The Merchant's Partner (5 page)

“Thank heaven you're here! These scum have nothing better to do than see someone else's misfortune. Tanner, get rid of them, will you?”

The constable slowly heaved his bulk from his old horse and patted her neck, looking round at the people. Tanner had the kind of build that inspired respect. Even without a weapon in his hand his poise was somehow threatening, with his stolid and compact body moving slowly as if to prevent two of the great muscles colliding under his skin. Usually the eyes in his square face held a kindly light, but not now: Simon had seen that expression before, on the day that they had caught the trail bastons. Mouth pursed, he looked over the faces with disgust and, under his gaze, there was suddenly a shuffling of feet and nervous coughing. A few turned and began strolling away. Others waited a little as if unconcerned, but soon followed.

The inn had a small screens area, a wooden corridor beyond the door to keep drafts from the hall itself, and beyond a curtain on their right they found a large square room, blocked at the other end by another wooden screen and hanging tapestry. Heavy logs were already crackling and spitting merrily on the hearth in the center of the room. Three large benches crowded round close, so that frozen customers could get to the heat. Though the roof was high above, the room was warm and the atmosphere heavy with the cloying odors of stale beer and wine.

Simon and Baldwin tramped in together, glad to be back in the warm after their journey, and went straight to the fire. Holding their hands to the flames, they followed the innkeeper's finger, pointing at a silent figure sitting with his back to the wall on their left. His face was in the dark, but Simon could see two wide eyes staring back at him. When the flames suddenly spluttered and flared, lighting his face, the bailiff started. The farmer's eyes were wide with terror. A black and
white sheep dog was seated between his legs, head resting in his lap as if trying to comfort him.

“You're Cottey?” asked Baldwin gently, and the ashen-faced farmer nodded. He looked ancient, a tired, drooping and slumped little man.

Tanner moved away, keeping to the shadows so as not to distract them, and pulling the innkeeper with him. At first it seemed to the constable that the knight and bailiff were unsure whether to question Cottey or not, he was so upset. As if to allay any fears he might have, Baldwin slowly seated himself, the bailiff following suit.

“We need to ask you some questions, Cottey. Is that all right?” asked Baldwin, keeping his voice low and soft. “You found a body?”

Nodding, the old man stared at them, then his eyes dropped to the dog at his feet as if in fearful wonder.

“Do you know who it was?”

“Yes.” It was almost a sigh.

“Who?”

“Agatha Kyteler.”

Simon saw his friend start at the name and wondered why as Baldwin continued:

“Did you know her?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know her well?”

The farmer gave him a curious look, as if doubting his reasons for asking, before giving a curt shake of the head.

“Where's her body? Did you bring it back with you?”

“No,” Cottey said, shaking his head. “I left her there. I…I thought I wouldn't be able to lift her. I asked young Greencliff to watch over her. He lives closest.”

Simon sighed. “We were told you thought it was a murder. Why? What made you think that?”

The farmer looked up again and leaned forward, his haggard face moving into the firelight, so that his eyes glittered with a red and yellow madness of anger in the oval face. “Her neck,” he said. “Who can cut their own throat?”

 

Wincing, the Bourc felt that the crick in his neck would never go away as he rose, grunting. The fire was all but gone out, and it took time to tempt it back into life, but when it was blazing, he crouched and bleakly eyed it.

Leaving the hovel, he stood outside for a moment and looked up at the sky, sniffing the air like a seaman. Plainly the cold weather was here to stay for a while, but although the clouds above were thick and heavy, he felt that they should hold off for a day or two. There was a light sprinkling of snow on the ground, but he was fairly sure there would be no more today.

When he glanced over to the south, he could see that the blue-gray moors were almost untouched with white. Except for a few hollows, there was only the merest dusting. As he frowned and considered, a finger of light seemed to gently stroke a hillock directly in front of him, as if pointing out his path.

Nodding with a gesture of decision, he went back inside. He would collect wood first, so that he would have fire in case of bad weather, but for now it was holding. He would make his way over the moors.

