The Sticklepath Strangler

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Gunilda stood beside her fire, kneading dough. It was settling to her spirit, to be engaged on a task which she had performed nearly every day of her life. She knew she must prepare the bread before Samson came home. He would be cross if she hadn’t got his food ready. He would beat her.

With a start she realised that the pottage wasn’t in the pot over the fire. It made her squeak with alarm, especially when she looked out at the sunlight. He must be home soon, and his food wasn’t waiting. Gunilda knew what he was like when she was late, and she dreaded the feel of his lash over her back. ‘Soon, soon,’ she muttered as she pushed her whole body’s weight against the dough.

Felicia was watching her anxiously, picking at her faded green tunic. Gunilda was driving her up the wall; she was mad, quite mad. Her brain hadn’t been able to cope with the horror of the night before. When the men appeared at the open doorway, she was glad for the interruption. ‘Lordings, how can I serve you?’

Baldwin entered and smiled at her, studying her with interest. ‘We are just come from discovering the body of the murdered Purveyor.’

‘Yes?’

‘Would you mind answering some more questions? Only a few, Felicia.’

‘Yes, but get the dog outside. Dogs upset my mother, and she’s in a bad enough way as it is.’

‘Of course.’ Baldwin took Aylmer out, and the dog sat and waited, but even as Baldwin closed the door, he caught a glimpse of a large cat, all striped brown and orange fur, with arched back and hissing mouth. Aylmer stood and Baldwin saw him slowly stalk the cat.

‘Tell me, Felicia. When Ansel de Hocsenham died, you would have been about fourteen, wouldn’t you?’

‘I suppose. It’s hard to keep track.’

‘Of course. And you were hungry then, too, weren’t you?’

‘Everyone was.’

‘Except your father. He had enough to eat.’

Felicia pulled a face. ‘My father always made sure he was all right.’

‘He loved you, didn’t he?’

‘Most of the time, if you could call it that.’

‘Did he?’

Felicia sighed. ‘He never said anything to me.’

‘He merely raped you,’ Baldwin said understandingly.

‘Baldwin, shouldn’t we be including Gunilda in this?’ Simon said quietly, indicating the woman at the fireside. He was vaguely uneasy about questioning this young woman about the incest in her family.

‘I think we shall hear little sense from your mother. What do you think?’ Baldwin asked Felicia.

‘You’re just worried I’ll be upset,’ she said. ‘I don’t care. You know he took me almost nightly. What of it? Mother was unhappy, though. He didn’t want her any more.’

‘And not just you. He raped other girls, didn’t he?’ Baldwin said.

Felicia’s face froze. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Of course you do. He was a strong man, full of blood and lust.’

Gunilda had stopped her restless kneading, and now she stared at them with a frown on her face. Baldwin tried to give her a reassuring smile, but his lips wouldn’t work. Instead he turned his attention back to Felicia. ‘Tell me,’ he said: ‘which window was your father using to grease the machine when he fell under the wheel?’

Felicia jerked her head towards the machinery. ‘The one behind there.’

Baldwin walked to the wall behind the turning shafts. There was an unglazed window there, a good-sized hole in the wall which was designed to light the great cogs. He stood on a wooden step beneath the window and looked up. Just within reach was the timber axle, but if he tried to touch it, he would be slightly overbalanced. An easy target for someone who wanted to push him out.

‘Your father couldn’t swim, could he?’ he asked mildly as he returned.

‘No. He had other things to do than waste his time on frivolous pursuits like that.’

‘Of course. Now – your mother. You say she was jealous of you?’

‘He preferred me.’

‘Naturally,’ Baldwin said. ‘You were younger and more attractive. I suppose he was always affectionate to you?’

Felicia laughed shortly. ‘When he wanted my body, he was. Otherwise, he would beat me, and even then he wanted me afterwards.’

‘Were you upset when he wanted these other girls?’

‘Me? No. I was glad. It meant he left me alone!’

‘But accidents happened. Like when Aline became pregnant.’

‘She was a strumpet. She had no shame,’ Felicia said scathingly.

