The Sticklepath Strangler

by Michael Jecks

  He made sure that they were all being looked after and glanced at the stalls inside. At once a smile spread over his features as he saw the unmistakable brown rounsey with the white star on his forehead.

  ‘Simon’s here, then,’ he murmured to himself as he sauntered back to the inn. On his way, he noticed the entrance to the little chapel. He was about to pass, but the unsettled feeling was still lying heavily on his spirit, and he craved a moment’s peace and reflection. Calling to Aylmer, he stepped through the gate and up to the chapel’s entrance.

  It was a poor little property, built of stone and thatch, but the thatch itself was old and leaked, and streaks of dirt had run down the walls and stained the paintings. The decoration of the ceiling itself was all but wrecked, with the paint falling from it. As Baldwin pushed the door wide, bending in a quick genuflexion as he noticed the altar, he saw that there was a damp mess of leaves and rubbish stuck to the flagstones. All in all, there was a feeling of melancholy and neglect about the building, as though no one cared for it. Even Aylmer was bemused. He stood in the doorway and gazed about him, as though he had no wish to soil his paws.

  ‘You need sweeping out,’ Baldwin muttered, and then felt stupid for talking to a building. It was all of a part with his trepidation in the woods, he thought irritably.

  The altar was a plain table of roughly smoothed wood; a large pewter cross stood roughly in the middle of it, but when Baldwin studied it, he saw it was carelessly positioned, the arms facing away from the door, and just far enough from the centre of the table for the failing to be noticeable.

  ‘May I help you?’

  The words made Baldwin spin. Behind him stood a fat cleric, who nervously licked his lips when he saw how Baldwin’s hand had flashed to his sword. His eyes were bloodshot, as though he had been weeping, and his tonsure looked ill upon him. The pate that showed was covered with a light stubble, like a man’s chin after a week’s growth, and there was a thick lump of clotted blood on the left of his skull as though he had stumbled. He had pale hair which, together with his tonsure, made it difficult to guess his age, although Baldwin thought he had already seen his thirtieth summer. The wrinkles at forehead and eye tended to support that. Overall, Baldwin had the unpleasant impression of a dissipated man.

  ‘I fear I may have alarmed you, my Lord. My apologies. I am Gervase, parson of this little chapel. I live opposite, and when I saw you enter, I thought I should come and ask whether you wanted… um…’

  His voice trailed off, but long before the end of his speech Baldwin had realised that the priest was drunk. If his slow and careful pronunciation had not convinced him, the man’s too-stiff stance, his red face, twitching eye and trembling hand would have sufficed.

  ‘I am well, I thank you,’ Baldwin said, keen to be gone. ‘I only wanted to see what the chapel was like.’

  ‘It was once a flourishing little church,’ the priest said, almost to himself. He looked about him as though seeing it for the first time. ‘People used to visit often. All the travellers on the way to Cornwall or back, they came and worshipped. Not now, though. Since the famine, people stay at home.’

  ‘The famine was years ago,’ Baldwin protested.

  ‘People still don’t come. Not in the same numbers,’ the priest said, and there was a shiftiness in his manner as he lowered his head and avoided Baldwin’s gaze. ‘Please excuse me, I have… duties to see to.’

  He carefully stepped around Baldwin, who watched as he walked unsteadily towards the altar, then dropped to his knees, hunched, hands clasped. Rather than a penitent making his appeals to God, uncharitably Baldwin thought he looked like a clenched fist making a threat, all knuckles and anger.

  It was when he quietly left the chapel, pulling the door closed behind him, that he heard the gleeful shout. ‘Baldwin! About time, too!’

  * * *

  Peter atte Moor stood watching the roadway, leaning against a tree. At his side, Adam picked his nose and studied the crust before flicking it away.

  ‘This inquest on Aline,’ Peter said. ‘You think it’ll be a problem?’

  ‘No reason why it should be,’ Adam said. ‘It’s high time we caught this bastard. What do you reckon to Drogo as a suspect?’

  ‘Him? Nobody would dare tell the coroner if they thought Drogo was guilty. Not when they knew they’d get us lot, all the foresters on their backs.’

