The Malice of Unnatural Death:

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Christ’s balls, Keeper, I’ve been in brighter caverns!’ the coroner rumbled. ‘Fetch more light in here!’

  There were four men in there, all standing about the body on the floor, which was only a matter of two feet or so from the door. When the owner of the house had built it, the undercroft had been constructed with a drain from the staircase leading away from the place. Otherwise water could have flowed into the undercroft from the road whenever there was a heavy downpour. That was why the blood had flowed in a stream from the body to lie outside at the bottom of the stairs. Baldwin could see that, and take it in as he crossed the threshold, but then he was at the body and squatting to one side so that as much light as possible from the doorway could fall on the corpse.

  ‘Langatre,’ he said coldly.

  ‘I was here with Busse, but he bolted,’ Langatre said. He was reserved, but Baldwin had seen many men so in the presence of sudden death.

  Clearly this had been an older man. He was pale, a little thin, but powerful in appearance. His arms had been strong, and his jaw jutted with an obstinate look. Baldwin was not certain, especially in this light, but he reckoned the man must have been at least five-and-fifty. His eyes were wide – with shock, perhaps? – and the gaping wound where his throat should have been was foul. Blood had sprayed all over the room, smothering the table top in front of the door, spattering the ceiling … and yet there was nothing on the door itself or the wall behind Baldwin. There was a beam of oak sitting propped at the wall, and Baldwin saw that this was used to lock the door. He wondered whether this man could have opened the door to someone he knew, turned his back to lead the man inside, and been grabbed from behind and slashed with a knife. That would clearly explain the wide pattern of blood: the killer had the victim’s forehead in his hand, pulling back his head and so stretching his neck. When cut, the vessels all gaped and gushed like fountains.

  Baldwin had seen enough men die to know that this one would have had no chance to protect himself. Once the knife had severed his veins, he would have been unconscious in moments.

  ‘Someone in here has been toying with sorcery,’ Langatre said.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Coroner Richard asked.

  ‘These tools. Look at it all.’

  Baldwin was peering at the table. ‘What was all this wax for, I wonder.’

  Langatre didn’t answer. His mind, like Baldwin’s, was fixed on the attempt to murder the king by necromancy.

  The room was filled with strange items. Baldwin saw some implements lined up on a table; a robe which had curious symbols stitched onto it, similar to Langatre’s upstairs.

  Langatre jerked his head. ‘I think we may have solved one murder, at least.’

  The coroner was still standing and studying the body, hands on hips, as Baldwin crossed the room and gazed down at the thing on the table. ‘Eh?’

  ‘Master Langatre has found a finger,’ Baldwin said.

  Simon did not think that his captive merited much concern. After allowing the fellow to stand, and dusting down his own jacket, which had become spattered with mud and dirt from the ground, he sniffed. ‘Who are you?’

  The man met his look with a fixed consideration, then threw a look back towards the house over the way. Eventually he grunted, ‘I am called Robinet of Newington. Friends call me Newt. Who are you?’

  ‘I am a bailiff. Why were you watching that place?’

  ‘You’re a city bailiff? You don’t look like one.’

  ‘No, I’m not from the city. Why were you watching it?’

  With a quick glance about them, as though anxious, he said, ‘If you want to talk, why not do it in more comfort? Let’s find a tavern or …’

  ‘Ah, no, friend Newt. This will do us fine, unless you want to talk in the gaol.’

  Simon found he was being submitted to a minute inspection, from his worn and stained boots to his soft felt hat. ‘You threaten me with that before you know anything about me?’

  ‘You just tried to run like a felon. I don’t need to know much about a felon to have him gaoled.’

  That brought a twisted grin to his face. ‘Fair enough. So let’s find somewhere to sit while you judge whether I am a felon or not, eh?’

  ‘Perhaps we can do that later, Master Robinet. For now there is the matter of a dead man in that house over there,’ Simon pointed out. ‘What do you know of it?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing. I was here to meet a friend, and as I arrived these men began running out and screaming.’

