The Merchant's Partner (13 page)

“Yes. Your son made it clear that they were together
all day, so of course Harold could not have been involved, could he?”

“Oh. No, I suppose not.”

“Yes, but if Harold Greencliff
didn't
kill Agatha Kyteler, who did? We can find no one who can suggest any good reason so we wondered if it could be someone from her past. We've heard that you were involved in the escape from Acre with your partner.”

“So what? Anyway, who told you?”

“Did you know that Agatha Kyteler came from Acre? That she came over with a boy and saved his life?”

At first Walter de la Forte looked merely astonished, but when he spoke, his voice was as forceful as before. He asked truculently, “What's that supposed to mean? What is this? Are you accusing
me
of something? Is that it? You feel you have the right to come to my house and accuse
me
of murdering some old woman just because we were in the same place ages ago?”

“We have the right to go anywhere and ask anyone about the matter. I work for the de Courtenay family, and my friend works for the king. We have the right to question even
you
!”

Something snapped in him. The merchant half rose from his chair, his feet sliding back under him as if he was about to leap up and attack Simon, but even as he moved, Baldwin coughed and twitched his sword hilt with studied carelessness, making the steel stub at the end of the scabbard scrape over the floor with a harsh, metallic ringing. When Walter de la Forte shot him a glance, there was an expression of faint inquiry on the knight's face, as if he was merely waiting for the man's response. But Walter de la Forte saw that Baldwin's hand remained on the grip of his sword, and the meaning was clear.

Clearing his throat, he glanced from the knight to the bailiff with a slight nervousness. Then, slowly, he appeared to accept his position, stretching his legs out once more with what looked to Baldwin to be a physical effort, as if it was hard for him to surrender in this way. When he spoke, although he had made an effort to compose himself, Baldwin could hear the anger thickening his voice.

“What do you want to know?”

Simon walked to a chair by the fire and sat, leaning forward on his elbows. Staring at the ground at first, he said, “It's a coincidence, that's all. You are an important man in this area, do you know of anyone who could have had a motive to kill her?”

Shrugging, the merchant shook his head and folded his arms. “No.”

“In that case, are you aware of anyone who had a particular grudge against her from Acre? We have heard that you made a lot of money from taking people out during the siege.”

The eyes were suddenly narrow and shrewd. “If that's what you've heard, it's not true!”

“Really?” said Baldwin dubiously, and saw the merchant's eyes flit to him. “You must understand, though, that all we have to go on is what other people tell us. All we know is what they have said about you. If you want to put your own side to us, you should do so now. Otherwise we'll have to assume…”

“Yes, yes, yes, you've made your point!” He reflected a moment, then gave a quick shrug, as if mocking himself for unwarranted fears. “I don't see why not. I have nothing to hide.” Pausing, he stared into the fire, and looked as though he was collecting his thoughts into a coherent story. When he started, his
voice was low and thoughtful, almost as if he had forgotten their presence.

“Alan Trevellyn and I were in that hell-hole, Acre, during the last days of the siege—before it fell. We were shipmates on a French galley, both young and fit. We were ideal for the life. God! When we were young, a man had to stand on his own! Not like nowadays.” His brows pulled into a short glower of fury, but then they cleared again and his voice became reflective once more, while his eyes moved from Simon to Baldwin. The bailiff was sure that there was a shiftiness in them, and watched him carefully as he spoke.

“When we left, it was without the ship's master. He had taken some of our men to help with the fighting near one of the city gates, and while he was gone a group of English knights with Otto de Grandison came up. They were all that were left of the English soldiers sent by the king. De Grandison took a ship, and some of his men took over ours. If we hadn't agreed to go with them, they said they would kill us. We had to agree. De Grandison slipped his lines almost immediately, but the men on our ship insisted that we must wait, and while we did they brought on men and their wives, taking all their money in exchange for organizing their escape. Gold, diamonds, rich jewels, spices: the knights took it all. But only those with a lot of money could come aboard. Others had to stay behind. If they had nothing, they had no escape. It was that easy.”

