The Sticklepath Strangler (2001) (15 page)

‘We don’t know. Maybe he’s gone to the inquest,’ Emma said, noticing that Joan was red-faced with resentment.

‘They’re holding it today?’ Drogo rumbled. His manner was pensive, as though he was considering other things while he spoke. ‘That girl – poor thing.’

‘We found her,’ Emma said proudly. ‘We went up to the hole in the wall and we found her.’

‘My, wasn’t that clever of you,’ Drogo sneered. ‘And then you pissed yourself and ran all the way home. You’re no better than your mother, are you?’

Emma flushed hotly. She had never been able to counter an adult’s scorn.

Seeing her wilt, Joan angrily stood up to Drogo. ‘At least we found her. It’s more than you and all your men were able to do, isn’t it?’

He turned and stared at her. ‘We did all we could, girl.’

‘And it wasn’t enough,’ Joan stated contemptuously. ‘If we weren’t so young, we’d be down there talking to the Coroner. Why aren’t you there?’

‘I have other things to do.’ Drogo’s face was unreadable.

‘You should be there with the others, shouldn’t you? I thought all the men from the vill had to go.’

‘I’m not from the vill. I live in South Zeal.’

‘Oh!’ She was silent for a moment, and then added more quietly, ‘They’ll be able to bury her after this. At last.’

He shot her a look. ‘Really? Let’s hope they can give her poor soul rest, then.’ Turning abruptly, he stalked back up the hill towards Serlo’s home, leaving the girls
gazing after him with surprise.

Emma sniffed. ‘What do you think he meant by that?’

‘I don’t care,’ Joan said. ‘Let’s get back down to the vill.’ She shivered. ‘I don’t like this. Something feels wrong. I hope Serlo’s all
right.’

As an inquest, Baldwin could not feel that the gathering on the sticklepath was particularly helpful.

While Coroner Roger ate there was a slow movement of people towards the inn, and Baldwin was aware of an increasing number of villeins and serfs gathering in the hall about them. Ill-kempt and
undernourished, they were an unprepossessing lot, and their sullen, anxious looks made Baldwin study them more carefully. There was more to this whole matter than a girl’s death, he felt.

In truth, he had not given the inquest much thought. As he had said to Jeanne on the day the messenger arrived, he had no doubt that the murderer would be found. The fact that there was a rumour
of cannibalism did not affect him. There had been plenty of suspected cannibals during the famine, and some were genuine, although most were simply unfortunates disliked by their neighbours. More
often than not, it was their accusers who were thrown into Exeter Gaol or fined for lying.

Eating other humans was repellent to all but the insane. There was no doubt about that, of course, and yet . . . and yet sometimes a person could be in such appalling straits that there was no
apparent alternative. Baldwin had heard examples of cannibalism during sieges, when all other foods were exhausted; more recently there had been reported cases during the famine. As people lost
everything, as their crops wilted, their animals expired from lack of feed, as children swelled from malnutrition, it was not surprising that they should turn to the only food available: other men
and women.

Baldwin had heard of such cases, yes – but not recently.

When the Coroner stood and gazed about him imperiously, the whole room appeared to shuffle and move, all avoiding direct eye-contact. Baldwin saw young boys nervously casting their attention to
the floor, while older men stared at the wall behind him. It was not unusual for villagers to feel bitter at the arrival of officials, he reminded himself, and turned back to his pot of watered
wine, smiling to his wife.

Jeanne acknowledged his gesture, but she couldn’t help gazing at the people collected before them, and at one in particular.

He was the only man who appeared not to be intimidated by the presence of the Coroner. Heavily built, he was fleshy of face, his jowls already blue with fresh beard, although he looked as though
he had shaved that morning, from the two small cuts she could see which still bled beneath his right ear. His eyes were small, almost hidden in the folds of skin beneath his broad forehead, and his
hair was a sparse horseshoe between ears and a bald pate, although unlike so many men she had seen, the dome of his skull wasn’t shiny; it was dull, with strands of individual hair sprouting.
For some reason Jeanne took an immediate dislike to him.

