However, the good weather had one negative aspect: it had been so dry that the soil was dusty and, although he looked for signs that Wymond could have come this way, the ground was too hard to show footprints.
If Wymond had come here with another man, was it, as the workman suggested, for sexual favours, Baldwin wondered. What other reason could the killer have given for bringing Wymond to this deserted place? There was no proof that the carpenter had, in fact, come here.
He strolled further along the bank, until he arrived at the far corner of the meadow. The cattle had remained in the middle, regarding him suspiciously. Usually he found them astonishingly inquisitive: only worried animals huddled together. And the scent of blood unsettled them.
There was no obvious sign of a scuffle or murder at the riverside. Baldwin surveyed the view back to the castle. Through the trees he could see the vibrant colours of the pavilions, the darker russets and ochres of the market’s tents, but the rowdy noise of Oakhampton’s population enjoying themselves was stilled by distance and the trees.
Trees! Baldwin gave an involuntary start. The one thing that Hal and Wymond wanted was wood. Could someone have brought him here to show him trees or branches which he could buy or thieve?
The idea caught his fancy. He looked all about him, trying to see where a man might go. It would be better for the killer’s security not to kill Wymond too close to the river, for there he would run the risk of lovers wandering at the waterside hearing him. No, if Baldwin were to commit such a crime, he would do so up nearer the treeline above the meadow.
Setting off away from the river, he crossed the field and was soon climbing a reasonably steep incline until he came to the trees.
They rose from what looked like an ancient hedge which had been left to its own devices. Where the straggling branches should have been cut back and new branches threaded in among the others to form a solid barrier against wolves, sheep and cattle, the limbs had been left in place to grow. This place was so badly looked after that many of the bushes had over time grown into trees and now the old line of the hedge could be seen as a row of boughs straggling slightly along the edge of the pasture. Between the trees there was a thick line of smaller bushes and brambles, impenetrable for Baldwin since he was wearing one of his better tunics and he knew what his wife would say were he to attempt to force his way through. Instead he moved slowly along the line until he came to a gap.
Kneeling, he studied the place with a frown. The brambles and young twigs had been pulled aside, dragged into the field as if a cow had pushed her way through – but there were no hoof-prints.
Baldwin had investigated enough crimes to know that there were always little signs, if you knew how to spot them, which would tell you how a man had been killed and by whom; and he never lost this special frisson of excitement as his investigation suddenly took off. He felt much like a harrier which had detected the scent of a fox or rabbit and was circling to find out which direction the quarry had taken before howling to attract the attention of the rest of the pack.
The gap was mucky where the branches had been trodden underfoot, and there must be a spring hereabouts since the soil was extremely damp, but although Baldwin searched for footprints there was nothing to be seen even after a careful study. Where the twigs and stems had been pressed into the mud, they had sprung back, destroying any tracks. Even if there had been a print, the mud was so liquid that it would have been erased, so Baldwin turned his attention to the sides of the opening.
Immediately he could see that the gap was not caused by a large animal. Some of the brambles had lost all their thorns and had the bark stripped away as though hauled from the hedge, not slashed by a sharp billhook or knife. If a man had used a hammerhead to scrape the stems away it would leave a mark a bit like this, he thought, before clambering through the gap into the woods.
A blackbird flew away along the line of the hedge uttering its raucous, chattering call, and there was a rustling from among the leaves not far from him. He stood stock-still and stared until the colours and shades resolved themselves into the figure of a large feral cat which stared unblinkingly back at him before padding off on silent feet.
It was the cat that drew Baldwin’s attention to the line in the leaves a few feet to his side. There was a sweep in the litter at the foot of the trees, as if a gigantic snake had made a casual path through the detritus. His breath quickening, Baldwin followed the track, which led a short way among the trees, and he stooped to pick up a heavy hammer. Weighing it in his hand, he glanced back towards the castle. The top of the keep showed above the treetops, but the thick foliage of plants lower on the hill concealed all signs of the pavilions, tents and stalls in the meadow at the castle’s feet; the noise of the building of the stands, of the chattering, shouting and laughing people, was all a dim, distant murmur from here.
A hammer was as important to a carpenter as a great sword to a knight. Wymond would have taken this tool with him everywhere. It defined him. Yet it had fallen here.
‘So this is where you died, Wymond,’ Baldwin murmured, gazing about him. ‘And no one heard you, not this far from the camp. But who did this thing – and why?’
Chapter Twelve
Simon left the body after he had seen to the official reporting of the wounds before the local jury. It took some time and might well prove pointless, since the Coroner would want to conduct his own inquest in order to record the facts, but at least Simon was content to have confirmed the main details before witnesses. No one could accuse him of not being thorough.
Although Hugh de Courtenay was not due to arrive until later, much of his household was already in the castle. His harbingers had arrived the day before: one yeoman of the chamber, one clerk of the kitchen, a groom of the chamber, a cook, a sumpterman with the clothsack for the bed, servants to look after all the clothing, as well as an usher for the hall.
It was to the clerk of the kitchen, Paul, that Simon turned for recording the wounds and once he had finished, Paul carefully rolled up his parchment and stoppered his inkhorn, secreting all his reeds and knives away in his little scrip before glancing one last time at the body. ‘A nasty business,’ he said as he left the room. ‘But a nasty man. It’s no surprise he came to this sort of an end.’
Simon had to agree as he stood staring down at the body. ‘Out!’ he snarled when someone entered behind him. ‘This room is not to be used until–’
‘You don’t want my help? Fine. I’ll say goodbye then.’
Simon whipped his head round and smiled in relief. ‘Coroner Roger! It’s a delight to see you!’
‘Hmm. Sounded like it,’ Sir Roger of Gidleigh said, peering down at the body. ‘Here I am, visiting a pleasant little tournament in the hope of some relaxation, and what do you do? Present me with a stiff. How did it happen?’
Simon passed him Paul’s report and leaned back on a table. ‘Well, it’s like this,’ he began. It didn’t take long to tell Sir Roger all he knew, finishing with, ‘And the worst of it all is, he was such an unpopular bastard that almost anyone in the town could have wanted to see him die. He even picked a fight with me yesterday.’
‘You should control your temper, or you may find yourself accused,’ Roger joked.
‘I did. It was him who didn’t.’
‘Never mind. Have you begun to question people?’
‘Baldwin was about to start while I saw to the body.’
‘Then let’s see if he has enjoyed any success. He can’t have done worse than I have recently.’