The Malice of Unnatural Death: (27 page)

With the rattle at the latch, Simon felt his heart sink even as he heard the voice roar aloud,
‘B
LESS MY CODS
!
Bailiff Puttock! Now there’s a sight to cheer the heart of a thirsty man in the desert!’

Baldwin had not enjoyed a fruitful afternoon.

Upon leaving the widow and Sir Richard, he had decided to seek other necromancers in the city, but had met with no success. Rather than speak to the sheriff or his men, he had sought out the beadle. At Langatre’s house he had met young Ivo Trempole
guarding the house, who had given him some names, but he looked dubious when Baldwin began to talk about
maleficium.

‘If there was a man like that, I’d have heard,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Folks here wouldn’t have much to do with a man who tried
that kind of thing.’

‘I have no doubt,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘But if there were someone here, perhaps he could keep his arts secret?’

‘Perhaps,’ Ivo agreed, but without conviction.

Baldwin soon had a list of three men to talk to, but although two admitted to telling the future, and one asserted that he
could perform certain veterinary functions for cows with sore udders or horses with colic, all looked blank when asked about
more advanced magic. Either they were very good at acting, or there were no men in Exeter who actively sought such assistance, Baldwin thought.

The third of these had lived a little farther down the road
from Langatre’s house, and as he passed by, he saw Ivo Trempole again.

‘Any fortune?’ Ivo asked when he caught Baldwin’s eye.

‘None, I fear,’ Baldwin said.

‘I was thinking …’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, if there was someone in the town, we’d have learned about him. People always spot someone nearby who’s doing strange
things.’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. After walking about the city all afternoon learning that no one knew anything that could help him, he
was in no hurry to be told that he had been on a wild goose chase. He moved to walk away. Even Sir Richard’s company was preferable
to this.

‘It occurred to me, though, that perhaps this man, if there is one, isn’t a local? Perhaps it’s someone who’s only recently
come to the city.’ Catching sight of Baldwin’s expression, he apologised quickly. ‘I’m sorry, sir knight. It was silly. I
was just thinking …’

‘No – you are quite right. This could so easily be someone who has only recently come to the city. It would explain much. But …’ His face grew more lugubrious as he considered the problem. ‘How would I learn whether there was anyone who had
recently come to the city and might practise the magical arts?’

Ivo screwed up his face. ‘I’d speak to the keepers of the gates. They ought to know if there were any real strangers coming
in. They know the regular visitors, like those who supply the markets, and they’d be sure to notice strangers. Try old Hal
at the South Gate. That’s the main way into the city for anyone usually.’

‘I shall – and, friend, I am most grateful,’ Baldwin said.

As
he left Ivo, another thought struck him. If a man was recently arrived in the city, in order to make no noise as he walked
in he must have travelled light. A fellow with a packhorse or a cart would be more noticeable. But a necromancer had need
of his tools. Perhaps a necromancer without his tools had come, and required replacements?

It was an interesting hypothesis, anyway.

Robinet stood in the street and stared again at the place where he thought he had seen the man on the night James died.

Ach! It was one thing to think that a man was there in the middle of the night, when it was silent, all the people back in
their homes, probably in their beds, but now? With all the noise and bustle of the city in the middle of the day, it was near
impossible to bring back to mind that strange memory. The only thing he thought he could remember was that the figure was
shortish, but beyond that the darkness and the ale had wiped the details from his mind.

He had been walking here for hours now, just walking the way that they had come, trying to prompt something –
anything
– that might help; but nothing occurred to him. At last, now, he was meandering about the place and eyeing the people milling
all round, wondering whether a face or shape might prompt something. So far nothing had worked.

‘You still here?’

‘Just looking about.’

Walter looked at him and shook his head. ‘Look, the man who killed him probably had no knowledge who it was he killed. It’s
not as though James was a man who would be
missed.’

‘He was a king’s man,’ Robinet said obstinately.

‘He was an arse. He ruined you.’

‘It was largely my own fault.’

‘And had you gaoled fine, didn’t he?’

