Текст книги "A Moorland Hanging"

Автор книги: Michael Jecks

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“If what you say is right,” Simon mused, “the killer must have begun the fire, then slipped into the room to murder Hankyn and Taverner.”

“Yes, but I still cannot understand why he should have enticed Samuel into the storeroom. At that time of day, surely he would have found both asleep – in which case, all he needed to do was stab Samuel first where he lay.”

“Oh, that’s easy. Whoever this killer was, I think he started the fire, then entered the storeroom from the courtyard itself. He waited there until the alarm was raised, and when it was, he kicked over the barrels to make a noise. It woke the good Samuel, who walked in to see what the row was, and he was grabbed round the mouth to stop him screaming as he was stabbed. After that, all the murderer needed to do was walk back into the room beyond and finish off poor Ronald where he lay.”

“Yes, but why, Simon? That’s what I don’t understand. Why kill them?”

“That’s something we can only find out by asking the killer, but I expect whoever did it thought the two men had seen him on the moors when Bruther died. It would explain the matter rather well, wouldn’t it? He thought they had seen him, so he made sure they could not tell anyone.”

“If that is correct,” Baldwin said, his voice low, “then it must have been somebody in the fort. The fire began before the gates were opened. Adam Coyt, Thomas Smyth and his men… everyone who was outside the fort must be innocent. Whoever killed Bruther and then the other two must have been inside last night.”

“Oh yes, Baldwin. I’ve got no doubt about that,” said Simon grimly, and he led the way to where Hugh and Edgar held their horses.

Quickly swinging himself up, the bailiff glanced round the camp. Almost all the signs of the fighting were gone now. The bodies, the evidence of the battle, had been covered and would soon, no doubt, be taken to the little church at Widecombe. Two men were shovelling earth into the traps and stamping on top to level the ground, while others were walking over the terrain collecting arrows. These would be put back in the armory in case of another attack. Apart from that, the camp had regained a little of its calm atmosphere, slumbering in the warm summer sunlight.

Kicking his horse up the slope, Simon said, “It’s as if nothing has happened here, it’s so quiet.”

The knight nodded in agreement. “Indeed. You could hardly imagine what carnage was here only a few hours ago. The grass is flatter, but that is all. The moors seem good at hiding their secrets.”

“Yes. Whether it’s a single man like Bruther, or a group like the ones here, all soon disappear.”

They were at the farthest fringe of buildings now, and Hugh looked back pensively. “I wonder where Bruther did die.”

“What do you mean?” asked Baldwin, staring at Simon’s servant.

“Well, we don’t know where he died, do we? He might’ve been killed where he was found, only it seems a bit odd for him to be up at Wistman’s Wood, so far out of his way. All we know is, he died somewhere between Thomas Smyth’s hall and his own place.”

“Well done, Hugh. So all we have to do is hunt over all the moors between those two places and we’ll find where he was killed. That should be easy enough.” Simon’s tone was witheringly sarcastic.

But Baldwin was thoughtful as he stared at the servant. “It shouldn’t be too hard, really. After all, we know that Bruther was careful and wary. If he was walking over the moors and heard someone behind him, he’d turn to see who it was. And if somebody was lying in wait, Bruther must surely spot him. These moors are so flat, even a beetle is visible a mile away.”

They were almost at the top of the hill above the plain now, and Baldwin turned to survey the landscape. “If a man was going to ambush someone, he would want to do it far out in the moors, surely? Even if he had men with him, he would prefer a quiet place with no chance of a witness overhearing, wouldn’t he? Now where could a man do that on the moors?”

“At a tor, I suppose. Or a group of other rocks.”

“That is right! There are rocks behind which a man could hide, but would John have been able to get to them to ambush Bruther, unseen by his victim?”

Simon considered a moment. “It would depend on which route he took from the tinner’s house. The killer must have been in place when Bruther passed, then gone on to Wistman’s Wood with the body, had time to hang it, and then escaped. I wonder how long that would have taken him?”

“A good while,” Baldwin judged. “And that is what I do not understand. Everyone seems to be able to explain where they were, apart from Sir Robert and his brother. Of course, John might not have had time if he rode immediately to Chagford to rob this farmer.”

“Which means it was Sir Robert.”

“Yes.” But Baldwin’s expression was doubtful.

Simon sighed. “We still don’t know where or exactly when Bruther was killed. It must have been some time before dark.” He stopped. When he spoke again he was deep in thought. “I never thought of that before. He was dead some time before the two Beauscyr men passed by, so he would surely have been killed in daylight.”

