Текст книги "A Moorland Hanging"

Автор книги: Michael Jecks

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Bruther’s was not like the other corpses he had seen. He was becoming familiar with death, having viewed men dead from burning and stabbing in the last two years, and all too often he had felt the need to vomit afterward. He had witnessed enough hangings, too, as a legal representative, and seen the results. To his mind, the bodies of those who had been hanged were less distressing than those of murdered people, probably, he knew, because he was content to see the guilty punished, but also because there was less overt violence visible. This one felt different from them because it was that of a man who had been killed for no good reason, without trial, in a violent crime. And Bruther’s end must have been horrific. It was as if the final terror of the victim managed to transmit itself to him, and in his mind’s eye he could imagine the group of men grabbing him, tying his hands, throwing the rope around his neck, hauling the kicking, choking victim aloft, and leaving him there while his face blackened and his eyes rolled. The thought made Simon shiver. He swallowed heavily and turned away.

As usual, Baldwin appeared unaffected by the sight of death. Having finished his quiet survey of the body, he called his servant forward. Edgar had armed himself with a candle, and he held it near the dead man to the knight’s instruction, first next to the feet then slowly moving upward, halting at the hands and wrists, then on up to the face. Last of all Baldwin took the head in his hands and studied it, muttering to himself, not just the face but the scalp as well.

Sir William shot a look of astonishment at Simon, who gave him a weak smile. “Do not worry, Sir William. My friend’s always like this.”

“And lucky I am too!” snorted the crouching knight.

“Right, Edgar. Now, near his neck while I look at the rope.”

“But why?” The older knight tapped his foot impatiently, arms crossed over his chest. “Haven’t you seen enough? The man is dead, and there’s an end to it.”

At this Baldwin glanced up, his face thrown into deep lines and shadows where the orange candlelight caught it. “I don’t know about that yet, sir.” He motioned to Edgar. “Cut the rope from him. Sir William, how can you say there’s an end to it when we don’t know who did it?”

“But as my wife said, it must have been…”

“The miners. Quite. However, I have little doubt that the miners will say it must have been someone else. Who knows – they might even say it was you, Sir William. Now, where did you say this man was found?”

The older man stared from Simon to Baldwin, aghast. “ Me? They wouldn’t dare!”

“Or one of your sons,” Baldwin continued cheerfully. “That is why we must study this body, to see whether there is any evidence about who really did kill him. So, where was he found?”

“In… in Wistman’s Wood – a little wood some distance from here.”

“And he was hanging from a tree?”

“Yes. My men saw something swinging as they passed by. When they looked, they found his body.” Sir William was still wide-eyed with shock.

“Thank you. I think it might be interesting to see where this was, if you don’t mind. Could you ask one of the men to take us there?”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose so, if that’s what you want. I’ll arrange it.”

“Good. Now… ah, thank you, Edgar.”

Taking the heavy cord from his servant, Baldwin studied it carefully. It was strong hemp. Edgar had cut it from the neck, preserving the knot so that the interwoven threads could be studied in one piece. While Simon watched, Baldwin tested the noose, pulling at the knot so that it ran up and down the rope easily. Then the knight threw a glance at the body. Simon held out his hand, and Baldwin wordlessly passed him the rope. He was concentrating on the figure again, oblivious to the others in the room.

Simon had always had a squeamish side to him which the knight found either endearing or infuriating, depending on his mood at the time. For Baldwin, who had experienced warfare and seen death in many forms, there was a certain fascination in a new corpse. He was driven by a pure curiosity, not to prove a principle, but merely to find truth. Each time he saw a new body, he wanted to study it, and discover the reasons behind the death, as if the corpse could explain to him if he would but listen and observe. And he was determined to give each the time it needed to tell him.

Long ago he had realized that when a man or woman died in a specific way, the signals were roughly the same for others dying from a similar cause. From experience, then, it was clear enough that this man had died from hanging. That was plain from the marks on the face. Baldwin had seen them often before in hanged men, and he nodded to himself as he noted them dispassionately. The skin of the head and upper neck was a dusky color; the eyes had small red hemorrhages in their whites; the cheeks and scalp, when he pulled some hair aside, showed even more. No, he had no doubt that this man had died of being throttled.

