The Sticklepath Strangler aktm-12

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Drogo?’ Simon queried.

  ‘Nothing,’ Vin said, but on being pressed, he reluctantly imparted: ‘He can be a bit jealous of men in the vill who still have their daughters.’

  ‘Why were you up here today?’ Simon asked.

  ‘My parents used to live up there on the high moor, out near the Taw Marsh. I go there now and again to sit and remember them. They both died up there.’

  ‘It’s unforgiving, the moor,’ Simon said.

  ‘It is a hard land,’ Vin agreed.

  Returning to the inn, there was no news of the Coroner, and Baldwin walked through to sit with Jeanne. Simon remained in the tavern with a jug of wine, but when the jug was empty, rather than remain and doze, he wandered outside and sat on a bench in the fresh air.

  Although it was still daytime, the sun was low enough to leave the vill in twilight. He shivered, remembering the cloud settling on them, and felt another cloud settling on him like a cloak of sadness, a morbid conviction that here in the vill was an evil spirit, a demonic presence that could infect and pollute the whole parish.

  Baldwin couldn’t understand; he was no moorman. Simon had grown up with the moors nearby, and had lived the last few years out at Lydford. He knew that there was a spirit on the moor, a spirit which would protect it against men, and men only roused that spirit to anger if they were ignorant or stupid. The mist had been a warning.

  He was cold. Standing, he decided to clear his head with a brisk walk and set off westwards towards the sticklepath. He marched along the roadway until he reached an enormous puddle near the chapel. Circling it, he walked nearer the chapel itself, following the line of the cemetery’s fencing going under the branches of the pollarded trees which stood there. It was then that he heard it.

  At first he thought it was the breeze soughing through the branches above him, but then there was a prickling at his scalp, as though he knew that this was no wind but something unearthly. He carried on, past the trees, and it was then that the sound came towards him without interference, a distinct, mournful cry; half that of an animal in deep pain, half that of a soul in torment.

  Simon felt his eyes widen, his hair stand on end; he was filled with a terror so all-encompassing that he could not move. All his attention was focused on the sound that drifted to him, quiet, but unutterably sad.

  It was like a voice whispering, cursing, begging, threatening – a spirit’s voice, a ghost’s voice – and even as they heard it, Samson’s dogs began to howl.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Vincent Yunghe felt scared. He had made his way back from the river and met Drogo and the others at the inn, but every time he looked up he found himself staring into Drogo’s eyes, as if the leader of the Foresters was wondering whether Vin would turn him in.

  Drogo le Criur was dressed in older green clothes today, with a stout leather jerkin to protect his torso from brambles and thorns, and his knife and horn at his belt.

  Vincent swallowed uneasily. It would serve Drogo right if he told everyone the truth – that Drogo was never at his bailiwick when he was supposed to be on duty, that he was jealous of all the fathers who had little girls of eleven or so, the age at which Drogo’s daughter Isabelle had died, but the words wouldn’t come.

  It was true. Drogo was rarely at his post when he should be. Hadn’t anyone else noticed? He was always making the excuse that he had to go and walk about to see that no cutpurse or felon was robbing someone, but Vin doubted that. He was away too often.

  His eyes met Drogo’s again, and he felt his spirit quail. The man was his friend. He had taken him under his wing when Vin’s father had died, when no one else wanted to know. How could he betray that loyalty and friendship? He couldn’t.

  This time it was Drogo who looked away, and Vin blinked. He suddenly wondered whether the Forester held the same doubts about him. After all, Drogo knew that he wasn’t with him when the girls had died. Still, he had always demonstrated that curious, twisted loyalty towards him, much more than even the son of a friend deserved.

  Drogo knocked back the last of his drink and stood. Adam rose with him, slapping Vin’s shoulder. ‘Come on, boy! We have work to do.’ He gazed about him at the villagers drinking and eating. ‘Look at them,’ he grunted. ‘Now Samson’s dead, they feel free to eat and drink and be happy because the ogre from the mill’s gone for good. So many thought he was the murderer, but not one dared accuse him. Not a single one. Fucking peasants! I’ve pissed stronger streaks than this lot. None of them realise that Samson’s soul hasn’t gone, though, do they?’ He came to with a visible shiver. ‘What are you gawping at, boy?’ he snapped. ‘Get moving before Drogo loses his patience with you.’

