The Malice of Unnatural Death: by Michael Jecks Page A

one which had been stolen.

Dartmoor
    ‘I hope you do not mind my observing,’ Busse said, ‘that you seem to be rather reserved today, Bailiff. In the past you have
always struck me as a happy fellow, but today you are reluctant to speak to me.’
    ‘No, no. I am just thinking about my wife,’ Simon lied. ‘I had been hoping to go straight to her when I was called back to Tavistock. Being sent on this journey was not in my mind.’
    ‘I am sorry, Bailiff. I had no idea. I did not want company myself. It was only the insistence of others that led to my accepting
your escort. I would much rather you returned home, if you wish to, than continued with me to a meetingyou have no desire to witness.’
    ‘I am sure that it is best that you have company on such a long journey,’ Simon said shortly.
    They had left the abbey and crossed the river by the old bridge, then taken the steep lane that rose from Tavistock heading
east and north up to the moors themselves. It was Simon’s intention to cross Dartmoor towards Chagford, and then head east
towards Exeter. They would probably have to take it relatively slowly because the monk was unused to such journeying, but Simon was hopeful that no matter what happened he should be able to return to his home within the week.
    ‘But why? Because I am elderly and infirm? I have been living here on the moors for more than twenty years, Bailiff,’ the
monk declared with a look of bafflement.
    Simon could have snarled with annoyance. The sole reason for his being here was the one which he could not admit: that he
was spying. ‘The moors can be dangerous. You know that.’
    ‘There are many dangers in the world,’ Busse commented, looking about him. There was a furze bush nearby, and he trotted to
it, reaching down and picking some of the brilliant yellow flowers and popping them into his mouth.
    Simon agreed with that, glancing at Busse from the corner of his eye. He had no intention of admitting that he was afraid
of no earthly dangers quite so much as the supernatural, but even as he watched the amiable monk at the gorse bush he was
aware of the spirit of the moors, the spirit of old Crockern. If a man treated the moors disrespectfully, Crockern would take
his revenge. There were many stories of how farmers would seek to change the moorland to suit them, but the moors would always
revert, and the farmerswould be ruined. No man could beat Crockern.
    But for all that, the day was clearing nicely, with the grim clouds floating away, and the sun appearing every so often. Hills
in the distance flashed bright in the light, then darkened as clouds drifted past, and from this higher point Simon could
see the shadows washing over the hills like an ink poured over them. It was a thrilling sight, and one that made his heart
leap for joy. No more sea and arguing sailors, no more John Hawley complaining about the amount of customs due on his imports,
no more bickering between his neighbour and his servant …
    ‘How far is it, then?’
    Simon glanced down at the urchin at his stirrup. ‘I will tell you when we are nearly there,’ he grated. Rob was limping. Simon
had insisted on buying boots for Rob before they tried to cross the moor, but the lad’s feet were unused to them, and Simon
had a feeling that he would take them off before long. He saw no need for such things, when he had never worn them before.
    ‘But how much longer is it?’
    Rob was peering ahead, eyes narrowed as the sun came out again, and suddenly Simon appreciated his interest: this was a lad
who had never before travelled more than perhaps three miles from the house in which he had been born. He was a mere child
when it came to experience of the world, and here he was, anticipating a visit to the largest city for hundreds of miles. He might never see such a place ever again. Although he had no comprehension of the distance to Exeter, he was as excited
as a puppy with its first stick at the thought of it – and probably