‘And Mary, the orphan girl. She was no better.’

‘She threw herself at Father.’

‘Of course it was terrible to kill them. But understandable.’

Felicia almost nodded, but stilled her head.

‘Poor little Emma, though. It was sad to kill her.’

‘She was as bad as the others, showing off in front of my father,’ Felicia said. Then: ‘Why are you saying all this?’

‘It was odd that she should be found in Thomas Garde’s yard.’

‘She deserved her end. She thought people wouldn’t notice, but she was always after men in the vill. Not only Father. I saw her with–’

Baldwin watched her with a faint smile as she snapped her mouth shut. ‘She was a plump little thing. Do you know what? If a man had killed her, I would wonder whether she had been killed somewhere else and then planted in Thomas’s yard; if she was killed by a woman, though, why – I would think she had been lured into Thomas’s yard and killed there. Why should Emma mistrust a young woman?’

‘She was very trusting,’ Felicia agreed. ‘In some ways, Emma was innocent, you see. But you mustn’t blame her murderer. She couldn’t help it.’

‘Why should she be killed there, Felicia?’

‘Because she thought that it would point the finger at Thomas. She heard Ivo Bel talking about how his brother had a terrible temper, and she thought that either Thomas would get blamed or Ivo would, for trying to make Thomas look guilty. But it was her.’

‘Who?’

Felicia threw a fearful look at her mother. ‘She couldn’t help it!’

‘Me!’ Gunilda gasped.

Baldwin ignored her. ‘Why do you think Aline was buried when the others weren’t? Denise and Mary were left out in the open, weren’t they?’

Felicia set her jaw. ‘It was her own fault. Aline wanted his child and Mother couldn’t bear that, so she dug a hole to stop her getting a Christian burial. I think that was cruel.’

‘It’s a lie!’ Gunilda screamed hoarsely. ‘I didn’t! I wouldn’t!’

‘She hid poor Aline to punish her, the whore, for persuading my father to bed her.’

‘Ansel the Purveyor was different,’ Baldwin said steadily. ‘He wasn’t murdered because of the girls, was he?’

‘How would I know?’

‘No. The killer of the Purveyor saw his unconscious body lying in the road, and at a time when everyone was starving, this was just a joint, a whole piece of meat.’

‘You think you know so much.’

‘I do. I do. Your father had an argument with the Purveyor. What about, I do not know.’

‘He demanded money from my father. Said he would arrange for all our grain to be taken away from the vill and ground at Taw Green or another mill. It would have ruined us.’

‘He tried to attack your father?’

‘Samson was a strong man. He didn’t wait to be attacked, he jumped on Ansel and beat him down.’

‘And what happened then?’

‘My mother throttled him to take his leg for meat.’

‘Your mother did?’

‘I did not!’ Gunilda groaned.

Felicia ignored her. ‘Yes. Just as she killed the other girls. And then killed my father.’

‘I see.’

‘While he was leaning out of that window, she pushed him. He screamed as he fell, and then she screamed too, maybe because she realised what she’d done. Ah! You don’t know how good it is to be able to get it off my chest at last. I think she went on killing those girls because she thought Father loved them. He didn’t, though.’

‘When he fell I was outside,’ Gunilda said clearly. ‘But I saw my own daughter strike him on the head with a stone and push him out. I understood. Poor Felicia had been violated by him every night. My Christ, forgive me! I heard him, but I could do nothing. If I fought him, he’d beat me.’

‘She’s lying. She pushed him,’ Felicia said calmly.

‘She did it, Samson, not me!’ Gunilda said suddenly. She was staring at Baldwin with intense fear twisting her features. ‘I couldn’t have done it. You were talking to me, weren’t you, through the window? And then she pushed you out.’

‘Shut up, you old fool,’ Felicia said brutally. ‘You’re mad. Your brain’s addled like sour milk.’

‘There is no need to hide the fact, Felicia,’ Baldwin said. ‘You only did what you knew was necessary.’ His voice was gentle, but even as he spoke he could feel the horror deep in his belly. Madness was always terrifying, and Felicia was quite insane.

