Father's pride and joy, the Triumph Type H, or simply Trusty. The bikes were made for couriers during the war, running messages back and forth under enemy fire. Father's letters homes were full of his excitement for the new motorcycles. Then, on Christmas in 1916, one turned up at home. How he managed to ship one to us, I will never know. I hope some poor courier didn't get shot off his horse because father stole his new motorcycle. Father wrote that he entrusted the bike to me until his return. I treasured it as one of my most precious possessions. It looked skeletal and rickety next to the substantial motorcar in the barn, and the horses snorted at the roar as I kicked the motorcycle into life. But it was fast over the country roads and I had dodged vermin by weaving in and out on Trusty.
Besides, Elizabeth, step-mother dearest, hated it. She declared it loud and vulgar, and strictly forbade Louise and Charlotte to go anywhere near the machine, which endeared the contraption even more to me. It was blasted uncomfortable with the lack of suspension and unpadded seat, but it went fast, which more than made up for it.
I headed down the road to the village. Somerset was an ancient region, people had trod this earth from Palaeolithic times. Our little village with the Quantock Hills at its back would never compete with Taunton for the title of town, but it was home to five hundred souls. The vicarage lay on the eastern edge, next to the graveyard. The small manse looked picture perfect, built early within the previous century to accompany the old church. Between these two old structures stretched the sombre green space of cemetery. The last resting place, or so we thought, of the deceased villagers.
I turned off the motor and left the bike at the edge of the lime-chip path of the two storeyed residence. Climbing roses scrabbled over the small porch and burst forth in a profusion of soft orange. Their perfume scented the air as I knocked on the front door, as though this were a formal visit. I chewed my lip. Perhaps I should have snuck around back and used the kitchen entrance, like I did at home.
The door was pulled open by a haunted-looking man. His hair was wild and uncombed. Stubble clung to his chin and his blue eyes darted constantly in every direction, as though seeking an answer to an unspoken question. Hard to believe less than a year ago he had been a large, muscled man who laughed often. He had been our rock during the hardships of war, and we thought he would steer us through to clear waters. Now, he no longer laughed and rarely ate, the flesh nearly falling from his bones.
"Reverend Mason, where are they?" I spoke quietly, as though to a child.
He stepped back into the shadow, and I entered the hall. From a distance, he looked much better in his black frock coat and white collar — the perfect country vicar. Only on close inspection did you sense something was wrong. And it wasn't just his appearance, dust clung to every surface of the house, except where his startled hands had touched a rail or a door. A musty, rotten tang pervaded the air, as though the house were in desperate need of a damn good clean out.
"The back door was unlocked. She came in that way." He waved down the hall, and I struck off. He dawdled behind. My boots rang out on the floor, but his soft soled shoes made no sound, as though I were trailed by a ghost.
"Is it just the one?" I glanced back over my shoulder.
He nodded, but didn't offer any further comment.
I took a deep breath and pushed the next door open. The struggle was evident in the over turned chairs, pots on the ground, and spilled containers. Flour covered the floor, a thick trail showed where something was dragged through. My gaze followed the trail.
"I took her outside," the vicar said, swallowing several times. "And then telephoned for you."
"Are you all right?" I cast another glance backwards. He nodded, yes. Physically perhaps, but not mentally.
I followed the scattered flour out the back door to the yard beyond. The barn and hay shed sat the other side of a compacted dirt courtyard. In front of the barn sat a woman, tied to a chair, and I saw the reason for all the spilt flour — she wore a flour sack over her head. The reverend must have thrown it over her in the struggle. She moaned and tossed her head, body lurching from side to side as she tried to shift from her seat.
"Did you do this alone?" It was dangerous work to secure a vermin. Most people herded them to a secure location, like a horse stall, and waited for me to arrive.
"Yes. With the sack on her head she could not bite, and I was able to bind her arms and drag her out." He kept his distance from the shape that rocked back and forth.
