The Sticklepath Strangler (2001) (39 page)

‘Come on, man!’ Coroner Roger rasped. ‘We don’t have all day to stand here like women washing clothes!’

‘It was the vampire,’ Reeve Alexander said quietly. ‘Gervase told us that vampires killed people, ate them and drank their blood. The killings all started when Athelhard
returned here.’

‘Only because of a coincidence!’ Baldwin exploded. ‘You slaughtered him for
superstition
! The poor man murdered, his sister forced to watch, and all for your
intolerable beliefs!’

‘It wasn’t just that,’ Drogo said. ‘His sister told the priest that her brother had given her a large portion of meat, of pork, Keeper, only the day before. What would
you have thought? We only did what any God-fearing, sane men would do; we struck at him to destroy him.’

‘Ansel died before Athelhard arrived, didn’t he?’

‘No. Athelhard was just returned when Ansel died,’ the Reeve said. ‘And a short time after Denise was found we heard of this meal given to Meg. It was obvious. Athelhard told
her he had bought it from a traveller. Would you have believed him?’

‘Yes. Until he was appealed in court, and had had a chance to prove his innocence,’ Baldwin said scornfully.

‘And had a chance to kill others. You know that these
sanguisugae
can fly through the air like birds?’ Drogo said. ‘And no lock will hold them out.’

‘Nonsense! There are no such things as vampires,’ Baldwin said.

‘The Parson told us. If you want a debate with him on the merits of his case, fine. For us, we wanted to prevent any more deaths. Perhaps you’d feel different if your own child stood
the risk of dying for your beliefs, Keeper.’

‘You tied his sister to a tree to force him to come out.’

‘The Parson told us he had demons within him. He was possessed. What else could we do? We had to protect ourselves, and that’s what we did. There was no one to advise us. At least we
killed him swiftly, which is more than he did with Denise.’

‘It was murder!’ Simon declared hotly.

‘And what would you have done, Bailiff? Let him carry on? We thought it was just a desperate, starving villager who was responsible at first, when we found Ansel’s corpse, but then,
when Peter’s girl turned up, and the priest told us about vampires, we realised it was something worse.’

‘But why think it might be Athelhard?’ Baldwin interrupted.

‘It seemed so obvious!’ Drogo burst out. ‘We had the shock of Denise’s murder, then we heard that Athelhard had been cooking meat. And Athelhard was a stranger. If anyone
had brought evil into the vill, surely it was him!’

‘But others have died since his death, so it wasn’t him,’ Simon pointed out.

Drogo was silent, but the Reeve put his head in his hands again. ‘You are right. I know it, and I regret it. But what else could we have done?’

‘And who was the real guilty man?’ Simon asked, and then wondered for the first time whether it might not be a woman. Meg had plenty to avenge, after all.

Sir Laurence smiled. ‘This is all beyond me. All I know is, I have two men here who appear to be suspects.’

Sir Roger returned his smile. ‘Yes, you do. But I am the Coroner, and when I hold my inquest, I shall decide what to fine them for their misdemeanours as well as amercing them to be
present at the next court.’

‘I think you’ll find you should have them thrown into gaol,’ Sir Laurence said, his amusement becoming more brittle. He weighed his war hammer in his hand again.

‘You think so? I disagree,’ the Coroner said cheerfully. ‘And right now, this meeting is concluded. Reeve, don’t try to leave the vill. Forester, get out of here and make
sure that you don’t tempt me to regret my actions!’

In his room, Swetricus sat on his stool facing the door, a pole slotted into the handle of a sharpened billhook. It was his only weapon, but it was enough. Or so he prayed.

Thomas and Nicole had walked here to fetch their daughter, both so taken up with their own relief that Swetricus had not seen fit to remind them that their problems weren’t gone. While
Reeve Alexander and Forester Drogo wished to blame someone, Thomas remained the ideal target. He may have survived this accusation, but there would be more.

His dog was agitated now, walking from one side of the room to the other, sniffing first at one door, then the other, constantly moving, as though to remain still was to die, but Swetricus was
sure that it wasn’t only the row from Samson’s hounds.

‘What is it, Daddy?’

