“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?”
“No, he’s fine as far as we know. Why did he leave so early, we thought you and he were considering betrothal.”
She tossed her head with a gesture of impatience. “Oh, yes. We were. But we argued, if you want to know. He refused to marry me until he had finished rebuilding his father’s house, and that could take him until next year! I told him, if he wants me, he had better hurry up – I may not wait for him. We argued, and in the end I told him to go. That’s why he left me earlier than usual.”
That night, sitting with Margaret in front of their fire, Simon related the day’s events. He had left Black on the way back from Hollowbrook – it would have been close to dark by the time they got to Blackway, and it seemed pointless to go there when he could continue and get home earlier for once.
His wife had been pleased to have him return so much earlier than usual, and after their meal they played quoits with Edith, currently her favourite game. Now, at last, she had gone to her bed in the solar, and they had two brief hours of peace before they too went to their beds.
“So, this warrener, what was his name?”
“Cenred,” said Simon sleepily.
“Yes, Cenred. What did he have to say?”
She was lying with her head in his lap again, while he stroked her hair with one hand, his other resting on her belly. Outside the rain was sheeting against the walls, and occasional gusts made the door rattle and the tapestries billow.
“Not much, really. He says he saw someone, someone who tried to hide when he came close. Apparently just opposite the Brewer house. The fool was too frightened to look, he thought it might be Old Crockern or something, and just walked on to his own place. Anyway, it’s the other one, Roger Ulton, that interests me now.”
“Wasn’t he one of the men you saw yesterday?”
“Yes.” Simon’s eyes dropped to her face and he smiled, though she could see that he was exhausted. His face was quite grey, even in the light from the flames and the two thick candles that stood on their metal tripods nearby. In the smoky room, the big circles of tiredness under his eyes made them look deeply bruised, and she wondered whether the search was getting too much for him. Touched by a sudden whim she reached a finger up to his cheek, a sympathetic and loving gesture, and was pleased to see his smile broaden as he felt her.
Outside they could hear the rain. It had held off all day, but now, in the darkness of the night, the heavens had opened and the water was steadily dripping from two holes in the thatch. Margaret was glad that at least her husband was indoors with her. She would have been worried if he had been outside in this weather. She stroked her hand over his cheek, wondering at its roughness where the short bristles forced their way through his skin, so unlike his chest and the rest of his body, which was so smooth and soft. She stared at her fingers as they brushed his face, enjoying the tactile sensations, giving herself over to the pleasure of the feel and smell of her man, and she almost missed Simon’s next comment.