The Sticklepath Strangler

by Michael Jecks

  There was a low hiss from the crowd, then an intake of breath. ‘Yes! I say he killed Emma too. He has been taken over by demons, and we must exorcise them. Men! Dig, dig down into his grave, and bring out his body. I must lay this holy message on his breast, and then his soul will be free. He will never come back to trouble us. We can save him – we must save his soul. It is God’s will!’

  * * *

  Leaving the house, Coroner Roger winced as he put weight on his ankle. ‘This is not getting any better – and keep your damned dog away. Moth-eaten mutt nearly tripped me!’

  ‘Put your hand on my shoulder,’ Baldwin said. ‘What are those hounds crying for?’

  ‘God knows,’ the coroner said. He was glad to be leaving Alexander’s depressing room. It aped a great lord’s hall, but after today it would only have the feel of a gaol for him. Seeing Alexander sitting at his table, a broken man, had touched a nerve in Roger’s heart. It was terrible to see a man at bay in his own home.

  ‘The place needs a woman’s hand,’ Baldwin continued, seeing the coroner’s expression. ‘It reminds me of my own hall before I married. Something is missing, some spark of life or joy.’

  ‘You think a woman adds joy?’

  ‘Some women do,’ Baldwin smiled contentedly.

  ‘Wait until you have been married as long as me before you make another comment like that,’ the coroner said. ‘You’ll realise your error. Isn’t that right, Bailiff?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Wake up, Simon! Aren’t you listening? We were talking about women and—’

  ‘You were thinking the same? A woman could have done it?’

  Baldwin caught his tone. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The deaths: Athelhard was killed wrongly because the vill took against him, and then the girls started to die. Couldn’t Meg have decided to take revenge?’

  Baldwin snorted. ‘And what of Denise? She died before Athelhard; that was why the people decided to execute Athelhard in the first place.’

  ‘True, and of course Ansel de Hocsenham was already dead as well,’ Simon said. ‘But Meg could have killed them too!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said without conviction. He asked Roger, ‘What did you think of the reeve’s story?’

  ‘I have to confess that I found it believable.’

  Simon grunted. ‘Up until now I was happy to believe that the forester or the reeve could have killed the purveyor, but I think you’re right. Their denials were convincing.’

  ‘I had thought that the death of the purveyor was separate, but as I said after we met Meg, what if his death was the first in a sequence?’ Baldwin said, and now there was a growing excitement in his voice. ‘Now we know that he too was murdered and eaten. Surely he must have been killed by the same person.’

  ‘Why would the guilty person kill a man and then go on to slaughter children?’ Simon asked. ‘Ah! Perhaps because the first was an opportunistic murder, trying to stop the hated tax-gatherer from thieving the vill’s money, and the killer didn’t want to waste the flesh. He was starving, so he cut some portions to eat. Learning the meat was good, he killed again, and then even after the famine was done, he had a taste for human flesh.’ He shivered at the thought.

  ‘It is a possibility,’ Baldwin said. ‘But we also have the strange fact of Aline’s concealment. Why should someone hide her when all the other victims were left in plain view?’

  ‘If it was someone who knew her well, perhaps it was to give her the merest imitation of a church burial?’ Simon suggested.

  ‘Someone who cared that much surely would have found a different victim,’ Baldwin said. ‘No, I think it must have been for a different reason. Maybe the killer was anxious about being discovered. Or could it have been done to offend someone – the girl’s father, for instance? To hurt his feelings, or to leave him in pain. Or maybe it was just punishment of the girl?’

  ‘Did anyone have a motive for the murders?’ Simon said. ‘I’ve always tried to see who might have made money or got some other benefit from a crime, but in this case where is the motive?’

  ‘There is always a motive, no matter how obscure,’ Baldwin said with conviction.

  Coroner Roger grimaced as his bruised foot caught on a tussock of grass. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I have known men to kill because they disliked another’s eye colour; to show that they were men; to impress women… and so on. There is always a reason, if you could but see it.’ Simon held out his hands in a gesture of bafflement. ‘But what could the motive be in this case?’

