From this house, with its massive walls and tiny windows, the occupant could not only see for miles along the track, a view unhindered by trees for most of the way, he could also put up a spirited defence. As with many of the older properties, the old farm had one large door to give access. To attack it would be foolhardy, and probably costly, as the defenders could use the windows as bow-slits.
But the years had not been kind to the old house. When it was built, it would have given security and protection to a good-sized family and to the cattle, geese and hens of the yard. The single-storey house would have enclosed all livestock as well as the humans. Not now. The western wall had collapsed – possibly due to too much rain on a badly thatched roof, maybe because of too many dry summers followed by the rains of the last two – for whatever reason, the cob had failed, and the resulting disaster was plain.
The wall must have fallen initially at the corner, Simon thought, and had smothered a large area, as if pushed out by the weight of the roofing behind, creating a semicircular space of mud and filth. The roof had followed shortly afterwards, the thick timber of the ridge showing like a stark, black spine, the rafters drooping like ribs from the wreckage of the thatch.
The damaged portion amounted to almost half the house, but the remaining part was still apparently habitable, and now, as he came round to the southern-facing wall, he could see that strenuous efforts had gone into protecting the rest. Baulks of timber, probably rescued from the roof, had been propped against the walls to prevent further slippage. Where the roof had disappeared, granite blocks had been set on the top of the walls to give some defence from the rain and stop the cob being washed away, and a new wall was being built inside, under the thatch, to close the huge hole. It might mean that the house would be half its previous size, but it would at least be usable.
The bailiff stood pondering for a while. This family obviously had need of money – if they believed the tales of the wealth of Brewer, if they believed that he had a money box hidden under his floor, was it not possible that they might try to take it? He was such a drunk, might they not have felt that if they went to his house late at night they could take it while he slept? And if he had seen them, they might have killed him to hide their theft, then fired the place to hide their guilt.
“Bailiff!”
Simon turned slowly, still considering, to see Black walking towards him. “Ah, John. Have you seen Sir Baldwin yet today?”
“No, bailiff. I’ve not seen anyone but you so far. I think I may have some news for you.”
He quickly explained what his wife had seen on the night of the fire – Simon still could not quite call it murder – and the time when she had seen it.
“So, young Roger was coming back from the wrong direction. He can’t have been telling the truth when he said he was with Emma all evening. Why else would he lie, other than to hide his guilt?”
Simon scratched his neck thoughtfully. “I don’t know, but I think we ought to go and see this Emma and find out what she has to say about it before we speak to Roger again.”
There was still no sign of Baldwin, so they rode out of Blackway together to cover the four or five miles to Hollowbrook. For the most part they went in silence. Simon was brooding on the testimonies he had so far been given and trying to see where they fell down, if any of them did. He had no desire to convict anyone of murder, least of all an innocent man, so he was reconsidering all of the evidence so far in an attempt to assure himself that he was right to suspect Roger Ulton.
The house owned by Emma Boundstone’s parents was large and relatively new. The whitewash gleamed in the early afternoon sunshine, and the yard in front of the big door was cleared of muck. It seemed plain that the people living here were proud of their property.
Simon stood back when they arrived. He had never met any of this family, whereas John Black was well known in the area. It would be better for John to knock and introduce himself first.
The door was opened by a short, cheery, middle-aged woman, dressed in a black shift with a grey wimple covering her braided grey hair. Her face was almost completely round, and seemed to be composed of circles – the eyes were twin dark beads, her nose was a small button, her cheeks had patches of red like two small rosy apples, and even the chin was an almost perfect sphere. As she stood in the door, Simon found it impossible not to return her smile. It would not merely have been rude, it would have been almost obscene to so reject such a happy and pleasant woman.
“Well, John, so how’re you this fine day?”
“I’m well, Mrs. Boundstone, well. How’s your husband?”
“He’s fine, John. Fine. Is it him you’re looking for?”
“Ah.” He hesitated, glancing back at Simon. “And who’s this, then? Don’t think I’ve seen you before.” Simon stepped forward. As he came closer, he could see that her head only came up to his shoulder, and so she could only be some five feet tall, and from the look of her that was probably the same as her diameter. “Good day, Mrs. Boundstone. My name is Simon Puttock. I’m the bailiff of Lydford. Could we speak to your daughter, please?”
The little woman’s smile hardly flickered, but he could see the shrewd eyes glinting as she looked up at him. “Ah, you want our Emma, do you? Yes, she’s inside. Wait here, I’ll get her.”
She had hardly left the door when Emma arrived, and Simon found her a disappointment. He had been wondering what this young woman would look like, what kind of girl could desire the young Ulton boy – and now he discovered that opposites could attract. Emma Boundstone was as large, in her way, as her mother, but without her charm. She was a little taller, maybe five feet two or three, and well rounded, but there the similarity ended. Hers was a plain face, long and heavy-set, much like her body. She gave the impression of weight, although it was more sturdiness than fat. From a high and sloping forehead, her face dropped away, square and solid, from the flinty little eyes, past a thick nose, down to a slit of a mouth. Her braided hair looked like rope in the way it hung down either side of her cheeks. Her body was thick and heavy, and would have looked less out of place on one of her brothers. Simon found himself wishing he could forget questioning her and return to the comfortable warmth of her mother’s gaze.
As the girl came forward, she stood aggressively, one hand on her hip, as if daring them to begin. “Well? You wanted to speak to me?”
Simon nodded, wondering how to start. “Yes, you see, I would like to ask you about the night before last.”
“What about it?”
“I understand that you were with Roger Ulton, from Blackway?”
“Yes.” It was clear she was not going to try to help them.
“What time did he arrive here to see you?”
“I don’t know.”
Simon could feel his patience starting to crack. “Then give me a rough idea, Emma.”
“Well,” she put her head on one side in a gesture that would have been coquettish in a smaller woman. In her it appeared merely clumsy. “He got here after dark. I suppose it must have been about seven or so. Why?”
Ignoring the question, he continued, “And when did he leave you?”
“About half past eight.”
“Are you sure?”
A spark of defiance glimmered in her eyes. “Yes, I’m sure. Why don’t you ask him, if you don’t believe me?”
The two men looked at each other, and suddenly her voice became peevish, petulant, as she said, “He’s alright, isn’t he? Is he hurt or something?”