The Malice of Unnatural Death: (18 page)

‘I was born in Langatre in Kent. I suppose I arrived here in Exeter about ten years ago, and I’ve been plying my trade here
ever since, although it was only two years ago that I learned the deeper, more subtle arts, and that was when I took on the
house down the street.’

‘The dead boy?’

‘Oh, God! Don’t remind me! Poor lad! I don’t know how I’m going to tell his mother about this!’

‘Tell us first, then,’ the coroner rumbled, unconvinced. Like Baldwin, he had seen too many felons deny their crimes and then
burst into tears in an attempt to evade punishment.

‘Gladly, lordings. I was in my workshop when there was a knock. I heard it distinctly, and heard my fellow go to answer it. I was involved in some important work at the time, making a special potion for a client, and could not pay attention. Well, I heard this strange tapping, as though someone was knocking on my workshop door, but ignored it, because Hick knows –
knew
– not to interrupt me when I was working, and then, as I was carrying my alembic to cool, someone dropped a noose about my
neck and tried to draw it tight.’

Baldwin motioned with his hand and Richard de Langatre shrugged, lifted his cowl, and opened the front of his tunic.

Immediately Baldwin was struck with the similarity of his wound to the one on the king’s messenger at the South Gate. ‘You
saw his face?’

‘No. He was behind me all the time. I don’t mind telling you both, it was a terrifying experience. I thought I would
surely die!’

‘Why didn’t you? He was pulling hard,’ Coroner Richard commented.

‘I know that well enough! He was pulling so hard, I couldn’t even get a nail under the cord.’

That much was true. Baldwin could see where he’d tried to jam a finger under the weapon: there were several scrape marks where
his nails had scrabbled. ‘What did you do?’

‘I destroyed a perfectly good alembic … lost a valuable potion, rot his soul! I swung it over my head at his, and I fancy
he’ll be well scalded by now.’

‘He shouldn’t try to rob people, then, should he?’ the coroner growled.

‘What then?’ Baldwin pressed him.

‘When I was free, I grabbed for a knife, but he saw me and kicked me in the belly. God, but it hurt! Well, as soon as I could
get up again, I realised he’d fled. I grabbed a weapon just in case, and went out, and that was when I almost fell over poor Hick’s body. He was just lying there, right by the door. And he’d been attacked in the same manner, with something round his
neck – a leather thong, I think.

‘Well, I wanted to call for help, so I went to the door and threw it wide, but when I did so, I couldn’t speak! No one could
hear me, and I had to wave my hands about and make a fuss before anyone noticed me. And when they did, the damned fools thought I’d gone mad. When they saw poor Hick lying there dead, they assumed I must have killed him myself, and they looked on me
as a dangerous madman! I was going mad, to think that the killer had escaped and might even now be hiding about the place,
so I tried to explain, and then tried to go to find him, but all I got was a
poke in the ribs from some cretin with a staff, and then a crack on my head to keep me quiet. Then the bastards wanted to
put me in the gaol! When my voice is back, I shall have words with that man. Bloody Elias!’

His voice had dropped, and now it petered out altogether. He swallowed painfully once more, and took a long pull of the strong
ale which Coroner Richard had ordered. ‘The bastard will be long gone now, I suppose.’

‘Perhaps so,’ Coroner Richard agreed, ‘but in all of this, who do you know who is enough of an enemy to hire a man to kill
your boy and then try to kill you? What on earth would someone gain by killing you?’

‘You think it was a paid assassin?’ Langatre asked, visibly paling.

‘Hard to see who else it could have been,’ the coroner said imperturbably. ‘Surely you’d have known who it was, if it was
someone who hated you that much, eh?’

‘I never saw his face.’

‘You don’t need to, do you? The smell of a man’s coat, his sweat, his breath … if it was someone you knew well, you’d
have recognised him, sure enough.’

‘Perhaps, and perhaps not,’ Baldwin said. ‘However, I am intrigued by something I was told. The people opposite your house
stated that they heard a scream and as a result people began to flock to your door.’

‘That must have been when I hit him with the alembic,’ Langatre guessed.

