baldwin pointed out. ‘It would not surprise me if one of them caught the wrong man. In the dark along an alley, they could have mistaken him, I suppose.’ In his mind he was reviewing the two men: the messenger was a lot taller, but Baldwin knew that gauging a man’s height in the dark could be very difficult. Yes – it was possible.

  Considering, Simon said, ‘It at least makes sense of the poor man’s losing his fingers, certainly. I’d be happier knowing that there was someone in the bishop’s household who could have done such a thing, though. It is far-fetched to say that someone was in a position to learn about this theoretical message, and happened to know a friend in the city who could kill the messenger. You might as well suggest some supernatural agent. What?’

  Simon had caught sight of Baldwin’s quick look at the coroner. Coroner Richard grinned to himself and knocked on the door as Simon set his hands at his sword belt and glowered. ‘I wasn’t saying this was a ghost, Baldwin!’ He knew how his friend looked down upon the idea of malevolent spirits of any type. In Baldwin’s world, all was easily explained by rationality. ‘Look, all I was saying was, you may as well suggest that it was the devil who came and killed the fellow. Until we have more information and a genuine possible suspect, I think that we ought to …’

  ‘Consider other possibilities. I know,’ Baldwin said coolly.

  Simon was silent. He was annoyed at being treated so dismissively at first, but then he saw a strange look in the coroner’s eye, a look almost of anxiety, and the sight was enough to make him pause. There was something about this matter that he was not yet aware of.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I can at least offer some help with the bishop. I have a young lad with me, and if Rob can’t sniff out a conspiracy at ten paces, no one can.’

  ‘You mean that boy from Dartmouth?’ Coroner Richard boomed unenthusiastically.

  Simon shook his head. ‘Coroner, he has spent his life in the company of the most devious, thieving set of people in the realm – sailors. If he cannot recognise when someone sees the possibility of making money from a situation, I doubt if anyone can.’

  ‘Very well,’ Baldwin said. ‘Where is this fellow? Would he have gone on his rounds already?’

  Art was leaning against the wall, picking his nose. He shrugged now and looked about him. ‘Doubt it. Too early for him. He’s probably up at his old place.’

  ‘Where is that?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Where that man died – Mucheton.’

  Coroner Richard’s face screwed up as his brows knotted. ‘What do you mean? Will used to live in that road?’

  ‘Yes. Before the fire. Then him and his wife had a good place up there. But the fire killed his family while he was out drinking. I was quite young then, but that’s what I heard.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  The voice took Baldwin by surprise, and he could see that the coroner was struck the same way. Sir Richard’s head snapped round so quickly, Baldwin half-expected to hear the bones in his neck crack.

  In the doorway was a bent figure. It was Will’s wife, Baldwin saw. ‘Mistress, we are looking for Will Skinner. Is he home?’

  There was a faint light in her eyes as though she harboured some long-held hope, but as her gaze went from one to the other, the spark faded and she appeared to sag a little. ‘He’s not here. You want him, you go to where he left us that night.’

  She walked with immense difficulty. One hand gripped the doorframe to steady her as she gazed at them all, her back so badly deformed that her head would only have reached Baldwin’s middle chest.

  ‘He left you?’

  ‘To burn. Aye. I’m still his wife, but if I had courage I would leave him. He did this to me! I won’t suffer much longer, though. The good Lord will take me away from this vale of sin and horror. And I’ll be glad to leave!’

  ‘It must be hard to live here when you used to live so close by with all your family,’ Baldwin said. He was trying to sound understanding and compassionate, but even to his ears his words sounded empty and cold.

  ‘Hard?’ She looked up at him from her twisted frame. ‘Hard? You think it’s hard to lose everything? Yes. It’s hard.’

  ‘Mistress, I meant no offence to you. I was merely …’

  ‘Hard! Yes, we had a good life before. Will was a merchant and life was good. Yes, it was fine. We had our house, with three little children, and plenty of money coming in every day to support them all. Yes, it was good. And then one night my pathetic husband stayed out late to drink with his friends, and we had a fire. It took my children, it took our treasure, and it even took my body. So now he’s a watchman and I’m the twisted wreck you see today. Burned until all my skin was falling away. Because while my useless prickle of a husband was singing with his friends, I was in the house trying to save my children. But they’re all gone. All gone!’

  ‘Mistress, we shall leave you. I had no idea you were here. You have my deepest sympathy,’ Baldwin murmured.

  Usually his calm and respectful manner would soothe even the most truculent woman, but this evening his words only inflamed Will’s wife.