Baldwin frowned. He recalled de Grandison, a strong Swiss, tall and proud. It sounded odd that he could have allowed his men to take advantage of the siege in such a way. He peered at the merchant, who now scowled back with a glower of sulky self-
justification. “It wasn't our fault,” he protested. “If we'd argued, what could we have done? We couldn't have fought the knights—they'd have killed us. Anyway, when the ship was full, the knights told us to make off, and we rowed out to sea.

“All was well. We got back to Cyprus and there the knights paid us off. We took the ship. They had no need for it. Alan and I shared our profits, and with them we thought we'd make our fortune. With the ship we could afford to trade, and we did for some time, all over the coasts around Outremer and back to France. After a few years, we had earned enough to be able to settle down, but we chose to carry on. We bought another ship—a cog—and sold the galley to the Genoese. With the new ship we could carry more cargo, and we took to trading between Gascony and England. We were successful, and that was where we made a good amount of money. But then things began to go downhill.

“We began to suffer from the prices,” he continued, frowning moodily at his boots. “When the French king took over Aquitaine, at first we made good money from King Edward, taking men and provisions to his lands, and bought more ships. But as things began to get worse, it was hard for us to get our pay, and it was soon obvious that we'd have to get some money some other way. So we began raiding French shipping in the channel. We did well. We kept our eyes open for any kind of profit, and never turned our noses up at anything. Well, that was how Alan met his wife, Angelina. We took over a ship that was sailing from Sluys to Calais, and found we had a better prize than we had at first realized. The owner of the ship was wealthy, very wealthy. Alan caught him, and his was the prize. At first we thought the money and cargo was all that was
there, but Alan realized the man himself must be valuable, and he struck a bargain, taking his daughter and half the cargo.”

He stared unseeing past Simon's shoulder. “But that was the high-spot of our careers. Since then, things have gone from bad to worse. Two years ago we had a bad time when we just couldn't seem to do anything right. We even had a ship taken by the French: lost the whole cargo. That hurt us. And since then, we've had our ship attacked twice and damaged, and lost I don't know how much money. So you see it's wrong to think we made all our money from Acre.”

“How did you lose so much? Just bad luck?” asked Baldwin mildly.

The eyes flashed toward the knight. “Luck? I suppose so. We made some unlucky decisions, telling the ship's master to take this course or that, and then finding a French pirate waiting, but I think most of our problems stem from misfortune of one sort or another.”

“So you don't believe in witches?”

“That's rubbish,” he said scornfully. “I know that's what they say, but it's not true!”

“That Agatha Kyteler was a witch, you mean?” asked Baldwin.

“Yes. She had nothing to do with us. It was just bad luck.”

“But people thought you were being cursed by her?”

“Some did.”

“Why should they think that?” mused Simon, then, catching a sullen glower from the merchant, his eyes suddenly widened. “She left Acre on
your
ship, didn't she!”

“She might—how can I tell? It was years ago!”

“Was it your partner who thought she might have cursed you?”

“He…He can be a little superstitious.”

Baldwin stirred, his spurs tinkling. “She never spoke to you about her escape from Acre?”

“This has nothing to do with her death. I'll not answer stupid questions.”

“Very well,” said the knight. “But tell me, your partner is Trevellyn, isn't he? You told us that when we last met.”

“Yes. The business is ours.”

“You have no other partners, but you are in debt to the Italians?”

“Yes.” He gave a sad grin which seemed to offer a glimpse of personal fears. “As I told you before, the business is sailing toward rocky shores. The Italians want their money back.”

Just then they heard feet in the screens and, looking up, saw the son standing before them. Baldwin was surprised at the change in Stephen. Whereas before he had been relatively cock-sure, now he looked chastened and almost shy. Not nervous, Baldwin thought to himself, but certainly not arrogant—or as arrogant as before, anyway, he admitted to himself with a small grin.

