The Sticklepath Strangler (2001) (35 page)

‘We have nothing!’

‘That is very sad.’

‘My Lord, please! We have nothing to give, and we can’t even pay the King money instead. We could never afford to compensate him.’

‘Perhaps you could compensate someone who was of a lesser position?’ Laurence asked, gazing at his fingernails with an air of mild enquiry.

‘The last Purveyor used to find it served him to seek out the wealthier vills. They could afford to pay the King’s Procurers enough to satisfy the King, but smaller ones like this,
well, we could only hope to pay enough to satisfy one man,’ Alexander said carefully.

‘I see. And how much would one man be satisfied with? Say a man like Ansel de Hocsenham?’

‘He would have been content with . . .’ Alexander did a quick calculation. There was always the risk that Ansel – rot him! – had managed to let this new man know how much
he had routinely milked from places like Sticklepath. Honesty was safest, although the thought of so much cash going again was sorely painful to him. It was all the money he had left. There was
nothing after this. He swallowed. ‘Three shillings and tenpence.’

‘So little?’ Sir Laurence yawned, but his eyes remained sharp. ‘And that was the last time he came here?’

‘There are so many felons and footpads on the roads,’ Alexander said nervously.

‘And some of them live in towns and vills like ordinary men. Like Reeves.’ Sir Laurence was staring out through the window as though finding the conversation unbearably tedious.

Alexander said, ‘He must have been set upon and robbed after he left here. Perhaps someone in Oakhampton will know of his passing through.’

‘Curiously enough, the people there deny ever seeing him. It’s most peculiar, but he never appeared there. But we know that he indeed left here, don’t we? I was told that by
Drogo Forester when I asked him.’

Drogo cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. Alexander didn’t bother to look at him. Christ Jesus! It wasn’t as though Ansel hadn’t deserved his end. He was a leech in human
form, demanding money from any Reeve who couldn’t afford the King’s Purvey, sucking their blood to within a few pennies of their conscience. Any more and most Reeves would have felt it
worthwhile to tell the King that the Purveyor was corrupt, but Ansel knew how to gauge the amount to a nicety. He always left the people with just enough to live on: not enough to live comfortably,
but enough for survival.

‘He had an unsavoury reputation, you know,’ Sir Laurence was saying, idly dipping a finger into his bowl of wine and licking it clean. He raised innocent eyes to study Alexander.
‘It has been said that he was bent as hell, that he’d take money to release people from the King’s demands.’

‘I
am
surprised,’ said Alexander with pointed sarcasm.

Sir Laurence didn’t appear to notice his irony. ‘Yes. And of course he’d force people to sell their grain at less than he was supposed to, and pocket the difference. Not a
pleasant fellow, our Ansel, but still a King’s Officer, when all is said and done.’

‘Of course.’

Alexander wondered when all the play-acting would stop and they would arrest him. Peter atte Moor had left the place a while ago, gone off to get some sleep after the last two nights he had
spent up on the moors walking about his bailiwick, but the others were still here. Drogo and two Foresters were behind him and it would take only a moment for them to bind him. One thing he was
sure of – if he were to run, Drogo would have him dead in a moment; he would want Alexander to be silenced for good. However, the Reeve wouldn’t give him that satisfaction, nor that
relief.

Alexander’s thoughts were interrupted when he heard the first dog begin to howl again. He hesitated, listening, but the dog continued, and he frowned. Forgetting Drogo for a moment, he
rose to his feet.

‘Where are you going?’ Sir Laurence demanded harshly.

From the corner of his eye, Alexander saw Drogo make a sharp gesture with his hand and Vincent Yunghe appeared before him, an apologetic grimace on his face.

‘I want to see what that dog is making such a noise over. The damned thing spent much of last night howling.’

‘Wait here awhile instead,’ Sir Laurence said silkily. ‘We are having such a fine talk. It would be a shame to pause in the middle. Come, pray return to your seat, my good
Reeve.’

Alexander slumped back into the chair, chewing at his lip. Outside he was sure that a second dog had begun to howl. They must be Samson’s two in their kennels.

