Michael JECKS - The Sticklepath Strangler

‘You should wish to help us.’

‘Because you’re the King’s men?’ Serlo sneered.

‘No,’ Baldwin said thoughtfully, ‘because their killer could still be alive and might kill again. They were friends to you. Surely you would like to bring their murderer to justice?’

‘Maybe.’

Baldwin smiled at his grudging tone. ‘Then just answer a few more questions, Serlo. For example, who was in the vill all through this period?’

‘Most of the men who are there now. Thomas Garde, he wasn’t, but almost all the others were.’

‘Including the Reeve?’

‘Yes. He was here during the famine. He moved here from Belstone… oh, eight years or more ago.’

‘I see. So he could have captured any of them. Do you have any idea where Denise was last seen?’

‘I heard that she was seen by Drogo the Forester walking up to the moor. She loved it up here. I often used to see her up near Ivy Tor Water, or up at the top of the hill.’

‘What about Aline – do you know where she was last seen?’

‘In the vill, I think. No one admitted seeing her leave the place,’ Serlo said, watching him from under beetling brows. ‘Are you serious about finding the murderer of these girls, then? Really serious?’

Baldwin contemplated him for a moment, and then very slowly, he drew his sword and lifted it, point down, until the hilt was before him. ‘By the cross, I declare I am determined to find the murderer or murderers of these three young girls,’ he said, and kissed the hilt.

Serlo grimaced. ‘Very well. I believe you. Look, Samson was a vicious bastard. He enjoyed hurting people, but he was also nasty in other ways. I know he scared all the girls in the vill, but some he scared worse than others.’

‘In what way?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I think he raped them, but made them too fearful to tell anyone. Even with me they were quiet.’

‘So now he is dead you think that the killings are over?’

Serlo looked at him with those bird-bright eyes. ‘My Christ, but I hope so!’

They left him not long afterwards, and made their way carefully through the mist towards the growing noise of the river. Then, in a moment, the greyness had gone, and they were instantaneously warmed by the bright sunlight.

‘How peculiar,’ Baldwin said.

‘That’s what happens when you mock the moors,’ Simon said seriously.

They had reached a broad curve of the river, at which there was a deep ford. The two removed their boots to cross it, and sat on a rock at the far side to put them on again. While they were there, they heard steps, and Vin appeared, coming from the same direction as them.

‘Keeper… Bailiff…’

‘You look surprised,’ Baldwin said.

‘I didn’t expect to meet anyone up here.’

‘It was not fear that we could be vampires?’ Baldwin snorted.

‘You can’t live up here without being aware of them. There have been too many deaths.’

‘Do you believe in such nonsense?’ Baldwin asked.

Vin gave a half shrug. ‘I think a man can be called many things.’

‘Have you got any idea who could have been responsible?’ Simon asked.

‘Whoever did it would have to hate the people he murdered. Killing little girls… I only know one man who could have done that: Samson. He was always a violent, dangerous man with his brain in his cods, and preferred young girls to his wife, if the tales are true. I’ve heard he raped his daughter and others. Perhaps he sought to keep them quiet afterwards.’

‘Wouldn’t someone have cut off his tarse if that was common knowledge?’ Simon scoffed.

‘Samson was a dangerous man,’ Vin said simply. ‘Even an angry father would have thought twice before accusing him. Perhaps his secret has died with him.’

‘Where was he when the girls died?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Do you know?’

‘Yes. Denise and Aline both disappeared when Samson was at the mill. We were up on the moors at the time. It was only when we came back that we heard about the Hue and Cry. I was with Drogo on his bailiwick because I was still new.’

‘You were with Drogo all the time?’

‘More or less. We went on separate patrols occasionally.’

‘Tell me, where was Denise found?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Up there.’ Vin pointed over beyond Serlo’s house. ‘Down towards Sticklepath. I remember coming back from Drogo’s bailiwick one day and finding the Hue and Cry waiting with her body. No one had passed me going up to the moors, though.’

‘What of this girl Mary?’ Simon asked. ‘Was she buried like Aline?’

‘No. She was out near the river, strangled like the others. And cut about.’

‘Why should Aline be treated differently and buried?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Is there anyone you suspect of her murder?’

Vin was thoughtful. ‘Peter has been a bit unbalanced since his own daughter died. I doubt he could attack any children, unless he’s like Drogo and jealous of their fathers. Adam’s all right, but he keeps himself to himself.’

‘Drogo?’ Simon queried.

‘Nothing,’ Vin said, but on being pressed, he reluctantly imparted: ‘He can be a bit jealous of men in the vill who still have their daughters.’

‘Why were you up here today?’ Simon asked.

‘My parents used to live up there on the high moor, out near the Taw Marsh. I go there now and again to sit and remember them. They both died up there.’

‘It’s unforgiving, the moor,’ Simon said.

‘It is a hard land,’ Vin agreed.

Returning to the inn, there was no news of the Coroner, and Baldwin walked through to sit with Jeanne. Simon remained in the tavern with a jug of wine, but when the jug was empty, rather than remain and doze, he wandered outside and sat on a bench in the fresh air.

Although it was still daytime, the sun was low enough to leave the vill in twilight. He shivered, remembering the cloud settling on them, and felt another cloud settling on him like a cloak of sadness, a morbid conviction that here in the vill was an evil spirit, a demonic presence that could infect and pollute the whole parish.

Baldwin couldn’t understand; he was no moorman. Simon had grown up with the moors nearby, and had lived the last few years out at Lydford. He knew that there was a spirit on the moor, a spirit which would protect it against men, and men only roused that spirit to anger if they were ignorant or stupid. The mist had been a warning.

He was cold. Standing, he decided to clear his head with a brisk walk and set off westwards towards the sticklepath. He marched along the roadway until he reached an enormous puddle near the chapel. Circling it, he walked nearer the chapel itself, following the line of the cemetery’s fencing going under the branches of the pollarded trees which stood there. It was then that he heard it.

At first he thought it was the breeze soughing through the branches above him, but then there was a prickling at his scalp, as though he knew that this was no wind but something unearthly. He carried on, past the trees, and it was then that the sound came towards him without interference, a distinct, mournful cry; half that of an animal in deep pain, half that of a soul in torment.

Simon felt his eyes widen, his hair stand on end; he was filled with a terror so all-encompassing that he could not move. All his attention was focused on the sound that drifted to him, quiet, but unutterably sad.

It was like a voice whispering, cursing, begging, threatening – a spirit’s voice, a ghost’s voice – and even as they heard it, Samson’s dogs began to howl.

Vincent Yunghe felt scared. He had made his way back from the river and met Drogo and the others at the inn, but every time he looked up he found himself staring into Drogo’s eyes, as if the leader of the Foresters was wondering whether Vin would turn him in.