The Sticklepath Strangler (2001) (22 page)

Then it was on them. There was no sun, no rain, only an all-enveloping greyness.

Baldwin was astonished how quickly he lost all sense of direction. He could still see at least five yards around him, but beyond that was only fog. To his amazement, he could not even tell which
way was up and which was down. It was quite alarming, and yet stimulating as well. Not fearsome at all, he thought.

‘
CHRIST JESUS
!’ Simon bellowed suddenly.

‘Gracious God, what is it?’ Baldwin demanded, startled out of his reverie, his hand flashing to his sword hilt as he leaped away, seeking danger.

Simon was glowering down at Aylmer’s enquiring face. ‘Your damned dog just thrust his nose in my hand.’

‘A cold, wet,
ghostly
nose, eh, Simon? Perhaps that will show you something about the power of superstition.’

Simon held his tongue, merely wiped his hand on his tunic while he stared balefully at the dog. If he had ever before doubted that a dog could laugh, he never would again. ‘Bastard
hound,’ he muttered and Aylmer’s mouth opened as though in a broad grin.

‘Does this often happen?’ Baldwin asked, peering into the mist. ‘Where should we go?’

‘Follow the sound of water. If we can get to the river, we can follow it away from the moor. No rivers flow into the moor, they all flow away.’

It made sense, Baldwin thought. ‘Which way is it?’

‘Down there,’ Simon pointed.

Baldwin took the lead, walking away from the hut, but before he had gone a couple of yards, he stopped dead. There was an indistinct figure ahead of them in the mist, a darker shape which made
Baldwin hesitate. For a second time, his hand went to his sword. ‘Hello? Who is that?’

‘What’re you doing here?’ came a surly reply, and Serlo stepped forward out of the gloom.

Baldwin felt an enormous relief, and let his hand fall away from his sword again. ‘Where have you been?’ he demanded a little harshly.

Over his shoulder, Serlo carried a small bag. He patted it now, staring at the two men suspiciously. ‘Provisions. A man is allowed to buy food. What are you doing up here?’

Earlier when Baldwin had seen the Warrener, he had thought Serlo was very short; closer, he could see that the man was badly deformed. His back was twisted, and although his legs were the size
of an ordinary man’s, the curvature of his spine made him appear short. His head had a thick mat of hair that sprouted under his faded green cap, and his beard was every bit as bushy and
bristling as Baldwin remembered, while his eyes were as bright and intense as a wren’s. Though he wore the torn and patched clothing of the lowest of peasants, there was a sharpness about his
face which pointed to keen intelligence. Baldwin had never subscribed to the opinion, so often expressed by noblemen and others, that the meaner the peasant, the poorer his brain. However,
intelligence was no guarantee of hospitality.

‘What do you want here?’ Serlo repeated.

‘I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace, Sir Baldwin Furnshill, and this is my friend Simon Puttock.’

‘You’re not the Keeper around here, the man from Oakie.’

‘Oakie?’

Simon interrupted smoothly, ‘It’s what the locals call Oakhampton, Baldwin.’

‘Ah, I see. No, I’m not. Simon Puttock here is Bailiff of Lydford Castle, friend,’ Baldwin added.

‘Oh.’

‘As such,’ Simon said, ‘I have authority over the moors. And you are Serlo the Warrener?’

‘Yes.’

Simon nodded dubiously. ‘The friend of Emma and Joan. I have heard a little about you.’

‘Yeah, well. What of it?’

‘Where were you when the inquest was being held into the death of Aline, the girl found in the wall?’

‘I’m not a villager there. Different parish,’ Serlo said defensively.

‘True. Yet you weren’t up at your warren either,’ Simon noted.

‘How do you know?’

‘I spoke to Joan and Emma after the inquest. They said you weren’t about.’

‘So? I was out on the moors.’

Baldwin said, ‘I recall seeing you on the night before the inquest. You were there, where the body was found, weren’t you?’

‘I was talking to Henry Batyn. He’d been told to guard the body until the Coroner arrived,’ Serlo explained, ‘but none of the lazy buggers in the vill thought of taking
him ale or anything, so I gave him some.’

‘I see. Did you know the girl?’

‘Who, Aline?’ Serlo asked. ‘Of course.’