‘Coroner, I am Alexander de Belston,’ he said in a low, deep voice. It was the sort of voice that inspired confidence, and his slow, respectful manner created an instant hush in the
room. ‘I am Reeve of the vill under the authority of the Baron of Oakhampton, my Lord Hugh de Courtenay.’

‘I am Coroner Roger de Gidleigh,’ Roger replied with equal formality and gravity. Jeanne saw that he had lowered his head and was giving the Reeve a measuring look quite unlike his
normal good-humoured grin. Then she realised that the Coroner had, like her, been unfavourably impressed by the Reeve. ‘Would you lead the way for the jury and witnesses?’

‘Of course, my Lord. Please follow me.’

Baldwin rose and held out his hand for Jeanne. She took it and walked at his side immediately behind the Coroner and the Reeve, and was unaccountably glad to hear the solid footsteps of Simon
and Edgar behind her, and to feel Aylmer at her side.

Outside it was already warm, the sunshine all but blinding as they made their way up the roadway. The air was clean and fresh, with the tang of woodsmoke and cooking, but there was that strange
silence again. Even the local dogs had stopped barking, she noticed, and the few miserable-looking mutts which were visible weren’t foraging, but slunk quietly out of the way of the
throng.

It was a dismal group which congregated about the wall with the tumbled rocks all around, and although he didn’t expect them to be singing and dancing in these sad circumstances, Coroner
Roger was surprised at the lack of noise here. It was as though all the folk waiting were drained, exhausted. He had seen people like this during the worst stages of the famine, but not since.

It must be due to the age of the victim, he thought. The destruction of children always seemed more poignant than the death of an adult.

‘The body is in there,’ the Reeve said helpfully. ‘Two girls saw the wall had collapsed, and noticed some material inside. They prodded at it and it tore, and the skull fell
out. Naturally they ran screaming.’

The Coroner crouched and touched the cloth which had attracted the girls. ‘This is no good,’ he muttered. ‘Baldwin, what do you think?’

‘If you try to pull her out you will damage her corpse and probably bring the wall down as well.’

‘Quite right! We shall have to dig, as I suspected.’

The Coroner clambered over the wall and helped the Reeve to follow. Baldwin left Jeanne with Edgar and went to join him. He knew Simon would prefer not to see the corpse: the Bailiff had never
fully appreciated the importance of the little signals which a body could give to an investigator.

A few flies were buzzing about the place as the Reeve motioned to a man with a long shovel. Flies, Baldwin knew, were the inevitable partners to death. On a warm day, flies could congregate in
moments, laying their foul eggs on open wounds and quickly infesting a corpse with maggots. Baldwin loathed and detested flies. He had seen too many in Acre during the siege. As people fell dead in
the streets, struck by the massive stone missiles from the Saracen artillery, swarms would suddenly appear, smothering their faces and feasting on the blood.

But flies liked fresh meat, he reminded himself, and this corpse was old. Looking about him, he saw that, in fact, the flies were busy seeking food elsewhere.

The man with the shovel was working hard with the regular action of someone used to manual labour. His broad wooden blade had been tipped with a sharp steel edge, and it cut through the smaller
roots which lay under the surface of the turf as he stood on the footrest carved into the right side, thrusting the blade deep into the soil, then levering it up and away, shovelling it into a neat
heap behind him.

‘Once the body was discovered, we decided not to dig it up,’ the Reeve said pompously. ‘It would have served no purpose and we didn’t want to disturb the remains until
you arrived.’

Baldwin had already taken a dislike to this man. He didn’t know why, for most Reeves were pleasant enough, and he had not yet had time to learn anything about this fellow which could give
him cause for dislike, but there it was. As Alexander de Belston peered down into the growing hole, he started picking his nose, and the act grated on Baldwin. It was an insult to the body. There
was a languid tone to his voice as well, as though Alexander was trying to show the Coroner that matters such as this were rather beneath him. He did appear self-important, certainly. It was there
in the way he sighed as he glanced up at the sun, estimating the time, and in the frown that passed over his face when a child in the silent crowd down in the lane spoke up and complained of
thirst.

Baldwin studied the ground.

Standing here on the slope, he could appreciate that the wall was only low, some two feet high, when viewed from this side. Of course, from the roadway, the wall was quite high, almost the
height of a man. He wondered whether this fact had any relevance.