“Let us assume he was killed in daylight, then,” Baldwin said. “His body must have been carried over to the woods, because if he was going straight home, his route went nowhere near Wistman’s Wood. The wood is over a mile distant from any point on the path, so he must have been taken there on horseback. He would have been too bulky to carry.”

“Yes,” Simon nodded, thinking hard.

“If John had too little time, could it have been his brother?” Baldwin mused.

“Didn’t Alicia say she met Sir Robert when it was getting dark? He would have had time to kill Bruther between leaving Alicia and seeing her again later.”

“True, but I find it hard to believe it was him.”

Hearing this, Edgar whirled in his saddle to stare at his master. “Could it not have been Adam Coyt, then? He had a packhorse there.”

For once Baldwin was sharp with his servant. “Don’t be ridiculous! Coyt admitted being there, otherwise we would not have known. Why should he confess to being there if he was the killer and had no need to admit to being even remotely close? And another thing: Coyt dislikes miners generally, it is true, but he had no real dislike of Bruther except insofar as Bruther damaged the moors, to his mind, and for that he expected… um… Crockern to protect the land. Anyway, Coyt was not in the Manor last night. He could not have killed the other two.”

Simon shrugged. “The murders could be unrelated. It’s not something we should ignore, anyway.”

“It is too unlikely, Simon. Think about it: a man is killed; two men find the body and may have seen something; shortly afterward, these two are also murdered. It would be too much of a coincidence for them to have died for different reasons. No, they must have been linked in some way.”

“So you think it was definitely one of the Beauscyrs, then?”

“Yes.”

Hugh screwed up his face and glanced at Simon.

“What about Sir Ralph? We don’t know when Bruther was killed, like you say, so Sir Ralph could have done it.”

“No, Hugh. He was with Sir William and John on the way to the tinner’s house. They all said they were together then, and I believe them.”

“Then it must have been the other one,” announced Hugh. “I never trusted that Sir Robert. He always looked too arrogant.”

“Robert? I suppose it’s possible,” said Simon, with a faint smile at his servant’s relish. “I feel he’s not a killer, though. I’d have thought his brother was more likely.”

“John could have hared after the man who had insulted him,” Baldwin agreed. “It’s quite possible that he could have overtaken Bruther, waited for him to pass, then jumped out and strangled him.”

“If it was John,” Simon said, “I still wonder if he had enough time to murder and hang Bruther?”

“He had as long as it took to get over to the road to Chagford,” said Baldwin shortly. “Anyway, what were you telling Hugh to do before we left? You were speaking to him for some time.”

Simon gave a short laugh. “Telling him to find out whether there were many robberies here that didn’t go reported. That attack on Wat Meavy interests me. I wanted to see if Coyt was telling the truth, and that there were more than I realized.”

“And?”

“You tell him, Hugh.”

“They said that there hadn’t been many until a few weeks ago. Since then they’ve been getting worse.”

Baldwin shot the bailiff a quick look. “You think John has been robbing since he came home?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a squire turned to pillage. He’s been trained in it up north, I’d guess, and he’s carrying on as he always has.” The knight shrugged. “Possibly, but I do not quite see how that can help us.”

“Look at it this way: how long would it have taken John to get to Chagford to attack Meavy?” Simon asked. “When was this Wat Meavy attacked? Did he see who attacked him? Was it really John who did it? We don’t know yet, do we? Fine, so we think that John could have been involved in a series of raids, stealing from the people here – but that doesn’t make him a murderer, though if he was found guilty of it, he would still be punished for breaking the King’s peace. No, but he might have had time to leave the inn, go and kill Bruther, hang the body, and then ride east until he came upon someone to rob. By chance he meets Wat Meavy and robs him – it could have been anyone, so long as whoever he found was scared of the name of Beauscyr and would not accuse him of theft. All he wanted, if I’m right, was to have someone he could call upon to say he was not anywhere near Bruther in case somebody at the inn told us he was not there all night. That was why I also asked Hugh to find out where this Wat Meavy lived. And he did.”

“Is it far?”

Simon gazed to the north and east, then shrugged and smiled.

Sighing, Baldwin stretched, then nodded. “Ah, I see. Well, then. Let us go there now and find out what did happen.”

23

Henway, the small vill where Wat Meavy lived, lay some four miles from the camp. The four men followed the road, turning north over the moors when Hugh pointed, down into a steep valley where the air was cool and fresh. Small clumps of bushes and trees lay at the bottom on the banks of the little stream, all covered in thick moss, and the sound of rippling water mixed with the green light of the sun filtering through the trees gave a feeling of peace and calm.

