Chapter Twelve
In the middle of the afternoon they left Wefford and began to make their way back to the manor house at Furnshill. They had to take the journey slowly, for Hugh’s sake, but now even Baldwin did not grudge the servant his speed. It was too clear that the man was in pain.
They were home again by three, and when they arrived, Simon insisted that Hugh stay before the fire for the rest of the day, an order with which the man appeared to be well satisfied. It was the small grin of gratitude that showed the bailiff just how poorly his servant was feeling. Usually he would have expected a grimace and complaint even for such a welcome command.
Leaving him staring at the flames with a blanket over his shoulders, Simon took Margaret outside to where Baldwin stood contemplating his view. Turning, the knight pointed to the house with his chin. “How is he?”
Margaret shrugged. “He seems all right, but he’ll need to stay indoors for a while. He got very cold.”
“It was my fault,” said Simon. “I should have waited while he got his clothes, but I thought he was making excuses to avoid coming with us to Crediton.”
“It’s easy to forget how cold it is in winter,” his wife agreed. “But make sure in future that he’s got his cloak and jacket if you’re taking him with you.”
He nodded grim-faced, feeling the implied rebuke. She was right. The winter here, so close to Dartmoor, was always brutal, as he knew well. To change the subject, he said, “Did Hugh tell you what we have learned today?”
From the look on his face she knew he felt the blame for Hugh’s illness. That was only right, she thought. If they had not been quick once they realised how badly chilled Hugh was, the man could have died. Although he was the son of a moors farmer, and had himself spent much of his youth out in all weather looking after the farm’s flock of sheep, he was not indestructible. The weather here was so cold as to stop a man’s mind. It was foolish not to take the correct precautions when there was time. Now, though, there was no reason to make her husband feel any worse. As she gave a brief nod and listened to him explain about the conversation with Jennie Miller, she studied his features with frowning concentration.
“So you have three real suspects, then,” she said at last.
“Grisel Oatway, Greencliff and his woman, you mean?” said Simon.
“No, Oatway sounds as though she only really bore the old woman a grudge,” she said, frowning. “If she wanted Kyteler dead, she sounds shrewd enough to have persuaded the villagers that her neighbour was a witch, and let them do her work for her; let the mob lynch her. She doesn’t sound like she’s a killer herself.” She shot a sharp glance at Baldwin.
The knight sighed and looked out over the hills as if seeking inspiration. “I know. There’s only the one other suspect. But I find it hard to believe that my friend’s son could have been involved. He was too grateful to this woman to want to kill her.”
“Maybe you’re right, but you’ll need to speak to him.”
“He’s probably back in Gascony by now. He has not been seen since Tuesday. For now, I think it’s the woman who is the problem. How can we find out who she is?”
“Oh, really!” her scathing tone made both men turn and stare. When she saw their puzzled expressions, she said, “The woman lives somewhere near. There can’t be many for you to consider.”
“But we have no idea where she might have come from, Margaret,” said Baldwin, peering at her with a small frown. “It could be from miles away!”
With a small laugh, she shook her head in mock disgust. “You think so? I doubt it! She must be close by – it’s surely unlikely that Greencliff would have taken a lover who lived far away. How often could he meet her if she lived far off?”
“So? How many women do you think live…‘
“Simon, that’s not the point. De la Forte said she was well-born, didn’t he? And how well she was dressed! How many wealthy women are there round here. That’s the point!”
To her relief, she saw the understanding dawn. Baldwin looked as though he had doubts, but Simon grabbed her, tugging her to him, and embraced her, hugging her tight.
“I married a philosopher,” he said, gazing into her eyes and smiling.
Baldwin turned back to the hills. It was good to see his friends happy, but… He grinned as he accepted his jealousy.
Noticing the way he averted his gaze, Simon pulled away from his wife. He knew how much his friend wanted a wife and a son, and was sympathetic. It was impossible for him to understand how a man could live alone. But he could not stop himself patting his wife’s belly affectionately, hoping again that this child would be strong and healthy, that the birth would not be difficult. He wanted a son badly, but more than that he wanted his wife to be safe and well. A passing thought struck him. Did this woman of Greencliff’s have children? Then another idea leapt into his mind: was she pregnant? Had she gone to the midwife to get medicines for a birth, like Jennie Miller?
He frowned as he stared at the moors in the far distance. Who could this woman be? Was she the last person to see Agatha Kyteler before her murderer – if she herself was not the killer? Who was this mystery lover of Harold Greencliff?
But the hills gave him no inspiration.
The next morning, Jennie Miller winced, tugging her old woollen shawl tighter around her shoulders as she rattled her way towards Crediton on their little wagon. It was still freezing here on the road through the woods, even with the sun up. The ground crackled under the steel-shod wheels as ice on puddles and streams fractured under their weight.
Usually it was Thomas, her husband, who would ride into town. He would make his way in, calling cheerfully to his friends and customers, before delivering their sacks or collecting the items he needed. But this winter was hard and he must fetch more wood while it was possible in case the snow stayed.
When they had bought the wagon, it had seemed to be a good idea. Then they had only been in the mill for two or three years. The steady flow of grain from the manor had been enough to keep them busy and provided them with a good income, even after paying the taxes to the manor. That was in Sir Reynald de Furnshill’s day, of course, before his death and the arrival of Sir Baldwin. Their trade had been so good with the new mill that they had been able to bring in corn from other parts and make a good profit. That was why they had decided to purchase the wagon. It meant they could buy corn from farms far distant and sell their flour in Crediton to the bakers.
Now, though, after two years of appalling harvests, the wagon seemed less of a good idea. They could hardly afford to keep and feed the old horse, and with the prices demanded in the town for the simplest goods, Jennie felt that they were better off staying in Wefford. At least in the village most things could be bartered.
She passed the new house, where the de la Forte family lived, with little more than a cursory glower. She felt it was unfair that some were able to buy whatever they wanted when so many of her friends were starving or freezing to death for want of fuel. At the thought of death she shivered, thinking again of poor old Agatha.
The old woman was sometimes difficult to deal with, Jennie knew that. But even so, there was a strain of decency in her that was missing in others. Old Agatha was always prepared to come and see anyone in pain, always happy to help. She may not have been as subservient as some would have wished, but that was no great problem to Jennie. She was not overly humble either, except to the priest in Crediton, Peter Clifford. He was a holy man; he deserved respect.