The Sticklepath Strangler

Chapter Fifteen

Long after Drogo had gone, Gervase tidied up the altar and swept the floor. At the door, he bowed, making the sign of the cross, and then changed his mind, walking to the altar and praying for strength. Drogo’s words had reminded him that he was not solely guilty. ‘If You would help me, Lord God, I could become a sober, useful priest again,’ he begged.

Later, pulling the door shut behind him, he noticed that the cross in the cemetery was damaged. His first test, he thought. He stepped over the low mounds where bodies had been laid to rest, and touched the cross member gingerly. Only four years ago he had paid a carpenter to make this, and already the wood was rotten. The churl must have knocked it up from any old stuff. He would get a piece of Gervase’s mind next time they met. In the meantime he would have to get a new one made.

The hounds were still howling. It was a miserable sound, as though dead souls were calling to the living, desperate to rejoin their families and friends, he thought. Strange that an animal could form so close an attachment to his owner, but oddly comforting, too. Even a man like Samson, a fellow universally disliked, was mourned by his own creatures.

A breeze passed over the tree tops and Gervase shivered. His robes felt thin. Perhaps it was his age, he thought. He never felt warm these days; even his spiced wine failed to remove the chill from his bones.

He was about to walk to the gateway once more when there was a pause in the howling and he heard a low, coughing moan. He spun sharply on his heel, but there was no one there. Frowning, he peered into the murk, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

At the low groaning he made the sign of the cross once more, murmuring a Pater Noster to give himself courage. Stiffening his resolve, he stepped forward boldly. ‘Drogo, is that you?’ he demanded.

The only answer was a sobbing wail which seemed to come from the earth at his very feet.

Uttering a choking cry, the Parson leaped back and, looking down, he saw he was standing on Samson’s grave. A breeze caught at the cross, and it squeaked and groaned, and Gervase gave a great sigh of relief: it was only the cross. For a moment he had believed that a ghost was with him.

All was well. He walked from the cemetery along the roadway past the puddle. As he went, he saw Drogo. The Forester was up near the spring, watching the priest. At his side were Peter and Vincent, the latter with his air of faintly baffled seriousness which always reminded Gervase of a hound which had lost a scent, and Peter, looking joyless, as he had ever since the day they had found his daughter.

Gervase nodded to them, but Drogo and Peter made no response. It was as though he was too insignificant to merit acknowledgement. Vin lifted an apathetic hand, but allowed it to fall, and Gervase licked his lips nervously. He felt threatened by their grim features and silence.

He was glad to reach his little cottage and be able to pull the door to, shutting out their unsettling expressions.

Felicia could hear her mother muttering to herself, and the noise was disconcerting.

Samson had been a terrifying presence in the house, and both women had avoided him when they could, for otherwise they would earn a stripe or two from his rope-end, and Felicia couldn’t count the number of times she had prayed that he would die, that he would leave them to have some sort of life of their own without having to pander to his whims and fancies. And then he tumbled through the window and was struck about the head by the wheel and their lives were changed.

Felicia found a fresh confidence, a sudden inrush as though she had drunk a gallon of wine. It was heady stuff, knowing that she need never fear being woken in the night by his rough hands forcing her thighs apart, that she could select a husband for herself, that she could choose to remain celibate, that she could join the nunnery if she wished. She need not take her father’s views and prejudices into account.

The same was not true of Gunilda. She had been married to Samson for so many years that life without him was alarming. Samson had dealt with all the family finances, he had arranged for the deliveries of grain, he had kept the machinery working. Gunilda couldn’t conceive of life without him. It was like trying to imagine life without air or fire or water.

He had been a lowering, grim old demon at the best of times, but he was solid and inflexible, something upon which Gunilda could depend. And now this firm, rocklike being was gone. With it she felt her life was also gone.

Felicia could vaguely comprehend this. The destruction of what had been to her a gaol, was to her mother the loss of a protective institution that shielded her from all risk or danger other than those represented by Samson. His brutality became for Gunilda a kind of certainty. Like a hound, she craved even a cruel master so long as there was someone for her to respect.

That might be good enough for her mother, but Felicia wanted more. She wanted her own husband, her own life, and now there was a possibility of both, she found herself growing irritable with the other woman. Gunilda should be sharing in her fierce joy, not whining like a beaten dog.