R
efusing a jug of ale each, Baldwin and Simon led the way back to their horses. The old farmer agreed to take them to the place where he had found the old woman, and when they heard he had a wagon, they decided to take that and use it to bring the body back. The innkeeper had made sure that the mule had been fed and watered, and it was almost sprightly as it was led round to the front.

The damp chilly atmosphere outside was so sharp and bitter that it was only with a physical wrench that Simon could force himself to leave the warmth of the inn. Once out he found that snow had begun to fall, soft insubstantial flakes dropping thinly from a leaden sky making the fire seem even more appealing. The people at the front of the inn must have thought so too, because they had faded away.

Tugging on his gloves, Simon saw that there were only a few youngsters left, all of whom appeared unwilling to leave while there was a chance of seeing something interesting. He grinned at them good-naturedly as he strode to his horse and swung up, waiting for the others to mount, and while he sat there he
became aware of a girl, standing a little apart and staring at him with large and serious brown eyes. She could only have been ten or eleven years of age, he thought, and gave her a quick flash of a smile. She grinned quickly, but then her eyes dropped, as if in contemplation, before she pursed her lips and turned away. It was sad, he felt, that children were introduced to death while so young, but he knew well that even here many of the children would know relatives who had starved to death in the famine. In any case, what could
he
do about it? Seeing that the other three were ready, he trotted after them toward the right-hand turn, glancing up at the sky with a frown every now and again as he wondered how bad the snow would be.

He rode along silently, watching the farmer. It was his impatience that had made the old man clam up. After he had asked his question, once Cottey had told them about the cut throat, he withdrew from them, his eyes filming over with tears as though he was in fear of something. But of what? There was something he had not told them, Simon was sure of that, and he intended to find out but, to his surprise, the farmer seemed not at all concerned by the three men, hardly even giving them a glance. His concentration was directed solely at the trees all around, eyes darting nervously from one side to the other and then upward, as if he expected to be ambushed.

When he glanced at his friend, he saw that Baldwin was deep in thought too. The name of the old woman had surprised him, Simon knew, and he wondered briefly whether he should interrupt his friend's reflective mood. He decided not to. Baldwin would explain his concerns when he was ready.

The bailiff was right. To have heard the name of the
old woman so soon after hearing it from his friend's son had worried Baldwin. It was too coincidental. If he could believe the Bourc, the main reason for the man's visit was to see and thank her for saving him. There was no reason to suppose that he was involved in her death, surely.

It was only a little over a mile to the edge of the trees, and here the farmer stopped his mule and pointed wordlessly to the gap in the hedge. The knight and the bailiff were soon clambering over it and into the field.

Tanner was surprised that the old man made no effort to drop down with the others. Staring dumbly ahead, he stayed fixed to the wooden seat, reins held ready in his hands, as if daring them to ask him to join them, not even acknowledging his dog as it jumped up onto the wagon and rested its forepaws beside him to peer around. The others were out of earshot, so the constable ambled his horse alongside the older man's, and said quietly, “What's the matter, Sam?”

When the farmer's face turned toward him, he could see the terror. “It's
her,
Stephen.
Her!
Why did it have to be me as found her?”

Looking at him, Tanner was about to ask what he meant when Simon called him from the hedge. Nodding at the bailiff, he said, “Wait here, Sam. You'll have to explain all this to us later.” Swinging off his horse, the constable walked to the hedge, clambered up the steep bank and followed the other two into the field.

The snow was falling more freely now, thick clumps dropping and settling gently, making the whole area seem calm and peaceful, but the constable was not fooled, he knew only too well how dangerous the apparently soft white feathers could be to the unwary. It
was not this, though, that made him frown. He had known the Cottey family for many years—Samuel, his brother, their children—and knew them to be sturdy, stolid folk. He had never known any of them to display such fear, not even back in the past when they were all younger, when Sam and he had fought as men-at-arms together. Why should he be so upset at the death of an old woman?

Simon and Baldwin were a few yards away, walking toward a tall youth dressed in a russet tunic and woollen hose, with a thick red blanket over his shoulders, pinned like a short cloak. A heavy-looking, wooden handled knife was at his waist. Tanner recognized him immediately: Harold Greencliff.