  Baldwin was silent a moment. He was watching a crowd gather outside the inn. ‘Let us walk on. Those men look boisterous. Now,’ he continued as they left Alexander’s house behind them, ‘The first death, that of Ansel de Hocsenham, may have been an accident.’

  ‘The purveyor was hated by all about here,’ Simon reminded him. ‘Perhaps he was killed because of that hatred, or maybe he saw something…’

  Baldwin agreed. ‘Let us suppose he was not only seen by someone who hated him, but that his killer was also starving. Perhaps the two motives came together.’

  ‘What of the girls?’ Simon said. ‘Do you think he got a taste for the flesh of humans?’

  ‘Perhaps. But I think it is more than that. Most of his victims were young girls. Children. All of about eleven years of age. That is curious. Surely it was a man trying to gain power over those weaker than himself. Any man could go and make use of a tavern’s whores if he needed, so was this a man who had no money, or was it a man who felt threatened by women – so threatened that he sought to take them by force?’

  ‘But he didn’t take women,’ Coroner Roger scoffed.

  ‘No,’ said Simon with dawning understanding. ‘He took the only women he could, young girls who knew little better, who couldn’t physically protect themselves against him.’

  ‘So we have a weakly man,’ Baldwin said, ‘who was extremely poor during the famine and couldn’t afford food, nor did he have any growing at his home.’ He curled his lip. It was not convincing.

  ‘At least that means we should be able to free some people from suspicion,’ Coroner Roger said.

  ‘Yes,’ Simon said. ‘And the more the better.’

  ‘Listen to those blasted hounds!’ Coroner Roger burst out. ‘Why are they still making that infernal racket?’

  Baldwin cast an eye up towards the mill. ‘They miss their master.’

  ‘A dog would usually have got over the death of a master by now.’

  ‘Shall we see if there’s something else wrong, then?’ Baldwin enquired.

  Simon looked from one to the other. ‘I suppose you want to walk through the bloody graveyard to get to them? After all, what could be more pleasant on a chill and damp evening than a wander among rotting corpses. There’s only your wife, Baldwin, and mugs of hot spiced wine waiting for us in the tavern; nothing to hurry back for.’

  ‘You don’t have to join us,’ Baldwin said mildly.

  ‘Ah, bugger it! If we’re going to take a look, let’s get on with it,’ Simon said, and began to march towards the mill and the howling dogs – although Baldwin noted that he skirted the cemetery and didn’t attempt to walk through it.

  Aylmer sprang on ahead, but it was not easy for the men, especially for the hobbling coroner. Although the day had been mostly dry, there had been enough drizzle during the evening to fill the puddles and make the mud even more thick and glutinous than before. Roger tried to hop between the ruts, but it was not easy because carts had created hard rails of rock-like dried mud which wouldn’t soak up moisture so speedily, and he found himself slipping and swearing as he made his way to the source of the noise.

  The mill was in darkness, and as the three approached, the wind seemed to grow in strength. Simon could hear a large piece of cloth flapping. It sounded like the wings of an enormous bird or bat, a bizarre, unwholesome sound, and he wished that he could silence it, but he couldn’t see where it came from. Probably a lengt
h of sacking covering a window, he thought.

  Just then, the moon was covered again and the yard became utterly dark. A few heavy drops of rain fell and Simon muttered another curse, hunching his head down between his shoulders, as though that could help, but then the moon was free again, and suddenly he felt his fears leaving him. There was no need to worry about spirits in a place like this. The mill was open to view, and there was not the slightest space for a man or ghost to hide.

  In fact, Simon thought it was a pleasing view. The moonlight was almost as strong as the midday sun, or so it seemed, and all about, the land was bathed in a silvery light. Puddles sparkled and glittered, and even the river, which he could glimpse through the trees, shone like a ribbon of silk.

  The dogs were held in a kennel between the mill and the cemetery, Aylmer standing before them wearing a puzzled expression. They did indeed remind Baldwin of his own great raches, but they were not guarding tonight; they had no interest in him or the others. Their concentration was devoted to the moon, Baldwin thought at first, but then he saw that they only howled upwards. Between each sobbing cry, they stared out over the cemetery.