The knock on the door was a relief. Felicia went and peered through a crack in the badly fitted timbers. She felt her face go blank for a moment in surprise, then pulled the beam from the door and opened it.

‘Vin? What do you want at this time of night?’

He tried to answer, but he was tongue-tied. Redfaced, he stammered that he was passing and wanted to see how she was.

Felicia felt an urge to laugh. She knew why he was here. Pausing only long enough to grab a rug, which she spread over her shoulders like a cloak, she walked with him up the trail alongside the river.

Neither spoke. Both knew what they would do when they returned to that quiet, peaceful glade by the river, and later, as Felicia gave herself up to the pleasure of Vin’s hands and mouth on her body, as she felt the first ripplings pass through her, she offered up a prayer of thanks for the death of her father.

Simon slept only fitfully that night. There was a heaviness on him, as though a thunderstorm was brewing. He lay on his bench near the fire, resolutely avoiding any thoughts that could unsettle him further, such as skeletons, young girls eaten many years ago, and the sad, mournful sound he had heard earlier.

‘Are you still awake?’

It was the Coroner who called quietly to him, and Simon gave a low grunt of acknowledgement. Soon Roger rose and walked to him, tugging a blanket over his naked body. He sat on the floor near Simon’s bench, staring at the fire. The Coroner reached to the pile of spare logs and quietly dropped one onto the embers. It sent up a small cloud of sparks which twinkled and flared in the darkness, and Simon was surprised to see that the Coroner looked drawn and tired.

‘Are you all right, Roger?’

‘As well as can be expected. But I don’t like Baldwin’s suggestion that more people may have been killed.’

‘You’re well enough used to investigating such things, aren’t you?’ Simon asked in surprise. The Coroner had always seemed calm and unflappable in the past, even when a murderer struck more than once.

‘I’m not worried about death,’ Roger said, ‘but I fear that a man who could have killed like this, who was not caught, will strike again. It’s terrible to kill a girl, but to eat her as well?’ He shook his head uncomprehendingly. ‘That is the act of a genuinely evil man. A devil.’

Simon was unwilling to discuss such matters in the dark. ‘I felt terribly sorry for that woman at the mill yesterday.’

‘It’s all too common. I often see millers who’ve fallen into their machinery. Only last month I had an inquest on a mill’s assistant who fell into the cogs while trying to grease them. He was horribly chewed up. The miller himself was terrified that he would be held responsible, so he fled to St Mary’s and claimed sanctuary. He refused to come out, fearing for his life, and the bailiffs had to allow him to abjure the realm. He left for France. When we held the inquest, no one thought he was responsible. If he’d given himself up, he’d have been fine, but he didn’t trust the jury to declare him innocent.’

‘Why should he doubt their integrity?’

‘He was a newcomer. Been living there seven years. If he’d been born and raised in the town, he’d have known he was safe, but you know how it is. If you’re not born and bred in a town, you’re never fully accepted.’

‘So the poor devil ran?’

‘Daft bugger. Yes.’ The Coroner shook his head. ‘He was distraught and couldn’t see reason, but it was plain as the nose on my face that the assistant died from misadventure; nothing more. And now, since the bailiffs allowed him to abjure, he has lost all his chattels even though he’s innocent, and we must seek his pardon from the King. And he may never even hear of it.’

Simon was sitting up now, and puffed out his cheeks in commiseration at the miller’s loss. Home, friends, work, everything. ‘And even if he gets his pardon, he’ll never be able to recover all his chattels or take up his work at his mill again?’

‘No. The fact that he abjured means he’s lost all.’

Simon stood and covered himself with a cloak, then walked to the buttery. Drawing off two jugs of ale, he returned and passed one to the Coroner. ‘It’s sad, but it’s the law.’

‘Sometimes the law can make life difficult. Just think, there could be a murderer about still, and if there is, he might kill again – all because the vill didn’t want to run the risk of penalties. If I didn’t have to levy fines on them for breaking the King’s Peace, they might have reported the murders and then we could have caught the man responsible.’

Simon frowned. ‘Since it means they still have a murderer in their midst, I’m surprised that they didn’t try to seek help.’

‘Or hang the bastard.’

‘Yes.’ Simon took a long draught and stared at the fire. It was a good, strong ale, and he could feel it calming his frayed nerves. The noise, whatever it was, had scared him more than he liked to admit, and it was good to keep his mind occupied on other subjects. ‘Why would they not have tried to find the killer?’

