Receiving the assent of the Coroner, he sprang lightly into the makeshift grave, where he crouched and studied the ground upon which the girl had lain. There were more pieces of material at the foot, and he saw a fresh piece of bone. Picking it up, he weighed it in his hand a moment, reflecting as he peered about him. In all cases where there was the possibility of murder having been done, he liked to see the bodies because, as he so often told Simon, the body of a dead person could tell the inquirer so much. Sometimes it was the type of wound which might have killed the victim, sometimes the position of the body, or the marks of blood. There was often something which the intelligent researcher could learn. Rarely, however, was the evidence so prominent as this. He bent and picked up a slender loop of leather, much decayed and soiled, but recognisable.
‘A thong,’ he said, holding it up, ‘such as a traveller might use to bind a tunic or tie a roll to a saddle.’
‘We have travellers coming past here all the time,’ Alexander said dismissively. ‘I have no doubt this evil murderer killed her on a whim as he passed through the vill.’
‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said. It was a possibility, he knew. Except… ‘Did no one notice that the field had been dug up?’
‘Eh? Oh, when she was buried, you mean? No. This wall is often collapsing. It did so two or three years before Aline disappeared. This last time, we dug back into this ground a couple of feet, built the wall, then infilled. It’s worked until now.’
‘I expect it is the steepness of the lane,’ Baldwin acknowledged. ‘So whoever buried her so shallowly must have done so shortly after the wall was rebuilt, or you would have found her. Someone came up here, either with her already dead, or walked here with her. He could dig down and bury her, and then cover her without anyone noticing…’
‘Yes,’ Alexander agreed. His face had eased slightly, as though glad to find that there was a simple explanation.
‘…probably,’ Baldwin finished. He passed the thong to Coroner Roger and climbed out of the hole. ‘I am still surprised that a grave wasn’t noticed. You can always see where a body has been interred in a cemetery.’
‘I don’t know. I expect it was just some tranter or tinker,’ the reeve said, and there was almost a note of hope in his voice. ‘Perhaps no one came here for a while afterwards.’
‘A traveller who didn’t know this area – some tranter or pilgrim who was unused to building walls?’ Baldwin mused. ‘Does it sound credible to you? Some fellow who wasn’t aware that the wall had only recently fallen, who didn’t know that the soil would be easy to dig up – does it seem likely that they would choose this spot? Surely this was done by someone who lived here, someone who knew about this wall falling, someone who could come here at night and bury her.’
‘How long would it have taken a man to bury her?’ the reeve wondered.
‘The same time for a local man as for a traveller,’ Baldwin said drily, ‘but a local man would have known where to lay his hands on a shovel. A traveller probably would not.’
Alexander looked devastated. ‘This is terrible!’
‘And a man who had friends to help him might bury the girl still faster.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just what I said.’
‘No one here could do such a thing,’ he choked.
‘Really?’ Baldwin looked at him steadily. ‘Tell me, Reeve, what is all this talk of cannibalism?’
Alexander felt as though the ground was moving beneath his feet. ‘I – I… Well, what else could it be?’
‘Almost anything!’ Baldwin snapped, allowing a little of his impatience to show. ‘I would have said it could have been rape, anger, perhaps even an accident that someone was afraid to admit. The very last thing I would have thought of would be cannibalism. This body has no flesh on it: any evidence disappeared long ago, so why did your mind turn to it, Reeve?’
Alexander opened his mouth but no sound came. He frowned at the body, then down at his feet before looking towards Swetricus and the villagers as though seeking advice or reassurance. ‘I…’ He broke off helplessly, and it was Miles Houndestail who answered for him. Coroner Roger beckoned him forward and he stood at the reeve’s side.
‘Because they had already had one,’ he stated firmly.
‘One what?’ the reeve demanded irritably.
‘A case of cannibalism.’
* * *
Peter could only hold his face still with an effort. He had never cared for that kid Aline, but he had known her dad Swetricus for years.
