They had almost passed the inn when Baldwin halted, spun round and rushed in through the door. Simon and the others stood and waited, and soon he came out again, the landlord drifting along behind him.
He was a huge man, the innkeeper. He was only a couple of years older than Simon, or so the bailiff thought, but he gave the impression of vast knowledge. The appearance of accumulated learning was helped by his head, which was bald. But that was due to his shaving his pate every morning. His eyes were cheerful and twinkling, deep-set under a heavy, sloping brow, and, looking oddly out of place, his jaw and upper lip were covered in a thick and bushy growth of dark hair, making him appear inside out somehow, as if there had been an accident at his birth leaving his whole body inverted. His tunic was filthy, but then that hardly mattered in the darkness of his hall, and its pale, stained front seemed to have served as a cleaning implement, apron, carrying sack for wood and meat, and towel as well as clothing. In fairness, its size made it an ideal means of transport. The man’s girth was vast, and any cloth that could encompass his belly, Simon thought, would be able to carry a significant load of goods.
“Black, your wife said that Brewer was a heavy drinker, yes? Good, now, innkeeper, tell these men what you just told me,” said Baldwin, motioning towards the little group.
The innkeeper leaned back against his wall, rubbing his hands on his noisome tunic, and gave a quick belch. “About old Harold Brewer, sirs. He was here last night. He came in, like normal, just after dusk and stayed until too late. I suppose it must’ve been gone eleven by the time he went. It must’ve been getting close to the middle watches.”
“So he decided to go home then?” Simon asked.
“Well.” The man’s eyes were sly, and almost seemed about to wink. “Well, no, he didn’t decide to go. I decided for him. He was getting loud again, and when he started his roaring I let him know he might be better off in his bed.”
Baldwin leaned forward. “You got him outside, you put him into the lane. What then? Please tell my friends.”
“Well, I got him out, and there was this other man walking up it, going his way. I called out to him, said, ”Take this one with you, we’ve had enough for one night,“ and he seemed to be happy enough to help. He came over and took Brewer by the arm. Well, that was enough for me, I went back inside to clear up.”
“But, as far as you could see, this man was taking Brewer home with him?”
“Oh, yes. Even after I shut the door, I could hear Harold shouting and cursing him. He wanted more ale, he wanted to stay here, he wasn’t ready to go home yet. ”Course, he wasn’t getting any more to drink from me. He was ready to start a fight again – and I’ve had enough of him fighting in my inn over the years. I felt sorry for the man, though. It sounded like he was getting the rough end of Harold’s tongue alright.“
“Didn’t you see who it was, this helpful stranger?” said Simon, and the twinkling, merry eyes were fixed on him. For an instant he saw through the friendly exterior, to the selfishness, the disinterest that lay behind, before the facade dropped down again like a portcullis.
“No. It was dark and I had just come out of the inn. I could only make out a figure, and I shut the door as soon as I called out to him. No, I never saw who it was, and I wasn’t very interested. All I wanted by then was to get Harold out and get up to my bed.”
The men left him at the door to his inn and made their way farther up the street, Black seeming deep in thought, and Simon staring at Baldwin with an expression of puzzlement. “So how can we find out who this man was?”
The knight turned and faced him with a smile. “We ask people, Simon. We ask people.”
Chapter Six
It was getting late now, the air was more chill and the shadows were beginning to grow as the little band trooped after the knight. As they went he shot questions at Black, pointing at houses and asking about the occupants – how many people lived there, how long for, had their parents been there before them? Black seemed to know a fair deal about all of the villeins in the hamlet, he was often asked to fetch food for them on his travels, even though he had only been living there for some four years, since he married and agreed that he would move into the area so that his wife did not have to leave the village she had grown up in.
Baldwin cleared his throat. “This man walking back in this direction, whoever he might have been… I suppose it would make sense if he lived in one of the houses in this direction. Of course, he might have been out to do some chore and was going to return home later, if he came from farther down the lane, but it would make sense to me to ask whether anyone at this side of the village, this side of the inn, was out late last night. What do you think, Simon?”
The bailiff nodded, his animosity towards his companion forgotten now in his interest. “Yes, I would think that should make sense. Black, who do you know who could have been out that late at night?”
He considered, scowling at the road ahead and scratching at his belly, his mouth drawn down into a crescent of near-humorous misery in his deep contemplation. “Well there’s four that would be up at that time that I can think of. Cenred, the warrener, is often out late. He has to be, to try to get the badgers and foxes and keep his rabbits safe. Then there’s Alfred, the young Carter boy. He has to look after the sheep over by the tor, so he’s sometimes late back. Edward, his brother, often joins him. And there’s Roger. He’s often out late.”
“Why?” said Simon, his eyes narrowing at the lack of explanation and peering at the hunter.
He was rewarded with a rich laugh. “Because he’s wooing a woman over at Hollowbrook. Emma Boundstone. He gets back as late as he can most nights!”
They were almost back at the ruined house now. The crowd that had come to see the fire was thinner, the people, losing interest, having dispersed after the body was removed. The remaining spectators were the locals themselves, standing around in small huddles and talking in low voices, their eyes flitting suspiciously over the men with Black as they came close.
“Black,” said Baldwin, “I want you to point out the four men you just mentioned. Then bring them over to us. Now, which are they?”
“That there’s Alfred, his brother’s beside him,” the hunter said, indicating two young men. The first was slim but fit-looking, a lithe man with tallow-coloured hair, a dark, ruddy complexion and quick, shifty movements, reminding Simon somehow of a rat. His brother was a little taller, but his hair was mousey, thin and wispy. His figure was more expansive, fuller, as though he liked his beer too much, and even from fifty yards away his bright, rosy cheeks seemed to hint at excessive consumption. His eyes, though, seemed as quick and sharp as his brother’s, almost eagerly tripping over the bailiff and his friends with quick, snapping glances.
The hunter’s finger jabbed out again. “He’s Roger Ulton, him over there.” He seemed to be indicating a quiet, bookish-looking man with a thin, pale face and sunken eyes. For all that he, by the look of him, was only some nineteen years old, he looked squashed and nervous. Simon looked at him with interest. The man’s air was of a fearful dejection, as if he was waiting to be accused, knowing that he was bound to be assumed guilty.