Trailing along the line of the water, they soon came upon Wat Meavy’s house. It was a sturdy stone building, with a cluster of outbuildings forming a stockade, a low wattle fence keeping his animals in and wild creatures out. Smoke rose from the house and drifted toward them, carrying with it the delicious aroma of fresh bread.

They clattered up the small rise into the yard and dismounted slowly, easing sore muscles. From here the farm looked wealthy, with fresh white limewash on the walls, well-maintained byres and a barn. While they stood, a woman came out of the house, wiping her hands on her apron.

From a distance, she looked as though she was in her twenties, but as she approached they could see that she was older, probably nearer her late thirties. Baldwin could see some of her children peering inquisitively round the doorway at the guests. He winked, then turned to the woman, listening with half an ear as the bailiff introduced them. The woman was of medium height, strongly built, with no hunching at the shoulders so common in peasant women. Her face was wrinkled with age, and tanned from a life spent outside helping her husband, but the brown eyes were clear and sharp as she glanced at the small group. When Simon had finished she asked them to go with her, and she led the way to the house.

Here she sent children scurrying to fetch bowls and platters and benches, and insisted that they join the family in their meal when her husband arrived, which he did a short while later, clumping in from the yard with his heavy boots. Nodding at the men as if he had expected them, he walked to a bench a short distance from his fire and sat. Ale was brought and drunk, then bread, still warm from the hearth, and cheese. Watching carefully, the farmer waited until his visitors were served before beginning to eat, while his wife helped the children keep pots replenished. Baldwin had to keep smilingly shaking his head as the children tried to refill his pot, but one was insistent and each time he averted his gaze he found there was more to drink. Eventually he had recourse to the simple method of leaving the pot full, but felt guilty when he saw the reproachful glance of a young tow-haired girl, surely not more than nine years old, who stood steadfastly staring at him, jug ready, until he grinned in defeat and sipped a little. Her sudden smile was radiant, and he felt more warmed by it than by the food.

He darted little glances round the room while he ate. The house was smaller than he would have expected, and he assumed it had once been a long house. All too often these immense buildings suffered catastrophic collapse and fell in on themselves. This one appeared to have fallen at one end, while the rest of the place had been rescued. Before, the cattle and other farm animals would have been kept in one end of the house while the men and their families used the other, but since the loss of half the house it looked – and smelled – as if the animals did not come in anymore. He guessed that the area behind the new stone wall at his back gave on to a new building constructed with stones from the old one – a byre or shed where animals could be kept. The room had a wholesome smell of smoke and rushes, its atmosphere that of a great hall. Hams hung drying from rafters in the smoke from the fire, adding their own pungent odor. In the knight’s experience, most farmhouses reeked of cattle and dung, sweat and urine, but not this one.

When his gaze finally rested on Wat Meavy the knight was disconcerted to find that the man had been subjecting him to a detailed scrutiny. Faded blue eyes met his unflinchingly from a round face the color of old leather. His russet tunic was scratched and torn, but the farmer wore it with as much pride as a great lord would wear his armor. A thin stubble of graying hair lined his jaw and top lip, and lank gray hair stuck out from his head in unruly disorder above a grubby band. It looked as if it covered a wound. The farmer used his food like he used his tools, Baldwin thought. Massive hands grabbed hunks of bread and cheese and crammed them into his mouth while his eyes moved from Simon to Baldwin and back.

Hugh was fully at home. He had been raised on a small sheep farm over to the northeast, near Drewsteignton, and this was the company he felt most at ease with, farmers and their children. This room was much as he remembered the main room at his parents’ home, though it was many years since he had been there. The people were friendly, the food good, and the ale – he took a long draft and sighed gratefully as the strong-flavored liquid washed down his throat – the ale was fine.

As the men all finished their food and settled, Hugh belched and grasped his pot, a warm glow encompassing his spirit as he sat back and took notice of the others again. Baldwin, he could see, was thoughtful as he stared at the farmer, while Wat Meavy appeared caught between nervousness and suspicion, his broad square brow lined. Seeing his guests had finished, the farmer sent his wife and children out, and when they were gone, Simon leaned forward and smiled reassuringly.

“We’re here because we want to ask you about the day you were attacked, Wat Meavy.” Briefly he explained who he and Baldwin were, before resting his chin in his hand. “I know you weren’t going to report it, but we need to hear all about it. It may prove important in another affair, a murder.”

“Peter Bruther’s, you mean?”

Simon nodded. The farmer considered the bailiff for some time without speaking, but then gave a slow nod.

“What do you want to know?”

