Ninian’s camp. Then, the next night, the temperature had gone down sharply and Joanna’s pity had led her to take that great risk of bringing a strange man into the shelter of her secret hiding-place.
The Sheriff said aggressively, ‘So? What of it?’
Josse suppressed a sigh. ‘Then this woman must have been lying here for three days. At least.’
‘How can you be sure?’ demanded the Sheriff.
‘Because she must have gone in when the pond was water,’ Josse said patiently. ‘Which was either three days ago, when the weather relented a little, or some time before that.’ He glanced down at the body. ‘I would doubt, however, that she has been here long.’
‘Got a scrying glass, have you?’ the Sheriff asked nastily, raising a few more guffaws, although Josse doubted very much if many of the men knew what a scrying glass was; he was quite surprised that the Sheriff did.
‘No. I don’t need one,’ he replied. He pointed to the corpse’s abdomen, touching it gently. ‘There’s no bloating, whereas, if she’d been here much longer than three days, she would have begun to swell up.’ He had observed such things in battlefield corpses. It was one reason for burying your dead quickly; corpses became progressively more unpleasant to deal with if you delayed.
‘Got any bright ideas as to how we’re going to get her out, have you?’ Sheriff Pelham asked caustically; he was, Josse noticed, getting more irascible the more his weaknesses were exposed. But it was so difficult not to expose them …
Josse had drawn his sword and, using the point of the hilt as a mallet, was gently cracking the ice around the corpse’s head and shoulders, making attractive star patterns on the smooth surface. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘we might be able to release her fairly easily. The pond’s not frozen solid, it’s only the first few inches.’
Observing what he was doing, one or two of the brighter men came to help. Soon, the ice around the upper part of the corpse was shattered into a hundred fragments and Josse and his two assistants were able to extract the old woman from her frozen tomb.
Her face, Josse noticed as he turned her over on to her back, was badly bruised …
She must have banged her face on the ice,’ Sheriff Pelham observed, leaning over Josse’s shoulder and breathing open-mouthed into his ear.
‘Think again,’ Josse said. ‘If she fell when the pond was iced over, she wouldn’t have been down there beneath the surface, frozen into it.’
Momentarily, the Sheriff was silenced.
Rapidly Josse inspected the rest of the corpse. As well as the bruised face – the nose had taken a direct hit, and, as he gently probed inside the mouth, he saw what looked like a recently-broken tooth – she had damage to both hands.
Josse held the dead hands in his.
Pity surging through him, he realised that someone had deliberately broken two fingers on each of the dead woman’s hands.
He laid her head down again and, on the sloping bank, she rolled over until she was lying face-down.
And Josse saw, on the back of the carefully-laundered white cap, a clear boot print.
Someone had savagely beaten her, then dragged her to the pond and held her head under the water with a foot until she died.
Why the beating? To what purpose had somebody tortured her like that?
Why, he answered himself, were people usually tortured in this wicked world? To make them tell you something that they knew and you didn’t. Something that you badly wanted to know.
Oh, God, Josse thought.
‘When you’ve quite finished,’ the Sheriff said from just behind him, ‘we’d better see about taking this here into town for disposal.’
Disposal.
‘You’ve got a murder on your hands,’ Josse said softly. ‘Didn’t you realise?’
‘Murder my arse!’ The Sheriff spat on to the frosty grass. ‘She went to get water, slipped, bashed her head and fell in the water.’ He put his face up close to Josse’s and added with quiet
The Sheriff said aggressively, ‘So? What of it?’
Josse suppressed a sigh. ‘Then this woman must have been lying here for three days. At least.’
‘How can you be sure?’ demanded the Sheriff.
‘Because she must have gone in when the pond was water,’ Josse said patiently. ‘Which was either three days ago, when the weather relented a little, or some time before that.’ He glanced down at the body. ‘I would doubt, however, that she has been here long.’
‘Got a scrying glass, have you?’ the Sheriff asked nastily, raising a few more guffaws, although Josse doubted very much if many of the men knew what a scrying glass was; he was quite surprised that the Sheriff did.
‘No. I don’t need one,’ he replied. He pointed to the corpse’s abdomen, touching it gently. ‘There’s no bloating, whereas, if she’d been here much longer than three days, she would have begun to swell up.’ He had observed such things in battlefield corpses. It was one reason for burying your dead quickly; corpses became progressively more unpleasant to deal with if you delayed.
‘Got any bright ideas as to how we’re going to get her out, have you?’ Sheriff Pelham asked caustically; he was, Josse noticed, getting more irascible the more his weaknesses were exposed. But it was so difficult not to expose them …
Josse had drawn his sword and, using the point of the hilt as a mallet, was gently cracking the ice around the corpse’s head and shoulders, making attractive star patterns on the smooth surface. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘we might be able to release her fairly easily. The pond’s not frozen solid, it’s only the first few inches.’
Observing what he was doing, one or two of the brighter men came to help. Soon, the ice around the upper part of the corpse was shattered into a hundred fragments and Josse and his two assistants were able to extract the old woman from her frozen tomb.
Her face, Josse noticed as he turned her over on to her back, was badly bruised …
She must have banged her face on the ice,’ Sheriff Pelham observed, leaning over Josse’s shoulder and breathing open-mouthed into his ear.
‘Think again,’ Josse said. ‘If she fell when the pond was iced over, she wouldn’t have been down there beneath the surface, frozen into it.’
Momentarily, the Sheriff was silenced.
Rapidly Josse inspected the rest of the corpse. As well as the bruised face – the nose had taken a direct hit, and, as he gently probed inside the mouth, he saw what looked like a recently-broken tooth – she had damage to both hands.
Josse held the dead hands in his.
Pity surging through him, he realised that someone had deliberately broken two fingers on each of the dead woman’s hands.
He laid her head down again and, on the sloping bank, she rolled over until she was lying face-down.
And Josse saw, on the back of the carefully-laundered white cap, a clear boot print.
Someone had savagely beaten her, then dragged her to the pond and held her head under the water with a foot until she died.
Why the beating? To what purpose had somebody tortured her like that?
Why, he answered himself, were people usually tortured in this wicked world? To make them tell you something that they knew and you didn’t. Something that you badly wanted to know.
Oh, God, Josse thought.
‘When you’ve quite finished,’ the Sheriff said from just behind him, ‘we’d better see about taking this here into town for disposal.’
Disposal.
‘You’ve got a murder on your hands,’ Josse said softly. ‘Didn’t you realise?’
‘Murder my arse!’ The Sheriff spat on to the frosty grass. ‘She went to get water, slipped, bashed her head and fell in the water.’ He put his face up close to Josse’s and added with quiet
Similar Books
