The Sticklepath Strangler (2001) (29 page)

It was fortunate that Thomas was staring out through the open doorway as he said this, for otherwise he must have seen her face. On it was printed a terrible resolution.

Ivo wouldn’t help them because he was jealous of Tom, mainly jealous of Tom owning her, she thought. But perhaps Ivo would help save him if Nicole was his reward. If she offered to sleep
with him, Ivo might be willing to forget his enmity.

Prison was a terrible place. When her father was alive, she had visited gaols with him, and she had no illusions about them. Gaols were filthy, festering places, filled with rats, lice, fleas
and death. Men who went inside hale and strong came out wizened, pale and bent, or dead. Thomas was a man who loved the elements. He worked hard in wind and rain, and enjoyed labour in the open
air. To throw him into a cell beneath a castle would destroy him as surely as a knife-thrust in the heart.

Compared with his safety, nothing mattered. If it would save him from gaol, Nicole would even submit to Ivo.

Gervase returned, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. ‘I’m sorry, Lordings,’ he gulped. ‘I knew the poor child was dead, but to die and then be violated .
. . and in such a way. My God! Only the arch-enemy of God could conceive of such a foul transgression. It’s appalling.’

Baldwin eyed his ravaged features dispassionately. ‘Perhaps, but I have less faith in human nature than you. I think that men are perfectly capable of such evil.’

‘The poor child.’

‘We have been told her father was Ansel de Hocsenham,’ Simon commented.

‘Yes,’ Gervase swallowed. ‘He’s dead. He was a local fellow, Ansel, from out beyond South Zeal. He was a King’s Purveyor, and often had to ride out over the
country.’

‘What happened to him?’ Coroner Roger snapped.

‘He rode off one day during the famine, and that was that. It was the year before the death of Peter atte Moor’s daughter, Denise. Never turned up again.’ Gervase wiped at his
brow with the palm of his hand and shook his head. He stood and motioned vaguely towards the house. ‘Would you care for some drink? I have some wine, a loaf. It would be sufficient for us, I
am sure.’

‘It is most kind of you,’ Baldwin said with a gracious inclination of his head, ‘but I am neither hungry nor thirsty.’

‘I am,’ said the Coroner hurriedly.

Gervase gave him a pale grin, then wandered back inside his house.

‘Look at this place!’ Baldwin said. ‘What a miserable hovel. One room only, in which he must eat, work and sleep, and this little garden where he might be fortunate enough to
grow some peas and beans, were he to bother trying.’

‘If the river hadn’t risen and washed them all away,’ Simon agreed, eyeing the few straggling plants which had survived. ‘But it’s no worse than thousands of other
parsons’ dwellings up and down the country. And provided that he performs the daily Chantry, he will always have money and some food. Probably a new tunic each year, too.’

‘And yet he seems relatively well educated,’ Coroner Roger mused. ‘Why should a man with a brain wish to come to a dump like this?’

‘It isn’t that bad,’ Simon protested. ‘And there’s nothing wrong with a priest who wants to serve his community.’

‘No,’ the Coroner agreed, ‘but there’s something wrong with a man who invests all his wealth in wine and regularly drinks himself into a stupor.’

‘Perhaps last night was a rare occurrence.’

‘And perhaps I was born a Moor,’ Baldwin said. ‘Didn’t you see the state of his rushes, couldn’t you
smell
the vomit? It is days since he cleaned in there.
No, this man has his own guilty secret.’

Gervase soon returned, bearing a jug in one fist, a platter with three irregular sized pots on it and a large loaf. He spoke a short prayer in thanks, then sat, pulling the loaf into chunks and
pouring wine for them. Then he sat back, chewing and slurping.

‘This Ansel. His wife doesn’t live in the vill?’ Coroner Roger prompted.

Gervase felt the cold grip of fear grasp at his bowels. ‘They were not married. I fear he was one of those men who sought their pleasures here on earth instead of the enlightened attitude
which looks to the life to come. No, he was not very religious.’

‘In out of the way places, not many are,’ Baldwin noted reasonably. ‘Where is the mother, then?’

‘Meg is touched, and more than a little insane since her brother died, God bless him, in a terrible fire in their cottage.’ He studied the bread in his hand and bit off a chunk,
chewing it dry. ‘Meg saw him die and it addled her brains. People about here call her “Mad Meg” now.’

