Michael JECKS - The Sticklepath Strangler

Baldwin said, ‘Thomas, I think your brother will leave you alone now. You have broken his head and he has confessed to us. Perhaps you have knocked some sense into him. Anyway, he has gone.’

‘I never want to see him again.’

The couple made as if to leave, but Baldwin’s soft voice stopped them.

‘One last thing. Thomas, you have been accused of murder, and you have been gaoled because of a fight which was not your fault. Why? What have you done to deserve this?’

‘Ask him ,’ Thomas said disdainfully, jerking his head at the Reeve. ‘He’s been hunting me down for no reason.’

‘Rubbish!’

‘You tried to have me arrested – twice now. And why? Just because I wasn’t born here in Sticklepath. The men of my own vill have had me thrown into gaol, they would have had me accused of murder and hanged, just to protect their friends here. They hate me not because I am a danger, but merely to serve their own interests. Why, Reeve, eh? What have I ever done to you?’ There were tears in his eyes now, tears of frustration and incomprehension.

It was Simon who answered, speaking with the weary air of a man who has witnessed injustice before. ‘That’s just the point, Thomas. You are an outsider. You didn’t merit protection, not in his eyes, because you weren’t a friend he’d grown up with.’

‘Is this true?’ Baldwin demanded, facing Alexander. ‘You sought this man’s imprisonment to protect your vill?’

‘And what better motivation could there be? It would have proved that we don’t tolerate murderers here, it would have explained things neatly! And without staining the character of the people and the vill itself. Thomas is a stranger here. A foreigner.’

‘Oh yes, and I came from the north, didn’t I?’

‘What does that mean?’ Baldwin asked.

Simon sighed. ‘Everyone knows that only bad luck comes from the north.’

‘Oh!’ Baldwin sneered. ‘More superstition .’

The Reeve said, ‘Who else could I arrest? There was no one in Sticklepath who could do such a terrible thing as killing the girls and eating them.’

Vin heard his words and could not help but glance at Drogo. The Forester had been in the area with every fresh body discovered, and he never seemed to suffer from hunger, not even at the height of the famine. As the thought occurred Drogo’s cold eyes met his, and Vincent looked away. Drogo made a bad enemy.

There had been silence after Alexander’s words, but now Nicole ducked her head and spoke to Baldwin with her head lowered as though fearful, her eyes avoiding the knight’s.

‘Sir, there is one man I have heard who might have been guilty. The Reeve himself.’

‘How dare you!’ Alexander said, his voice growing in volume as the anger flared in his breast. He felt as though his chest must burst with rage. ‘You accuse me?’

‘Speak!’ Baldwin said.

‘It was Ivo who told me. He said that he had a hold over the Reeve because of something he had seen many years ago – that the Reeve had killed a man, and Ivo had seen him.’

‘That’s a lie! I didn’t kill the Purveyor!’

‘That’s not what Ivo said,’ Nicole said firmly. ‘You passed the blame to my poor Thomas to protect yourself.’

‘How did you hear of his guilt?’ the Coroner asked her.

‘Ivo told me that if I would leave my husband, he would see to it that the Reeve would not support Thomas but would declare our marriage annulled.’

‘The Reeve doesn’t have that power,’ Simon grunted.

‘That may not prevent an arrogant shit like Ivo from telling it to the woman he hankers after,’ Coroner Roger pointed out. ‘Many a man will promise the target of his affections that black is white if it gives him an opportunity to lie with her.’

Sir Laurence said, ‘Wonderful! Reeve, you are a man of enterprise and determination! To throw all suspicion onto other men so swiftly, that is the act of a genius.’

‘I didn’t kill him. I have never killed any man,’ Reeve Alexander said woodenly. The fight was gone. He knew now that he was dead. There was no one to protect him. ‘And I didn’t kill the girls.’

‘I don’t care about the girls, whoever they may be. No, I need only concern myself with the body of Ansel. Where did you bury him? Won’t talk? Never mind. We shall find him.’

‘Oh, all right!’ Alexander sighed and allowed his head to fall into his hands a moment, collecting his thoughts, before speaking through his fingers. As he spoke, he lifted his head a little way, so that he could meet Baldwin’s gaze. All the time he was aware of Drogo behind him, listening carefully.

Before he could rally his thoughts, he saw Baldwin eyeing him with a contemplative expression while he fiddled with the thong tying his purse.

‘This can wait until the morning, can’t it?’ Drogo said gruffly.

Baldwin looked into his eyes as he pulled out the splinter of arrow and threw it onto the table in front of Alexander. There was a sudden silence in the room, and Baldwin watched Drogo’s eyes go blank with shock.

The Forester knew that his own fate was sealed.

Peter atte Moor was uncomfortable in his bed. Although he was exhausted after the last two nights of patrolling his bailiwick, watching and listening for any sign of trouble, sleep evaded him.

Once he had been a cheerful, tolerant man, but all that had changed one afternoon. One moment’s passion, and his life had been infected, his soul branded, and now all he could do was seek out evil and destroy it. He must fine felons and see them hanged. It was his vocation, it was his only road to salvation. It was his penance.

The others couldn’t understand. Peter had been born and bred here, like Drogo and Adam, but they had lived most of their time down in the vill, not up on the moors like him. He knew how capricious the moors could be. They could tempt a man to go and investigate them, and then, once he was miles from safety, they would strike; a mist would come down, so swiftly that he had no time to take his bearings, and so thick that he couldn’t see two paces in front of him – and then the wandering soul would be led to a mire from which there could be no escape.

Peter had been tempted once – they all were, every now and again – but his temptation had caused his destruction.

It was a girl. He saw her up at the extreme end of his bailiwick, where a stream had been dammed to create a large pool. Massive rocks behind were drizzled with water which cascaded gently down, making the rocks glow in the sunshine as though they were made of glass. It was a beautiful place. Peter had always adored it, and seeing the girl there made him feel as though it had been blighted. This was his own private hollow, and she had ruined it for him.

She clambered from the pool, stood on the edge, and jumped straight back in. Tall, with long, pale limbs, and thick brown hair that looked almost black now it was wet, she was utterly beautiful, breathtakingly so. Peter had felt his heart thunder in his chest like a caged lion.

He had gone down to her, his eyes feasting on her as she climbed once more from the pool, shaking her head free of water, self-absorbed and unaware of his presence. There was a rushing in his ears. This girl had appeared from nowhere, as though she was a gift from God, an angel dropped into his bailiwick. When he reached her, there was a strange feeling in his head, as though he was more than half drunk, and there was a weirdness about everything. He could hear nothing. Certainly she must have protested, must have asked him to leave her, for he knew she struck at him and opened her mouth as though to scream, but he couldn’t remember anything about it. He didn’t hear her. It was as though his hearing was cut off. All he was aware of was a high-pitched whistling noise in his ears, which overwhelmed all other sounds.