‘That’s right!’ Sir Laurence said heartily. It was always pleasant to show that beneath his velvet glove there still remained a
main de fer
, a hand of iron. This man
was cowed already, as he should be, but many a beaten man in the past had tried to escape by using a minor distraction like a howling dog or two.

It was an unsettling noise, true. There was a mournful quality about it that was rather eerie. There was also more than a little fear in those two voices, if he could hear them aright. It was
odd, he’d never heard dogs howling like that before.

No matter, though. He eyed the pale and anxious features of the Reeve before him and told himself with satisfaction that there was more fun to be had in here, taunting this fellow, than in going
out to investigate a pair of poxy, yapping curs.

Simon and Baldwin left Meg and Serlo soon afterwards. Serlo was comforting her as best he could, but Baldwin understood that the poor woman needed time to get over the first
dreadful shock of hearing about her daughter’s death, and of reliving her traumatic experiences in that wood. It was curious to Baldwin that she should wish to live in Sticklepath at all. The
destruction of her brother by their neighbours must surely mean that she would hate all of them? But then again she was simple. Perhaps it was impossible for her to conceive of removing herself
from the place where she had grown up and lived with her brother, especially since Serlo had shown her kindness. Where else could she hope to find that? Sticklepath was not only a place of horror
for her, but somewhere with pleasing memories, too.

‘Well?’ asked Simon.

They had reached the roadway. Baldwin rummaged in his purse and took out the fragment of arrow, studying it in the faltering light. ‘Peacock feathers. A bit grand for a poor little vill
like this.’

‘I dare say a Forester like Drogo knows where to catch such birds and make use of them.’

‘True – but do they work any better than a goose quill?’

‘No. This was used purely for ostentation. It’s the sort of thing a young squire would do to impress his lady-love.’

‘It was apparently good enough to kill this Athelhard,’ Baldwin pointed out mildly. ‘It shows that they were not scared of being discovered, doesn’t it? There was no
intention of concealing their crime from local people.’

‘If Serlo was right, the whole vill was involved anyway.’

‘True, and if the vill was convinced that he was responsible for killing and eating their children, it is no surprise that they would wish to take such a savage revenge.’

‘Let us hope that Drogo can enlighten us.’

‘It is horrible to think of dying like that,’ Baldwin mused. ‘All alone in your own home, while your neighbours fire arrows at you. No one to turn to. No protection.’

‘And then they try to cover up their crime by throwing you back onto the flames of your own house. Sick!’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. He called to Aylmer, who was falling behind them, sniffing at every bush. ‘And this happened a short time after the death of Denise, if the Parson is to be
believed.’

‘You think he isn’t?’

‘Well, he didn’t tell us the whole truth about how Athelhard died, did he? Never a hint that the vill rose up as one and murdered him.’

‘Maybe the folks went to him to confess. That would seal his lips.’

‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘It also explains why Gervase is such a nervous wreck and why the people here live under such a cloud. A country priest with little education could
all too easily jump to the conclusion that a murderer who ate his victims was possessed—’

‘Not only a country priest,’ Simon said shortly.

‘Simon, I apologise. I did not mean to pass comment on your own views. I was merely thinking aloud. But it would explain Gervase’s attitude, wouldn’t it? They killed the man
whom they had blamed, and then they were forced to confront a terrible nightmare! They thought they had destroyed the beast who had slaughtered their children and eaten them – and then the
killings continued! They must all be aware that they killed an innocent man.’

‘That’s what happens when the mob takes control and ignores the law,’ Simon said ponderously.

‘Do you really blame them, Simon? After all, you do share some of their feelings about ghosts and demons.’

The Bailiff grunted but didn’t speak. There was a world of difference in his mind between someone who believed in the supernatural and was sensible enough to fear demons, and someone who
was prepared to break the law for whatever the reason. Apart from anything else, he was certain that the best people to control demons of any type were priests. Everyone else should steer well
clear of them.

‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said thoughtfully, ‘they didn’t feel that they would receive any help from the law.’

They had reached the vill now, and were passing the cemetery. Simon cast a quick look at the cross with its drooping cross member. ‘And your point? Other than to irritate me, of
course.’

