The Baker of Warley Copse

On a twisting, winding, rutted track

That weaved from under the pines,

A figure came in a burlap sack

Where the crossroad intertwines,

I could only see the bleeding feet

As they peeped from under the sack,

And the hood hid every feature that

Would deem it a Jill or Jack.

 

There was purpose in that stolid walk,

And determination fixed,

I thought to offer a helping hand

But my feelings there were mixed,

There were leaves and twigs on the figure’s back

And a slime that looked like mud,

I thought that it might have been attacked

When I saw that the slime was blood.

 

Nothing could stop its slow advance

As it plodded into the street,

I reached on out but it just walked by

So I thought I’d be discreet,

The day was settling into dusk

As it reached the village square,

And just as the ancient gas lamps lit

It gave a cry of despair.

 

The cry was that of a woman lost,

Was more of a hell-fire screech,

It echoed up to the steepletop

And I thought of Caroline Beech,

The girl who’d gone to the woods one day

For a picnic of pies and mince,

The basket lay for a week and a day,

She hasn’t been heard of since.

 

The figure stopped and its arm flew out

To point at the Baker’s door,

I saw his face at the window lace

As pale as a painted w***e,

The sweat stood out on his beady brow

As he hurried from room to room,

Locking each door and window now,

And shivering there in the gloom.

 

A crowd was gathering in the square

Surrounding the baker’s house,

‘You’d better come out and show yourself!’

But he was quiet as a mouse.

The men of the village burst right in

And they thrust him down on his knees,

She put one bloody foot on his head

And he squealed, ‘God help me… Please!’

 

‘I only wanted some love,’ he said,

‘But you just pushed me away,

I’d never have hurt a hair of your head

If you’d loved me once that day.’

And that was enough for the surly crowd

Who called on Oliver Beech,

To bring a rope from the stableyard

For a lesson they had to teach.

 

Her father fastened the rope around

The cringing baker’s neck,

Just as the daughter’s burlap sack

Collapsed to a heap on the deck.

There was nothing inside the hood or sack

As it lay there on the street,

Only the footmark stains of blood

From the murdered woman’s feet.

 

They dragged him down to the wood of pines

And he showed them where she lay,

Under a pile of autumn leaves

He’d covered her with that day,

They left him hanging above the spot

As they bore her gently home,

Now there is no baker in Warley Copse

So the villagers bake their own.

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

The following lines are so vivid and visceral and really encompass the horror, the tragedy, the sin, and the guilt:

"The figure stopped and its arm flew out
To point at the Baker’s door,
I saw his face at the window lace
As pale as a painted w***e,"

The baker got his just desserts, in my opinion.

[Harmony Babin]

As I read this, I could just see/imagine everything happening. Splended work!

[Marie]

Just because one baker went bad doesn't mean the ovens stop working...

[BlackRose]

The villagers gave their own dessert of justice. Another superb story. Thanks as always for the read.