He stood back and surveyed the body. One thing was niggling him. When he studied the neck wound itself in more detail, he could see something that looked odd. The rope had lain across the neck, and a thick mark was visible where the skin had been pulled away in places. It was, he decided, a little like a long blister, as if a thin scraping had been peeled away to leave the weeping, exposed flesh. Logically, he considered, it must be a kind of rope burn. But what confused him was the second mark. Underneath the heavy scar was a narrower line, stretching from one side of the throat to the other. He took the candle from Edgar and held it closer.

“Is that all? Or do you want to stay here all afternoon?” said Sir William, fidgeting irritably. “It seems clear enough to me. Bruther is dead from the rope – what more do you want?”

Baldwin frowned, then picked up one of Bruther’s hands and stared at it, examining the wrist. Letting it drop, he slowly straightened and smiled at the master of the house. “Yes, of course. Now, if you could take us to the men who found the body, sir, we shall leave you in peace.”

Sir William stomped up the stairs which led to the kitchen, waiting for his guests before marching out into the yard. He gave orders to a guard, who eyed the strangers suspiciously before strolling off to fetch their man. In a few minutes, Samuel Hankyn appeared, looking to Simon like a starving ferret, he was so thin and sharp-faced. He was dressed in russet-colored wool with a leather jacket. Looking enquiringly at his master, he managed to glance at Simon and Baldwin from the corner of his eye as Sir William explained what they wanted.

Before long they were on their way. Judging from the position of the sun, they had a good three hours before dark, and as none of them wanted to be stuck out on the moors when night came, they struck a brisk pace which made conversation difficult. Samuel was out in front, while Simon, riding behind him, felt stiff, his muscles protesting at so much time spent in the saddle. After a half-hour, they turned off northward in a broad valley between two low hills.

“This wood,” Baldwin said when they caught sight of greenery up ahead. “Isn’t it the one we passed the other day?”

Simon peered ahead. “Yes, it’s Wistman’s,” he said, and something in his voice made the knight look at him.

“I suppose now you will tell me the man was killed because he upset the wish-hounds!” he said lightly.

“There are some things you can’t laugh at, especially out here on the moors, Baldwin. Strange things can happen, it’s not like other places. Take this wood: all the trees are shorter than they should be. Crockern looks after his land the way he wants.”

Baldwin was about to say something when Samuel pointed. “That’s where he was,” he said simply.

Up ahead was a wall of moss-covered trunks. A small breeze made dry leaves rustle, chilling the men as it cooled the sweat on their backs. They paused and stared. Beneath one, which stood a little taller than the others, was a large rock, and beside this lay an untidy coil of the same hemp they had recovered from Peter Bruther’s body.

“He was hanging off that branch there,” Samuel continued, a finger indicating a heavy bough directly above the stone.

The knight nodded, then dropped from his horse and walked over to the tree. The hemp had been sliced through, he saw. He stared hard up at the oak, then below at the stone. “You cut him down?”

“Yes, sir. When I came back with the other men.”

Baldwin clambered up on top of the rock. It stood some two feet above the ground, and when he was on it he could just reach the branch overhead with his arms stretched upward. He gripped the branch and stared at it for some time, then let it go and sprang down, studying the ground all round while Simon observed him. He had seen his friend like this before, searching for any hints like a dog seeking a spoor.

Samuel grunted to himself and kicked his horse, moving out of the wind into the shelter of a rock. Hugh went over to join him and offered him a sip of his wineskin. The guide nodded to him gratefully and took a long pull of the cool drink, passing the skin back and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Jerking a thumb at the knight, who was now squatting and moving twigs and leaves aside as he examined the ground, Samuel asked: “Is he always like this? He looks like he’s searching for roots.”

Hugh burped quietly and stoppered the flask. “Often enough. But he seems to see things sometimes which you’d never have expected,” he explained, with a certain grudging respect. “What he’s looking for now, though, I can’t imagine.”

“There’s nothing to look for. Men came here and hanged him, that’s all.”

“He lived out here, did he?”

Shrugging, the man inclined his head slightly northward. “A little way off north of here. Most of the miners live out in the open, but this one was nearer the middle of the moors than the rest. Must’ve been mad. Anyone who’s been out on the moors for any time at all learns to stay away from the middle.”

“Why?” Edgar had ridden closer, and now sat easily and clearly comfortable a short way from them.

“Because no one who knows the moors wants to tempt him,” Hugh muttered, and the guard nodded sagely.

