“Brewer. He often used to fight.”
“Do you know who he had been fighting with on that night?” asked Simon, leaning forward in his eagerness.
“No, you’d have to find out from Stephen. He’d know.”
The bailiff leaned back a little, frowning at the youth. “Why didn’t you tell us all this before? Why did you lie to us?”
“I didn’t want everyone to know about me and Emma. I didn’t want to break off with her. But then I heard from…” His voice trailed off.
“Who? What did you hear? Who from?”
His eyes rose and at last he found the courage to hold Simon’s gaze. “From Stephen at the inn. He told me he knew I was lying, that the Carter boys had seen me there, had seen me going up to Brewer’s house with him. They were following us. They must have killed him, and they’re trying to put the blame on me. It’s their word against mine, Stephen said. He told me I’d better leave – run away.”
Chapter Twenty-one
When Sir Baldwin Furnshill rode down the shallow incline into Blackway the next morning, he was in a mood of keen anticipation. The bailiff’s message had been brief but intriguing – new evidence had been presented and, in the light of Baldwin’s earlier interest, would he like to come and help? The knight had set off immediately, and found Simon and Hugh sitting outside the inn on one of the benches. His friend seemed tired, his face showing how much strain he had been under in recent days, and Baldwin was surprised that the bailiff’s welcome appeared muted, his eyes seeming to flicker over Edgar and he as they arrived. There was no answering smile to the knight’s cheery greeting. Beside Simon was Hugh, his face drawn into its customary scowl.
“So, bailiff,” said Baldwin. Somehow he felt the need to use Simon’s title. “How are you? I understand that you’ve caught the killers of the merchants?”
“Yes,” said Simon, looking up at him. The black moustache and neat beard framed the knight’s small, square teeth as he grinned down at him. Then he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and dropped to the ground.
“Landlord!” Baldwin stood, arms akimbo, waiting for the innkeeper.
“We have some questions for this man,” said Simon while they waited, and quickly told of his conversation with Ulton the day before. Then his eyes met the knight’s with a sudden intensity. “I am determined to find out what really happened, Baldwin. I will not leave the death of even a poor villein unavenged when I go to Lydford. I think he was murdered, and I mean to find out who was responsible. When I have, I’ll get the abbot’s killer too. Will you help me?” His tone seemed almost to imply a challenge to the knight.
Baldwin met his gaze coolly. “Of course. It’s my duty to my lord to help his bailiff – and Brewer was my villein. But I heard the outlaws had killed the abbot? That was the tale in Crediton.”
“Possibly,” said Simon shortly, but just then they heard a step approach and, turning, saw the landlord, his eyes flitting nervously from the bailiff to the knight under their suspicious gaze. “Yes?” he said. “What do you want of me?”
“Edgar, go and serve yourself,” said Baldwin. “And fetch me an ale!” he added in a bellow as Edgar disappeared inside. Glancing at the bailiff, he sat beside Simon on the bench before fixing a grim stare on the unfortunate innkeeper, and Stephen suddenly knew he was in great trouble. He could feel the tension: these men were judging him, and at the thought, his hands dropped from his belt, as if suddenly nerveless, to dangle by his side.
Simon drew a deep breath and let it out in a quiet sigh. The depression and doubt were lying on him heavily. Could Baldwin be involved in the murder of the abbot? Everything seemed to point to him, and when he threw a quick glance at the knight, he saw Baldwin was tense as well, as if he knew the suspicions Simon held. What if… He squared his shoulders and sat upright on the bench, and when he looked over at the knight again, there was a calm, appraising expression on his face. They stared at each other for a moment, then Baldwin suddenly grinned, as if the cares of the world had fallen from his shoulders, and Simon felt his own features creak into a wan grimace in return.
When he turned to face the innkeeper it was with a renewed vigour. With that glance and brief smile the knight had seemed to be trying to demonstrate his understanding, to show that no matter what happened he would not blame Simon.
