Chapter Twenty-Two
Simon and Baldwin left Meg and Serlo soon afterwards. Serlo was comforting her as best he could, but Baldwin understood that the poor woman needed time to get over the first dreadful shock of hearing about her daughter’s death, and of reliving her traumatic experiences in that wood. It was curious to Baldwin that she should wish to live in Sticklepath at all. The destruction of her brother by their neighbours must surely mean that she would hate all of them? But then again she was simple. Perhaps it was impossible for her to conceive of removing herself from the place where she had grown up and lived with her brother, especially since Serlo had shown her kindness. Where else could she hope to find that? Sticklepath was not only a place of horror for her, but somewhere with pleasing memories, too.
‘Well?’ asked Simon.
They had reached the roadway. Baldwin rummaged in his purse and took out the fragment of arrow, studying it in the faltering light. ‘Peacock feathers. A bit grand for a poor little vill like this.’
‘I dare say a Forester like Drogo knows where to catch such birds and make use of them.’
‘True – but do they work any better than a goose quill?’
‘No. This was used purely for ostentation. It’s the sort of thing a young squire would do to impress his lady-love.’
‘It was apparently good enough to kill this Athelhard,’ Baldwin pointed out mildly. ‘It shows that they were not scared of being discovered, doesn’t it? There was no intention of concealing their crime from local people.’
‘If Serlo was right, the whole vill was involved anyway.’
‘True, and if the vill was convinced that he was responsible for killing and eating their children, it is no surprise that they would wish to take such a savage revenge.’
‘Let us hope that Drogo can enlighten us.’
‘It is horrible to think of dying like that,’ Baldwin mused. ‘All alone in your own home, while your neighbours fire arrows at you. No one to turn to. No protection.’
‘And then they try to cover up their crime by throwing you back onto the flames of your own house. Sick!’
‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. He called to Aylmer, who was falling behind them, sniffing at every bush. ‘And this happened a short time after the death of Denise, if the Parson is to be believed.’
‘You think he isn’t?’
‘Well, he didn’t tell us the whole truth about how Athelhard died, did he? Never a hint that the vill rose up as one and murdered him.’
‘Maybe the folks went to him to confess. That would seal his lips.’
‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘It also explains why Gervase is such a nervous wreck and why the people here live under such a cloud. A country priest with little education could all too easily jump to the conclusion that a murderer who ate his victims was possessed–’
‘Not only a country priest,’ Simon said shortly.
‘Simon, I apologise. I did not mean to pass comment on your own views. I was merely thinking aloud. But it would explain Gervase’s attitude, wouldn’t it? They killed the man whom they had blamed, and then they were forced to confront a terrible nightmare! They thought they had destroyed the beast who had slaughtered their children and eaten them – and then the killings continued! They must all be aware that they killed an innocent man.’
‘That’s what happens when the mob takes control and ignores the law,’ Simon said ponderously.
‘Do you really blame them, Simon? After all, you do share some of their feelings about ghosts and demons.’
The Bailiff grunted but didn’t speak. There was a world of difference in his mind between someone who believed in the supernatural and was sensible enough to fear demons, and someone who was prepared to break the law for whatever the reason. Apart from anything else, he was certain that the best people to control demons of any type were priests. Everyone else should steer well clear of them.
‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said thoughtfully, ‘they didn’t feel that they would receive any help from the law.’
They had reached the vill now, and were passing the cemetery. Simon cast a quick look at the cross with its drooping cross member. ‘And your point? Other than to irritate me, of course.’
‘That was not my intention,’ Baldwin protested. ‘All I meant to say was that there are precedents for cutting up a body and burning it on a pyre. Sometimes people feel that it’s the only way to cleanse an evil soul.’
‘They must have been terrified of Meg’s brother,’ Simon considered.
‘Very.’ Baldwin stopped to whistle again at Aylmer, who was staring out over the cemetery with his head tilted to one side.
‘But although there were more murders, they didn’t attempt to kill anyone else.’
‘No,’ Baldwin said.
‘You sound unconvinced.’
‘I am unconvinced by everything I learn here. I had assumed that the deaths of the children were committed by one person, but that the death of the Purveyor was a separate murder. Now I wonder… what if the Purveyor was killed by the same person?’
Simon looked at him curiously. ‘Why should you think that? He only disappeared.’
‘Yes. But I wonder whether his body had been mutilated, too? We’ll never know unless we find it,’ Baldwin said. ‘And then we would have a case where one murderer over a period killed one man, perhaps got a flavour for human meat, and then killed other, easier victims over time. That would make sense to me.’
The Bailiff shivered, but then a thought occurred to him. ‘If that’s the case, why should the murderer hide the first victim, the purveyor, and Aline, but leave the others to be found?’
‘A good question,’ Baldwin said. ‘Oh, what is the matter with the dog? Aylmer, get over here!’
It was at that moment that they heard the first dog begin to howl, and as Simon saw the sudden intensity of Baldwin’s face, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck and arms begin to rise.
Gunilda shivered and licked her lips as she kneaded the dough for their supper. All about her the mill felt full of shadows, and whenever she looked up, she saw faces peering at her: in the darkened corners of the room, in among the timber baulks that made up the shafts, in between the great leather straps that connected one axle with another, even in the wattle of the walls. Everywhere faces were staring, watching and slavering in the dim candlelight.
‘Go away!’ she whispered as another one caught her attention. ‘He’s dead now, you can’t touch me. You don’t scare me.’
‘Mother, can I–’
‘Shut up, child!’ Gunilda snapped. ‘You can’t know anything. Leave me in peace.’
Felicia sagged back. She felt the chill too, but she daren’t comment again. It had been fearsome living here with her father, knowing that he would come to her bed at night and make use of her like a whore, but somehow now that he was gone, her mother’s sudden collapse was still more terrifying.
It was impossible for her to trust the boys in the vill. Several of them had made advances as she grew up, usually at harvest-time when the cider and ale had been flowing faster than usual and their blood was hot, or at springtime, when the weather warmed and the young shoots began to break the surface of the soil, and the thoughts of all the lads and lasses in the vill turned to rolling in the fresh grass. Not many had appealed to her. Peter atte Moor had grabbed her once, trying his luck; so had Drogo, one night when he was drunk, but Samson had been near, and Drogo soon released her. Not that she was interested in any of them. Only Vin. Vin was the one who had really tempted her. That was why she had given herself to him at the river that day. And why she had gone with him again last night.