  He rolled away, the crippled leg impeding his progress, and Vincent spat angrily. Adam knew well that he hated being called ‘boy’. He was no mean, feeble youth, he was a man, in every sense.

  Walking away, he found himself meeting the sad gaze of Felicia. She sat at the back of the tavern with her mother, and as she caught his look, she gave a weak smile.

  Vin felt as though she had stabbed his heart. He had grown up with her, made love with her, and then deserted her immediately afterwards from terror of her father. That was hardly the action of an adult. If he had the courage of his conviction, he would have returned to her later, maybe even offered to marry her. At least he could have rattled her again.

  There was still time. Samson was gone, rot his soul! But Felicia was still here, and maybe even more lonely than before. It should be easy to persuade her to see him. If he could get close to her, surely she’d submit to him again, as she had that day by the river, the day Ansel had died.

  Gervase was in his cottage when Simon strode past, and the priest looked about him blearily as the splashing of the Bailiff’s feet in puddles disappeared up towards the village. He had never forgotten his roots, Gervase hadn’t. No, he could still bring to mind the tatty little vill where he’d been born, the great barn owned by the Bishop just outside, where the cathedral’s crops were stored after harvest, dwarfing the peasants’ own meagre supplies.

  Gervase had been born into a poor family, but that didn’t mean they weren’t proud. His father was never so pleased with him as on that day when the Bishop’s man had claimed him. All because Gervase had been blessed with a pretty voice as a youngster, and the ability to memorise songs. That was all they wanted in those days. They didn’t expect a chorister to be able to learn Latin and French, only to sing in tune with other boys and behave in the cloister. And for that, he was to have a new life at the age of six, taken away from his home and dropped down into the midst of the great bustling city of Exeter.

  If he had worked more assiduously, perhaps he would have been able to make more of a mark, he thought as he poured a fresh beaker of ale. The wine was all gone. More and more often lately he had been prone to thinking of what might have been possible, now he was approaching forty years, especially when he was in his cups. Not that he was often dry since the discovery of Aline’s grave. Poor little lass.

  It hurt. God’s body, but it hurt! He hadn’t wanted to harm anyone, had never wished to see a man cut down and burned without being shriven, but he had. It was him, him and his damned stupidity, which had sealed the execution, and he had given up the man’s soul to the devil. All he had to do was take the confession and give him Absolution, but he hadn’t.

  Sniffing, he finished his beaker and set it down on the table, then he pulled his robe about him. A Parson had duties to his flock. Gervase walked out into the warm evening air and set off towards the chapel. Hearing the dogs howling, he reflected that it was good to witness creatures demonstrating loyalty to their fallen master.

  Sticklepath was a nice little place. If it hadn’t been stained with blood, he would have been very happy here. After his years in Exeter, it was a shock to be dumped in so squalid a mud-filled parish, but he was glad of a post of any sort. So many of his friends were doomed to be forced out of Holy Orders, luckier ones taking clerical
posts, others reduced to menial chores about the city’s churches, that he knew he was fortunate.

  For a Parson, Sticklepath was better than places like Belstone. Folk were odd up there, he thought and burped. After all, Belstone was cut off from civilisation. No road to speak of. Whenever it snowed, no one could get up there. And the wind, God’s teeth, how it howled up there! Like the hounds of hell.

  Hang on, he thought, Alexander came from Belstone. But there was nothing to suggest that the Reeve was mad. Not like Samson. Parson Gervase had heard his confession.

  ‘An evil, evil man,’ he said to himself.

  The ale was making itself felt. At the cemetery’s wall, Gervase lifted his robe and pissed against one of the pollarded trees. Resettling his hose and tunic, he suddenly stopped. He was sure he could taste the change on the wind. More rain, he told himself gloomily. Always more rain. Unless it was snow.

