Excerpt: Black Dog: The Hunting of the Barghest of Black County

Hart paused as they came around a bend and saw the six men standing as far from the hole as they could get without looking cowardly. Romilda and Casca both pushed forward, each standing on one side of the hole. From where Hart stood it looked sinisterly like a grave. Hart tried to meet Pate or Hough’s eye but they wouldn’t look up, except to touch their foreheads as Romilda passed.

Romilda frowned deeper as she looked into the hole. Casca coughed and suddenly became very officious, while Hart slowly sidled up beside him.

“Right, well, that’s clearly a body, looks human,” Casca said. He took a deep breath as he reached for his little leather-bound policeman’s notebook and a stub of paper-wrapped charcoal. “Human body, about…” Casca paused in his note-taking to walk around the hole, “…about 6 feet. Big fellow. Buried at the old cross-roads, looks to be in a gibbet--”

“We was thinking that were armour, officer,” Drustan cut in.

Casca took a deep sniff and stood to his full and impressive height. He looked at Drustan, who was only a little lad at five feet and four, and put on his “serious policing business” face. Drustan quickly shut his mouth.

“As I were saying, buried in a gibbet…looks like one of them old hangings from me baba’s day,” Casca said.

As one, he and Romilda knelt to better see the yellowing bones poking between the rusted ribs of the gibbet, the “hanged man’s girdle” they used to be called. Casca gingerly lifted up the skull and wiped some mud off. Romilda paled and started to speak but must have changed her mind. “These bones look old. It’s been nearly a hundred years since a man were hanged round here, lads. Unless one of you lot’s committed a murder I don’t know about, and you’d be fools to have Hart call me in, I’d say you can carry on with business, after we re-bury old Long-and-Skinny here.”

“You’ll all do well to wash your hands with salt water and juniper,” Romilda said in a voice as tight as a drawn bowstring. Hart looked at her and then at the bones slowly being reburied by mud and rain.

“She’s right. We’d better move him t’ proper burial ground, or he’ll be feeling’ a mite naked in the grave," Hart added.

Casca wiped off his hands and crossed his arms again, his notebook tucked into one big fist. Romilda looked at Hart, then Pate, then Drustan.

“I’ll take you two back to the apothecary, we can get some more salt and some shrouds too,” Romilda said to Hough’s two oldest. They nodded dumbly and followed her like dogs expecting a beating.

Hart patted Sable again. The old boy had pressed himself so close to Hart’s leg they were in danger of toppling over. Casca sniffed and pushed his helmet down over his eyes in the hopes of keeping the rain out. Hough and the other young men drifted further away from the body in the hole, now muttering amongst themselves.

“Think we can get this business out of the way, lad?” Hart said quietly as he leaned closer to Casca.

Casca leaned down and replied in his official policeman’s voice,
“Romilda’s spooked by something. Better wait on her word before deciding.”

“Think I’d better go tell the marques I’ll be out of commission for the week. And maybe see Molly about some vervain for me damned ankle,” Hart said in an undertone.

“What you do to your ankle?” Casca said. Hart sensed the snicker just behind Casca’s friendly concern and shrugged.

“See you at Jacky’s, lad. Eh up, lads! I’m off, got to keep up me rounds,” Hart called to Hough and his sons. Only Hough nodded politely back. The others looked more spooked than Romilda.

Hart took one of the foot paths through the game forest to get to the marques’ estate.