The Malice of Unnatural Death: (45 page)

It was performing a sacred duty, removing these people – especially the arch-villain himself, Bishop Walter of Exeter.

It was the bishop who had stolen lands from all over the realm, impoverishing others as he lined his own purse. He was as
evil as the Despensers … No! He was worse! They did not conceal their rapacity: he took what he wanted by more subtle
means, persuading the king to deprive the queen of her manors and income, and to help – ha! – volunteering to take over her
mining ventures and any other profitable opportunities while professing to do all for the good of the realm, not his own self-interest.

There was too much to be done, though, to worry about that man.

John retrieved his book – the one item he had been able to rescue from Coventry – and wiped its cover. The lettering was quite
worn already, but he could feel the letters under his fingers on the embossed leatherwork:
Book of the Offices of the Spirits
. This was his own copy, written out in his own
hand when he was studying in Oxford.

Satisfied with the cleanliness of his room, he sat down and began breathing carefully. He was no Satanist, and didn’t seek
to worship the evil lord. No, he was a cautious, pious and Christian man, who sought to control demons to do his bidding. All magicians knew that no enterprise could succeed without utter confidence in God and belief in His power.

The tools were all fumigated and asperged. Now he consecrated them, before reciting the psalms and beginning the first of
the many prayers. He washed himself carefully, itself a part of his ritual, first from the bucket, and then more slowly with
holy water.

It was very late when he was ready to don his robes. Standing in the cold room, his arms held high over his head, he began
the invocation, the thrill of fear setting his belly quivering as he dared once more to summon the demons to obey his will.

‘In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, I summon you: Sitrael, Malantha, Thamaor, Falaur and Sitrami …’

Saturday Next after the Feast of St Edmund
⁸

Simon
woke several times that night. There was the insistent call to the chamber-pot, a natural result of Coroner Richard’s repeated
purchases of ale the previous night, and then his snoring, which was enough to make a man commit violent murder; and then,
long before the sun rose and illuminated the outline of the shutters, he saw Baldwin, fully dressed, sitting in the open window
and staring out to the south.

It was not unusual for his friend to sleep badly every so often, and Simon wondered if he had been suffering from a bad dream. Once in a while, so he had told Simon, he would have a mare come to him in his sleep and plant hideous dreams of the foul
end of Acre in his mind. There were children and women … but beyond that Baldwin would not speak.

Simon knew full well that the confession of this weakness pained Baldwin, so he made a conscious effort to
forget that his friend had mentioned his dreams. However, sometimes it was impossible to ignore Baldwin’s behaviour, and when Simon woke properly a while later, when the sun was almost over the roofs to the east, he raised himself on one elbow, tugging
the blankets up over his nakedness against the cold air.

‘Are you all right, Baldwin?’

‘Yes. I couldn’t sleep.’

Simon considered asking about the scenes of death and destruction during the siege of Acre, but a look at Baldwin’s pale features
persuaded him that the best cure for his friend would be to ignore his memories and hope that in time they would fade.

‘It was that fool of a coroner, I suppose. He makes enough noise to waken the dead. It’s a miracle all the corpses from the
cathedral haven’t risen and walked out of the city to find a quieter cemetery.’

Baldwin smiled feebly at Simon’s attempt at lightness, but then he shook his head. ‘I am worried, Simon. The idea keeps tearing
at me that the murderer could escape the city and punishment. We cannot permit the killer of a king’s messenger to escape. It is not to be borne.’

‘All we can do, we are doing. What more do you expect?’

‘I do not know. But I wish to be away from here and home again. I wish that with all my heart.’

There was a knock at their door, and a moment later Rob walked in with a bundle of twigs bound into faggots in his arms. ‘The
host says if you want a warm, he’s lighting the fire and will soon have some ale spiced and hot for you.’

‘That sounds like the best offer we are likely to receive today,’ Simon said with enthusiasm.

Rob nodded and was about to leave when Simon caught
something in his expression. ‘Are you all right, boy? You’re quieter than usual.’

