The Sticklepath Strangler aktm-12

by Michael Jecks

  ‘But the person who concealed her there must have known about Ansel,’ cried Simon. ‘It’s too improbable that someone could have buried the girl on top of an existing grave without knowing it. The burial right there must have been conducted by someone who had been involved in hiding Ansel. And that means you, Reeve, or you, Forester.’

  Reeve Alexander stared at Drogo for a moment. ‘I swear I did not kill Aline.’

  Drogo’s face was suffused an angry-looking crimson. ‘Are you saying I did? Do you accuse me in front of all these people, Reeve?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t kill her myself, that’s all I know.’

  ‘Well, neither did I! And there were no other people there so far as I recall.’

  ‘Hold, Forester!’ Simon called loudly. For a moment he had thought that the Reeve was going to launch himself at Drogo. Clearly Adam thought the same. He had set a hand on his knife hilt as though readying himself to pull it free. Vincent had drawn away. Simon could see that he hadn’t learned the first rule of fighting: never retreat, always go in aggressively; when fists might begin to fly, don’t step back, but go in close.

  Drogo stood clenching and unclenching his fists. ‘I didn’t harm that girl.’

  ‘We already know that Ivo saw the Reeve there. Perhaps someone else did too,’ Simon said. ‘And seeing that, later realised that they had a perfect grave. First, who could have hated Ansel enough to kill him?’

  ‘How would you feel about a bent official like him?’ Drogo sneered. ‘He was the dregs, the bastard. I’ve vomited more powerful stuff than him, the pus-filled bag of wind.’

  Baldwin and Simon exchanged a look, and seeing it, Drogo suddenly realised his peril. ‘Of course I didn’t like him, but that’s not the same as murdering him! I knew he was going. Why should I kill him?’

  Simon cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps because you wanted the money? You were alone with the Reeve to bury the man, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you had men with you when you found him?’

  ‘Peter and Adam, yes.’

  Simon’s eyes narrowed. ‘What of the other man in your team? Vincent – where were you?’

  Vincent blinked in genuine surprise. ‘Me? I was off at my own bailiwick, I suppose. It’s a long time ago.’

  ‘So you weren’t there with Drogo. The other members of the team were, but not you.’

  ‘So what?’ Adam rasped. He had stepped forward, and now he glowered from one to another. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘This: that Vincent didn’t know where the body was buried; because he wasn’t there. Peter and you were sent away, but you could have been interested enough to return and watch what the Reeve and Drogo were doing, couldn’t you? And then later, perhaps, you killed a girl and buried her in the same place.’

  Adam’s mouth moved, but then he shook his head slowly. ‘It could as easily have been the Forester here or the Reeve who killed the girl and buried her there. Anyway, I didn’t go and watch them. I went to the inn with Peter, and a short while later Vin turned up as well.’

  ‘Did you ask where he’d been?’ Baldwin pressed.

  ‘I had other things on my mind,’ Adam sneered. ‘Christ! Me and Peter had just found a body.’

  ‘Did you tell Vin? Did he leave you? Could he have gone to watch?’ Simon asked with some excitement.

  ‘No, Bailiff. Peter left not long after, though.’

  ‘Perhaps Peter went up there to watch,’ Simon said. ‘He could have sneaked up there and seen the two men digging, and later he might have realised it would be a perfect hiding place for Aline.’

  ‘But what of his own daughter? She was the first girl to be found,’ Reeve Alexander said.

  ‘It is not unknown for a child to be murdered by her father,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Why should he kill Ansel?’

  ‘For the same reason anyone else in the vill could have,’ Simon pointed out. ‘None of you would have been keen to have had a man like him demanding bribes. And Peter was hungry, just like the rest of you. Hatred and hunger are powerful motives.’

  ‘Christ Jesus! Will those hounds never be silent?’ Coroner Roger muttered under his breath.

  Baldwin knew how he felt. The atmosphere was thick, as though there was a thunderstorm on the way, and the hall was charged with emotion and fear. Drogo looked anxious, but then so did all of the vill’s men. Sticklepath was like a place under siege, rather like Acre just before the collapse. Yet there were no armies at the gates, only the ghosts of victims.

