“Because he was there! He was at the road to that woman’s house. I didn’t realise at the time, I couldn’t really see…”
“Did you see the woman in the trees? Did you see Mrs. Trevellyn?” Baldwin interrupted quickly, and saw with relief that he had brought her back to her story again.
“Her? Oh, yes, I saw her! She was there in the trees, hiding a little back from the lane, dressed so clean and expensive, like a lady, she was. But she was still there for the same reason…” She broke off suddenly, and her eyes glanced away.
“I think we know why she was there, Sarah,” said Baldwin. “You had gone there for the same reason before, hadn’t you?”
Her head came up once more and she looked him full in the face with a kind of pride as she said, “Yes.”
“Why did you think she was there at the time? Is that what you thought immediately, or did you think she was there for some other reason at first?”
“I…” Her eyes lost their focus with the effort of recollection. “I didn’t think anything at the time. I think it was just like seeing anyone. No, it was later, when I came to the lane and saw her horse there that I knew.”
“What do you mean? Why?”
“I never saw Harold, he had dropped back into the trees, but he must have been there holding the horse.”
“Why do you say that? Surely it could have been anyone there holding her horse – she might have brought an hostler to do that. Why do you think it was Harold?”
There was withering scorn in her eyes as she sneered at him. “Why? Because I may not have seen Harry at the time, but when I spoke to Jennie later, she admitted she saw him there, before he ducked back into the trees. He hid when he saw me. I’m not surprised he wanted to stay hidden from me.”
Leaning back, Baldwin gazed at her with doubt. “So Harry Greencliff was definitely there – but as far as you could see, he was alone? You saw no one with him?”
“That’s right. She must have been in the trees on the way to see Agatha by then. There was only one reason for him to be there – he was there to give her comfort after she had been to see Agatha. And then she killed the poor old woman.”
“What?“ It was almost explosive the way in which the word forced itself from his lips.
“Well, of course she did. Just like she killed her husband. And with both killings, she tried to blame other people!”
“But why?”
“Why?” Again he could see the disdain in her eyes. “Because when the witch knew she was pregnant, Mrs. Trevellyn had to kill her so that her secret was kept. Then she killed her husband too.”
“Wait!” Baldwin held up a hand and sighed. This was becoming impossible, the suggestions and allegations were flying around too quickly for him to be able to think them through. “Why would Mrs. Trevellyn have killed the old woman? Surely she could rely on her to keep the thing quiet?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. How could she trust the poor old dear to keep her mouth shut? It’s one thing for me, an unimportant woman, unmarried, I knew I could trust her. But her? Angelina Trevellyn? She had lots to lose.” Her head tilted and she looked as if she was giving the matter judicious consideration. “I imagine she never thought of killing her husband, but then she realised how easy it was after killing old Agatha, and then I suppose the next time her husband tried to threaten her, it seemed like the best thing to do.”
Baldwin threw a glance of desperation at his friend, and Simon leaned forward. “Sarah, when you knew Harold, did he always carry a dagger?”
“Yes, of course!”
“What was it like?”
“Just an ordinary ballock dagger. A thin blade with one sharp side. The handle was wooden, I think, and the sheath made of thick leather.”
“And he always kept it with him?”
“Yes. Of course he did.”
“So it comes to this, then,” said Simon at last as they rode back to Furnshill Manor in the creeping darkness of the twilight. “We know that Mrs. Trevellyn was there. We think she was obtaining the same kind of medicine as Sarah, and she had some sort of reason to keep the witch quiet.”
“But why did the boy run off? And why would he admit to the crime?”
“Baldwin! If you were young and in love, wouldn’t you protect the woman of your dreams, even if you did think she could be a murderer?”
Drawing up his horse, the knight stared at him. “What do you mean? That he thought she had done it?”
“Yes!” Simon stopped his mount and turned to face Baldwin. “If you were him, and you had gone with her to see the witch, waiting for her with her horse, only to hear later that the witch had died around then, you’d wonder, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, I’d wonder, but I wouldn’t run away immediately, though. Why did he do that?”
“I don’t know, but I think the second time, after Alan Trevellyn had been killed, I think that was because he found out that the man had died. Maybe he came across the body in the snow? Or perhaps she told him she had done it and that revolted him so much that he decided to leave. The fact that he admitted to doing it seems to show that he was trying to protect her. After all, if he had not run away, if he had not confessed, it would not have been long before you and I began to wonder about her, would it? We would have to begin to think that she must have been involved, surely, after hearing about the way her husband used to beat her, and the way that she and the servants suffered.”
“But the knife? It was covered in blood!”
“Ah! There’s a simple reason for that, I’m sure.”
“And why confess to doing it himself? That was madness!” said Baldwin incredulously.
“Why confess? That’s the easy part. Because he loves her! It may be misplaced, but he wanted to protect her because he still loves her!”
Chapter Twenty-three
Entering the hall, they found an unkempt-looking Greencliff tied to the beam of the middle of the floor, watched by an attentive Tanner who was reflectively drinking from a large pot of wanned ale and sitting by the fire. As the two men walked in, the constable stood quickly, conscious of his position compared with the two officers. Setting his drink aside, he greeted them.
“Hello, Tanner,” said Baldwin, acknowledging the constable’s nod before turning to the huddled form of Harold Greencliff. Striding across the floor, he carefully seated himself in his favourite chair and fixed a narrow-eyed glower on the unfortunate man. Seeing the frown of concentration on his face, Simon grinned to himself as he crossed over to a bench nearby. He had seen that expression on the knight’s face before. It looked as if Baldwin was wearing a magisterial attitude of distaste, but the bailiff was sure that it was no more than a front to hide his bafflement.
But as he sat, he caught a glimpse of something deeper. There was pain in his friend’s eyes, a pain that struck at the knight’s very soul, and Simon realised what was so affecting him. The knight was a man of honour, who would want only to see that the law should be upheld. He would not want to convict the wrong person and he would not want to let the guilty go free. But that may well mean that he must find this farmer innocent, and if so, there was only one conclusion: Angelina Trevellyn must be guilty. The Bourc had confirmed she was there.
“Harold Greencliff, do you know why we had you brought here?” the knight began, and the shape by the beam stirred.
To Simon it looked as if the youth was beyond fear. His pale face stared back at the knight, but without any apparent care. He seemed disinterested, unfeeling, as if whatever happened to him was irrelevant now. Nothing could shake him more than the events of the last few days. It was as if he had already decided that his life was forfeit, and that there was no point in even hoping for any reprieve. Seeing the look in the knight’s eyes, he appeared to recover a little, though, and struggled to get up, rising from a sprawl to kneel beside the post as if he was drunk and embracing a support. He nodded.