The Sticklepath Strangler (2001) (40 page)

Samson’s body was in thrall to demons. That was obvious, because he had killed Emma after his own death. Now Gervase must free Samson from the demons which possessed him. Throw them out
and allow Samson to lie in peace . . . and protect the other folk of the vill.

The wine had given him courage and now he felt he could face Samson’s ghost. He knew what he must do. On his table was his scrip, and he opened it, studying the small piece of paper and
the phial. Satisfied with both, he carefully tied the scrip by its two leather thongs to his belt and took up his staff.

With a deep breath, he threw open the door. Outside, the wind was blowing steadily from the moors, and the air was thick with mizzle. Tiny droplets of rain landed softly on his bared breast, but
he didn’t care.

The hounds sounded more mournful out here in the open, their voices shuddering on the wind as though they were calling in desperation to their master, begging him to come back. Now that his
decision had been made, Gervase felt calm. The indecision of the last couple of days had sapped his strength and now that he had chosen the route he must take, his soul was strengthened.

Squaring his shoulders, he set off to Swetricus’s house. He hammered on the door with his clenched fist, waiting for it to be opened. When it wasn’t, he struck the door with his
staff and called out, ‘Swet, you miserable cur, open up! It’s me, Gervase, your Parson.’

There was no reply, and then he heard the slow scrape of the wooden latch being lifted. The door opened a little and a suspicious eye peered out at him.

‘Swet, you’ve heard him too, haven’t you? Fetch a shovel. We have work to do.’

Felicia shivered as her mother paced back and forth in the mill. The hounds were still calling, as if they could sense the approach of some foul creature from the moors.
Perhaps it was true, what she had been told when she was a child, that devils lived out on the moors, and that they would torment the men and women who lived on the fringes.

‘Mother, won’t you come to bed?’ she called again. She had already lost count of the number of times she had asked her mother to join her on their palliasse, but Gunilda
didn’t seem to hear her. Dark shadows under cheekbones and eyes made her look gaunt, almost as though she was herself dead.

‘He’s coming. I can hear him,’ she said, and laughed.

It was a terrible sound, and Felicia gasped with horror. Her mother was going mad, and she felt that she must surely follow. This constant walking up and down, staring out through the open
windows down at the cemetery, was petrifying.

‘We did our best, we did, but he’s coming back. I can hear him, just like the dogs can. Samson wants you again. We can’t let him have you, though. No, never again.’
Gunilda walked to the family’s chest. It was a rickety old thing, ancient and wormeaten, but it was the only secure container. Reaching inside, she brought out a long-handled knife. Then she
went back to the door, chuckling to herself.

‘Yes, my lover. You hurt us, oh so often, and you want to hurt us again, but now you’ve gone I won’t let you back. I only have Felicia, and I won’t let you harm her
again.’

Swetricus was breathing heavily as he pulled off his leather jerkin and hefted his great shovel. He was aware of a sick feeling in his belly, but it was no good. He had to go
ahead. He had no choice, not if his girls were to be safe. Unless he helped the Parson, his other daughters might be killed like Aline.

He gazed at the white features of the Parson, then up towards the cemetery and the howling dogs, and as he did so, clouds passed over the moon. The mizzle stopped and a thin rain fell, and the
cemetery was hidden. When the clear light shone out once more, the rain suddenly stopped, and he almost expected to see a ghostly figure standing there by Samson’s grave, wrapped in a white
shroud. It was with enormous relief that he saw the place was deserted.

‘Come, my friend. We have to do this now,’ said Gervase.

‘When I’ve fetched Henry.’

‘There’s no time.’

‘I’m not leaving my girls alone,’ Swetricus said with blunt finality. Gervase could see the determination in his eyes, and nodded. Together they walked to Henry Batyn’s
house.

Henry lived with Peter atte Moor since his own house had collapsed, and it was Peter who opened the door. ‘What do you want, Parson?’