He had at least thought to secure the chair to the hitching rail. Remnants of clothes hung from her limbs; her hair, what straggled from under the sack, was a dirty, seething mass. The smell always hit me first. Though they walked and preyed on us, they carried the rot of the grave with them. This one had been dead for several months.
"Do you recognise her? Is it one of ours?" I turned to glance at Reverend Mason.
Another shake of his head. "No, I did not recognise this tortured soul."
Damn. I would have to remove the hood to get a good look at it. This would be another entry for my notebook with ‘origin unknown.’ While having no association made my job a fraction easier, the source of the vermin worried me.
I moved to get behind it, and raised my scented handkerchief over my mouth and nose. Then I reached out and flicked off the flour sack. It moaned louder and its head flicked around.
I memorised every detail while I walked around. Then I stepped in front and slid my sword free of the scabbard. As I drew closer, the vermin's head lolled to one side, eyes fixed on me. Some sensed their impending end and fought harder. A remnant of their living intelligence perhaps? This one knew. It screamed, a harsh guttural sound, and fought its bonds. The rope tore rotten flesh from bones and it sloughed off to the ground. Behind me, I heard the vicar gag at the sight and smell.
I twirled the blade in my hand, waiting for it to still. One strike was better than two. I wanted it over quickly, for all of us. Two yards, then one. I stood within striking range. If it leapt free now, it could sink its teeth into my flesh and infect me. I whispered my own silent prayer to whatever God allowed this plague to walk our earth, gritted my teeth, and summoned all of my strength.
I struck.
One blow, and silence fell, along with its head to the ground.
Reverend Mason lost his breakfast and retched over the dirt. I couldn't look, I had to finish my job. I pulled my notebook free of my vest and jotted quick notes; clothing, approximate build, basic description. My gaze scanned its exposed flesh looking for any identifying marks or scars to add. Nothing. With a sigh, I tucked my book of the dead away again.
At least filling out my book gave the body time to still. Once it had sat slumped in the ropes for a few minutes without moving, and only then, did I drag chair and body to the middle of the yard. A nearby petrol can supplied the fuel. Perhaps the vicar left it there to aid my task, or perhaps he simply forget to put it away after he last used it. From my pocket I pulled out the matches, struck one, and tossed it onto the vermin. Flames leapt up and claimed the offering. Only then did I pick up the head and throw it in.
Casting around, I found a rag to wipe down the blade, and returned it to the scabbard. The rag then joined the conflagration, before someone picked up the stained fabric. Turning, I found Seth deMage. He watched me with a strange look on his face. I caught my breath at the sight. Seth was immaculate once again, in his linen shirt and buff trousers. I could see the light reflected in the shine on his shoes. Yet again, I had managed to encounter the duke, and I was as filthy as a hedge-dwelling vagabond.
He gave me the strangest look, as though he could not identify what I was. All I could think of was the blood and dirt on my clothing and that the Duke of Leithfield had just witnessed me executing a defenceless woman. Was he horrified? He didn't say a word. He just stood there, his grey eyes unreadable.
I pulled my gaze from Seth's to take Reverend Mason by the arm. "Let's get you inside until this is gone," I said.
"Let me help." Seth came to life and put the vicar's arm around his neck.
"Thank you." I lead the way as we took him inside.
Seth lowered the cleric to a chair while I set the kettle to boil. In silence, the duke picked up the furniture and righted the room. I grabbed a broom and cleaned what I could. I swept the mess out to the courtyard to be picked up and carried away by the passing breeze.
With the room somewhat straightened, I pressed a cup of sweet tea into the vicar's hands. "Where is Mrs Mason, today? How fortunate she was not here. She hates to see her kitchen in a mess."
"Yes. Blessed she was not here," he whispered with eyes that were so lost. "She is shopping and will return later. Thank you my child, and may God have mercy on your soul for the heinous crime you have committed."
