The Sticklepath Strangler (2001) (10 page)

There was nothing strange about finding a man watching over the body; the law demanded that when a body was found, it was the duty of the local vill to protect it from predators, and Baldwin was
pleased that the locals here took their responsibilities seriously. Not all did. There were many stories told by Coroner Roger of vills which, when they discovered a suspicious death, kept the fact
secret, later arranging for the body to be carried away to another hamlet so as to avoid incurring fines at an inquest. There were other people who sought to avoid taxes by simply burying a newly
discovered body without calling in the Coroner. They were always fined heavily for their attempt at evasion.

Not that it was always villagers who were guilty. Coroner Roger had once mentioned a corrupt Coroner who sought to line his pocket by charging to attend inquests. One village was shocked to
learn that he demanded a whole shilling just to view the corpse, and the villagers were forced to argue with him, desperate to avoid yet another fine on top of all the legitimate costs they could
scarcely afford. While they negotiated, they set bushes about the body to protect it from the dogs and wild animals. By the time the argument was concluded and the Coroner visited, the hedge had
taken root and had to be hacked back to allow him to view the now putrefied corpse.

It was tempting to continue up the road, but Baldwin decided against it. His flank was still aching badly after his long ride, and he had no wish to be involved in another argument like the one
at the tavern, so he began his descent to the vill. A short way down the hill, there was a track to his left and Aylmer stood at it hopefully.

‘I should have thought you would be tired,’ Baldwin chuckled, but he set off down the path, driven by no more than an idle whim. New paths always intrigued him.

He found himself being taken downhill through a dark section of woodland, away from the main part of the vill. On his right he could see the vill’s buildings every so often, but for the
most part the lane was deeply sunken and the only view was ahead, while the path continued ever gloomier and murkier in among the trees.

At gaps he caught glimpses of the system of strip fields running perpendicular to the main road itself. Men, women and their children were working there, bent double as they pulled at the weeds,
the long lines of crops stretching away, each strip owned by a different person. It was a natural, peaceful picture, and Baldwin smiled as he took it all in, watching one man stand and walk many
yards to another strip, presumably another of his own, for each man would hold chunks of each field so that if any field were to fail the vill, no single family would starve, but all would suffer a
diminution of their crop. God’s plenty was to be shared fairly, as the priests said.

Gradually, as he carried on, Baldwin became aware of the silence growing about him. It was as though the farther he went from the Cornwall road and the vill itself, the farther too he travelled
from civilisation and security. The low growths at either side, which were obviously regularly harvested for firewood and building materials, began to look stunted and unhealthful. At their feet
the grasses were yellowed, strangled by the vigorous brambles all about, and although the nearer bushes were short and scrubby-looking, there were enough taller trees beyond to send out great
boughs overhead which effectively cut off the light, so that he felt as though he was walking along a dimly lit tunnel.

It was the lack of noise which he found most unsettling. The only thing he could hear was the padding of Aylmer’s paws and the mud sucking at his boots. It made a liquid belching noise,
almost as though it were alive – an oddly disturbing reflection. He found himself stepping more carefully in order to prevent that unpleasant sound.

Baldwin was used to peacefulness in the country, but this lack of noise was different. As he reminded himself, he was not superstitious, yet the very air seemed to hold something which was
utterly antagonistic to mankind; something
evil
. His steps faltered. High overhead there was a dry rustle as a breeze caught the leaves, a quiet creaking as one branch moved against
another, but apart from that there was nothing, or not at first.

From somewhere on his left he heard a sharp crackle, a sound so fleeting that he could almost have thought he had imagined it, but his senses were too well honed. After the destruction of the
Templars he had often been forced to evade capture, and a man who has once been hunted learns to trust his eyes and ears. At this moment Baldwin’s ears told him that there was a man in the
woods: not close, but not far either. Baldwin was sure that the man was listening for him even as he himself waited, listening intently.

Aylmer cocked his head as if suspecting that his master had addled his brains, then padded onwards unconcernedly.