Newt shrugged. It was true, and he had hated James for it at the time. Christ Jesus, the first moment he saw James here in Exeter, he had thought to kill the man. But then he had seen the shadow of the lad he had helped train in the job, and suddenly
all that had been less important. Especially when James had apologised. It was a little thing, but Robinet was not the sort
of man to bear a grudge unnecessarily. If James was contrite, and he did appear to be, well, there was little worth in being
angry or bitter about things. The king had forgiven him a long while ago, and Newt was well protected now, with his corrody.

‘Just leave him be, friend. There’s a murder every few weeks here. What’s the point of seeking James’s killer when there are
so many others? They never get resolved, and I doubt this one will either.’

‘He was once a friend,’ Newt said softly. ‘That makes it worthwhile for me.’

Walter nodded, but gave a twisted grin. ‘Not for me, though. I’m back for some food. You coming?’

Robinet was tempted. He had been walking and thinking all day without a break, but he shook his head. ‘I’ll stay here a little
longer. Just to see if I can recognise anyone.’

Walter gave a chuckle and shook his head as he strode off towards his house. He was clearly of the impression that Newt had
lost his senses over this matter.

Well, his opinion was not important, Robinet thought to himself. No. The main thing was that he felt as though he
had a duty to find his apprentice’s killer, no matter who that man might be.

From Langatre’s house, it was a short walk up the hill to the main South Gate Street, and thence down to the gate itself. On the way, Baldwin wondered whether he might meet the coroner again, and found himself hoping against hope that he would
not. The coroner was a kindly soul, it was true, and generally had a shrewd mind, but his loudness and constant attempts at
telling jokes were wearing after a while. Baldwin was happier to try to find out all he could without his company.

The keeper of the gate was standing before the arch with his thumbs stuck in his belt, grinning broadly at the sight of a
carter shouting with rage and kicking at his horse. His exhausted old nag stood patiently, head hanging in the shafts, and
as Baldwin approached he saw the man aim a kick at her flank. She moved with the pain, but was too tired to do more than shake
her head and whinny.

‘Damned fool. Has turds for brains,’ was the gatekeeper’s assessment. ‘Came in here with his cart overloaded, and then complains
when the poor beast can’t carry it all.’

‘Does it often happen here?’ Baldwin asked, seeing other splinters and shards of broken wheels about the place.

‘Fair bit. If a carter’s an idiot. The way up here is not so steep as Stepecote, but it’s bad enough. Look at her! She’s carrying
far too much on that cart. It’s his own fault.’

Baldwin could only agree. ‘Master Hal? I have been advised to speak to you.’

‘What about?’ His eyes had hardened instantly, and now Baldwin was aware that the fellow’s smile was gone like frost in the
sunshine. ‘If it’s anything to do with my lad,
I’ll …’

‘I am trying to learn whether anyone has come to the town recently who might have looked suspicious. I was told,’ he improvised
shamelessly, ‘that you were the most astute of all the gatekeepers, and if anyone was a stranger, and looked up to no good,
you’d be the man to spot him.’

‘Aye, well, that’s as may be. True enough, I suppose, but what would you want with the man?’

‘I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace, friend,’ Baldwin said silkily, with just a hint of menace. ‘You can be assured that I have my reasons for wanting to speak to him.’

‘Well, there’s no one I’ve seen entering by my gate,’ the man said shortly, and would have left, but Baldwin shook his head.

‘What does that mean? Hal, you say that no one entered by your gate, but the very way you say it seems to imply that you have
seen something – what?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Let me guess, then. You know about the two dead men. One was a local man, who had few enemies from what I have heard. He
could have been killed by anyone – but more likely a stranger with a knife than someone who knew him. And then there was the
other: a king’s messenger, no less. Someone with a pouch full of important notes for other people. Surely a man who would
dare to kill such a one would dare anything at all. He must be a most dangerous fellow.’

‘Perhaps. Nothing to do with me.’

‘Ah, but a man who knew something and didn’t let me know, that sort of a man would be of great interest to the king himself,
wouldn’t he? Because a man like that might just be in league with the man who killed his messenger. The
king would most certainly want to speak to him. Or have his expert questioners come and speak to him.’