‘I am fine, master. Just thinking, that’s all.’

Simon was going to ask him what the matter was, but from experience he knew full well that Rob’s concerns were more likely
to be based upon brother Robert calling him a ‘boy’ or the quality of the sleeping quarters here at the inn than anything
worthwhile, so he was more testy than usual when he asked, ‘If it’s just you thinking about your next meal, stop that and
tell us whether you saw anything interesting yesterday. Did the man who would be abbot have any other adventures after he
found the body in the undercroft?’

‘No. That was all the excitement he could take at the time.’

‘Fine. At least he is behaving himself. Hopefully after the surprise of finding Walter down there, he’ll be a little less
keen to wander the city. That would be one less problem for me.’

‘In the meantime, I should go and tell the bishop what we have discovered so far, and about the body of Walter,’ Baldwin said.

‘Don’t forget the girl Sarra,’ Simon reminded him.

‘I haven’t,’ Baldwin admitted heavily. ‘But that young girl’s murderer is the responsibility of the sheriff in so many ways, I cannot become worried about her. She was from the sheriff’s household, and if there is one thing that seems certain about
her, it is that she is seeking revenge on the sheriff himself. Surely he has enough men about him to protect him from one
girl. No, I am more concerned with these other deaths. No one should dare to hurt a king’s messenger – and the man who did
so probably killed two
others as well. Someone who would dare that must be uniquely dangerous.’

‘Or driven by a powerful motive.’

‘As you say.’

‘Do you still believe that the murderer might be someone from Coventry?’

‘The more I think of it, the more I am convinced of it. Who else would have dared to kill a king’s man, if not someone who
feared to be recognised? And Robinet was there with the messenger that night and thought that he might have recognised someone
– it makes sense.’

‘Put like that, yes, it does,’ Simon agreed. ‘Although there could be many other explanations.’

‘Yes. But none would appear to make so much sense.’

‘So what should we do?’

‘Everything in our power to find this man and capture him before he can harm anyone else. We need a good description of the
fellow so that we may have it broadcast to the city … but the only man who knew him has been killed. Robinet can hardly
be thought of as reliable, since he was himself very drunk at the time he saw the man.’

‘So we are no further forward,’ Simon said heavily.

‘No. Yet there must be some way of finding the man. There must be!’

‘In a city of this size? You would have to be very fortunate.’

Baldwin nodded distractedly, but he had returned to peering out through the window at the morning. He could not see a way
through the mists that enveloped the murders.

Ivo was happy as he returned to his mother’s home that morning. The night had been cold, but there were three
taverns which had provided him with warmed, spiced ale, and there was a brazier out near the Palace Gate which had been enough
to warm his fingers for short periods. But for much of the time he was involved in his mother’s business.

There were several women in the city who, like his mother, had found themselves widowed while still young. Some would occasionally
take in a man and be happy to pay a little to Ivo and Edie for recommending them to their clients. It was an occasional, intermittent
trade, but welcome for all that. Then there was the other business. Ivo’s position as a beadle made them a good profit from
robberies.

They would learn quickly of any items that had been taken by a cut-purse or robber, and either take a commission to find the
stolen goods, or at the least charge the thief for pawning them. There was little trade in the city that Edie was not aware
of within a short space of time.

It was not a hard job to find out where the man had gone. There was a bawd down the alley that led north from Stepecote Street,
who sometimes took in Edie’s men. She had heard the kerfuffle when the body of that man was found in the undercroft, and it
made her think, because only a little while before that she had been walking up the street from the river, and she had seen
a man leave the place and make his way to Michael’s house. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, because she had been
busy, but now …

Yes. And Ivo thought so too. She had described him in some detail, because, as she said, he didn’t look quite the sort of
man Michael would have befriended. Yet there he was. A tall, thin old man with piercing eyes and a stubble of white riming
his chin.

