Michael JECKS - The Sticklepath Strangler

Later, he was not proud of his instant reaction. As the head rose and he could see the outline of a round, pale chin, his courage left him and he bolted. When he saw Aylmer disappearing around a bend in the lane ahead, unconcernedly trotting on, Baldwin felt a sudden panic at the thought that he should be left here alone, and bellowed to his dog. Aylmer faced him, his head on one side, an expression of mild enquiry on his face, and when Baldwin summoned his courage and looked back into the clearing, there was nothing there.

Only the certainty that he was being watched.

Edgar helped the tavernkeeper carry his master’s belongings to the room at the back of the inn, then removed the previous occupants’ things.

‘They won’t be happy,’ Taverner said morosely.

Edgar made no comment. His master required the room, so whoever had been there first must move. Lady Jeanne and Edgar’s own wife Petronilla needed protection from the gaze of strangers. Here in the room there was a bed for them both with its own mattress. Petronilla went to it and sniffed at the bedclothes, pulling a face. It was normal enough to have to share a bed, to sleep between sheets which had not been washed for weeks and which had been used by all the travellers who had stayed at the inn, but that didn’t mean Petronilla had to accept it. She was not content to sleep among the odours of another’s sweat or worse.

They had anticipated rank bedding. Petronilla opened a sack filled with clean linen and good herbs to keep fleas and lice at bay. Edgar left her pulling the old bedding from the palliasse as a prelude to remaking the bed, while Jeanne saw to her child.

On the threshold he stood enjoying the sunshine. Edgar had never been here before, but he knew that his master had visited this inn during the previous year on his way to Belstone with Simon Puttock, and he guessed that this river came from high up on Dartmoor. From the sound of it, it was swollen by the rain. Usually any river would have its own background noise, a soothing sound as it wandered over smooth pebbles and rippled past grassy banks, but when it grew, it developed a new, angrier rushing as though furious to be constrained in so narrow a path.

He studied the inn dispassionately. It was a large, cruck-built place, but dilapidated. Moss was thick on the thinning thatch, and the walls were green where the mud hadn’t spattered them, and Edgar didn’t fail to notice the rubble at one end where an extension had collapsed. Now the inn’s rafters projected some distance into thin air, and it reminded Edgar unpleasantly of a skeleton exposing itself as the corpse rotted.

Entering the main room, he found his nostrils assaulted by an eyewatering stench of sour ale and wine, rotted straw, damp, mouldy wood in the fire, and urine – probably from the dog which scratched by the fireside. Edgar kicked at the scruffy, emaciated creature, which slunk away, then took a seat on a bench.

The interior was dingy and smoke-filled. It was darker than Edgar would have expected at this time of day, but the window to the south opened onto a dim and gloomy tree-clad hillside. Already the sun had passed westwards, but in the western wall there was no window because the tavernkeeper had built himself a chamber up in the eaves. No doubt his room would be bright with the evening sun, Edgar thought to himself, at the expense of his guests.

There were men sitting at another table, but apart from them the place looked deserted. Edgar could not make out their faces in the gloom, but he was amused to see that the rough peasants said nothing after he walked in, merely supped their drinks from large pots and eyed him suspiciously.

Many years ago he had set off from a vill little larger than this one. His father was similar to those fellows over there. Burly, resilient, wary of strangers, capable of intense loyalty, but also acquisitive, vindictive and aggressive. Such men were the backbone of the King’s Host, but they were also among the most troublesome and quarrelsome of his subjects.

When the tavernkeeper’s daughter entered and ungraciously offered to serve Edgar, he ordered a jug of wine. He indicated the sullen drinkers at their own table. ‘And drinks for them, too.’

It was always a good policy, he found, to keep an ear open in a new area. If he could pick up rumblings of discontent early on, it could mean the difference between Baldwin’s safety, and danger for him and Jeanne. Edgar was happy to invest for security. One drink, he calculated, should buy the companionship of any of these villeins.

To a man they rejected his offer, stood and strode out, all ignoring him bar one: the slim fellow called Vin. Yet the others were not the friends this Vin had been with earlier. And it was curious that they should willingly turn down free ale.

He sipped his drink and made himself comfortable on his stool, his back to the wall facing the doorway leading in, for it was hard to give up the habits of a lifetime’s wariness. Soon a new fellow entered, a tall, long-legged man with a face burned as dark as a nut. His features were open and cheery, and he looked the sort who would be good company on a long winter’s night before a fire. Grey eyes twinkled when he pulled off his hat to expose a thinning scalp.

‘Godspeed! Would you care for wine after your journey?’ Edgar enquired politely.

‘I am staying here, not journeying. Not until after the inquest, anyway,’ said the man. He cast a long glance about the room. ‘Has everyone died? Bleeding hell! I’ve never seen the place so quiet.’

‘All’s well, though the people are unfriendly,’ Edgar said, and called for the serving girl. When she arrived, she took his order, but with every indication that she was unhappy. She stood near them, practically hopping from one foot to another, and Edgar had to ask her sharply to fetch the wine he had ordered.

‘I am grateful to you, sir,’ the man said. ‘It is not common to be served so speedily here.’

‘My master expects better treatment.’

‘Your master?’

‘Sir Baldwin Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton. We are here to help the Coroner at the inquest.’

‘Oh! The inquest into the body up the lane? I was with the two girls who found the corpse. Poor things. One didn’t stop running till she got back here. The skull rolled from the grave, you understand, down towards her.’ He reflected. ‘The skull was only small. I’d imagine the body was that of a child.’

‘It is always terrible to find a child who has been murdered,’ Edgar said. He nodded and introduced himself. ‘I am Edgar, servant to Sir Baldwin Furnshill.’

‘I am Miles Houndestail,’ his companion said. ‘Pardoner.’

‘Ah,’ Edgar said, more coldly. Pardoners were disreputable characters in his mind.

‘I shan’t sell you anything,’ Houndestail said with a chortle. The girl had returned with his drink, but she remained hovering at his shoulder. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘Sir, your stuff – it’s all been moved.’

‘I should apologise,’ said Edgar immediately. ‘My master’s wife wanted privacy so she has taken the room at the back.’

‘I hope she will be comfortable,’ Houndestail said easily. ‘I shall look forward to a new bed which does not involve sharing with Ivo Bel. Odious man!’

With that, he finished his wine, thanked Edgar, and left to seek his clothing and goods.

It was some little while later that another man walked in, and Edgar was convinced that this must be Houndestail’s bedfellow. His petulant expression would have curdled milk.

‘You travelling through here? I’m sick to death of the drunken rioters in this bar. They keep me awake every damned night!’

‘I am here for the Coroner’s inquest,’ Edgar volunteered mildly.