The Merchant’s Partner aktm-2

by Michael Jecks

  “But this old woman had all those herbs and roots,” said Simon doubtfully.

  The knight shot him a quick look. “Don’t tell me you believe in witches?”

  “Well,” the bailiff explained apologetically, “it’s not that I believe in them necessarily, or that I think Kyteler was one, it’s just that there are so many stories, and…”

  “Oh, really!” The knight suddenly stood and strode to the fire, standing by the great lintel of the chimney, and when he spoke again his face was all in shadow, his body framed by the flames behind. “What is a witch?”

  It was Margaret who answered. “Someone who uses magic to do what she wants.”

  “And what does she want?”

  “Wealth. Love. Power. Sometimes to stay young. There are many things a witch can desire.”

  “Kyteler had none of these. What did she achieve?”

  Simon stirred. “You say that, but surely witches use magic just to do evil? They don’t need any benefit, they do it to please their master?”

  “Their master? Who do you mean? The Devil?”

  The bailiff was suddenly aware of the darkness, of the isolation of the manor as he answered, “Yes.”

  Filling his mug, Baldwin strolled back to his chair slowly. “Possibly. I would be happier to believe in a witch who was wealthy, though, than one who was trying to please her dark master!”

  “All those herbs, though…” Simon began hesitantly.

  “Simon, really! Do you accuse all leeches of being witches? She was probably good with them and used her skills to help others. There may come a time when even you are glad for the help of a wise woman who can stop the pain from a broken limb… Or piles!”

  “What do you know of her death, anyway?” asked Margaret diplomatically after a moment.

  Baldwin looked up. “Not much,” he admitted. “She was seen in the afternoon by Mrs. Oatway, but from then on we have little information.”

  “No,” mused Simon. “That’s where we ought to start. We need to find out what Oatway and Greenfield were doing in the afternoon. They’re the two we know who were supposed to hate her.”

  “Yes,” said Baldwin, and stared at the fire. “There is another suspect, though, Simon. I told you of my friend’s son.” Glaring into the flames, he explained about the Bourc’s visit to England to see the dead woman, and his ruby ring.

  “Do you think he could have killed her?” Margaret asked.

  Baldwin shook his head. “He was here out of gratitude. To thank her.”

  “If his story was true,” she said quietly.

  The knight did not respond, but later, when he left them to go to his room, his face still wore a troubled scowl.

  When Simon at last drifted off into sleep, he had the same nightmare as before, but this time the figure in the flames was not the abbot. As it turned, to his horror he recognised the face of Agatha Kyteler, her eyes sad and accusing as they held his.

  The constable arrived before nine o’clock the next morning with his companion. It had not taken them long to make the journey, though the snow had slowed them.

  “Sir Baldwin, I thought you should hear this man: what he can tell about Greencliff.”

  The knight looked up, his jaw moving as he chewed on a crust of bread. The youth with Tanner was in his early twenties, tall, at least three inches over the constable, and with softly pale flesh. He looked fat, though his skin hung flaccid round his jowls and the hands gripping the cap were chubby. His mousy hair was cut well, and from his clothes he appeared well-to-do, with a blue tunic of wool, and woollen hose of grey. On his heavy belt he wore a small dagger.

  “Who are you?”

  The eyes rose and met his gaze unflinchingly. “Stephen de la Forte.”

  To Simon he appeared to be a naturally haughty man who was holding himself in with difficulty. His eyes were a surprisingly light grey colour, with glints of amber, which made them look oddly translucent, and they sat in a round face, where the definition of youthful exercise was already fading into the rounded obesity of premature middle-age. The bailiff instinctively disliked him, and rested his elbows on the table to study him the better.

  “So, Stephen de la Forte, what can you tell us?”

  The youth glanced quickly at the constable, a fleeting look, but Simon felt sure he could see a glimmering of devious intelligence there.

  “I… I’m a friend of Harold Greencliff’s – I’ve known him for years. I went to his house last night to see him, and the constable was there.”

