Michael JECKS - The Sticklepath Strangler

‘Oh, Christ’s bones! You’re one of his entourage, are you? You don’t look like a clerk.’

Edgar ignored his words. They were not spoken with intentional malice, but with a kind of unthinking rudeness.

‘You should tell the Coroner to be careful of Thomas Garde.’

‘Why?’ asked Edgar. The man was sitting near him on the same bench, and he was leaning forward, whispering as though the two were spies.

‘He’s dangerous. Violent. And I have heard that he might have killed the girl. She died just after he came here.’

‘You know whose body it is?’

The man leaned away, sipping his wine. ‘We can guess,’ he shrugged. ‘One girl disappeared just as Garde appeared here. Her name was Aline, the daughter of Swetricus, a local peasant. She was never found.’

‘Who are you?’ Edgar asked.

‘Ivo Bel, Manciple to the nuns at Canonsleigh.’

‘I see.’ Edgar wasn’t surprised. The man had the look of an ascetic. If he was honest, Edgar would say Ivo had the look of a eunuch who would prefer holding parchments in preference to a young, fragrant girl. Edgar, a hot-blooded man, found that difficult to understand.

Bel was shorter than Houndestail. Slim of build, with narrow shoulders under his light cloak, his long nose gave him a singularly lugubrious expression. The first impression he gave was of painful thinness. In fact, with the miserable light thrown by a pair of candles and a few rushlights, the stranger’s features appeared so drawn and cadaverous, Edgar thought they looked almost like a skull.

The girl reappeared in the doorway, then approached. ‘Sir,’ she said falteringly, ‘I have to say sorry, but your things are all in the pantry.’ She shot a look at Edgar and said spitefully, ‘They were thrown from the room.’

Ivo’s face was unmoving, but his voice became chilly. ‘And who did that?’

‘My apologies, friend,’ Edgar said immediately and explained again. ‘My master’s wife wanted somewhere quiet for herself and her child. When we enquired, the innkeeper admitted that he possessed a room. We took it.’

However, the damage was done. Ivo Bel studied the wine in his pot. ‘If your lady is comfortable, that is enough for me,’ he said eventually. ‘I am only glad to have been of service. Pray do not trouble yourself about me.’

His tone was calm, but Edgar could see the cold fury gleaming in his eyes. It made him smile, but at the same time he resolved to keep an eye on this fellow.

It had been a ghost.

Baldwin forced himself to stand and wait until the pounding in his breast was a little calmer, until the rushing in his ears had slowed.

There had been someone there, a figure he remembered from his dream. No, he amended, that was not true. It was not from his dream, but from his past: the body of the fat Prior, the man found in the clearing in the woods near to Crediton, whose death he and Simon had investigated six years ago. Yet the figure today was not so fat, nor was he clad in rich, embroidered things, but in miserable grey, like the poorest churl. Like a leper.

No matter. Baldwin, a proud knight, had wanted to flee, to bolt up the hill to the roadway and human company. He had been petrified by the mere sight of someone standing against a tree. It was pathetic.

Snapping his fingers to Aylmer, he turned his back on the scene and set off to the road, but he had only walked three paces when he glanced down at his dog with a puzzled expression. If the figure had been a ghost, surely his dog should have been scared as well? He had heard that dogs would always hurry away from ghosts, yet Aylmer had apparently noticed nothing.

The hound was frowning up at him as though concerned for his sanity, and Baldwin gave a dry laugh. His breathing was easier now, and his overriding feeling was of shame rather than fear. ‘So there was no ghost, eh? And yet I do not think I shall share this escapade with Jeanne. She would not appreciate the irony.’

Before going to the vill itself, he noticed a freshwater spring and drank from cupped hands. It was refreshingly cool, if slightly brackish, and he drank thirstily before washing his face. Shaking his hands dry, he felt the anxiety drip from him as the sun’s warmth seeped into his frame.

It was ludicrous. Although he could consider the affair logically and rationally, he would not feel completely easy until he was back among the cottages of the vill. There was nothing for him to be afraid of, and yet he was. With an effort, he put the dark shaw from his mind and took in his surroundings.

There was a series of buildings some little distance from the road and he let his feet take him along the puddled track towards them. Most were simple barns and sheds filled with farming tools and equipment, but the furthest was devoted to animals. This was where travellers left their mounts. Even as Baldwin approached, he could see Jeanne’s magnificent Arab being groomed. His own mount stood patiently nearby, reins tied to a metal ring in the door, while the cart horse and Edgar’s animal were tied to a post.

He made sure that they were all being looked after and glanced at the stalls inside. At once a smile spread over his features as he saw the unmistakable brown rounsey with the white star on his forehead.

‘Simon’s here, then,’ he murmured to himself as he sauntered back to the inn. On his way, he noticed the entrance to the little chapel. He was about to pass, but the unsettled feeling was still lying heavily on his spirit, and he craved a moment’s peace and reflection. Calling to Aylmer, he stepped through the gate and up to the chapel’s entrance.

It was a poor little property, built of stone and thatch, but the thatch itself was old and leaked, and streaks of dirt had run down the walls and stained the paintings. The decoration of the ceiling itself was all but wrecked, with the paint falling from it. As Baldwin pushed the door wide, bending in a quick genuflexion as he noticed the altar, he saw that there was a damp mess of leaves and rubbish stuck to the flagstones. All in all, there was a feeling of melancholy and neglect about the building, as though no one cared for it. Even Aylmer was bemused. He stood in the doorway and gazed about him, as though he had no wish to soil his paws.

‘You need sweeping out,’ Baldwin muttered, and then felt stupid for talking to a building. It was all of a part with his trepidation in the woods, he thought irritably.

The altar was a plain table of roughly smoothed wood; a large pewter cross stood roughly in the middle of it, but when Baldwin studied it, he saw it was carelessly positioned, the arms facing away from the door, and just far enough from the centre of the table for the failing to be noticeable.

‘May I help you?’

The words made Baldwin spin. Behind him stood a fat cleric, who nervously licked his lips when he saw how Baldwin’s hand had flashed to his sword. His eyes were bloodshot, as though he had been weeping, and his tonsure looked ill upon him. The pate that showed was covered with a light stubble, like a man’s chin after a week’s growth, and there was a thick lump of clotted blood on the left of his skull as though he had stumbled. He had pale hair which, together with his tonsure, made it difficult to guess his age, although Baldwin thought he had already seen his thirtieth summer. The wrinkles at forehead and eye tended to support that. Overall, Baldwin had the unpleasant impression of a dissipated man.

‘I fear I may have alarmed you, my Lord. My apologies. I am Gervase, Parson of this little chapel. I live opposite, and when I saw you enter, I thought I should come and ask whether you wanted… um…’

His voice trailed off, but long before the end of his speech Baldwin had realised that the priest was drunk. If his slow and careful pronunciation had not convinced him, the man’s too-stiff stance, his red face, twitching eye and trembling hand would have sufficed.