‘So I would presume.’ Baldwin nodded. ‘But in that case, it is scarcely likely that he ran away from the house. A man appearing,
dripping with some foul concoction of yours, and clearly badly scalded, would have excited some comment, I think, unless your
street is very different from all the others
I know. He alerted the neighbours with his scream, according to your story. How else could he have escaped from the place?’

‘Well, he couldn’t. I only have a small house, and there’s no way out at the back.’

Baldwin was suddenly tense. ‘You mean there is no exit at all from the rear?’

‘No. Nothing.’

‘In that case, we should hurry back there! The man might still be inside the house!’

The beadle was surprised to see them all back so soon, and he eyed the necromancer with suspicion. ‘I thought you were going
to take him to the gaol for me?’

‘Complain to the sheriff,’ Coroner Richard snapped. ‘Have you searched the house?’

‘Searched the … no! Why?’

‘Because the murderer may still be here,’ Baldwin said sharply. ‘Come!’

Leaving the nervous beadle at the door gripping his staff with both hands as though clinging to it for life itself, Baldwin
and the others walked inside. Once over the threshold, Baldwin rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, and looked to Langatre.

The man was staring down at the body on the ground at their feet still, but he nodded grimly, and led the way into his workshop.
‘This is where he attacked me.’

Baldwin could see the mess where the alembic had been smashed. There was a foul odour of mustiness and sourness, much of which
came from the pool of solidifying stuff among the shards of pottery.

The room was a good size, but the accumulation of
curiosities had made it appear to shrink. There were shelves along one wall, filled with various forms of herb. Above their
heads were gathered dried and wilted leaves, while a table groaned under the weight of skulls and parts of dissected animals. Another table held the tools of his trade: there was a needle, a staff, a sword – all strange items that stank with the same
smell.

‘What is that foul odour?’ Coroner Richard demanded, picking up a black tunic with strange symbols on it and sniffing at it
doubtfully. He drew it away from his face with a wince. ‘Christ’s bones, that is foul!’

‘Do not blaspheme!’ Langatre hissed. ‘You have no idea how dangerous such behaviour can be in a place like this! I depend
upon God’s good mercy to protect me when I am working. I will not have myself endangered because of a coroner’s insolence.’

‘Fine – but what is that smell?’

‘I have to fumigate all the instruments before I can conjure up … it is just to cleanse everything, that is all.’

‘It smells disgusting.’

‘I seem to remember I thought the same the first time I smelled it. When you become a wise man like me, you tend not to notice
such things any more.’

‘Rots your nose, does it?’ the coroner observed, and walked about poking at things periodically, before grunting to himself
that there wasn’t space for a man to hide in there, and leaving the room.

‘Is he always like this?’ Langatre asked, watching him go.

‘N-o-o. Today he is being well behaved and inclined to kindness,’ Baldwin answered honestly. He gazed about him. ‘Is there
anything missing in here?’

‘Look, what would a man take from …’ Langatre noticed
Baldwin’s cold expression, and decided that his words could be saved. He made a show of walking about the place, casting an
eye over the tables, but it was only when he was almost back at Baldwin’s side that his face took on a frown. ‘That’s strange
…’

‘What is gone?’

‘My daggers. I have two knives – one black-handled, one white. They’re used in some of the magic preparations … they were
here, but … my hat! Where’s my hat? There was a white leather hat here when I was taken by that moronic beadle!’

He was at a table far from the door. Baldwin glanced at it, then at the mess on the floor where the alembic had smashed. ‘You
were here? So after he attacked you, this man would have had to step over you to steal them? Could he have done?’

‘No! There is no possible way … but why would anyone want them?’

It took little time to search the rest of the house. The place was small, with a larder and buttery opposite the door to his
main room. At the far end of the building was a narrow wooden staircase which led up to the solar area. Warily, Baldwin left
his sword sheathed, but pulled out his dagger, and cautiously ascended.