Swet and he had worked together in the fields as children, and when they grew older, they married within a few months of each other, before both losing their wives during the famine. The only difference was, Swet still had his family.
Peter tried to keep his bitterness at bay, but it was hard, so hard. His wife had died, and then Denise was gone. Ever after he suffered from the torments of loneliness, but Swet still had his other three girls. Aline and his wife might have died, but Swet hardly needed them, did he? His life was unchanged, and he could go and enjoy the use of other women. Peter couldn’t. Somehow they never attracted him, or if they did, as with the whore he’d bought in Exeter two years ago, he could not manage the act.
At the time, he had been ashamed at first. She was just some cheap slattern from a tavern, and she’d taken him to a room at the rear, where a worn and malodorous palliasse showed that she shared the place with other girls.
He had grabbed her, his blood inflamed by ale, and she had responded eagerly, thrusting her hips at his while she slobbered over his face, whining like a bitch on heat, moaning and pleading that he should satisfy her. He wanted to, God in Heaven, how he wanted to.
The light was poor, and with the ale coursing through his veins, he almost imagined her to be his wife when they married: young, slender and supple. He closed his eyes as he kissed her, and he was once more a young man and she his twelve-year-old sweetheart.
But then the whore had shoved her hand at his cods, speaking quietly and filthily about what she wanted him to do for her, what she would do for him, and as she spoke, his vision slipped away, along with his erection. She wanted him, badly – or so she kept telling him – but he couldn’t do anything.
That was when the anger took hold of him. She wasn’t his wife, she was counterfeit. Just another woman trying to get her hand on his cods and then into his purse. That was all she wanted, his money.
He had shoved her from him, the bitch. Bitch! Yes, he’d thrust her away, and she’d protested, just like they all did. Claimed he’d torn her tunic, wanted money. Told him he was a eunuch, that maybe he’d prefer a boy – and that was when he bunched his fists and went for her.
Afterwards, he found himself wandering the streets of Exeter with the money from her purse in his hand. He went to the bridge and stared at the coins, for a while, unsure where they’d come from, and as the memory came back, he had held them out over the water and let them fall slowly, one by one, into the cleansing waters of the Exe. They fell with the small drips of blood where one of her teeth had broken on his knuckle.
From that day he had never returned to Exeter. Women weren’t for him. He remembered his wife as she had been when she was young, and there was no one who could compare with that memory. He sometimes lusted after young girls, but only because they reminded him of his wife. And it made him jealous that other men should own such perfect youth. He never could again. Not after his crime.
* * *
After hearing Miles Houndestail’s words, Coroner Roger adjourned the inquest, telling the jury to repair to the inn. The girl’s remains were to be taken to the chapel, and given into the parson’s care.
As the crowd began to disperse, Baldwin suddenly caught his breath. There, farther up the hill, was the dwarf-like man he had seen yesterday talking to the tall guard by the wall, and with him was the hooded figure Baldwin had seen in the clearing. Both stood silently watching, outsiders who were plainly not included in the jury.
>
‘Who are they?’ Baldwin asked the reeve.
‘That small fellow is Serlo the warrener, and the one in the hood is Mad Meg. She’s simple.’
The reeve evidently considered their conversation to be over, for he turned to follow the coroner. Glancing back, Baldwin saw the pair drift away among the trees. Somehow he felt sure that they were going to the clearing and he was tempted to follow them, but knew he couldn’t. He must go with Roger and the others.
Entering the inn, he saw Coroner Roger was already sitting with a jug of ale in his fist. A few workers strolled in, as did one weary traveller, but one glance at the coroner’s face and the jury standing all about, persuaded them to sit elsewhere. Baldwin thought Roger looked close to exploding, his features were so red, and he saw Jeanne throw him an anxious look. She took her seat at Baldwin’s side, and Edgar took his place behind them while Aylmer sat at Baldwin’s knee.
Reeve Alexander appeared a few moment later and the coroner eyed him with a thunderous expression. He did not invite Alexander to sit, but made him stand in front of the jury, next to Miles Houndestail.
