The Sticklepath Strangler (2001)

by Jecks, Michael

  Chapter Five

  Edgar helped the tavernkeeper carry his master’s belongings to the room at the back of the inn, then removed the previous occupants’ things.

  ‘They won’t be happy,’ Taverner said morosely.

  Edgar made no comment. His master required the room, so whoever had been there first must move. Lady Jeanne and Edgar’s own wife Petronilla needed protection from the gaze of strangers. Here in the room there was a bed for them both with its own mattress. Petronilla went to it and sniffed at the bedclothes, pulling a face. It was normal enough to have to share a bed, to sleep between sheets which had not been washed for weeks and which had been used by all the travellers who had stayed at the inn, but that didn’t mean Petronilla had to accept it. She was not content to sleep among the odours of another’s sweat or worse.

  They had anticipated rank bedding. Petronilla opened a sack filled with clean linen and good herbs to keep fleas and lice at bay. Edgar left her pulling the old bedding from the palliasse as a prelude to remaking the bed, while Jeanne saw to her child.

  On the threshold he stood enjoying the sunshine. Edgar had never been here before, but he knew that his master had visited this inn during the previous year on his way to Belstone with Simon Puttock, and he guessed that this river came from high up on Dartmoor. From the sound of it, it was swollen by the rain. Usually any river would have its own background noise, a soothing sound as it wandered over smooth pebbles and rippled past grassy banks, but when it grew, it developed a new, angrier rushing as though furious to be constrained in so narrow a path.

  He studied the inn dispassionately. It was a large, cruck-built place, but dilapidated. Moss was thick on the thinning thatch, and the walls were green where the mud hadn’t spattered them, and Edgar didn’t fail to notice the rubble at one end where an extension had collapsed. Now the inn’s rafters projected some distance into thin air, and it reminded Edgar unpleasantly of a skeleton exposing itself as the corpse rotted.

  Entering the main room, he found his nostrils assaulted by an eyewatering stench of sour ale and wine, rotted straw, damp, mouldy wood in the fire, and urine – probably from the dog which scratched by the fireside. Edgar kicked at the scruffy, emaciated creature, which slunk away, then took a seat on a bench.

  The interior was dingy and smoke-filled. It was darker than Edgar would have expected at this time of day, but the window to the south opened onto a dim and gloomy tree-clad hillside. Already the sun had passed westwards, but in the western wall there was no window because the tavernkeeper had built himself a chamber up in the eaves. No doubt his room would be bright with the evening sun, Edgar thought to himself, at the expense of his guests.

  There were men sitting at another table, but apart from them the place looked deserted. Edgar could not make out their faces in the gloom, but he was amused to see that the rough peasants said nothing after he walked in, merely supped their drinks from large pots and eyed him suspiciously.

  Many years ago he had set off from a vill little larger than this one. His father was similar to those fellows over there. Burly, resilient, wary of strangers, capable of intense loyalty, but also acquisitive, vindictive and aggressive. Such men were the backbone of the King’s Host, but they were also among the most troublesome and quarrelsome of his subjects.

  When the tavernkeeper’s daughter entered and ungraciously offered to serve Edgar, he ordered a jug of wine. He indicated the sullen drinkers at their own table. ‘And drinks for them, too.’

  It was always a good policy, he found, to keep an ear open in a new area. If he could pick up rumblings of discontent early on, it could mean the difference between Baldwin’s safety, and danger for him and Jeanne. Edgar was happy to invest for security. One drink, he calculated, should buy the companionship of any of these villeins.

  To a man they rejected his offer, stood and strode out, all ignoring him bar one: the slim fellow called Vin. Yet the others were not the friends this Vin had been with earlier. And it was curious that they should willingly turn down free ale.

  He sipped his drink and made himself comfortable on his stool, his back to the wall facing the doorway leading in, for it was hard to give up the habits of a lifetime’s wariness. Soon a new fellow entered, a tall, long-legged man with a face burned as dark as a nut. His features were open and cheery, and he looked the sort who would be good company on a long winter’s night before a fire. Grey eyes twinkled when he pulled off his hat to expose a thinning scalp.

  ‘Godspeed! Would you care for wine after your journey?’ Edgar enquired politely.

  ‘I am staying here, not journeying. Not until after the inquest, anyway,’ said the man. He cast a long glance about the room. ‘Has everyone died? Bleeding hell! I’ve never seen the place so quiet.’

  ‘All’s well, though the people are unfriendly,’ Edgar said, and called for the serving girl. When she arrived, she took his order, but with every indication that she was unhappy. She stood near them, practically hopping from one foot to another, and Edgar had to ask her sharply to fetch the wine he had ordered.

  ‘I am grateful to you, sir,’ the man said. ‘It is not common to be served so speedily here.’

  ‘My master expects better treatment.’

  ‘Your master?’

  ‘Sir Baldwin Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton. We are here to help the Coroner at the inquest.’

  ‘Oh! The inquest into the body up the lane? I was with the two girls who found the corpse. Poor things. One didn’t stop running till she got back here. The skull rolled from the grave, you understand, down towards her.’ He reflected. ‘The skull was only small. I ’d imagine the body was that of a child.’

  ‘It is always terrible to find a child who has been murdered,’ Edgar said. He nodded and introduced himself. ‘I am Edgar, servant to Sir Baldwin Furnshill.’

  ‘I am Miles Houndestail,’ his companion said. ‘Pardoner.’

