Michael JECKS - The Sticklepath Strangler

Baldwin passed the mill and found himself at the foot of the hill. This, he knew, was the road out to the west, towards Cornwall. He started up it, thinking that it might be interesting to see the vill from a different angle, and soon he found it rising steeply, but after a short way it levelled off and he could breathe more easily. Quite a way ahead, he saw two men standing close to a broken wall. One was a tallish fellow, clad in a faded blue tunic of some coarse-looking material, and gripping a polearm in his hand. However, it was the guard’s companion who caught Baldwin’s attention.

He was a thickset little man, not a dwarf, but only marginally taller than one. If he had been a child, Baldwin would have said he was some ten or eleven years old, but he was plainly much older than that. His face sprouted a thick dark beard, and there was only a small area between his wide-brimmed hat and moustache for his eyes to peer through, like a suspicious peasant watching a stranger approach his house through a crack in a wall. Although he was short, Baldwin had the impression of great power in his frame. His shoulders were broad, his hands the size of an adult man’s, and his legs were planted widely apart like a fighter’s.

While Baldwin watched, the guard let his weapon slip into the crook of his arm and lifted the front of his tunic to direct a stream of urine at the roots of a nearby tree. His companion nodded down the lane, pointing at Baldwin with his chin, and both eyed Baldwin with what looked like suspicion. Baldwin, who was growing heartily bored with being the object of so much silent observation, met the guard’s stare with one that showed his authority. He would not knuckle under to some peasant.

Aylmer noticed the men too, and Baldwin heard him rumbling deep in his throat. The dog padded past Baldwin, his head dropping as his pace slowed to a more menacing stalk. Hackles up, it seemed as though he had a stripe of darker fur running from his nose to his tail, but then he looked sheepish when Baldwin called him back.

There was nothing strange about finding a man watching over the body; the law demanded that when a body was found, it was the duty of the local vill to protect it from predators, and Baldwin was pleased that the locals here took their responsibilities seriously. Not all did. There were many stories told by Coroner Roger of vills which, when they discovered a suspicious death, kept the fact secret, later arranging for the body to be carried away to another hamlet so as to avoid incurring fines at an inquest. There were other people who sought to avoid taxes by simply burying a newly discovered body without calling in the Coroner. They were always fined heavily for their attempt at evasion.

Not that it was always villagers who were guilty. Coroner Roger had once mentioned a corrupt Coroner who sought to line his pocket by charging to attend inquests. One village was shocked to learn that he demanded a whole shilling just to view the corpse, and the villagers were forced to argue with him, desperate to avoid yet another fine on top of all the legitimate costs they could scarcely afford. While they negotiated, they set bushes about the body to protect it from the dogs and wild animals. By the time the argument was concluded and the Coroner visited, the hedge had taken root and had to be hacked back to allow him to view the now putrefied corpse.

It was tempting to continue up the road, but Baldwin decided against it. His flank was still aching badly after his long ride, and he had no wish to be involved in another argument like the one at the tavern, so he began his descent to the vill. A short way down the hill, there was a track to his left and Aylmer stood at it hopefully.

‘I should have thought you would be tired,’ Baldwin chuckled, but he set off down the path, driven by no more than an idle whim. New paths always intrigued him.

He found himself being taken downhill through a dark section of woodland, away from the main part of the vill. On his right he could see the vill’s buildings every so often, but for the most part the lane was deeply sunken and the only view was ahead, while the path continued ever gloomier and murkier in among the trees.

At gaps he caught glimpses of the system of strip fields running perpendicular to the main road itself. Men, women and their children were working there, bent double as they pulled at the weeds, the long lines of crops stretching away, each strip owned by a different person. It was a natural, peaceful picture, and Baldwin smiled as he took it all in, watching one man stand and walk many yards to another strip, presumably another of his own, for each man would hold chunks of each field so that if any field were to fail the vill, no single family would starve, but all would suffer a diminution of their crop. God’s plenty was to be shared fairly, as the priests said.

Gradually, as he carried on, Baldwin became aware of the silence growing about him. It was as though the farther he went from the Cornwall road and the vill itself, the farther too he travelled from civilisation and security. The low growths at either side, which were obviously regularly harvested for firewood and building materials, began to look stunted and unhealthful. At their feet the grasses were yellowed, strangled by the vigorous brambles all about, and although the nearer bushes were short and scrubby-looking, there were enough taller trees beyond to send out great boughs overhead which effectively cut off the light, so that he felt as though he was walking along a dimly lit tunnel.

It was the lack of noise which he found most unsettling. The only thing he could hear was the padding of Aylmer’s paws and the mud sucking at his boots. It made a liquid belching noise, almost as though it were alive – an oddly disturbing reflection. He found himself stepping more carefully in order to prevent that unpleasant sound.

Baldwin was used to peacefulness in the country, but this lack of noise was different. As he reminded himself, he was not superstitious, yet the very air seemed to hold something which was utterly antagonistic to mankind; something evil . His steps faltered. High overhead there was a dry rustle as a breeze caught the leaves, a quiet creaking as one branch moved against another, but apart from that there was nothing, or not at first.

From somewhere on his left he heard a sharp crackle, a sound so fleeting that he could almost have thought he had imagined it, but his senses were too well honed. After the destruction of the Templars he had often been forced to evade capture, and a man who has once been hunted learns to trust his eyes and ears. At this moment Baldwin’s ears told him that there was a man in the woods: not close, but not far either. Baldwin was sure that the man was listening for him even as he himself waited, listening intently.

Aylmer cocked his head as if suspecting that his master had addled his brains, then padded onwards unconcernedly.

Baldwin followed after him, occasionally glancing back towards the source of that sound, but could see nothing. Then, as he turned his attention to the road ahead, he thought he glimpsed movement. Peering around a tree trunk, he caught sight of a clearing through the trees. Then, as he took in the scene, he felt the hairs on his back, on his arms, on his neck and head beginning to rise and his heart pounded with a fierce energy that left him breathless.

There, at a tree, was a figure, standing with head bowed. The face was concealed in the shadow of a hood which dropped down over the head almost as far as the chest. Slim, short, and clad in grey tatters and shreds, it was eerily similar to the figure he had so often seen in his dreams. He couldn’t see the apparition’s feet, for they were concealed by brambles, but even as he stared in horror, the hooded head began to lift, as though to meet Baldwin’s gaze.