Michael JECKS - The Sticklepath Strangler

‘Unless they thought the killer couldn’t be killed. Like a vampire, eh?’

‘Aargh!’ Baldwin grunted disgustedly, rising and joining them. ‘You two make enough noise to raise the dead! What do you mean, “like a vampire” forsooth! They are creatures of fable, no more.’

‘But perhaps the people here believed in them,’ Simon said.

‘You think so?’ the Coroner queried.

Simon was frowning. ‘What of motive? Did the killer seek children only when he was hungry?’

‘Or is he keen on any living flesh at night?’ Baldwin asked facetiously.

‘Oh, shut up!’ Simon said, noting that the dogs had stopped howling.

‘Well, it’s ridiculous.’

‘A vampire seems more believable to me than that a man should turn to cannibalism,’ the Coroner murmured. He stared into the fire for a while, then threw his hands into the air. ‘Ach! Finish my ale for me, Simon. My head tells me it’s time to close my eyes and dream pleasant dreams of young nymphs and houris tempting me to join them in a land where my wife doesn’t exist.’

‘How is your Lady?’

Sir Roger threw Baldwin a disgruntled look. ‘As fit and healthy as a woman half her age, God rot her! She’ll outlive me, once she’s made my life as miserable as she knows how. Faugh! Why did you have to ask me about her ? Now you’ve got my mind working on that track, instead of nubile girls writhing and moaning against me in pleasure, I’ll dream of my wife moaning at me! Here, give me back that ale. I need it now!’

He drained his jug, setting it empty on the floor, before yawning and walking slowly back to his bench, covering himself with his thick blanket and almost instantly snoring. Baldwin wandered back to his bed and soon he was breathing regularly.

Simon lay down, grinning to himself. In the Coroner’s words about his wife there was no unkindness, only genuine affection.

There was a creak as a shutter moved in its runners, then a door rattled as a light gust of wind caught it. Simon closed his eyes, but all he could see was the cemetery, with that menacing, drooping cross.

And he could hear that cry, calling to his very soul.

As the Bailiff walked out into the bright sunshine, he found it hard to believe that he could have been so alarmed last night. The sun was gradually driving off the thin mist which enveloped the vill, and when he glanced westwards, he could see that the long spur of land up which the sticklepath climbed had already cleared, and was lighted with a splendid golden hue which made the grass and furze gleam like emerald.

Looking about him, he could have laughed aloud to think of his pitiable trepidation by the cemetery. The noise must have been nothing more than the wind in the trees, or the creaking of an old branch dangling from a bough.

He could scoff at his foolishness. Indeed it was almost tempting to tell Baldwin – but perhaps not. It was the sort of tale which his old friend would find amusing. Although Baldwin could be the soul of discretion and sympathy, he could also be unsubtle – and hearing further evidence of Simon’s superstitious nature would not make Baldwin shine in his best light.

Men and women were leaving the chapel, he noticed. The vill’s folk were a dull, ungracious lot, in his opinion. Still, the place should cheer up before long, now Samson was dead.

It was a point he had not considered yesterday, but it was important. Almost everyone they had spoken to expressed the opinion that the killer was almost certainly Samson. For one thing, no one else was so violent. Also, the miller was thought to be a rapist not only of other men’s daughters, but of his own. Samson had been a brutal man, but now he could terrorise the neighbourhood no more.

With this pleasing reflection, Simon set off towards the river, and meandered along the bank. In this way, he came across Ivo Bel, who was sitting propped up against an oak tree. Simon was about to turn and make good his escape, when Bel looked up and noticed him.

‘Bailiff Puttock,’ he said. ‘You slept well?’

Simon answered truthfully enough that once he had managed to find sleep, he had slept soundly.

‘Ah, I suffer from the same problem. So often in a new place, I find I cannot relax. The fear of thieves, the discomfort of a strange berth, the draughts, the noise of other men’s snoring… Travel is a hard life. It is better to be stable, to remain in one’s home.’

‘You are married?’

‘Yes, but my wife is a foul wench. I should never have wedded her. A man in my position shouldn’t give himself to the first woman he meets, but still, we can all make foolish mistakes when we are young, can we not?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Simon muttered. There was genuine dislike in Ivo’s voice as he spoke of his wife. The Coroner was just as rude about his Lady, but he was not being serious. Simon had the impression that he would be desolate if anything ever happened to his wife. That was not the case with Ivo.

‘My brother is fortunate with his wife,’ Ivo continued. ‘She is a lovely thing, little Nicole.’

‘Yes,’ Simon agreed politely.

‘He met her in France, you know. Over there he had been a soldier, but then he returned here when he had married.’

‘They married over there?’

‘She was saved by him,’ Ivo said. He cast a sidelong look at Simon. He was disappointed with the lethargic pace of Alexander’s action against his brother and this, he thought, was an excellent opportunity to lay the groundwork for Thomas’s destruction.

‘Nicole was the daughter of the local executioner, who was proved guilty of rape and murder. The drunken fool beat a woman and took her by force. If he’d killed her, he would have gone free, but she lived long enough to accuse him. The townspeople held a court and hanged him. They left his body where he had committed his crime to show felons they weren’t tolerated, but then some hotheads turned on his family. They beat his widow and sought Nicole, but she was saved by my brother. He took her to the church and sealed their marriage in front of the priest, and then held her under his personal protection. He had to beat off a couple of local boys, and thereafter the villagers left them alone.’

‘Why should they attack her anyway? She was hardly to blame for her father’s position.’

‘You know how foolish some people can be, especially the superstitious, Bailiff. They thought she was a witch, that she routinely communed with spirits and demons. After all, to a dimwitted villager, anyone associated with an executioner must be morbid.’

‘Your brother was lucky. He could have been attacked by a whole village.’

This, Ivo thought, was the opening. ‘You haven’t seen Tom when the red mist comes down, Bailiff. When he is in a mood to fight, nothing can stop him but his own or his opponent’s death. The villagers would have seen that soon enough.’

‘He doesn’t give that appearance.’

‘You have not seen him enraged, my friend. When he is thwarted, he is like a mad bull.’

Simon wasn’t interested. ‘Your brother brought his wife and child here and the villagers accepted her because she was married to a man from the area?’

‘My brother is not of this area. We are both foreigners, Bailiff. We come from the north, up near Exmoor. No, I moved because my position was offered to me and it suited me; Thomas, my brother, came here because he heard of Sticklepath from me. Before the famine, that would have been.’

‘And he felt this vill would suit him?’

‘Yes. There is good soil here, and he would be away from trouble. Of course there was always Samson, who had a similar temper to Thomas, but I thought that my brother could avoid him.’ Ivo leaned back against the tree. ‘You can see why they wanted to stay. This place can grow on you, and he had good land, good trade, and a good woman to warm his bed for him. He lacks for nothing so long as he keeps his temper under control.’