Michael JECKS - The Sticklepath Strangler

Behind them the vill was concealed by the curve of the hill. There was a constant noise of water, but over all there was the whistle of wind in their ears. ‘Look at all this,’ Baldwin said, flinging an arm in the general direction of the scene. ‘Beautiful! Clean, unsullied land, ready to be farmed and improved by men. This is the fourteenth century since the birth of Christ, and Jeanne and you would have me believe in some spirit of the moor that seeks my death! Ludicrous!’

‘There is something here.’

‘From the time that the first people came here,’ Baldwin said, ‘when Brutus escaped from Troy and defeated the giants who lived here, the moors have been Christian.’

‘I know my history too, Baldwin. But if that is so, what of the vampires?’

‘Stories to scare children.’

‘They seem to have upset several people here. Could it have caused the strange atmosphere?’

‘Fools, the lot of them. Vampires, indeed!’

‘It was you who told me of them,’ Simon pointed out.

‘Yes, well.’ Baldwin was reluctant to confess that it was a joke which had turned sour. He said lamely, ‘I thought you would be interested, that was all.’

They had reached a thin track, little more than a sheep’s path, and turned along it. The ground was soon boggy, and their boots grew stained from the peat-laden soil as they marched along a stretch which passed through a series of streams, each glinting and sparkling in the sunlight. Aylmer chased after a rabbit, exulting in his freedom and the space.

‘Look at it, Simon! How could anyone think that this place was in any way cursed?’

‘You are seeing it on a clear bright day, Baldwin. I’ve been on the moors in rain and snow. It gives you a different perspective.’

‘Perhaps. Look! That must be the place,’ Baldwin said, pointing to the long, low shape of the warren and the circular hut beyond.

They trudged on, but suddenly a cloud passed over the sun and blotted out the light. In an instant, the pretty streams became dull lead, the air was chilled, and Simon felt a shiver rack his frame. Baldwin said nothing, but Simon wondered whether the spirit of the moors had been offended by his levity.

‘What an unpleasant little shack,’ Baldwin said.

Looking at the corpses of magpies and crows dangling on the wall of the warren, Simon had to agree. It lent a chilling feel to the place. Simon stood gazing about him while Baldwin beat upon the door.

There was the huge mass of Cosdon Hill south and east, while westwards he could see the tiny hamlet of Belstone, and directly south there was the valley of the Taw, but as he looked that way, he felt his trepidation increase.

‘Baldwin?’

‘No one here. What is it?’

‘Look.’

‘A mist?’ Baldwin said. He shrugged.

Then it was on them. There was no sun, no rain, only an all-enveloping greyness.

Baldwin was astonished how quickly he lost all sense of direction. He could still see at least five yards around him, but beyond that was only fog. To his amazement, he could not even tell which way was up and which was down. It was quite alarming, and yet stimulating as well. Not fearsome at all, he thought.

‘CHRIST JESUS!’ Simon bellowed suddenly.

‘Gracious God, what is it?’ Baldwin demanded, startled out of his reverie, his hand flashing to his sword hilt as he leaped away, seeking danger.

Simon was glowering down at Aylmer’s enquiring face. ‘Your damned dog just thrust his nose in my hand.’

‘A cold, wet, ghostly nose, eh, Simon? Perhaps that will show you something about the power of superstition.’

Simon held his tongue, merely wiped his hand on his tunic while he stared balefully at the dog. If he had ever before doubted that a dog could laugh, he never would again. ‘Bastard hound,’ he muttered and Aylmer’s mouth opened as though in a broad grin.

‘Does this often happen?’ Baldwin asked, peering into the mist. ‘Where should we go?’

‘Follow the sound of water. If we can get to the river, we can follow it away from the moor. No rivers flow into the moor, they all flow away.’

It made sense, Baldwin thought. ‘Which way is it?’

‘Down there,’ Simon pointed.

Baldwin took the lead, walking away from the hut, but before he had gone a couple of yards, he stopped dead. There was an indistinct figure ahead of them in the mist, a darker shape which made Baldwin hesitate. For a second time, his hand went to his sword. ‘Hello? Who is that?’

‘What’re you doing here?’ came a surly reply, and Serlo stepped forward out of the gloom.

Baldwin felt an enormous relief, and let his hand fall away from his sword again. ‘Where have you been?’ he demanded a little harshly.

Over his shoulder, Serlo carried a small bag. He patted it now, staring at the two men suspiciously. ‘Provisions. A man is allowed to buy food. What are you doing up here?’

Earlier when Baldwin had seen the Warrener, he had thought Serlo was very short; closer, he could see that the man was badly deformed. His back was twisted, and although his legs were the size of an ordinary man’s, the curvature of his spine made him appear short. His head had a thick mat of hair that sprouted under his faded green cap, and his beard was every bit as bushy and bristling as Baldwin remembered, while his eyes were as bright and intense as a wren’s. Though he wore the torn and patched clothing of the lowest of peasants, there was a sharpness about his face which pointed to keen intelligence. Baldwin had never subscribed to the opinion, so often expressed by noblemen and others, that the meaner the peasant, the poorer his brain. However, intelligence was no guarantee of hospitality.

‘What do you want here?’ Serlo repeated.

‘I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace, Sir Baldwin Furnshill, and this is my friend Simon Puttock.’

‘You’re not the Keeper around here, the man from Oakie.’

‘Oakie?’

Simon interrupted smoothly, ‘It’s what the locals call Oakhampton, Baldwin.’

‘Ah, I see. No, I’m not. Simon Puttock here is Bailiff of Lydford Castle, friend,’ Baldwin added.

‘Oh.’

‘As such,’ Simon said, ‘I have authority over the moors. And you are Serlo the Warrener?’

‘Yes.’

Simon nodded dubiously. ‘The friend of Emma and Joan. I have heard a little about you.’

‘Yeah, well. What of it?’

‘Where were you when the inquest was being held into the death of Aline, the girl found in the wall?’

‘I’m not a villager there. Different parish,’ Serlo said defensively.

‘True. Yet you weren’t up at your warren either,’ Simon noted.

‘How do you know?’

‘I spoke to Joan and Emma after the inquest. They said you weren’t about.’

‘So? I was out on the moors.’

Baldwin said, ‘I recall seeing you on the night before the inquest. You were there, where the body was found, weren’t you?’

‘I was talking to Henry Batyn. He’d been told to guard the body until the Coroner arrived,’ Serlo explained, ‘but none of the lazy buggers in the vill thought of taking him ale or anything, so I gave him some.’

‘I see. Did you know the girl?’

‘Who, Aline?’ Serlo asked. ‘Of course.’

Simon thought that he looked as though he was considering lying, and was instantly on his guard, listening for the subtle changes in tone that would show the Warrener was inventing, but Baldwin, watching his eyes, saw no guile or deceit. Serlo didn’t look away or shuffle his feet, he met Baldwin’s gaze steadily. Baldwin made a beckoning gesture with his fingers, and Serlo shrugged.

‘I knew her as well as any, I suppose. A pretty maid, with a sweet nature to go with her looks. Her father never could see it. Kept telling her she was ugly, poor lass. Slim, she was, and long-bodied. Near as tall as me, I’d guess, with hair like ripened wheat, and eyes as blue as clean water under a clear sky. She used to visit me up at the warren of a day, and chat to me. Lots of the youngsters do.’