‘Master Houndestail, you have said that there might have been another case of cannibalism. Why do you suggest that?’
‘I don’t live here, sir. It’s not personal knowledge,’ Miles said. ‘But when I reported the skull, I heard people say, “Not another child eaten!” That is why I thought fit to tell you about it.’
Alexander stood with his head hanging, his cocksure posture quite forgotten.
‘Reeve Alexander,’ Coroner Roger said gravely, ‘we have heard that you had another case of cannibalism here. I do not recall any such case. When was this reported?’
‘Perhaps it was before your time as coroner?’
‘Perhaps, yet I have been coroner for more than eight years and in that time I have always discussed strange cases with my colleagues. I think that if they were to have come here and learned of cannibalism, they would have mentioned it to me. What do you think?’
‘They might,’ the reeve stammered, ‘but – but if there were many deaths at the same time, they might have forgotten about it.’
‘You lying son of a Winchester whore!’ Coroner Roger burst out. ‘You open your mouth and spew out untruth! When was this body found?’
‘It was so long ago…’
‘Rack your brain, before I have you gaoled.’
‘I swear, Coroner, it was so long…’
‘Perhaps I can prompt your memory, then,’ Coroner Roger said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘After all, I have all the rolls recording every reported death for the last many years. Tell me, do you think it might have been last year? Five years ago? I don’t recall that many deaths being reported from over here, but I dare say my own memory is playing me false.’
Alexander looked about him as though seeking an escape. ‘My Lord Coroner, if I could have a few moments to consider, to ask other men here when they recall it and—’
‘Enough!’ Sir Roger’s patience finally ran out. He turned to Baldwin and brought the flat of his hand down onto the table-top to cut off the Reeve. ‘Sir Baldwin, I want this man held. Could you instruct your man-at-arms to take him into custody and escort him and me to Exeter? We’ll see what the justice thinks of his action. “Long ago”, my arse!’
‘My Lord, please, I don’t mean to try your patience,’ Alexander said hurriedly as Edgar stepped forward. The reeve had paled, as though he was ready to fall to his knees and beg for his continued freedom, but he knew he must speak swiftly for Coroner Roger’s temper would brook no delay.
‘Then speak out, you whore’s kitling!’
‘It was at the height of the famine,’ Alexander began painfully.
‘What? You mean…’ The coroner was lost for words for a space. ‘Christ’s balls, you mean you kept secret a death that happened seven years ago?’
‘What else could we do?’ the reeve returned shrilly. ‘The whole county was being devastated, people falling over almost daily. We couldn’t afford to send someone to fetch the coroner, and we couldn’t afford to be fined. What would you have done in our position?’
Roger clenched his fist and slammed it down on the table before him, making the table-top slip sideways on its trestles. ‘Don’t give me that, you shit! You know full well that it’s the duty of all to report any dead body as soon as it’s found. Your duty was to report the body to me, to me! Why didn’t you?’
Alexander’s face darkened and he lost his fear. ‘Have you forgotten what it was like here seven years ago? We had half the grain we’d expected and then the animals began to die. Horses got rot in their legs and so did the cattle, with the rain and the mud. The sheep got blowflies and they all started to die, eaten from inside by maggots. Our children were fading away, growing weaker daily, and there was nothing we could do about it. Nothing!’ His voice hoarsened. ‘I lost two boys, two good, healthy, strapping sons, just because there wasn’t enough food for them. When there’s a famine, the children die that bit faster; they were falling like stuck pigs. Don’t you remember?’
Simon took a gulp of his wine. ‘We all remember, Reeve, but why didn’t you report it?’
‘How many deaths were reported? When there are so many bodies, you can’t expect people to stick to the normal rules.’
‘Such as reporting murder – or cannibalism, I suppose,’ the coroner sneered.
‘Do not be too hard,’ Baldwin said quietly. ‘Extremes can lead to people behaving foolishly.’