At the thought of torture, Hal’s face changed. ‘Now, Keeper, there’s no need to think such things. I wouldn’t deceive you
… I have seen a man who looked most odd, but it’s surely nothing to do with the murder of the king’s man. I wouldn’t have
held back anything from his majesty.’

‘Tell me all.’

‘It was Tuesday evening. I was off to the tavern early with my son. I like a drink or two with him, and we were off to the
little place near Bolehille that’s just opened. Well, we had some of the strong ale there, and when it came to be time to
get home, I was a little weak on my pins. Art, he was all right, and he helped me along. I seem to remember seeing a fellow
up in front of me. At least, that was what I reckoned at first,’ he added more quietly.

‘What was he like, this fellow?’

‘A shadow. Nothing more than a shadow. He moved along with the speed of a ghost. Slinking along in the darkness, he was. I
thought at the time that he was just a silly dream I had because of the ale, but now … the more I think of it, the less I think I was dreaming.’

‘It was not the dead messenger?’

‘Master, if I’d seen
him
, I’d have said so. No one wants to upset the king about the murder of his messenger,’ he said sharply.

Baldwin nodded. That much was almost certainly true. ‘What else?’

‘That is it.’

‘No. You are embarrassed or ashamed by something. What was it?’

Hal was about to repeat that it was nothing, but then he
lowered his head and stared at his boots. It was hard to confess. He was a stolid man, and proud of his commonsense, but that
sight had given him more of a shock than he wanted to admit.

At last he nodded. ‘I heard about my neighbour. Old Willie Skinner there. He saw something too, the same night, I think. A
figure. I mentioned what I saw to him, and he told me he’d seen the same thing. A low figure. Except when he approached the
figure, it disappeared. Just like mine.’

‘Porter, any man can sidle into a shadow or into an alleyway without resorting to the occult,’ Baldwin growled.

‘Maybe so. But they do say that the devil can make his servants disappear. And witches can fly through the air.’

‘You say you saw a witch?’

‘You can laugh, but there are necromancers about who can look just like ordinary people if they want to. And they will kill
people, so they say.’

‘Who says that?’

‘You know,’ Hal said gruffly. ‘People. Will said he didn’t see where his man went, and neither did I. You can’t explain people
disappearing like that.’

Baldwin looked at him with pursed lips. It was tempting to say that he could explain such manifestations all too easily, usually
by the expedient of a convenient rope, ladder or trap door, but this man was already embarrassed enough. Instead he clapped
his hands together.

‘Good. In that case, come and show me where this all happened. Let us see whether I can conjecture a more natural agent for
your vision.’

‘You might have all the time you need, but I don’t!’ Hal spat, bitter at the impression that the keeper was amused by him. He waved a hand about him. ‘Look at all these people
here! I have my duty to do until the gates are closed.’

Baldwin eyed him, and then he smiled. ‘I know,’ then: ‘fetch me your son. He can take me to see where you saw this … this
thing.’

It
was done. John of Nottingham scraped away the last pieces of wax and let them fall to the floor as he stood back and stared
at the last of the little models. Only when his hawkish face had studied them all for some few moments did he finally give
a sharp nod to himself. If not pride, there was at least professional satisfaction in a job well done.

The mass he had attended at church had been enough to make him realise that he would have to make this last figure more…
realistic
, for want of a better word.

It had been a marvellous occasion. The crowd of city folk all standing and listening as the canons and vicars sang their refrains,
murmuring the prayers … it made him feel quite nostalgic. All that part of his life was gone, though, naturally. He could
hardly return to Nottingham now. Everyone would be looking for him, the noted necromancer who had dared to attempt the assassination
of the most powerful men in the country.

Still, the ceremony had soothed his soul. The broad open space of the nave, cluttered and spoiled as it was by the rebuilding
work, was yet so enormous that it stilled a man’s heart to think of the effort that had gone into it, the adoration of God
which had impelled men to undertake such a project.
All too soon, the mass was done and he was ushered out again with the ebb of the congregation, listening to people discussing
the priest who had officiated. Most concluded that he was still too new to his job. They felt sure that the following Sunday
would be better. It was Saint Catherine of Alexandria’s feast day, an auspicious day for any church. Surely the bishop would
attend. Perhaps John should have him in full episcopal rig in honour of the feast day?