Michael JECKS - The Sticklepath Strangler

He turned, thinking to engage Jeanne in conversation, but as he did so he caught the eye of a man standing in the doorway.

Simon had not seen Drogo before, but he could tell that Jeanne had, from the way that she sat a little straighter on her bench. Baldwin and Jeanne had not told Simon of their brush with Drogo and his men, but he could tell that something was making Jeanne unhappy. He watched as Drogo sauntered across the room to take a table at the far end, his companions joining him as he loudly dragged a chair out and bellowed for ale. The men already sitting there gave up their table to the four.

There was nothing to distinguish the newcomers from other men. Apart from Drogo himself in his crimson tunic, they were all clad in worn and faded clothes like any of the locals. Ochres and greens made up their colours; they carried small horns at their sides, and all had daggers and heavy staffs – just like any other franklin.

There was an aura about them, though: an intimidating presence. They clearly knew that they were all-powerful in this area. In fact, they looked as though they were not truly a part of the vill, but were superior to it, like men who were above the law. Or who were themselves the law.

That impression was reinforced when the taverner’s daughter appeared in the doorway. She carried a tray, filled with pots and jugs of ale, and was walking slowly and carefully towards a table at the far side of the room. A man stood there, smiling. ‘Over here, Martha, love,’ he called.

Simon had to smile at the sight of her. Young, probably not more than fifteen years old, she had wavy, raven hair pulled back and bound with a piece of coloured cloth. Strands had strayed and now dangled at either side of her face, and she concentrated hard, the tip of her tongue protruding as she crossed the floor. She was pretty, in a sulky sort of way.

And then the man in the red tunic stood, snatched the tray from her, and set it down at his table.

There was a moment’s stunned silence, and Simon edged his stool slightly away from the table in case a fight should begin, but before he could warn Baldwin, Drogo had reseated himself, staring at the deprived drinkers, who scowled but turned away, waiting while the girl hurried back to the buttery to fetch more.

‘They feel themselves superior to other inhabitants,’ Baldwin observed.

Simon nodded. While he watched them, the man in red glanced up and caught his eye. He stared at Simon for several moments, meeting his gaze unblinkingly, as though it was a test, a trial of strength. Simon held the man’s stare until someone else walked between the two tables and broke their locked concentration.

There were several men in the room now, and the ones between Simon and the Foresters consisted of a powerful-looking man with the curious cough and pallor which Simon associated with millers the world over, and another, taller man, who stood listening quietly.

Edgar leaned over to Baldwin. ‘That is Ivo Bel.’

Simon hadn’t heard of him, but thought he was worth watching. Although Bel looked educated and well-travelled, Simon could see that he was uneasy, his attention flying to the doorway whenever anyone entered. He was talking loudly, complaining about a man called Tom Garde.

William was soon with Simon, pouring from a great jug, and when Simon nodded towards the miller, the tavernkeeper said gruffly, ‘That’s Samson atte Mill.’

Simon soon saw why the tavernkeeper seemed upset: Samson appeared uninterested in listening to this Ivo Bel. His gaze was fixed on the innkeeper’s daughter, a wolfish smile on his face. His attention was distracted only when William stood in front of him, deliberately blocking his view. Suddenly the place went silent, as though a blanket had smothered all noise.

‘Do you want a drink, Samson?’

‘I’ve got plenty here, Bill.’

‘I think you ought to finish up and go.’

Samson smiled, but in his face there was no humour. Simon nudged Baldwin, and made ready to stand should Samson attack the tavernkeeper, but before he could put his hand to his sword, Drogo had stood.

‘Time you were off home, Samson.’

‘I want more ale.’

‘No, you don’t,’ Drogo contradicted with conviction. He had his legs a short way apart, his hands hanging loosely at his side, in the stance of a fighter at his ease, but there was no mistaking the threat.

Samson stood as though fixed, and then he slowly emptied his bowl of ale onto the ground. Suddenly he laughed, tossed the empty bowl to William’s daughter and walked out, still chuckling to himself.

Baldwin motioned to William, who approached their table still visibly shaking.

‘What was that about?’

The innkeeper glanced about him. No one was paying any heed, and he felt secure enough to whisper quickly, ‘That man, Samson the miller, there’s talk that he’s raped young girls. Orphans. They say he got his own daughter in foal. He’s dangerous. If anyone killed the girl up the road, he did, God rot his guts!’

‘Then why is he still alive?’ Simon asked. In his experience a vill would quickly dispose of a child-murderer.

‘No proof. Just suspicion, but if you saw how he looked at my daughter just now, you wouldn’t doubt my words,’ William said, and in a flash he was gone.

‘There, I think, you have one suspect,’ Baldwin murmured to Coroner Roger.

The room was quieter a few moments later when the smiling face of Miles Houndestail appeared in the doorway. He remained there a short while, his gaze passing over the people in the tavern, and then he walked towards Baldwin.

‘Are you the Coroner, sir?’

‘ I am,’ Coroner Roger rumbled, displeased that Baldwin could have been mistaken for him. ‘What do you want?’

‘My name is Miles Houndestail, the First Finder of the body. Well, the skull, anyway.’

‘Ah! Would a pot of ale suit you?’

‘Greatly, I thank you.’

When his drink had arrived, Coroner Roger watched him gulp at it, and when Miles set it down, the Coroner began, ‘You don’t live here?’

‘Oh, no. I am a Pardoner. I was on my way to Tavistock and then to Plymouth.’

‘Where are you from?’

‘I hale from Bristol, but I have been down this way two other times. Once before the famine, once during it. In fact it was then, in 1315, that I met the Royal Purveyor here on his rounds. We stayed together at this inn.’ He frowned at the memory. ‘It was odd. He was going to meet me at Oakhampton a couple of days later, but he never arrived.’

‘Probably got diverted.’

‘I don’t think so. He told me his plans, and we had a wager on the weather, which he won – and he didn’t seem to me the sort of man to leave money behind.’

‘Interesting, but what has this to do with me?’

Houndestail smiled mildly. ‘There is something very strange going on here, Coroner. This Purveyor disappeared, and I believe he hasn’t been seen since.’

‘One traveller disappearing is hardly news.’

‘Yet Ansel de Hocsenham was a man of stature and importance. He was huge – brawny and muscular. Most robbers would have steered well clear of him . His disappearance is a mystery that has never been solved, and I for one feel it has a connection with this ill-begotten place.’

‘Is that your only objection to Sticklepath, sir?’ the Coroner asked rather sarcastically, but his expression changed when the Pardoner answered him.

‘No, it isn’t. When I reported the appearance of the skull, the vill went quiet and I heard someone mutter, “Oh God! Not another one sucked dry and eaten.” And then someone else said: “It’s Athelhard. Dear God, it’s Athelhard! Another child eaten!” ’

‘Who is Athelhard?’ Baldwin asked, bemused.