  He decided to change tack. Picking up the fragment of arrow, he stood turning it in his hands. There was little which could be learned from so old a weapon. It had been used some six years ago, if the story told by Meg and Serlo was to be believed. Looking up, he saw Drogo’s eyes were on it. ‘Who uses peacock’s feathers in his arrows?’

  ‘I do,’ Drogo admitted.

  ‘Do you recognise this?’

  ‘It could be one of mine. I can’t be certain.’

  ‘This was one of the arrows used to murder Athelhard, Meg’s brother.’

  Drogo bit at his lip.

  ‘You and your Foresters helped to kill him, didn’t you?’

  There was silence. Drogo stared down at the arrow with a face that whitened visibly. ‘This is the devil’s own work,’ he muttered, but there was a thick, husky note in his voice.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Simon demanded.

  ‘Come on, man!’ Coroner Roger rasped. ‘We don’t have all day to stand here like women washing clothes!’

  ‘It was the vampire,’ Reeve Alexander said quietly. ‘Gervase told us that vampires killed people, ate them and drank their blood. The killings all started when Athelhard returned here.’

  ‘Only because of a coincidence!’ Baldwin exploded. ‘You slaughtered him for superstition! The poor man murdered, his sister forced to watch, and all for your intolerable beliefs!’

  ‘It wasn’t just that,’ Drogo said. ‘His sister told the priest that her brother had given her a large portion of meat, of pork, Keeper, only the day before. What would you have thought? We only did what any God-fearing, sane men would do; we struck at him to destroy him.’

  ‘Ansel died before Athelhard arrived, didn’t he?’

  ‘No. Athelhard was just returned when Ansel died,’ the Reeve said. ‘And a short time after Denise was found we heard of this meal given to Meg. It was obvious. Athelhard told her he had bought it from a traveller. Would you have believed him?’

  ‘Yes. Until he was appealed in court, and had had a chance to prove his innocence,’ Baldwin said scornfully.

  ‘And had a chance to kill others. You know that these sanguisugae can fly through the air like birds?’ Drogo said. ‘And no lock will hold them out.’

  ‘Nonsense! There are no such things as vampires,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘The Parson told us. If you want a debate with him on the merits of his case, fine. For us, we wanted to prevent any more deaths. Perhaps you’d feel different if your own child stood the risk of dying for your beliefs, Keeper.’

  ‘You tied his sister to a tree to force him to come out.’

  ‘The Parson told us he had demons within him. He was possessed. What else could we do? We had to protect ourselves, and that’s what we did. There was no one to advise us. At least we killed him swiftly, which is more than he did with Denise.’

  ‘It was murder!’ Simon declared hotly.

  ‘And what would you have done, Bailiff? Let him carry on? We thought it was just a desperate, starving villager who was responsible at first, when we found Ansel’s corpse, but then, when Peter’s girl turned up, and the priest told us about vampires, we realised it was something worse.’

  ‘But why think it might be Athelhard?’ Baldwin interrupted.

  ‘It seemed so obvious!’ Drogo burst out. ‘We had the shock of Denise’s murder, then we heard that Athelhard had been cooking meat. And Athelhard was a stranger. If anyone had brought evil into the vill
, surely it was him!’

  ‘But others have died since his death, so it wasn’t him,’ Simon pointed out.

  Drogo was silent, but the Reeve put his head in his hands again. ‘You are right. I know it, and I regret it. But what else could we have done?’

  ‘And who was the real guilty man?’ Simon asked, and then wondered for the first time whether it might not be a woman. Meg had plenty to avenge, after all.

  Sir Laurence smiled. ‘This is all beyond me. All I know is, I have two men here who appear to be suspects.’

  Sir Roger returned his smile. ‘Yes, you do. But I am the Coroner, and when I hold my inquest, I shall decide what to fine them for their misdemeanours as well as amercing them to be present at the next court.’

  ‘I think you’ll find you should have them thrown into gaol,’ Sir Laurence said, his amusement becoming more brittle. He weighed his war hammer in his hand again.