Baldwin followed after him, occasionally glancing back towards the source of that sound, but could see nothing. Then, as he turned his attention to the road ahead, he thought he glimpsed
movement. Peering around a tree trunk, he caught sight of a clearing through the trees. Then, as he took in the scene, he felt the hairs on his back, on his arms, on his neck and head beginning to
rise and his heart pounded with a fierce energy that left him breathless.

There, at a tree, was a figure, standing with head bowed. The face was concealed in the shadow of a hood which dropped down over the head almost as far as the chest. Slim, short, and clad in
grey tatters and shreds, it was eerily similar to the figure he had so often seen in his dreams. He couldn’t see the apparition’s feet, for they were concealed by brambles, but even as
he stared in horror, the hooded head began to lift, as though to meet Baldwin’s gaze.

Later, he was not proud of his instant reaction. As the head rose and he could see the outline of a round, pale chin, his courage left him and he bolted. When he saw Aylmer disappearing around a
bend in the lane ahead, unconcernedly trotting on, Baldwin felt a sudden panic at the thought that he should be left here alone, and bellowed to his dog. Aylmer faced him, his head on one side, an
expression of mild enquiry on his face, and when Baldwin summoned his courage and looked back into the clearing, there was nothing there.

Only the certainty that he was being watched.

Edgar helped the tavernkeeper carry his master’s belongings to the room at the back of the inn, then removed the previous occupants’ things.

‘They won’t be happy,’ Taverner said morosely.

Edgar made no comment. His master required the room, so whoever had been there first must move. Lady Jeanne and Edgar’s own wife Petronilla needed protection from the gaze of strangers.
Here in the room there was a bed for them both with its own mattress. Petronilla went to it and sniffed at the bedclothes, pulling a face. It was normal enough to have to share a bed, to sleep
between sheets which had not been washed for weeks and which had been used by all the travellers who had stayed at the inn, but that didn’t mean Petronilla had to accept it. She was not
content to sleep among the odours of another’s sweat or worse.

They had anticipated rank bedding. Petronilla opened a sack filled with clean linen and good herbs to keep fleas and lice at bay. Edgar left her pulling the old bedding from the palliasse as a
prelude to remaking the bed, while Jeanne saw to her child.

On the threshold he stood enjoying the sunshine. Edgar had never been here before, but he knew that his master had visited this inn during the previous year on his way to Belstone with Simon
Puttock, and he guessed that this river came from high up on Dartmoor. From the sound of it, it was swollen by the rain. Usually any river would have its own background noise, a soothing sound as
it wandered over smooth pebbles and rippled past grassy banks, but when it grew, it developed a new, angrier rushing as though furious to be constrained in so narrow a path.

He studied the inn dispassionately. It was a large, cruck-built place, but dilapidated. Moss was thick on the thinning thatch, and the walls were green where the mud hadn’t spattered them,
and Edgar didn’t fail to notice the rubble at one end where an extension had collapsed. Now the inn’s rafters projected some distance into thin air, and it reminded Edgar unpleasantly
of a skeleton exposing itself as the corpse rotted.

Entering the main room, he found his nostrils assaulted by an eyewatering stench of sour ale and wine, rotted straw, damp, mouldy wood in the fire, and urine – probably from the dog which
scratched by the fireside. Edgar kicked at the scruffy, emaciated creature, which slunk away, then took a seat on a bench.

The interior was dingy and smoke-filled. It was darker than Edgar would have expected at this time of day, but the window to the south opened onto a dim and gloomy tree-clad hillside. Already
the sun had passed westwards, but in the western wall there was no window because the tavernkeeper had built himself a chamber up in the eaves. No doubt his room would be bright with the evening
sun, Edgar thought to himself, at the expense of his guests.

There were men sitting at another table, but apart from them the place looked deserted. Edgar could not make out their faces in the gloom, but he was amused to see that the rough peasants said
nothing after he walked in, merely supped their drinks from large pots and eyed him suspiciously.

Many years ago he had set off from a vill little larger than this one. His father was similar to those fellows over there. Burly, resilient, wary of strangers, capable of intense loyalty, but
also acquisitive, vindictive and aggressive. Such men were the backbone of the King’s Host, but they were also among the most troublesome and quarrelsome of his subjects.

