Michael JECKS - The Sticklepath Strangler

‘Coroner, I am Alexander de Belston,’ he said in a low, deep voice. It was the sort of voice that inspired confidence, and his slow, respectful manner created an instant hush in the room. ‘I am Reeve of the vill under the authority of the Baron of Oakhampton, my Lord Hugh de Courtenay.’

‘I am Coroner Roger de Gidleigh,’ Roger replied with equal formality and gravity. Jeanne saw that he had lowered his head and was giving the Reeve a measuring look quite unlike his normal good-humoured grin. Then she realised that the Coroner had, like her, been unfavourably impressed by the Reeve. ‘Would you lead the way for the jury and witnesses?’

‘Of course, my Lord. Please follow me.’

Baldwin rose and held out his hand for Jeanne. She took it and walked at his side immediately behind the Coroner and the Reeve, and was unaccountably glad to hear the solid footsteps of Simon and Edgar behind her, and to feel Aylmer at her side.

Outside it was already warm, the sunshine all but blinding as they made their way up the roadway. The air was clean and fresh, with the tang of woodsmoke and cooking, but there was that strange silence again. Even the local dogs had stopped barking, she noticed, and the few miserable-looking mutts which were visible weren’t foraging, but slunk quietly out of the way of the throng.

It was a dismal group which congregated about the wall with the tumbled rocks all around, and although he didn’t expect them to be singing and dancing in these sad circumstances, Coroner Roger was surprised at the lack of noise here. It was as though all the folk waiting were drained, exhausted. He had seen people like this during the worst stages of the famine, but not since.

It must be due to the age of the victim, he thought. The destruction of children always seemed more poignant than the death of an adult.

‘The body is in there,’ the Reeve said helpfully. ‘Two girls saw the wall had collapsed, and noticed some material inside. They prodded at it and it tore, and the skull fell out. Naturally they ran screaming.’

The Coroner crouched and touched the cloth which had attracted the girls. ‘This is no good,’ he muttered. ‘Baldwin, what do you think?’

‘If you try to pull her out you will damage her corpse and probably bring the wall down as well.’

‘Quite right! We shall have to dig, as I suspected.’

The Coroner clambered over the wall and helped the Reeve to follow. Baldwin left Jeanne with Edgar and went to join him. He knew Simon would prefer not to see the corpse: the Bailiff had never fully appreciated the importance of the little signals which a body could give to an investigator.

A few flies were buzzing about the place as the Reeve motioned to a man with a long shovel. Flies, Baldwin knew, were the inevitable partners to death. On a warm day, flies could congregate in moments, laying their foul eggs on open wounds and quickly infesting a corpse with maggots. Baldwin loathed and detested flies. He had seen too many in Acre during the siege. As people fell dead in the streets, struck by the massive stone missiles from the Saracen artillery, swarms would suddenly appear, smothering their faces and feasting on the blood.

But flies liked fresh meat, he reminded himself, and this corpse was old. Looking about him, he saw that, in fact, the flies were busy seeking food elsewhere.

The man with the shovel was working hard with the regular action of someone used to manual labour. His broad wooden blade had been tipped with a sharp steel edge, and it cut through the smaller roots which lay under the surface of the turf as he stood on the footrest carved into the right side, thrusting the blade deep into the soil, then levering it up and away, shovelling it into a neat heap behind him.

‘Once the body was discovered, we decided not to dig it up,’ the Reeve said pompously. ‘It would have served no purpose and we didn’t want to disturb the remains until you arrived.’

Baldwin had already taken a dislike to this man. He didn’t know why, for most Reeves were pleasant enough, and he had not yet had time to learn anything about this fellow which could give him cause for dislike, but there it was. As Alexander de Belston peered down into the growing hole, he started picking his nose, and the act grated on Baldwin. It was an insult to the body. There was a languid tone to his voice as well, as though Alexander was trying to show the Coroner that matters such as this were rather beneath him. He did appear self-important, certainly. It was there in the way he sighed as he glanced up at the sun, estimating the time, and in the frown that passed over his face when a child in the silent crowd down in the lane spoke up and complained of thirst.

Baldwin studied the ground.

Standing here on the slope, he could appreciate that the wall was only low, some two feet high, when viewed from this side. Of course, from the roadway, the wall was quite high, almost the height of a man. He wondered whether this fact had any relevance.

‘God’s teeth!’ the peasant with the shovel swore, wincing.

Simon turned away from the melancholy scene.

He was down on the road with the crowd which had straggled up here. The poorest seemed to stick together, like a herd of cattle seeking protection from a dog, their status apparent from their threadbare clothing and drawn features. Near them were some twenty men and boys in slightly better clothes: wealthier farmers and franklins. These were the fellows who owned their own land, who didn’t have to literally slave in the lord’s strips. The labour of a villein’s body was owned by his master, and the villein must leave his own crops to rot when he was called to his lord’s harvest.

Looking over this lot, he reckoned that the men of Sticklepath looked less bovine than most. It was strange: in some towns and cities, he had heard that the lowest peasants could swagger and boast like franklins, but usually in the smaller hamlets folk knew their place, and would keep away from the likes of Simon and Baldwin. Here, however, he was conscious that men and women alike met his gaze with truculence. It was slightly alarming. This lot could become a mob, he thought, and unconsciously he tapped the hilt of his sword.

Ivo was there, too. His long face with its narrow nose was oddly intent as he stared up at the men working above the wall. However, Ivo was not thinking of the inquest, nor even of the child who was being exhumed.

There were so many children in Sticklepath, and this one had already been replaced. Peasants in this benighted vill bred like lecherous pigs, rolling and rutting in the dirt; it was no surprise the place was overrun with snot-nosed brats.

As the man cried and dropped his shovel, Ivo glanced up towards him. He knew well enough that this was a dangerous moment for the Reeve and Drogo, for he had seen them burying the body near here; if it turned up now, his hold over the Reeve would be ended. He shrugged. Oh well.

A small boy ran down the lane, narrowly missing Ivo as he passed, and the man pursed his lips. Illegitimate spawn of a sow and a hog! Next time the little sodomite tried that, he’d get a boot up his arse. See how he liked sprawling in the dirt.

Ivo loathed children. Always had. Mother had told him that he would love his own, but thank Christ there was no risk of that. His wife was barren, useless cow. Shame he’d ever married her. She was only ever a drain upon his purse, no good as a bedfellow or housekeeper. Couldn’t manage a servant to save her life.

It was as he was thinking of his wife that he saw her again, and felt his heart flutter: Nicky.

She had a natural grace about her, an elegance that was without comparison in this dump; it must be her French blood, Ivo thought. He had often heard it said that Frenchwomen had more style and grace than their English counterparts, and Nicky proved it. She was gorgeous. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her, strip her naked and lay her on his bed.