“Tempt who? What are you on about?”

“Look,” Hugh said, “this area, it’s Crockern’s, all of it. The spirit of the moors. He doesn’t like people trying to take from him. Even the miners know that, that’s why they all stick together, more or less. They keep to their villages, and leave most of the moors to the old man. Otherwise…” His voice trailed off as he caught sight of the cynical, raised eyebrow.

“Come on, Hugh. Otherwise what?”

“There was a farmer, not far from here. He had a good living, earned enough to feed himself and his family, but he got greedy. He wanted more. So he started increasing his land, taking more and more from the moors. Well, Crockern doesn’t mind people living here as long as they don’t hurt his country, but as for taking over bits they don’t really need, he doesn’t like that. So he stopped anything from growing on the new fields – thought that would stop the farmer. But it didn’t. The fool kept trying to increase his lands, draining and hedging and ditching, planting more and more all the time, until Crockern had had enough and decided to put a stop to it. The farmer found his animals died, all his plants withered, not just the ones on the new land, but on his old fields too, and then his house burned down…”

Samuel interrupted. “House? No, it was his barn.”

“House or barn,” Hugh amended diplomatically. “Anyway, he lost everything, and he was ruined. And that is Crockern. If you upset Crockern here on his own territory, you see, you’ll be destroyed by him.”

“And that’s what happened to this miner, you think?” Edgar was amused. Having spent most of his life in great cities he felt able to treat the superstitions of country folk with scorn. “He tried to take too much from the land, so the old man of the moors killed him?”

Offended by the bantering tone, Hugh was silent, but the man-at-arms stared at Edgar, his dark eyes pensive. “I wouldn’t laugh if I’s you. Crockern may not like it, not here on his land. Who’s to say why Bruther died? For all I know he might have killed himself, but I’ll tell you this: as far as I’m concerned, that boy’s as likely to be Crockern’s corpse as the victim of the miners hereabouts.”

“If that was the case, why were no other miners hurt? Surely Crockern wouldn’t want to differentiate between them, would he?”

The man-at-arms studied his face carefully, then motioned southward. “You know what that hill’s called?”

Edgar glanced round, back the way they had come. There was a hill, but from where they sat it was impossible to see more than the flanks. He shook his head.

“That’s Crockern Tor down there, where the miners all meet for their parliament,” Samuel said slowly. “And Bruther, well, he lived close. Too close, maybe. Crockern doesn’t like his bones being disturbed.”

“You can’t believe that!” Edgar scoffed, but the man ignored him and, kicking his horse, meandered a short distance away. When Edgar turned to Hugh, he noticed a speculative expression on the servant’s face. Hugh looked almost as if he was wondering whether a bolt of lightning might strike Edgar down at any moment.

6

The knight had finished his study of the ground and remounted his horse, frowning thoughtfully. “Simon,” he said softly, “I think this will be an interesting matter before we’re done.” He swung his leg and settled, grasping his reins, staring back at the tree. “There’s something strange about this death.”

“What’s that?”

“First, the land hereabouts. What was Bruther doing over here – fetching wood or something? There’s no axe. Then there’s his body…” He lapsed, glowering at the tree as if expecting it to answer his thoughts.

“His body?” Simon prompted after a few moments.

“Yes. If you were going to lynch someone, what would you do to him first?”

“I don’t know – gag him, I suppose.”

“And?”

“Well, it would depend on how many men were with me, how powerful the man was, lots of things.”

Baldwin shot him a look. “One of the first things you’d do would be to tie him up, surely?”

“Yes, of course.”

“So why wasn’t Bruther tied?”

“I suppose the men who cut him down must have unbound him…”

“No, Simon. He was not bound. If he had been, his wrists would have been bruised. They weren’t. I checked.”

“Could he have been unconscious? Maybe he was knocked out before they strung him up?”

“Possibly.” His voice was noncommittal.

“There you are then. He was attacked and knocked cold, then someone threw the rope over that branch, tied one end to his throat, hauled him up, and fastened the other end to the tree to hold him there.”

“I suppose so,” Baldwin said dubiously. He still wondered about the thin mark on the dead man’s neck, but did not want to discuss it in front of the man-at-arms. He wheeled his horse to face the others.

“Hey, you!” Simon called out, and their guide came forward. “You found this body with another man from the Manor, is that right?”