‘God’s teeth!’ the peasant with the shovel swore, wincing.

Simon turned away from the melancholy scene.

He was down on the road with the crowd which had straggled up here. The poorest seemed to stick together, like a herd of cattle seeking protection from a dog, their status apparent from their
threadbare clothing and drawn features. Near them were some twenty men and boys in slightly better clothes: wealthier farmers and franklins. These were the fellows who owned their own land, who
didn’t have to literally slave in the lord’s strips. The labour of a villein’s body was owned by his master, and the villein must leave his own crops to rot when he was called to
his lord’s harvest.

Looking over this lot, he reckoned that the men of Sticklepath looked less bovine than most. It was strange: in some towns and cities, he had heard that the lowest peasants could swagger and
boast like franklins, but usually in the smaller hamlets folk knew their place, and would keep away from the likes of Simon and Baldwin. Here, however, he was conscious that men and women alike met
his gaze with truculence. It was slightly alarming. This lot could become a mob, he thought, and unconsciously he tapped the hilt of his sword.

Ivo was there, too. His long face with its narrow nose was oddly intent as he stared up at the men working above the wall. However, Ivo was not thinking of the inquest, nor even of the child who
was being exhumed.

There were so many children in Sticklepath, and this one had already been replaced. Peasants in this benighted vill bred like lecherous pigs, rolling and rutting in the dirt; it was no surprise
the place was overrun with snot-nosed brats.

As the man cried and dropped his shovel, Ivo glanced up towards him. He knew well enough that this was a dangerous moment for the Reeve and Drogo, for he had seen them burying the body near
here; if it turned up now, his hold over the Reeve would be ended. He shrugged. Oh well.

A small boy ran down the lane, narrowly missing Ivo as he passed, and the man pursed his lips. Illegitimate spawn of a sow and a hog! Next time the little sodomite tried that, he’d get a
boot up his arse. See how
he
liked sprawling in the dirt.

Ivo loathed children. Always had. Mother had told him that he would love his own, but thank Christ there was no risk of that. His wife was barren, useless cow. Shame he’d ever married her.
She was only ever a drain upon his purse, no good as a bedfellow or housekeeper. Couldn’t manage a servant to save her life.

It was as he was thinking of his wife that he saw
her
again, and felt his heart flutter: Nicky.

She had a natural grace about her, an elegance that was without comparison in this dump; it must be her French blood, Ivo thought. He had often heard it said that Frenchwomen had more style and
grace than their English counterparts, and Nicky proved it. She was gorgeous. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her, strip her naked and lay her on his bed.

Caution made him glance about, looking for her husband, his brother, Thomas Garde. Tom was a jealous git at the best of times, and he hated Ivo. Jealousy, Ivo thought smugly. Here he was,
Manciple to the nuns at Canonsleigh, and Thomas no better then a peasant. If Ivo could, he’d get rid of Thomas, permanently. That would give him a chance to have a proper go at Nicky, without
fear of interference. All he need do was think up the right plan . . . Of course, knowing Thomas’s temper, any attempt to trap him would carry certain risks. He’d have to be very
careful.

It occurred to him that he should use Tom’s well-known temper against him – get him convicted of breaking the peace or something. Nicky would have to ask him for help then, and he
could seduce her. Ivo groaned silently. It was a delicious thought.

Then he remembered his malicious comment the night before, to Sir Baldwin’s manservant at the inn. He had merely thrown out the suggestion that his brother could have been responsible for
the recently discovered murder in order to drop Thomas in the shit. No man liked to be interrogated like a felon, especially someone as fiery-natured as Thomas Garde. Ivo sniggered nastily.

If, however, Ivo was somehow able to implicate him properly – Ivo might yet be grappling with his widow before too long.

Looking about him, he was relieved to see no sign of his brother, although he must be there somewhere. The only man he noticed was Bailiff Puttock, who was watching him closely. Ivo saw his gaze
go to Nicky, as though puzzled by Ivo’s smouldering looks.

Ivo shrugged. He wasn’t the only man to show an interest in his sister-in-law. Finally taking an interest in the proceedings, he glanced back at the grave, and then a frown passed over his
face as he heard people mention the name Aline and speak in hushed terms of a girl’s corpse.