  ‘What in God’s name is your trouble?’ Coroner Roger demanded, bending to the nearer of the two. He spoke with exasperation and bemusement. ‘Come on, you monsters, can’t you see that some people want to get back to their inn and find a meal?’

  ‘It’s something over there,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘Where?’

  Simon saw Aylmer trot away towards the wall. ‘The cemetery?’

  ‘There is no need for you to come as well, but I shall take a quick look.’

  ‘You assume that I fear a cemetery at night?’ Simon said. His voice sounded strained even to his own ears. ‘I wouldn’t have it said that a mere keeper dared to rush in where a Bailiff did not!’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Baldwin gave a half grin, but there was a challenge in his eyes. ‘You seem alarmed, though. Why?’

  Simon sighed. ‘The other night, I was walking along the road when I heard something.’

  ‘What sort of something?’

  ‘Like a voice from under the ground. Like a… ghost.’ Baldwin’s grin froze. ‘In the cemetery?’

  ‘It came from where Samson was buried.’

  ‘My Christ!’ Baldwin said, appalled. ‘Don’t you see? The poor devil must have been buried alive!’

  ‘Hoy, what are those men doing up there?’ the coroner interrupted them. ‘Torches and all sorts.’

  ‘Come quickly!’ Baldwin said, leaping forward and springing over the low wall surrounding the cemetery. ‘We have to protect him from their madness!’

  Coroner Roger stared after him. ‘This is all very well, but I don’t mind confessing that I feel as scared as though the devil were at my arse! Do you really mean to enter that place at this time of night?’

  ‘Not happily,’ Simon admitted. ‘But I daren’t leave him in there alone. It looks as though the whole vill is there!’

  The coroner glanced down at his leg with a grimace. ‘Come on, then. The sooner it’s done, the better.’ And he grasped his staff more firmly as he lifted his leg gingerly over the wall, and set off after Baldwin.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Vin didn’t want to be here in the cemetery. The place was scary at this time of night. However, Drogo had insisted that he come. The foresters’ leader seemed a bit nervous himself. Vin knew about him burying the body of the purveyor with the reeve, but what else could there be to concern him? There was the small matter that every one of the murders had occurred when Drogo was away from Vin. The latter couldn’t recall every one of those nights, but certainly Drogo had been out at his bailiwick when Emma was killed, or so he said. Perhaps he had come back to the vill and throttled her, then taken his pieces of flesh back up the hill to his camp fire?

  But why should he do such a dreadful thing? And why eat them? Because he liked the flavour? Vin shuddered. He recalled meals with Drogo demanding bloody meat, remembered the man’s chin dripping in gore, and suddenly Vin felt queasy.

  * * *

  Swetricus had already dug down several feet with Henry’s help, and had just stepped down into the grave to dig out the rest when Baldwin pounded up. Behind him, the coroner had caught sight of Swetricus’s work, and immediately his face reddened and he roared, hopping over to join Baldwin.

  ‘Just what is God’s name is going on here? Get out of that grave, you bastard. Parson, what the Hell is this?’

  Gervase stepped forward, motioning with a hand to Swetricus to continue. ‘Coroner, this is Church land. Your jurisdiction ends there, at the wall.’

  The coroner was appalled. ‘What are you doing here,this… this desecration! Why?’

  ‘Because—’

  Before he could answer, Swetricus dropped his shovel, ashen-faced, and sprang from the hole as a hideous shriek erupted from it.

  Simon felt his stomach churn and took a pace back. That scream sounded like it came from the bowels of the earth itself – and then he corrected himself: it came from Hell. There was nothing earthly about it.

  All about him, the men of the vill had moved away from the graveside, muttering and shaking their heads, one or two sidling towards the gate that gave out onto the road. Only two men stood firm: Baldwin and Gervase, with Aylmer at their side.

  Gervase was smiling. This was the proof! He had known he was right! Now the vampire’s cry showed it. Nobody could doubt the evidence of their own ears. Seeing Swetricus standing a yard or two away from the grave, the parson indicated that he should continue. The peasant, his face showing his fear, wiped a forearm over his brow and stared down at the ground. Then he resolutely stepped forward, carefully lowered himself into the hole once more and picked up his shovel.