  ‘You think so? I disagree,’ the Coroner said cheerfully. ‘And right now, this meeting is concluded. Reeve, don’t try to leave the vill. Forester, get out of here and make sure that you don’t tempt me to regret my actions!’

  In his room, Swetricus sat on his stool facing the door, a pole slotted into the handle of a sharpened billhook. It was his only weapon, but it was enough. Or so he prayed.

  Thomas and Nicole had walked here to fetch their daughter, both so taken up with their own relief that Swetricus had not seen fit to remind them that their problems weren’t gone. While Reeve Alexander and Forester Drogo wished to blame someone, Thomas remained the ideal target. He may have survived this accusation, but there would be more.

  His dog was agitated now, walking from one side of the room to the other, sniffing first at one door, then the other, constantly moving, as though to remain still was to die, but Swetricus was sure that it wasn’t only the row from Samson’s hounds.

  ‘What is it, Daddy?’

  ‘Shut up!’ he said gruffly. The girls had no idea about all this. They sat now, huddled on the family’s bed near the fire, which still roared with the faggots Swetricus had thrown on. At this time of night he would usually be there with them, snoring gently, all of them huddled together against the cold, the fire doused for safety, but not tonight. Not with Samson’s hounds howling like the souls in torment the Parson had told the vill about when Athelhard was thought to be the vampire.

  He picked up his firkin and drank a long draught of ale, setting it down and wiping his mouth.

  After Athelhard, they had believed that the deaths would cease, but they hadn’t. Only two months later, the poor orphan Mary had died, her mutilated body found discarded like an apple core. Athelhard was dead. The vill knew that there was someone else, someone who had been living among them, and suspicion had fallen upon several, but the only obvious man was Samson. However, there was no proof. And no more deaths – until Aline disappeared two years later. Swet had his suspicions, but if he had appealed Samson, he would have been laughed out of the court. Where was the body? Aline could have fallen into a bog and drowned.

  Now Emma was dead although Samson was already in his grave. Some might say that proved Samson’s innocence – but Swet knew better. He remembered the sermon which the Parson had preached on the day they all went and killed Athelhard. He had said that vampires could become possessed, and the demons could make the body fly through the air. That was why, he said, Athelhard should be buried with a prayer written out on a piece of parchment, to explain to his soul how to find peace so that he wouldn’t haunt the vill afterwards. It was Alexander who had said that they should burn his body instead. If there was no body, he reasoned, there would be nothing for the demons to use.

  Samson had died, but he had been buried. His body was there still, and Swet was sure that last night he had escaped from the earth and murdered Emma. Swet was sure, because the hounds were baying incessantly. Scruffy and mangy, they were, to be sure, but they knew as well as Swetricus did that tonight was no time for sleep. They had been bred to keep felons away, but now they howled to keep their dead master from them.

  Gripping his staff more firmly, he tried to control the savage beating of his heart.

  Evil was abroad tonight, but Swet would not lose another daughter.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘In God’s name, give me peace!’ Gervase shouted, walking about his room, his arms wrapped about his body so that he looked like a great raven in his dark habit. No matter how he struggled to hold down the panic that assailed him, it didn’t work. Nothing could keep away the horror.

  He wanted to go to the chapel, but somehow he felt easier here, among his few possessions, and that knowledge gnawed at him: he should want to go to the altar and kneel penitently before Christ’s symbol, but he daren’t. That would take him nearer Samson’s grave.

  The Miller’s soul was abroad tonight: Gervase could almost hear a cacophony of demons calling to each other in the darkness. Pouring more wine into his mazer, his hand trembled so violently that he spilled a large amount on the table. Cursing, he lifted the mazer and drank, heedless of the flood that coursed at either side of his mouth and dribbled onto his breast. He let the cup fall, closing his eyes, his breath sobbing in his throat.

  ‘Please, God, just make it be silent! Bring peace to his poor soul and drive away his demons,’ he prayed, head bent.

  He knew what was happening. This was his nemesis, his destruction. It was his own fault, all because he had accused the other fellow. Poor Athelhard. It was Gervase’s sin which had led to Athelhard’s death. He had learned from Meg of the pork which her brother had bought for them, and at first the Parson had felt only jealousy. The famine was already biting, and the idea of rich, juicy meat made his saliva run. He had mentioned her good fortune to Reeve Alexander, in the hope that the latter might force Athelhard to share his bounty. Perhaps he would have, too, Gervase realised. He had been a decent fellow.