“You were going up to Chagford?” Simon prompted.

“No. I’d been there all day and was coming back. I had had a sow and some piglets to sell.”

“I see. What time of day did you leave to come home?”

Wat Meavy gave him a slow smile. “Late, bailiff. I’d been in Chagford all day, and it was thirsty work standing there in the sun. There was no need to hurry, my wife wasn’t expecting me yet, so I went to the tavern there in the town. I suppose I must have been there for some hours before I left.”

“Was it dark yet?”

“No. Not quite.” He gave a sudden frown of concentration. “But it was getting that way, I think.”

“I understand you were attacked just outside the town, is that right?”

“Yes. I’d just got past Coombe, and was beginning to head southward. There’s a place there where an oak used to stand in the wall, only it fell some years ago and old Stephen Thorn, he’s never got round to mending the wall. Its stones are still all over the ground. Just beyond, the lane curves sharp to the left, and narrows too, and then there’s another lane comes up from behind you. Well, that’s where this man came from, I reckon. At the time I thought he rode up from nowhere, that’s how it seemed. He just appeared, and he had a great sword in his hand, and shouted at me to stop. I thought it was the Devil! Well, my horse, he just stopped dead anyway, he’s not used to having men turn up like that. Before I knew what was happening, I’d taken a knock on the side of my head and the bugger’d cut the purse from my belt…” His eyes took on a faraway look. “My sow and two piglets. Thieving bastard! They were worth good money, too. I’d sold them for five shillings, and most of the money was in that purse. Five shillings!”

Baldwin cleared his throat. “So, er, what happened then? This man hit you, and you came straight home, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“Oh yes, sir.” He eyed the knight with sudden wariness, as if wondering whether to continue.

Simon broke the sudden silence. “Do not have any fears. Just name him for us and nothing can harm you. We think we already know this man’s identity, but we must have you confirm it.”

“What if him and his family come here? They could burn our place to the ground, yes, and kill my wife and the children. What then?”

“They won’t come here, Wat. I’ll make sure of that.”

“I don’t know…”

“Wat, the culprit’s father has promised me already that he’ll make good your loss. Does that help? He had no idea his son was here. But I must hear who it was – you must tell me.”

“It was John Beauscyr.”

The flat answer made Simon sink back exhausted. He had thought that this man might tell him something he did not know, but here was the proof. There was only one other point which mattered. His voice was low and serious as he spoke. “Wat, do you have any idea when this attack happened? Was it dark yet, or was it still light?”

“I don’t know,” said the farmer, baffled at the question. He pushed out his lower lip and frowned with the effort of recollection. “Let’s see. I’d left Chagford in daylight, and I’d only got past Coombe. That would have taken bugger – all time, I suppose…”

“How did you recognize him?” asked Baldwin, shooting a glance at Simon and leaning forward.

“His face, of course.”

“Did you have a lantern?”

“No.”

“Then it was light enough to see, surely?”

Suddenly a great smile broke over the farmer’s face.

“Yes, of course! I was to the west of Meldon Common, and as I passed by, the sun was sinking before me, and I remember thinking it was late – yes, it was just as dusk was coming on.”

“I see,” said the knight. “And it was late when John left the inn, was it not, Simon? I think John could not have murdered Bruther and got here in time to attack Wat.”

Simon nodded dejectedly. “No. It looks like he’s innocent,” he agreed. “But that being so, who was it?”

Baldwin gave him a sympathetic smile. “I have no more idea than you,” he said. “Wat, I am grateful to you for your help.”

“That’s my pleasure, sir,” said the farmer, following the men to his door. Once he was outside, Simon turned slowly, struck by a thought.

“Wat, you said he just sprang from nowhere. How did he look? Did he seem anxious or worried? Could he have been tired from a fast ride?”

“Tired? No, not at all. No, if anything he was rested.”

“How do you mean?”

“He was… how can I describe it? He was all eager, like a hound smelling a scent. It was like he was determined to prove something. He kept muttering things.”

“What sort of things?” Simon was frowning now as Baldwin wandered back to listen.

“Something about someone…”

Baldwin smiled, then touched Simon’s arm. “Come on. I think we’ve taken enough of this farmer’s time already. He hated Bruther, I expect he was saying he’d like to get even for the insult the lad gave him on the road.”

“No, sir,” said Meavy, his face wrinkled into a scowl. “No, it wasn’t that so much. He was saying he was no worse after all, and his father was no better than him. That he might as well copy his father, and the sooner he was away the better. I don’t know, it was hard, my head was aching, but I think that’s what he was saying.”

