Michael Jecks - The Butcher of St Peter's

Reg. Poor Reg. He’d looked as though he’d have a fit when Jordan had asked him to kill the two women and the children yesterday. Christ’s cods, was it really only last night? And Jordan had thought that he’d be fine, that he’d go home today and hide himself and act quietly, just the moderate, sensible man with the doting wife, a calm and intelligent businessman, making a reasonable income from his dealings.

Only a few knew of his gambling dens and brothels, and those who did also knew his temper, and knew that they were best advised to be cautious about him. No one would dare to accuse him publicly — no one apart from those two bitches. He had to see them dead.

Unbidden, the thought of their bodies came back to him. Agnes’s figure he had already enjoyed, but there would be a delightful novelty with Juliana’s. It had always appealed to him. Under her clothes she always moved with such delicacy and gentle grace that he had felt his eyes pulled to her no matter who else was in the room.

Poor Reg didn’t want to have to do anything like that, killing women. So be it! He would save Reg the bother.

Est realized something was wrong as soon as he entered the room. His palliasse was spread over the floor, his rugs and blankets thrown aside as though he had been sleeping here only a short while ago. There was a mess of discarded food on the floor, bits and pieces from a meal of a pie and a chicken leg, and there, on the floor with them, tangled and filthy after wiping a pair of bloody hands, was Emma’s apron.

Slowly falling to crouch on his haunches, Estmund felt the breath sobbing in his throat. He put out a hand to touch the defiled material, his eyes brimming, but he couldn’t quite do it. His fingers reached to within an inch, but then stopped, and his fingertips trembled a moment before he drew them away again. He couldn’t. Not now. Her fragrance would have been washed away by the foul invader who’d done this to his home. Their home.

He stood. There was nothing else he could do. He had to leave this place, run away. Find some peace somewhere. He had to get out. Perhaps see Henry? Henry would help. Henry was clever like that, he would protect Est again.

Out, quick, turn right, and then along the roadway until the little alley on the right, the first one, and … Est slowed, and didn’t turn right. Instead he licked his lips, his heart racing. The night’s darkness made him bolder, and he felt the bravery seeping into his bones as though it was available to any man who breathed the night air.

Before he saw Henry, he wanted to see the little girl once more. It couldn’t hurt just once more. Henry said he shouldn’t go there, but now, so late, everyone would be asleep, so no one would know. It would be just like before, and at least he could tell whether the poor girl had been hurt. He’d be able to see whether she was ruined as he had feared after that last visit, when her father had died by Est’s knife.

Jordan had been outside the house for a while, seeking the best means of entry, but although he had waited until late, he was reluctant to walk across the street and simply beat down the door. He’d be captured for certain if he tried that. Someone would wake and call the hue and cry. So how could he gain access? There was perhaps a small window at the back that would merit investigation. He had seen an alleyway running behind the buildings which must give access to the yard behind the house, and from there he would surely be able to climb in somehow.

The yard was small and overgrown. He slipped over the wall and stared about him. The downstairs windows were all boarded and shuttered for security. Idly he walked along the rear of the house, testing one here or there, but there was no looseness, no ancient and weathered boards. He wouldn’t be able to get in from here.

Frustration was building when he felt, rather than saw, the other little shape.

A dark figure, cowled and cloaked, darted across the yard, silently slipping into the niche between two projecting storerooms. There it — he? — stopped and Jordan heard the ‘snick’ of a knife working a lock. There was a low rattle, and a squeak as a shutter was drawn wide. The figure slipped in over the sill.

Jordan was fascinated. He ran lightly to the window and peered in. The man was there in the room, standing over a large bed lying on the floor. By the light of a flickering rushlight, he saw the man bend his head and stare down.

Jordan sprang over the low ledge and pulled his knife free. It rasped against the leather scabbard, and the man heard it. He turned, and Jordan saw that it was the butcher, the one who had fled, the man whose room he had slept in. It made him chuckle, a deep, feral sound, as he walked closer.

‘Hello, butcher,’ he called quietly, and lifted his knife to stab.

‘ NO! ’ Estmund shrieked. He had his own knife in his hand already, and as he turned, the blade rose.

It met Jordan’s own knife, and the blades clanged as they skittered across each other. Then Jordan had his back, sweeping around to eviscerate Est. It caught on his cloak as Est’s own blade ripped across his belly, and he stepped back in alarm, a hand at the long gash.

He stared at the blood on his hand, turning his palm to meet the flickering light. It was blood, his blood! No one had ever hurt him like that before, not ever! He put his hand to his belly again, and now he could feel the pain starting, a terrible pain that seemed to rise in his groin and reach up to his heart.

With a bellow of incoherent rage, he leaped forward again. He heard a cry from the ground, and, turning, saw the little boy awake, bawling, the girl snapping alert, grabbing the boy and pulling him to her, and the distraction was enough to make him change his blade’s direction and aim it at the children. Bastards, both of them, mongrels from the womb of that whore upstairs, impregnated by that devil’s turd Daniel.

Est had seen the movement, and hurled himself at Jordan. His knife entered under Jordan’s ribcage, snagging on bone, and Jordan roared again, with mingled rage and pain. He brought his fists down on Est’s back, pounding and stabbing at him again and again, until Est fell away, but in that time the children had disappeared, and now there was a light in the passageway, and voices. The staircase was near and he heard a high, keening shriek. Looking up, he saw Agnes and Juliana. In a fit of rage, he snatched up Est’s knife and hurled it at them, shouting his defiance and fury, kicking Est’s body twice, seeing it jerk. Then, screaming abuse, he hurtled through the window and out into the yard.

He ran as fast as he could over the scrubby land, reached the wall, threw himself over, and stood leaning against it, panting. There were calls, then a horn was blown, and he forced himself up and on. He had to escape, get away. Must go to … to Reg’s. Reg would protect him. He had places to hide a man.

Sir Peregrine had been drinking a last cup of wine with Sir Baldwin and Simon when they heard the tumult in the streets. A rowdy mob appeared to rush past the inn, and then there were more shouts and commands.

The Coroner threw down his cup and ran to the door. ‘What is going on?’

A man stopped. ‘Coroner, there’s been an attack — someone’s broken into the sergeant’s house again. They say a man’s dead!’

‘My heaven!’ Sir Peregrine gasped.

Baldwin was at his side. ‘Edgar, you stay with Jeanne. Let no one past the door until I return. Clear?’

Edgar nodded and disappeared towards their room. Meanwhile Simon was buckling his sword belt, gripping the hilt, testing it in the sheath. ‘Where was this killing?’

‘Follow me,’ Sir Peregrine ordered, and pelted off down the hill towards Juliana’s house.