  ‘Ah,’ Edgar said, more coldly. Pardoners were disreputable characters in his mind.

  ‘I shan’t sell you anything,’ Houndestail said with a chortle. The girl had returned with his drink, but she remained hovering at his shoulder. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Sir, your stuff – it’s all been moved.’

  ‘I should apologise,’ said Edgar immediately. ‘My master’s wife wanted privacy so she has taken the room at the back.’

  ‘I hope she will be comfortable,’ Houndestail said easily. ‘I shall look forward to a new bed which does not involve sharing with Ivo Bel. Odious man!’

  With that, he finished his wine, thanked Edgar, and left to seek his clothing and goods.

  It was some little while later that another man walked in, and Edgar was convinced that this must be Houndestail’s bedfellow. His petulant expression would have curdled milk.

  ‘You travelling through here? I’m sick to death of the drunken rioters in this bar. They keep me awake every damned night!’

  ‘I am here for the Coroner’s inquest,’ Edgar volunteered mildly.

  ‘Oh, Christ’s bones! You’re one of his entourage, are you? You don’t look like a clerk.’

  Edgar ignored his words. They were not spoken with intentional malice, but with a kind of unthinking rudeness.

  ‘You should tell the Coroner to be careful of Thomas Garde.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Edgar. The man was sitting near him on the same bench, and he was leaning forward, whispering as though the two were spies.

  ‘He’s dangerous. Violent. And I have heard that he might have killed the girl. She died just after he came here.’

  ‘You know whose body it is?’

  The man leaned away, sipping his wine. ‘We can guess,’ he shrugged. ‘One girl disappeared just as Garde appeared here. Her name was Aline, the daughter of Swetricus, a local peasant. She was never found.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Edgar asked.

  ‘Ivo Bel, Manciple to the nuns at Canonsleigh.’

  ‘I see.’ Edgar wasn’t surpri
sed. The man had the look of an ascetic. If he was honest, Edgar would say Ivo had the look of a eunuch who would prefer holding parchments in preference to a young, fragrant girl. Edgar, a hot-blooded man, found that difficult to understand.

  Bel was shorter than Houndestail. Slim of build, with narrow shoulders under his light cloak, his long nose gave him a singularly lugubrious expression. The first impression he gave was of painful thinness. In fact, with the miserable light thrown by a pair of candles and a few rushlights, the stranger’s features appeared so drawn and cadaverous, Edgar thought they looked almost like a skull.

  The girl reappeared in the doorway, then approached. ‘Sir,’ she said falteringly, ‘I have to say sorry, but your things are all in the pantry.’ She shot a look at Edgar and said spitefully, ‘They were thrown from the room.’

  Ivo’s face was unmoving, but his voice became chilly. ‘And who did that?’

  ‘My apologies, friend,’ Edgar said immediately and explained again. ‘My master’s wife wanted somewhere quiet for herself and her child. When we enquired, the innkeeper admitted that he possessed a room. We took it.’

  However, the damage was done. Ivo Bel studied the wine in his pot. ‘If your lady is comfortable, that is enough for me,’ he said eventually. ‘I am only glad to have been of service. Pray do not trouble yourself about me.’

  His tone was calm, but Edgar could see the cold fury gleaming in his eyes. It made him smile, but at the same time he resolved to keep an eye on this fellow.

  It had been a ghost.

  Baldwin forced himself to stand and wait until the pounding in his breast was a little calmer, until the rushing in his ears had slowed.

  There had been someone there, a figure he remembered from his dream. No, he amended, that was not true. It was not from his dream, but from his past: the body of the fat Prior, the man found in the clearing in the woods near to Crediton, whose death he and Simon had investigated six years ago. Yet the figure today was not so fat, nor was he clad in rich, embroidered things, but in miserable grey, like the poorest churl. Like a leper.

  No matter. Baldwin, a proud knight, had wanted to flee, to bolt up the hill to the roadway and human company. He had been petrified by the mere sight of someone standing against a tree. It was pathetic.

  Snapping his fingers to Aylmer, he turned his back on the scene and set off to the road, but he had only walked three paces when he glanced down at his dog with a puzzled expression. If the figure had been a ghost, surely his dog should have been scared as well? He had heard that dogs would always hurry away from ghosts, yet Aylmer had apparently noticed nothing.

  The hound was frowning up at him as though concerned for his sanity, and Baldwin gave a dry laugh. His breathing was easier now, and his overriding feeling was of shame rather than fear. ‘So there was no ghost, eh? And yet I do not think I shall share this escapade with Jeanne. She would not appreciate the irony.’

  Before going to the vill itself, he noticed a freshwater spring and drank from cupped hands. It was refreshingly cool, if slightly brackish, and he drank thirstily before washing his face. Shaking his hands dry, he felt the anxiety drip from him as the sun’s warmth seeped into his frame.

  It was ludicrous. Although he could consider the affair logically and rationally, he would not feel completely easy until he was back among the cottages of the vill. There was nothing for him to be afraid of, and yet he was. With an effort, he put the dark shaw from his mind and took in his surroundings.

  There was a series of buildings some little distance from the road and he let his feet take him along the puddled track towards them. Most were simple barns and sheds filled with farming tools and equipment, but the furthest was devoted to animals. This was where travellers left their mounts. Even as Baldwin approached, he could see Jeanne’s magnificent Arab being groomed. His own mount stood patiently nearby, reins tied to a metal ring in the door, while the cart horse and Edgar’s animal were tied to a post.

  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,’ Pete
r 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.