“That he might as well copy his father?” Simon’s face was a picture of confusion.

“Yes, sir. That he might as well copy his father.”

The sun was slowly edging westward by the time they jogged out of the small farm and took the road back to Beauscyr. Simon led them, gazing unseeingly at the ground in front of his horse as he ran through the farmer’s evidence. Wat Meavy had impressed him with the clarity of his account. Though he was probably quite drunk when he was attacked after an evening spent at the inn, the farmer could nonetheless recall his journey home. He knew what the daylight was like, he knew where he was attacked, and all that after being clubbed round the head. His word must be believed.

“Simon?”

Turning, the bailiff saw his friend riding alongside, with a puzzled frown drawing his eyebrows so close together they made one thin black line on his brow. Simon grunted. “What?”

“Suppose, for a moment, that the farmer was right. Suppose John Beauscyr was muttering imprecations about his father. What would that mean?”

“That his father had given him a talking to about robbery, I suppose.”

“But this was before we heard about him being a robber. It was because we thought he was involved in killing Bruther, that he admitted robbing Meavy – to show us and his father that he could not have been near Bruther when he died.”

“Yes. So what?”

“Are you being intentionally dense?” Baldwin sighed. “Look, he was muttering about copying his father. Why would he want to do that – rob Wat Meavy, I mean. It seems to me he must have heard something about his father that day which made him decide to rob.”

“Something he had heard made him choose to rob Meavy?” Simon repeated blankly.

“It is possible. And yet, why would he say that he was ‘no worse, after all’?” Baldwin stared hard at his horse’s neck. “Simon, I just wonder…”

“What?”

“If he had already been told by Sir William not to steal and rob anymore, and then had heard that his father had used to rob as well, maybe that would have been enough to drive him to attack someone.”

Simon was dumbfounded. “That’s a very big guess,” he managed at last.

“If Sir William had already told his son to stop stealing, he would certainly be enraged to hear about Wat Meavy.”

“Yes, I suppose so. But to suggest that Sir William himself…”

“We know Sir William fought for the King during various wars; it would hardly be surprising if during that time he had a chance of spoils which were not strictly legitimate.”

“But how could John have heard something about his father?”

“Bruther.” Baldwin avoided Simon’s eye.

“Bruther!” Simon exploded. “How in the name of God do you come to think that? There is nothing to suggest that Bruther knew anything about Sir William, and now you say blithely that Bruther caused John to go beserk like this – what’s got into you?”

“I think,” said Baldwin slowly and precisely, “that it is possible that Bruther heard from his father about something that Sir William had done in the past. Perhaps a long time in the past, I do not know. We do know that Sir William was a soldier, like I said, but Thomas Smyth was too. The battle today proved that. He was highly efficient in the way he set out his troops, and if Sir William had not responded so effectively, it is likely that Smyth would have slaughtered the Beauscyr men. It is possible that Thomas knows something about Sir William. It would explain a lot, after all. Think how easily Sir William gave in to the miner. He said it was because Smyth was legally entitled to be there on the moors, and that may be so, but I find it difficult to believe.”

They had come to the main track across the moors now, and turned southwest on to the packed earth of the road.

“If I am right, Sir William was fearful of the miner because of what Thomas Smyth knew of his past. And perhaps…” He suddenly broke off and stared ahead blankly. “Simon – I have been a cretin! Of course, there’s only the one explanation!”

“What?” asked Simon sarcastically. “That Thomas Smyth threatened the knight with exposure if he didn’t let the tinners farm tin on his land? Or do you think that the knight knew something about the tinner that made him keep from his land anyway? Baldwin, I think you’ve…”

“Simon, listen! Please, just for a minute.” Baldwin was smiling broadly. “Think on this: Bruther normally had men to protect him, all the time he was on the moors. Yet on the very night that Sir William met Thomas Smyth, Bruther suddenly did not need those men again. Strange, don’t you think? Then again, think about this: John met Bruther that night and they certainly exchanged words – and we hear that he rushed off shortly afterward to Chagford and attacked the first man he met. Hardly the behavior of a rational squire, I would have thought.”

“I think you must have drunk too much of good Farmer Meavy’s ale – you’re babbling,” said Simon, but he kept a suspicious eye on his friend. After a few minutes, he lost his patience. “All right, then, Baldwin. So what do you mean? What do you guess from these two hints?”

“Ah, Simon, later, later, old friend. I see we’re heading for both Beauscyr Manor and Smyth’s house. Why don’t we go to see Thomas Smyth first? It is not far out of our way.”

And he refused to discuss the matter further.