The Merchant's Partner (23 page)

Her features were contorted with loathing, and it was concentrated and focused on him.

 

They had ridden almost to the door of Greencliff's house before Baldwin turned to face the bailiff.
“Simon you can't believe that she was involved. How could you think…? After all, Greencliff's confessed…And she's far too beautiful to be a murderess. God! Why did you have to be so hard on the poor woman?”

“Baldwin, be still! Calm down.” Simon stared at his friend and the knight could see his misery. Baldwin was torn between his strong attraction to the woman and his friendship to the bailiff, but although his loyalty to Simon was intense, he was so moved by Angelina Trevellyn that he felt a sense of near disgust for Simon after the interrogation he had just witnessed. Even so, the signs of misery on his friend's face compelled him to be silent and wait for the explanation.

“Look, we
know
she was there. She was with the witch on the day the poor woman was murdered, after the Bourc had left. She won't say why. We
know
she hated her husband—she hardly hides the fact, does she? Even her servants were not with her when her husband disappeared, from the sound of things.”

“Simon, for the love of God! You can't believe this! How could a woman like her kill? It's not possible—it's mad!”

“Listen to me, old friend. You know as well as I do that there have been warlike women before, women who could kill, or wage war. You know this. Why should Mrs. Trevellyn be different?”

“But Simon…”

“You recall how her husband's body was? Lying as if outstretched? You remember I said it was as if he was pleading? Couldn't she have got Greencliff to cut his throat while he was begging
her
not to kill him?”

“But Simon! You cannot believe that, surely! A woman like her…” Through his horror, Baldwin, re
alized that his friend was pleading with him, his face set, his eyes intense.

“Baldwin, I don't know, I don't know! That's the point! I have to make sure she's innocent of the murders.”

“But
you
said that Greencliff admitted to them.”

“Yes, and he had a knife with blood on it, but even so, he might have had help…Or he might have helped another. I don't know. All I do know is that she
is
involved somehow. I don't know how or why, but I'm sure she knows what happened. Baldwin, I must know what she has done. So must you!”

 

Margaret was worried by the sight of the two men. She had expected Simon's return to be a joyful occasion, not miserable like this. The two men were hardly talking.

They entered the hall together, but almost immediately Baldwin muttered about wanting to change out of his clothes, damp as they were from his journey, and left them alone. Simon stood and watched him go, then sighed and dropped on to a bench.

“Simon, what has happened?”

Briefly he explained, telling her about their visit to Mrs. Trevellyn, and his conclusions. Margaret listened with misery. She could not comprehend the feelings of the knight, who at last appeared to have found his ideal woman, only to have his best friend suggest that she could have been involved in a murder—maybe two.

When the door opened, both looked up. Seeing it was Hugh, she turned back to her husband. “But you only have some suspicions against her, nothing concrete, nothing that should make Baldwin doubt her. Why not leave him to make his own choice. If she is as beautiful as you say, then…”

“But that's the point!” he exclaimed despairingly.

“If I'm right, she might have been involved not just in one murder, but two! And one of the dead was her own husband. If she killed her own husband, would she not be a danger to Baldwin?”

To Hugh it looked as if his master was ravaged by doubts. It seemed as if he was pulled in different directions, by his friendship to the knight and the wish to see him happy, and by his confusion over the woman's role in the death of her husband. Clearing his throat, he interrupted. “Sir?”

“What?”

“I don't know if it's important, sir,” the servant said, and quickly explained what Jennie Miller had said about Harold Greencliff and Mrs. Trevellyn.

It was one of the few times he had ever been able to shock his master, and Hugh rather enjoyed it.

“You mean Jennie Miller thinks that Mrs. Trevellyn herself killed old Agatha?”

 

Their evening was quiet. With Baldwin's reserved and withdrawn manner, there was little conversation. Simon and Margaret sat opposite Hugh and Edgar at the great table. Baldwin was at his place at the head, but he was unwilling to talk, and soon after he had finished his meal, he announced that he was ready to go to bed.

Before he could rise from his seat, Margaret went to him and poured him more wine, then stood beside him. “No, you need to talk with Simon,” she said, and motioned to Hugh to clear the table. Sighing he got up and began to collect the plates. After a glare from Margaret, Edgar stood too, and began to help. Soon they were taking out the dishes, and when they had both disappeared, Margaret turned to her husband.