He nodded. “Yes, I was with Ronald Taverner.”

“Why were you all the way up here? It’s miles from Thomas Smyth’s place, and I understand you went there with Sir William.”

Samuel explained about their decision to go for a drink, and about their circuitous route homeward after seeing the two miners on the road. Baldwin listened carefully as the man spoke. His story rang true, but he seemed reticent on one point.

“I don’t understand why you came all the way out here,” Baldwin probed. “Isn’t there a nearer tavern or inn? Surely there’s one on the way to Chagford?”

“John and his knight went there. I didn’t want to be with them.”

“Why not?” asked Simon.

“Because…” He stopped and stared at the ground.

“Come on, Samuel. It will go no further,” said Simon reassuringly.

“John can be a hard man,” he muttered.

Baldwin nodded. From what he had observed he felt sure that the young squire could be a cruel master. After all, he was being tutored by Sir Ralph of Warton. Mercenary knights like Sir Ralph were all too common, and none were noted for kindness or generosity of spirit.

“So you went all the way out to the alehouse near the Dart and drank there,” Simon stated. “And on the way back you left the road because of some miners. What were they like?”

“One was tall, both were young. They were cloaked and hooded.” His face took on a pensive frown.

Simon had the same thought. “It’s rare for miners to own horses; they usually ride ponies if anything, don’t they? And you say they were cloaked… Wasn’t it a warm night? Why would they have been cloaked?”

“I don’t know. At the time I just assumed they must be miners. Who else would be out on the moors at that time of day? Farmers would all be bedding down their animals, and there’s no merchant would want to travel at that hour. I just thought…”

“Could it have been a knight, a man riding with his squire?”

Again Samuel frowned. There had been something odd about the two, now he came to think of it. “I don’t know… One could have been well-born, but the other…” He stumbled into silence.

After some moments, Simon cleared his throat. “All right, Samuel,” he said kindly, “tell us if anything comes to you. For now, do you know where this man Bruther used to live?”

“Yes, over beyond the Smalhobbes’ place.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Good, so it’s not too far out of our way, then. Take us there.”

Simon and Baldwin followed as he led them past the rock where the two servants waited. Simon saw Edgar give Hugh a patronizing sneer and overheard him mutter, “Crockern’s corpse!” The bailiff made a mental note to ask his man what the comment meant.

They toiled up the bank of the hill. Within a short distance they found they had left the boulders behind; rocks only seemed to lie in the valley around the wood. Toward the top of the hill the land was firm, undulating grassland for as far as the eye could see, with small yellow and white flowers lying among the grasses. The ubiquitous gray tors towered over the skyline in all directions. At the sight of the emptiness, Simon gave an inward groan. By now he was longing to get down from his saddle, but that pleasure was obviously some way off.

It was a good mile and a half to the little hut where Peter Bruther had lived. After some minutes, they could see it – a small, stone-built place, with turves carelessly tossed over for a roof. A fast-flowing stream wandered before it, cutting deeply into the black soil. Behind lay a patch of cultivated soil, where some crops struggled against the bitter winds which scoured the land.

At the sight of the building, the five men slowed to a trot. All were struck with the urge to approach quietly as a mark of respect to the dead man who had lived there. Their passage was almost spent until they splashed through the stream and headed to the door. And only then did they hear a shrill scream and see the woman dart from the entrance, ducking under the head of Baldwin’s horse, and pelting away to the east.

The men were so surprised that at first no one could move. Baldwin’s horse seemed as astonished as his rider, shying only when the woman had passed well beyond, but even as he snorted and jerked his head, his rider was beginning to get over his shock. While Simon exchanged a dumbfounded glance with Hugh, the knight set spurs to his horse, and with Edgar close behind, made off after her.

He had no desire to harm or scare her, but he was intrigued to know who she was and what she had been doing in the dead man’s house. Approaching obliquely so as not to alarm her unduly, he overtook her and slowed to a trot. She was sobbing. He smiled, trying to look reassuring, and held up his hands to show they were empty of weapons. It appeared to work, for as he reined in, she stopped a short distance from him, wiping at her eyes and panting.

It was impossible for the knight to miss the signs of her poverty, the threadbare dress and dirty wimple, the holes at the elbows and knees, but he was impressed by her carriage. She stood tall and straight, looking almost like a lady, and was not scared to meet his gaze. This was no fearful rabbit of a serf, he could see.