‘What did they matter?’ she said. ‘The girls were just things. They were only bodies for him to cover, like a stallion with a mare or a dog with a bitch.’

‘So you killed them to stop your father sleeping with them?’

‘He loved their young bodies,’ Felicia said, and suddenly her eyes brimmed. ‘He left me for them. He raped me in our bed, and when he had used me, he found others. He scared them into doing what he wanted.’

‘And you were jealous of them?’

‘Jealous?’ Felicia gaped at him, and then laughed. ‘Christ’s ballocks! Is that what you think? I hated him, Keeper! I hated him with a loathing that was so pure and strong that I could have done anything to hurt him. I killed his little lovers, I slaughtered them and ate them to show my utter contempt for them and him. And when the most recent of his little bitches came into heat and tried to wrest my Vin from me, why, I slaughtered her too. Only you should have thought it was Thomas Garde who killed her.’

‘Emma?’

‘Yes. The slut! She was making moony eyes at Vin, so I tempted her into the yard with a promise of sweetmeats, and then strangled her.’

‘Tell me, how did you know where Ansel was buried? How did you know to bury Aline there?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I was waiting for Vin, but he didn’t come. When I heard voices I hid, and saw the Reeve and Forester at the body. I walked after them to see what they did. Later I thought I could use that same hole.’

‘And you killed your father.’

‘He had raped me that morning. I was bruised and sickened, and when he leaned through the window, I saw my chance. I hit him with a rock, and out he went. The paddle hit him, and that was that.’ She giggled.

‘You saw her?’ Baldwin asked Gunilda, but she wasn’t listening. Her attention was fixed upon her daughter, horror in her eyes.

‘You killed your own father! And you admit it so boldly.’ She shuddered. ‘How could you do that – and how could you be so cruel as to slaughter the others – and eat them! My God, my God. They were only little girls, Felicia.’ Gunilda was standing now, her dough forgotten. ‘It wasn’t their fault your fiend of a father raped them!’

‘But he regretted their loss!’ Felicia spat. ‘Don’t you see? It spoilt his fun!’

Baldwin nodded. ‘That explains it all,’ he said. ‘And now I think we should go to speak to Sir Laurence de Bozon and Reeve Alexander.’

‘Why? I’ve got nothing to say to them.’

‘They shall want to meet you, to talk about these deaths,’ Simon said.

Felicia shrugged, but said nothing. She crossed the floor towards the door, passing near Gunilda as she went, and took up a cloak.

‘Felicia, tell them it’s not true,’ the woman pleaded.

‘I find it hard to believe such a feeble-minded, ugly old crone could actually be my mother,’ Felicia said, curling her lip. ‘Leave me in peace.’

Gunilda’s mouth dropped wide open, but then she flew at her daughter, scratching, kicking and screaming. Felicia drew back, her hands up to protect her face, shrieking in fear and rage, and while Baldwin attempted to separate them and Simon tried to get behind Gunilda to hold her back, Felicia turned and ran towards the machinery. Gunilda chased after her, but Felicia was waiting for her. She had reached up to the rafter, and now she held her father’s rope. It whistled through the air and Gunilda howled as it streaked down her cheek and breast. To Baldwin’s horror he saw the blood welling on her face. Felicia brought it down again, and it was Gunilda’s turn to retreat, crying pitifully.

The two returned towards Simon and Baldwin, but as the women approached, Gunilda tripped and fell on her back. Instantly Felicia was on her, raining blows on her head, and it took both men to grab her hands and lift her away.

Panting with the effort, Felicia screeched, ‘You dare try to hurt me? Do that again, and I’ll kill you!’

‘Come with us,’ Baldwin said strongly.

Felicia shook her arm free from him and walked to the door, waiting demurely while Simon and Baldwin stood back to let her leave first, and then suddenly exploded into action again.

In an instant she drew a knife from beneath her apron, and stabbed Simon in the hand, whirling to strike Baldwin in the forearm. Just for a moment, the men were stunned, could see only her blade, wavering between them both, and then she pulled the door to with a slam and was gone.

