Drogo sniffed, sipped more water, then shouldered his skin. He must speak to that moron Gervase, and the sooner the better, before he could blab to anyone.
* * *
After the funeral Simon walked up the steep pathway to the hole in the wall where the skull had been found, and stared at it for a few moments, peering inside. Now that Aline’s body had been removed, he could see that there were still scraps of material, some red, some brown-stained, some almost black, lying on the floor of the grave.
It was a nasty, mean little hole in which to secrete a poor young girl. How someone could seek to end a life was incomprehensible, but then to stuff the child’s body into this grave was another act of cruelty that Simon could never hope to understand.
Another short life ended unnecessarily. Only one day in this place and already he had learned of five deaths, if he included the purveyor’s, Samson’s he had been close enough almost to witness, the poor fellow. The idea of being mashed up in his machine was somehow repulsive, almost an act of betrayal. There was something obscene about a machine which was designed to serve men crushing the life from one of them.
Looking up, he realised that it was almost midday. No wonder his belly felt empty. Glad to be leaving the road, he bent his steps towards the inn. He found Baldwin sitting with his wife on a bench.
‘Simon, sit with us and drink to the warm weather!’ Baldwin exclaimed, bellowing for ale.
‘It’s good to feel the sun on your face again, isn’t it?’ Simon agreed.
‘Where have you been? Sir Roger and I went to question the peasants to find out whether any of them remembered the purveyor, or whether they could shed light on this girl Denise’s death. We looked for you, but you had gone.’
‘I went to watch the funerals, then looked at the hole again.’ He frowned. ‘There are scraps of cloth still in there. Some looked different from her winding-sheet.’
‘Oh?’ Baldwin was interested. That was something he had missed. ‘The coroner’s gone to speak to people in South Zeal to see whether they know anything of the purveyor, so I doubt we’ll see him again today.’
‘I assume you learned nothing new?’
‘If we wish to find out anything, it must be without the help of the local population.’ Baldwin grimaced. ‘There seems to be nothing that any of them can tell us.’
‘If Houndestail is right about the purveyor dying, that would explain them keeping quiet,’ Simon said. He recalled his conversation with the two girls. ‘There is one who might know something: the warrener, Serlo. He lives up on the moor, according to the girl Joan.’
The innkeeper arrived as he spoke, depositing a large jug of ale before him, and Simon asked him, ‘Where does Serlo Warrener live?’
‘Up on the side of the moor behind the vill,’ William said. ‘But it’s a good climb up the hill.’
‘We can manage, I am sure,’ Simon said.
‘Tell me, Taverner,’ Baldwin said. ‘What do you know of vampires?’
‘Me?’ The man shook his head vigorously. ‘Nothing! I don’t know nothing about them. You ask the others about them.’
He hurried away, and Baldwin smiled at Simon. ‘Everyone is so helpful here,’ he murmured. ‘What would he say were I to ask about the curse, do you think?’
Soon they were on their way. Baldwin had patiently listened to his wife’s protestations as she pointed out that he should be resting, but then he politely overruled her and called to Aylmer.
‘Jeanne will fret,’ he said, with the nearest to impatience Simon had ever heard in his voice when discussing his wife. ‘She has this ridiculous fear that the moors are dangerous for me.’
‘You are sure that they are not?’
‘Not you as well, Simon!’ Baldwin exclaimed.
* * *
Baldwin and Simon crossed the pasture behind the tavern and forded the river, then followed the riverbank on an old trackway among tall trees. After a half mile, they were out of the woods and their left flank was bounded by ferns and furze. They saw the path of which the innkeeper had spoken. Here they turned off and began to climb, a steep ascent at the side of a stream.
They walked in companionable silence for a while, and then Simon said, ‘Women can sometimes be right when they fear for their man’s safety.’
‘Superstition!’ Baldwin spat. ‘It is all about us here. The people fear vampires or the discovery of a purveyor, and at least the second is likely. The taxes which Roger will impose on them all will be enormous, let alone the punishment to be meted out to the killers.’
