Michael JECKS - The Sticklepath Strangler

Coroner Roger grimaced as his bruised foot caught on a tussock of grass. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I have known men to kill because they disliked another’s eye colour; to show that they were men; to impress women… and so on. There is always a reason, if you could but see it.’

Simon held out his hands in a gesture of bafflement. ‘But what could the motive be in this case?’

Baldwin was silent a moment. He was watching a crowd gather outside the inn. ‘Let us walk on. Those men look boisterous. Now,’ he continued as they left Alexander’s house behind them, ‘The first death, that of Ansel de Hocsenham, may have been an accident.’

‘The Purveyor was hated by all about here,’ Simon reminded him. ‘Perhaps he was killed because of that hatred, or maybe he saw something…’

Baldwin agreed. ‘Let us suppose he was not only seen by someone who hated him, but that his killer was also starving. Perhaps the two motives came together.’

‘What of the girls?’ Simon said. ‘Do you think he got a taste for the flesh of humans?’

‘Perhaps. But I think it is more than that. Most of his victims were young girls. Children. All of about eleven years of age. That is curious. Surely it was a man trying to gain power over those weaker than himself. Any man could go and make use of a tavern’s whores if he needed, so was this a man who had no money, or was it a man who felt threatened by women – so threatened that he sought to take them by force?’

‘But he didn’t take women,’ Coroner Roger scoffed.

‘No,’ said Simon with dawning understanding. ‘He took the only women he could, young girls who knew little better, who couldn’t physically protect themselves against him.’

‘So we have a weakly man,’ Baldwin said, ‘who was extremely poor during the famine and couldn’t afford food, nor did he have any growing at his home.’ He curled his lip. It was not convincing.

‘At least that means we should be able to free some people from suspicion,’ Coroner Roger said.

‘Yes,’ Simon said. ‘And the more the better.’

‘Listen to those blasted hounds!’ Coroner Roger burst out. ‘Why are they still making that infernal racket?’

Baldwin cast an eye up towards the mill. ‘They miss their master.’

‘A dog would usually have got over the death of a master by now.’

‘Shall we see if there’s something else wrong, then?’ Baldwin enquired.

Simon looked from one to the other. ‘I suppose you want to walk through the bloody graveyard to get to them? After all, what could be more pleasant on a chill and damp evening than a wander among rotting corpses. There’s only your wife, Baldwin, and mugs of hot spiced wine waiting for us in the tavern; nothing to hurry back for.’

‘You don’t have to join us,’ Baldwin said mildly.

‘Ah, bugger it! If we’re going to take a look, let’s get on with it,’ Simon said, and began to march towards the mill and the howling dogs – although Baldwin noted that he skirted the cemetery and didn’t attempt to walk through it.

Aylmer sprang on ahead, but it was not easy for the men, especially for the hobbling Coroner. Although the day had been mostly dry, there had been enough drizzle during the evening to fill the puddles and make the mud even more thick and glutinous than before. Roger tried to hop between the ruts, but it was not easy because carts had created hard rails of rock-like dried mud which wouldn’t soak up moisture so speedily, and he found himself slipping and swearing as he made his way to the source of the noise.

The mill was in darkness, and as the three approached, the wind seemed to grow in strength. Simon could hear a large piece of cloth flapping. It sounded like the wings of an enormous bird or bat, a bizarre, unwholesome sound, and he wished that he could silence it, but he couldn’t see where it came from. Probably a length of sacking covering a window, he thought.

Just then, the moon was covered again and the yard became utterly dark. A few heavy drops of rain fell and Simon muttered another curse, hunching his head down between his shoulders, as though that could help, but then the moon was free again, and suddenly he felt his fears leaving him. There was no need to worry about spirits in a place like this. The mill was open to view, and there was not the slightest space for a man or ghost to hide.

In fact, Simon thought it was a pleasing view. The moonlight was almost as strong as the mid-day sun, or so it seemed, and all about, the land was bathed in a silvery light. Puddles sparkled and glittered, and even the river, which he could glimpse through the trees, shone like a ribbon of silk.

The dogs were held in a kennel between the mill and the cemetery, Aylmer standing before them wearing a puzzled expression. They did indeed remind Baldwin of his own great raches, but they were not guarding tonight; they had no interest in him or the others. Their concentration was devoted to the moon, Baldwin thought at first, but then he saw that they only howled upwards. Between each sobbing cry, they stared out over the cemetery.

‘What in God’s name is your trouble?’ Coroner Roger demanded, bending to the nearer of the two. He spoke with exasperation and bemusement. ‘Come on, you monsters, can’t you see that some people want to get back to their inn and find a meal?’

‘It’s something over there,’ Baldwin said.

‘Where?’

Simon saw Aylmer trot away towards the wall. ‘The cemetery?’

‘There is no need for you to come as well, but I shall take a quick look.’

‘You assume that I fear a cemetery at night?’ Simon said. His voice sounded strained even to his own ears. ‘I wouldn’t have it said that a mere Keeper dared to rush in where a Bailiff did not!’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

Baldwin gave a half grin, but there was a challenge in his eyes. ‘You seem alarmed, though. Why?’

Simon sighed. ‘The other night, I was walking along the road when I heard something.’

‘What sort of something?’

‘Like a voice from under the ground. Like a… ghost.’

Baldwin’s grin froze. ‘In the cemetery?’

‘It came from where Samson was buried.’

‘My Christ!’ Baldwin said, appalled. ‘Don’t you see? The poor devil must have been buried alive!’

‘Hoy, what are those men doing up there?’ the Coroner interrupted them. ‘Torches and all sorts.’

‘Come quickly!’ Baldwin said, leaping forward and springing over the low wall surrounding the cemetery. ‘We have to protect him from their madness!’

Coroner Roger stared after him. ‘This is all very well, but I don’t mind confessing that I feel as scared as though the devil were at my arse! Do you really mean to enter that place at this time of night?’

‘Not happily,’ Simon admitted. ‘But I daren’t leave him in there alone. It looks as though the whole vill is there!’

The Coroner glanced down at his leg with a grimace. ‘Come on, then. The sooner it’s done, the better.’ And he grasped his staff more firmly as he lifted his leg gingerly over the wall, and set off after Baldwin.

Vin didn’t want to be here in the cemetery. The place was scary at this time of night. However, Drogo had insisted that he come. The Foresters’ leader seemed a bit nervous himself. Vin knew about him burying the body of the Purveyor with the Reeve, but what else could there be to concern him? There was the small matter that every one of the murders had occurred when Drogo was away from Vin. The latter couldn’t recall every one of those nights, but certainly Drogo had been out at his bailiwick when Emma was killed, or so he said. Perhaps he had come back to the vill and throttled her, then taken his pieces of flesh back up the hill to his camp fire?