  “I went there about an hour after leaving you, sir,” interjected Tanner. “He arrived when I’d just settled down.”

  “I see. Well, then. Why were you going to see him?“ asked Baldwin easily, leaning back in his chair.

  “I…” he shot a glance over to Tanner again, suddenly nervous. “As I said, he’s a friend. I saw him on Tuesday, at the inn, and he seemed unhappy then – troubled – so I wanted to see him again and make sure he was all right.”

  “How do you mean ”troubled“?” said Simon frowning. The youth glanced at him with surprise and a certain distaste, as if he had thought the bailiff was a mere servant and should not try to become involved in the conversation of his betters. “Well?”

  “I don’t know. He was upset by something. I took him out to the inn and stayed with him, but he didn’t tell me anything about what was worrying him.”

  He looked shifty, and Simon thought to himself that he appeared to be lying. Watching the boy’s eyes flit away, he noted the fact for discussion with Baldwin later.

  The knight was toying with a knife. Spearing a slab of meat, he studied it thoughtfully, and said, “You were so worried after Tuesday that you want back to see him late yesterday? Why not earlier?”

  “I did go earlier!”

  “And?”

  His eyes dropped. “He wasn’t there.”

  “When was that?” Simon said, leaning forward.

  “I don’t know. Early, not long before noon.”

  “I see. Tanner?”

  “Yes?” The constable stepped forward.

  “I assume Greencliff didn’t turn up?”

  “No, sir. We stayed there all night, but there was no sign of him.”

  “Stephen de la Forte, can you think of any reason why your friend should have run away?”

  The eyes that gazed back at him were troubled, and the youth slowly shook his head, but Simon was sure that he saw certainty there. This boy obviously thought his friend was guilty.

  Baldwin took a deep breath, “In that case, I think we’d better organise a search. It may have nothing to do with the death of Kyteler, but it certainly seems suspicious that on the day her body is found – especially so close to his house – he disappears. Very well.” He glanced at Tanner, who nodded, and then, at the knight’s dismissive wave, took the youth by the arm and led him out. It was only when they were gone and the door shut behind them that Baldwin turned back to Simon and sighed in relief.

  “Let’s just hope they find him, eh? I think he could help us with some points about this death, especially now he’s decided to run away – that looks suspicious, doesn’t it. It seems like a clear sign of guilt, thank God! It wasn’t the Captal’s son.”

  They spent the morning riding up over to the north on the road towards Bickleigh, the peregrine on Baldwin’s arm in the hope of finding a suitable prey for their meal later, but saw nothing worth hunting. At last, when the sun had risen to its zenith, Baldwin snorted and gave a long grumbling sigh.

  “This is ridiculous. I can’t concentrate. Simon, Margaret, would you mind if we turned back home now?”

  They exchanged a glance, then both nodded. Motioning to Edgar, Baldwin handed over the falcon, then turned his horse back home.

  Up and down hills, the whole shire was smothered by the freezing blanket of white. In the distance Margaret could occasionally see the distant, grim greyness of the moors above the Dart, seeming different somehow from the rest of the countryside, gl
oomier and more menacing, proudly crouching on the edge of the horizon like a great cat waiting to pounce.

  As they rode to the long track that wound through the ravine before the manor, Simon pointed excitedly at the path before them.

  “Look at the prints! The search party must be back.”

  Rounding the last bend in the trail before beginning the half-mile long straight section that pointed straight as a lance to the building itself, they could see the horses tied to the rail by the door, nuzzling at the ground or pawing the snow, trying to get to the grass that lay beneath.

  “Edgar, see to the horses,” Baldwin called, throwing the reins to his servant before running indoors. Pausing only to help his wife down, Simon hurried after him.

  The search party was waiting in the hall, sitting at Baldwin’s tables and putting the knight’s men to good service fetching wine and bread. Before them sat the figure they had seen the previous morning.

  Simon studied him with interest. The day before he had looked nervous and scared of the bailiff and knight, but now he seemed dulled. He could have put it down to exhaustion, but Simon was sure he could see a glitter of defiance in the blue of the youth’s eyes.