“Right, Simon. Tell Baldwin what we heard today from Hugh.”

He gazed at her in surprise, and then looked apologetically at Baldwin, who stared back impassively as he was told of the rumors in Wefford about Mrs. Trevellyn and Harold Greencliff. Then, with a sigh, he picked up his pot and sipped at his wine.

“All right, but there's no proof that she has been unfaithful to her husband, no proof of an affair, and certainly nothing to suggest that she killed Agatha or her husband. It's pure gossip, as you say.”

Margaret sat down again, looking from one to the other. “Baldwin,” she said, “did you think her evidence was strange?”

“Strange?” he glanced at her in surprise. “How do you mean?”

“From what Simon told me, Mrs. Trevellyn will not say what she was doing at the old woman's house. And there really isn't anyone else who seems to have had a reason to want to kill her husband. Doesn't it seem strange?”

“Well…” He shrugged, dubious.

“And yet this boy has admitted to it. I don't see why he would do that unless he was involved, but I think you should question him and see what he has to say.”

“There's no point trying to do that,” Simon interrupted. “I tried to get him to speak about it yesterday and all the way back today, but I got nothing from him. He just didn't seem to want to talk about it at all.”

“What?” Baldwin frowned at this. “Not at all?”

“No. He refused to talk about it. He wouldn't talk about Agatha Kyteler's death or Alan Trevellyn's. As soon as I mentioned either he went as silent as a corpse and said nothing until we spoke of something else.”

“But he
did
confess to killing them?”

“Oh, yes. In fact, when we asked him, he kept reminding us that his knife had their blood on it. And it did—well, it had
some
blood on it, anyway.”

“That
does
seem odd.”

“What does?” asked Margaret.

The knight glanced at her. “The fact that he confessed without giving any reason why. Usually people boast of the reason why they murdered someone if they admit to it. ‘He robbed me,' or ‘he threatened me,' they say, and use that as justification for the killing. If they don't confess, and it's more common that they don't, they deny all knowledge of the crime. At least, that's
my
experience.”

“So you think that because he said he
did
do it, it looks odd?” she said slowly.

“Yes. Nobody wants to surrender themselves to a punishment of death for no reason. It would be mad, stupid—or…” He suddenly broke off, and his eyes turned to the fire with a frown that spoke of a level of intentness Simon had not seen before. It was as if he was consumed with a total concentration which absorbed him completely. A low gasp escaped from his lips, almost a moan of pain.

“What is it? Are you all right?” asked Simon, and was surprised to be silenced by a curt wave of the knight's hand.

There
was
a reason, Baldwin thought to himself distractedly. If a man was committed, or if he was devoted in his life, tied to a cause, he could subject himself even to death. Who could know that better than he, he who had seen his comrades sent to torture and to death by the flames. They were all dedicated because they all believed in their cause: in the honor and purity of the
military Order, in the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon: the Knights Templar. They had refused to agree to the confessions put to them by the Inquisition, they had suffered and died, not for a lie, but because they believed: in themselves and their masters and their God. And now Harold Greencliff was behaving in the same way, as if he too had a cause. A
love,
greater even than his own love for life.

Simon's eyes flitted from his wife to the knight in his bewilderment. What Baldwin was thinking was totally hidden from him. What had he been saying? Something about not surrendering to something not done? That was it, he had been saying that anyone would be mad to admit to something that they had not done. The bailiff's eyes narrowed: was that what he was thinking? That Angelina Trevellyn had killed her husband and would be mad to admit it? That she would never confess, that someone who
did
confess to a crime must be a fool or mad? And she was neither?

He felt his eyes drawn to the fire. But why kill old Agatha Kyteler, he wondered. Then a quick frown pulled his brows down and he gave an angry sigh as he felt the frustration rise: why, for God's sake,
why
was he thinking about
her
still? She was irrelevant; unimportant—just a sad little old woman. Why did her murder keep impinging on his brain? As he glared at the flames, he found that with no effort he could again conjure up a picture of her from his dreams, dressed in her hooded cloak, her eyes glittering with bright red fire, her expressions intense—and yet not threatening.

