As he finished the jury shuffled unhappily. A murder meant a fine to be paid for breaking the King’s Peace, and all in the vill would have to find the money.
While the men digested this unwelcome news, Thomas appeared in the doorway, and now he stared out, his lip curled in revulsion. ‘Are you done yet?’
Simon stiffened. He glanced at Baldwin and gave a shrug as he accepted responsibility. This was Dartmoor, his territory. ‘Yes, we have finished now, Thomas. Thank you all for coming to witness Sir Baldwin’s examination of the corpse. I fear there is no doubt that Herbert of Throwleigh was murdered, and everyone in the manor must be attached. No one can leave the place until we have gained sureties from them and everyone must prepare to be questioned.’
There was a gasp from the small group, then Thomas spoke again. ‘You can’t! We’re to hold the funeral today!’
Simon felt his belly churn as the wind altered, bringing to his nostrils the faint odour of putrefaction. ‘Um, perhaps you’re right. The Coroner can order an exhumation if he wants, but we’ve already examined the body. Provided Stephen writes down the details, I think the Coroner will be satisfied.’ There was no point keeping the boy from his grave: he would soon become painfully odorous. ‘Wrap him up again.’
Thomas stomped off to give his orders, and Simon rubbed his temples. ‘What a mess!’
‘Yes,’ said Baldwin, but now he stared down at the body with a puzzled expression. ‘Why should the killer have ruined his head like that?’
It was apparent that the other diners had awaited their return, and after Baldwin’s announcement, the meal was a muted affair.
The table was set out up on the dais. There was no need for a second table; there were not enough mourners to justify more. Lady Katharine sat at the middle, with Stephen on her right, and Thomas on her left. Baldwin was installed with his wife at the end, where he would not even be able to meet Lady Katharine’s eye, let alone talk to her. Simon and his wife were at the other end. James van Relenghes and his guard took their places opposite the lady.
With the fire roaring in the hearth, the atmosphere on this spring day was stifling. Simon was well aware that Baldwin was firmly opposed to the drinking of strong ale or wine too early in the day – he generally drank fruit juices and water -and yet this morning he gratefully polished off a pint and a half of weak ale. Simon ate heartily enough, as he usually did, but every so often he cast a glance at his friend. The knight occasionally spoke to his wife, and showed her the same courteous respect as always, but he seemed preoccupied, which was natural enough.
All had expected the day to be depressing, but this new turn, the suggestion that young Herbert’s death was no accident, had affected the people there differently; from his vantage point at the end of the table, Baldwin found he could observe all their reactions.
Brother Stephen sat as though in deep shock, or perhaps, Baldwin thought, in guilty reflections on his unkind comments earlier that morning. At the other side of the large table, Thomas of Exeter ate with a furious speed, as though forcing food into himself was a means of displacing unpleasant musings. He hardly spoke a word, grunting at comments addressed to him, and rose from the table before anyone else, muttering about seeing to his horse.
In direct contrast, James van Relenghes was almost embarrassingly talkative. In different circumstances Baldwin would have thought he was trying to impress Lady Katharine. He was most attentive to her, talking of the courage and prowess of her dead husband, assuring his hostess that her son would have been no less brave. He went so far as to assert that Herbert could have felt nothing, that his death was swift, saying that he had seen so many dead men and children during his term as a soldier that he was personally convinced of the fact.
His words had no impact on the grieving woman. If anything, she was driven into a deeper despair by his constant chatter, and at last she raised a feeble hand to her temple and, pleading a severe headache, begged to be permitted to leave the company. Daniel leaped to her side and helped her to her feet.
It was almost a relief when she walked from the room with her maid Anney. All at once the others began to hurl questions at Baldwin, who deflected many, but couldn’t hide the main facts.
‘If he was killed, I am surprised I noticed nothing,’ James van Relenghes said. ‘I was out that way.’
‘On your own?’ Baldwin asked.
‘Oh no, Godfrey was with me, as usual,’ the Fleming said smoothly. ‘I fear you must look for another suspect. Perhaps the priest here.’
‘You were out there as well, Brother Stephen?’
The cleric gave an unhappy nod. ‘Yes, but I was further up the hill. I had gone out for solitude – I had no wish to have Herbert for company.’
Baldwin’s line of questioning killed off further conversation. It was as if he had accused all those present in the room of the murder. Now people avoided each other’s eyes, as if each suspected the others, or each expected to be personally accused. Before long, all had finished their food and filed from the room.
Simon and Margaret followed Baldwin and Jeanne into the small enclosed arbour behind the stables. Here, in a quiet, secluded space designed as a private garden for the lady of the house, three apple trees and two pears stood, bent by the blast of wind from the tor behind, but the manor’s stock of medicinal herbs grew tolerably strong and straight in well-regulated lines. A turf seat was set into the wall of the house, and the women sat here. In the lawn was cut a channel, and a small stream had been diverted to fill it and play musically as it fell over stones.
After the ladies had made themselves comfortable, Simon could hold his impatience no longer. ‘What’s the matter, Baldwin? You look like a man with piles anticipating a long day in the saddle.’
The knight gave a feeble grin. ‘I wish it were something so simple. I was meditating on the miserable position of that poor lad. There he was, suddenly without a father, and everyone about him would have been happy if he had dropped dead in his turn. Well, now he has, and I can imagine that some people here will be gratified by this turn of events, no matter what their pious expressions might imply.’
‘That’s a dreadful thing to say,’ Margaret protested. ‘You surely can’t think that poor Katharine isn’t genuinely brokenhearted by the loss of her son?’
‘Margaret, you are a kind and gentle woman: you have borne your husband several children, and you loved them all. You are a natural mother, and I know you grieved deeply when they died – but you didn’t see the face of that woman when she was standing at her husband’s grave. She wanted no part of her son; she wanted him away from her. Wouldn’t any woman wish for the comfort of her child at a time like that? She did not: I saw her. She was revolted by the sight of her boy.’
Margaret shook her head. ‘It may be that she had a perverse reaction; I have heard the squire was furious with Herbert on the day he died. As a wife she might have felt bitterness towards her son, but that’s not the same as hating him and wishing him dead, Baldwin.’
‘I may be entirely wrong, just as I have been over so many other aspects,’ he admitted. ‘It is my fault. I should have protected the boy.’
Jeanne could see his sadness and confusion. ‘I find that hard to believe, husband. You could probably have done nothing to save him. It is enough for you to discover his killer.’
He took her hand, but stared out over the moor behind the house and didn’t meet her eyes. ‘If I had been here, it is possible I could have prevented his death.’