He was about to walk to the gateway once more when there was a pause in the howling and he heard a low, coughing moan. He spun sharply on his heel, but there was no one there. Frowning, he peered into the murk, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.
At the low groaning he made the sign of the cross once more, murmuring a Pater Noster to give himself courage. Stiffening his resolve, he stepped forward boldly. ‘Drogo, is that you?’ he demanded.
The only answer was a sobbing wail which seemed to come from the earth at his very feet.
Uttering a choking cry, the Parson leaped back and, looking down, he saw he was standing on Samson’s grave. A breeze caught at the cross, and it squeaked and groaned, and Gervase gave a great sigh of relief: it was only the cross. For a moment he had believed that a ghost was with him.
All was well. He walked from the cemetery along the roadway past the puddle. As he went, he saw Drogo. The Forester was up near the spring, watching the priest. At his side were Peter and Vincent, the latter with his air of faintly baffled seriousness which always reminded Gervase of a hound which had lost a scent, and Peter, looking joyless, as he had ever since the day they had found his daughter.
Gervase nodded to them, but Drogo and Peter made no response. It was as though he was too insignificant to merit acknowledgement. Vin lifted an apathetic hand, but allowed it to fall, and Gervase licked his lips nervously. He felt threatened by their grim features and silence.
He was glad to reach his little cottage and be able to pull the door to, shutting out their unsettling expressions.
Felicia could hear her mother muttering to herself, and the noise was disconcerting.
Samson had been a terrifying presence in the house, and both women had avoided him when they could, for otherwise they would earn a stripe or two from his rope-end, and Felicia couldn’t count the number of times she had prayed that he would die, that he would leave them to have some sort of life of their own without having to pander to his whims and fancies. And then he tumbled through the window and was struck about the head by the wheel and their lives were changed.
Felicia found a fresh confidence, a sudden inrush as though she had drunk a gallon of wine. It was heady stuff, knowing that she need never fear being woken in the night by his rough hands forcing her thighs apart, that she could select a husband for herself, that she could choose to remain celibate, that she could join the nunnery if she wished. She need not take her father’s views and prejudices into account.
The same was not true of Gunilda. She had been married to Samson for so many years that life without him was alarming. Samson had dealt with all the family finances, he had arranged for the deliveries of grain, he had kept the machinery working. Gunilda couldn’t conceive of life without him. It was like trying to imagine life without air or fire or water.
He had been a lowering, grim old demon at the best of times, but he was solid and inflexible, something upon which Gunilda could depend. And now this firm, rocklike being was gone. With it she felt her life was also gone.
Felicia could vaguely comprehend this. The destruction of what had been to her a gaol, was to her mother the loss of a protective institution that shielded her from all risk or danger other than those represented by Samson. His brutality became for Gunilda a kind of certainty. Like a hound, she craved even a cruel master so long as there was someone for her to respect.
That might be good enough for her mother, but Felicia wanted more. She wanted her own husband, her own life, and now there was a possibility of both, she found herself growing irritable with the other woman. Gunilda should be sharing in her fierce joy, not whining like a beaten dog.
The knock on the door was a relief. Felicia went and peered through a crack in the badly fitted timbers. She felt her face go blank for a moment in surprise, then pulled the beam from the door and opened it.
‘Vin? What do you want at this time of night?’
He tried to answer, but he was tongue-tied. Redfaced, he stammered that he was passing and wanted to see how she was.
Felicia felt an urge to laugh. She knew why he was here. Pausing only long enough to grab a rug, which she spread over her shoulders like a cloak, she walked with him up the trail alongside the river.
Neither spoke. Both knew what they would do when they returned to that quiet, peaceful glade by the river, and later, as Felicia gave herself up to the pleasure of Vin’s hands and mouth on her body, as she felt the first ripplings pass through her, she offered up a prayer of thanks for the death of her father.
Simon slept only fitfully that night. There was a heaviness on him, as though a thunderstorm was brewing. He lay on his bench near the fire, resolutely avoiding any thoughts that could unsettle him further, such as skeletons, young girls eaten many years ago, and the sad, mournful sound he had heard earlier.
‘Are you still awake?’
It was the Coroner who called quietly to him, and Simon gave a low grunt of acknowledgement. Soon Roger rose and walked to him, tugging a blanket over his naked body. He sat on the floor near Simon’s bench, staring at the fire. The Coroner reached to the pile of spare logs and quietly dropped one onto the embers. It sent up a small cloud of sparks which twinkled and flared in the darkness, and Simon was surprised to see that the Coroner looked drawn and tired.
‘Are you all right, Roger?’
‘As well as can be expected. But I don’t like Baldwin’s suggestion that more people may have been killed.’
‘You’re well enough used to investigating such things, aren’t you?’ Simon asked in surprise. The Coroner had always seemed calm and unflappable in the past, even when a murderer struck more than once.
‘I’m not worried about death,’ Roger said, ‘but I fear that a man who could have killed like this, who was not caught, will strike again. It’s terrible to kill a girl, but to eat her as well?’ He shook his head uncomprehendingly. ‘That is the act of a genuinely evil man. A devil.’
Simon was unwilling to discuss such matters in the dark. ‘I felt terribly sorry for that woman at the mill yesterday.’
‘It’s all too common. I often see millers who’ve fallen into their machinery. Only last month I had an inquest on a mill’s assistant who fell into the cogs while trying to grease them. He was horribly chewed up. The miller himself was terrified that he would be held responsible, so he fled to St Mary’s and claimed sanctuary. He refused to come out, fearing for his life, and the bailiffs had to allow him to abjure the realm. He left for France. When we held the inquest, no one thought he was responsible. If he’d given himself up, he’d have been fine, but he didn’t trust the jury to declare him innocent.’
‘Why should he doubt their integrity?’
‘He was a newcomer. Been living there seven years. If he’d been born and raised in the town, he’d have known he was safe, but you know how it is. If you’re not born and bred in a town, you’re never fully accepted.’
‘So the poor devil ran?’
‘Daft bugger. Yes.’ The Coroner shook his head. ‘He was distraught and couldn’t see reason, but it was plain as the nose on my face that the assistant died from misadventure; nothing more. And now, since the bailiffs allowed him to abjure, he has lost all his chattels even though he’s innocent, and we must seek his pardon from the King. And he may never even hear of it.’
Simon was sitting up now, and puffed out his cheeks in commiseration at the miller’s loss. Home, friends, work, everything. ‘And even if he gets his pardon, he’ll never be able to recover all his chattels or take up his work at his mill again?’