Read Online Satan in St Mary by Paul C. Doherty - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Paul C. Doherty
Ads: Link
face of the bailiff was almost a whitish green and even the labourers had moved away.
The bundle they had disinterred lay upon the rim of the ditch, Corbett took out his dagger and, holding his cloak firmly over his nose and mouth, began to slit the cheap, soggy canvas covering. The corpse lay as it must have been before it was bundled up and dragged through the streets on a crude sledge to be buried in the dirt and slime of the city ditch. It was naked except for a loincloth, all the clothes and jewellery had been stripped from it, probably, Corbett guessed, by the bailiff and the labourers. The stench, even after a few days, was rank and offensive and he had to stop himself gagging as he studied the corpse. The eyes were shut but the mouth sagged open, the tongue still caught between the teeth, the skin was dirty white, puffed and damp, the belly slightly swollen. He studied the purple weal around the dead man's neck and the violet bruise just under the left ear where the noose knot had been tied. There were no other marks of violence about the man except for faint purplish bruises on both the man's arms just above the elbows. He then took careful note of the man's height and, with a sigh of relief, got to his feet.
The bailiff approached. "Are you finished?" he asked.
Corbett nodded. "Yes, bury him. "
The bailiff turned and shouted an order to the labourers and, within minutes, the corpse was dumped back and covered in mud. Corbett picked up a piece of wood, snapped it in two and then lashed them together with a piece of rotten rope to form a crude cross, which he stuck in the mud where Duket was buried.
The bailiff objected. "The man was a suicide!" he spluttered. "He does not deserve a hallowed burial!"
"The man was not a suicide, " Corbett retorted, weary
with the day's work. "And even if he was, he was still a man. " He delved into his purse and handed over some coins. "Your work is finished. You may go. "
The bailiff was going to object but he looked at the clerk's tense face, remembered the powerful warrant he carried, and so kept silent, pocketed the coins and, calling over to the two labourers, turned and trudged back to the city.
Corbett watched them go and, making the crude cross secure, began to recite the Psalm for the dead. "Out of the depths, I have cried to thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice. " Above him, a crow wheeled cawing raucously and Corbett wondered, not for the first time in his life, if the prayer could be heard and, even if it was, did it really matter?
Corbett returned to his lodgings later that day, took out his writing-tray, inkhorn, quill, pumice stone and roll of cheap parchment. This he cleaned methodically turning the rough vellum into a smooth writing surface before beginning to write down carefully the conclusions he had reached on examining Duket's body earlier in the day.
First, the corpse bore the usual marks of a hanged man. The deep red weal of the cord round his neck and secondly, the purple or violet bruise under the left ear. But what were the marks on his arms? The bruises just above the elbow? And how did they get there? Corbett put his pen down. The bruises could, he thought, have come from the fight Duket had with Crepyn in Cheapside, but it would have been the most remarkable of coincidences if Crepyn had managed to strike Duket on both forearms exactly in the same place. Moreover, the palms of Duket's hands were white and unmarked. Surely a man who was slowly choking to death would at least try in the throes of his death agonies to grasp the rope, perhaps even loosen the cord round his neck?
Finally and most importantly, Corbett thought, how could Duket have hanged himself from the chair? He had measured Duket's body and compared it to the rough measurements he had taken in Saint Mary Le Bow. A child could see the difference. Duket was too small to reach the bar. True, he could have thrown the rope over the bar but how did he secure the knot? Corbett thought back
The bundle they had disinterred lay upon the rim of the ditch, Corbett took out his dagger and, holding his cloak firmly over his nose and mouth, began to slit the cheap, soggy canvas covering. The corpse lay as it must have been before it was bundled up and dragged through the streets on a crude sledge to be buried in the dirt and slime of the city ditch. It was naked except for a loincloth, all the clothes and jewellery had been stripped from it, probably, Corbett guessed, by the bailiff and the labourers. The stench, even after a few days, was rank and offensive and he had to stop himself gagging as he studied the corpse. The eyes were shut but the mouth sagged open, the tongue still caught between the teeth, the skin was dirty white, puffed and damp, the belly slightly swollen. He studied the purple weal around the dead man's neck and the violet bruise just under the left ear where the noose knot had been tied. There were no other marks of violence about the man except for faint purplish bruises on both the man's arms just above the elbows. He then took careful note of the man's height and, with a sigh of relief, got to his feet.
The bailiff approached. "Are you finished?" he asked.
Corbett nodded. "Yes, bury him. "
The bailiff turned and shouted an order to the labourers and, within minutes, the corpse was dumped back and covered in mud. Corbett picked up a piece of wood, snapped it in two and then lashed them together with a piece of rotten rope to form a crude cross, which he stuck in the mud where Duket was buried.
The bailiff objected. "The man was a suicide!" he spluttered. "He does not deserve a hallowed burial!"
"The man was not a suicide, " Corbett retorted, weary
with the day's work. "And even if he was, he was still a man. " He delved into his purse and handed over some coins. "Your work is finished. You may go. "
The bailiff was going to object but he looked at the clerk's tense face, remembered the powerful warrant he carried, and so kept silent, pocketed the coins and, calling over to the two labourers, turned and trudged back to the city.
Corbett watched them go and, making the crude cross secure, began to recite the Psalm for the dead. "Out of the depths, I have cried to thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice. " Above him, a crow wheeled cawing raucously and Corbett wondered, not for the first time in his life, if the prayer could be heard and, even if it was, did it really matter?
Corbett returned to his lodgings later that day, took out his writing-tray, inkhorn, quill, pumice stone and roll of cheap parchment. This he cleaned methodically turning the rough vellum into a smooth writing surface before beginning to write down carefully the conclusions he had reached on examining Duket's body earlier in the day.
First, the corpse bore the usual marks of a hanged man. The deep red weal of the cord round his neck and secondly, the purple or violet bruise under the left ear. But what were the marks on his arms? The bruises just above the elbow? And how did they get there? Corbett put his pen down. The bruises could, he thought, have come from the fight Duket had with Crepyn in Cheapside, but it would have been the most remarkable of coincidences if Crepyn had managed to strike Duket on both forearms exactly in the same place. Moreover, the palms of Duket's hands were white and unmarked. Surely a man who was slowly choking to death would at least try in the throes of his death agonies to grasp the rope, perhaps even loosen the cord round his neck?
Finally and most importantly, Corbett thought, how could Duket have hanged himself from the chair? He had measured Duket's body and compared it to the rough measurements he had taken in Saint Mary Le Bow. A child could see the difference. Duket was too small to reach the bar. True, he could have thrown the rope over the bar but how did he secure the knot? Corbett thought back
Similar Books