‘
Where?
’ Coroner Roger demanded, his patience run out.

‘She inhabits a place in the wood out to the west of the vill. A small assart, which her brother worked for her.’

‘She was local?’ Simon pressed.

‘Not really, no. She was from up aways, round Exbourne. She and her brother came here after he had fought with the King in France and made himself some money. When he came back, he used
his money to buy the plot from Lord Hugh.’

‘When would all this have been?’ Baldwin enquired.

‘He died in the famine. Shortly after Denise had been found.’

‘After her man disappeared?’ Coroner Roger asked.

‘Yes. Ansel disappeared in 1315, while her brother died in 1316, just before Mary died.’

‘Ah, Mary!’ Simon said. ‘We have heard a little about her. She was an orphan?’

Gervase bent his head in assent.

‘Did she die the same way?’ Baldwin demanded. ‘Throttled and eaten?’

‘May God take her to His breast and comfort her, yes,’ the Parson said, closing his eyes as the vision rose before his eyes. ‘The little child had her legs cut away, as though
someone had . . . as you would a haunch of venison. I can still see her poor little face. She was such a sweet, kindly little girl. No one deserves that sort of death. It was an obscene attack: a
violation! Hideous.’

‘You buried her?’

‘Of course. And there is never a day I don’t go out there and pray for her. I love children, just as Our Lord did, if you know your Gospels, Sir Knight.’

‘Except you never reported her death, did you?’ Coroner Roger rumbled.

Gervase looked away, but Baldwin was frowning. ‘This brother. What was he named?’

Gervase felt the clamminess at his palms as he took up his cup and took a deep draught. It served to soothe his spirits, and as he put the cup back down, he could say without a tremor in his
voice, ‘Just some fellow called Athelhard.’

‘And you say he too is dead? In a fire?’

‘Yes.’

‘An accident?’

‘I can tell you no more. I’m bound by secrecy and the secrets are not mine to divulge. Only let me say that I may have inflamed them, and I am heartily sorry. I feel my guilt most
terribly.’

‘Damn this!’ Coroner Roger roared with frustration. ‘I need answers, Priest! Who can answer if you won’t?’

‘I
can’t
. I am tied. Why not speak to Mad Meg – she may be able to help.’

‘Is there nothing you can tell us?’ Baldwin asked, his tone more gentle.

Gervase looked into his dark, intense eyes and found himself wavering. ‘I can’t tell you secrets told to me under the oaths of the confessional, Sir Knight. All I can say is, I heard
that Athelhard shouted out a curse before he died. A terrible curse, one which still stalks the vill even now, six years later.’

‘This is maddening. There is a secret in this vill, I am sure of it,’ Baldwin said bitterly as they left the Parson’s place. ‘Look at that
fellow’s attitude in there. Did you see how he reacted when I asked about this man Athelhard? He almost chewed through his cup!’

‘You’re reading too much into it,’ the Coroner protested. ‘There may be some secret, but it’s probably just that they’ve been holding back on some of their
grain, trying to conceal it from Lord Hugh, or perhaps it’s avoidance of the tithes or some other tax. There are always secrets in little vills like this. They have to struggle hard enough
just to survive, God knows, and you can’t blame them for keeping a bit back for themselves.’

‘My Heavens! And this is the terror of Exeter talking?’

‘There’s no call for sarcasm. I’m only pointing out that there could be a perfectly innocent explanation.’

‘Let us find this woman Meg and see what she thinks,’ Baldwin decided.

‘We need to talk to the other child as well,’ said Simon. ‘The girl called Joan, whom I saw returning from the moors on the day of the inquest.’

‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said, ‘but later. She can wait. Let’s see this Meg first.’

‘Very good,’ Coroner Roger agreed, but as he spoke he stumbled on a dried rut, and his ankle turned painfully. ‘Ach! Christ Jesus! My leg.’

‘You cannot walk down the lane,’ Baldwin observed.

‘Christ’s bones, trust this to happen.’

‘Do you want me to help you back to the inn?’ Simon asked.

‘No. I can manage,’ the Coroner said. ‘Thanks all the same.’ He pointed to a tree. ‘Bring me a branch and I will be fine. I’ll get back to the inn, you two go
ahead without me.’

‘If you’re sure,’ said Simon. The inn wasn’t that far away, fortunately. He hurried to cut a stave.