The knight had not met him before. Greencliff was a tall, fair-haired, good-looking youth in his early twenties, broad in the shoulder with a friendly and open face browned by the wind. Wide-set blue eyes glowed with health from either side of the long, straight nose. But today they were nervous and almost shifty, not meeting the knight's gaze. From his clothes he was not poor, but neither was he wealthy. He had bright eyes, and looked quite sharp, but the knight did not judge him by that alone. He knew too many fools, who at first sight looked intelligent, to trust to his first impression.

In his hands the boy held a shepherd's crook, and his fingers moved along the stave as he watched them approach with a trepidation that Baldwin could not understand. It seemed odd that a corpse should create so much fear—first with old Sam Cottey, now with this boy. He shrugged. There must be a reason, and he was sure to hear of it before long.

“You're Greencliff?” he asked.

“Yes,” he said, peering over Baldwin's shoulder at the bailiff and constable.

“Wake up, lad!” said the knight irritably. “You're looking after the body of this old woman for Cottey, is that right? Where is she, then?”

Silently Greencliff turned and pointed to the hedge that led at right angles to the road to keep his sheep from going into the woods beyond. There, in the darkness under the plants, they could make out a small bundle. To Simon it looked like a bundle of dirty rags lying in the space made by a fox or badger path, in the gap between two stems of the hedge itself, lying half under the plants, half in the field. He and the knight walked toward it, leaving Greencliff standing, nervously fiddling with his crook, Tanner imperturbable beside him. The two walked to the body, pausing three or four yards from it.

“Did you touch her?” Simon called back to him, frowning concentration on his face.

“No, sir, no. Soon as old Sam told me she was here, I came and stood where you saw me. I didn't want to see her.”

Glancing back, Baldwin nodded. He could see that the boy's footsteps had flattened a small area of grass, but no steps came from there, showing that the boy had been there when it began to snow and had not moved from there since. “Did you hear anyone this morning? See anyone?”

“No, sir.”

“What about last night? Did you see or hear anything strange?”

“No, sir. Nothing.”

His face was anxious, as if he was desperate to convince, and after holding his gaze for a moment, Bald
win nodded again, then cocked an eyebrow at the bailiff and pointed with his chin. “No tracks, Simon. We'll never be able to see if anyone came here last night. At least no one has been here since it began snowing.”

He was right. There was no mark to upset the snow that now lay almost half an inch thick on the ground, the heavily cropped grass just poking above the surface. Shrugging, Baldwin walked the last few yards to the body.

It lay partly under the hedge, face down. The lower half projected back into the field, while the head and torso were shielded under the protection of the plants and free of snow. They could see the black of the old woman's upper garments.

“Wait,” said Baldwin and stepped forward slowly to crouch, his dark eyes flitting over the ground, along either side of the body, back the way they had come, up to the hedge, then back to the inert figure itself. When he spoke, his voice was a murmur. “The weather has been so cold there's no mark on the ground: it's too hard. Even if there were, the snow would have covered them. I don't think even a hunter could see a spoor under this.”

Simon nodded, dropping to a knee and peering back the way they had come, past Tanner and Greencliff to the hedge that bordered the road. Their own footsteps were distinct, flattened prints in the snow, but the snow had started while they were inside the inn. Now he could not even see Cottey's marks from when he had first seen the body. Glancing back at the knight, he asked, “Could she have come from the woods? Through the hedge?”

“No. No, I don't think so,” came the pensive reply as
the knight peered up. “Look. The twigs aren't broken. No, it looks like she fell from this side. Maybe she died right here.” He chewed his lip and considered. “Let's see her face. Simon, come on. Help me move her.”

The bailiff gave an unwilling grimace. This was the part he loathed, the first shock of seeing the corpse, of seeing the wound that killed. Sighing, he tentatively took hold of the body by the hips while Baldwin carefully moved up, taking the shoulders and rolling her over. He suddenly pulled back and exclaimed “God!”

