The Sticklepath Strangler (2001) (41 page)

‘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?

But why should he do such a dreadful thing? And why eat them? Because he liked the flavour? Vin shuddered. He recalled meals with Drogo demanding bloody meat, remembered the man’s chin
dripping in gore, and suddenly Vin felt queasy.

Swetricus had already dug down several feet with Henry’s help, and had just stepped down into the grave to dig out the rest when Baldwin pounded up. Behind him, the
Coroner had caught sight of Swetricus’s work, and immediately his face reddened and he roared, hopping over to join Baldwin.

‘Just what is God’s name is going on here? Get out of that grave, you bastard. Parson, what the Hell is this?’

Gervase stepped forward, motioning with a hand to Swetricus to continue. ‘Coroner, this is Church land. Your jurisdiction ends there, at the wall.’

The Coroner was appalled. ‘What are you doing here, condoning this . . . this desecration! Why?’

‘Because—’

Before he could answer, Swetricus dropped his shovel, ashen-faced, and sprang from the hole as a hideous shriek erupted from it.

Simon felt his stomach churn and took a pace back. That scream sounded like it came from the bowels of the earth itself – and then he corrected himself: it came from Hell. There was
nothing earthly about it.

All about him, the men of the vill had moved away from the graveside, muttering and shaking their heads, one or two sidling towards the gate that gave out onto the road. Only two men stood firm:
Baldwin and Gervase, with Aylmer at their side.

Gervase was smiling. This was the proof ! He had known he was right! Now the vampire’s cry showed it. Nobody could doubt the evidence of their own ears. Seeing Swetricus standing a yard or
two away from the grave, the Parson indicated that he should continue. The peasant, his face showing his fear, wiped a forearm over his brow and stared down at the ground. Then he resolutely
stepped forward, carefully lowered himself into the hole once more and picked up his shovel.

‘What was that?’ Coroner Roger exclaimed.

Baldwin spoke tightly. ‘The poor man’s not dead. He’s still alive.’

‘No, Sir Knight,’ Parson Gervase said. ‘He’s dead, but demons have taken him over.’

‘Don’t be stupid, man,’ Baldwin spat. ‘He must have been buried alive by mistake. It’s not surprising, seeing that he was knocked on the head. I’ve heard of
men who have been buried alive before, when all they received was a bad knock. The poor devil—’

‘He is no poor devil, Sir Baldwin. Ask his wife. She told us before you got here. Samson was always molesting young girls, including their own daughter. This man deserves no sympathy. And
if he was buried alive, as you say, how did he escape to kill Emma last night?’

‘He didn’t,’ Baldwin said flatly. ‘Surely you can see that this is only superstition? You cannot be thinking of killing the man just because
we
made a mistake
and buried him alive!’

‘You say I am thinking of killing him,’ Gervase said reprovingly. ‘I would do no such thing. I cannot: he is already dead. His soul has been taken over by demons because he
died suddenly and couldn’t receive the Extreme Unction which would have forgiven all his sins. So I must put this paper on his chest.’ He opened his scrip and took out the sheet upon
which he had so carefully scrawled. ‘And anoint him with oil.’

Of all the men of the vill, Henry Batyn was nearest. He peered over the Parson’s shoulder, his face falling. ‘You’re going to stick that on him and anoint him?’

‘It will show him how to gain salvation,’ the Parson smiled.

Peter atte Moor pushed his way through the crowd. Snatching at the paper, he stared. ‘You’ve written things on it.’

‘Yes, it tells him how to—’

‘He couldn’t read, Parson. What good’ll this do?’

‘His spirit can receive the message,’ Gervase said, but a note of doubt had entered his voice. He hadn’t heard that there was any need for a recipient to be able to read. Women
in childbirth had prayers written down and laid against their inner thighs to help them cope with the pain whether they could read or not, didn’t they? And Gervase had heard of demonic
possession of corpses where this was the correct procedure.

‘Ballocks!’ Peter scoffed. ‘This evil bastard couldn’t read when he was alive, and he won’t be able to if he’s dead. Anyway, he killed my Denise when he was
alive, and Emma when he was dead. I’ll not see him reburied so he can murder any more.’

‘He’ll get out again,’ came a voice from the crowd, ‘and this time he may not kill a girl. It could be any one of us!’

‘That is nonsense!’ the Parson said. ‘He won’t be able to hurt anyone once I have put this on his chest and anointed him.’

‘So
you
say, Parson, but how can we know?’ Swetricus asked, clambering out again. ‘I’ve lost one daughter. I won’t risk another.’

‘Get back in the grave, Swetricus,’ Gervase commanded.

The peasant raised his arms. ‘Who else here will let the ghost kill their children?’

‘What else can we do?’ Peter atte Moor asked.

‘We know what to do!’ It was Drogo, who now shouldered his way through the press with Vin and Adam in his wake. They stood at the graveside and stared down into it, and then Drogo
looked at the men all about. ‘Every household, bring faggots. We’ll burn him, like we did Athelhard, and scatter his ashes so he can’t come back and trouble us again.’

Baldwin felt his heart lurch. ‘No, you must not! This man is alive still. He was interred by accident. Just think of it: he has been in there for a day, in a tiny space, praying for
someone to rescue him. You must not raise him, only to throw him onto a pyre.’

‘If you won’t help us, leave us,’ Drogo said curtly.

‘Watch your tongue, Forester. I have only just given you your freedom,’ Sir Roger growled.

‘And I am grateful, Coroner, but I won’t betray the trust these villagers have in me,’ Drogo stated uncompromisingly. ‘And I won’t see another girl killed by this
evil shit.’

Gervase stamped his foot and bellowed that the men should ignore Drogo, but even as he spoke, he could see that most of them were disappearing, streaming away to the vill to obey the
Forester’s command.

Baldwin saw them leave with growing anger and trepidation. There were so many. ‘Simon, we must stop this.’

‘How can we? Just look at them all!’

Men were running eagerly over to the mill’s sheds, seeking sticks and tinder, collecting whatever bits and pieces they could find which might burn. Others hung around, but all had the same
expression: fear mingled with excitement, just like the crowds at any hanging.

No, Baldwin corrected himself, he was being unfair. They were not happy to see a man being hanged, because they did not believe that this
was
a man; to them he was a demon, a
child-killer. They would be destroying an agent of the devil, a
thing
which could attack and kill men, which ate children.

It made him shiver with horror. He couldn’t face the idea that there should be a burning here, the burning of an innocent man whose only crime was that he had been buried alive by mistake.
Baldwin had seen too many men die in the flames. The Knights Templar who refused to confess their guilt or, worse, who confessed under the tortures only to later recant, were bound to stakes and
fired before massive crowds. From the Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, to the lowest Sergeant, all had died, and the odour of their roasting flesh had mingled with the sweet wood-smoke of apple and
oak branches, to create a cloying smell that would linger in his sinus for ever.

As the men drew near with their faggots, Simon put a hand on Baldwin’s shoulder. ‘You mustn’t interfere, Baldwin. They will kill you as well if you try to stop them.’

‘This cannot be permitted.’

‘You’re right,’ said the Coroner, but his eyes went to Simon. ‘Only I cannot imagine how to prevent them. Simon is correct. These churls aren’t going to let you get
in their way. They don’t see this as an illegal execution, it’s just turning off a devil. And if you were to save him, what then? He’d be sought out, especially if another girl
were to die. Would you be able to hold that on your conscience?’