The Coroner sniffed and spat into the flames. ‘Christ knows. Maybe they knew who it was, and didn’t want to arrest him. Say it was Alexander. How many of the villagers would dare to denounce their Reeve? Not many, I’d swear.’

Simon stared at him aghast. ‘You don’t honestly believe they’d leave a murderer – maybe a vampire – in their midst, knowing what he had done?’

‘Unless they thought the killer couldn’t be killed. Like a vampire, eh?’

‘Aargh!’ Baldwin grunted disgustedly, rising and joining them. ‘You two make enough noise to raise the dead! What do you mean, “like a vampire” forsooth! They are creatures of fable, no more.’

‘But perhaps the people here believed in them,’ Simon said.

‘You think so?’ the Coroner queried.

Simon was frowning. ‘What of motive? Did the killer seek children only when he was hungry?’

‘Or is he keen on any living flesh at night?’ Baldwin asked facetiously.

‘Oh, shut up!’ Simon said, noting that the dogs had stopped howling.

‘Well, it’s ridiculous.’

‘A vampire seems more believable to me than that a man should turn to cannibalism,’ the Coroner murmured. He stared into the fire for a while, then threw his hands into the air. ‘Ach! Finish my ale for me, Simon. My head tells me it’s time to close my eyes and dream pleasant dreams of young nymphs and houris tempting me to join them in a land where my wife doesn’t exist.’

‘How is your Lady?’

Sir Roger threw Baldwin a disgruntled look. ‘As fit and healthy as a woman half her age, God rot her! She’ll outlive me, once she’s made my life as miserable as she knows how. Faugh! Why did you have to ask me about her? Now you’ve got my mind working on that track, instead of nubile girls writhing and moaning against me in pleasure, I’ll dream of my wife moaning at me! Here, give me back that ale. I need it now!’

He drained his jug, setting it empty on the floor, before yawning and walking slowly back to his bench, covering himself with his thick blanket and almost instantly snoring. Baldwin wandered back to his bed and soon he was breathing regularly.

Simon lay down, grinning to himself. In the Coroner’s words about his wife there was no unkindness, only genuine affection.

There was a creak as a shutter moved in its runners, then a door rattled as a light gust of wind caught it. Simon closed his eyes, but all he could see was the cemetery, with that menacing, drooping cross.

And he could hear that cry, calling to his very soul.

As the Bailiff walked out into the bright sunshine, he found it hard to believe that he could have been so alarmed last night. The sun was gradually driving off the thin mist which enveloped the vill, and when he glanced westwards, he could see that the long spur of land up which the sticklepath climbed had already cleared, and was lighted with a splendid golden hue which made the grass and furze gleam like emerald.

Looking about him, he could have laughed aloud to think of his pitiable trepidation by the cemetery. The noise must have been nothing more than the wind in the trees, or the creaking of an old branch dangling from a bough.

He could scoff at his foolishness. Indeed it was almost tempting to tell Baldwin – but perhaps not. It was the sort of tale which his old friend would find amusing. Although Baldwin could be the soul of discretion and sympathy, he could also be unsubtle – and hearing further evidence of Simon’s superstitious nature would not make Baldwin shine in his best light.

Men and women were leaving the chapel, he noticed. The vill’s folk were a dull, ungracious lot, in his opinion. Still, the place should cheer up before long, now Samson was dead.

It was a point he had not considered yesterday, but it was important. Almost everyone they had spoken to expressed the opinion that the killer was almost certainly Samson. For one thing, no one else was so violent. Also, the miller was thought to be a rapist not only of other men’s daughters, but of his own. Samson had been a brutal man, but now he could terrorise the neighbourhood no more.

With this pleasing reflection, Simon set off towards the river, and meandered along the bank. In this way, he came across Ivo Bel, who was sitting propped up against an oak tree. Simon was about to turn and make good his escape, when Bel looked up and noticed him.

‘Bailiff Puttock,’ he said. ‘You slept well?’

Simon answered truthfully enough that once he had managed to find sleep, he had slept soundly.

‘Ah, I suffer from the same problem. So often in a new place, I find I cannot relax. The fear of thieves, the discomfort of a strange berth, the draughts, the noise of other men’s snoring… Travel is a hard life. It is better to be stable, to remain in one’s home.’