‘Look after Swet’s girls. We’re going to destroy him.’

Peter blinked. ‘Who?’

Swetricus answered. ‘It was Samson. He killed Aline, and your Denise and Mary and Emma. We’re going to kill him.’

‘He won’t persecute us any longer,’ the Parson said confidently.

Peter gaped. Then, ‘Bring the girls here, Swet. Henry will guard them and I’ll come with you.’

‘Good,’ said Swetricus, and returned to his own little place. Soon they could hear him calling his daughters over the whistling of the wind.

‘First, I’m going to find Drogo,’ Peter continued, tugging on his jack.

‘No. We have to strike him while we can.’

Peter looked at the Parson. ‘You’ll need torches,’ he said. ‘I know where to get some.’

‘Forget them. We don’t need them.’

‘If you’re right and he killed my Denise, I want to see his face,’ Peter hissed, leaning close, so that his own face was scant inches from Gervase’s. ‘This turd
killed my daughter, Parson, and he
ate her
. I want to see him dance as we kill him.’

‘Oh, get the torches, then, but hurry!’ Gervase said reluctantly.

Peter nodded, then set off purposefully for the vill. He passed Swetricus, who ushered his girls into Peter’s house. Henry stood with his wife and sat the girls at the fireside.
‘I’m coming too,’ he declared.

‘You should guard the girls,’ Swetricus growled.

‘If he can escape you, they’ll not be safe with me looking after them,’ Henry said simply. He reached behind the door and selected a shovel.

It was only a short walk, but even in the time that it took to get to the cemetery gate they could see other men gathering in the road by the inn. They gripped torches, the flickering yellow
flames flattening and dancing in the gusting wind. Some stood nervous and uncertain, fearing to follow their Parson, but then the crowd began to move towards the cemetery.

Gervase felt better than he had for a long time. The howling ceased to trouble him now that he was fixed upon a course of action; the wine he had drunk had left him feeling clear-headed and
warmed, as though God had breathed determination into his very bones. In truth, he felt as though he was at last performing God’s will. After so many years of blaming himself for
Athelhard’s death, he knew what he must do. It was so refreshing, he almost felt he could sing and dance in praise of God.

‘Give me strength, Lord, to do Your will,’ he breathed, and began to sing the
Pater Noster
.

Behind him, Swetricus and Henry strode silently, not exchanging a glance, only keeping their eyes fixed firmly on the graveyard. They passed through the gate, and set off behind the Parson,
heading for Samson’s grave, and it was there that they saw her.

Dressed in tatters, the clothing ripped from her body, shreds flapping in the wind, she was recognisable as Gunilda only from her thickset body. She knelt at the grave of her husband, raking her
hands through the sodden soil, then beating at it with her hands. As they approached, they could hear her.

‘Shut up! Shut up! You killed them all – aren’t you content? Can’t you leave us alone? You would have done it to Felicia again, wouldn’t you? But I won’t let
you. You couldn’t keep away even when you were dead, could you? You had to come back and kill Emma. Why can’t the devil take you? Shut up!’

Swetricus glanced at the priest, but Gervase was standing and swaying as though to music only he could hear, a beatific expression on his face. Grunting, the peasant stabbed his shovel into the
soil and took Gunilda’s arm. He lifted her to her feet, and she stood alarmed, cowering at the sight of the men converging on the grave.

‘It wasn’t my fault! He killed them, but I didn’t know it. I didn’t . . . I’m so sorry, so sorry! And now he’s coming back to take her from me! He wants
Felicia!’

Gervase smiled, then stopped her mouth with his hand. ‘Child, it wasn’t your fault, nor was it mine. This is the devil’s work, and his minions are among us.’ He jabbed a
finger down at the ground even as the vill’s men arrived, the torches casting a lurid light over them all. ‘Friends, listen to me! The man we knew as Samson was the killer of our
children. He killed Denise, he killed Aline, he killed Mary, and last night he killed Emma!’

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?’