  He reached the chapel’s door and gave an elaborate reverence. It was hard to remember which day of the week it was, and if he weren’t reminded by travellers, he would have the day wrong more often than he already did, often missing fast days. He was fallible.

  At the altar he prostrated himself, arms outstretched in imitation of the crucifixion. The position was looked upon as an affectation or, worse, proof of ill-education, but he didn’t care. He was before God, and other men didn’t matter.

  ‘Glad you deigned to drop in, Gervey.’

  He didn’t need to turn his head. ‘What are you doing in here? You pollute the air of my chapel.’

  Drogo laughed quietly. ‘More than your drunken breath, you mean? Be fair, old shriver, and look to yourself before you insult me. What is it – pull the plank out of your own eye before seeking the splinter in mine?’

  ‘What do you want? I am here to perform my holy ritual, and you offend God by delaying me.’

  ‘Gervase, there is a Coroner here in the vill. I don’t want him reopening old wounds that he can’t possibly do anything about. There’s no point in getting him involved.’

  ‘You threaten me? You come to God’s house and threaten one of His own priests? You are a blasphemous dog, Drogo.’

  ‘Aye, I dare say you’ve the right of it.’ The Forester nodded agreeably.

  ‘Damn you! You think I compliment you, you son of a whore! You whore’s shite, you turd of a festering snake, you worm, you–’

  ‘Most interesting, Parson, but I have work to be getting on with. You may not have noticed, but we Foresters have duties to attend to, and we tend to be at them more regularly than some.’

  ‘You insult me in my own chapel, you devil? Be gone at once! You suggest that I am drunk? If I am, whose fault is it, eh?’ Gervase’s voice rose in anger. ‘You forget who caused me to fall? Who made me what I am today, eh? You. You used me, and you made me a monster. You alone.’

  Drogo stood and gave an elaborate yawn. ‘So we are back to that, are we? Well, you have been blaming me for many a long year, and I doubt not that you’ll continue to do so, even though it wasn’t me but Samson.’

  ‘You’d blame the misguided fool now he lies in his own grave? Hypocrite!’

  ‘It was Samson started the attack on Athelhard.’

  ‘You were there, you with your men, and you should have prevented it. You are a King’s man, Forester, and you failed to stop the murder.’

  ‘Gervey, it was your preaching that caused the vill to kill him. Don’t forget your own guilt.’

  ‘At least I tried to persuade people out of their crime!’ Gervase spat.

  ‘Yes. Still, it’d be better not to mention it to the Coroner or his friends. Secrets like that are better kept hidden.’

  ‘You come here to protect yourself?’

  ‘What I have told you was under the seal of the confessional. You broke your vows once, you wouldn’t want to do it again, would you?’

  ‘You are worse than a blasphemer, you are a heretic as well.’

  ‘Ah, Christ’s blood, man! Do you honestly think you can blame me for that? Athelhard died because of your words, not mine, so don’t try to put the blame onto me.’

  ‘I know.’ Gervase felt his rage dissolve, washed away by his guilt. It was true – it was his fault Athelhard had died. ‘I preached against him and fired the men here with hatred. I guaranteed his death. I sealed his death warrant and provided the rope.’

  ‘If you want to wallow in it, carry on. I have better things to be doing,’ Drogo said dismissively as he walked to the door. When he had pulled it open, he glanced back at Gervase. ‘You know, I would not have you taking all the responsibility for Athelhard’s death. He was a hard man, and he died a hard man’s way. But it wasn’t you alone. We all knew he was guilty.’

  ‘But he wasn’t, was he? He was innocent.’

  ‘He was foreign. It’s no surprise we thought it must be him. Who else could it have been? Poor Denise. She was such a pretty little maid. And then we found her… like that. Who else could have done it?’

  ‘Who else could have eaten her, you mean?’

  ‘If you must have it so, yes. Athelhard was well fed, and Meg described the meal he gave her.’

  ‘She told me he had bought it from a traveller. A joint of pork.’

  ‘No one saw this meat. It’s no surprise all thought he killed Denise to feed himself and his sister.’