In any event, Simon felt, now was not the time to speculate about the abbot’s death, that could wait. As he had said, Brewer’s death had been first, and the investigation deserved his concentration. Putting all thoughts of de Penne’s murder aside, Simon glared at the innkeeper for a minute in silence.
“Stephen,” he began softly, “we want to ask you about the night that Brewer died. This time we want you to tell the truth.”
“Oh, but sir, I’m sure I never…”
“Shut up.” It was Baldwin who spoke this time, his voice flat and dismissive, tainted with revulsion, as if the man disgusted him.
“You lied to us last time we were here,” Simon continued. “But I’m sure I…”
“You told us you didn’t see who helped Brewer. Who was it?”
There was no mistaking the fear now, Baldwin thought. The innkeeper had appeared to go quite cold, his face clammy and almost yellow, even in the bright late-morning sun. “I said, it was dark and…”
“It was Ulton, wasn’t it?”
After the question had been asked there was a long silence and pause, as if the whole village was waiting for the man’s response. He stared at Simon as if transfixed, his eyes wide and staring, with small gobbets of sweat breaking out on his head.
“Well?” asked Simon.
“Yes.” His voice came as a low mutter. “Yes, it was.”
“Why did you lie to us before?”
“I didn’t lie! I told you it was dark, that I couldn’t hardly see. Anyway, Roger was helping me by taking Brewer away. Why should I make you think it was him killed the old man? The old bastard could have made a saint want to kill him, and you were bound to hear what his temper was like. Why should I make you think it was Roger?”
“So you say you don’t think Ulton killed Brewer?”
“No, of course not!”
Simon glanced over to Baldwin briefly, and saw him nod with conviction. There was no doubting the sincerity in Stephen’s voice. Looking back at the publican, the bailiff asked, “Were there any strangers here around then? Did you see a wandering knight here in the days before Brewer’s death?”
The publican’s eyes dropped to his feet as he thought back, but when he looked up again he gave a single emphatic shake of his head. “No.”
“So who else was here that night?”
“Who else? Oh… there was Simon Barrow, Edric, John, the Carters…”
“What? The Carter boys were here that night?” said Baldwin, leaning forward and frowning at the man.
“Why, yes…” Clearly terrified, the landlord gazed back, wondering what he might have said wrong.
“Did they say anything to Brewer?”
“Well…”
“Was it the Carters Brewer’d been arguing with that night?”
“Yes.”
“What about?”
“Brewer was in a foul mood.” Now he had started, the words fell from the stout character as if he had kept them dammed and now the sluice was opened he could not halt the flow. “He said the boys were wasters, no better than beggars. He said that he could buy them up three times over – them, their farm, their parents… everything! And still have money over. Edward tried to calm him down, but he was mad. It was the drink always did it to him, I think. He tried to punch Edward, and Alfred got in the way, and Brewer hit him. That was when I got him out – I didn’t want any fighting in my hall. I took him out and there was Roger, he said he’d take the mad bugger home. He couldn’t kill, he’s no murderer – he’s a kindly sort, not a killer.”
“Yet you told him to leave the area? You told him to run?” asked Simon, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.
> Stephen stared back fearfully. “I… like I said, it can’t have been Roger… but the Carters, they’ve been saying he was there, that they were going to tell you they saw him. I thought you’d think it was him if he didn’t go away. It was for the best, sir, it just seemed unfair to think…”
Baldwin leaned forward as well, his elbows on his knees as he stared hard at the man. “And what time did the two Carter boys leave the inn that night?”
“The Carter lads?” The thought seemed to strike horror into his voice. “The Carter boys? But they…”
“Answer the question!” rasped Baldwin.
“Not long after, I suppose.” His voice was low once more, as if he was scared that he might say too much if he raised his voice. “Not long.”
They left the horses at the inn and wandered down the lane towards the Carter house. Hugh had been sent to fetch John Black, so there were only the three of them when Simon rapped hard on the door.