A tear sprang to my eyes, and I wiped it away before the duke could see. I am cursed for the role I play, my soul dammed to hell, and yet they needed me — desperately. I willingly took up the burden for them all.
I smiled and patted his hand. Mrs Mason died in the first wave of the pandemic. Having to fend off his wife while covered in the dirt from her grave had unhinged the vicar's mind. One of the neighbours would see the smoke and check on him. The older ladies always brought him a hot meal in the evenings, while we all kept up the pretence that Mrs Mason would return shortly. There was no more I could do here, so I left. Outside, the footfalls of the duke sounded behind me.
"He is not the man I remember. Reverend Mason always seemed so large, and he gave such stern sermons, I thought he would be a pillar of strength in this time." He rubbed the back of his neck and gestured back to the house. "He looks like he has lost his faith."
I stared at this stranger. The new Duke of Leithfield commanded the allegiance of the district in name only. We did not know him, nor him us. Born to preside over us, and yet he had spent so little time walking these plains and hills. None of us recognised him, none of us had anything but the vaguest memories of him. I was surprised to hear he even knew who Father Mason was, let alone that he had once sat through a sermon.
"Reverend Mason didn't lose his faith. It was torn up and trampled into the ground before him. These were his flock. He consigned their souls to God, and they were flung back to earth." I pointed to the funeral pyre, where a horrible sickly smoke spiralled up to the sky. Did her soul return to the heavens? Or had it never left? "Where in the Bible do you explain what has happened here?"
"I don't know," he whispered. That grey gaze focused on me, storm clouds rolling over a trouble sky. "I thought he would be the village's spine, giving comfort to those under his care. I came to visit him to ask his advice on a matter."
I shook my head. It would be easy to condemn him for not being here, yet I remembered he had fought in a different war to protect us. "Everyone reacts differently. Reverend Mason needs time to find his purpose once more." We were abandoned babes; we could find no solace in the Bible for what happened around the globe. The dead should stay buried in the earth, not rise up and move against us.
A chill washed over my arms and down my body. Cold killing was always worse, at least a fight makes me feel as though I have defended myself. Beheading a vermin tied to a chair made me feel sick. I fought in this war, and yet others saw me as cursed. I acted in cold blood, not the heat of a battle. What sort of monster could strike the head from a helpless woman's shoulders? This was another mark torn into my soul to one day be redeemed.
My stomach roiled, and sweat trickled down the back of my shirt. To cover my queasiness, I walked out to the bike and slung my leg over.
Seth followed, his brow furrowed. "Why did he call you? Why did he not deal with it himself?"
"Because I am their exterminator." My position in the village was that simple. When you cannot face beheading the friend who turned up on your doorstep, even though they are salivating to take a bite from your succulent flesh, you summon the girl who carries the sword. The girl who was always different, born between servant and gentry. Born a girl, but raised like a boy. Some called me Ella the Slayer, but it is not a compliment. I would give anything to not have to carry out the gruesome job that life had thrust upon me.
His gaze narrowed even as his spine stiffened. "They are lucky it is so easy for you."
His words pierced me like a blade. Is that what he thinks? That I find killing easy? That I am some blood thirsty soldier laughing as I bayonet my enemy? I swallowed down the rush of bile. "It's not easy for me. I just hide it better than the others."
I kicked the starter on the bike and took off down the road as the tears rolled down my cheeks. I needed to be home before the shivers racking my body overcame me.
Chapter Eight
The mail slot rattled, and the dull thud announced the post hitting the floor.
"I'll get it!" I yelled from the front parlour, where I was straightening everything before
she
descended, giving all the surfaces a final flick over with the feather duster. I plumped up a cushion and took a final look at a pink chintz pillow, daring it to list to one side. With the morning sun flooding the room it really was a lovely place to sit, except for all the staring, judgemental eyes of the ornamental cats. I hid one mean looking Siamese behind a large vase, and stepped out to the hall.