Recovering from his shock, Simon snatched at the door and yanked it open. He rushed out, through the yard and up to the roadway, but when he peered back towards the vill, he could see no sign of the girl. Surely there hadn’t been enough time for her to disappear?

‘Simon!’ Baldwin shouted, and the Bailiff turned to see Felicia’s figure flying away along the track towards Belstone.

Baldwin was already speeding after her, but when Simon saw Drogo and his men almost at the Parson’s gate, carrying the rug rolled between them, he dashed over to them and blurted out what had happened. Immediately, Peter was off after Baldwin. Drogo swore, his eyes attracted to the blood trickling from Simon’s fingers, then he grabbed for his horn and blew loudly on it three times. ‘Murder! Murder! Murder!’ he roared as loudly as he could, and then launched himself after Baldwin, overtaking Simon in a matter of a few yards.

The road passed along the valley at the side of the river heading southwards, wandering with the water. Baldwin splashed through thick puddles, black with peat, and almost copied the Coroner, turning his ankle on a large, slippery pebble, but recovered himself in time and pounded on. Soon he was jumping from one rock to another as the ground became wetter, but all the time he could see the bare footprints of the girl in the soil, or gleaming wetly from stones.

She crossed it where there was a slight broadening of the river. Too deep to be termed a ford, it nonetheless provided easier passage, and Baldwin didn’t hesitate. He was into the water and through it to the other side in a moment. Here there appeared to be a rough track, little better than a sheep’s path, climbing the hillside at the edge of a stream. A print or two further up showed that Felicia had taken this route, and Baldwin forced himself upwards as quickly as his legs would allow, his feet slipping on loose scree, once almost falling and catching himself by throwing his hand out into a furze bush and feeling the thorns puncture the flesh of his palm, fingers and wrist. Cursing, he carried on.

There was a lip and then the ground eased, giving onto a shallower plateau, and at last he could see her. She was running hard still, rushing up the hillside, then was out of view over another hillock. Baldwin took a deep gulp of air and was off again. His thighs aching, his lungs feeling as though they might burst, his head thundering with the rushing of blood in his temples; the bruises at his flank and torso throbbed as though they were licked with fire.

He had no idea where he was exactly, nor did he care; all he knew was that Felicia was attempting to escape by running over the moors, perhaps to hide somewhere down by the coast. She must not be allowed to escape. The girl was prepared to murder and eat her victims; she was a monster. She had to be stopped and executed before she could murder again.

The furze thinned, and soon he was running up over grass and heather. Birds exploded from the ground beneath his feet, darting away to chitter at him angrily, or swept upwards to sing melodic, liquid tunes, but he ignored them. His whole concentration was on the figure so many yards ahead of him. And then, just as he felt that he could not run any further, he saw her stagger a little, and realised that she was flagging.

He redoubled his effort, and as he did so, she turned. Instead of running straight away from him, she was turning right, across him. It was possible that he might be able to head her off. She was running on the flat, following the contour of the hill while he was still climbing, but the angle of his climb made it less brutal on his legs, and he thrust himself onward with what felt like the last vestiges of energy he possessed.

She was above him, rushing along a sheep’s track, while he was climbing slowly to meet her, his calves feeling as though they were shrinking from sheer exhaustion. He was closer, much closer, when she turned and noticed him, and he saw the expression in her eyes.

The look stabbed his heart. It was like being stared at by the devil himself, and Baldwin quailed. Not from fear, but from shock. No young woman should be able to express so much malevolence.

With that thought, he lost his concentration. His foot caught on a root and he felt himself flying through the air: black earth came up to meet him, and he closed his eyes a moment before his arms and then his chin slammed on the ground with a force that knocked the air from him.

His wounds and bruises from the tournament at Oakhampton were raw agony now, as though he had been flayed, and even breathing was hideously painful; he sobbed with the effort as he looked up towards the horizon. She had disappeared now, running on around the curve of the hillside. There was no sign of Simon or Drogo, and Baldwin knew that he must somehow continue, or she would be lost to them.

