The Sticklepath Strangler (2001) (46 page)

‘There she is!’

It was Peter, who had passed Simon and now stood a few yards in front. Up on the hillside east of them, Simon could make out the line of the path from South Zeal to Belstone, and on it, near
Serlo’s warren, was the fleeing figure. Peter said no more, but hared off again, Drogo close behind him. Simon had to grit his teeth and push on.

Baldwin scrabbled with his feet for purchase and then he was up and running again. Ahead was a broad, slick expanse of water, and he rushed through it, the mud bursting upwards
on all sides. As he came out the other side, he could see her again, and noted that Serlo was nearby.

‘Warrener! Serlo! Catch her! She’s the murderer!’

His voice was powerful enough, just, to reach the grim-faced man. Serlo hurried up to the path as fast as his legs would carry him, but he was not swift enough. The girl saw him coming and
quickly darted around him without breaking her stride. But then Baldwin saw the Warrener frown and roar a warning, and to his horror, Baldwin spotted the figure of Joan, a short distance from
Felicia, running downhill.

Felicia was at the top of the path which led to Belstone when she saw them: three men, all heading towards her, coming up from the river. She screamed, stamping her foot in a futile gesture of
impotent rage. There was no escape that way; she could not return past Baldwin, and Serlo blocked her path down the hill. Clenching her fists, she shrieked her anger, and then set her face to the
hill once more. Thank God Joan had disappeared, thought Baldwin. She must have concealed herself in among the clitter or behind some furze, and he was relieved that he need not worry about her
safety.

The men were exhausted. They had run more than a mile, all uphill, and their bodies were beyond pain. Those who were barefooted had felt their flesh being slashed on stones, while the dead, dry
furze thorns stabbed into sensitive arches; those with boots felt their muscles tearing with the effort of hurling themselves up the hill.

Bent double to catch his breath, Baldwin glanced up in time to see Felicia turn and look at them all. Her face was a mask of contempt, as before, but now she held no fear for him. He simply knew
that she must not be allowed to escape. And then he saw the little figure bob up at her side.

‘JOAN! NO!’

Simon heard his agonised cry and looked up to see Joan at Felicia’s side. The miller’s daughter reached for her with a reassuring smile on her face, and Joan smiled
back, a happy child. But then there was a burst of movement as Felicia reached in behind her apron again, and Simon knew she was going for her knife. He opened his mouth to roar his own warning,
but knew it was too late. Felicia would have struck, or captured a hostage, before his voice could carry.

And then something odd happened. While Felicia’s hand was in her apron, Joan ducked, shifted her weight, pushed at the older girl, and kicked out with her small foot. Felicia gave a loud
curse, and then wheeled around, trying to keep her balance, reaching out with her knife towards Joan even as she began to topple, and then she gave a wailing oath as she fell from view.

Joan stood peering down, and Simon ran up to her side. At her feet was a wide gully, a fall of some ten feet, and at the bottom lay Felicia, an arm broken beside her, staring back up at him with
a twisted grin. She coughed, and bright red blood erupted from her mouth. It wasn’t from her knife: Simon could see that, lying on the ground a short distance from her. No, it wasn’t
from her knife, but as he stared down at her, dumbfounded, and as Baldwin and Drogo appeared at his side, he saw the crimson pool spreading on the rocks beneath her, and the spurting wound in her
breast. At the same moment he noticed the blade in Joan’s hand.

She saw his look. ‘She killed my friend Emma.’

The inn was full when the body of Felicia was brought in. Men thronged the main room as Drogo, Peter and Simon carried the dead weight between them, setting her down on top of
a table, and causing the five drinkers to move. Behind them, Baldwin entered with Joan’s hand in his, and he stood there for a while, surveying the room. The sight repelled him.

Here in the tavern the people of the vill had arrived in a party mood. They had been keen to destroy Samson, to burn him on a pyre, not because of his very real rapes, but because of
superstition. His only crime had been to be buried alive; earlier, they had conspired with equal gusto to execute Athelhard and burn his corpse; now they jostled hungrily to view the body of the
genuine culprit.

‘
Silence!
’ he roared, and the room fell quiet. He crossed the floor to the Coroner.

