The lawman went very white. I watched him, the struggle going on in his head clearly visible in his face. He took one step towards the body, saw the blood and hastily stepped away again. ‘Dead,’ he said, too loudly. Then, turning to the man holding the makeshift stretcher, ‘Go on, then! Pick it up! Don’t just stand there gawping, you’ve got a job to do!’
The man with the hurdle glanced at his companions and they all moved reluctantly towards the body. I took pity on them. It was hard to be expected to show courageous indifference to violent death, especially when your commanding officer so obviously couldn’t. I stepped between them and the corpse, and, bending down, took up a fold of the blood-stained cloak, draping it over the head and shoulders so that the dreadful wound was invisible.
The man with the hurdle gave me a grateful smile. ‘Thanks, miss,’ he muttered.
The four of them bent to their task. They handled the corpse with gentle hands, as if it could still feel.
The lawman was already striding back towards the town.
I waited until the men and their burden had gone. Then I turned to the two lads. ‘Save your fishing for another evening,’ I said. ‘Go home now.’ The lads needed no further instruction, and, as one, broke into a run and headed off; not, I noticed, in the wake of the officer and his men but up another, lesser-used path. It was a less direct route, but had the advantage of allowing them to avoid any further attention from the law. It was a sensible precaution.
I met the eyes of the young man and said quietly, ‘Can you look after her by yourself or do you want me to come with you?’
He stood up a little straighter. ‘I can manage.’
I nodded. Then, holding his gaze, I indicated the lacings on my own gown. For a moment he looked puzzled, then realization dawned and, turning to the girl, hastily he tidied her up. He glanced towards me and gave me a quick grin. ‘Thanks,’ he mouthed. Then, his strong arm round her curvaceous body and her head leaning trustingly against his shoulder, he took her away.
At last.
I stepped over to the place where the body had lain and began the careful search I’d been itching to do since I got there. The lawman should have done it – of course he should – but fate’s hand had sent a man who was squeamish around blood and dead bodies, and his one desire had been to get the corpse back to town and hand over responsibility to someone else. If Jack Chevestrier had been dispatched to the scene, matters would have been very different. I knew, for I had already seen him at work and-
With an effort, I made myself stop thinking about Jack and got on with my task.
I knelt on the grass, careful to tuck my skirts up to avoid the blood, and slowly walked my hands, palm down, all over the area where the body had lain. It was quite easy to identify, for as well as the mind picture I had concentrated on committing to memory while the corpse was still in situ, the grass had been bent and flattened.
The ground held no warmth. This poor soul had been dead some time.
Next I studied the pool of blood. It, too, was cold, and congealing, brownish in colour. Then, on hands and knees with my arse in the air and my face close to the grass, slowly and meticulously I went over the whole area. I didn’t find a thing.
I sat back on my heels. Closing my eyes, once more I conjured up that image of the body and listed everything I knew about it.
It was that of a man; in late middle age, well-fed, plump-faced and clean-shaven, with neatly cut grey hair styled in a bob. He was clad in a costly robe of good wool in a bronze shade, faced with embroidered panels at the collar and the edges of the openings. He wore a hat, pulled down firmly over his brows so that even the violence of his death hadn’t knocked it off. Around his waist was a wide leather belt on which hung a purse and a short dagger in a gold-tooled sheath. His boots were of chestnut leather, supple and new, and there had been divots of muddy grass on the soles, as if he had dug in his heels to stop himself being dragged backwards.
I got up and went to check. Sure enough, a couple of paces away I found two indentations in the grass.
Reluctantly, I pictured the fatal wound. Death would have been pretty quick, and I supposed that was some consolation for the horror of its manner. The man had, I thought, been approached from behind. Feeling himself grabbed in strong arms, he’d have fought briefly, but futilely. Had the assailant turned him round to kill him? I had no way of knowing. The wound was deeper on the left side – where I’d noticed the severed blood vessels – so it had probably been done by a right-handed person, either reaching out as he stood before the victim or curling his arm round the front of the throat if he had stood behind him.
Finally, feeling more than a little queasy, I thought about that murderous hand. Was it a hand? A human hand? I shook my head, for it was dreadful to contemplate. The wound had looked huge as my horrified eyes had gazed down at it, and briefly I’d had wild visions of some nightmarish animal straight out of ancient legend, its murderously long, sharp claws spread on a huge paw, a hybrid of wolf, bear and lion.
But my sensible mind knew that such creatures had no existence outside the old fireside stories.
Did they?
All at once I was struck by the frightful realization that I was standing all by myself at the very spot where a chubby and wealthy townsman had met his appalling death. I was quite a way out of town, and it was rapidly getting dark.
I gathered up my skirts and fled.
Gurdyman was waiting for me when I got in. I was panting hard, sweaty, dishevelled, and still suffering the after-effects of my panic. I was touched to see a swift expression of relief cross his face; he’d been worried about me. Worried enough, I thought, to have abandoned his experiment down in the crypt and come up into the house.
‘I’m quite all right,’ I assured him as he shepherded me along to the little kitchen, where a pot of water was simmering over the hearth.
‘Sit.’ He pointed at the stool in the corner, and I did as he ordered. It was a great relief to rest. He poured water on to the contents of a mug he had set ready – some herbal mixture… I smelt valerian and chamomile – and handed it to me. ‘Drink.’
I blew on it and took a sip. He’d put a lot of honey in it, too. I sipped again.
After a moment, I said, ‘You’re treating me for shock.’
He nodded. ‘Quite so.’
I met his bright blue eyes. ‘How did you know?’
‘I sensed a great upheaval…’ he began in a soft chant. But then he grinned. ‘No I didn’t. But, child, you were summoned at twilight by a lad in a blind panic who said there was a body lying soaked in blood and the healer had to come as fast as she could, so obviously you weren’t summoned to pick daisies.’ He spoke lightly, but his eyes, still on me, were watching me with anxious intensity. ‘Was it bad?’ he asked softly.
I nodded. I went on sipping. The brew was wonderfully comforting, and I was already beginning to feel sleepy. Gurdyman stepped towards me and briefly rested his hand on my shoulder. ‘Go to bed, Lassair. I shall return to my workbench.’ And that’s where I’ll be if you need me, hung unspoken in the air. He trotted off along the passage. ‘We shall talk in the morning,’ his voice floated back.
‘In the morning,’ I repeated softly. Then, my eyelids drooping, I finished the drink, made my brief preparations and then clambered up the ladder that leads to my little attic room above the kitchen. I took off my boots and my outer garments, then fell into bed. Whatever soporific Gurdyman had put in my drink, he’d added it with a generous hand. I was asleep within moments.
The sound of voices woke me. I opened my eyes to see sunshine pouring in through the windows that overlook Gurdyman’s sheltered little inner court. It was full day; my mentor had kindly left me to sleep on.