The bailiff and his friend sat quietly while the master of the house thundered, stamping like a bear waiting for the baiting. Simon’s eyes followed the miner, but inwardly he was seething. It was one thing to take advantage of the Beauscyrs, but quite another to lie to the chief warden’s bailiff, and he was wary of speaking until he could control his anger. Unaffected by any legal implications, Baldwin was in a position to enjoy the encounter, and he did so, watching Thomas Smyth’s ranting with open amusement. Seeing his evident pleasure did nothing for Smyth’s temper. His face was as black as the sky in a storm, glaring at the two men. George Harang stood before them, his eyes reflecting his open contempt.
“How can we work the King’s tin if we’re to be obstructed? And if this isn’t an obstruction, God Himself only knows what is! It was madness to let them come to the mining vill. If I’d been there, the bastards wouldn’t have left alive, I promise you that. And you let them go! They should’ve been arrested immediately—by you, bailiff. It’s why you’re here, it’s your job, and if you won’t do it, someone else’ll have to. The impudence of them! They force their way into my blowing-house, beat two of my workers like a gang of outlaws, and then you let them get away! They should’ve been held—yes! Sent to Lydford Jail and held for the next stannary court, that would’ve cooled their ambitions! Two of them with men-at-arms! God in Heaven!”
Baldwin thought he was running out of invective. Smyth stopped beside George Harang, surveying the seated men, but then caught sight of the expression on his servant’s face. If anything, it only served to heighten his fury. “And you…you can stop looking like a lawyer with a new client, you bastard! If you’d done your job properly that camp would have been better defended. How did the Beauscyr whelps manage to get into the compound? Hey? They should’ve been seen from miles off and stopped. How can we protect our tin if the miners don’t look after the blowing-house and storerooms?”
George quailed. He had suffered the rough edge of his master’s tongue before now, but this time it was worse. He had never seen Thomas look so angry, not even at those times when a lot of it was for show and he was browbeating one of the men for an infringement of his rules. This was no acting, though, this was the raw, fierce rage of a man who was close to the end of his tether. “Sir, I did what I—”
“Shut up!” Thomas turned back to Simon. “So, then, bailiff. What are you going to do about it? I want them arrested.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘No’? Have you no idea what your—”
Simon cut across the fresh tirade. “I will not arrest the Beauscyrs, or your three men. I’ll question them all, but until I know what’s really been going on down here, I’ll not take any more action. There’s been too much latitude taken by your people, as well as the Beauscyrs, and it’ll stop now. You will immediately halt your attempts to bully people away from the moors.”
“You dare to tell me—me—what I must do?” His voice was lower now, and his face was quite pale, as if the blood was draining from it. “You dare tell me you’ll question my men? I shall say this to you, bailiff: no one has ever had the arrogance to threaten me in my own home, and if you think—”
“Thomas Smyth, I am the bailiff of Lydford, as you have pointed out. I am here on the orders of the chief warden. If you presume once more to interrupt me, I will arrest you and have you thrown into the jail. Do I make myself clear?”
Although Simon’s tone was deceptively soft, Thomas was aware of the iron beneath it. He bit his lip and glowered, but then stamped to a chair and stood by it tensely, ordering his man to fetch wine and staring at Simon.
Staring back at him unblinkingly, the bailiff continued. “Good. I have had evidence of your men beating up legitimate miners on the moors, of your charging money from landowners to stay off their lands, and now I find that you have lied to me. When I asked you about these men, you told me that they were not here anymore, that they had disappeared from the mining camp. Now I find that the Beauscyrs were quite correct to assume that you had lied, and that you were, in fact, hiding them in the storeroom of your blowing-house. Under the King’s forest laws or the stannary laws, you’re guilty. However, before I sort out the mess you have created, I intend to discover what happened to Peter Bruther, and I expect your complete cooperation. If I do not feel I am receiving it, I will have you arrested. I trust that is clear?”
“You’re in the pay of the Beauscyrs,” the miner jeered. “That’s why you won’t do your duty.”
Angered by the accusation, Baldwin made a move as if to stand, but Simon’s hand caught his arm and he subsided, saying, “This is getting intolerable! My friend here is trying to unravel a murder, and all you and the others who live here want to do is argue about ancient privileges.”
“Ancient enough, sir knight, but important,” Thomas spat, but then he collapsed in his chair. He had seen the knight’s anger, and it made him hold his tongue. George had returned with the bottler, a thin gray-faced man, who carried a goblet and jug. Sighing, Smyth took the proffered wine, then realized that there was none for his visitors. “What of them, you fool! Do you expect them to drink from the jug?” he snapped, glaring after the bottler, who quickly ran from the room. Sighing, he could not help a faint, disgusted smile. “It seems my world is falling apart,” he muttered. “Very well, bailiff, I believe you. You have my apologies. You’ll do your duty. What d’you want from me?”
Simon surveyed him woodenly. He had been close to losing his own temper when Baldwin had leapt to his defense, and was glad now that he had managed to keep it on a close rein. More could be achieved with the miner on his side than against him. But he was sure that something was wrong.
