Текст книги "A Moorland Hanging"

Автор книги: Michael Jecks

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

15

On their way to the Fighting Cock they rode past the front of Thomas Smyth’s house, and Hugh could not help craning his neck to stare long after they had passed by. The hall looked quiet, with only a few ostlers and a cowherd wandering in the yard, shovelling old hay and muck on to the pile in the corner up close to the entrance. From here it would be collected by cart and taken down to the hall’s strip-fields behind the village for rotting down to manure.

After hearing all that the miner had said, Hugh was intrigued. He had assumed that the death of the miner was a simple killing, a hanging by someone with a grudge against him. He would have placed money on one of the Beauscyr family being responsible. Now, though, he felt sure that it must be something to do with the master tinner in his great hall. Why else would he have paid the Smalhobbes to keep quiet?

It was with a degree of reluctance that he turned to face the road ahead once more, but soon his mood lightened. Hugh was not a man given to long introspection. Before him was an inn, and there he would be given food and good, strong ale. He sighed happily.

Simon found the inn a little less busy than the last time they had visited it. Now there were several tables free, and he strode to a large one under a window away from the hearth, where there was a chance of uninterrupted conversation. Sitting at a bench, he gazed round the room. Two girls were circulating with drinks, but he could see that this was not their best time of day. He caught sight of them yawning extravagantly, and spotted another asleep on a bench at the far wall: their lives were more skewed to the evening than lunch.

Baldwin and the others joined him, the knight taking his seat opposite his friend, and soon they had ordered. The girl whom they had spoken to before was nowhere to be seen, and Simon decided to wait until they had eaten before they asked for her. Their food was a thick, rich stew, with the meat minced so small that it was impossible to identify. Baldwin prodded at it suspiciously with his wooden spoon before looking up at Simon questioningly. “What do you think this is?”

The bailiff gave him a bland smile. “I don’t think you should ask that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it could be anything. Out here,” his hand waved airily, encompassing the whole of the moors around, “there’s not much in the way of food, and a man must survive as best he can. There are wolves, of course, but the main animals here are the forest venison: deer, boar and so on. They are all the King’s, and nobody here would dare to break the forest laws by hunting them, of course. I suppose this meat must have come from Chagford.”

“Ah!” Baldwin smiled, and dipped bread into the bowl. As he had expected it had a strong gamey flavor, and the wine he had ordered combined with the food to give him a feeling of comfortable well-being. Finished, he sat back and studied the other people in the room while the others ate in silence.

The girls were working hard to keep tankards and pots filled. One caught his eye. Slight, dark-haired, with an almost boyish figure, she moved with a cool assurance between benches and tables, often carrying several pots and jugs at the same time with a calm efficiency. She did not look like other moor women. Most of the girls in this area were pale-skinned with dark hair, but this one appeared quite dark-complexioned. He beckoned her.

Simon was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as she drew near, her expression pleasant, but reserved. When Baldwin asked if there was a girl here called Molly, she gave a cautious nod. “I am,” she said.

The men quickly introduced themselves, and when she declared herself nervous of upsetting her master by not carrying on working, Baldwin called the innkeeper over. Hearing who his guests were, he glanced guiltily at their empty bowls, gave a sickly smile and speedily offered Molly for as long as the men wanted to speak to her. The knight thanked him graciously, then persuaded the girl to sit.

In age she could only be a little older than Alicia, Thomas Smyth’s daughter, but born to a harsher life with none of the pampering that Alicia expected. Gray eyes stared at him without curiosity. She was not dimwitted, but she had no interest in any of the men at the table.

When Simon began, he could see her boredom. “We’re trying to find out what happened on the night Peter Bruther died,” he said. “We’ve been told by John Beauscyr that he came here with a friend that night. Do you remember it?”

She nodded. “Yes, they were both here about two hours before dark.”

“You were with Sir Ralph for some time?”

“He wanted me. I stayed with him for some hours, until late in the evening. Then he left me and returned to the Manor with John.”

“We know John was not here all the time his friend was with you, but I understand he was back by the time Sir Ralph left?”

Again she nodded. “He was here when we came back.”

“How did he seem? Did he look the same as when you left him?”

“I don’t know what you mean – I suppose he was a bit excited… he was flushed. But he had been when they arrived.” Her eyes took on a distant look. “No, he wasn’t quite the same. When they arrived he was angry, swearing under his breath most of the time, and ignoring me and the other girls. He’s not usually like that; normally he’d give us all a smile and have a joke. He wasn’t himself that night. He just came in with his friend, took a drink and sat at a bench.”