  ‘Who was your friend?’

  ‘A man of the city. He’s called Walter.’

  ‘Of Hanlegh?’

  ‘You know him?’ Robinet said with a smile.

  Simon shook his head. ‘No, but we have been hearing a lot about him.’

  ‘Ah, that is a relief. Walter was here, but when I went to fetch pies for our dinner he disappeared. Where is he?’

  Simon contemplated him. ‘Do you know who owns this house?’

  ‘I’ve met him a couple of times. A man called Michael, I think. Why?’

  ‘We will need to ask him about the man we just found in the basement, that’s why,’ Simon said. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘I’d prefer to wait here – I am worried about my friend.’

  ‘We’ll find him later.’

  To Simon’s relief, he submitted. There was no point in trying to evade a so much younger man while he was alert and ready.

  Simon saw that the monk was still in front of the house, encircled by a small group of men with staffs held ready. Simon eyed him as they pushed their way through the crowds. The monk looked quite petrified, and from the grim expressions on the faces of the men holding him there, he had cause.

  As they came closer, Baldwin and the coroner reappeared from the undercroft.

  ‘I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace. This is Coroner Richard de Welles. Who are you, and for what reason were you watching this place?’

  ‘Robinet of Newington,’ he answered, studying Baldwin and then glancing at the coroner. He had known many king’s officers in his life, and none had justified trust. These men looked decent, but felons often did. ‘I was waiting in the street for my friend to return. I was to meet him here.’

  ‘Rob?’ Simon said.

  ‘I followed the monk here, and when I arrived that man was already stood over there and staring at the place.’ Rob’s voice held a heavy larding of glee. He was triumphant to be the centre of all attention. Even as he spoke, he was aware of other people coming closer to listen.

  ‘Where is the monk?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Here I am, Sir Baldwin! Sir, we have met before when you visited my beloved lord, Abbot Robert at Tavistock. Do you remember me?’

  ‘I know you,’ Baldwin responded coolly. ‘But let me ask you the same question I asked of this gentleman: what were you doing here?’

  ‘My good friend Richard Langatre had been arrested in error, and I had a lengthy conversation with the sheriff to ask for his release. Naturally when I secured that release, I wished to talk to him for a while, so we came back here. And when we did so, we had been inside only a short while when my friend needed some coals. I think he dropped some into a puddle, and I later saw that it was blood. It appeared to come from beneath the door, so I went to investigate, as any good citizen should, and there I found a dead man.’

  ‘Where is Langatre now?’ Coroner Richard called.

  ‘I am here.’

  Richard de Langatre stood in the doorway to his own rooms, pale and faintly green about the face. He was wiping at his mouth, and his eyes were red-rimmed. ‘Sorry. I had to throw up. I’d had my hand in the blood, and it made me sick to think of it. I’ve been sick. Several times …’

  His eyes took on a faraway look, and he would have fled back indoors had not several men taken hold of him. Their grip appeared to drive off the urgency of his need for a pail, but he was still apparently enfeebled.

  ‘He has spent the last night in t
he sheriff’s gaol,’ Baldwin reminded himself as he watched the man being tugged towards him. It was clear enough that Richard de Langatre was feeling weak, but Baldwin had seen others who had been pathetic and enfeebled after committing murder.

  ‘I know nothing of this man’s death,’ Langatre said. ‘I was in the sheriff’s gaol all night, in God’s name. I only returned here a little while ago.’

  ‘And I was with the sheriff myself,’ Busse said eagerly. ‘I was with him all this morning until we arrived back here together, me and Richard here. I couldn’t have had a part in that man’s death!’

  ‘He is still warm,’ the coroner stated. ‘He has been dead only a very short time.’

  ‘But he can’t have been killed since we got back,’ Langatre protested. ‘We should have heard something.’

  ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not,’ the coroner said, his eyes going from one to the other. Coroner Richard was often thought to be a fool because his voice was loud and he had an amiable demeanour – except when he felt he was being obstructed – but his mind was as sharp as any, and it had been honed by listening to men who lied to him. Just now he was unsure how much these two men knew, but he wasn’t convinced of their guilt. ‘What were you doing in your rooms?’

  Busse leaned forward as he attempted to respond before Langatre could speak. ‘My friend here was offering me ale to thank me for rescuing him from the gaol. That is all.’

  Coroner Richard looked at Langatre. ‘What else?’

  ‘There was nothing else,’ Busse said quickly.

  ‘I asked the man here, not you,’ Sir Richard shot back. ‘Well?’

  Richard de Langatre licked his lips nervously. He knew that the monk wanted him to remain silent about his work, but as he studied Sir Baldwin and Sir Richard he was suddenly reminded of the evening when they had come to his cell and promised to help him. Yes, even then he had been reluctant, but they had not been false. ‘I feel I can trust you to deal fairly with me, lordings. We came back here because brother Robert here wanted to consult me on a matter. He wished to know some details about his future, and it was for that consultation that he came here.’

  ‘Can you tell the future?’ Coroner Richard asked dubiously.

  ‘Better than anyone else in the city,’ Langatre said with certainty.

  ‘Did you learn anything interesting?’ Sir Baldwin asked.

  ‘Before I could perform the act, we discovered the body. It was brother Robert who insisted that we should investigate, too, I should say. He would hardly have done that unless he was innocent.’

  Baldwin smiled. ‘I have known men who were bold enough to do just that. There are some who feel so safe in their brilliance at concealing their act that they bring it to the attention of the law without expecting to be discovered. Some even wish to be discovered. But I dare say you are correct. Brother Robert does not look much like a murderer.’

  ‘So who was the dead man?’ Simon asked.

  ‘I do not know,’ Busse said.

  ‘I had heard that there was a new tenant there, but I never met him,’ Langatre said. ‘My landlord, Michael, should know.’

  ‘Your fortune-telling fails you today?’ Baldwin asked suavely.

  ‘Who is this Michael, and where is he?’ Simon asked.

  ‘I am Michael.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Exeter City

  ‘You will be arrested soon, and when you hang, I won’t be worried. I may die soon without any money, husband, but the knowledge that you, who put my children into their grave, are dead, will be enough for me,’ Margie Skinner said.

  She was sitting at her stool, back resting against the wall with her head jutting as it always did.

  Will looked at her, then away. It was shameful. He ought to be able to look her in the face, but he couldn’t. To see those features, which were still so familiar and lovely in some ways, attached to this ruined body was enough to make his mind want to burst for misery and horror. She had once been his lover, his beauty. Now she was a foul image of her former self, twisted and deformed by the heat of the fire, like a wax doll.

  He had to get out.

  ‘Where are you going? Trying to run away from them? That coroner won’t let you escape him, husband. He’ll catch you and have you dangling. Not the sort of man to let such as you escape justice, is he? No!’

  Her poisonous cackling followed him down the street as he walked away, his head hanging over his breast, blinking to clear the tears.

  This afternoon was quiet compared with some, and the air was crisp but dry. He was thinking about finding an alehouse, but somehow his feet drew him back there, and soon he was standing at the posts that blocked off his house.

  The space where Norman Mucheton had lain was clear now. Ivo had gone home as soon as the coroner had declared the inquest closed and the men had carried the body off, so now there was just the stain on the ground where the man’s neck had bled over the dirt. Will looked down at it and sighed.

  From the ruins of his house there came a rending sound, and, as he turned to look, a beam that had once supported the upper jetty creaked round and started to move. Ponderously, it slid sideways, and suddenly fell to the ground. It crashed to the earth, raising a brown cloud of mingled soot and soil, which almost instantly dissipated.

  The ruins were falling apart. Soon even this little memorial to his family would be gone. And then, when Margie and he had died as well, who would remember his children?

  No one. No one would remember them.