Baldwin lent Roger his shoulder while they waited, but his thoughts were not with the Coroner. Since hearing that Mad Meg lived out at the western tip of the vill in her own assart, Baldwin had
wanted to go there and talk to her. He felt a curious certainty that if he could visit the place with the level-headed Simon, he would be able to confront his dream head-on and reduce the potency
of his fear. Somehow his dream had grown more virulent here, as though something in the vill associated itself with his own dark past and drew upon his own guilt and secrets. It was foolish
thinking, immature and irrational, which irritated him beyond belief, but as Simon passed the stick to the Coroner, he felt relieved that he and Simon would continue alone.

Once Roger was gone, hobbling slowly back to the inn, the two approached the spring. Baldwin could not help his steps from faltering. A fine sweat broke out upon his forehead and back, but there
was no heat. He felt stony cold as he stared down the track between the trees. Aylmer stopped at his side and looked up into his face.

Simon, of course, could see nothing. For all his superstition, he was quite insensitive. He peered down the trackway. ‘You think this is the road, then?’

Baldwin said nothing, merely moved on along the track, his own sense of foreboding growing as he let himself slip under the shadow of the trees. He felt like Orpheus entering the Underworld.

Still in his garden, Gervase felt dread overwhelming him. He knew that the three men who had visited would not be content with half truths for long. The knight in particular
had a peculiarly intent gaze, as though he could see right through a man’s deceits to the filth and lies that had held him together all his life. Talking to him had been difficult, like
confessing to a foul deed before a Bishop, but there had not been the slightest hint of Absolution at the end of it. He had not confessed with honesty, he had concealed more than he had admitted.
It would remain on his conscience until somehow he let it out. And yet he couldn’t.

He wanted to cry, to bawl his head off, to admit his crimes and receive some form of penance, but he knew that he must wear the mask of an ordinary village Parson. Only a few knew his guilt, and
they knew because of their complicity.

If he could, he would give all his wealth, such as it was, to bring back that life. He was a sinner, for he had murdered. Doubly a sinner, for he had withheld the extreme unction and
viaticum
. He had knowingly condemned a man to Purgatory or Hell, thinking he was guilty of murder, but now the real killer had struck again.

The thought forced him to close his eyes and weep. It was unbearable, this guilt. Maddening and incurable. Perhaps he should travel to Exeter, confess his crimes to the Bishop, admit all that he
had done and wait to hear what penance he would receive. At least then there would be an end to it, although he might well be condemned to a monastery hundreds of miles away, to spend the rest of
his days in silence, without the solace even of sunlight playing on flowers, of the feeling of warmth on his back. Even the simple delight of standing in a summer’s shower would be lost to
him for ever.

He stood, feeling suddenly ancient, and walked through his house. Shutting the door behind him, he went over the road to his chapel and entered it, genuflecting to the altar, before which lay
the body of young Emma. Two women sat beside her, and he recognised them as Gunilda and her daughter, Felicia. They were holding vigil. Gervase nodded to them, then approached the altar himself. He
knelt, pressed his palms together in the modern way and begged for forgiveness.

It was unsatisfying. There was no relief for him in prayer. There never was, not since his realisation of his guilt. That recognition had so devastated him that his faith had suffered
accordingly. Now he hardly knew the right words to use, as though God had taken them from him, as though God was Himself disgusted and wanted nothing more to do with him.

He heard steps and the door shutting. Looking over his shoulder he saw that Felicia had left, and now only Gunilda sat, rocking gently by the side of Emma’s corpse.

‘It’s all right, Father,’ she said. ‘He’ll not want any more.’

The woman was plainly losing her mind. Her sanity, which Gervase doubted had ever been better than fragile, was shattered. He tried to sound comforting. ‘That’s good.’

‘You think I’m talking rubbish, don’t you?’ she smiled. ‘But Samson won’t come back now. This was the last one he fancied. He’ll leave the others in
peace.’

Gervase was tempted to point out that her husband was dead, but his tongue clove to his palate in sympathy at her ravings.

‘He got Aline pregnant, you know. He loved her, I think. And Felicia, too, but she was lucky and miscarried. It would have been difficult for me if she’d gone to term. But Aline, she
was scared. I think Samson thought she might go to her father. Swet would have been very angry if he’d learned that Samson had molested her, wouldn’t he?’