“Did he talk to anyone?”

“Might have,” she said carelessly, and yawned. “I don’t know. Sir Ralph, he was taking up my time. All I know is, John had a black mood on him, and I was keeping away.”

“I see. And he wasn’t the same when you came back down?”

She nodded. “That’s right. By the time we came back, he was more cheerful. He bought a drink for me, and joked with Sir Ralph. I thought he must have rested with one of the other girls, but they said no, he’d been out for a while and returned in a better mood.”

“Did he say where he’d been, or why he was feeling better when he got back?” Simon asked, chewing at a fingernail.

“No, at least, not that I heard. All the girls said was, he’d gone out for an hour or so, and when he came back, it was like his troubles were all over.”

“I see.” Wearily he waved his hand. Clearly the girl knew little. At that moment, though, Baldwin leaned forward.

“Molly,” he asked, “how well did you know Peter Bruther?”

“Well enough,” she said, her eyes sharp with suspicion. “Why?”

“We want to learn as much about him as we can, that’s all.”

“Well, I don’t care what they say,” she stated with a quiet passion, glancing at the bar where the innkeeper stood occasionally looking over at them.

“What do they say, Molly?”

“That he was bad, that he was cruel. He wasn’t like that!”

Her vehemence surprised him, but not as much as the sudden watering of her eyes and the way that her shoulders gave a slight shudder. “Molly, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you…”

“No. No one ever thinks about us serving girls having any feelings, do they? We don’t matter.” Her voice was hard, not with self-pity, but a kind of regret.

“It isn’t that, Molly,” Baldwin said gently. “I just did not realize you knew him. You did, didn’t you?”

“He wasn’t like the other men, they always promise anything. Like John and the others, they often say they’ll take us away from here, set us up in our own cottage and look after us. It happens, but most men just don’t care about us. Peter was different. He really did care. When he had the money, he said, he’d come and get me, and we’d live somewhere else, far away. He said he’d take me to a city, to Exeter or somewhere, and he meant it. With the others it was just a way to try to get me to be more friendly, but Peter, he really cared, I know it. And now, well…”

“How long had you known him?”

“Peter? A good year. He started coming here as soon as he ran from the Manor.”

“We’ve heard that he used to get into arguments.”

“Sometimes. He hated me working here, and he didn’t like me going with the other men. It made him mad. He’s been thrown out several times for arguing in here.”

“And John Beauscyr used to see you too?”

“Yes. But I never liked him, he’s cruel. He hurts the girls. Peter was never like that. He knew what it was like to be owned, he said, and how good it was to escape – and that’s how he understood what I wanted, to get away and live free. How could John Beauscyr understand that? All he knows is how to take what he wants, use it and throw it away.”

“Was Peter Bruther here the night he died?” Baldwin asked quietly.

“Yes, but he left just before John and Sir Ralph arrived.”

“You are sure?”

“Oh yes,” she said emphatically. “He’d embarrassed master John’s knight. The fool had threatened to tie up Peter and drag him back to Beauscyr, and didn’t notice Peter’s friends standing behind him. He had to leave with his tail between his legs when he saw the others. And Peter kept his rope, too!”

“His rope?”

“Yes. Peter and his friends brought it here to show me the night he died. He was really proud, you see. It was like a prize, taking the rope from the man who thought he could haul him back to be a serf again.”

“And Peter took it with him when he left?” Simon asked the girl.

“Oh yes, sir. He wouldn’t leave it behind.”

“And he was on his way home before John and his friend arrived?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know which way he would have gone home from here?”

“Down the road, then over the moors once he was past the miner’s house by the stream. He always took the same route.”

“So, if John and Sir Ralph were coming here from Thomas Smyth’s house, they would have passed him on the way, wouldn’t they?”

“Yes, sir, they… What are you saying? That John could have killed Peter?”

“I don’t know. How long after you had gone upstairs would John have left, I wonder?”

“Nobody saw him go as far as I know. After I’d gone with Sir Ralph, somebody noticed John’s seat was empty, but no one saw him go out. Later on, Alison went to help a farmer to his horse, because he couldn’t mount it on his own, and she saw that John’s horse had gone too. That was when she realized that John had ridden off.”

“I see,” said Baldwin, and lounged back, glancing at Simon.

The bailiff frowned at the table top as he thought. “Molly,” he said after a moment, “you say Peter Bruther told you he would take you away and make you free when he had the money. He had his own mine, so why didn’t you go there with him?”

