Munley Priory: A Gothic Story

3

THE eastern hills were rosy in the early dawn light, and overhead the sky retained a tinge of purple. Although it was not uncommon for much of Munley to be awake at cockcrow, on this particular morning in April the regular domestic and agricultural activities had been temporarily suspended in favour of an impromptu gathering in the village square.

An unfortunate young man, lying on his back in the dust, was the centre of attention. He was small in stature, with only the thread-like beginnings of a beard on his chin, and he wore a greatcoat spun of a coarse, dark blue wool that was clearly intended for a much larger man than he. He had also been wearing a moth-eaten tri-corner hat, but this now lay several feet from his person. His skin was very pale, but that was no wonder, for this man was stone dead.

A corpse in the village square was an occasion, and the news had travelled fast. The Earl was there, as was his daughter Anne—much to her father's apparent chagrin—in her scarlet riding habit, along with several inquisitive members of their household. Respectfully apart from them was a cross-section of village folk, numbering about two dozen—shepherds, labourers, housewives, as well as the assorted idlers, loafers and hangers-on, all muttering amongst themselves in ominous tones. Some were children, peering through the adults' legs like monkeys in a cage.

Presiding over the affair like some pompous master of ceremonies was Constable Horace Burke, the buttons on his waistcoat threatening to take flight as he puffed out his chest, snapping at those who came too close to the corpse. Meanwhile, Dr William Marlowe—not a 'morning person' by any means—was feeling quite drowsy as he conducted a tentative post-mortem, his discomfort exacerbated by the fact that he had an audience.

'So does anybody actually know who he is?' William asked, peeling back an eyelid with his thumb.

'Unfortunately no,' said the constable. 'He's not one of ours. A traveller I suppose, although whether he had business here or was simply passing through is anyone's guess.'

'And you've checked his pockets? Was he carrying anything?'

'A few copper coins and a piece of string. He mustn't have come far—he's not exactly provisioned for a journey. That's what's so odd. Well, apart from the fact that he's dead.' He cleared his throat.

'Not necessarily. The lad obviously rode here—look at his boots. And here, the calluses on the palms of his hands. I'd say his supplies are with his horse, which is probably halfway home by now if it's not wandering on the moor somewhere.' The doctor's eyes made a cursory sweep of his surroundings. 'Look hard enough and you might see a hoof print, if they haven't already been trampled over.'

'Yes... yes, you may be right. But that's beside the point. I didn't ask you here so you could play the sleuthhound: you can leave that to me, thank you very much.'

'Then why am I here, Constable? Not to sell myself short, but what ails this man isn't exactly something I can treat.'

A snigger ran through the crowd, one or two appreciating the doctor's black humour.

'Don't be a fool, Marlowe. I want you to tell me how he died.'

'Oh. Well, you should have said.'

The doctor turned up his shirtsleeves and proceeded with his examination. The spectators watched, fascinated, as he inspected the lifeless body for injuries; feeling for bumps on the crown of his head, then giving it a gentle twist to see if the neck was broken. He peered into his eyes and nostrils, and inside his mouth and under his tongue. Leaving the mouth open, he then put an ear to the man's lips and lightly pressed on his sternum, the expulsion of air drawing a murmur of consternation from his audience as the vocal chords gave an unpleasant rattle.