  “Tanner?” the knight called, and the constable walked up from the bottom of the table.

  “Hello, sir.”

  Motioning towards the farmer on the floor, Baldwin asked, “Where did you find him?”

  Giving the boy a look of contempt, as if at his stupidity in being so predictable, the constable said, “Down south on the way to Exeter. He walked there overnight, apparently. He says he decided to leave. He wants to go to seek his fortune in Gascony.” Shaking his head, Tanner glanced down at the boy.

  Baldwin nodded. “Greencliff?” he said. “You know how this must make you appear to us. You’re not stupid. Tell us about the day that the woman Kyteler died. What were you doing? Where did you go?”

  But the youth merely stared back at him with eyes that suddenly filled with tears, and refused to answer.

  After the search party had left, the constable cursing as he tried to form the ragged group of men into an escort for their prisoner, Simon stood for some minutes, gazing after them with a puzzled frown. When he turned, he saw Baldwin close by, glowering at the ground.

  “I am surprised,” said the knight slowly. “I find it difficult to believe that Greencliff is a murderer, and yet…”

  “It’s hard to see why he would keep silent if he was innocent. Especially when he must know he’s the obvious man to suspect. And the body was right by his house.”

  “Yes, it was. But that’s what worries me. I would have expected him to leave the body in the house or dump it somewhere else. Not there, right by his own place – it’s almost as if he was trying to get us to suspect him!”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Come on, Simon. If you were to kill someone and wanted to avoid being found out, surely you would hide the body somewhere more imaginative, somewhere away from yourself, somewhere – even if the body was seen – it would not be connected to you, wouldn’t you?”

  Simon nodded slowly, but doubtfully. “Perhaps, Baldwin, perhaps. But equally, what if he had put Kyteler there hoping to hide her better later? He might not have expected anyone to see her there. After all, he might have thought he could get to her before anyone rose, to hide her in the trees where nobody could find her.”

  Scratching at his beard, his mouth drawn up into a cynical grin, the knight nodded. “I suppose so. But surely, if that was his plan, he would have been about his business early, before old Samuel Cottey would be up?”

  “Don’t forget the body was away from the road, hidden in the hedge. Maybe he thought he was going to be up before anyone else. In any case, why would anyone else have put the body there?”

  “To implicate Greencliff, of course.”

  “But wasn’t it too well hidden for that?” Simon frowned. “Away from the road, and under the hedge like that. If someone wanted to make sure that Greencliff was blamed, surely they would have made the body easier to find?”

  “It was well away from the road,” Baldwin admitted.

  “Yes. And yet Cottey found it… I wonder how…”

  “What?”

  “How did he find the body over there? He would not have been able to see it from the road. I think maybe we should go and talk to old Sam and find out exactly how he did find Kyteler.”

  Chapter Nine

  At the door to Cottey’s old house, a ramshackle affair built half of logs, half of cob, on a small hill amid a series of small strips of pasture and crops, with a huge wood-stack before the door, they found a young woman scattering seed for the chickens that scampered at her feet.

  They had ridden from Furnshill almost as soon as they had decided to see Cottey, the black and brown dog insisting on joining them. The mastiff, taking one look at the cold snow, appeared to decide that the fire inside held more delights for a lady such as herself. Now Agatha Kyteler’s dog capered along in their wake, occasionally throwing himself headlong into a thick drift when the whim took him. Arriving at the door to the house, he was a great deal more white than black or brown.

  The girl stopped tossing her seeds and watched as they rode forward, and then, at the sight of the dog, she put her basket down and crouched, holding her arms widespread. The dog went into a convulsion of ecstasy, tail wagging madly, panting in apparent delight, as he danced slowly around her, allowing her to stroke and pat him.