It was only when he approached and his face was lighted by the sconces and fluttering candle flames that the knight saw the reason. One side of the youth's face was a livid bruise with painful-looking yellow and purple edging. Above it, his left eye was marked too, and as Baldwin raised an eyebrow in surprise, he felt sure that the wound must have been inflicted by the boy's father. What, the knight wondered, had Stephen done to justify a beating?

Looking at the father, he found himself thinking that it could have been anything. The brutish face glared at
him, defiant and cruel, as if daring him to make any comment about how his household was organized.

Stephen walked across the room, glancing at Simon but ignoring the silent Edgar, to a low-backed chair. Whereas before he had haughtily held Baldwin's gaze, today his eyes were cast down like a shy maiden's. He did not seem to know where to put his hands, either. They rested at first in his lap, then on his knees. Soon he resolutely placed them on the chair's arms and sat still.

Baldwin smiled faintly. “When we saw you on Thursday, you said that Harold Greencliff had taken a lover. You said she was a married woman.” There was a slight movement of his head, but other than that Baldwin saw no sign that he had heard. “It is difficult for you, I know, but it is possible that she might know something about the death of Agatha Kyteler. We must find out who she is.”

Slowly Stephen's eyes rose to meet the knight's. “Like I said, you'd better ask Harry. I cannot betray a confidence. I swore…”

“Very well. I cannot force you. There is something else, though.” He paused, head tilted as he considered the youth. “Why did you lie about being with him all that day, the day that Kyteler died?”

“I…I didn't lie! How can you suggest that? I…”

“We know that you lied. What I now want to know is the truth. When did you meet him and what did you do together?”

His mouth opened, but then snapped shut as if he thought the better of further blustering. He glanced away for a moment, and when he looked back, Baldwin could see some of his previous pride rising again. “We were together almost all of the time. I met him at
the ‘Sign of the Moon' in the afternoon, and we spent most of the rest of the day together. If you want to check, ask the innkeeper, he'll…”

“We
have
asked him,” Baldwin said flatly. “He said you met him there at around five, late in the afternoon, and left shortly after, getting back at eight or so. Is that right?”

“I suppose so. I don't know…”

“Because we have someone who saw him in the road with a horse at about four, maybe just after. That means he could have gone to the house, killed the old woman, and still met you at the inn.”

“But…He's not a murderer!” The words came softly, almost hesitantly, and Baldwin was sure he was thinking hard about his friend, wondering whether he could have been wrong about him. How hard, the knight thought, to have to doubt an old friend.

“Have you seen him since he was released?”

The question, shot out so fast, took the youth by surprise, and his head nodded before he could stop himself.

“Did he say why he decided to leave the area?”

Stephen hesitated. His eyes held a sudden fear, a hunted look that made Baldwin realize how young he still was. The knight was about to prompt him gently when his father slammed his fist on the bench beside him in rage. “Answer!”

The boy's eyes shot to his father, and his mouth framed the word “Yes.” It was so soft that Baldwin could hardly hear it, but at the sound he breathed easier.

“Tell us why, Stephen.”

“It was his woman. She rejected him. He felt that there was nothing here for him anymore. He just decided to go. He was trying to get to a ship, so that he could sail for Normandy or Gascony, but he hardly got
anywhere when he was caught. That was all—he
swore
to me that he had nothing to do with her death! You don't really think he killed her, do you?”

Baldwin gazed at him with sympathy. There was little doubt now. Whatever else was unknown, they would be able to find out by questioning the youth again. He had little doubt of that. But in the meantime, this friend, who had been so loyal, was bound to be hurt. At the least Greencliff had lied to him, to his best friend, who had kept his secrets even when questioned by the Justice.

Sighing, he stood and motioned to Simon.

“Let's go and see Greencliff,” he said.

They had only just crossed the threshold when the messenger arrived, a young lad, flushed and panting from an enthusiastic chase that had taken him all the way to Furnshill and back.