  Michael stood before them perfectly content. There was nothing even these corrupt bastards could do to him. He’d done nothing that would earn him a rope, and if they tried to hang him, he’d get the best pleader in the court to protect him. There was nothing that couldn’t be bought with enough cash. He knew that if little else.

  ‘You are the owner of this house?’ Baldwin demanded.

  ‘Yes. It’s mine. Top rented to this fellow, Langatre. Undercroft to a stranger to the city, called John.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘He said he came from Nottingham.’

  ‘Sad to say, he won’t return,’ Coroner Richard said. ‘He’s had his throat cut.’

  Michael blinked. ‘When?’

  ‘You answer our questions, man! When did you last see him?’

  ‘Earlier today. I was here, and I visited him. He was perfectly all right then.’

  ‘How long ago was that?’ Baldwin asked. ‘It will help us to learn when he died.’

  ‘Only a short while after the end of mass. I attended the church as I do each Friday, and on my way homewards I saw him in the street here. I exchanged a few words with him, and then continued. There were plenty in the street here who would have seen us together.’

  Baldwin studied him. Short and dark, this man enjoyed life, from the look of him. He had the florid complexion of a regular visitor to the tavern, and a paunch to match it. From the look of him he was a moderately successful businessman, but there was an odour about him. ‘You are a tanner?’

  ‘Yes. What of it?’

  Baldwin shrugged. ‘You have been successful.’

  ‘Is that a crime now?’

  ‘If success is the reward for theft or illegal acts, yes.’

  ‘Do you accuse me of illegal acts? Do you think I am a …’

  ‘What?’ Baldwin asked silkily. ‘Do I think you are a …?’

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ Michael said, with as much sarcasm as he dared. ‘I should scarcely dream of accusing any man in the city of taking bribes or promises of money in exchange for favours. A man who did a thing like that could look to a short life, eh?’

  ‘Do you mean to accuse me of breaking the law?’ Baldwin asked, and he was genuinely surprised rather than offended or angry. The idea that a man might dare to think that he might have done such a thing was startling to him.

  Michael stared at him. His small eyes were strained with his poor eyesight, and his peering manner, together with his lowered head, made him loo
k like a belligerent ox preparing to charge. ‘No,’ he said at last, reluctantly. ‘I’ve heard nothing about you.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘There are stories.’

  Baldwin nodded. There always were. If a man won a certain post, it was sure to be because he had paid well for it; when a man took on a new office, invariably the grantor of that office was thought to look prosperous. And often it was true.

  There was no position in the country which did not depend upon a gift. And other officers made their own profits. The sheriff, for example, would often rig a jury at court, either to free the men who had paid him, or to see condemned those who were enemies of powerful lords. A man could be taken and confined for no reason beyond a bribe paid by his enemy to the arresting officer.

  It was interesting that this tanner should have taken such matters so to heart, though. Baldwin would expect it from others, but not a lowly leather worker. ‘Forget these “stories” for now, man. What can you tell us of this dead fellow?’

  ‘I have already told you all I know.’

  ‘There was a finger in his room. It could be a finger cut from a king’s messenger. Why would your tenant have that?’

  ‘Master, I inherited this house many years ago when my father died. He was a brewer and had run it as his own little tavern ever since he first arrived here from Warwick years ago, but when he was gone I saw no need to keep it as a drinking house and rented it out instead. The undercroft is damp and cold, and it is hard to coax money from any man for that. When this John of Nottingham came and asked for it, I was happy to rent it to him.’

  ‘How long has he been there?’

  ‘A matter of days. No more.’

  ‘But you say that he asked for you?’

  ‘He asked me for the room, yes. I suppose he had enquired in the city where there might be a room he could use.’

  ‘Did he say what he would use it for?’

  ‘No. I didn’t ask. Why should I? If it suited him, he suited me.’

  ‘Yes. I am sure he did,’ Baldwin said. ‘And tell me: you say your father came here from Warwick. Was he a freeman when he arrived here?’