Текст книги "The Merchant’s Partner"

Автор книги: Michael Jecks

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“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.

“You have admitted to killing Agatha Kyteler and Alan Trevellyn. Do you still affirm your guilt?”

“Yes.” It was said with a note of contempt, as if the knight should not have harboured any doubts.

“When did you kill Agatha Kyteler? Was it after Angelina Trevellyn went to…”

“Leave Angelina out of this…” The pain of his expression and the suffering in his voice were all too obvious, and Simon nodded to himself. That barb touched a nerve, he thought.

“Leave her out of it?” Baldwin’s voice was deceptively soft at first, but then it hardened as he leaned forwards and continued more harshly. “How can we leave her out of it when she must bear part of the responsibility? If you killed them both, you killed them for her. You murdered the old woman so that your secret should be safe and you murdered Trevellyn so that his wife could be free of him, didn’t you?”

The boy stared at him, mouth gaping in shock as he slowly shook his head from side to side.

“We know why Mrs. Trevellyn went to see Agatha Kyteler. We know that she went to get rid of the child she did not want.”

“No.” It came as a low moan, but Baldwin continued doggedly.

“She went there to keep her pregnancy secret, to hide it from her husband.”

“No!”

“And then your knife was used to kill Alan Trevellyn as well, I suppose because he found out about the secret. We know you were there with her at the time. We followed your trail back. Your knife was still covered in blood when Simon here arrested you.”

The knight paused. The look on the boy’s face had become contemplative, and now a faint smile tugged at his lips. He nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said. “That’s what happened. I had to kill the witch after she realised that Mrs. Trevellyn was pregnant, and I had to kill Trevellyn when he heard about our visit to the witch.”

“How?”

Greencliff stopped and stared at the knight at the simple question. “How? What do you mean?”

“How did Alan Trevellyn hear about the visit to the old woman? Who told him? I doubt whether you did, after all!”

“I…”

“And why did you need to kill Agatha Kyteler?”

“To keep her quiet!”

“But she always kept quiet before, didn’t she?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I…”

“But you did know, didn’t you? You knew that Sarah Cottey had been to see her, didn’t you? And you knew that no stories had spread afterwards.”

“No, that’s not true…”

“No? Do you mean you didn’t know that Sarah had been to see old Agatha?”

“I… No, I didn’t know, I…”

“You knew.” The flat statement cut him off, and he sat with a red face as the knight continued. “You knew full well that the old woman never spoke of the women who visited her, just as she never spoke of the men who went to see her. She always held her tongue, unlike others. No, you would not have killed her for that. And Alan Trevellyn? Why would you have killed him? So that you could have his wife?” The youth opened his mouth as if to agree, but the knight made a terse gesture with his hand to cut him off. “That’s nonsense. Why kill the man and then leave? Why kill him to win his wife and then leave her behind? You broke yourself off from your life and your woman at the same time. Are you really that stupid?”

Now the boy was staring blankly at the knight. Looking at him, Simon was reminded of a hare gazing at a harrier. He was left with the impression that he and Tanner need not be present.

“So why, then? Why did you do it? Tell me that.”

It was almost as if that simple demand for factual reasoning was enough. Harold Greencliff seemed to relax, nearly slumping back against the post, with an almost contented, a smug, expression on his face.

But his face changed as soon as the knight rested his chin on his hand and gazed at him, saying, “Very well. I shall tell you what happened. I shall tell you why but not as you mean. I don’t think you killed anyone.

“When Agatha Kyteler died, you were standing by Angelina’s horse. She left you and went to the old woman’s house. You waited there and when she returned, you both went home. You didn’t go to the house and kill. You couldn’t have! When you went to the Trevellyn house, you didn’t see Alan Trevellyn. You went to see your lover, and she took you to the places where her husband could not be. She was not stupid enough to take you somewhere he could see you together.”

“Then how did my dagger get his blood on it?”

Baldwin waved a contemptuous hand. “There are many ways for a shepherd to get blood on his blade! What did you do that morning? Kill a ewe? A lamb? I’ll bet it was something other than Trevellyn’s blood on the knife!”

Simon pursed his lips. It did not seem likely. No, it was more probable that it was Trevellyn’s blood. If a shepherd killed a sheep – if any man used his knife – he would clean it before putting it away again.

“No! It was me! I did it! I killed them both, I…”

But if that was the case, Simon frowned, if that was so, then why was the blade still dirty? Everyone always cleaned their blades, didn’t they?

Could it be because someone wanted it to stay bloody? Harold must surely have cleaned it if he had used it, but if another had used it to murder, would they have left it filthy to prove Harold’s guilt? Was it to put the blame on him?

Now the knight leaned back as if exhausted, his features seeming somehow older, his face sagging as if through old age, his features seeming to become grey and ancient.

“No,” he said softly. “You aren’t a killer. A man, certainly, but not a murderer. You couldn’t have killed the old woman and Trevellyn later, not even for the love of a woman like Angelina. But you could lie for her. You could lie and say that you did kill for her. You could do that and make us believe you. So that she was safe. So that she went free.”

“No!”

“Because all along, all the time, you knew who had really done it, didn’t you? All along you knew that only one person could have done it. Only that dear woman, only dear, sweet Angelina could have had the chance to kill both the old woman and her own husband. Nobody else had the chance. Did they?”