Baldwin seemed to understand something was wrong, but left Simon scowling down in pensive gloom, as if he knew what the bailiff suspected. When Simon caught his eye, he thought he saw an expression of near relief, as if the knight was glad to have been discovered. It made the bailiff feel even worse, and it was with a growing anger that he waited for the door to open. It creaked open a short way to show a tired young woman, dressed in a dark tunic with an apron. She looked as if she had been cooking, and from her hands came the scent of fresh-baked bread to tantalise them. Smiling, Simon asked, “Are Alfred and Edward here?”
Her eyes seemed confused as they peered up at him. She could only have been a little over five feet tall and she seemed smaller as she stood diffidently wiping her hands on the apron. A couple of strands of light brown hair strayed from under her wimple, and one curl was twitching with the breeze just under her eye. Her eyes still on his face, she caught at the hair and pushed it back. “Yes,” she said. “My brothers are here. Why?”
“Could you ask them to come to the door, please?”
She seemed reluctant, but then Edward appeared and smilingly asked the three to enter, and join them indoors, pushing his sister aside as he opened the door wide.
Simon and Baldwin followed him through into a wide and noisesome room. The farmhouse contained all the human and animal members of the farm during bad weather. Some semblance of refinement had been attempted by fencing off one side, so that the animals and humans were separated, but it did not help much. In the family area there was a large fire, roaring in its clay hearth with the smoke rising to the rafters and slowly leaking out to the open air through the louvres. There was only one sign of modernisation in the room – a platform had been built on stilts, with a narrow ladder leading up to it. Obviously this was a separate solar for the family, away from the stench of the farmyard below.
With the animal smells and smoke the atmosphere was disgusting. The ordure from the beasts assailed the nostrils, the bitter tang of the smoke caught in the throat, and the atmosphere was altogether brutal, attacking the senses with vicious sharpness. The light from the thin windows was pale, and shafted down to illuminate small pools of dirt on the floor, struggling on the way to fight past the thick smoke.
Coughing, Baldwin beckoned to Edward and Alfred and went back to the clean air at the front of the house. It was with relief that he managed to pass out through the front door again.
Once in the open air, Simon said, “About the night that Brewer died. We want to ask you some more questions. You both said that you were looking after your flocks.”
Edward seemed to catch his breath, freezing in an instant to become as still as a statue, his face fixed into a mask of fear. His brother was not affected. His thin features gazed back at the bailiff with what seemed to be a sneer fixed to his lips.
“So?” he asked. “Is there something wrong?”
At first Simon gazed at him in simple dislike – the man clearly cared nothing for the death of Brewer, although that was hardly surprising in view of the farmer’s unpopularity. But then all the anxieties of the last few days, the tiredness, the horrors, the pain and fear, suddenly caught hold of him and focused in an unreasoning rage against Carter.
In his arrogance, this little man seemed almost to be taunting the bailiff over his inability to find the killer of Brewer. It felt as if he knew too of Simon’s suspicions about Baldwin, as if his patronising smile ridiculed Simon’s efforts, and the fury blazed white-hot in response; it insulted not just him, but all the others as well – it demeaned the old farmer, the abbot, the merchants, the poor, broken, solitary girl on the moor, even those in the posse and the trail bastons who had died. The bailiff had seen more death and destruction in the last few days than ever before, and the brutality, the senseless butchery, that he had been forced to witness had left its mark. A blind loathing gripped him, almost choking him with its intensity.
With a snarl, he reached forward and grabbed the young man by the throat of his smock, twisting the cloth as he pulled it toward him, yanking the man off-balance as he dragged him forwards.
His action caught even Baldwin by surprise. All of a sudden the knight found himself gazing at his friend with a new-found respect. Simon, he could see, had hauled the boy three feet against his will with one arm, and the knight found himself trying to control a smile as he lifted his finger to scratch at his ear. This bailiff could be a right bastard to have a fight with, he thought to himself.
And now Simon was speaking to the Carter boy through gritted teeth, his voice low and venomous, eyes bulging. “We know you lied to us. I am in no mood for games! What did you do after you left the inn. Did you go straight to Brewer’s house? Kill him as soon as Ulton had gone? What happened?”