Simon was about to set off after Baldwin when Drogo called him away. ‘This way, Bailiff. Follow me!’

With that he was off, setting a cracking pace on the western side of the river. Soon the ground was boggy and heavy going, but Drogo bounded from one boulder to another, from a fallen tree-trunk to a low branch, ever onwards, ducking beneath low boughs, swinging over lower ones, until they began to climb.

Simon was to remember that chase for many years afterwards. He had never run so far on such uncertain ground, with the earth seeming to suck at his feet, as though trying to swallow him up like one of the mires on the high moor; every time he put his feet on a rock or a block of wood it seemed to move and threaten to break his ankle.

‘There she is!’

It was Peter, who had passed Simon and now stood a few yards in front. Up on the hillside east of them, Simon could make out the line of the path from South Zeal to Belstone, and on it, near Serlo’s warren, was the fleeing figure. Peter said no more, but hared off again, Drogo close behind him. Simon had to grit his teeth and push on.

Baldwin scrabbled with his feet for purchase and then he was up and running again. Ahead was a broad, slick expanse of water, and he rushed through it, the mud bursting upwards on all sides. As he came out the other side, he could see her again, and noted that Serlo was nearby.

‘Warrener! Serlo! Catch her! She’s the murderer!’

His voice was powerful enough, just, to reach the grim-faced man. Serlo hurried up to the path as fast as his legs would carry him, but he was not swift enough. The girl saw him coming and quickly darted around him without breaking her stride. But then Baldwin saw the Warrener frown and roar a warning, and to his horror, Baldwin spotted the figure of Joan, a short distance from Felicia, running downhill.

Felicia was at the top of the path which led to Belstone when she saw them: three men, all heading towards her, coming up from the river. She screamed, stamping her foot in a futile gesture of impotent rage. There was no escape that way; she could not return past Baldwin, and Serlo blocked her path down the hill. Clenching her fists, she shrieked her anger, and then set her face to the hill once more. Thank God Joan had disappeared, thought Baldwin. She must have concealed herself in among the clitter or behind some furze, and he was relieved that he need not worry about her safety.

The men were exhausted. They had run more than a mile, all uphill, and their bodies were beyond pain. Those who were barefooted had felt their flesh being slashed on stones, while the dead, dry furze thorns stabbed into sensitive arches; those with boots felt their muscles tearing with the effort of hurling themselves up the hill.

Bent double to catch his breath, Baldwin glanced up in time to see Felicia turn and look at them all. Her face was a mask of contempt, as before, but now she held no fear for him. He simply knew that she must not be allowed to escape. And then he saw the little figure bob up at her side.

‘JOAN! NO!’

Simon heard his agonised cry and looked up to see Joan at Felicia’s side. The miller’s daughter reached for her with a reassuring smile on her face, and Joan smiled back, a happy child. But then there was a burst of movement as Felicia reached in behind her apron again, and Simon knew she was going for her knife. He opened his mouth to roar his own warning, but knew it was too late. Felicia would have struck, or captured a hostage, before his voice could carry.

And then something odd happened. While Felicia’s hand was in her apron, Joan ducked, shifted her weight, pushed at the older girl, and kicked out with her small foot. Felicia gave a loud curse, and then wheeled around, trying to keep her balance, reaching out with her knife towards Joan even as she began to topple, and then she gave a wailing oath as she fell from view.

Joan stood peering down, and Simon ran up to her side. At her feet was a wide gully, a fall of some ten feet, and at the bottom lay Felicia, an arm broken beside her, staring back up at him with a twisted grin. She coughed, and bright red blood erupted from her mouth. It wasn’t from her knife: Simon could see that, lying on the ground a short distance from her. No, it wasn’t from her knife, but as he stared down at her, dumbfounded, and as Baldwin and Drogo appeared at his side, he saw the crimson pool spreading on the rocks beneath her, and the spurting wound in her breast. At the same moment he noticed the blade in Joan’s hand.

She saw his look. ‘She killed my friend Emma.’