‘That was not my intention,’ Baldwin protested. ‘All I meant to say was that there
are
precedents for cutting up a body and burning it on a pyre. Sometimes people feel
that it’s the only way to cleanse an evil soul.’

‘They must have been terrified of Meg’s brother,’ Simon considered.

‘Very.’ Baldwin stopped to whistle again at Aylmer, who was staring out over the cemetery with his head tilted to one side.

‘But although there were more murders, they didn’t attempt to kill anyone else.’

‘No,’ Baldwin said.

‘You sound unconvinced.’

‘I am unconvinced by everything I learn here. I had assumed that the deaths of the children were committed by one person, but that the death of the Purveyor was a separate murder. Now I
wonder . . . what if the Purveyor was killed by the same person?’

Simon looked at him curiously. ‘Why should you think that? He only disappeared.’

‘Yes. But I wonder whether his body had been mutilated, too? We’ll never know unless we find it,’ Baldwin said. ‘And then we would have a case where one murderer over a
period killed one man, perhaps got a flavour for human meat, and then killed other, easier victims over time. That would make sense to me.’

The Bailiff shivered, but then a thought occurred to him. ‘If that’s the case, why should the murderer hide the first victim, the purveyor, and Aline, but leave the others to be
found?’

‘A good question,’ Baldwin said. ‘Oh, what is the matter with the dog? Aylmer, get over here!’

It was at that moment that they heard the first dog begin to howl, and as Simon saw the sudden intensity of Baldwin’s face, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck and arms begin to
rise.

Gunilda shivered and licked her lips as she kneaded the dough for their supper. All about her the mill felt full of shadows, and whenever she looked up, she saw faces peering
at her: in the darkened corners of the room, in among the timber baulks that made up the shafts, in between the great leather straps that connected one axle with another, even in the wattle of the
walls. Everywhere faces were staring, watching and slavering in the dim candlelight.

‘Go away!’ she whispered as another one caught her attention. ‘He’s dead now, you can’t touch me. You don’t scare me.’

‘Mother, can I—’

‘Shut up, child!’ Gunilda snapped. ‘You can’t know anything. Leave me in peace.’

Felicia sagged back. She felt the chill too, but she daren’t comment again. It had been fearsome living here with her father, knowing that he would come to her bed at night and make use of
her like a whore, but somehow now that he was gone, her mother’s sudden collapse was still more terrifying.

It was impossible for her to trust the boys in the vill. Several of them had made advances as she grew up, usually at harvest-time when the cider and ale had been flowing faster than usual and
their blood was hot, or at springtime, when the weather warmed and the young shoots began to break the surface of the soil, and the thoughts of all the lads and lasses in the vill turned to rolling
in the fresh grass. Not many had appealed to her. Peter atte Moor had grabbed her once, trying his luck; so had Drogo, one night when he was drunk, but Samson had been near, and Drogo soon released
her. Not that she was interested in any of them. Only Vin. Vin was the one who had really tempted her. That was why she had given herself to him at the river that day. And why she had gone with him
again last night.

All through those years of abuse, her mother had been a source of sympathy; she had listened and comforted Felicia, often weeping with her as they rocked each other to sleep beside the snoring
bulk of her father. Gunilda was desperate and lonely. She had lost her husband to her daughter, and witnessing Felicia’s nightly rape was tearing at her heart as her own misery grew, Felicia
could see that. But Gunilda had never dared try to stop Samson. Every night as he roughly pushed or pulled at Felicia and mounted her like a dog on a bitch, Gunilda turned away, but that was all.
Except recently she had taken to holding Felicia’s hand, just placing her fingers in Felicia’s palm as if to reassure her.

Felicia had hoped that once Samson was dead, she and Gunilda might be able to live normally, free from the fear he inspired in both of them. It had felt like a miracle when she heard Gunilda
scream, then her father’s hoarse cry, and had run to them to see her mother standing, her fists clenched at either side of her mouth while she shrieked. Felicia had felt concern that her
father was hurt, but not because she thought that he might die: she hoped he would. He had been an unholy menace to her. She hated him.