‘Coroner, this is the body of Felicia atte Mill, daughter of Samson. She confessed to me, Sir Baldwin Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace, and before Bailiff Puttock of Lydford,
that she was the murderer of Ansel de Hocsenham, the King’s Purveyor; that she murdered Denise atte Moor, daughter of Peter; that she murdered Mary, orphan of this parish; that she murdered
Aline, daughter of Swetricus; that she murdered Emma, daughter of the same Ansel de Hocsenham.’

‘Is this all true, Simon?’

‘Yes.’

Baldwin continued, ‘She attacked the Bailiff and me with a dagger and fled. We raised the Hue and Cry and gave chase, following her all the way up to the warren of Serlo. There she
attacked and would have killed this girl, Joan Garde, daughter of Thomas, but Joan Garde was able to defend herself. Felicia fell and died.’

Coroner looked at Joan. ‘You confirm this?’

‘Yes, Coroner.’

‘Who else witnessed this death?’

Drogo stepped forward. ‘I did, Drogo Forester, and so did my man Peter atte Moor.’

‘I see. Then I declare her death to be justified in self-defence.’ These words Baldwin heard as he walked from the room. He had no need to hear more. The whole matter was offensive
to him, the attitude of the people repugnant. He left the inn and stood in the yard behind. Edgar was at the door to Jeanne’s room, Aylmer lying apparently asleep at his side, and Baldwin
nodded. ‘They are inside?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Edgar said, standing. He could see the pain on Baldwin’s face. ‘Should I fetch you wine, sir?’

‘No. I only want peace,’ Baldwin said. He crossed the little yard to the pasture, and there he walked out to a natural hillock, sitting and putting his arms about his knees. Aylmer
joined him, sitting at his side, alert, staring out at the moors before them, but not leaning or resting against Baldwin, independent and almost aloof. But when Baldwin drew a deep breath,
Aylmer’s head dropped and his nose touched Baldwin’s hand, just once, as if in sympathy.

‘May I join you?’

Baldwin did not need to turn around. ‘Why didn’t you tell anyone, Vin?’

‘I didn’t know until last night.’ Vin sat beside him and shrugged. ‘She was the only woman I ’d ever lain with. In my way I loved her. I thought I could save her
from her father, but I was petrified of him. Samson was an evil man. Evil and dangerous. I thought he had murdered the Purveyor, and that meant he had eaten the Purveyor as well. I couldn’t
tell people that. He would have killed me.’

‘Was it mere prejudice led you to think he might be the killer?’

‘A bit. He was a brutal git, always happy to fight anyone. God, the night the vill killed Athelhard, Samson was roaring mad. He was prepared to pull the vampire limb from limb. As it was
he wanted to cut the man’s heart out with Peter. That was one thing that has suddenly occurred to me.’

‘What was?’

‘I was young when Denise was killed, but I can remember the shouts and anger in the vill. Samson was beside himself with rage – yet when Mary died and Aline went missing, he was
quiet, almost as though he knew who the real killer was and didn’t dare react in case people guessed that it was Felicia.’

‘But at the time . . .’

‘At the time I wondered whether it was proof of his guilt. He avoided talking about the deaths, and that’s not normal in a vill like this.’

‘But you grew to suppose that it wasn’t him, didn’t you?’

‘Samson was so often terribly drunk. He was violent, but I didn’t think he was capable of killing a young girl. So I started wondering about others, and the only man who made sense
was Drogo. I knew he was often away from his post when the girls died, and he was always so jealous of men whose daughters were alive. His own daughter – my little half-sister, I suppose
– died at about the same age as the ones who were killed.’

‘And that was all?’

‘No. Regularly Drogo would leave me at my post. I thought it could be because he was off looking for a girl to murder.’

‘Whereas in fact . . . ?’

Vincent sighed. ‘In fact he was patrolling several of the tracks nearby making sure that there
wasn’t
a murder only a few hundred yards from us. Never going far, you
understand.’ He looked up and met Baldwin’s eyes with a wry grin. ‘He didn’t trust me that much, either. He wondered if I might be the murderer myself.’

‘When did you realise it wasn’t him?’

‘Only last night. You see, I heard Felicia talking to her mother. She was saying that her father always went for girls who batted their eyes at him. Well, they didn’t. No young girl
would have. It was just her hatred talking. She said that they all went for him as soon as they were ten or eleven, and that made me think. They were all killed when they were about that
age.’

