A Grave for a Thief by Douglas Skelton

Author:Douglas Skelton [Skelton, Douglas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

20

An arsehole is a useful thing, Gideon had once told his son, but sometimes they walk and talk. Flynt had met more than his share of such men, he believed, but he had not expected to meet one within minutes of setting foot in the village of Gallowmire, though perhaps he should have. After all, Charters had once said he attracted trouble like flies to dung. That was the way of it, but as he saw the look in the eye of the walking muscle and waited for that look to transform into action, he reflected upon Addison’s warning.

‘Gallowmire is a cursed place,’ he’d said, ‘and thee would be well advised to steer clear of it.’

When Flynt approached the village around midday, he saw nothing particularly cursed about it, at least not from his vantage point on a slight hill. Smoke from cooking fires curled from the roofs of the dwellings, most constructed of timber, a few older wattle and daub, a few of stone and brick. A river was spanned by a wooden bridge devoid of parapets, at that moment being crossed by a cart pulled by a single horse. He reached into his saddlebag and found his spyglass. The cart was led by a woman, with a child and a black and white dog riding up front. He swung the glass towards what appeared to be an inn, judging by the sign hanging over the door, where he saw three men dressed in black seated at a table set outside to allow patrons to take their ease in the afternoon sun. He then picked out a wooden construction in the centre of a patch of grass opposite the tavern and his lips thinned.

A gallows.

It wasn’t the three-legged design of Tyburn but a single upright carrying a crossbeam spar. He saw no rope looped around it but its purpose was sufficient to cast a pall across the sunlight. He examined the road through the village. It appeared sturdy enough but the dry weather would have solidified the mud that would clog it when the rains fell. The most substantial building he could discern was the church, Norman in design, its square steeple topped by a single bell open to the elements. Around it was ranged a small graveyard peppered with memorials of stone, wood and slate, itself enclosed within a low wall of dry-stone construction. Low moorland hills crowded around the outer reaches of the settlement, as if trying to prevent it from growing – or going – further. The heather was beginning to turn purple, the land punctuated by white dots that were sheep, and green pockets of trees.

He slipped his glass back from whence it came and nudged Horse into motion, walking her down the hill and over the bridge, her hooves clipping on the old wood. The cart had come to a halt outside the inn where the woman was in conversation with the three men. Flynt and Horse ambled around the green sward, giving the gallows a cursory glance.

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