  Baldwin grinned as he swung a leg over his horse’s rump. She was a reasonably attractive woman, only just jut of her teens, with an agile, if sturdy, body. He could not help but notice that she appeared to be well-formed. When she glanced up at him, he saw that she had light-grey, almond-shaped eyes above a wide mouth with full and slightly pouting lips. Her hair was mousy, almost fair, and hung in a braid down her left shoulder. He drew in a breath, and let it out in a short sigh. She looked very attractive. “Calm down, fool! She’s only a villein. You’re just getting desperate, that’s all,” he told himself.

  “Are you Sarah Cottey?” he asked, and she rose to her feet, wiping her hands on the front of her tunic. The innocent action pulled the cloth taut over her breasts, and Baldwin cleared his throat and averted his eyes.

  “Yes, sir,” she answered with a smile, seeming to notice his glance and subsequent embarrassment. She wiped her hands again as if taunting him.

  “Er… Is your father here?”

  She motioned to the road behind them. “No, he’s over at my aunt’s farm in Sandford. But he will be back soon, will you wait here?”

  Simon exchanged a glance with Baldwin and, when he nodded, dropped from his horse, lashing the reins to a post nearby. “Thank you. Yes, we will wait.”

  She asked if they wanted to sit inside by the fire, but to Simon’s surprise, Baldwin seemed happy enough to stand outside in the cold, talking by the door. Unknown to him, the knight remembered the smells from the Oatways’ house.

  “Do you know the dog? He seems happy enough to see you.”

  “Oh, yes. It’s old Agatha’s, isn’t it? I always used to make a fuss of him when I saw him. Isn’t it sad about her, though? My poor father, he was so upset afterwards, I thought he would never calm himself.”

  “Why? Was he a friend of hers?” asked Simon.

  “Friend?” She looked at him with faint surprise, as if the suggestion was one she would not have expected. “No, of course not. No, he thinks she was a witch. Even just finding her, he was scared she could come back and haunt him if he treated her wrongly.”

  “Haunt him? Why should she want to?”

  “Well, you know how these things are. People round here are worried if someone’s a bit different. They feel anxious if someone new arrives in the village, and Agatha was different. He thinks she might come back as a ghost.”

  “How? In what way was she different?”

  “In what way? She came from a land far away, so she used to say, from the kingdom of J
erusalem, and had a knowledge of herbs and roots. If someone was hurt, they’d go to her, and she could often help, even if it was only by stopping their pain for a short time.”

  “She was a midwife too, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes,” she bridled slightly, as if nervous, or perhaps shy, and her cheeks’ natural ruddiness deepened. “Yes, she was known for that. She was very clever.”

  Just then they all heard the rattle and clatter of a wagon and, looking up, they soon saw the old farmer sitting on his cart. His dog leapt from the back of the wagon and walked slow and stiff towards Baldwin’s adopted friend, but they knew each other and were soon engaged in a companionable chase.

  Samuel Cottey appeared unsurprised at the presence of his visitors, and he nodded at them both before springing lightly from the seat and beginning to see to the mule. While Simon and Baldwin waited, Sarah disappeared inside and soon came out again with a mug of warmed ale for her father. Taking it, he smiled at her, his face creasing into familiar wrinkles before tilting it and drinking deeply.

  “So… What do you want, sirs?” he asked equably as he finished and wandered over to the men at his door.

  “We had a few questions to ask about how you found the woman yesterday,” said Baldwin by way of explanation. As he spoke, the farmer’s daughter appeared again by the door, holding two pint mugs of ale for them. Smiling thankfully, Simon took both from her and passed one to Baldwin, but she hardly noticed his gratitude. She was staring at the knight as he spoke to her father, and looked pale, as if she was worried about something.

  “First, can you tell us exactly how you found her? You can’t have seen the body from the road.”

  “No, I didn’t,” said the farmer. His eyes were downcast, but then they rose to the knight’s face, and Baldwin saw the defiance in them, as if the old man knew that he should not be scared of the dead woman, but was still not afraid to admit his fear. He quickly explained how his dog had wandered and found her body. “Daft bugger never was a sheep worrier. No, but he had found the old witch…”