“He always said it would be too dangerous, with the Beauscyrs trying to get him back. He was afraid there would be a fight.”

“You knew he had guards from the miners’ camp with him. I don’t understand. We’ve heard that the miners wanted him and the other small tinners who weren’t working for Smyth to leave the moors. Why did they agree to help him and not others? Why should his neighbor, Henry Smalhobbe, be beaten and threatened while Bruther was allowed to stay – and not just that, but was given men to protect him?”

“I don’t know, but that evening, the day when he was killed, he said there wouldn’t be a need for guards any more. He said he could start his new life, free.”

“What did he mean?”

“Something had happened the day before. He had seen Thomas Smyth, but didn’t say what they had talked about. All Peter said was, he’d soon be safe and I’d be able to leave this place and live with him. I’d be safe too, he said.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “And the next day I heard he was dead.” Suddenly her face was animated, and she hissed, “Ask that bastard Smyth what he did! Ask him; he must have killed my Peter!”

She sprang up and walked away, keeping her back to the small group of men huddled round the table. When she finally heard her name called, she glanced round just once, quickly, and saw that they had all gone.

“Hello, Molly,” said George Harang. He leaned back in his chair and grinned up at her wolfishly. “I think I’ll have a pint of ale first. Then I’d like to speak to you – alone.”

There was little talking among the four as they made their way to the great house of Thomas Smyth. At the hall they passed their horses to a groom on hearing that the master of the house was indoors, and soon they were sitting inside, while the bottler poured wine for them. In a moment Thomas Smyth arrived, striding through the door, ever the man of affairs with little time to talk, and too much to do.

“Bailiff, Sir Baldwin. Welcome again. How can I serve you?” he said, dropping into a chair.

Baldwin watched him impassively. Simon was angry that so much information had taken so much searching out; he was convinced that Thomas Smyth knew more than he liked to admit. It must be the miner’s approach to life, he thought, keeping everything to himself until he was sure it could not be used to bribe or threaten someone else to his own advantage. That was why he had not mentioned the men protecting Bruther, Simon was sure. He had seen no advantage to be gained in it. Simon meditatively sipped at his wine, then set the goblet down. “When did you first send men to protect Bruther?”

“What does it matter?” Thomas Smyth’s face still held a smile, but it was less broad than before.

Baldwin could see that the man was close to exhaustion, and he was less self-assured than at their first meeting. “It matters because the bailiff asked you the question,” he said firmly, and was rewarded by a cold stare.

“Why did you put men there in the first place?” Simon said.

“Because I did not want a miner to be taken by the Beauscyrs,” he said. “It would have been embarrassing to have a worker from the stannary taken away.”

“Eight men just for that? And at a time when you were trying to get other men removed from the same area? It was a very generous act. It would have been easier to bring Bruther to your camp – there was no need to send men all the way out there, surely?”

“It didn’t occur to me. Anyway, if I had let him go to the camp, he would have lost his mine – I couldn’t let the Beauscyrs think they had beaten a miner like that.”

Simon studied him. It made no sense, he thought, frowning. He too could see the lines of strain on Smyth’s face, and even as the bailiff spoke, the miner’s hand twisted nervously at a loose thread on his shirt. “But you wanted the men to leave that part of the moors,” he insisted. “You said so yourself. Why look after one person so extravagantly?”

“In God’s name!” The sudden outburst made them all sit up. “Why shouldn’t I look after him? He… He needed help, and I could give it, and that’s all there is to it! For God’s sake forget it and get on with finding the poor soul’s murderer, that’s what matters now!”

“We intend to, Thomas. But to do that we have to understand what sort of man Bruther was, so that we can find who had a reason to kill him. Take you, for example…”

“Me?”

“Yes. You wanted men like him and Smalhobbe off the moors. You had your three men to enforce that, as we well know…” As he spoke, Simon was aware of movement behind him, and Christine Smyth walked in. Thomas Smyth gazed at his wife as she walked to his side and rested a hand on his shoulder. “So why did you not have your men beat him up as well?” Simon persisted. “Why was he free of attack when you proceeded against his neighbors?”

“All I can say is, I had no reason to harm him, and every reason to protect him. I have told you why: because his Manor wanted him back.” He took hold of his wife’s hand.

To Simon they looked a tragic pair, she standing beside her man like a loyal servant, he staring at Simon with the lines of pain and tiredness carving tracks in his face. The bailiff sighed. If the man would not talk, he could not be forced. “Very well. Another point: you were seen riding toward Bruther’s place on the evening he died. “Why?”