Simon thought that he looked as though he was considering lying, and was instantly on his guard, listening for the subtle changes in tone that would show the Warrener was inventing, but Baldwin,
watching his eyes, saw no guile or deceit. Serlo didn’t look away or shuffle his feet, he met Baldwin’s gaze steadily. Baldwin made a beckoning gesture with his fingers, and Serlo
shrugged.

‘I knew her as well as any, I suppose. A pretty maid, with a sweet nature to go with her looks. Her father never could see it. Kept telling her she was ugly, poor lass. Slim, she was, and
long-bodied. Near as tall as me, I ’d guess, with hair like ripened wheat, and eyes as blue as clean water under a clear sky. She used to visit me up at the warren of a day, and chat to me.
Lots of the youngsters do.’

Baldwin said, ‘What of Denise?’

‘Poor Peter’s maid? That was a bit before. I think she died in the first year of the famine. She was as lively as a hawk, she was. Auburn hair and dark, dark eyes. Born before our
King’s crowning. King Edward took his crown from Edward his father fifteen years ago, didn’t he? I think she must have been ten or eleven when the famine struck.’

Baldwin glanced at Simon. ‘Same age as Aline.’

‘Yes,’ Simon said doubtfully. He didn’t trust men who were so twisted and deformed. Someone in so foul a condition must have done something to deserve it.

Baldwin had known many cripples from his sojourn in Acre, and thought disability to be irrelevant. He had the belief that men’s souls were their own, unaffected by their outward
appearance; though he knew some could grow bitter as a result of wounds, there were others who showed a saintly patience. Listening to Serlo, he felt the Warrener was trustworthy, an impression
which was validated by Aylmer. Baldwin respected the judgement of his dog, and Aylmer was now leaning against Serlo while the Warrener scratched his flanks.

‘I reckon so,’ Serlo agreed. ‘Everyone thought she’d run away.’

It was odd to be questioned by this tall, grave man. Usually a knight was a source of fear to be avoided, especially one who was a Keeper. Keepers of the King’s Peace were as corrupt as
Coroners and Sheriffs; worse, they were often more greedy about getting cash from people because they received no official compensation for their efforts, whereas the others did at least get a
salary.

This one looked different. His dark eyes held an inner calmness, like one of the monks at Tavistock, as if he was content with himself and knew his faults – a rare trait among his sort.
Most knights thought their strength made them better than other men – the arrogant pricks! – but this one looked as if he was capable of understanding the life of an ordinary churl. He
even understood Serlo, if that expression of benign sympathy meant anything.

Serlo was in two minds whether to trust him. Caution was so firmly ingrained in him that it was impossible to throw it from him like a cloak, to be donned or doffed as the mood took him.

When Baldwin next spoke, his question didn’t surprise Serlo. ‘Did you know of other girls who died?’

The Warrener snorted. ‘There are loads of girls about here. And many die.’

‘What do you mean?’ Simon snapped. ‘How do they die?’

‘The same as anywhere else, Bailiff. How do you think? Some get kicked by cattle or horses, some fall into bogs. There are many of those on the moors. One drowned in the Taw last year.
Some get run down by accident, and some even get raped and killed, just because they have a beautiful body to a man who’s fired with lust. There are all sorts of ways for a young girl to
die.’

‘You know how Denise and Aline died, don’t you?’ Baldwin said.

‘I reckon.’ In his mind’s eye Serlo could see again that broken and mutilated body.

‘So –
were
there others?’ Baldwin persisted.

‘Some, I think.’

‘By God’s own bones, you’re lying!’ Simon burst out. ‘You mean to tell us that none of the people who visit you gossip? You’ve heard them talking, man!
Especially the girls, like Joan and Emma.’

‘What if I have?’

Baldwin set his head on one side. He still wore an expression of sympathy, but now it was mingled with sadness. ‘We have heard that at least one other girl died in a similar way – an
orphan called Mary. You are friends with so many of the vill’s girls, and I dare say that others have felt as trusting of you beforehand, haven’t they? Did Denise and Aline drop by the
warren when they were bored or worried? Did Mary come to talk things through with an adult who was sympathetic?’

Serlo scowled at him. ‘Are you accusing me? Just because some kids like to visit me, that doesn’t mean that I kill them.’

‘No, but if you are reluctant to talk about children who have died, when they have been along to see you, it puts you under suspicion when the reason for their visit might have been
entirely innocent – and when you were innocent too, of course.’

