The bailiff thought that the young man seemed scared. He sat on the edge of his seat, leaning forward, the cup gripped in both hands as if fearful of dropping it. His eyes rarely met Simon’s. For the most part he stared down into his drink.
“I went for a walk. It was a nice evening, and if I’d gone home they would have known something was wrong. I didn’t want them asking me questions about me and Emma.”
“Yes, so where did you go?”
“All over. I walked past the village and up towards the hills, but then I got cold. I kept going, I suppose I was thinking about just keeping on walking, maybe going to Exeter or somewhere, but I couldn’t. I’m no freeman. If I’d gone, I’d just’ve been caught and brought back.”
“When did you come back?”
“I don’t know, but it must’ve been after ten. I came back from the north and walked down the street – that late there seemed no real point in avoiding the village, everyone would be asleep long before.”
“Ah. It was you, wasn’t it, who helped Brewer to his house?”
“Yes.” The pale face glanced up at Simon’s, but on seeing the stern features concentrating so hard on him, he looked away again. “Yes, I did. Brewer was just being thrown out when I came past, and the innkeeper, Stephen, asked me to take him with me. He’d been fighting again.”
“Who?”
“Brewer. He often used to fight.”
“Do you know who he had been fighting with on that night?” asked Simon, leaning forward in his eagerness.
“No, you’d have to find out from Stephen. He’d know.”
The bailiff leaned back a little, frowning at the youth. “Why didn’t you tell us all this before? Why did you lie to us?”
“I didn’t want everyone to know about me and Emma. I didn’t want to break off with her. But then I heard from…” His voice trailed off.
“Who? What did you hear? Who from?”
His eyes rose and at last he found the courage to hold Simon’s gaze. “From Stephen at the inn. He told me he knew I was lying, that the Carter boys had seen me there, had seen me going up to Brewer’s house with him. They were following us. They must have killed him, and they’re trying to put the blame on me. It’s their word against mine, Stephen said. He told me I’d better leave – run away.”
Chapter Twenty-one
When Sir Baldwin Furnshill rode down the shallow incline into Blackway the next morning, he was in a mood of keen anticipation. The bailiff’s message had been brief but intriguing – new evidence had been presented and, in the light of Baldwin’s earlier interest, would he like to come and help? The knight had set off immediately, and found Simon and Hugh sitting outside the inn on one of the benches. His friend seemed tired, his face showing how much strain he had been under in recent days, and Baldwin was surprised that the bailiff’s welcome appeared muted, his eyes seeming to flicker over Edgar and he as they arrived. There was no answering smile to the knight’s cheery greeting. Beside Simon was Hugh, his face drawn into its customary scowl.
“So, bailiff,” said Baldwin. Somehow he felt the need to use Simon’s title. “How are you? I understand that you’ve caught the killers of the merchants?”
“Yes,” said Simon, looking up at him. The black moustache and neat beard framed the knight’s small, square teeth as he grinned down at him. Then he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and dropped to the ground.
“Landlord!” Baldwin stood, arms akimbo, waiting for the innkeeper.
“We have some questions for this man,” said Simon while they waited, and quickly told of his conversation with Ulton the day before. Then his eyes met the knight’s with a sudden intensity. “I am determined to find out what really happened, Baldwin. I will not leave the death of even a poor villein unavenged when I go to Lydford. I think he was murdered, and I mean to find out who was responsible. When I have, I’ll get the abbot’s killer too. Will you help me?” His tone seemed almost to imply a challenge to the knight.
Baldwin met his gaze coolly. “Of course. It’s my duty to my lord to help his bailiff- and Brewer was my villein. But I heard the outlaws had killed the abbot? That was the tale in Crediton.”
“Possibly,” said Simon shortly, but just then they heard a step approach and, turning, saw the landlord, his eyes flitting nervously from the bailiff to the knight under their suspicious gaze. “Yes?” he said. “What do you want of me?”
“Edgar, go and serve yourself,” said Baldwin. “And fetch me an ale!” he added in a bellow as Edgar disappeared inside. Glancing at the bailiff, he sat beside Simon on the bench before fixing a grim stare on the unfortunate innkeeper, and Stephen suddenly knew he was in great trouble. He could feel the tension: these men were judging him, and at the thought, his hands dropped from his belt, as if suddenly nerveless, to dangle by his side.
Simon drew a deep breath and let it out in a quiet sigh. The depression and doubt were lying on him heavily. Could Baldwin be involved in the murder of the abbot? Everything seemed to point to him, and when he threw a quick glance at the knight, he saw Baldwin was tense as well, as if he knew the suspicions Simon held. What if… He squared his shoulders and sat upright on the bench, and when he looked over at the knight again, there was a calm, appraising expression on his face. They stared at each other for a moment, then Baldwin suddenly grinned, as if the cares of the world had fallen from his shoulders, and Simon felt his own features creak into a wan grimace in return.
When he turned to face the innkeeper it was with a renewed vigour. With that glance and brief smile the knight had seemed to be trying to demonstrate his understanding, to show that no matter what happened he would not blame Simon.
In any event, Simon felt, now was not the time to speculate about the abbot’s death, that could wait. As he had said, Brewer’s death had been first, and the investigation deserved his concentration. Putting all thoughts of de Penne’s murder aside, Simon glared at the innkeeper for a minute in silence.
“Stephen,” he 6egan softly, “we want to ask you about the night that Brewer died. This time we want you to tell the truth.”
“Oh, but sir, I’m sure I never-”
“Shut up.” It was Baldwin who spoke this time, his voice flat and dismissive, tainted with revulsion, as if the man disgusted him. “You lied to us last time we were here,” Simon continued. “But I’m sure I-”
“You told us you didn’t see who helped Brewer. Who was it?”
There was no mistaking the fear now, Baldwin thought. The innkeeper had appeared to go quite cold, his face clammy and almost yellow, even in the bright late-morning sun. T said, it was dark and-“
“It was Ulton, wasn’t it?”
After the question had been asked there was a long silence and pause, as if the whole village was waiting for the man’s response. He stared at Simon as if transfixed, his eyes wide and staring, with small gobbets of sweat breaking out on his head.
“Well?” asked Simon.
“Yes.” His voice came as a low mutter. “Yes, it was.”
“Why did you lie to us before?”
“I didn’t lie! I told you it was dark, that I couldn’t hardly see. Anyway, Roger was helping me by taking Brewer away. Why should I make you think it was him killed the old man? The old bastard could have made a saint want to kill him, and you were bound to hear what his temper was like. Why should I make you think it was Roger?”
“So you say you don’t think Ulton killed Brewer?”
“No, of course not!”
Simon glanced over to Baldwin briefly, and saw him nod with conviction. There was no doubting the sincerity in Stephen’s voice. Looking back at the publican, the bailiff asked, “Were there any strangers here around then? Did you see a wandering knight here in the days before Brewer’s death?”