“Please stop, madam. You are in no danger, I assure you.”

“Who are you? Are you with Thomas?”

His expression of frank incomprehension must have been convincing, for her eyes left his at last, and moved to take in the straggle of men at the hut behind her, then Edgar, who had pulled up to her side and now sat resting his elbows on his horse’s withers. Baldwin shrugged to emphasize his ignorance of the name. He had no knowledge of this Thomas.

“You aren’t miners, then,” she said doubtfully, and her mystification increased as the dark-faced knight laughed aloud.

“No, no, we’re not miners. I am Sir Baldwin Furnshill, and the gentleman back there is Simon Puttock, the bailiff of Lydford. We are here to find out who killed Peter Bruther.”

“He is dead, then?” she cried, and covered her face with her hands.

Edgar led Baldwin’s horse back to the hut while the knight walked with the weeping woman. By the time they had returned to the other men, he had managed to learn that she was Sarah Smalhobbe.

“Why were you here, Sarah?” Simon asked when Baldwin had introduced her.

“I wanted help after they attacked us. They came to my house yesterday, three of them, and they set on my husband. He’s there now, in his cot. Three against one! Where’s the victory in that, eh? The cowards hit him and kicked him while he was on the ground, beating him with cudgels just because he refused to leave the moors. But where else can we go, sir? We have no family to protect us, we’re just poor people, and we cannot leave and find somewhere else to live.”

“You do not come from around here, then?” Baldwin asked gently, and her gaze immediately moved to him. She hesitated, nervous of saying too much. “No, sir. We come from the north.”

“Where from? Why did you come all the way down here, to this miserable place?”

Unaccountably she began to snivel again. “Sir, it’s hard, but there has been nowhere to earn a crust – the famine affected richer people than us. We had to go somewhere when we could no longer get food, and when we heard about the mining down here, it seemed a chance to build our lives again.”

Simon glanced at Baldwin, then back at the woman. “We can protect you on the way to your house, and perhaps help your man. But you must tell us who did this to him.”

The fear returned to her eyes. “If I tell you they’ll come back.”

“If you tell us, we can see that they never come back,” he said reassuringly.

“How can I depend on that? What if you’re wrong? They may burn us out, or kill us both!”

“Sarah, calm yourself. I am the bailiff. They will not dare to attack you if they hear you’re under my protection.”

“I don’t know… I must speak to my husband.”

“Very well, I won’t force you. But think on it. We may be able to help you – after all, the last thing we need down here is mob-rule.”

“You already have that, bailiff,” she said sadly, and turned away.

While she waited outside Bruther’s hut with Hugh and Edgar, Simon and Baldwin entered the little dwelling. A balk of timber in the center supported the roof, while a burned patch and twigs nearby showed where the miner had kept his fire. A simple stool formed the only furniture. The man’s sad collection of belongings lay on a large moorstone block which jutted from the wall in place of a table: a cloak, a hood, a small knife, a half-loaf of bread, a paunched rabbit. A thin and worn sleeping mat lay rolled up on the floor beside it.

Baldwin picked up the dead rabbit and weighed it in his hand. “This can only be a day old. In this heat it would hardly last much longer. If he caught this, surely he would not have committed suicide shortly after?”

“Why – do you think he might have killed himself?” Simon asked sharply.

The knight sighed. “No, but suicide would explain why his hands had not been bound. Then there’s the second mark…”

“What second mark?”

Baldwin explained while Simon listened intently. “It more or less proves it must have been murder,” the knight said, tossing the rabbit aside.

“It’s not very honorable, is it?” Simon mused.

“Stepping up behind a man and throttling him. Not the kind of behavior you’d expect out here. Usually if there’s a fight it’s with daggers or fists. This… it’s sickening.”

“Yes. As you say, it is hardly chivalrous. But then, there are many miners on the moors, and I doubt whether any of them have noble blood. In any case, there is not much reason here to kill a man, if they killed him to rob.”

“Could they have taken something from him?”

“From a villein? Maybe he had a purse on him, but he hadn’t been living here for a year yet. He can’t have earned that much. No, I doubt whether the purpose was robbery. Besides, since when have robbers hanged their victims?”