  Then they had discovered little Denise up in the fields and Gervase realised quickly what that meant. The meat served to Meg, and the cruelly butchered body, pointed to the one conclusion.

  It was Gervase’s drunken telling of the story to Samson which had sealed Athelhard’s fate. Samson went to see Drogo, and on the way he spoke to Peter atte Moor, and Peter was by then desperate for revenge. Who could blame him? His daughter was dead, throttled and cut about like a side of pork. And it made sense. Athelhard was a foreigner; it was only natural to believe that he was responsible.

  Yet he wasn’t. That was the hideous truth. Gervase dropped to his knees again, his breath wheezing as he pulled at his robes and bared his breast, opening it like an offering to his all-seeing God. Spreading his arms wide, he wept as he stared up at the ceiling. ‘What else could I have done, Lord? I wanted to stop the murders! I did it in good faith, Lord, thinking that the man was possessed. Why did You let me be misled, Lord? Why did You let me think it was Athelhard?’

  But there was no answer.

  ‘Jesus, You let me sentence an innocent man – why?’ he cried out. ‘He was destroyed like a lamb, like You! How could You let that be done to someone else? Was it to punish me? Well, punish me now – take my life. I can’t live on knowing I caused a man’s murder. Don’t leave me here to poison others.’

  He felt a sudden burst in his heart, like the onset of a marvellous dream, and for a moment he believed he was about to see a vision, perhaps even an angel, but then the lightheadedness passed away and he was left alone, a huddled, shrunken man kneeling fearfully on his floor. God wouldn’t listen.

  Perhaps if he had himself gone to the Reeve it would have been all right, but as soon as that fool Samson heard the tale, he fell into a drunken, roaring rage. He was the father of a girl too, and he’d be buggered with a red-hot poker if he’d let some foreign shit ballock about with his daughter. Fuck that! Some shite had eaten Denise? Samson would stop him; he’d cut the bastard’s throat, then he’d slice off his prick. That’d serve him out!

  Thinking about it, it was strange
that Samson hadn’t been so vociferous about the other girls who had died. It was as if Denise’s death had shocked him and he had seriously wanted to avenge her, but when Mary was found, and then Aline disappeared, Samson withdrew into himself. He didn’t help try to catch the killer, said little about the killings, and either changed the subject or stopped talking. It was almost as though he felt a guilt about the deaths, or a deep shame.

  But on that other day, Samson was enraged as only a bone-headed fool could be. When Peter passed by, Samson bellowed at him that he was letting the foul murderer of his daughter go free. Wouldn’t he see the foreign git hang? Samson was insistent until all the men in the tavern had sworn to avenge Denise.

  They left the inn and went to Alexander’s house; the Reeve demanding to know what their rioting was about. Gervase found himself being thrust to the front of the men, and made to tell the story again, but this time he found that his audience was still more receptive. Only later did he wonder whether Alexander had known of another murder.

  There was a sour taste in his mouth when he had finished and he could stand and listen to the men discussing Athelhard and the dead girl no longer. Suddenly he felt a pricking of conscience: this was wrong. They shouldn’t go and execute Athelhard like a felon. Even over the haze of alcohol and the demands of vengeance, a small, quiet voice seemed to warn him that this was an awful act. Athelhard would have no opportunity of defence. This crowd was a mob determined to destroy. They had decided that Athelhard was a vampire and that was sufficient for them. At that point, Gervase became aware of his own doubts.

  Surely a man who was possessed would have hesitated to enter the church; he would have refused the Mass and Eucharist, wouldn’t he? And wouldn’t Gervase himself have felt something when in the presence of evil?

  After the event, Gervase had done all he could to bring the men of the vill to a joint understanding of their shared guilt and he had prayed for Athelhard’s soul, lost though it was, since it had not received the last services, Extreme Unction or Sacrament. Yet although Gervase hoped that Athelhard’s innocent soul was safe, he had no such hopes for Samson’s.