‘Shut up!’ he said gruffly. The girls had no idea about all this. They sat now, huddled on the family’s bed near the fire, which still roared with the faggots Swetricus had
thrown on. At this time of night he would usually be there with them, snoring gently, all of them huddled together against the cold, the fire doused for safety, but not tonight. Not with
Samson’s hounds howling like the souls in torment the Parson had told the vill about when Athelhard was thought to be the vampire.

He picked up his firkin and drank a long draught of ale, setting it down and wiping his mouth.

After Athelhard, they had believed that the deaths would cease, but they hadn’t. Only two months later, the poor orphan Mary had died, her mutilated body found discarded like an apple
core. Athelhard was dead. The vill knew that there was someone else, someone who had been living among them, and suspicion had fallen upon several, but the only obvious man was Samson. However,
there was no proof. And no more deaths – until Aline disappeared two years later. Swet had his suspicions, but if he had appealed Samson, he would have been laughed out of the court. Where
was the body? Aline could have fallen into a bog and drowned.

Now Emma was dead although Samson was already in his grave. Some might say that proved Samson’s innocence – but Swet knew better. He remembered the sermon which the Parson had
preached on the day they all went and killed Athelhard. He had said that vampires could become possessed, and the demons could make the body fly through the air. That was why, he said, Athelhard
should be buried with a prayer written out on a piece of parchment, to explain to his soul how to find peace so that he wouldn’t haunt the vill afterwards. It was Alexander who had said that
they should burn his body instead. If there was no body, he reasoned, there would be nothing for the demons to use.

Samson had died, but he had been buried. His body was there still, and Swet was sure that last night he had escaped from the earth and murdered Emma. Swet was sure, because the hounds were
baying incessantly. Scruffy and mangy, they were, to be sure, but they knew as well as Swetricus did that tonight was no time for sleep. They had been bred to keep felons away, but now they howled
to keep their dead master from them.

Gripping his staff more firmly, he tried to control the savage beating of his heart.

Evil was abroad tonight, but Swet would not lose another daughter.

‘In God’s name, give me peace!’ Gervase shouted, walking about his room, his arms wrapped about his body so that he looked like a great raven in his dark
habit. No matter how he struggled to hold down the panic that assailed him, it didn’t work. Nothing could keep away the horror.

He wanted to go to the chapel, but somehow he felt easier here, among his few possessions, and that knowledge gnawed at him: he should want to go to the altar and kneel penitently before
Christ’s symbol, but he daren’t. That would take him nearer Samson’s grave.

The Miller’s soul was abroad tonight: Gervase could almost hear a cacophony of demons calling to each other in the darkness. Pouring more wine into his mazer, his hand trembled so
violently that he spilled a large amount on the table. Cursing, he lifted the mazer and drank, heedless of the flood that coursed at either side of his mouth and dribbled onto his breast. He let
the cup fall, closing his eyes, his breath sobbing in his throat.

‘Please, God, just make it be silent! Bring peace to his poor soul and drive away his demons,’ he prayed, head bent.

He knew what was happening. This was his nemesis, his destruction. It was his own fault, all because he had accused the other fellow. Poor Athelhard. It was Gervase’s sin which had led to
Athelhard’s death. He had learned from Meg of the pork which her brother had bought for them, and at first the Parson had felt only jealousy. The famine was already biting, and the idea of
rich, juicy meat made his saliva run. He had mentioned her good fortune to Reeve Alexander, in the hope that the latter might force Athelhard to share his bounty. Perhaps he would have, too,
Gervase realised. He had been a decent fellow.

Then they had discovered little Denise up in the fields and Gervase realised quickly what that meant. The meat served to Meg, and the cruelly butchered body, pointed to the one conclusion.

It was Gervase’s drunken telling of the story to Samson which had sealed Athelhard’s fate. Samson went to see Drogo, and on the way he spoke to Peter atte Moor, and Peter was by then
desperate for revenge. Who could blame him? His daughter was dead, throttled and cut about like a side of pork. And it made sense. Athelhard was a foreigner; it was only natural to believe that he
was responsible.

Yet he wasn’t
. That was the hideous truth. Gervase dropped to his knees again, his breath wheezing as he pulled at his robes and bared his breast, opening it like an offering to
his all-seeing God. Spreading his arms wide, he wept as he stared up at the ceiling. ‘What else could I have done, Lord? I wanted to stop the murders! I did it in good faith, Lord, thinking
that the man was possessed. Why did You let me be misled, Lord? Why did You let me think it was Athelhard?’