Serlo wasn’t fooled by Sir Baldwin’s suave tone. There was steel in that voice. The knight was angry that a man should have killed these girls. It was there in his eyes. If he
thought for a moment that Serlo was truly guilty of the murders, Serlo knew that Sir Baldwin would personally seek him out and decapitate him in vengeance. With that realisation, Serlo felt a
shiver pass through him.

He explained, ‘The girls would often come by to see what I was doing. They liked to watch the rabbits and help me kill the animals which came to take them. There was nothing more to it
than that.’

‘Denise and Aline used to come by and see you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And in the same way, Joan and Emma have done so more recently?’

‘Yes. They enjoy a chat. I am different from the adults down there in their vill. Always have been. They feel they can trust me.’

‘Why?’

Hearing Simon’s harsh sneer, Serlo faced him. In his eyes Serlo could see the distaste for someone . . . some
thing
which was so damaged and ugly. It was a look Serlo had seen
every day for many years. It made the blood rise in the Warrener’s heart, and he felt anger begin to flood his veins.

To his surprise he saw that the knight didn’t wear the same expression. Like a monk, his face held only compassion, as though he knew what it was to be reviled and persecuted. The fury
which had been threatening to engulf Serlo receded. His bitterness became sadness, and his voice lost its harshness as he felt his frame sag.

‘You can’t understand, Master Bailiff. You are whole and strong, powerful. When little girls from a peasant’s home look at you, they see a man of authority and strength, tall
and imposing. Look at me! I’m only a little taller than a child. Their parents all gaze upon me with horror and loathing, but the children just see another person and they are happy to come
and chat to me, because I’m an outsider, and I can talk to them on their own level.’

Simon, whose own daughter was growing more fractious as she learned to enjoy the company of youths rather than the young ladies of her own age whom he considered eminently more suitable for her,
viewed him askance, wondering how any attractive young girl could crave his company.

‘They were such pretty little things, all of them,’ Serlo said without thinking, the sadness filling his voice.

Simon wondered about the man’s sex-drive. There were stories of men whose natural strength was constricted in one way who developed astounding powers in others. Lepers were believed to be
as lecherous as sparrows, for example. Could this man have a ferocious sexual desire which made him rape and murder young girls?

Serlo saw his quizzical expression. ‘You wonder whether I could have taken them, Bailiff? Maybe I lured them up to my warren and had my wicked way with them, and then took them to the vill
or out to the moors to kill them and silence them for ever. A nice thought, but no, I couldn’t.’

‘Your injury?’ Baldwin guessed.

‘An ox. He tossed me high in the air and then gored me and stamped on me a few times to make sure. That’s why I look like this. And that’s why I couldn’t have taken
them.’

‘Why?’ asked Simon.

‘I’m a eunuch.’

Simon blenched with the very thought, but Baldwin simply nodded. ‘I see. Now, the girls Denise and Aline. Is there anything you can tell us which might help us learn who their killer could
have been?’

‘You are asking about deaths spread over the last seven or eight years. How should I know?’

‘You should wish to help us.’

‘Because you’re the King’s men?’ Serlo sneered.

‘No,’ Baldwin said thoughtfully, ‘because their killer could still be alive and might kill again. They were friends to you. Surely you would like to bring their murderer to
justice?’

‘Maybe.’

Baldwin smiled at his grudging tone. ‘Then just answer a few more questions, Serlo. For example, who was in the vill all through this period?’

‘Most of the men who are there now. Thomas Garde, he wasn’t, but almost all the others were.’

‘Including the Reeve?’

‘Yes. He was here during the famine. He moved here from Belstone . . . oh, eight years or more ago.’

‘I see. So he could have captured any of them. Do you have any idea where Denise was last seen?’

‘I heard that she was seen by Drogo the Forester walking up to the moor. She loved it up here. I often used to see her up near Ivy Tor Water, or up at the top of the hill.’

‘What about Aline – do you know where she was last seen?’

‘In the vill, I think. No one admitted seeing her leave the place,’ Serlo said, watching him from under beetling brows. ‘Are you serious about finding the murderer of these
girls, then? Really serious?’

Baldwin contemplated him for a moment, and then very slowly, he drew his sword and lifted it, point down, until the hilt was before him. ‘By the cross, I declare I am determined to find
the murderer or murderers of these three young girls,’ he said, and kissed the hilt.