‘And that was enough to tell you?’

‘That, and a little torn apron. I saw it on the floor near Felicia’s bed last night, and I recognised it as Emma’s.’

‘What of Ansel?’

Vin hugged his knees. ‘I think Samson had a row with him, Ansel turned to go, and Samson knocked him down. Then he called to Felicia because he feared he’d killed the man.’

Baldwin finished for him. ‘You think she throttled him while he lay unconscious, then took a piece of his leg for her supper.’

‘Yes. Remember, we were all starving then – and she was half-wild with hunger. And the next night Drogo and the others came along and found his body and decided to hide it before the
vill could be harmed. It was just a lucky chance that the wall had fallen only a short while before.’

‘But from then on, every time her father desired a new girl, he was signing her death warrant,’ Baldwin mused. ‘As soon as Felicia realised he had a fresh girl, she killed her,
and as a supreme insult, ate her flesh.’

‘But why should she have killed Emma?’ Vin asked, puzzled. ‘Samson was dead by then.’

‘You were kind to Emma, weren’t you?’ Baldwin said.

‘I hardly remember her.’

‘One day I saw you outside the Reeve’s hall. You picked her up and tickled her. Felicia saw you.’

‘Holy Jesus! You mean that act of friendship cost that kid her life?’

‘Let us hope that we shall never comprehend what went on inside Felicia’s mind, Vincent,’ Baldwin said slowly. ‘That way madness lies.’

It was many weeks before Baldwin could bring himself to tell his wife the full story of the murders, not because of any squeamishness or fear for her own resilience, but
because he did not know how to rationalise his own thoughts.

He had been brought up in a chivalrous household, and the guiding principle belief lay in the generosity and love of women. To have found a girl like Felicia, who could murder children and eat
them, was appalling. If the world could create such a one, Baldwin was not sure it was the sort of world he wished his daughter to inhabit.

Luckily there were many more people who were humanitarian; Baldwin had enough good friends like Simon to hope that whatever happened his daughter would be protected, but all the time at the back
of his mind he knew that famine, war and pestilence could destroy not only families, but even the morals of people. Felicia had been tempted to eat other humans because of her starvation. In good
years the miller would take one tenth of all the grain he milled as his payment, but when there was famine and no one had enough, they would grind their corn at home. And that meant that the miller
and his family would starve. That was why Felicia had thankfully throttled Ansel when she found him, and taken a haunch from him. She was ravenous.

The children were different. They had committed no crime, she was punishing her father when she executed them.

It was one lazy, burning hot summer’s afternoon when Baldwin told Jeanne the whole story. She had heard some parts of it when the matter was written up by the Coroner after the inquests
into Felicia’s and Ansel’s deaths, but she had not appreciated the depth of Baldwin’s own revulsion.

‘What I don’t understand is how the miller managed to keep his sexual wrongdoings secret from all the other folk.’

‘He didn’t entirely,’ Baldwin said. ‘Some knew, and others told friends, but when a man like Swetricus, who loves and trusts his daughters, is told that nothing has
happened, he naturally believes them.’

‘Why should his girl have concealed the rape?’

‘Why should any? From shame, or perhaps from terror. Who can tell what threats or promises Samson used?’

‘He must have been a truly wicked person!’

‘Yes. His daughter, too.’ Baldwin sighed. ‘I blame myself, you know, Jeanne. If I had searched the grave more carefully, if I had noticed what Simon did, I might have made the
right connection, found Ansel’s body – perhaps saved Emma’s life.’

‘Do you regret the death of Felicia?’

‘Her? My Heaven, no! She was deep into madness and had to be killed. I only regret that her death was brought about by a young girl . . . but then again, maybe not. Joan wanted her own
revenge for the crime committed against her friend, and the fact that she could execute the killer may have given her some peace of mind, rather than merely hearing Felicia was dead, or even
witnessing the hanging. How can I tell?’

Jeanne sat at his side and put her arm about his shoulder. After a moment he put his own about her waist, and they sat staring at the view, listening to the laughter of his peasants in the
fields.

‘There is something else, isn’t there?’ she asked after a short while.