“We did nothing!” The boy was averting his face; they were so close their noses almost touched. “We came home!”
“Why did you lie to us?”
His voice was almost a whine now, wheedling to persuade the bailiff. “We didn’t think it mattered. If we’d told you our father might have found out, and he’d have thrashed us for not looking after the sheep when we were supposed to.”
“What time did you get home that night?”
“We told you. We told you it was about eleven.”
“You’re lying!” Simon bawled the words into the now fearful face. “You’re lying. You left the inn a little after Brewer. You left the inn just after the innkeeper threw him out, just after Ulton took him by the arm and helped him to his house, didn’t you? You followed them because you were so angry at his attitude at the inn, because you hated him, because he had money, because he hit out at you. You hated him, didn’t you?”
“No, no I…”
“You watched while Ulton put him in, didn’t you? You went in after him, didn’t you? You killed him, and set fire to the place so no one’d think it’d been a murder, didn’t you? Didn’t you?” Bawling, he stared into the fixed, terrified face.
“Simon, Simon,” murmured Baldwin, touching the stiff arm that held the petrified villein. “Calm yourself, Simon. Too much choler can be bad for the health. Now,” this to the shaking boy, now released as Simon turned away in disgust, who stood feebly stroking the side of his neck above the smock where the cloth had burned the skin red with a trembling hand. Shrugging, the knight grinned as he decided that a slight bluff could be risked. His voice reasonable, he said, “Alfred, we only want the truth. Nothing more. Did you know that Cenred saw you that night?”
The boy’s eyes were huge in his sudden horror and he shouted, “No!” Mouth hanging open, he stared at the knight, his gaze fixed with an awful intensity. “No! He can’t have!”
“Oh, I know you ducked back into the trees quickly, didn’t you, eh? But yes, he saw you. So I really think you’d better tell us the truth.”
At last Edward seemed to shake himself. He glanced at his brother with an expression of withering – what, scorn? Pity? Baldwin could not be sure, but there was something there that implied almost disgust with his younger brother. He bega
n talking quietly, as though he was repeating the tale for himself, reminding himself rather than telling it to his audience. As he started, Baldwin noticed Edgar and John Black walking up towards them, and quickly motioned to them to wait, so as not to interrupt.
“Yes, we followed them back. It’s true.” His voice had an empty quality, and Baldwin thought it was as if he was absolutely exhausted. “Alfred was mad at him for hitting him. It wasn’t a bad thump, not as bad as our father would have given us for not seeing to the sheep, but then Alfred never really did get hit like that, did you? Not being the little one.” He looked up at Baldwin. “We didn’t do it, though. He was already dead when we got there. Roger must have killed him.”
Staring at him, Baldwin was sure he was telling the truth. He seemed to have conviction in the way he stood there, his eyes fixed rigidly on Baldwin’s face, his body stolid in the way that his legs were set a little apart, almost as if planted and rooted in the earth. Baldwin could see that he was not pleading or asking for belief, it was as if he knew that he would be trusted if he told the truth, and now he was doing so for that reason.
“Yes, we went up there and waited in the trees until Roger went away. We saw him scuttle out of the door and run down the hill. And that was when we went up. I didn’t want to go, but Alfred wanted to hit him back. He wasn’t happy that Brewer had hit him in the inn and got away with it. I went to the door and knocked, but as I did Alfred heard someone coming, so I ducked down and he ran away, over to the other side of the road. It was Cenred, but he walked past like he’d seen nothing. So I knocked again when he’d gone. Alfred came up, but there was no answer.”
“What then?” said Baldwin, shooting a quick glance over at Simon. The bailiff stood, head bowed, listening intently but quietly, as if ashamed of his previous reaction.
“Alfred walked in. The door wasn’t locked. I followed. Brewer was lying on the floor, near his mattress. The fire was low, and we couldn’t see much, but Alfred went over and kicked him, and Brewer did nothing. It scared us, we understood something must be wrong. I lit a candle from the fire, and then we could see. Brewer was stabbed – four, five times in the chest.”
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