BURY ME DEEP an utterly gripping crime thriller with an epic twist (Detective Rozlyn Priest Book 1)

by Jane Adams

  To his left, the land rose a little and the path curved out of sight beyond the thickness of hedge and tree.

  “That way leads only to your home?”

  “Mine and my brother’s. With our wives and children. Go on further and it leads to Bearwell, though the way is not passable in winter. It crosses a stream which is low enough to ford in summer, but much past Winterfilleth, it is impassable.”

  Treven nodded. It was close to that date now, though the month had been unusually dry. According to his calculations it wanted only three more days to the full moon that marked the beginning of winter.

  He stepped away from them and once more scanned the area for sign of what had happened, not easy when the dozen people who had followed him here crowded his every move. Impatiently he waved them back and ordered them to be still. So many trampling feet could blur any rune that might remain. Treven was aware that he was being tried here, as thoroughly as Hugh would be when his turn came. They did not fully understand what it was he did, Treven, king’s scout and battle-hardened warrior, used to reading that which might be invisible to others. But they respected the fact that he was here, even though they had heard some whisper that what he sought to do was magic.

  “Someone walked there,” he pointed and Edmund, standing beside him, followed where he indicated. “The grass is parted and the long reeds beside the withys broken. See?”

  Edmund frowned and then nodded. He followed as Treven went to look more closely. “Look,” Treven said. “Someone waited here, crouched in the damp. Shod feet and handprints where they leaned down and took their weight.”

  “They must have crouched low as she passed by,” Edmund agreed. “A grown man might just be hidden if he kept his head low.” He glanced about, puzzled. “But if it was concealment they sought, why not hide there, among the reeds. They are high as a man’s head and dense too. This . . . it looks like something a child might do.”

  Treven strode over to where he indicated. He lifted a branch from the trackside and prodded the ground.

  “Ah,” Edmund agreed. “Wet enough to sink to the ankles at least.”

  “From the point he chose, he could move swiftly,” Treven commented. “See her, wait for her to pass, then run out after. She would have heard him and turned.”

  “So,” Edmund seemed reluctant, but perhaps felt he had to be fair minded, “the one who struck her need not have been known to her after all. She would have heard him, turned, and been struck down.”

  “Possibly,” Treven was not convinced. “Look, the ground close to where she fell is wet. Her footprint is there, both pointing up the track towards the cottage and there see, she turns and stands. Both feet set square but facing back towards us.”

  “Which means she turned and faced her attacker.”

  “Which means she did not try to run.”

  “It would have been dark,” Edmund mused.

  “The moon is close to full, the nights have been clear and her eyes would have been accustomed to the dark, but even so . . . it must have been someone she would recognise at once, otherwise, startled, she would have taken at least a backward step.”

  He frowned. “It is almost as if she paused and waited. As though she expected someone to be behind her.”

  Hugh? Had she expected Hugh? Treven walked back down the path and called to the horsemen to come forward. He’d put Orsic and the younger, stronger servant, Strachen in charge of Hugh. They’d not bound him, but Osric had fixed a leading rein to the bridle of Hugh’s horse and wrapped it firmly about his wrist. Hugh chafed at such treatment, but Treven had insisted. He could not afford to be seen to show favour, not when he’d declared his interest only in justice.

  Hugh dismounted.

  “Where did you meet the girl?”

  “I told you. I met her there, in that stand of birch. The trees meet well enough to give some shelter and we were screened from the path and the main track.”

  “You’d met her there before. How many times?”

  Hugh sighed heavily. “Five or six.” He looked uncomfortable speaking before Edmund and the others. “Treven, for pity’s sake, the girl is dead; must you drag her name through the mud, questioning me here before such witnesses?

  “Her name was soiled long ago. You think it a secret, Hugh? Now, tell me, did you see anyone. Hear anything?”

  Hugh shook his head. “I had hoped . . . she would have nothing to do with me. Struck my hand down when I tried to touch her. She said she would have no more to do with me. Told me about the child she carried and that she had informed her husband that he would be a father before Litha came next year. I was angry with her but I let her go. I returned to Theading and spent my night elsewhere. She was whole and unharmed when she left my side.”

  “It did not seem right that you take her back to Theading? You say you spent time after with another woman, you must have passed Cate’s home, yet you left her here to find her own way back?”

  Hugh was furious. “She swore she would not let me accompany her. That she had promised Eldred it was over between us and that if we were witnessed together it could be seen as her breaking that vow.” He stepped forward, hands outstretched, voice pleading. “Treven, what else could I do? She went from me, I untied my horse and went on my way.”

  “Did you not pass her on the road?” Edmund asked.

  Hugh hesitated, then shook his head. “No, but you are right, I should have done. God, had I realised then the significance of that, I might have found her.”

  Treven watched his friend with narrowed eyes. There was much here that Hugh had not told, but for the moment Treven could not fathom the truth from the lies. The cramp in his gut had receded a little but it returned now and it was all he could do to stay upright and not double in pain. He caught his breath, hoping no one had noticed, but was aware of Hugh watching him closely.

