Daniel was in his hall when the Coroner finally arrived, banging on the door with the hilt of his dagger.
‘Sergeant! Open this door!’
Cecily saw his face darken again, and she withdrew into the corner with her brother. Arthur denied ever being afraid of their father, but both knew the truth: that when Daniel lost his temper he was capable of thrashing anyone, even his children, and both sought to avoid him when he was in a rage. Today he seemed in a worse mood than ever, and Cecily felt the terror grow in her breast as Daniel’s face grew blacker while he waited for his servant to arrive.
‘By St Peter’s bones!’ he bellowed. ‘Will no one answer the door?’
A scurrying and pattering came from the yard, and then the servant girl rushed through to the door. She bowed and spoke bravely to the men outside, then brought them into the hall.
‘Master, the Coroner and his friend wish to speak to you.’
‘Get out, tart!’ Daniel grated. ‘About your business!’
Sir Peregrine was impressive, tall, elegant, and striking-looking, and Cecily studied him as he languidly reached out with a questing pair of fingers and dipped them into the little stoup that was nailed beside the door. He made the sign of the cross, bent his head a moment, and then stared at Daniel, long and hard.
He had the look of a man who was used to violence, although perhaps not in the way that some men would resort to weapons at the first opportunity. No, she thought that this was a man who took it for granted that his words carried weight and authority.
‘Well, sergeant? Have you any explanation as to why we should protect you from inevitable ruin?’
‘You mean old Ham? He shouldn’t have pulled a dagger,’ Daniel said flatly.
‘Does every man deserve death for possessing a dagger?’
Cecily was unprepared for the second man’s appearance. He stepped inside with an armed servant, glancing about him quickly as though expecting an assassin to strike. She had heard her father say that this was the Keeper from Crediton, that he was a dangerous man to cross. Perhaps so, but he was attractive, too, even if he was terribly old. She rather liked the way that the beard which followed his jaw had grown so peppered with grey, and his eyes, when they found her, were kindly, crinkled at the corners. They looked like eyes which would smile all too easily. The only disquieting aspect of his appearance was the way in which he moved, looking about him sharply before stepping in, and then standing alert while his servant leaned back against the wall in a negligent manner, and appeared to study his fingernails.
‘He deserves the consequences if he pulls it against an officer of the King,’ Daniel said.
‘Quite true, unless the officer concerned is himself breaking the law,’ Baldwin observed.
‘I was there to stop a fight, that’s all. I acted as I should. I suppose I could have stopped him … but what can a man do when some fool tries to stab him? What would you have done?’
‘Cut off his arm,’ Sir Peregrine said coolly. ‘But not his head.’
‘He tried to stab me. There were witnesses.’
Baldwin glanced at Cecily again, and she saw the coldness in his eyes. There was a piercing quality to them that she wasn’t sure she liked. Then she saw them narrow in a gentle smile again. ‘Any man who can give life to such a pretty child cannot be all bad.’ He turned from her again, and Cecily saw how the smile fled his face. ‘But a man who slaughters a drunkard unnecessarily has evil within him. I trust you will not seek to hurt any more men, sergeant, for next time we shall see you arrested.’
‘Aye. I am a sergeant. I can be condemned when I am attacked,’ Daniel said coldly. ‘Yet who will protect me?’
‘You seem admirably competent at defence,’ Sir Peregrine murmured.
‘What could cause you fear?’ Baldwin asked.
Cecily said, ‘The man who comes at night.’
Sir Peregrine glanced down at her as though surprised that a child should speak in his presence. Baldwin, though, grinned at her kindly, with an inviting nod. ‘Who do you mean? A friend of your father’s?’
Cecily suddenly realized that she might have spoken too soon, and she looked to her father. To her surprise, he appeared less angry, almost relieved. He too nodded to her. ‘You tell them.’
‘There is a man who comes at night when everyone is asleep. He comes into our houses and looks at us all.’
Sir Peregrine smiled broadly. ‘A ghost, then? You’ve been having mares, child.’
Baldwin was about to chuckle when he caught sight of Daniel’s face. ‘Is this true, man?’
‘He breaks in every so often. Not every night, but now and again.’
‘Has he been seen?’ Sir Peregrine demanded.
‘I’ve seen him, so’s Cecily here. If you want more, speak to anyone round here. Several of us have caught him in our homes, Reginald Gylla for one. It’s not only me.’
‘Why does he break in?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Is he a common draw-latch, or is there some other reason?’
Daniel looked over at his daughter, and this time there was no anger in his expression. She could see what looked oddly like a tear in the corner of his eye. ‘Come here, child.’ Putting his arm about her, he continued: ‘There is a story that he’s a man who lost his own family years ago in the famine: Estmund Webber. There are so many … he just covets the kids.’
‘He intends no harm, then?’ Peregrine said.
‘Not yet,’ Daniel said. ‘But a man who walks abroad at night and enters your house is enough of a cause for fear, isn’t he?’
Baldwin’s eyes went from her father to Cecily’s own face as he agreed. ‘It is never good to learn that a man can break into your home with impunity. Not when you have children to protect. Tell me, though. Do you have no locks, no bars? How does he enter?’
‘I have bars on the shutters and doors, but there is one which is old and wooden. I’ll show you.’
He rose, setting Cecily down on her feet, then led the way out through the rear door to the small chamber where his children slept. ‘Look!’ he said, and strode to the barred window at the back of the room. ‘He climbs in here.’
‘What of the shutter?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Do you not lock that if you fear an intruder?’
‘Certainly we do. The shutter used to be a simple dropping board, with a thong to latch it closed, but the man was opening it. He must have used a long knife to push up the bar.’
‘I saw it!’ Cecily squeaked. ‘A big long dagger, it was.’
‘Aye, well,’ Daniel confirmed. ‘So I had my men put up these new ones instead.’
He demonstrated the newer hinged shutters, pulling them closed. They were built of strong wood and a large metal bracket was set in each. When the shutters were drawn closed, a beam of heavy wood, hinged at one end, could be turned up and over to drop through the brackets. A peg set into the wood completed the lock by stopping the beam from rising again once it had fallen to rest in the metal fixings. ‘This should deter any robbers, but it didn’t stop this fellow,’ he said.
‘How did he get in?’ Baldwin asked.
‘Look for yourself.’
Baldwin went to the window, removed the peg and lifted the bar from the brackets. Pushing the shutters open, he sprang out lightly, then pushed the shutters closed once more. ‘Edgar, put the bar across again.’
His servant roused himself sufficiently to obey, and they all waited, listening to the scrabbling and scraping as Baldwin tried to open the shutters on his own. Soon they saw a blade appear between the two edges. It lifted and moved, and the beam shifted slightly, rising to hit the peg, but then it fell.
In answer to his master’s enquiry, Edgar spoke. ‘No. That way, it’d take all night to move the beam an inch, Sir Baldwin.’
There was a muffled curse, and then, ‘Edgar, open the shutters again. And bring a light. A candle will do.’ When his servant obeyed, Baldwin was still outside, this time peering at the wood with interest. He took the candle and held it on one side of each shutter in turn while he peered at the other side, looking for cracks and weaknesses. ‘I see. Lock them again.’