  His defensive tone of voice made Gervase sneer. ‘Oh yes, and then it was but a short step to thinking him a vampire!’

  ‘It was your preaching did that.’

  ‘I know,’ Gervase said desperately. ‘I didn’t think what I was saying.’

  ‘What does it matter? A man who can eat others has to be possessed.’

  Gervase brought his fist down on the altar. ‘But he didn’t do it, did he? That’s the whole point!’

  ‘We don’t know that for certain,’ Drogo said uneasily.

  ‘Oh no? Not even when we found the body of Mary two months after Athelhard had been slaughtered outside his home?’

  ‘You were partly to blame for Athelhard’s death. Don’t put all the responsibility onto me, priest.’

  ‘And Aline, too.’ The priest’s bleary eyes turned back to the altar for a moment. ‘Why was she buried?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Aline was buried. Why was that? The others were left out in the open.’

  ‘Who can tell? Maybe the killer wanted to punish her father. Or her,’ Drogo said.

  ‘And Mary and Aline both died after Athelhard. So he couldn’t have been the murderer.’

  ‘You think what you like, Gervey. For me, I think he was desperate and sought anything to eat. He killed and ate Denise all right. Local men would have begged food from their neighbours, but a stranger like him? He couldn’t. It was only to save his sister’s feelings that he told her it was pork.’

  Gervase snapped, ‘And I suppose he returned from the grave to eat Mary? And Aline too?’

  ‘If he was a vampire…’

  ‘Oh, but you saw to that, didn’t you? You let Peter cut out his heart and throw it into the flames. No vampire could return after that.’

  ‘Then maybe we released the demon and it infested another man?’ Drogo said with a chilly horror.

  ‘Or it was never him in the first place!’ Gervase shrieked.

  Drogo sighed heavily. ‘Christ, I’ve had enough of this. You carry on blaming yourself if you want, but I have work to be getting on with,’ he said, drawing the door wide and striding outside.

  Fool of a priest! He was close to shitting himself with righteous indignation every time they spoke, seeking to offload a little of his guilt on someone else. Thank God he hadn’t questioned Drogo’s presence in the chapel. The Forester didn’t want to have to admit that he was there to ask for forgiveness. To beg for understanding. It wasn’t that he hated the girls – he might be jealous of the parents, but he didn’t hate the girls. Still, God knew his feelings.

  Drogo could remember the day of Athelhard’s death. Doubted he’d ever be able to fo
rget it. That morning at Mass, Gervase had begged them to pray for the dead girl, weeping at the altar as he told the congregation about Denise.

  Not that there were dramatic demonstrations of grief at the time, apart from the Parson’s. Even the girl’s father was too far gone for grief. Peter atte Moor was white-faced, with the tears streaming down his face, and Drogo had been moved to put his hand on his man’s arm in a mute expression of sympathy. Exhausted, Peter was too hungry to cry properly.

  That was the point. Everyone in the vill was starving. The children’s faces were shrunken and distorted, their eyes tearful and pleading. The famine had struck the year before, due to the rain, the accursed rain that still fell outside even as Gervase held his hands aloft and begged Him to help them, to save them all from death. But He was too busy.

  It was difficult to remember exactly when the congregation had realised who was guilty. The Parson wasn’t happy about it at first, but he knew, just as they all did, that no local man could have done this terrible thing, cutting up Denise like a side of pork. Not even one of the folk from South Zeal would have done that. They were weird up there, but not to that extent. No, it had to be a stranger.

  They had gone up to the edge of Sticklepath, all the men of the vill, the hunters with their bows, the peasants with their billhooks and staffs, and there, at Athelhard’s property, they had stalked and killed him.

  Drogo was by the graveyard now. Samson’s dogs were howling, over in the kennels at the far side of the cemetery. They were loyal hounds. He could hear nothing over their racket, was unaware of the low moaning that shivered on the breeze. Deep in his thoughts, he was aware only of a chill, a melancholy which affected even him, and he resolutely jerked his shoulders to ease the stiffness as he made his way home.

  There was nothing, he told himself. Nothing.