  “Come,” Treven said. “We will return to the Theading. I wish to examine the body now there is light enough to see.”

  * * *

  Treven had Cate’s body carried outside so that the full light of the sun could illuminate his search. He had the villagers assembled and with them but kept Hugh and Eldred well apart. Eldred was distressed. The women waited to prepare his wife for burial, but Treven had forbidden this until he returned. Eldred could not understand his reasons and it had been left to Kendryk to convince him that Treven must have good cause.

  “At least, I hope you have,” the Abbot told him sternly. “It’s enough the poor child was killed so brutally, but for you to delay the proper rights becomes less and less forgivable the longer you take.”

  “I know, I know,” Treven waved his protests away, “but when Osric tended her last night I glimpsed something I could not understand. I will hide nothing, Kendryk, which is why I call for this public display, distasteful though I know it is. In truth, I hope to shock some kind of response from one or other of them. I doubt either is telling the full truth.”

  Kendryk looked displeased but nodded assent. “I’ve told her father,” he said. “Though I doubt the poor fool understood a word. I think we should spare him this exhibition, unless you have some purpose in his being here?”

  Treven could not think of one. He came down the steps with Kendryk at his side and stood by Cate. She had been laid out on the trestle table brought from the hall. Her limbs had begun to stiffen and Treven knew that he would have to be swift so that the women could do their work before her body became too rigid to move. Her long dark hair was loose and Edmund stood at her head, his fingers straying through the long strands, his face empty of all thought. Treven observed him for a moment, thinking it strange that it should be the older brother and not the husband who stood like this, stroking the woman’s hair. He recalled the rumours concerning Allis and wondered if there might be another reason Edmund was glad to be rid of her. Did he love his brother’s wife?

  Glancing at Eldred he saw that his gaze too was fixed upon his brother’s hands, but there was no question in hi
s eyes, just a deep and utter sadness.

  Gently, Treven tilted Cate’s chin and turned her head. Beside him, he heard Kendryk draw sharp breath. To confirm what he saw he moved her head again, this time exposing the neck on the other side, then he looked sideways to where Hugh and Eldred stood watching. On Eldred’s face was a look of anger, incomprehension. But Hugh . . . as Hugh met his eyes, Treven realised that his friend knew exactly what he saw.

  Treven snapped his gaze away and moved his hands onto Cate’s arms. Her clothes were grimed with blood and earth but untorn. He lifted her hands, examining the nails. They were trimmed short. Ragged nails caught on the spindle thread and snagged the yarn, so she had kept them well. But beneath the middle and first fingers of her right hand was a rime of dirt.

  Treven drew his knife and with the tip, scraped beneath Cate’s fingernails, then wiped the stuff he found there on his palm. He spat, watching the red brown seep from the grime. Lifting his palm to his lips, he tasted it, his gaze fixed now on the two men he judged.

  Eldred registered puzzlement and disgust. Hugh jerked his head, then returned Treven’s gaze with a steadiness forced by sheer will.

  Treven spat upon the ground.

  “Blood?” Kendryk asked, curiosity fighting mild distaste.

  “Is it blood, Hugh? Did she do more than slap your hands away?”

  The crowd moved restlessly and Hugh took an instinctive step towards Treven and where Cate’s body lay.

  “I did not kill her.” He spoke slowly as though trying to convince a child. “And look, no marks on my hands or my face and, should you find marks on my back, they come not from Cate but from the other one.”

  “The other one that you have yet to name.”

  “You’d have me do that here? In the face of her neighbours, kinsmen. Weaponmann?”

  “So, another married woman,” Treven said. Kendryk laid a hand upon his arm.

  “I think,” he said, “that in this Hugh has the right. The woman should not be publicly named. Hugh may name her privately and we will call each woman in this community to the hall and speak with them, so she not be singled out.”

  Treven scowled. “A priest that condones adultery!”

  “A priest that puts the health of a community before need for vengeance,” Kendryk told him sharply. “As well you should.”

  Treven made some small gesture of disgust, but he nodded assent. “If that is your guidance,” he said. “I will accept it. Tell the women they can prepare the body.” He made as though to go inside, then turned again and strode over to where Hugh stood. He laid hold of Hugh’s hair and tugged his head forward, turning it left and right so that he could see his neck then pulled the tunic aside to expose his shoulders.

  “I told you,” Hugh was panicked now and the crowd about him moved restlessly. “It was the other one.”

  “She marked him!” Eldred sounded triumphant. He lunged forward. Treven wheeled, blocked him, knocking him off his feet.

  “Stay down!” He let his gaze rove across the crowd. He could both see and feel their anger. This stranger had killed one of their own and they wanted nothing more or less than vengeance. Osric had drawn his seax and came to stand beside Treven, the long knife raised in his hand. Treven closed his fist over his servant’s hand. “Put it away,” he said softly. “I’ll see justice and law served here, not the rule of the mob. Now, go to your homes. Hugh, go inside and Osric, keep him close confined.”

  “Confined! Treven, I swear, I did not kill her!”

  “It will take more than your oath to prove innocence,” Eldred growled.