  ‘He’s not been the same since his wife and girl died, has he?’ Adam said. Drogo had apparently thrown away any hope of ever finding another woman, and lived behind his own armour of cold dispassion, putting his all into his job. Perhaps it was because there was no one to blame, no one to attack over his daughter’s death. So many starved during the famine, but no one could fight it or try to kill it.

  ‘My Denise was an angel,’ Peter said quietly, and Adam glanced at him. Peter, too, had changed greatly since his daughter’s death.

  Six, seven years ago now, everyone in Sticklepath had been starving, the women trying to eke out their meagre stores, some few helping their neighbours, but mostly the whole vill subsisting and jealously protecting their own. During the hardship, Denise was found – and for that crime Athelhard had been horribly punished. But the murders never stopped, and now they, too, were killers themselves. Adam shuddered at the memories of a burning cottage, a bloody corpse and the weeping idiot girl. The regret would never leave him. Nor would the speculation. Every time he observed his friends in the vill, he wondered which one was the killer, the real sanguisuga.

  Peter lived only to find the killer of his girl. That was why he spent so much time up on the moors, he always said. He was looking for the murderer in case he ever returned. Aline and Mary had been killed up there, but Peter had apparently seen nothing.

  Adam stared back towards Sticklepath. The girls’ murderer could be someone local, who lived in the vill itself, or perhaps it was that miserable sod Serlo, the warrener up on the flank of the hill towards Belstone. The girls all appeared to like him, often visited him. Yes, Serlo was one possibility – but what about that weird bastard, Samson? There were enough rumours about him.

  Peter was glowering at him, his shoulders hunched, his face dark with anger, and suddenly Adam realised that the killer could well be Peter himself. ‘Something wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s no point being up here,’ Peter said. ‘Might as well get back.’

  ‘All right,’ Adam said, and he stood to one side, thoughtfully watching the other man before they set off back to the vill. Denise had been the first of the girls to die, and since then Peter had been very jealous of any man who had a living daughter.

  Suddenly Adam wasn’t happy to expose his back to Peter. Not until the killer had been identified and hanged.

  Chapter Six

  Simon wore a broad grin as he bore down on Baldwin, and the knight was glad to see that his old friend the bailiff showed no sign of the strain of the last few weeks. Organising the tournament had been both an honour, because in former days it had been Simon’s father to whom Lord Hugh had always turned, and an ordeal, since when Simon arrived at Oakhampton Castle, he had almost immediately become embroiled in arguments with the builders, and then there was a murder, which rather spoiled the whole affair.

  Now, though, his eyes twinkled and he gripped Baldwin’s arm enthusiastically. ‘How are you? When did you get here? We arrived yesterday, but Christ’s balls – the place is deserted. No one is about at all.’

  Baldwin managed to pull away long enough to give his greetings to the coroner, Sir Roger de Gidleigh, who stood at Simon’s shoulder. ‘I hope I am not too late for the inquest?’

  The coroner gave a crooked smile. ‘Oh no, Sir Baldwin. You haven’t missed anything yet.’

  * * *

  Gunilda heard the door open and she shivered against the wall as her husband stormed in.

  ‘Where’s my food, bitch?’

  Samson atte Mill was a heavy, barrel-chested man in his mid-thirties; hefting sacks of grain al
l day had given him muscles like a carthorse. He had broad hands with stubby, dirt-stained fingers, thighs as thick as a young man’s waist, and a neck so short it was almost non-existent. When Gunilda had married him, he was fabulously desirable, and she was slim and girl-like. He had loved her then.

  Not now she was thirty-five. Gradually she had become aware that his love for her was fading, as her slim body filled and she became a woman. He had given her one daughter, Felicia, but now she wondered whether that was just so that he had another young girl to feel, to stroke, to slobber over in his bed, while his wife lay beside him weeping silently.

  ‘I have it ready, Husband,’ she blurted, and ran to the hearth. There was the loaf she had cooked that morning and the pot of hot soup thickened with peas and grains. She quickly brought them to him at his seat at the table, his small eyes watching her without expression. He kept his eyes on her all the time, as though measuring his complete control of her. Certainly not to protect himself against her; he knew she wouldn’t dream of striking him. Too many years of obedience made that unthinkable.