It was not a terrifying face. Instead it was sad, as if she was trying to help him, nudging and prompting him toward her murderer.

This was foolish. Thrusting the thought aside, he
considered. The only thing that mattered was finding the killer of Agatha Kyteler and Alan Trevellyn. And right now he was not sure that they had the right man in the gaol. Glancing up he saw Baldwin's face set into a pensive scowl.

Right, the bailiff thought, so who wanted the witch dead? Even Harold Greencliff did not appear to have a motive. And who could have wanted to kill Alan Trevellyn? To find that out the bailiff would need to know more about him. Could one of his servants have wanted to see him dead? It sounded very much as if they all suffered under him. Who knew the man well?

He gave a start, making the brown and black dog stare at him in sudden reproach for waking him before dropping his head down again. He said, “I know what we have to do. Tomorrow we need to see Jennie and Sarah again and check a couple of points—I think I'm getting close to the truth at last!”

A
fter leaving their horses with the hostlers at the back of the inn, they entered and took a table near the front of the room. Baldwin haughtily summoned the innkeeper with a curt wave of his hand, while the bailiff stared round the room. After hearing what Hugh had to say about his conversation with Jennie Miller, he was interested in seeing her again, and putting some other questions to her.

But today the inn was quiet. Although it was lunchtime, there were few people there, and Simon reflected that the people from the village would still have many tasks to perform. Even with the fields under snow, there would still be animals to look after, tools damaged over the year to be repaired, and some jobs, no doubt, to be done in their houses.

There was no sign of Jennie Miller. Over by the fire there was a little group of four men, one of whom Simon recognized as Samuel Cottey, but that was all. Perhaps it would become more busy as men finished their lunches and went to the inn for a quick drink before getting on with their afternoon duties.

Wiping his hands on a thick rag, the innkeeper strolled to them. “Sirs. What can I offer you?” he said.

Simon raised an eyebrow toward Baldwin, who shrugged. “Two pints of ale, and food.”

“We have cold meats, sir. Is that all right?”

Nodding, Simon turned to his friend as the publican left to fetch their order. “Well, Baldwin? Come on, what do we do next?”

The knight glanced up at him, and gave him a wan smile before returning his gaze to the matted rushes on the floor. “I don't know, old friend,” he admitted. “Everything we have heard would seem to support your doubts about Mrs. Trevellyn. But Greencliff had the knife, and the prints led to his door after Alan Trevellyn's death. Then there's Agatha Kyteler's death. He was there, we know that.”

“So was
she,
though!”

“I know, I know. She confessed to that. But I wonder…”

“What?”

“I was just thinking: why did she want to see the old woman? Agatha Kyteler was supposed to be a midwife, but Angelina Trevellyn says she has never had a child.”

Just then their food arrived, and they set to with gusto. Breakfast felt like it was a long time ago. Speaking between mouthfuls, Baldwin's eyes narrowed as he peered at Simon. “If Harold Greencliff was having an affair with Angelina Trevellyn, isn't it likely that he was trying to kill her husband so that he could take her for himself? It would make more sense than thinking that she was involved.”

“I'm not so sure, Baldwin. I don't know her that
well, but if she really hated her husband that much, especially after the way that he apparently abused and mistreated her, I think she could easily become angry enough to kill. And don't forget, she
is
a Gascon. She's French.”

“French?”
the knight stared at him open-mouthed.

“What on earth's that got to do with anything?”

“You know,” Simon's eyes were suddenly hooded and he glanced around, quickly. “They do tend to get overexcited, the French.”

“God in heaven! Simon, you and I must talk soon. You believe in witches, you trust to all the old superstitions, and now you think all the French are mad as well!” The humor had returned to the knight's eyes, Simon saw with a degree of bitterness.

“No, not all French. It's just that…” Simon shrugged. He knew he would not win this argument, so he changed the subject. “You know, I think I'm beginning to understand dimly what actually happened.”

“There's still a lot we need to find out.”

“We need to talk to the people of Wefford again and find out what they haven't told us.”

“How? We've already spoken to most of them. How can we find out more?”

“Well, first I think we ought to go back and see Sarah Cottey—especially,” he nodded toward the group in front of them, “especially while her father's in here. Then we must see Jennie Miller. She knows more than she's told us, she seems to know all the gossip in the village, if Hugh's right. And I want to speak to Harold Greencliff again. I don't know how to get him to talk to us, but he
must
know more.”