  Hugh swung about. “You had more reason to see her dead than I ever could or did,” he whispered furiously. He faced the crowd, his face white with panic and distress. “I did not take her life. You seek a murderer? Look no further than a man deceived by his wife. I accuse you, Eldred. Accuse you before all witnessed here present. I accuse you of Cate’s murder and that of her unborn child.”

  Treven looked from one to the other, a small doubt creeping back into his mind. “Go inside,” he said softly. “Your accusation has been made and both will be answered.” He gestured once again towards the crowd. “Now get you gone. You’ve work to do and families to care for. Go now!”

  He waited until they had dispersed — all but the small knot of hovering women waiting to prepare their dead one. He looked one last time at Cate, remembering her as she had been on that first day. Bright, hopeful, nervous as a new-born deer. Treven stared at her until the image of Cate, living and breathing, shyly smiling and beautiful, replaced that of the corpse with smashed face and gaping wounds, then he left the women to their work.

  CHAPTER 20

  Rozlyn knew officers who enjoyed post-mortems. Their reasons were many and varied. Some were simply curious; some awed by the complexity of the process and the insight it afforded into the act of death and dying. Others — and Brook fell into this category — saw them as a rite of passage to be gone through as soon as possible on joining the force and repeated as often as necessary as a sort of system check to make sure you weren’t going soft.

  Rozlyn fell into none of those categories. Mortality was not something she required any reminder of and the methodical invasion of the human body was not something she ever could enjoy, even as an intellectual exercise.

  She made herself attend because it was necessary to the efficiency of the job and because she didn’t think she could cope with Brooke’s jibes should she cop out.

  Unlike those situations depicted in fiction it was quite rare for a body to jump the queue and be examined in the first hours after its discovery. While every effort was made to bump the victims of violence up the list, sometimes, especially when the cause of death was so evident, it was impossible. There were only so many hours in the day and so many pathologists to carry out the work. So, Charlie had to wait his turn.

  This PM was one Rozlyn had dreaded. Charlie Higgins laid out on the stainless-steel table, naked and defenceless and with a large wound in the centre of his chest that shook Rozlyn badly. She leaned nonchalantly against the row of cupboards that ran the length of the room and watched from a respectable distance, coming closer only when directed by the man in charge.

  “There’s not a doubt about the murder weapon, then?”

  “Not a dicky bird of doubt. Want to see? There’s been some tissue shrinkage, of course, but . . .”

  Before Rozlyn could protest that, no, she’d take the word of the expert, Chitall, the pathologist, had seized the weapon and begun its slow and careful insertion into the wound in Charlie’s chest.

  “Come closer. You can’t see a damn thing from there. Now, look at the angle.”

  With the utmost care, Chitall pushed the spear head home, sheathing it for a second time in Charlie’s flesh. “Of course, the force would have been greater than I’m applying. A single thrust, that was all it took, nicked the sternum and penetrated the heart. The cartilage attaching the rib did nothing to impede the progress. Whoever made this knew what they were doing, all right.” He eased it home, then stood back, triumphant. “Look, do you see it now?” He ran a finger along the haft that still protruded from the wound. “See it, see the angle?”

  Rozlyn hadn’t taken it in. She’d been too busy feeling nauseous, fighting the red mist that blurred her vision and trying to swallow the bile rising in her throat. Then she saw what Chitall was getting at. The angle of attack didn’t make sense unless . . . “He was on the ground. He was already down.”

  Chitall beamed at her.

  “But how? I mean, his assailant would practically have had to be sitting on him. That would have been such an awkward strike.”

  Chitall was shaking his head.

  “What am I missing?”

  “The shaft.”

  “Shaft? There is no shaft.”

  “No, but there was.”

  “How do you know? If there was a shaft, why didn’t it break off inside the neck of the spear.”

  “I know
because I’ve found traces of it inside the neck, here,” He pointed. “And it didn’t break because when whoever did this tried to pull it out, it came away clean.”

  “How? Why?”

  At that Chitall shrugged. “Speculation only,” he said. “But the wood was common or garden stuff. Heavy dowel, probably. The kind you can find in any DIY superstore. I’m guessing it was used just for display. It’d been stained, there were fragments of that present too, and it probably looked good enough for show. It wasn’t intended to stay in place well enough for you to stick someone, just to look pretty when its owner hung it on the wall, or however you’d display such an object.”

  That made a kind of sense. “Any other injury? Was he punched, kicked? How did he end up on the ground?”

  Chitall shrugged again. “Anybody’s guess,” he said. “But he’s not exactly a big fellow. A good push would have done as well as anything and there’s micro bruising on the shoulders that might indicate that. But however he ended up on the floor, there’s no doubt what stopped him getting up again.”

  Rozlyn nodded, her gaze fixed on that obscene conjunction between flesh and metal. “Would there have been much blood?”

  “Depends if the assailant tried to pull the spear out at once or some time after and I’d go for the latter option. There’s evidence . . . don’t worry, I can show you that on the X-ray, you don’t have to look inside. Here, evidence of a second, shorter strike. The bone carries a second, much smaller notch, see?”