“First, I want your permission to speak to whomsoever I wish in your camp, whenever I want, and without interference from your men.” He glanced up as he said this. George Harang and the bottler had returned with two more goblets and a jug.
“Very well. If it will help to find Peter Bruther’s killer, I agree.”
“And I may want to speak to others. Your daughter…”
“Alicia? But why? She was—”
“She knows Robert Beauscyr, that’s all.”
“Very well, but I’m sure she’ll be of little help. Anyway, I’ll not let her see the whelp in future.”
“And last, I want to know at what time you saw Sir William on the night Bruther died.”
“He was here when we arrived back,” Smyth said, glancing at the bottler. “You! When did he get here?”
The bottler’s head snapped round. He was an old man, too thin to be healthy, his sandy hair going pale as it grayed. “He arrived here in daylight, sir. I brought him in here to wait and he stood in the middle of the room, shouting every few minutes for more wine. I had to keep coming back with fresh jugs for him.”
Smyth nodded contemptuously. “He looked drunk when we returned.”
“Where were you earlier?” Simon asked.
“We had spent most of the day with our men, checking on their work and how well the blowing-house was working. It’s very new still, and I’ve been worried that it might not be functioning properly, so we were there for much of the time. We got back after Sir William and sat to eat immediately—though he was not hungry. I think the thought of sharing our food would have hurt his pride too much.”
“I know what he was doing here.”
“He told you?” Smyth was surprised.
“He didn’t like it, but yes. I assume he agreed to your terms?”
“Yes,” Thomas said tightly, “although he wanted to pay less than I asked and I was forced to point out how much trouble it would save him. In the end he accepted.”
“And when he left, what sort of mood was he in?”
“I won’t pretend that he was happy, bailiff. But he seemed to realize that he had little choice.”
“I see.” Sipping his wine, Simon said, “What do you think of Robert Beauscyr?”
“A hothead. He’s so keen on his stu
dies, he never thinks about his actions,” said Thomas dismissively.
“Today shows that. Any other man would have thought through the attack better and been gone before the men there were awake, but oh no, he had to ride in noisily and make such a row that they all awoke. And then it had to go to a fight if he wanted to get away. Sheer stupidity.”
“Would you have said that of him before today?”
“How do you mean? Oh, I suppose…” The miner reflected a moment. “No, probably not. I’d have thought he would be one of the more sensible of the landowners in the area because of his learning. No, you’re right. He acted out of character today. Usually he’s happy enough to accommodate the miners.”
“What about John?”
“Ah, bailiff. Now you are asking me about someone I cannot understand. Young John is a hard man, I’m sure of that. I don’t like or trust him, he always looks like something else is going on in his head when he speaks. He resents his brother as the heir to the estate. Not just from jealousy—I think he honestly believes he would be the better master. He might have been, too. When he has a mind, he can charm the larks from the skies, and he certainly has the diplomatist’s skill of lying while seeming to be honest.”
“Robert Beauscyr could have wanted to capture Bruther and take him back to the estate; if the man refused, he could have killed him. He had a motive to murder, to remove an embarrassment to his Manor and punish someone he saw as merely a runaway, but I know of no motive for John to kill. Do you?”
“John?” Frowning with concentration, Thomas looked deep into the fire. “No, there’s none I can see. He’s been away too long to have been insulted by Bruther, and he doesn’t strike me as the sort of lad to want to help his brother overmuch.”
“Who else could have wanted to see Peter Bruther dead, do you think?”
The old man gave him a helpless glance. “I don’t know, bailiff. There’s nobody could have wanted to hurt him, as far as I know.”
“What do you know of Bruther?” Simon was beginning to feel desperate. “Where did he come from?”
“He was son to Martha Bruther, a widow in Shallow Barton, a small vill out on the outskirts of Widecombe. Her husband was old Arthur Bruther, who had died before Peter was born, and she brought the lad up on her own.” He hesitated. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill him.”
There was a quietness about him which Simon found curious. For a powerful man, who must surely have been a hard taskmaster to so many of his miners, to feel so sympathetic to the dead man was unusual, especially when Bruther was living out on a parcel of land in which Smyth had an interest. The bailiff found himself wondering whether this was a show put on for his benefit. Thomas Smyth was more than capable of acting sadness, he was sure. The miner silently refilled his goblet and drank deeply, staring into the distance.
Baldwin leaned forward. “Do you think he was involved in something illegal? Stealing cattle, for example? Could he have been killed for a theft?”
“No!” The emphatic denial made the knight’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “I would have heard about it if he was, I’m sure. I look after a lot of men out here, and I try to make sure they all keep to the law. Otherwise I’d have the bailiff visiting me every other week.”
The knight nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on the miner as Simon said, “I don’t think there’s anything else we need to know from you. If you do think of anything, I want to hear it as soon as possible. Now, I need to see your daughter. I must ask her about that night as well.”
“But she won’t have seen or heard anything—she was here all the time.”
“Maybe, but anything is possible. And I want to know more about Robert Beauscyr. She can help me there too.”