  ‘You had no idea I was here? No, almost everyone thinks I’m dead. And they’re right! Yes, I’m dead. I’ve seen what hell is, fine sir. Yes, the devil has visited me once and taken my little sweetings, although he left me to suffer for them. And he left me my husband, too, so that I might see every day the man who destroyed my life when he wasn’t there to save our children; and that I might make his life as miserable and cheerless as possible with my constant rebukes and sniping. Yes. The devil made a fine job of me, didn’t he?’

  Baldwin could not meet her eye. He turned and left, trying not to listen to the cackling laugh that followed him. ‘So, Keeper,’ the coroner asked as they trudged up South Gate Street, ‘Should we wander up that alley to find Will now?’

  Baldwin stopped and glanced back at Will’s house. ‘In Christ’s name, the poor devil has enough already with her in his home. No. We can speak to him later.’

  Simon felt only relief to hear that, thinking he could do with some sleep. But when he caught a glimpse of the coroner’s sturdy frame, he began to wonder. He had had experience of ‘quiet’ evenings with the coroner.

  At least the drinking was delayed a little when they reached the door of the inn and Rob called to him.

  ‘I think you’ll be interested in this.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Exeter City

  The alley was quickly darkening now, and Will was
ready to return home and gather up his staff and lamp, when he heard the steps approaching.

  At least now the body was gone. It had been hard, standing here with the corpse and Tom atte Moor in the background, watching, and Tom probably chuckling to himself.

  Everyone laughed at him. He knew that. Back some years ago, they’d all been sympathetic as they could be, but then as he grew unable to continue with his normal work, as the demands from his wife increased, the compassion of his friends started to dull a little. While the fire was fresh in everyone’s minds, that was one thing. When he went to the tavern after that, he couldn’t put hand to purse without a drink appearing and a muttered, ‘Sorry to hear about them, Will,’ accompanied by a hand on his shoulder. That all changed over time. Margie accosted some people in the street and shouted at them because they hadn’t helped save her wains, and then the tales of her shouting and screaming at others grew more common.

  Will had enough problems already. As soon as it grew obvious that he wouldn’t be able to keep his business afloat, he had started to decline, but that had been halted by the appreciation of his wife’s dependence upon him. Before the fire she had taken in a little spinning and hawked some goods about the city, but that was all in the past. After her appalling injuries, she could do nothing of that kind. Suddenly he had an adult to provide for.

  It was the spur he had needed. He could see that now. With a little more luck, he might have been able to return to his trade, but the fact was, he needed to be there almost every day to look after her. At night it wasn’t so bad. She grew tired easily, and once she was asleep it was all right for him to leave her. She couldn’t keep abusing people when they were all in their own beds.

  When he first spoke of taking on the post, she had been driven almost lunatic by the thought of his leaving her at night. Yes, that had been hideous. The filth that came from her lips … accusations of his whoring, of his having other children to visit, of his being ashamed of her, of his being determined to go and drink himself to oblivion to forget what his shameful drinking had done last time, when he had condemned his wife and children to their fates.

  Through it all, he had to try to forget the sight when he had first returned to the house.

  Now, peering at the place where his house had once stood, he could almost hear their voices: the children in the front yard by the door to the hall, shouting and screaming with delight as they kicked a ball about. There were so many happy memories: of digging round a tree trunk with Tom and then setting a fire about it to remove it from their little garden so that they could start to grow their own vegetables; building a small shed for logs; seeing all their faces alight at Christmas as the house was decorated … so many happy memories. And memories of his wife, too. Because that was all he had left. Memories of those wonderful times when he had been whole and happy.

  At least in his mind his family was still there.

  And as Will began to sob once more, the man clad in the worn and tattered old cloak watched him with dispassionate speculation as he waited for his messenger. And when the woman arrived, he turned from his contemplation of the weeping watchman to go with her into a darkened doorway.

  Friday Next after the Feast of St Edmund7

  The Bishop’s Palace

  Baldwin and Simon were at the bishop’s palace as soon as the close opened its gates the next morning.

  To his disgust, the coroner had been called away, and the two were relieved to be marching across the cathedral green together, although neither spoke much. Simon was feeling light-headed and foolish after drinking with the coroner last night, while also trying to make sense of Busse’s wanderings. For his part, Baldwin was still feeling bruised after his first discussion with the bishop. It was hard to believe that the bishop had asked him to begin to investigate the death of the king’s messenger only a matter of hours ago.

  If he was honest, though, he was also petulant after the treatment he resented so much: being told that he must go to join the parliament when he had neither desire nor interest to do so. All he really wanted was a peaceful time far away from politics and the dangers of the king’s household and court. There was no useful purpose in his taking the place of so many others, and all the reasons in the world for him to avoid going. To be noticed now was to be in danger. If a man went to the king’s parliament and spoke in any manner against the interests of the king’s friends, he risked his life.