“That's a lot of work. It'll take time to get into Crediton to go to the town gaol.”

“Have him brought up to the manor, then. The innkeeper can get a man to fetch him and Tanner. It'll save us a journey, and probably do them both some good to be able to stay in a warm place, compared to that cell.”

Having decided on their course of action, they finished their drinks and made their way to the Cottey holding, but when they arrived, there was no sign of life. Simon hammered on the door, and rode round to the back, but there was no sign of anyone, apart from the thin streamers of smoke drifting idly on the wind from the roof. After looking all over the plot, they decided to go on to Jennie Miller's instead.

Here they were more lucky. As soon as they came through the trees into the clearing, the sound of voices, shrill and laughing, met them. Coming to the small bridge, they could see the Miller children running and playing tag over at the line of the trees, their mother sitting on a stool and watching as she plucked the feathers from a chicken, laughing every now and again and calling to them to urge them to greater efforts.

At the sound of the horses, she spun round, and Simon was vaguely sad to see the happiness die from her features as she recognized her visitors. The cries from the children faded too, as if the slight breeze was taking away their pleasure and enjoyment with its gusts. The bailiff urged his horse on with a rueful grin. Such was power, he thought. To bring joy, but also to destroy it. Sighing, he brought his horse to the door, to where Jennie Miller had now risen, the fowl forgotten beside her, wiping her hands on her apron to rid herself of the tiny feathers clinging to the blood on her skin.

It was the knight who greeted her, sitting and watch
ing her gravely from his horse. “Jennie, we have come to speak to you again about the death of Agatha Kyteler. Can we come in?”

At her shrug of apparent indifference, they dropped from their horses and followed her inside. Sitting at the same place, she watched them take their seats and sat back, waiting for them to begin with a slightly nervous mien, as if she was anxious of what they wished to know from her.

“Jennie, we wanted to find out from you anything that could help with these two murders,” Baldwin began, and her eyes swiftly sought his face.

“What do you mean? You already have the killer, don't you?”

Simon gently interrupted. “You mean Harold Greencliff?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “You have him held in gaol, don't you?”

“Yes, but do
you
think he could have killed them?”

“No!” The answer was categoric.

Baldwin stared at her. “But why? Who else had a chance?”

At this her gaze dropped and she stared at the floor in silence. Simon tried again.

“Jennie, you must tell us anything you know. After all, you wouldn't want Harold to be sent to trial and executed if he had nothing to do with it, would you?”

She shook her head, but no words came.

“Jennie, it's obvious you have some idea about this. Why? Who do you think it was?”

She started to speak in a low and halting voice. All the time her eyes remained downcast, and her features anxious. “I knew after I'd spoken to your man at the inn…I would have been better to hold my
tongue…It was the drink got to me…But it's true, I'm sure of that.”

“What…” Baldwin started, but Simon cut him off with a short movement of his hand.

“Carry on, Jennie.”

She gave a sigh, a massive effort that looked as though it rose from the very soles of her boots, then looked at Simon and held his eyes. “When I came out of the woods, I was sure who it was I'd seen. I was certain it was Angelina Trevellyn. At the lane, I saw Harold Greencliff. And I know Sarah Cottey saw them too. She's a good girl, is Sarah. But she has not been able to admit to herself what sort of a boy Harold is.”

“What sort of a boy do
you
think he is?” asked Baldwin. She ignored him, her eyes staying fixed on the intent bailiff before her.

“You see, Harold and Sarah, they've grown up together, been with each other for years, and they've always been very fond of each other. But now Sarah wants to marry and settle, she thinks Harold does too, and he doesn't. He never has, really. He's always been a boy for enjoying himself, and no girl ever could say no to him, he was always such a good-looking lad…” As if in answer to an unspoken question in Simon's eyes, she suddenly reddened and half-turned away in apparent embarrassment, but then faced him once more with an air of defiance, as if she knew her words might shock, but was now careless of effect.