They had reached the top of the slope and it now became shallower. Baldwin stood and rested his hands on his hips, staring back.
Behind them the vill was concealed by the curve of the hill. There was a constant noise of water, but over all there was the whistle of wind in their ears. ‘Look at all this,’ Baldwin said, flinging an arm in the general direction of the scene. ‘Beautiful! Clean, unsullied land, ready to be farmed and improved by men. This is the fourteenth century since the birth of Christ, and Jeanne and you would have me believe in some spirit of the moor that seeks my death! Ludicrous!’
‘There is something here.’
‘From the time that the first people came here,’ Baldwin said, ‘when Brutus escaped from Troy and defeated the giants who lived here, the moors have been Christian.’
‘I know my history too, Baldwin. But if that is so, what of the vampires?’
‘Stories to scare children.’
‘They seem to have upset several people here. Could it have caused the strange atmosphere?’
‘Fools, the lot of them. Vampires, indeed!’
‘It was you who told me of them,’ Simon pointed out.
‘Yes, well.’ Baldwin was reluctant to confess that it was a joke which had turned sour. He said lamely, ‘I thought you would be interested, that was all.’
They had reached a thin track, little more than a sheep’s path, and turned along it. The ground was soon boggy, and their boots grew stained from the peat-laden soil as they marched along a stretch which passed through a series of streams, each glinting and sparkling in the sunlight. Aylmer chased after a rabbit, exulting in his freedom and the space.
‘Look at it, Simon! How could anyone think that this place was in any way cursed?’
‘You are seeing it on a clear bright day, Baldwin. I’ve been on the moors in rain and snow. It gives you a different perspective.’
‘Perhaps. Look! That must be the place,’ Baldwin said, pointing to the long, low shape of the warren and the circular hut beyond.
They trudged on, but suddenly a cloud passed over the sun and blotted out the light. In an instant, the pretty streams became dull lead, the air was chilled, and Simon felt a shiver rack his frame. Baldwin said nothing, but Simon wondered whether the spirit of the moors had been offended by his levity.
‘What an unpleasant little shack,’ Baldwin said.
Looking at the corpses of magpies and crows dangling on the wall of the warren, Simon had to agree. It lent a chilling feel to the place. Simon stood gazing about him while Baldwin beat upon the door.
There was the huge mass of Cosdon Hill south and east, while westwards he could see the tiny hamlet of Belstone, and directly south there was the valley of the Taw, but as he looked that way, he felt his trepidation increase.
‘Baldwin?’
‘No one here. What is it?’
‘Look.’
‘A mist?’ Baldwin said. He shrugged.
Then it was on them. There was no sun, no rain, only an all-enveloping greyness.
Baldwin was astonished how quickly he lost all sense of direction. He could still see at least five yards around him, but beyond that was only fog. To his amazement, he could not even tell which way was up and which was down. It was quite alarming, and yet stimulating as well. Not fearsome at all, he thought.
‘CHRIST JESUS!’ Simon bellowed suddenly.
‘Gracious God, what is it?’ Baldwin demanded, s
tartled out of his reverie, his hand flashing to his sword hilt as he leaped away, seeking danger.
Simon was glowering down at Aylmer’s enquiring face. ‘Your damned dog just thrust his nose in my hand.’
‘A cold, wet, ghostly nose, eh, Simon? Perhaps that will show you something about the power of superstition.’
Simon held his tongue, merely wiped his hand on his tunic while he stared balefully at the dog. If he had ever before doubted that a dog could laugh, he never would again. ‘Bastard hound,’ he muttered and Aylmer’s mouth opened as though in a broad grin.
‘Does this often happen?’ Baldwin asked, peering into the mist. ‘Where should we go?’
‘Follow the sound of water. If we can get to the river, we can follow it away from the moor. No rivers flow into the moor, they all flow away.’
It made sense, Baldwin thought. ‘Which way is it?’
‘Down there,’ Simon pointed.
Baldwin took the lead, walking away from the hut, but before he had gone a couple of yards, he stopped dead. There was an indistinct figure ahead of them in the mist, a darker shape which made Baldwin hesitate. For a second time, his hand went to his sword. ‘Hello? Who is that?’
