The Merchant's Partner (9 page)

“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 toward 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 grayness of the moors above the Dart, seeming different somehow from the rest of the countryside, gloomier 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 toward 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.”

A
t 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 out 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-gray, 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 afterward, 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 Jerusalem, 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 toward 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…”

“She wasn't a witch!” The hot defense came swiftly from the girl, surprising Baldwin.

“No, I don't think she was,” he said gently, but then turned back to the farmer. “Then?”

“I…” His eyes became reflective as he thought. “I pulled her up a bit—she was so cold she couldn't be alive—so I lifted her a little to see who it was. I
couldn't see from the way she was lying there, so I had to lift her by the shoulder. Well, when I saw who it was, I had to drop her, it was such a shock.”

“Yes, yes. What then? You saw who it was, you saw how she'd died, what did you do then?”

“I buggered off! She
was
a witch.” He glared at his daughter. “Everyone knows that. So I left her there and went up to the Greencliff place.”

“Greencliff was there?”

“Oh, yes. He was there all right.”

“How do you mean?”

“He was just out to see his sheep, he said. He was just getting ready to go.”

“So he was dressed and ready? What time would that have been, do you think?”

“What time?” The farmer stared at him, then gazed at the view for a moment. Talking slowly and pensively, he said, “It was still dark, but I think the light was just starting…I don't know, really…I think it was around dawn, just before, not after…”

“But he was dressed and ready to go out?” Simon said, and the farmer turned to him and peered at his face.

“Yes, he was about to go out. He already had his cloak on, that bright red one. Why? Why does it matter?”

“The innkeeper said that he had made some comment about the woman on the day she died, something about her doing something. Greencliff said that if Kyteler wasn't careful, someone would do something to her. We think he might have killed her.”

“That's mad!” Sarah's sudden interruption made them all turn in astonishment. “Harry wouldn't do anything like that. He's a good man, kind and gentle. He wouldn't kill like that—especially not an old woman.”

“Be quiet, girl!” The old farmer's voice was harsh and thick, his face stiff in his anger at being interrupted.

“No, wait!” Baldwin's order made Sam Cottey fall back, as if the quick fury had exhausted him. “Now, Sarah,” he said more quietly: “why do you think that?”

Glancing briefly at her father, she paused, but then decided that, having come so far, she should continue. “Because I know him. He's not cruel, he couldn't kill someone like that.”

“The innkeeper seemed sure.”

“He's wrong. Harold wouldn't kill an old woman like that, cutting her throat. He's too gentle.”

Baldwin's eyes held hers for a moment, and then her gaze fell, and Simon was sure he could see the embarrassment there in the way that her face suddenly reddened.

“Perhaps,” said the knight softly. Looking back at the farmer, he said, “Cottey, what would you say about that? Would you expect Greencliff to be able to kill an old woman in that way?”

“Not an old woman, no.” Then his voice became bitter again. “But a witch?
I
should think he could have killed her and been glad! He might think it was a service—a Godly act—to kill the old bitch!”

 

Leading their horses from the house, Baldwin stopped for a moment and scratched at his head with a speculative grimace. “What do you think?”

Simon paused. “I don't know,” he admitted. “I think she's as convinced it couldn't be Greencliff as her father is that Kyteler was a witch. Maybe…” He was cut off by running feet crunching on the soft snow.

“Sirs, sirs! Wait a minute!” It was Sarah again, rush
ing along the track with her skirts held high in her hands, giving Baldwin a glimpse of her legs.

“Yes?” he said.

She stopped in front of them, her face bright from her exertion, panting a little, then somewhat breathlessly leaned forward. “It can't have been Harold.”

“Why?”

“He never thought Kyteler was a witch. He was sure she was clever, and she knew about plants, but he never thought she was evil or made magic. Anyway, he was a kind, gentle lad…” Her voice faltered as she caught sight of the knight's raised eyebrow. Baldwin smiled and said:

“So he didn't believe Kyteler sent her dog to the Oatways' chickens?”

“That!” She dismissed the idea with a curt movement of her hand, as if slapping away the suggestion.

“How could anyone believe that! It was a fox or a weasel did that, not a dog. If her dog wanted to eat chickens, he would have eaten her own, not gone all the way to the Oatway holding to eat theirs.”

“Hmm.” Simon could see that Baldwin's eyes were looking over her shoulder, and when he followed the knight's gaze, he saw that the dog was lying in front of the door to the house, head between his forepaws and watching the huddle of humans, while the chickens strolled and pecked around him.

“But why then would Greencliff have said that about her? Why should he be so annoyed with her?” Baldwin asked after a moment.

“I don't know.”

“Did he have many friends?”

“Not really, sir. Some of the other lads in the village. I suppose mainly he was friends with Stephen de la Forte.”

“I see.” He appeared to think for a moment. “All right, thank you for your help, anyway.” He mounted his horse, then glanced back at the dog, and his voice held a hopeful note as he said, “Her dog seems happy enough here…I don't suppose you'd like to…?”

She smiled, but shook her head. “No, I don't think father would like to have the old woman's dog here. He'd always be afraid that she might be watching over him, ready to protect him or attack the man that strikes him. No, you'd better take him back with you.”

Baldwin sighed. “I suppose you're right,” he said with resignation, and whistled.

Back at the road, Simon looked over at him. “Well?”

Baldwin shrugged. “It seems clear that the boy was ready to leave the house as Cottey got there, but that could mean anything! Maybe he was on his way to look after his sheep, like he said, or maybe he was going to move the body, to bury it or hide it…I don't know.”

“What if he
was
going there to move the body? The girl seems sure that he could not have killed the old woman.”

“Yes…It was strange, that. She was very defensive…”

Simon gave a short laugh. “Not that strange! She's young, so's he. He's good looking, so's she. I don't think you need look further for a reason than that.”

“Possibly.” Baldwin mused for a moment. “Let's see this friend of his—what was his name? Oh, yes, de la Forte. Let's see what else he can tell us.”

Quickening their pace, they rode off to the inn to ask for directions. It seemed that the de la Forte house was on the way to Exeter, some three miles outside Wefford, so they turned their horses to the south and were soon there.

As they approached the property, Simon could not help letting a small whistle of approval pass his lips. “The de la Fortes seem well enough off,” he said.

Baldwin nodded. The house was a large and rambling place, quite long, with a number of stables and outbuildings. In size it was bigger than his own manor, with the roof probably higher. The whitewash was fresh and clean, making the house almost seem to rise from the snowy ground in front as if it was made of the same material. Above, a thick mass of thatch was visible only from the chimney rising high overhead: around it the snow had melted, showing the graying straw beneath.

The roadway passed close to the front of the house, which itself lay in a shallow dip, while between the building and the trail was a stream, cutting a neat and precise line through the snow. As they followed the track to the house, they slowed, moving at a walk through the ford at the little stream's shallowest point before trotting up to the door.

Here the house had two stubby arms projecting forward like horns from a cow's head, and the door was in a yard formed between. There was a hitching rail, to which they tied their mounts before Simon knocked loudly at the door, while Baldwin tied up the dog with some twine he found dangling from the rail. He did not want his new dog to fight with the de la Fortes'. They did not have long to wait.