The chamber was a tiny space up in the eaves. Here the smoke from the fire rose and tainted all with the scent of charred
logs and tar. Gripping his dagger, Baldwin climbed quickly inside. There was a palliasse on the floor with some blankets thrown
messily to one side, and a small chest stood in the angle of the wall. Baldwin gazed about him, but there was nothing to see. No one could hide in this small space without being instantly spotted.

He returned to the ladder, and began to climb down again,
but there was something that caught his attention: a faint odour catching at his nostrils. Stopping, he hesitated, and then
climbed back.

‘What is it?’ the coroner called.

‘He was up here.’

Matthew was too unsettled to sit and drink. He went out into his court and, crossing over it, entered his kennels.

The dogs were slumberous after a long run with their master that afternoon, and although some eyes opened, and four tails
twitched, there was little more by way of acknowledgement.

It was impossible to concentrate. His wife was lying to him, going and visiting that damned magician, just at the time when
it was vital that they were quiet and avoided any such people. She was in enough trouble because of her family, and he was
in a potentially lethal position because of this affair of the necromancer from Coventry. There was little he could do to
control matters. They were controlling him.

At least there was one thing he could do. It would cause some anger when she heard what he had done, but he couldn’t explain
why it was so perfect. He had ordered that fellow Langatre to be arrested on suspicion of killing his servant. That was fine,
but the man wouldn’t be held for long, unless Matthew could continue to have him removed from the city entirely. And how better
than to have him sent to the king to be questioned in case he had any part in the assassination attempt. Yes, Matthew would
have him gaoled here, and send a man to take a message to the king.

Where were they? Langatre should have been here by
now. The sheriff walked to the door, but there was no sign of the beadles who should have been bringing him to the gaol. No
matter. They wouldn’t be long. No. He turned back to his hounds and scratched a bitch behind the ears.

Send Langatre to the king, and it would divert attention. And his wife would not be going out to see him any more.

Two birds.

Simon gathered a massive pile of leaves by the simple expedient of kicking them into a heap. Here the wood was thickly laden
with them so soon after the trees had shed them all, and in a short time he had several mounds ready to be used.

‘Are you finished?’ he called to Busse.

The monk was throwing fronds of fern atop the shelter, panting slightly with the unaccustomed labour. ‘Nearly.’

Simon walked to him and eyed the structure consideringly. It had grown into a shelter of some four feet wide by seven long,
with a thick layer of greenery cast over it, so that it would be hard to see any of the wood that made up its walls and roof. He lined up some of the fronds more tidily, but then nodded to himself and started gathering great armfuls of leaves to bring
back and throw over the shelter. He had to repeat the action many times before he was content, for he knew that to give them
protection from the chill the leaves must be a good three feet thick, if he could manage it.

‘That should be enough,’ he said at last.

‘Thanks be to God,’ Busse said, and flopped onto the ground.

By some great good fortune the snow had only fallen
thinly so far, and now there was a fine crust over all, like a morning’s frost. It was a relief to Simon, because he still
had time to make a fire. It was essential, as he knew, that they should have heat. All of them were shivering even with their
thickest clothes on. It was Rob in particular that Simon was worried about. He had little in the way of decent clothing, and Simon was anxious for him.

He had built a pile of twigs and branches, and now he pulled his tinder from his shirt and set it on a platform of thicker
twigs. Taking his steel, he struck at it with the reverse of his knife’s blade, striking sparks and watching as carefully
as he might. It was hard work, for the sparks blinded him in the gathering darkness, and he was unable to see the gleam of
the tinder catching. Usually he was quick to strike a light, but tonight, with his fingers frozen and his belly empty, it
took longer. Yet at last there was a small yellow-orange mote glistening, and Simon picked up the ball of tinder and began
to blow carefully, softly at first, then more strongly. It took some minutes, but then, suddenly, he had a small explosion,
and the middle of the tinder flared.

Setting it down, he began to set small twigs over it, and as they glowed and flamed he set slightly thicker twigs over them,
until he had to break twigs urgently to keep up. Then, at last, he started to use thicker stems and set them about the fire
until it represented a cone, the outside twigs all pointing upwards. Now, he felt comfortable enough to let Rob see to it. The boy lit the fire each day in Simon’s house at Dartmouth.