‘What’re you doing here?’ came a surly reply, and Serlo stepped forward out of the gloom.
Chapter Thirteen
Baldwin felt an enormous relief, and let his hand fall away from his sword again. ‘Where have you been?’ he demanded a little harshly.
Over his shoulder, Serlo carried a small bag. He patted it now, staring at the two men suspiciously. ‘Provisions. A man is allowed to buy food. What are you doing up here?’
Earlier when Baldwin had seen the warrener, he had thought Serlo was very short; closer, he could see that the man was badly deformed. His back was twisted, and although his legs were the size of an ordinary man’s, the curvature of his spine made him appear short. His head had a thick mat of hair that sprouted under his faded green cap, and his beard was every bit as bushy and bristling as Baldwin remembered, while his eyes were as bright and intense as a wren’s. Though he wore the torn and patched clothing of the lowest of peasants, there was a sharpness about his face which pointed to keen intelligence. Baldwin had never subscribed to the opinion, so often expressed by noblemen and others, that the meaner the peasant, the poorer his brain. However, intelligence was no guarantee of hospitality.
‘What do you want here?’ Serlo repeated.
‘I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace, Sir Baldwin Furnshill, and this is my friend Simon Puttock.’
‘You’re not the keeper around here, the man from Oakie.’
‘Oakie?’
Simon interrupted smoothly, ‘It’s what the locals call Oakhampton, Baldwin.’
‘Ah, I see. No, I’m not. Simon Puttock here is Bailiff of Lydford Castle, friend,’ Baldwin added.
‘Oh.’
‘As such,’ Simon said, ‘I have authority over the moors. And you are Serlo the warrener?’
‘Yes.’
Simon nodded dubiously. ‘The friend of Emma and Joan. I have heard a little about you.’
‘Yeah, well. What of it?’
‘Where were you when the inquest was being held into the death of Aline, the girl found in the wall?’
‘I’m not a villager there. Different parish,’ Serlo said defensively.
‘True. Yet you weren’t up at your warren either,’ Simon noted.
‘How do you know?’
‘I spoke to Joan and Emma after the inquest. They said you weren’t about.’
‘So? I was out on the moors.’
Baldwin said, ‘I recall seeing you on the night before the inquest. You were there, where the body was found, weren’t you?’
‘I was talking to Henry Batyn. He’d been told to guard the body until the coroner arrived,’ Serlo explained, ‘but none of the lazy buggers in the vill thought of taking him ale or anything, so I gave him some.’
‘I see. Did you know the girl?’
‘Who, Aline?’ Serlo asked. ‘Of course.’
Simon thought that he looked as though he was considering lying, and was instantly on his guard, listening for the subtle changes in tone that would show the warrener was inventing, but Baldwin, watching his eyes, saw no guile or deceit. Serlo didn’t look away or shuffle his feet, he met Baldwin’s gaze steadily Baldwin made a beckoning gesture with his fingers, and Serlo shrugged.
‘I knew her as well as any I suppose. A pretty maid, with a sweet nature to go with her looks. Her father never could see it. Kept telling her she was ugly, poor lass. Slim, she was, and long-bodied. Near as tall as me, I’d guess, with hair like ripened wheat, and eyes as blue as clean water under a clear sky. She used to visit me up at the warren of a day, and chat to me. Lots of the youngsters do.’
Baldwin said, ‘What of Denise?’
‘Poor Peter’s maid? That was a bit before. I think she died in the first year of the famine. She was as lively as a hawk, she was. Auburn hair and dark, dark eyes. Born before our King’s crowning. King Edward took his crown from Edward his father fifteen years ago, didn’t he? I think she must have been ten or eleven when the famine struck.’
Baldwin glanced at Simon. ‘Same age as Aline.’
‘Yes,’ Simon said doubtfully. He didn’t trust men who were so twisted and deformed. Someone in so foul a condition must have done something to deserve it.
