Michael JECKS - The Sticklepath Strangler

‘Damn you! You think I compliment you, you son of a whore! You whore’s shite, you turd of a festering snake, you worm, you–’

‘Most interesting, Parson, but I have work to be getting on with. You may not have noticed, but we Foresters have duties to attend to, and we tend to be at them more regularly than some.’

‘You insult me in my own chapel, you devil? Be gone at once! You suggest that I am drunk? If I am, whose fault is it, eh?’ Gervase’s voice rose in anger. ‘You forget who caused me to fall? Who made me what I am today, eh? You . You used me, and you made me a monster. You alone.’

Drogo stood and gave an elaborate yawn. ‘So we are back to that, are we? Well, you have been blaming me for many a long year, and I doubt not that you’ll continue to do so, even though it wasn’t me but Samson.’

‘You’d blame the misguided fool now he lies in his own grave? Hypocrite!’

‘It was Samson started the attack on Athelhard.’

‘You were there, you with your men, and you should have prevented it. You are a King’s man, Forester, and you failed to stop the murder.’

‘Gervey, it was your preaching that caused the vill to kill him. Don’t forget your own guilt.’

‘At least I tried to persuade people out of their crime!’ Gervase spat.

‘Yes. Still, it’d be better not to mention it to the Coroner or his friends. Secrets like that are better kept hidden.’

‘You come here to protect yourself?’

‘What I have told you was under the seal of the confessional. You broke your vows once, you wouldn’t want to do it again, would you?’

‘You are worse than a blasphemer, you are a heretic as well.’

‘Ah, Christ’s blood, man! Do you honestly think you can blame me for that? Athelhard died because of your words, not mine, so don’t try to put the blame onto me.’

‘I know.’ Gervase felt his rage dissolve, washed away by his guilt. It was true – it was his fault Athelhard had died. ‘I preached against him and fired the men here with hatred. I guaranteed his death. I sealed his death warrant and provided the rope.’

‘If you want to wallow in it, carry on. I have better things to be doing,’ Drogo said dismissively as he walked to the door. When he had pulled it open, he glanced back at Gervase. ‘You know, I would not have you taking all the responsibility for Athelhard’s death. He was a hard man, and he died a hard man’s way. But it wasn’t you alone. We all knew he was guilty.’

‘But he wasn’t, was he? He was innocent.’

‘He was foreign. It’s no surprise we thought it must be him. Who else could it have been? Poor Denise. She was such a pretty little maid. And then we found her… like that. Who else could have done it?’

‘Who else could have eaten her, you mean?’

‘If you must have it so, yes. Athelhard was well fed, and Meg described the meal he gave her.’

‘She told me he had bought it from a traveller. A joint of pork.’

‘No one saw this meat. It’s no surprise all thought he killed Denise to feed himself and his sister.’

His defensive tone of voice made Gervase sneer. ‘Oh yes, and then it was but a short step to thinking him a vampire!’

‘It was your preaching did that.’

‘I know,’ Gervase said desperately. ‘I didn’t think what I was saying.’

‘What does it matter? A man who can eat others has to be possessed.’

Gervase brought his fist down on the altar. ‘But he didn’t do it, did he? That’s the whole point!’

‘We don’t know that for certain,’ Drogo said uneasily.

‘Oh no? Not even when we found the body of Mary two months after Athelhard had been slaughtered outside his home?’

‘You were partly to blame for Athelhard’s death. Don’t put all the responsibility onto me, priest.’

‘And Aline, too.’ The priest’s bleary eyes turned back to the altar for a moment. ‘Why was she buried?’

‘Eh?’

‘Aline was buried. Why was that? The others were left out in the open.’

‘Who can tell? Maybe the killer wanted to punish her father. Or her,’ Drogo said.

‘And Mary and Aline both died after Athelhard. So he couldn’t have been the murderer.’

‘You think what you like, Gervey. For me, I think he was desperate and sought anything to eat. He killed and ate Denise all right. Local men would have begged food from their neighbours, but a stranger like him? He couldn’t. It was only to save his sister’s feelings that he told her it was pork.’

Gervase snapped, ‘And I suppose he returned from the grave to eat Mary? And Aline too?’

‘If he was a vampire…’

‘Oh, but you saw to that, didn’t you? You let Peter cut out his heart and throw it into the flames. No vampire could return after that.’

‘Then maybe we released the demon and it infested another man?’ Drogo said with a chilly horror.

‘Or it was never him in the first place!’ Gervase shrieked.

Drogo sighed heavily. ‘Christ, I’ve had enough of this. You carry on blaming yourself if you want, but I have work to be getting on with,’ he said, drawing the door wide and striding outside.

Fool of a priest! He was close to shitting himself with righteous indignation every time they spoke, seeking to offload a little of his guilt on someone else. Thank God he hadn’t questioned Drogo’s presence in the chapel. The Forester didn’t want to have to admit that he was there to ask for forgiveness. To beg for understanding. It wasn’t that he hated the girls – he might be jealous of the parents, but he didn’t hate the girls. Still, God knew his feelings.

Drogo could remember the day of Athelhard’s death. Doubted he’d ever be able to forget it. That morning at Mass, Gervase had begged them to pray for the dead girl, weeping at the altar as he told the congregation about Denise.

Not that there were dramatic demonstrations of grief at the time, apart from the Parson’s. Even the girl’s father was too far gone for grief. Peter atte Moor was white-faced, with the tears streaming down his face, and Drogo had been moved to put his hand on his man’s arm in a mute expression of sympathy. Exhausted, Peter was too hungry to cry properly.

That was the point. Everyone in the vill was starving. The children’s faces were shrunken and distorted, their eyes tearful and pleading. The famine had struck the year before, due to the rain, the accursed rain that still fell outside even as Gervase held his hands aloft and begged Him to help them, to save them all from death. But He was too busy.

It was difficult to remember exactly when the congregation had realised who was guilty. The Parson wasn’t happy about it at first, but he knew, just as they all did, that no local man could have done this terrible thing, cutting up Denise like a side of pork. Not even one of the folk from South Zeal would have done that. They were weird up there, but not to that extent. No, it had to be a stranger.

They had gone up to the edge of Sticklepath, all the men of the vill, the hunters with their bows, the peasants with their billhooks and staffs, and there, at Athelhard’s property, they had stalked and killed him.

Drogo was by the graveyard now. Samson’s dogs were howling, over in the kennels at the far side of the cemetery. They were loyal hounds. He could hear nothing over their racket, was unaware of the low moaning that shivered on the breeze. Deep in his thoughts, he was aware only of a chill, a melancholy which affected even him, and he resolutely jerked his shoulders to ease the stiffness as he made his way home.

There was nothing, he told himself. Nothing.

Simon entered the inn with relief. He hesitated in the screens to catch his breath, but as he felt his heartbeat return to normal, he began to rationalise what had happened to him.