With a bad grace, Thomas Smyth motioned tersely to George Harang, who left the room and came back very quickly with the girl. Baldwin smiled. The speed of her entry and her red face made it clear that she had been listening at the door.
Studying Alicia, Baldwin found it easy to understand why Robert Beauscyr could be interested in her. She had breeding—from her mother, no doubt. It showed in the way she walked. Her face, without the heaviness which showed in Christine’s features, was high-browed and smooth-skinned, while her eyes were large and wide-spaced. Alicia moved slowly to her father’s side once more and stood defiantly with her chin up as if expecting judgment.
Simon began to question her. He had no wish to cause her upset. His own daughter would someday be like this girl, teetering on the edge of adulthood—and hoping to fall over the brink very soon. “On the night that Peter Bruther died, my dear, we know your father had Sir William Beauscyr come to visit. Where were you that afternoon and evening?”
Glancing quickly at her father, Alicia said, “I went out with Mother to Chagford in the morning, but we were back here by mid-afternoon. When my father sat down in the hall with Sir William, we left the men and went to the solar.”
“And you stayed there all night? You saw no one?”
“No.”
“I see. In that case, we can move on. Robert Beauscyr: he’s a friend of yours?”
She stood a little straighter now, like a haughty queen. “He and I have known each other since we were born.”
“Tell me, then: how would you describe his temper?”
“Robert’s temper? Oh, mild. He is always calm and polite. It’s rare for him to raise his voice, and when he does it’s only after a lot of provocation. Of course, he’s very brave as well. He may not have spent his strength in wars far away that mean little to us down here, but he would always defend anyone who needed help.”
Baldwin rubbed at his brow as he listened, sighing inwardly. That was the trouble with asking young people about their peers, he thought. Either they were the embodiment of all evil or perfect heroes. There hardly ever seemed to be a middle ground. If one thing could be gleaned from her answers to Simon’s careful questions, it was that she was fond of the youth. He exchanged a swift glance with the bailiff, who gave a nod.
“That’s very good, Alicia. Thank you for that, it’s been very useful. Now,” he stood, “I think we should go. We have many other people to see and speak to.”
Thanking Thomas Smyth and his daughter, the bailiff and his friend went out to their horses. “And now, Baldwin,” said Simon with a wolfish smile, “I think we ought to have a brief look at the Fighting Cock, don’t you?”
–11–
The inn was a pleasant surprise when it came into view. A large central block stood a little apart from storerooms, stables and kitchens, all made from stone. But while other buildings seemed depressing and gray, this place sparkled in the sunlight. It was trading well, too, judging from the number of horses which waited outside.
They left their horses tied to rings in the inn’s walls and entered. It was a large hall, the ceiling supported by huge pillars which rose up like the masts of great ships. In the middle was a fireplace, and the rushes on the floor smelled fresh and fragrant, almost overcoming the sour stench of spilled ale. The windows were tall and narrow but lighted the room well.
As they had expected, the place was full. Baldwin saw craggy-featured miners in one corner, a foppishly dressed merchant with four servants holding court near the fire, a knight with two men-at-arms standing and leaning against a wall and watching the others with a mocking smile, a laughing group of farmers at a table, two older men with rosy cheeks sitting primly as if with distaste at such noisy displays, and in and among them moved three serving girls, daintily circling round the men with pots and jugs in their hands.
Striding to a table which was for the present deserted, Baldwin beckoned to a pretty, pale young girl, whose auburn hair was loose and flowing. She smiled at him and nodded, soon making her way to them between the tables.
“So, Simon. We need to find out whether Sir Ralph was here like young John said, don’t we?” the knight said as he sat.
“Sirs?”
Baldwin glanced up to find the girl at his side. He
returned her smile, ordered for them, and she disappeared into the throng once more. Before long she was back, carrying full earthenware pots of ale. When she had set them down, Baldwin asked if she could wait for a minute.
“Oh no, sir. Not while there are so many to be served. I have to keep working, or I might lose my job here…”
“This won’t take long,” Baldwin promised. “It’s just that my friend and I know the Beauscyrs, and John told us that his knight and he were here the other day.”
“Yes, sir. They came in an hour or so before dark. We know John here.” Dimples deepened and the light beamed like flakes of gold in her hazel eyes. Happily she said, “But I can’t stop now. Anyway, that was Molly, if he recommended one of us, not me. I’m Alison. But I can get her to come to you later, if you want.”
The knight stared at her. “Oh! I…”
Seeing his friend’s embarrassment, Simon began to shake with laughter. Baldwin himself was incapable of speech. While the girl stared from one to the other, Simon struggled to bring his humor under control. At last he managed to say, “Alison, there’s just one thing, if you could: if John was with Molly, where was his friend?” “His friend? Oh, no! You misunderstand me—Molly was with his friend. John wasn’t in the mood at the time.”
“I see. And his friend was here for how long?” Simon asked while Baldwin coughed and leaned forward attentively.
“Most of the night, sir.” Her eyes went to the knight with a faint nervousness. She knew the Beauscyr family was wealthy and powerful, and she did not like being questioned about them.
“So John and his friend were here until late, then?” Simon asked.
“No.”
A Moorland Hanging Page 14