  The bishop was up and waiting when they reached the palace, and they were shown in together. He sat at a table, with a soft woollen cap on his head, a great gown trimmed with fur, and warm, high boots. At his eyes were his spectacles, as usual, which he drew away as they entered. He smiled genially at them both, but Baldwin was sure that there was a hint of steel in his eyes as well.

  ‘Sir Baldwin – I had hoped to hear from you sooner than this. Have you told Simon about our little problem?’

  ‘I think I intimated that I would report as soon as I had something to report,’ Baldwin said firmly. ‘There was all too little until last night.’

  ‘Really? And what happened last night?’

  ‘The watchman who discovered the body of the messenger had also found the body of another man only the previous night. This victim was a worker in bone and antler, and was murdered on his way home after an evening in the tavern.’

  ‘A common enough occurrence, sadly,’ the bishop observed. ‘Now, about the messenger?’

  ‘He died the night after the other man. That is too much of a coincidence,’ Baldwin stated. ‘They were both murdered within a few yards of each other. And a short while later, during the day following the messenger’s murder, a man climbed into Master Richard de Langatre’s house, killed his servant and tried to kill him too.’

  ‘I believe I have been told of this matter. Brother Robert has brought the case to my attention, and I am inclined to advise the sheriff that Langatre is in holy orders.’

  ‘The sheriff seems dead set on having him taken to the king at the earliest opportunity,’ Baldwin observed.

  ‘A sheriff is a sheriff,’ Stapledon noted; there was a trace of sudden steel in his voice as he added, ‘but a bishop is a lord. I have jurisdiction over this man.’

  ‘I am convinced that he is innocent,’ Baldwin said. ‘I even discovered traces which showed a man had been in his sleeping chamber after the attack.’

  Suddenly Baldwin felt as though the air had left his lungs. A strange light-headedness assailed him as he realised what he had just said, and what he had failed to do.

  Fortunately, the bishop had not noticed his brief abstraction. He continued, ‘Sir Baldwin, I am not worried in the remotest by these two others. The dead antler carver and this fellow Langatre …’

  ‘And Langatre’s dead servant,’ Baldwin reminded him.

  ‘Yes, him too. They are of secondary importance. The crucial matter which should be at the forefront of your mind is the singular murder of the messenger and the theft of my note. You must find that roll. It is vital … I cannot emphasise enough just how important it is. If news of it were to become common knowledge …’ He picked at a splinter on the table before him. ‘You cannot understand how crucial this thing truly is.’

  ‘Perhaps you should tell us, then, so we can assess its significance for ourselves,’ Baldwin said.

  The bishop looked at him for a long moment, but then shook his head. ‘It is a matter of the highest national importance. I think it’s best that the information is not shared.’

  ‘Someone already shares it,’ Baldwin said coolly.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Have you heard from anyone about paying a reward for its return? A ransom?’

  ‘For the note? No.’

  ‘No. Not for the note. For something else you told the man. Something so secret you did not wish to put it in writing,’ Baldwin said.

  The bishop was clearly shocked by the question. ‘Why in God’s name …’

  ‘The messenger was tortured, I believe, and the
only reason could have been to learn something. They could open his pouch with ease. What would they torture the man for? Clearly if he had some knowledge they desired. Or another message. Which was it, bishop?’

  Stapledon opened his mouth, but then closed it again and raised his spectacles to his nose. He peered at a paper before him as though trying to concentrate, then shook his head. ‘No. It would not be safe for you to know what I put there.’

  ‘Bishop, soon it is very possible many people will know what it is you told this man,’ Baldwin said. ‘If you tell us now, though, we may be able to guess who could have exhibited enough interest in it to be willing to kill a king’s messenger. Unless you tell us, I think it extremely unlikely that we shall be able to find your note, or the man who learned what was in it and the messenger’s mind.’

  ‘He swore he would tell no one,’ the bishop said. He was not meeting Baldwin’s eye, but instead stared off over Baldwin’s shoulder as though at a tapestry hanging on the wall.

  ‘Bishop, have you ever seen a man being tortured?’ Baldwin rasped. ‘He will tell anything to stop the pain. And if a man is shown that his torturer will put him to exquisite agony, and still kill him, even the weakest will choose a swift death without much pain over the alternative. He lost two fingers. What more would you expect of him?’

  Bishop Stapledon looked at him again. He gave a slow nod.

  ‘Very well, Sir Baldwin. I shall take you at your word. I was asked to advise on some matters a little while ago. One such matter was the likely threat from Mortimer while he lives abroad.’

  ‘The man has escaped barely with his life,’ Baldwin commented. Simon looked puzzled, so he explained briefly, ‘Lord Mortimer was the man who escaped from the Tower of London last year. He was one of the leaders of the Lords Marcher who lifted their standards against the king and his allies.’