‘Oh! The inquest into the body up the lane? I was with the two girls who found the corpse. Poor things. One didn’t stop running till she got back here. The skull rolled from the grave, you understand, down towards her.’ He reflected. ‘The skull was only small. I’d imagine the body was that of a child.’
‘It is always terrible to find a child who has been murdered,’ Edgar said. He nodded and introduced himself. ‘I am Edgar, servant to Sir Baldwin Furnshill.’
‘I am Miles Houndestail,’ his companion said. ‘Pardoner.’
‘Ah,’ Edgar said, more coldly. Pardoners were disreputable characters in his mind.
‘I shan’t sell you anything,’ Houndestail said with a chortle. The girl had returned with his drink, but she remained hovering at his shoulder. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Sir, your stuff – it’s all been moved.’
‘I should apologise,’ said Edgar immediately. ‘My master’s wife wanted privacy so she has taken the room at the back.’
‘I hope she will be comfortable,’ Houndestail said easily. ‘I shall look forward to a new bed which does not involve sharing with Ivo Bel. Odious man!’
With that, he finished his wine, thanked Edgar, and left to seek his clothing and goods.
It was some little while later that another man walked in, and Edgar was convinced that this must be Houndestail’s bedfellow. His petulant expression would have curdled milk.
‘You travelling through here? I’m sick to death of the drunken rioters in this bar. They keep me awake every damned night!’
‘I am here for the Coroner’s inquest,’ Edgar volunteered mildly.
‘Oh, Christ’s bones! You’re one of his entourage, are you? You don’t look like a clerk.’
Edgar ignored his words. They were not spoken with intentional malice, but with a kind of unthinking rudeness.
‘You should tell the Coroner to be careful of Thomas Garde.’
‘Why?’ asked Edgar. The man was sitting near him on the same bench, and he was leaning forward, whispering as though the two were spies.
‘He’s dangerous. Violent. And I have heard that he might have killed the girl. She died just after he came here.’
‘You know whose body it is?’
The man leaned away, sipping his wine. ‘We can guess,’ he shrugged. ‘One girl disappeared just as Garde appeared here. Her name was Aline, the daughter of Swetricus, a local peasant. She was never found.’
‘Who are you?’ Edgar asked.
‘Ivo Bel, Manciple to the nuns at Canonsleigh.’
‘I see.’ Edgar wasn’t surprised. The man had the look of an ascetic. If he was honest, Edgar would say Ivo had the look of a eunuch who would prefer holding parchments in preference to a young, fragrant girl. Edgar, a hot-blooded man, found that difficult to understand.
Bel was shorter than Houndestail. Slim of build, with narrow shoulders under his light cloak, his long nose gave him a singularly lugubrious expression. The first impression he gave was of painful thinness. In fact, with the miserable light thrown by a pair of candles and a few rushlights, the stranger’s features appeared so drawn and cadaverous, Edgar thought they looked almost like a skull.
The girl reappeared in the doorway, then approached. ‘Sir,’ she said falteringly, ‘I have to say sorry, but your things are all in the pantry.’ She shot a look at Edgar and said spitefully, ‘They were thrown from the room.’
Ivo’s face was unmoving, but his voice became chilly. ‘And who did that?’
‘My apologies, friend,’ Edgar said immediately and explained again. ‘My master’s wife wanted somewhere quiet for herself and her child. When we enquired, the innkeeper admitted that he possessed a room. We took it.’
However, the damage was done. Ivo Bel studied the wine in his pot. ‘If your lady is comfortable, that is enough for me,’ he said eventually. ‘I am only glad to have been of service. Pray do not trouble yourself about me.’
His tone was calm, but Edgar could see the cold fury gleaming in his eyes. It made him smile, but at the same time he resolved to keep an eye on this fellow.
It had been a ghost.
Baldwin forced himself to stand and wait until the pounding in his breast was a little calmer, until the rushing in his ears had slowed.
There had been someone there, a figure he remembered from his dream. No, he amended, that was not true. It was not from his dream, but from his past: the body of the fat Prior, the man found in the clearing in the woods near to Crediton, whose death he and Simon had investigated six years ago. Yet the figure today was not so fat, nor was he clad in rich, embroidered things, but in miserable grey, like the poorest churl. Like a leper.
No matter. Baldwin, a proud knight, had wanted to flee, to bolt up the hill to the roadway and human company. He had been petrified by the mere sight of someone standing against a tree. It was pathetic.
Snapping his fingers to Aylmer, he turned his back on the scene and set off to the road, but he had only walked three paces when he glanced down at his dog with a puzzled expression. If the figure had been a ghost, surely his dog should have been scared as well? He had heard that dogs would always hurry away from ghosts, yet Aylmer had apparently noticed nothing.
The hound was frowning up at him as though concerned for his sanity, and Baldwin gave a dry laugh. His breathing was easier now, and his overriding feeling was of shame rather than fear. ‘So there was no ghost, eh? And yet I do not think I shall share this escapade with Jeanne. She would not appreciate the irony.’
Before going to the vill itself, he noticed a freshwater spring and drank from cupped hands. It was refreshingly cool, if slightly brackish, and he drank thirstily before washing his face. Shaking his hands dry, he felt the anxiety drip from him as the sun’s warmth seeped into his frame.
It was ludicrous. Although he could consider the affair logically and rationally, he would not feel completely easy until he was back among the cottages of the vill. There was nothing for him to be afraid of, and yet he was. With an effort, he put the dark shaw from his mind and took in his surroundings.
There was a series of buildings some little distance from the road and he let his feet take him along the puddled track towards them. Most were simple barns and sheds filled with farming tools and equipment, but the furthest was devoted to animals. This was where travellers left their mounts. Even as Baldwin approached, he could see Jeanne’s magnificent Arab being groomed. His own mount stood patiently nearby, reins tied to a metal ring in the door, while the cart horse and Edgar’s animal were tied to a post.
He made sure that they were all being looked after and glanced at the stalls inside. At once a smile spread over his features as he saw the unmistakable brown rounsey with the white star on his forehead.
‘Simon’s here, then,’ he murmured to himself as he sauntered back to the inn. On his way, he noticed the entrance to the little chapel. He was about to pass, but the unsettled feeling was still lying heavily on his spirit, and he craved a moment’s peace and reflection. Calling to Aylmer, he stepped through the gate and up to the chapel’s entrance.
It was a poor little property, built of stone and thatch, but the thatch itself was old and leaked, and streaks of dirt had run down the walls and stained the paintings. The decoration of the ceiling itself was all but wrecked, with the paint falling from it. As Baldwin pushed the door wide, bending in a quick genuflexion as he noticed the altar, he saw that there was a damp mess of leaves and rubbish stuck to the flagstones. All in all, there was a feeling of melancholy and neglect about the building, as though no one cared for it. Even Aylmer was bemused. He stood in the doorway and gazed about him, as though he had no wish to soil his paws.