But there was no answer.

‘Jesus, You let me sentence an innocent man – why?’ he cried out. ‘He was destroyed like a lamb, like
You
! How could You let that be done to someone else? Was
it to punish me? Well, punish me now – take my life. I can’t live on knowing I caused a man’s murder. Don’t leave me here to poison others.’

He felt a sudden burst in his heart, like the onset of a marvellous dream, and for a moment he believed he was about to see a vision, perhaps even an angel, but then the lightheadedness passed
away and he was left alone, a huddled, shrunken man kneeling fearfully on his floor. God wouldn’t listen.

Perhaps if he had himself gone to the Reeve it would have been all right, but as soon as that fool Samson heard the tale, he fell into a drunken, roaring rage. He was the father of a girl too,
and he’d be buggered with a red-hot poker if he’d let some foreign shit ballock about with his daughter. Fuck that! Some shite had eaten Denise? Samson would stop him; he’d cut
the bastard’s throat, then he’d slice off his prick. That’d serve him out!

Thinking about it, it was strange that Samson hadn’t been so vociferous about the other girls who had died. It was as if Denise’s death had shocked him and he had seriously wanted to
avenge her, but when Mary was found, and then Aline disappeared, Samson withdrew into himself. He didn’t help try to catch the killer, said little about the killings, and either changed the
subject or stopped talking. It was almost as though he felt a guilt about the deaths, or a deep shame.

But on that other day, Samson was enraged as only a bone-headed fool could be. When Peter passed by, Samson bellowed at him that he was letting the foul murderer of his daughter go free.
Wouldn’t he see the foreign git hang? Samson was insistent until all the men in the tavern had sworn to avenge Denise.

They left the inn and went to Alexander’s house; the Reeve demanding to know what their rioting was about. Gervase found himself being thrust to the front of the men, and made to tell the
story again, but this time he found that his audience was still more receptive. Only later did he wonder whether Alexander had known of another murder.

There was a sour taste in his mouth when he had finished and he could stand and listen to the men discussing Athelhard and the dead girl no longer. Suddenly he felt a pricking of conscience:
this was wrong. They shouldn’t go and execute Athelhard like a felon. Even over the haze of alcohol and the demands of vengeance, a small, quiet voice seemed to warn him that this was an
awful act. Athelhard would have no opportunity of defence. This crowd was a mob determined to destroy. They had decided that Athelhard was a vampire and that was sufficient for them. At that point,
Gervase became aware of his own doubts.

Surely a man who was possessed would have hesitated to enter the church; he would have refused the Mass and Eucharist, wouldn’t he? And wouldn’t Gervase himself have felt something
when in the presence of evil?

After the event, Gervase had done all he could to bring the men of the vill to a joint understanding of their shared guilt and he had prayed for Athelhard’s soul, lost though it was, since
it had not received the last services, Extreme Unction or Sacrament. Yet although Gervase hoped that Athelhard’s innocent soul was safe, he had no such hopes for Samson’s.

Samson it was who had listened to the story of Meg’s meat; Samson it was who had roused Peter; Samson it was who had persuaded the mob to kill; Samson it was who had led the way to
Athelhard’s assart. Samson it was who had fired the first arrow, missing his mark as Athelhard bent to his bucket.

There was another long-drawn-out howl from across the way and Gervase felt it like a stab in his chest.

Now Gervase knew why Samson had been so keen to lead the attack against Athelhard. Since Gunilda’s visit, he knew everything. Oh, yes! He knew that Samson had molested his own daughter,
and others. It was Samson who got Aline with child, and just as surely he had killed her and the others too. Samson atte Mill was the vampire.

It all made sense now. With a resolute air, the Parson stood and picked up his mazer, then refilled it. Lifting it, he toasted God in an almost heretical manner, bitterly angry to have been
forced to cause the death of a man like Athelhard for no reason. Then he opened his mouth and tipped in the wine. It was cheap and rough, but it was enough to strengthen his resolve. He was a
failure as a priest, he had failed his congregation, he had failed Athelhard, and he had failed God. That was the cause of the noise at the cemetery: Samson’s unresting soul. His dogs knew,
which was why they howled. And Gervase knew, which was why his spine tingled with fear.