‘It hardly sounds convincing to me,’ Coroner Roger said grimly. ‘How could any man resort to cannibalism?’
‘You have not lived through a siege, Coroner,’ Baldwin said, watching the reeve.
‘No. So?’
‘I promise you, when a man or woman is starving, they will do things that would have seemed unimaginable only a short while before. Imagine that you have no food; that you have not eaten for days; that you have no money; that you have no means of obtaining it; that the cost of food is in any case prohibitive. You have not eaten more than a mouthful of grain a day for three weeks, that you have only rancid butter, no meat, no clean water, no ale or wine. Try to imagine how you would feel after three weeks of that. Then picture your children fading away before your eyes; your wife has perhaps died, and you are still having to work. You have no expectation of long life, this is a means of surviving for a short while. It is foul to think of eating a man, but is it worse than death? The boundaries of fear can become blurred.’
Coroner Roger was about to snort and utter a sarcastic comment, but one look at Baldwin’s face stopped it. ‘You speak from experience?’
‘I have never eaten a man,’ Baldwin said, ‘but I know how terrible a siege can be, and what is famine if not a siege against the whole of mankind?’
Coroner Roger thanked Sir Baldwin, then turned to stare sternly at the reeve.
‘Normal rules, eh? I shall be sure to report your advice to the King,’ he remarked caustically, ‘but for now, Reeve, you can make amends by telling us all about it. And don’t leave anything out, because if I find you’ve been lying to me, I swear I’ll have you gaoled in Exeter for perjury and waiting for the next sheriff’s tourn, and that will be a good year from now.’
Alexander felt his belly sinking still further. It had been hard enough before, but he knew that he must tell the coroner at least a few of the facts. He closed his eyes and felt himself swaying on his feet. ‘Very well.’ He sighed, opened his eyes and motioned towards a stool. ‘But may I at least be seated?’
The coroner nodded, and Alexander sat primly on the edge like a woman who feared dirtying her skirts.
‘I can remember that day perfectly. We had just buried my youngest son and we were out in the churchyard watching the men shovel the soil over his poor little body…’
‘How did he die?’ Coroner Roger demanded.
‘Like my second son, from starvation – early in the year, after Candlemass. We had nothing to eat. The crops h
ad failed, the animals died, and wheat was eight times its usual price. What could we do? Even salt cost too much, so the dead animals we had couldn’t be butchered and salted. The meat rotted quickly and had to be thrown away. We all starved together, men, women and children. Not a dog or a cat lived, all were eaten. I can remember finding a rat,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘We were grateful and ate it in a stew.’
Coroner Roger curled his lip and Simon grimaced. Baldwin, who had lived through the desperate siege of Acre, nodded understandingly. ‘They can be tough.’
Alexander shot him a look, expecting sarcasm, and was somewhat confused to see Baldwin was serious.
‘Yes, well,’ he continued haltingly, ‘it was a difficult time. My wife and I waited to see the last spadefuls fall on our son’s grave, and then made our way back homewards through the rain. It fell all the time in those years, from the seventh year of our King’s reign to the tenth. Miserable, constant rain. The river flooded out the vill for weeks on end. All the crops – ruined! Three lads from the village were drowned in the four months after Christmas the following year. You can’t imagine what it was like.
‘While we walked home, we were told that a body had been found up on the moor. I hurried there immediately, because sometimes a man might think that someone is dead, when they are only wounded. On the moor, people can become so chilled that they seem to have died. So I went up there to see whether he was alive or dead.’
He paused at the memory, and glanced about him, looking for the foresters, but none were in sight. Taking a deep breath, he continued, ‘It was one of the girls from the vill here, little Denise, Peter atte Moor’s daughter. She was only ten years old or so. Such a short life.’
‘Murdered?’ Coroner Roger asked. He was quieter now that the story was finally being told.
‘Throttled. A leather thong was still about her neck, just like the one in the grave,’ Alexander admitted. ‘But we never found all of her. Her thighs, her arms, were missing.’
The Sticklepath Strangler Page 12