“What?” said Simon, nervously shooting him a glance.

Baldwin stared back, his shock slowly giving way to a quickening interest. “I'm not surprised he was upset! He was right when he said the throat was cut—her head's almost off her shoulders!”

They carefully carried the figure a few yards away from the hedge and set it down on the snow-covered grass. Slowly shaking his head, Simon stood, hands on hips, while Baldwin knelt and studied the body carefully. The bailiff stared down at the sad little collection of cloth and flesh, thinking how pathetic it looked, this sorry little mass that had been a person—if only a villein. He was still staring when Baldwin rose.

“Whoever did this wanted to make sure. As Cottey said, she couldn't have done this to herself.”

Looking down, Simon could see what he meant. The bones were still connected, but the flesh was cut so deeply that the yellow cartilage of the windpipe could be seen as a perfect tube in the sliced meat of her throat. Wincing, the bailiff gasped and turned away, swallowing quickly. Shutting his eyes and taking deep breaths, he gradually soothed the oily feeling of sickness in his belly. He heard the low chuckle of the
knight and the footsteps crunching on the dry snow, but kept his eyes shut a little longer.

“Simon, come and look at this!”

His eyes snapping open, Simon turned and strode away from the body toward the hedge where the knight crouched. At his approach, Baldwin stood, and Simon was surprised to see his puzzled frown. “What is it?”

“Do you see anything strange here?”

The bailiff swallowed. His stomach was still turbulent after his shock, and he was in no mood to play games. He opened his mouth to give a sharp retort when he saw the pensive concentration in the knight's eyes. The words were stopped in his throat and he felt his gaze drop to the area where they had found the body.

Where she had lain, her image remained on the grass and earth. Snow bounded the lines of her legs. None had fallen under her, nor had the frost touched the ground. Apart from some twigs and flattened leaves, he could see nothing. Shrugging he looked up at the knight questioningly. “She was obviously lying here before it snowed,” he hazarded.

“Maybe I'm…” Baldwin broke off, then span and stomped back to the body. Reluctantly the bailiff followed.

Although he tried to avert his eyes, Simon found that they kept returning to the hideous wound, and his belly began to feel like a cauldron of stew on a fire, bubbling and thickening, making him belch. The bile rose to sting his throat, and he winced at the rough acidic taste. The corpse seemed to hold no fears for the knight, who took the head in both hands and turned it first one way, then the other, peering into the gash and at the yellowed cartilage of the severed pipes. He
stared at the blue, pinched and drawn features, into the unseeing misty eyes, before rising again and frowning down, slowly walking round the body and contemplating it with his head on one side.

“I saw this woman on Saturday,” he said softly. “I didn't know her name then. She was just some old woman on the road. I've never even spoken to her, and now I must find out who murdered her.” He stopped his musing and looked up at Simon. “Sad, isn't it?”

“Oh…yes.”

The knight gave a short grin. “That's not the point, though, Simon. Sad it may be, but there's something wrong here. Can't you see? She had her throat cut. She must have bled like a stuck pig! So where's the blood? Eh?”

 

For all Greencliff's nervousness, Tanner was pleased to see that he was happy enough to help carry the corpse back to the wagon while Simon and Baldwin subjected the hedge to a close scrutiny. The boy even took the blanket from his shoulders and helped the constable wrap it around the thin, frail figure, setting it beside her and rolling her into it, but while the constable took the shoulders, he could not help but notice the way that Greencliff's eyes kept going back to the gap in the hedge where Agatha Kyteler had lain.

The old constable had seen many corpses in his life, brutally wounded figures after a battle, men who had bled to death after their limbs were hacked off or who suffered slow and painful deaths from stabs to the stomach, and the sad, tortured bodies of the people that tried to cross the moors in bad weather. For him, they were the worst, their hands contorted into grasping claws as they tried to drag themselves those few extra
yards to safety, their faces twisted and staring with anguish, even in death. He was understanding of people who were revolted by the sights, although he bore them with equanimity, but he was faintly surprised that Greencliff should be so calm in the face of his previous apparent fear.