Michael JECKS - The Sticklepath Strangler

Baldwin said, ‘What of Denise?’

‘Poor Peter’s maid? That was a bit before. I think she died in the first year of the famine. She was as lively as a hawk, she was. Auburn hair and dark, dark eyes. Born before our King’s crowning. King Edward took his crown from Edward his father fifteen years ago, didn’t he? I think she must have been ten or eleven when the famine struck.’

Baldwin glanced at Simon. ‘Same age as Aline.’

‘Yes,’ Simon said doubtfully. He didn’t trust men who were so twisted and deformed. Someone in so foul a condition must have done something to deserve it.

Baldwin had known many cripples from his sojourn in Acre, and thought disability to be irrelevant. He had the belief that men’s souls were their own, unaffected by their outward appearance; though he knew some could grow bitter as a result of wounds, there were others who showed a saintly patience. Listening to Serlo, he felt the Warrener was trustworthy, an impression which was validated by Aylmer. Baldwin respected the judgement of his dog, and Aylmer was now leaning against Serlo while the Warrener scratched his flanks.

‘I reckon so,’ Serlo agreed. ‘Everyone thought she’d run away.’

It was odd to be questioned by this tall, grave man. Usually a knight was a source of fear to be avoided, especially one who was a Keeper. Keepers of the King’s Peace were as corrupt as Coroners and Sheriffs; worse, they were often more greedy about getting cash from people because they received no official compensation for their efforts, whereas the others did at least get a salary.

This one looked different. His dark eyes held an inner calmness, like one of the monks at Tavistock, as if he was content with himself and knew his faults – a rare trait among his sort. Most knights thought their strength made them better than other men – the arrogant pricks! – but this one looked as if he was capable of understanding the life of an ordinary churl. He even understood Serlo, if that expression of benign sympathy meant anything.

Serlo was in two minds whether to trust him. Caution was so firmly ingrained in him that it was impossible to throw it from him like a cloak, to be donned or doffed as the mood took him.

When Baldwin next spoke, his question didn’t surprise Serlo. ‘Did you know of other girls who died?’

The Warrener snorted. ‘There are loads of girls about here. And many die.’

‘What do you mean?’ Simon snapped. ‘How do they die?’

‘The same as anywhere else, Bailiff. How do you think? Some get kicked by cattle or horses, some fall into bogs. There are many of those on the moors. One drowned in the Taw last year. Some get run down by accident, and some even get raped and killed, just because they have a beautiful body to a man who’s fired with lust. There are all sorts of ways for a young girl to die.’

‘You know how Denise and Aline died, don’t you?’ Baldwin said.

‘I reckon.’ In his mind’s eye Serlo could see again that broken and mutilated body.

‘So – were there others?’ Baldwin persisted.

‘Some, I think.’

‘By God’s own bones, you’re lying!’ Simon burst out. ‘You mean to tell us that none of the people who visit you gossip? You’ve heard them talking, man! Especially the girls, like Joan and Emma.’

‘What if I have?’

Baldwin set his head on one side. He still wore an expression of sympathy, but now it was mingled with sadness. ‘We have heard that at least one other girl died in a similar way – an orphan called Mary. You are friends with so many of the vill’s girls, and I dare say that others have felt as trusting of you beforehand, haven’t they? Did Denise and Aline drop by the warren when they were bored or worried? Did Mary come to talk things through with an adult who was sympathetic?’

Serlo scowled at him. ‘Are you accusing me? Just because some kids like to visit me, that doesn’t mean that I kill them.’

‘No, but if you are reluctant to talk about children who have died, when they have been along to see you, it puts you under suspicion when the reason for their visit might have been entirely innocent – and when you were innocent too, of course.’

Serlo wasn’t fooled by Sir Baldwin’s suave tone. There was steel in that voice. The knight was angry that a man should have killed these girls. It was there in his eyes. If he thought for a moment that Serlo was truly guilty of the murders, Serlo knew that Sir Baldwin would personally seek him out and decapitate him in vengeance. With that realisation, Serlo felt a shiver pass through him.

He explained, ‘The girls would often come by to see what I was doing. They liked to watch the rabbits and help me kill the animals which came to take them. There was nothing more to it than that.’

‘Denise and Aline used to come by and see you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And in the same way, Joan and Emma have done so more recently?’

‘Yes. They enjoy a chat. I am different from the adults down there in their vill. Always have been. They feel they can trust me.’

‘Why?’

Hearing Simon’s harsh sneer, Serlo faced him. In his eyes Serlo could see the distaste for someone… some thing which was so damaged and ugly. It was a look Serlo had seen every day for many years. It made the blood rise in the Warrener’s heart, and he felt anger begin to flood his veins.

To his surprise he saw that the knight didn’t wear the same expression. Like a monk, his face held only compassion, as though he knew what it was to be reviled and persecuted. The fury which had been threatening to engulf Serlo receded. His bitterness became sadness, and his voice lost its harshness as he felt his frame sag.

‘You can’t understand, Master Bailiff. You are whole and strong, powerful. When little girls from a peasant’s home look at you, they see a man of authority and strength, tall and imposing. Look at me! I’m only a little taller than a child. Their parents all gaze upon me with horror and loathing, but the children just see another person and they are happy to come and chat to me, because I’m an outsider, and I can talk to them on their own level.’

Simon, whose own daughter was growing more fractious as she learned to enjoy the company of youths rather than the young ladies of her own age whom he considered eminently more suitable for her, viewed him askance, wondering how any attractive young girl could crave his company.

‘They were such pretty little things, all of them,’ Serlo said without thinking, the sadness filling his voice.

Simon wondered about the man’s sex-drive. There were stories of men whose natural strength was constricted in one way who developed astounding powers in others. Lepers were believed to be as lecherous as sparrows, for example. Could this man have a ferocious sexual desire which made him rape and murder young girls?

Serlo saw his quizzical expression. ‘You wonder whether I could have taken them, Bailiff? Maybe I lured them up to my warren and had my wicked way with them, and then took them to the vill or out to the moors to kill them and silence them for ever. A nice thought, but no, I couldn’t.’

‘Your injury?’ Baldwin guessed.

‘An ox. He tossed me high in the air and then gored me and stamped on me a few times to make sure. That’s why I look like this. And that’s why I couldn’t have taken them.’

‘Why?’ asked Simon.

‘I’m a eunuch.’

Simon blenched with the very thought, but Baldwin simply nodded. ‘I see. Now, the girls Denise and Aline. Is there anything you can tell us which might help us learn who their killer could have been?’

‘You are asking about deaths spread over the last seven or eight years. How should I know?’