She had earned herself another penny with that news, for
Ivo believed in repaying loyalty, and she could have told anyone else. He was not sure what value he could put on the information,
but that it would be useful he had no doubt, and as he walked down the alley to his mother’s house he whistled to himself. It was still early. She wouldn’t be awake yet, but he could make himself some warmed cider with honey and set the oats to
soak for his breakfast.

It was with this cheery thought that he set his thumb to the latch and his shoulder to the door. And at that moment he felt
the sharpness under his ear.

‘Don’t shout, master watchman. I want to speak sensibly to you and discuss how much I shall pay you.’

‘Shall we go in?’ Ivo said hopefully.

‘No. We shall remain out here for now.’

Ivo turned slowly and carefully and saw that it was the man from the night before. ‘Why do you threaten me with steel, when I am doing your bidding?’

‘Why did you remain up in the bedchamber instead of coming down to see me?’

‘It seemed better to be up there. How did you know I was there?’

‘I didn’t. But there was a staff by the door. I felt sure that the old woman must have had someone there with her.’

‘I have what you need.’

‘And I have money. Where is he?’

‘Let me fetch some breakfast and …’

‘No. You are taking me there right now, watchman.’

‘Don’t you trust me?’ Ivo said sorrowfully. There was no need for an answer.

The streets at this time of the day were almost empty. Only the very earliest hawkers had made the effort to rise and cry
their wares. Shivering and ill-clad for the most part,
these young girls and youths stood at street corners with bunches of herbs, or small hemp strings, hoping to sell all their
stocks as soon as possible that they might leave and find a fire somewhere to fight off the bitter wind that blew straight
from the east.

Ivo noticed that the man paid none of them any attention. Rather he hurried along the streets with his hand clamped like a
vice on Ivo’s upper arm. Although he didn’t see the knife, he was sure that it must be very close.

‘This man … is he likely to be dangerous?’ he ventured.

‘Very.’

‘Perhaps you should allow me to fetch reinforcements? If he bests you, you won’t want him to escape, will you?’

The man stopped, suddenly, and turned to face Ivo. He had very penetrating, dark eyes that seemed to cauterise all the blood
vessels in Ivo’s brain as he stared. The intensity of his look seared all thoughts in his mind and left Ivo cowed.

‘You think he will escape
me
?’

They continued, but now, as they drew nearer the house where the man was staying, Ivo jerked his chin to point.

‘Good. Say nothing,’ he heard in his ear. He carried on walking, and soon the pair of them were beyond the house on the steep
section of Stepecote Street, looking back to the house.

‘That is Michael’s house?’

Ivo nodded. ‘That is where I was told he was staying. What will you do?’

The man stood peering up at the place with a considering expression. Then, ‘I think now I should report the man to the Watch.’

Jen woke with a short cry as the door opened and bright sunlight flooded the little chamber, shining straight into her eyes
and blinding her.

‘Now then, maid, what are you doing here in my loft?’

She wriggled away from him, deeper into the hay, staring at him with alarm. From here, in the darker recesses, she could see
little. The opening was a blinding whiteness beyond the fine green-yellow hay. There was nothing there except a confusing
whirl of dancing motes. They glittered before her, and she could feel them catching at the back of her throat, making her
cough. Eyes watering, she tried to blink them away as she gazed forward in the direction of the voice.

And then the air cleared as the air gusted through the room and she could see him.

He was an older man, grizzled and bent like a miner, with a bush of beard and eyes of bright blue that twinkled as he smiled. Just now he wore a felt cap to cover his old locks, and he appeared to realise that it hid his face, so he slowly took it
off. He looked the sort of man who would be very thoughtful, she thought; the sort who would smile a lot.

‘Come now, I won’t hurt you. You can’t stay up here, though.’

The events of the previous day came back with an awful clarity. Her lover had spurned her, and even when he heard her as he
was leaving the city, he had ridden off as though he was scared of her or something. It was awful. That hog-faced bitch he
lived with must have soured his feelings towards her. There was no telling what she might have said to him last night. No
one could know what a man and woman spoke of in their chamber, and it was plain enough that the woman would have done all
she could to poison Matthew and Jen’s relationship.