The Fool's Folly: A serial killer is at large at the court of Richard III (Sandal Castle Medieval Thrillers Book 2) by Moray Keith

Author:Moray, Keith [Moray, Keith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sapere Books
Published: 2020-05-18T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 8

Giles stood at the entrance to the dovecote and looked down at the body. He had told Will about their discovery of the body of the priest.

Will shook his head. ‘I had thought that Wakefield was a peaceful town until now, with this spate of murders.’

Giles rubbed his temple, for his head was beginning to throb. He pointed at the body. ‘Is it definitely Jasper Hirst?’

‘It is, my lord,’ Will replied. ‘Constable Toliver knew him well, as did Constable Crofton. They told me about him on the way here. He had a reputation with the ladies.’

Giles cleared his throat, for he found the smell of pigeon guano less than wholesome. ‘So tell me, Will, what do you make of this scene?’

Will took a deep breath. ‘I have looked over the man’s home and examined the carnage that you see before us, and I must admit to being perplexed, my lord.’

‘About what exactly?’

‘About it all. I am no doctor, but the position of the man’s head makes it clear that he has had his neck broken.’ He pointed to the dead pigeons that surrounded the body. ‘Just as these poor birds met their end. They all had their necks wrung. The question is why.’

‘And have you come to any conclusions?’

Will shrugged. ‘I can see no point in this, my lord. Surely it is the work of a madman.’

Giles knelt down by the body and made a cursory inspection. After a few moments he rose. ‘He has a full purse and he has a long dagger in its sheath. His body has not been robbed, if robbery was the motive.’

‘Exactly, my lord,’ Will went on. ‘I found no obvious sign of any robbery in his house, although without having seen his house before there is no way of knowing if anything has been taken. But nothing was broken or forced open. That is what I mean about it being a pointless killing. Unless —’

‘Unless what, Will?’ Giles urged.

‘Unless the killer wanted us to think it was the work of a madman. Perhaps that is why he wantonly killed those pigeons.’

Dickon had been standing behind them at the entrance. He coughed to attract their attention.

‘Begging your pardon, Sir Giles,’ he said deferentially, taking a step into the dovecote. ‘But do you mind if I look at those dead birds? Birds are my —’

‘Your business,’ Giles said. ‘Quite so. Please Dickon, give me your opinion.’

The falconer bent and picked up a pigeon corpse and examined it almost tenderly in his work-hardened hands. Then he replaced it on the ground, seemingly oblivious to the body of the dead man lying before him, and selected another.

‘Whoever killed Jasper Hirst didn’t just wring the necks of these pigeons,’ he volunteered.

‘Meaning what, Dickon?’ Giles asked.

Dickon looked up, his eyes suddenly covered with a film of moisture. ‘The bastard broke their legs.’

Giles looked quizzically at the falconer, then at Will. ‘This just gets more and more curious,’ he said. ‘Take good notice of all this, Will, for I will need to write a report on it all later today.

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