“When Agatha Kyteler died, you were standing by Angelina’s horse. She left you and went to the old woman’s house. You waited there and when she returned, you both went home. You didn’t go to the house and kill. You couldn’t have! When you went to the Trevellyn house, you didn’t see Alan Trevellyn. You went to see your lover, and she took you to the places where her husband could not be. She was not stupid enough to take you somewhere he could see you together.”
“Then how did my dagger get his blood on it?”
Baldwin waved a contemptuous hand. “There are many ways for a shepherd to get blood on his blade! What did you do that morning? Kill a ewe? A lamb? I’ll bet it was something other than Trevellyn’s blood on the knife!”
Simon pursed his lips. It did not seem likely. No, it was more probable that it was Trevellyn’s blood. If a shepherd killed a sheep – if any man used his knife – he would clean it before putting it away again.
“No! It was me! I did it! I killed them both, I…‘
But if that was the case, Simon frowned, if that was so, then why was the blade still dirty? Everyone always cleaned their blades, didn’t they?
Could it be because someone wanted it to stay bloody? Harold must surely have cleaned it if he had used it, but if another had used it to murder, would they have left it filthy to prove Harold’s guilt? Was it to put the blame on him?
Now the knight leaned back as if exhausted, his features seeming somehow older, his face sagging as if through old age, his features seeming to become grey and ancient.
“No,” he said softly. “You aren’t a killer. A man, certainly, but not a murderer. You couldn’t have killed the old woman and Trevellyn later, not even for the love of a woman like Angelina. But you could lie for her. You could lie and say that you did kill for her. You could do that and make us believe you. So that she was safe. So that she went free.”
“No!”
“Because all along, all the time, you knew who had really done it, didn’t you? All along you knew that only one person could have done it. Only that dear woman, only dear, sweet Angelina could have had the chance to kill both the old woman and her own husband. Nobody else had the chance. Did they?”
And it was then, as the knight asked the question, that Simon suddenly realised. “Oh, my good God in heaven!” broke from his lips in a soft cry that was almost a prayer as the truth dawned and he saw what had truly happened.
As if he was looking at a sequence of pictures that built up a large tapestry, he saw in their turn the house of the old woman Kyteler, her body, the form of Alan Trevellyn under the snow, the tracks in the snow leading from the Trevellyn house back to the Greencliff house, and the footprints that he had followed down south towards the moors. Snatches of the comments he had heard with Baldwin struck him and now they seemed to build a tight framework around the‘ killer, with threads as strong as hempen rope around a neck.
He leaned forward and gazed at the boy with an intensity that Harold Greencliff could almost feel. He turned to face the bailiff slowly and nervously.
“Harold, I think I can prove that the killer was not who you thought it was. If I can show it most certainly was not Mrs. Trevellyn who killed either of these two people, would you tell us the truth?”
There was a cynical question in the lifting of the boy’s eyebrow as he stared at the bailiff, but then, as Simon suddenly gave a wolfish smile, he thought he could discern a slight puckering of Greencliff’s brow as if in confusion.
“What are you talking about?” asked Baldwin. They had both gone outside and were standing at his front door where the youth in the hall could not hear them.
“We can clear up two suspects in one session. Send a boy to ask Mrs. Trevellyn to get over here for an early lunch tomorrow. Make sure there is no mention of us having Greencliff here. I think we should keep that quiet for now. Then we’ll need to go out for a ride, I think.”
“Simon, you can be exceedingly unpleasant on occasion, especially when you are smug. Tell me what is going on!”
But the bailiff refused. He ignored entreaties and threats alike, and merely smiled to himself as Baldwin tried to prise the truth from him. “You have heard and seen the same as me, Baldwin. I think I may have seen something you haven’t, that’s all. I won’t tell you what until I’ve had a chance to see whether I’m right or not,” he said and changed the subject.
By the time Margaret came out to see what they were doing, they had stopped talking, and Simon was gazing out over the scenery towards the moors with apparent calm contemplation, while behind him the knight was meditatively kicking at the ground with a face like thunder.
“Are you two all right?” she asked anxiously. She had never seen them like this before. When they glanced at her, she could see that they were both deep in thought.
Although her husband’s thoughts appeared more pleasing to him than Baldwin’s. Simon gave her a quick grin, while the knight appeared preoccupied and apparently hardly noticed her.
“What is it?” she asked, not sure whether to laugh or show sympathy, they both looked so absorbed.
In the end it was Simon who answered. Speaking slowly, as if still considering his words carefully, he said, “I think I may have discovered who could not have killed either of the two victims. I think we are almost in a position to arrest the real murderer‘’
“And…?”
“And I’ll tell you both tomorrow when I’m sure!”
The next morning was clear and calm. The sky was filled with enormous clouds that floated past slowly and majestically like massive ships under a low but steady breeze, and the sun occasionally burst out from between them to give a wintry glow to the land.
It only served to heighten Simon’s expectancy as he walked slowly at the front of the house, trailing aimlessly along the track that led back to the road, then turning off to wander on the snow that still lay over the grass at the side. Every now and again his eyes floated to the lane itself, as if they were being pulled there against his will, as he searched for any sign of approaching horses, and Angelina Trevellyn. Baldwin had been like a boar with a spear in his side all night. Tetchy and fractious, he had snarled even at his servant when Edgar apparently failed, in the knight’s opinion, to meet his usually high standards of service. It had little effect on Edgar, who simply smiled, and even threw a knowing glance at Simon, to his faint surprise. It looked as if the man was acknowledging the bailiffs presence, and giving Simon his approval. When the bailiff gave him a slight nod, the servant’s mouth twitched, as if he was trying to show a degree of sympathy for the guests in the strained atmosphere.
Smiling again at the memory of Baldwin’s petulant expression when he had refused again to answer the knight’s questions, he slowly ambled over to a tree trunk that lay not far from the woods. Wiping away the excess snow, he sat down.
He was still there when Margaret came out, followed by Agatha Kyteler’s dog, who jumped up at the bailiff with every indication of delight, then, after managing twice to slobber on his face and making him turn away in disgust, began to walk around with his body bent like a strung bow, wagging his tail and panting.
Margaret watched the dog’s antics with a small smile. The previous evening had been miserable. She hated dissension, and her husband and their friend had both been so edgy: though for very different reasons, that much was obvious.
It was curious that Simon wanted to keep the matter to himself. That was not like him, especially if he knew, as he must, that the affair was causing Baldwin real discomfort. And the fact that it was distressing the knight was plain to see. Usually Simon would leap at a chance to calm a friend, but with these murders he seemed almost to be taking a perverse pleasure in keeping his friend in suspense, and the ploy, if it was a ploy, was working. Strolling thoughtfully, she went to her husband’s side and sat on the trunk with him, and he glanced up at her as he patted the now quickly calming dog.