There was nothing more for them to learn here. They went outside and mounted their horses. Baldwin offered Mrs. Smalhobbe a ride with Edgar, but she refused. It wasn’t far to her house and she would be happier to walk. “So would I,” Hugh muttered fiercely when he saw that Simon was within hearing, but his master chose to ignore the comment.

At the Smalhobbe holding they found a small and neat square stone cottage. Sarah immediately ran to the door and entered while the men dismounted. Inside it was tiny. By the light of a guttering candle, which made the air rank with the foul smell of burning animal fat, Simon could see the slim figure lying on a palliasse at the far end of the room, his wife kneeling beside him. On their appearance, the miner lurched up to sit, his brown eyes showing anxiety – but not fear, Baldwin noted approvingly. The man looked unwell, his gaunt features bruised, but though he was slight of build, Smalhobbe looked wiry and fit.

“My wife says you are trying to find out what happened last night,” he said, his voice weary and strained.

Baldwin glanced round the room, then sighed as he realized there were no chairs or benches. He squatted. “Yes. Peter Bruther was killed, as your wife has presumably told you. We understand you were attacked as well.”

Henry Smalhobbe watched as Simon crouched down beside the knight. The miner’s expression was reserved and suspicious, but Simon thought he could detect a degree of hope there, as if the man had been praying for some relief and now felt he could see the approach of rescue. Simon cleared his throat. “Could you tell us what happened last night? Maybe we can help you at the same time as clearing up the matter of who killed Peter Bruther.”

“Maybe,” said Henry Smalhobbe quietly, and sank back on to an elbow. His face was now in darkness, below the level of the candle in the wall, so that his expression was difficult to read; Simon wondered whether the move was intentional. He chewed his lip in concentration as the miner continued: “There’s not much to tell. I was out all day, same as normal, working the stream a little to the south of here. When I came back it was just before dark. Well, I was almost home when I saw a man hiding outside. He must have been waiting for me.” He spoke dispassionately, as though recounting another man’s misfortune. “After I heard Sarah call out, I had to look at her and make sure she was all right. Well, before I could turn round, something caught me across the back of my head.” He broke off and gingerly touched his scalp. “I fell down, and someone whispered in my ear, said that if I didn’t go and leave this land to the one it belonged to, I could die. And my wife…”

“I understand. Please, what happened then?” said Simon softly.

“They beat me. Someone was kicking me, another had a cudgel, I think, and hit me all over – my legs, back, head, everywhere. I passed out when they got to my head.” He spoke simply, not trying to embellish his tale, and Simon felt sure he could be believed.

It was Baldwin who leaned forward and asked: “Did you see any of these men?”

“I didn’t need to, sir. I know them all. There’s three of them: Thomas Horsho, Harold Magge and Stephen the Crocker.” He explained briefly about their previous visits, how they’d threatened him and his wife.

“Usually George Harang is there too, when these men go out to scare people, but last night it was Harold who spoke. If George had been there, it would have been him.”

“Did you hear them say anything about Peter Bruther? Any comments at all?”

“No, sir, not that I recall. I’d tell you if I did.” His voice carried conviction.

“Have you heard of anybody else being attacked recently? Do you know if anybody else was hurt last night?”

“No, sir,” said Smalhobbe, glancing at his wife for confirmation. She shook her head too, her eyes huge in her concern.

Baldwin subsided, and Simon stiffly rose to his feet, his knees cracking. “Thanks for all that. We’ll see what we can do. If you’re prepared to accuse these men, perhaps we can get them punished.”

“Oh no, sir!” Sarah Smalhobbe’s face was twisted with fear. “We can’t! What will happen to us if we do that? You can see what the men are prepared to do when we make only a little trouble for them…”

Simon cocked his head. “What do you mean by ‘a little trouble’? What have you done to deserve this beating?” he asked.

She stared at him for a moment, then her eyes dropped, flitting nervously, or so Simon thought, to her husband.

“Henry?” he prompted, and was sure that the man started nervously.

“When we came here, we did all legally, bounding our plot, marking it out and registering it. All we wanted was to be left alone to make some kind of living, and so far we have. But some tinners, all they want is to keep people off the land.”

“Tinners? Surely you mean the landowners? It is they who wish the miners to leave,” said Baldwin.

“No, sir. The landowners want us to leave them alone, it is true. Some miners damage their lands and pasture, but no, I did mean miners want us off this part.”

“Is it very wealthy, then? There is a lot of tin here and others want you to leave so that they can take it?”