The miner’s eyes slitted. “You accuse me of his murder?”

Christine Smyth tightened her grip on her husband’s shoulder. She knew he was depressed for some reason, had been since first hearing of Bruther’s death, but he would not tell her why, and she was scared. Under her palm she could feel the tenseness of his muscles, and she longed to caress him like a child as she felt the breath catch in his throat.

“No, I just want to know why you were there.”

“I wished to speak to him.”

“You already had, the day before. What did you want to talk to him about?”

“That had nothing to do with his murder.”

“Your refusal to answer seems odd in the circumstances.” Simon waited, but the miner held his gaze steadfastly. “Very well. Why did he lose his guards, then?”

“This has nothing to do with Peter’s death, and I’ll not waste time with this nonsense!”

“Well, at least tell us this: what sort of a man was he?”

“He was a strong, vigorous man. What more can I say? He struck me as an independent sort, the kind who would have done well out here, and who would have worked hard.”

“Did you know he was often involved in fighting at the inn?”

“Fighting – Peter? I find it hard to believe.”

“He had a woman there, too. One of the serving girls.” Simon said it carelessly, but he saw the faint sadness in the man’s face.

“I’m not surprised. It was how he was made, looking after others.”

Frowning, Simon glanced up at his wife. “Madam, you were out on the day that this man was killed, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was in Chagford with my daughter. And George Harang.”

“George was with you all the time?”

“Yes. Until we came home.” She could feel the tension tightening her chest like bands of iron round a barrel. “Then he had to go out with my husband to see to the mining.”

“When was that?”

“Early afternoon – when we returned.”

Simon looked at Thomas again. “And when you got back from the camp, was Bruther here? Did you see Bruther that evening?”

“No, no. Peter did not come here that day.”

“He was at the inn that afternoon, according to his girl. He came back this way afterward, to go home. He would have passed your door, and you did not see him?”

“No, I told you.” Thomas Smyth’s face was haggard. “I did not see him that day. He did not come here.”

“He left the inn a little before John Beauscyr got there, apparently. He and Sir Ralph had come here with his father, but Sir William and he parted at your door.”

“No. He was not here.” Now Christine felt the suppressed emotion in her husband’s grip. His fist was tightening on her hand, squeezing the blood from her fingers, and she pulled it away gently, walking to a bench nearby and sitting composedly.

The examination continued, but she kept her eyes on her husband, filled with foreboding. She knew that he was hiding the truth, but did not know what it was. He was scared, that much was obvious to her, and she feared that his questioners might notice. As the meeting continued, her husband became more and more agitated.

It was the first time he had kept anything from her. Normally even the smallest details of the mining camp would be discussed with her, the vaguest problems thrashed out, but she had no idea what his connection was with the young man, Bruther. She felt scared. Thomas had always been a strong man, determined and self-assured, but now it was like watching the render flake from a wall, first a chip, then a crack, then more pieces falling until the whole wall was unprotected. That was how she felt, that his reserves of strength and determination were being eroded under the steady impact of something to do with this dead man. But what it was she had no idea.

Last night he had not been able to sleep. She had woken suddenly, and reached out for him, but he was not there; and when she blinked around their solar, she saw he was gone. She found him in the hall, sitting in his chair before the fire, grasping a pint of wine. He had said nothing, but she could see that his eyes were anxious and fretful. Even the dogs had known something was wrong. They sat by his side like guards, peering into his face with devoted concern. But even then he still would not explain what it was that plagued him so.

“It comes to this, then. When Sir William came in, you did not see his son or Sir Ralph and you did not see Bruther – is that right? And while you were out, did you see Sir Robert on the moors?”

And Christine bit her lip and threw her husband an anguished glance as he answered, “No.”

“I think there’s little else we need to ask now, Thomas,” said Simon, rising slowly to his feet and staring at the miner with a degree of distaste. “But think on this: if you want the law to protect people here, and not just your men but you and your family as well, you’ve got to tell us everything. I know you’re keeping something back.” He stalked from the room, closely followed by the two servants and Baldwin, who gave Christine a smile and nod.

As soon as the curtain had fallen, she rushed to her husband’s side. “Thomas,” she began, but he cut her off.

“Get a messenger to find George. Tell him to get back here right away – I need to speak to him. And fetch me a jar of wine. I’m thirsty as a rabid bear.”

She ran to do his bidding. Her husband’s voice carried his old authority again, and she was sure that he had found a way through his troubles. Christine Smyth was right… but if she had guessed the course his thoughts had taken, her heart would have sunk into despair.