‘You are married?’

‘Yes, but my wife is a foul wench. I should never have wedded her. A man in my position shouldn’t give himself to the first woman he meets, but still, we can all make foolish mistakes when we are young, can we not?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Simon muttered. There was genuine dislike in Ivo’s voice as he spoke of his wife. The Coroner was just as rude about his Lady, but he was not being serious. Simon had the impression that he would be desolate if anything ever happened to his wife. That was not the case with Ivo.

‘My brother is fortunate with his wife,’ Ivo continued. ‘She is a lovely thing, little Nicole.’

‘Yes,’ Simon agreed politely.

‘He met her in France, you know. Over there he had been a soldier, but then he returned here when he had married.’

‘They married over there?’

‘She was saved by him,’ Ivo said. He cast a sidelong look at Simon. He was disappointed with the lethargic pace of Alexander’s action against his brother and this, he thought, was an excellent opportunity to lay the groundwork for Thomas’s destruction.

‘Nicole was the daughter of the local executioner, who was proved guilty of rape and murder. The drunken fool beat a woman and took her by force. If he’d killed her, he would have gone free, but she lived long enough to accuse him. The townspeople held a court and hanged him. They left his body where he had committed his crime to show felons they weren’t tolerated, but then some hotheads turned on his family. They beat his widow and sought Nicole, but she was saved by my brother. He took her to the church and sealed their marriage in front of the priest, and then held her under his personal protection. He had to beat off a couple of local boys, and thereafter the villagers left them alone.’

‘Why should they attack her anyway? She was hardly to blame for her father’s position.’

‘You know how foolish some people can be, especially the superstitious, Bailiff. They thought she was a witch, that she routinely communed with spirits and demons. After all, to a dimwitted villager, anyone associated with an executioner must be morbid.’

‘Your brother was lucky. He could have been attacked by a whole village.’

This, Ivo thought, was the opening. ‘You haven’t seen Tom when the red mist comes down, Bailiff. When he is in a mood to fight, nothing can stop him but his own or his opponent’s death. The villagers would have seen that soon enough.’

‘He doesn’t give that appearance.’

‘You have not seen him enraged, my friend. When he is thwarted, he is like a mad bull.’

Simon wasn’t interested. ‘Your brother brought his wife and child here and the villagers accepted her because she was married to a man from the area?’

‘My brother is not of this area. We are both foreigners, Bailiff. We come from the north, up near Exmoor. No, I moved because my position was offered to me and it suited me; Thomas, my brother, came here because he heard of Sticklepath from me. Before the famine, that would have been.’

‘And he felt this vill would suit him?’

‘Yes. There is good soil here, and he would be away from trouble. Of course there was always Samson, who had a similar temper to Thomas, but I thought that my brother could avoid him.’ Ivo leaned back against the tree. ‘You can see why they wanted to stay. This place can grow on you, and he had good land, good trade, and a good woman to warm his bed for him. He lacks for nothing so long as he keeps his temper under control.’

Simon chatted a little longer, to appear polite, but soon he made his excuses, and went back towards the inn.

Ivo watched him go, his smile disappearing. He was only hanging around here because Nicky was here, and he wanted her, but it was impossible even to speak to her while Thomas was in the way, the bastard!

Ivo had always hated him. The fit, healthy one, the one who could enjoy himself, who could do as he wanted, who bedded any woman he fancied. Thomas had an easy time of it, while Ivo, the eldest, must learn his letters and marry the woman his father chose. It was necessary, his father had said. It tied their failing, bankrupt manor to a larger one a mile away. That place had no sons, only one daughter, and her dowry was the manor itself.

But she was a cow, ugly and slow-witted. Thomas had a loving, loyal wife, while Ivo was stuck with her. Oh fine, Ivo also had his estates, two of them, but both had been devastated by famine and murrains. He depended upon his income as Manciple to keep both solvent. His entire life had been spent maintaining the family’s interests, while Thomas flitted from England to France, playing soldier boys and bringing a fancy French wife back with him. It was unfair!

Ivo wanted Nicole, and his conversation with Simon had given him an idea. It would take a certain effort to make Thomas angry enough for it to succeed, but Ivo had managed when they were children and with some luck he could do it again. And that might just seal his younger brother’s fate.