To Simon it looked as though she was almost proud, and he realized with a quick insight how she must feel, working every day to bring up her family, toiling as she tried to help her husband keep the mill profitable so that there would be bread on the table for them. Would it be a surprise if a few kind words from a “good-looking
lad” like Greencliff could remind her of a time when she was free of worry and had the opportunity to enjoy the comfort of another man? “And?” he asked softly.

“There are many he has known in the area. Sarah was one. But over the last few months, he has been seeing another woman, one who was not from Wefford. She was married, so he said…”

“What? Harold Greencliff
told
you this?” Baldwin cried, leaning forward suddenly.

“Harold?” There was a faint sneer on her face at this.

“Oh, no. Harold didn't tell me. No, but there's been a few he did tell. Like Stephen de la Forte.
He
told me.”

“What exactly did he say?” asked Simon gently.

She frowned in concentration. “When was it? Oh, yes.” Her brow cleared a little and she glanced up at Simon quickly, looking as if she wanted to confirm that he was concentrating. “It was at the inn. Maybe…Maybe a month or so ago. He was laughing and joking about his friend, that is, Harold. Harold wasn't there at the time, and Stephen said that he was out with his new lover. He said that her husband was a fool to be cuckolded like that by Harold, but he said there's no fool like an old one. Stephen said he wished his friend good luck, and drank a toast to him. Well, as you can imagine, we all wanted to know. We asked him who it was, and at first he refused to answer, but later, when there was only a few of us left, he swore us all to silence, and then told us.”

“He actually said who it was?” asked Simon.

“Well, he hinted. But it was impossible to miss who he was talking about. He said it was a woman he knew, someone married to a man close to him, someone wealthy, living close to the village. It could only be Mrs. Trevellyn.”

“Do you think it was
her,
then?”

She looked up with a fire of bitterness glinting angrily in her eyes. “Who else? She hated her husband, everyone here knew that. And it's not surprising either, the way he treated her and his servants. I'm sure she loathed him enough to kill him or to have someone else do it for her. I'm sure it wasn't Harold.”

“You said,” Baldwin said pensively, “that you saw them at the woods. Did Sarah?”

“Oh yes. She must have done. And she knew what the rumors were about Mrs. Trevellyn and Harold, too. So when we saw her in the trees on the way to the witch's house, and then him at the roadway, she went quiet. She put the two together. Why else would they be there like that?”

Now it was Simon's turn to frown. “I don't understand, do you mean that she was ill and…”

Jennie Miller gave a sudden harsh laugh. “Ill? It's no illness to be with child, Bailiff!”

He stared at her open-mouthed. “You…You mean the woman was pregnant? That she…She was to have Harold Greencliff's child? They went to the midwife to get her help with the delivery?” he stammered, but it was Baldwin who answered, with a tired kind of sigh to his voice.

“No, Simon, not like that, anyway. I should have realized. It's obvious, now I think about it. A midwife can be useful to a woman to help in bringing a child into the world, but she can also sometimes be of help in stopping a child. That was why there was yew in Kyteler's cottage. Yew can be used to make a mixture that will make a pregnant woman lose her child. It forces a miscarriage.”

When he looked at Jennie, she nodded. “Yes. I think
that's why Angelina Trevellyn was at the witch's house: to lose the child she and Harold had produced.”

 

They were both quiet as they rode away from the mill toward the road, and they had travelled some way before Simon dared to interrupt the knight's thoughts. When he looked over at Baldwin, he could see that the knight was deeply troubled. The evidence of Jennie Miller had thrown the whole matter into a different light.

“Well, Baldwin?” he asked as they turned into the Cotteys' lane. “What do
you
think?”

Looking up, the knight's face registered a bleak sadness. He felt that the evidence was so overwhelming now that there was certainly good cause to doubt that the boy had confessed honestly. But what teased at his mind was why the boy should have admitted to a crime he had no responsibility for. And whether Angelina Trevellyn could have killed her own husband. It still seemed impossible somehow that such a beautiful woman could be capable of such a deed.

But then his mind went back to the chronicles he had seen and read when he had been in Cyprus and other countries while he was still a member of the Order of the Temple. There were many examples there of women prepared to take up weapons, from women who killed and threatened to take control of lands they wanted, to others who were more subtle and devious in their approach. Alice of Antioch was one, Constance another. Both had tried to take over lands and rule them alone. It was possible that Angelina was struck from the same mold.