When the tavernkeeper’s daughter entered and ungraciously offered to serve Edgar, he ordered a jug of wine. He indicated the sullen drinkers at their own table. ‘And drinks for them,
too.’

It was always a good policy, he found, to keep an ear open in a new area. If he could pick up rumblings of discontent early on, it could mean the difference between Baldwin’s safety, and
danger for him and Jeanne. Edgar was happy to invest for security. One drink, he calculated, should buy the companionship of any of these villeins.

To a man they rejected his offer, stood and strode out, all ignoring him bar one: the slim fellow called Vin. Yet the others were not the friends this Vin had been with earlier. And it was
curious that they should willingly turn down free ale.

He sipped his drink and made himself comfortable on his stool, his back to the wall facing the doorway leading in, for it was hard to give up the habits of a lifetime’s wariness. Soon a
new fellow entered, a tall, long-legged man with a face burned as dark as a nut. His features were open and cheery, and he looked the sort who would be good company on a long winter’s night
before a fire. Grey eyes twinkled when he pulled off his hat to expose a thinning scalp.

‘Godspeed! Would you care for wine after your journey?’ Edgar enquired politely.

‘I am staying here, not journeying. Not until after the inquest, anyway,’ said the man. He cast a long glance about the room. ‘Has everyone died? Bleeding hell! I’ve
never seen the place so quiet.’

‘All’s well, though the people are unfriendly,’ Edgar said, and called for the serving girl. When she arrived, she took his order, but with every indication that she was
unhappy. She stood near them, practically hopping from one foot to another, and Edgar had to ask her sharply to fetch the wine he had ordered.

‘I am grateful to you, sir,’ the man said. ‘It is not common to be served so speedily here.’

‘My master expects better treatment.’

‘Your master?’

‘Sir Baldwin Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton. We are here to help the Coroner at the inquest.’

‘Oh! The inquest into the body up the lane? I was with the two girls who found the corpse. Poor things. One didn’t stop running till she got back here. The skull rolled from the
grave, you understand, down towards her.’ He reflected. ‘The skull was only small. I ’d imagine the body was that of a child.’

‘It is always terrible to find a child who has been murdered,’ Edgar said. He nodded and introduced himself. ‘I am Edgar, servant to Sir Baldwin Furnshill.’

‘I am Miles Houndestail,’ his companion said. ‘Pardoner.’

‘Ah,’ Edgar said, more coldly. Pardoners were disreputable characters in his mind.

‘I shan’t sell you anything,’ Houndestail said with a chortle. The girl had returned with his drink, but she remained hovering at his shoulder. ‘What is it?’ he
asked.

‘Sir, your stuff – it’s all been moved.’

‘I should apologise,’ said Edgar immediately. ‘My master’s wife wanted privacy so she has taken the room at the back.’

‘I hope she will be comfortable,’ Houndestail said easily. ‘I shall look forward to a new bed which does not involve sharing with Ivo Bel. Odious man!’

With that, he finished his wine, thanked Edgar, and left to seek his clothing and goods.

It was some little while later that another man walked in, and Edgar was convinced that this must be Houndestail’s bedfellow. His petulant expression would have curdled milk.

‘You travelling through here? I’m sick to death of the drunken rioters in this bar. They keep me awake every damned night!’

‘I am here for the Coroner’s inquest,’ Edgar volunteered mildly.

‘Oh, Christ’s bones! You’re one of his entourage, are you? You don’t look like a clerk.’

Edgar ignored his words. They were not spoken with intentional malice, but with a kind of unthinking rudeness.

‘You should tell the Coroner to be careful of Thomas Garde.’

‘Why?’ asked Edgar. The man was sitting near him on the same bench, and he was leaning forward, whispering as though the two were spies.

‘He’s dangerous. Violent. And I have heard that he might have killed the girl. She died just after he came here.’

‘You know whose body it is?’

The man leaned away, sipping his wine. ‘We can guess,’ he shrugged. ‘One girl disappeared just as Garde appeared here. Her name was Aline, the daughter of Swetricus, a local
peasant. She was never found.’