Song of a Dark Angel

mess.' Monck replied.
    'Why was your servant killed?' he asked directly.
    'I don't know,' Monck replied. 'But I blame the Pastoureaux. Cerdic was not the most talkative of men but he was eager as a ferret in searching out gossip. One thing I have established is that he visited the good sisters at the convent. Dame Cecily says that it was only a courtesy call and that Cerdic left just before dusk. Where he went then, or how his decapitated corpse came to be on the beach, I simply don't know.'
    'What happened to his horse?' Corbett asked.
    'God knows! We never found it. But Father Augustine is right. This countryside is a nest of thieves, smugglers, horse-copers and tricksters. Perhaps we should recommend to the king that he send his justices in Eyre to turn over a few stones and squash whatever crawls out.'
    'Is that really necessary?' Selditch snapped. 'Sir Simon is a loyal subject of the Crown. He maintains the king's peace on his lands, but he cannot be held responsible for every one of his tenants or, indeed, for the Pastoureaux.'
    'He allowed them to settle here,' Monck jibed.
    'And they have done no wrong,' Selditch replied flatly.
    'The baker's wife?' Corbett tactfully intervened. 'What was her name?'
    'Fourbour, Amelia Fourbour. The poor thing now lies buried in our churchyard, though whether she's allowed to rest in peace is another matter.'
    'Did you view the corpse?' Corbett asked Selditch.
    'Yes, I did. She died by hanging.'
    'No mark of any other violence.'
    'Such as?'
    'Was she struck on the head? Were her hands pinioned?'
    'No.' Selditch smiled sadly. 'She was brought to the death house and I examined her. Some of the villagers believed she committed suicide. They said a stake should be driven through her heart and she should be buried under the scaffold.'
    'Harsh words for a poor woman,' Corbett observed.
    'Amelia was not local born, she was pretty and she had her airs and graces. And tell me, Sir Hugh, have you ever met a popular baker?'
    Corbett smiled and shrugged.
    'Fourbour's no different,' Selditch continued. 'What he makes others have to buy. With a pretty wife too he was hardly the most popular man in Hunstanton.'
    'Could it have been suicide?' Corbett asked.
    'Perhaps. I viewed the woman's corpse from head to toe. I examined the back of her head but found no contusion. And I found no sign of any opiate or poison.'
    'Nonetheless you think it was murder?'
    'I don't know, of course,' Selditch said. 'But why should a pretty young woman hang herself? Father Augustine asked the same question of his parishioners and, thankfully, Amelia now lies buried in God's acre.'
    'Yet,' Monck interrupted, 'no one else was at the scaffold. No marks of violence, no hoof prints of another horse or boot marks, were detected.'
    Selditch stirred in his chair. 'That is true. But if it was suicide why should someone ride a horse back to the edge of the village, sitting sidesaddle as if it were poor Amelia?'
    'You think it was the murderer who rode the horse back? ' Corbett asked.
    'Yes, I do.'
    The physician's eyes narrowed and Corbett realized that, despite his bluff manner Giles Selditch was a shrewd man, and one not easily swayed by popular opinion.
    'Who saw the horse return?' Corbett asked.
    'Two villagers. They recognized the baker's horse. The rider was sitting sidesaddle. Of course, it was dark and the villagers stood aside, lowering their eyes because, as I have said, neither the baker nor his wife was popular in the village.'
    'Where was this?' Corbett asked.
    'On the trackway just outside Hunstanton. But, before you ask,' Selditch continued, 'by the time the horse entered the village the mysterious rider had disappeared. That's why we think it's murder.' Selditch smiled at the priest. 'I thank you for your support, Father. If it had not been for you, those ignorant buggers would have desecrated the poor woman's corpse even further.'
    'Don't be so harsh,' the priest said. 'Hunstanton is an isolated place and its people live in each other's pockets. What happens in one house is soon known in another. But they are a close and secretive people. I have been here, oh, almost two years, and I am still not fully accepted.'
    'So, you are not from these parts, Father?'
    'No, no, I am not. I was born and raised in Bishop's Lynn.' The priest smiled sourly. 'His Grace the Bishop of Norwich has sent me here for my sins. Now, I really must retire…'
    Monck got to his feet. He stretched till his muscles cracked and yawned