  When he glanced down, his lip curled, and then he swept both the bowl and the loaf to the floor. Instantly the dogs were on the bread, snarling at each other as they tore at it.

  ‘It’s ruined, woman. You useless bitch, you can’t even cook a loaf of bread, can you?’

  She was already crying; she knew what would happen.

  ‘Is this the best you can do? A whore from the Plymouth stews could do better than this. How dare you serve me up with that pile of ox dung! All you have to do is feed me, woman, and you can’t even do that, can you?’

  As he spoke, he grasped the thick length of rope which he kept on the rafter overhead. He swung it through the air, and it whistled viciously, a serpent woken.

  ‘Please, Samson, don’t.’

  He ignored her. He always did. The anger was a part of him, not a mood he brought on, but a permanent piece of his soul. In his eyes as he grabbed her wrist, there was a faraway look, almost of lust. His face was flushed, his lips parted slightly, his eyes wider than usual, his breath coming in grunts, and as he lifted the rope, she felt him shudder as though in extreme sexual excitement.

  Later, she crawled to her palliasse on the floor. She was still lying there when her daughter returned from her work in their field.

  ‘Mother! Oh, God in Heaven!’

  Gunilda wanted to speak, wanted to offer her daughter words which could make things better for her. Felicia was too young to have to suffer this life. It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t fair! But the words couldn’t come. Gunilda knew that if she was to open her mouth, she would scream.

  ‘Mother, your back!’

  Gunilda didn’t need to be told. He had stripped the tunic from her, yanking it from her neck and leaving her upper body naked. Then he had beaten her with the rope, each blow slashing at her like a sword, all over her upper body. Felicia could only see her back, but her breasts and belly were scored with the same long, raw wounds. Even breathing was hideously painful.

  Felicia left, returning a moment later with a bucket filled from the leat. Saying nothing, she used a scrap of cloth to wipe slowly and gently at the weeping stripes.

  Gunilda cried silently. All her pain, all her fear, all her futile anger were bottled up. If she let them out, she must explode. The heat and intensity of her uselessness would sear Felicia as well as Samson, and Gunilda couldn’t bear to think of the girl being hurt even more.

  Her silence didn’t surprise her daughter, but Felicia’s quiet acceptance of her own suffering was a constant barb in Gunilda’s soul. Felicia was beaten as well, whenever Samson was displeased. Not that she refused him often. She knew that when Samson was in the mood for rutting, he preferred Felicia to his wife. He always preferred younger girls.

  Poor Felicia, she thought again, while the tears streamed down both cheeks.

  ‘Has he gone to the tavern?’ Felicia asked in a still, quiet voice.

  Gunilda couldn’t nod. Yes, her father was gone to the inn to drink again, washing away the sweet taste of his victory over his wife. He would stand there and brag, tell stories to impress his friends, and then he would return, filled with dark, amorous longings. Gunilda had no idea what went on in his head, maybe she never had, but she knew his routines. He would return drunk, ignore her, move over her to lie behind her.

  And while Gunilda cried, he would rape their daughter.

  * * *

  Simon was pleased to meet Jeanne again. She hadn’t been to the tournament, and it was six months since they had last met, thanks to her pregnancy and the safe delivery of Baldwin’s first child, baby Richalda.

  So far, Simon had avoided seeing the corpse. On hearing that the body was probably that of a young girl, he had grown still more unwilling to see the remains. He knew it amused Baldwin, and sometimes exasperated him, that he displayed such squeamishness, but he couldn’t help it. Although Baldwin himself often expressed the wish that the victims of violence could have lived to a contented old age, Simon felt that he declared it a little too regularly for it to be entirely frank. And the way that Baldwin would leap into action at the sight and smell of a corpse was, frankly, repellent to his friend.

  If there was one crime the bailiff hated more than any other, it was the murder of children. To him, child-killing was the foulest crime imaginable. When his own son Peterkin had died some years before, it had felt as though a candle providing warmth and light to his family had suddenly been snuffed out, and the thought that someone could willingly destroy a child was horrific.