Baldwin had known many cripples from his sojourn in Acre, and thought disability to be irrelevant. He had the belief that men’s souls were their own, unaffected by their outward appearance; though he knew some could grow bitter as a result of wounds, there were others who showed a saintly patience. Listening to Serlo, he felt the warrener was trustworthy, an impression which was validated by Aylmer. Baldwin respected the judgement of his dog, and Aylmer was now leaning against Serlo while the warrener scratched his flanks.
‘I reckon so,’ Serlo agreed. ‘Everyone thought she’d run away.’
It was odd to be questioned by this tall, grave man. Usually a knight was a source of fear to be avoided, especially one who was a keeper. Keepers of the King’s Peace were as corrupt as coroners and sheriffs; worse, they were often more greedy about getting cash from people because they received no official compensation for their efforts, whereas the others did at least get a salary.
This one looked different. His dark eyes held an inner calmness, like one of the monks at Tavistock, as if he was content with himself and knew his faults – a rare trait among his sort. Most knights thought their strength made them better than other men – the arrogant pricks! – but this one looked as if he was capable of understanding the life of an ordinary churl. He even understood Serlo, if that expression of benign sympathy meant anything.
Serlo was in two minds whether to trust him. Caution was so firmly ingrained in him that it was impossible to throw it from him like a cloak, to be donned or doffed as the mood took him.
When Baldwin next spoke, his question didn’t surprise Serlo. ‘Did you know of other girls who died?’
The warrener snorted. ‘There are loads of girls about here. And many die.’
‘What do you mean?’ Simon snapped. ‘How do they die?’
‘The same as anywhere else, Bailiff. How do you think? Some get kicked by cattle or horses, some fall into bogs. There are many of those on the moors. One drowned in the Taw last year. Some get run down by accident, and some even get raped and killed, just because they have a beautiful body to a man who’s fired with lust. There are all sorts of ways for a young girl to die.’
‘You know how Denise and Aline died, don’t you?’ Baldwin said.
‘I reckon.’ In his mind’s eye Serlo could see again that broken and mutilated body.
‘So – were there others?’ Baldwin persisted.
‘Some, I think.’
‘By God’s own bones, you’re lying!’ Simon burst out. ‘You mean to tell us that none of the people who visit you gossip? You’ve heard them talking, man
! Especially the girls, like Joan and Emma.’
‘What if I have?’
Baldwin set his head on one side. He still wore an expression of sympathy, but now it was mingled with sadness. ‘We have heard that at least one other girl died in a similar way – an orphan called Mary. You are friends with so many of the vill’s girls, and I dare say that others have felt as trusting of you beforehand, haven’t they? Did Denise and Aline drop by the warren when they were bored or worried? Did Mary come to talk things through with an adult who was sympathetic?’
Serlo scowled at him. ‘Are you accusing me? Just because some kids like to visit me, that doesn’t mean that I kill them.’
‘No, but if you are reluctant to talk about children who have died, when they have been along to see you, it puts you under suspicion when the reason for their visit might have been entirely innocent – and when you were innocent too, of course.’
Serlo wasn’t fooled by Sir Baldwin’s suave tone. There was steel in that voice. The knight was angry that a man should have killed these girls. It was there in his eyes. If he thought for a moment that Serlo was truly guilty of the murders, Serlo knew that Sir Baldwin would personally seek him out and decapitate him in vengeance. With that realisation, Serlo felt a shiver pass through him.
He explained, ‘The girls would often come by to see what I was doing. They liked to watch the rabbits and help me kill the animals which came to take them. There was nothing more to it than that.’
‘Denise and Aline used to come by and see you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And in the same way, Joan and Emma have done so more recently?’
‘Yes. They enjoy a chat. I am different from the adults down there in their vill. Always have been. They feel they can trust me.’
‘Why?’
Hearing Simon’s harsh sneer, Serlo faced him. In his eyes Serlo could see the distaste for someone… something which was so damaged and ugly. It was a look Serlo had seen every day for many years. It made the blood rise in the warrener’s heart, and he felt anger begin to flood his veins.
The Sticklepath Strangler Page 16