Free The Sticklepath Strangler (2001) by Michael Jecks

smoke rising above the roofs. Baldwin felt clammy.
His clothes needed drying and he knew that his wife and servants were just as damp.
    Where the road met the river there was a shallow ford, and the horses splashed their way through it, leaving a dirty, streaming stain on the water as the soil was washed from their hooves. As
soon as they left the pebbles that bounded the river, they were riding over an unmetalled roadway again, covered in glutinous, dark mud. The entire village was in this condition, and Baldwin
wondered how anyone could remain clean for a moment.
    As they rode towards the inn, a building on their left with a scrap of furze bush tied above the door to show that ale was on sale, Baldwin noticed some peasants watching him and his entourage.
To his surprise, none looked at all welcoming: all were grim and suspicious, especially the four scruffily dressed men and one woman standing at the inn’s door. Baldwin was reminded of the
stories he had heard of travellers becoming lost on a journey and finding themselves in strange surroundings. All too often the inhabitants of such vills would be wary, fearful of
‘foreigners’ from far distant places – which could mean someone from two villages away – and might hurl stones or worse at newcomers. There was a merchant recently who had
complained to him about being pelted with dogshit, and another who was on the receiving end of sticks and clods of earth.
    It was fortunate that this vill was on the Cornwall road, he told himself, because the people here should be well used to seeing strangers riding through. Otherwise, from the looks on their
faces, he might have been tempted to bend low over his mount’s neck, rake his spurs along the beast’s flanks and ride hell for leather out of this place.
    Perhaps the people here were just put out at the thought of the Coroner’s arrival. That would mean fines for breaking the King’s Peace which would affect everybody in the vill, so it
was no great surprise that they should eye strangers glumly.
    At the inn he remained seated upon his horse while Edgar swung down from his saddle and strolled forward. There was a small group at the entrance, and Edgar stood a moment, waiting for them to
part. Aylmer wandered along behind him and stood staring, head tilted.
    Snatches of conversation wafted up to Baldwin even as the folk stared at him and his wife.
    First he heard the woman. ‘She was pregnant. She told me so in confidence.’
    ‘Terrible if it’s true. Poor Aline!’
    ‘Would he kill her to silence her?’ the woman asked.
    ‘Who can tell?’ a man sighed.
    To Baldwin’s surprise, the group did not give way to Edgar. Two men stood at the doorway, blocking it. A younger-looking man with startlingly fair hair planted himself next to them, while
another, older man eyed Baldwin and curled his lip.
    A broad fellow, with a rugged face and a badly broken nose, he looked the sort to have been involved in lots of fights, possibly the instigator of many of them. His gaze was unblinking, rather
like a snake’s, and Baldwin half expected to see a forked tongue flicker from between the pale lips.
    Not that he was entirely reptilian. Aged forty years old or so, he had the ruddy complexion of a moorman, and Baldwin would have put him down for a miner if his hands had been dirtier or more
calloused, but although he had the appearance of a man who has laboured, his hands were not ingrained with dirt. Dressed in a good linen shirt under a crimson tunic, he was clearly no peasant. From
his shoulder dangled a horn, while the dagger which hung from his belt looked well made, with a leather grip wired into place and an enamelled pommel; the sort of craftsmanship that a peasant could
not afford. His clothes and knife spoke of money, and his manner showed he was of some rank, and probably power, since he dared show such studied insolence.
    It was the first time Baldwin had seen Edgar’s swagger fail. Normally the