  Baldwin didn’t notice his quietness; he was more interested in the coroner’s thoughtful mien. ‘What is it, Sir Roger? I do not remember you being so quiet before.’

  Roger glanced at Simon before answering him. ‘There’s something wrong here, Sir Baldwin. Something very odd. The people… well, I’m used to being shunned in public, it’s all a part of my job, because I can hand out more fines than anyone apart from the sheriff, but this goes deeper.’

  ‘I had noticed people avoiding me, too,’ Baldwin mused. ‘I thought my rank, and yours, explained their attitude well enough.’

  ‘No. I have never seen a vill react in this way. There’s something behind it, you mark my words.’

  Simon wondered if he was right. ‘They’re only peasants, and you know how gormless they can be. Some children in Lydford tried to stone a traveller three weeks ago because they thought he looked dangerous. Scared the poor devil half to death. I had to put him up for the night just so he was safe.’

  ‘Why did they do that?’ the coroner asked.

  ‘Who knows? He might have kicked a cat, or stepped on a dog’s tail, or muttered something under his breath about someone’s cottage. They’re all uneducated fools.’

  ‘I don’t think Baldwin’s villeins are that foolish,’ Jeanne said defensively.

  Baldwin grinned at her protective tone. ‘What of this suggestion of cannibalism?’

  ‘I’ve heard of such cases,’ Roger admitted. ‘The poor, the dimwitted and the drunk have all been known to eat men when they couldn’t afford food.’

  ‘I heard of cases during the famine,’ Baldwin agreed, ‘but I have heard of others too, quite unconnected with starvation. Witches are rumoured to eat young flesh or use it to achieve their aims by black magic.’

  ‘Absolute rubbish!’ the coroner scoffed.

  ‘I know, but simple-minded peasants can get hold of these ideas and take them seriously.’

  While Baldwin and the coroner fell to discussing the inquest, Simon drained his pot. William the taverner was working hard, and it was some time before he noticed Simon and nodded, going to fetch a refill.

  Baldwin took a long draught of his wine and leaned towards the coroner again. ‘So you will hold the inquest tomorrow, Sir Roger?’

  ‘Yes. Whether the reeve will be able to organise it is a different matter; he seems a complete fool. The child’s corpse has been left where it was found, apart from the skull
, which was taken to the reeve’s house.’

  Baldwin nodded. ‘The jury has been called?’

  ‘I told him to ensure that all the men over twelve years would be there, and to bring shovels.’

  ‘The body is buried?’

  ‘Up by the road, yes. That’s why I was in a hurry to get here,’ the coroner said, ‘before the vill’s dogs could pull it apart. A man has been guarding the place, apparently, so it’s safe from wild animals.’

  ‘You have little faith that the reeve will have arranged all this?’

  The coroner grunted. ‘Like I say, he’s either useless or deliberately unhelpful. Still, it can wait till morning. If it’s not done, I’ll give him a ballocking.’

  One word the coroner had used sprang in upon Simon’s thoughts. ‘You said “skull”, not “head”.’

  Sir Roger shot him a keen look. ‘The locals here told me that she died years ago.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Simon breathed, and gulped at his wine in relief.

  ‘I heard four years,’ Baldwin said, recalling Drogo’s taunt. ‘I am surprised that they have decided that the victim was cannibalised, since there can be no meat left on her bones. Perhaps there is more to this than we realised.’

  Simon shuddered. He had no wish to hear these details about the body. To him it seemed almost sacrilegious: the poor girl would have to be exposed to the sight of the whole vill tomorrow, an appalling thought. He wondered how he would feel, if it were his own daughter, Edith. If this girl had lived, she might be the same age as Edith, not that her family would know. Peasants often forgot the year of a birthday. It was difficult enough to keep track, because years were measured by the King’s reign, and trying to recall how long the present King had held power made one’s brain ache. Edith was born in the first year of King Edward II’s reign, which made her age easy to work out, but as many peasants spent their whole life in ignorance even of the King’s name there was little likelihood that they would be able to make use of such information.