  ‘What was that?’ Coroner Roger exclaimed.

  Baldwin spoke tightly. ‘The poor man’s not dead. He’s still alive.’

  ‘No, Sir Knight,’ Parson Gervase said. ‘He’s dead, but demons have taken him over.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, man,’ Baldwin spat. ‘He must have been buried alive by mistake. It’s not surprising, seeing that he was knocked on the head. I’ve heard of men who have been buried alive before, when all they received was a bad knock. The poor devil—’

  ‘He is no poor devil, Sir Baldwin. Ask his wife. She told us before you got here. Samson was always molesting young girls, including their own daughter. This man deserves no sympathy. And if he was buried alive, as you say, how did he escape to kill Emma last night?’

  ‘He didn’t,’ Baldwin said flatly. ‘Surely you can see that this is only superstition? You cannot be thinking of killing the man just because we made a mistake and buried him alive!’

  ‘You say I am thinking of killing him,’ Gervase said reprovingly. ‘I would do no such thing. I cannot: he is already dead. His soul has been taken over by demons because he died suddenly and couldn’t receive the Extreme Unction which would have forgiven all his sins. So I must put this paper on his chest.’ He opened his scrip and took out the sheet upon which he had so carefully scrawled. ‘And anoint him with oil.’

  Of all the men of the vill, Henry Batyn was nearest. He peered over the parson’s shoulder, his face falling. ‘You’re going to stick that on him and anoint him?’

  ‘It will show him how to gain salvation,’ the parson smiled. Peter atte Moor pushed his way through the crowd. Snatching at the paper, he stared. ‘You’ve written things on it.’

  ‘Yes, it tells him how to—’

  ‘He couldn’t read, Parson. What good’ll this do?’

  ‘His spirit can receive the message,’ Gervase said, but a note of doubt had entered his voice. He hadn’t heard that there was any need for a recipient to be able to read. Women in childbirth had prayers written down and laid against their inner thighs to help them cope with the pain whether they could read or not, didn’t they? And Gervase had heard of demonic possession of corpses where this was the cor
rect procedure.

  ‘Ballocks!’ Peter scoffed. ‘This evil bastard couldn’t read when he was alive, and he won’t be able to if he’s dead. Anyway, he killed my Denise when he was alive, and Emma when he was dead. I’ll not see him reburied so he can murder any more.’

  ‘He’ll get out again,’ came a voice from the crowd, ‘and this time he may not kill a girl. It could be any one of us!’

  ‘That is nonsense!’ the parson said. ‘He won’t be able to hurt anyone once I have put this on his chest and anointed him.’

  ‘So you say, Parson, but how can we know?’ Swetricus asked, clambering out again. ‘I’ve lost one daughter. I won’t risk another.’

  ‘Get back in the grave, Swetricus,’ Gervase commanded.

  The peasant raised his arms. ‘Who else here will let the ghost kill their children?’

  ‘What else can we do?’ Peter atte Moor asked.

  ‘We know what to do!’ It was Drogo, who now shouldered his way through the press with Vin and Adam in his wake. They stood at the graveside and stared down into it, and then Drogo looked at the men all about. ‘Every household, bring faggots. We’ll burn him, like we did Athelhard, and scatter his ashes so he can’t come back and trouble us again.’

  Baldwin felt his heart lurch. ‘No, you must not! This man is alive still. He was interred by accident. Just think of it: he has been in there for a day, in a tiny space, praying for someone to rescue him. You must not raise him, only to throw him onto a pyre.’

  ‘If you won’t help us, leave us,’ Drogo said curtly.

  ‘Watch your tongue, Forester. I have only just given you your freedom,’ Sir Roger growled.

  ‘And I am grateful, Coroner, but I won’t betray the trust these villagers have in me,’ Drogo stated uncompromisingly. ‘And I won’t see another girl killed by this evil shit.’

  Gervase stamped his foot and bellowed that the men should ignore Drogo, but even as he spoke, he could see that most of them were disappearing, streaming away to the vill to obey the forester’s command.