And it was then, as the knight asked the question, that Simon suddenly realised. “Oh, my good God in heaven!” broke from his lips in a soft cry that was almost a prayer as the truth dawned and he saw what had truly happened.

As if he was looking at a sequence of pictures that built up a large tapestry, he saw in their turn the house of the old woman Kyteler, her body, the form of Alan Trevellyn under the snow, the tracks in the snow leading from the Trevellyn house back to the Greencliff house, and the footprints that he had followed down south towards the moors. Snatches of the comments he had heard with Baldwin struck him and now they seemed to build a tight framework around the killer, with threads as strong as hempen rope around a neck.

He leaned forward and gazed at the boy with an intensity that Harold Greencliff could almost feel. He turned to face the bailiff slowly and nervously.

“Harold, I think I can prove that the killer was not who you thought it was. If I can show it most certainly was not Mrs. Trevellyn who killed either of these two people, would you tell us the truth?”

There was a cynical question in the lifting of the boy’s eyebrow as he stared at the bailiff, but then, as Simon suddenly gave a wolfish smile, he thought he could discern a slight puckering of Greencliff’s brow as if in confusion.

“What are you talking about?” asked Baldwin. They had both gone outside and were standing at his front door where the youth in the hall could not hear them.

“We can clear up two suspects in one session. Send a boy to ask Mrs. Trevellyn to get over here for an early lunch tomorrow. Make sure there is no mention of us having Greencliff here. I think we should keep that quiet for now. Then we’ll need to go out for a ride, I think.”

“Simon, you can be exceedingly unpleasant on occasion, especially when you are smug. Tell me what is going on!”

But the bailiff refused. He ignored entreaties and threats alike, and merely smiled to himself as Baldwin tried to prise the truth from him. “You have heard and seen the same as me, Baldwin. I think I may have seen something you haven’t, that’s all. I won’t tell you what until I’ve had a chance to see whether I’m right or not,” he said and changed the subject.

By the time Margaret came out to see what they were doing, they had stopped talking, and Simon was gazing out over the scenery towards the moors with apparent calm contemplation, while behind him the knight was meditatively kicking at the ground with a face like thunder.

“Are you two all right?” she asked anxiously. She had never seen them like this before. When they glanced at her, she could see that they were both deep in thought.

Although her husband’s thoughts appeared more pleasing to him than Baldwin’s. Simon gave her a quick grin, while the knight appeared preoccupied and apparently hardly noticed her.

“What is it?” she asked, not sure whether to laugh or show sympathy, they both looked so absorbed.

In the end it was Simon who answered. Speaking slowly, as if still considering his words carefully, he said, “I think I may have discovered who could not have killed either of the two victims. I think we are almost in a position to arrest the real murderer‘’

“And…?”

“And I’ll tell you both tomorrow when I’m sure!”

The next morning was clear and calm. The sky was filled with enormous clouds that floated past slowly and majestically like massive ships under a low but steady breeze, and the sun occasionally burst out from between them to give a wintry glow to the land.

It only served to heighten Simon’s expectancy as he walked slowly at the front of the house, trailing aimlessly along the track that led back to the road, then turning off to wander on the snow that still lay over the grass at the side. Every now and again his eyes floated to the lane itself, as if they were being pulled there against his will, as he searched for any sign of approaching horses, and Angelina Trevellyn. Baldwin had been like a boar with a spear in his side all night. Tetchy and fractious, he had snarled even at his servant when Edgar apparently failed, in the knight’s opinion, to meet his usually high standards of service. It had little effect on Edgar, who simply smiled, and even threw a knowing glance at Simon, to his faint surprise. It looked as if the man was acknowledging the bailiffs presence, and giving Simon his approval. When the bailiff gave him a slight nod, the servant’s mouth twitched, as if he was trying to show a degree of sympathy for the guests in the strained atmosphere.

Smiling again at the memory of Baldwin’s petulant expression when he had refused again to answer the knight’s questions, he slowly ambled over to a tree trunk that lay not far from the woods. Wiping away the excess snow, he sat down.

He was still there when Margaret came out, followed by Agatha Kyteler’s dog, who jumped up at the bailiff with every indication of delight, then, after managing twice to slobber on his face and making him turn away in disgust, began to walk around with his body bent like a strung bow, wagging his tail and panting.

Margaret watched the dog’s antics with a small smile. The previous evening had been miserable. She hated dissension, and her husband and their friend had both been so edgy: though for very different reasons, that much was obvious.

It was curious that Simon wanted to keep the matter to himself. That was not like him, especially if he knew, as he must, that the affair was causing Baldwin real discomfort. And the fact that it was distressing the knight was plain to see. Usually Simon would leap at a chance to calm a friend, but with these murders he seemed almost to be taking a perverse pleasure in keeping his friend in suspense, and the ploy, if it was a ploy, was working. Strolling thoughtfully, she went to her husband’s side and sat on the trunk with him, and he glanced up at her as he patted the now quickly calming dog.

“Hello, my love,” he said, smiling at her. She did not return his welcome, but sat quietly with her hands in her lap. “What is it? Are you all right?”

“Yes, Simon. I’m fine, but I’m worried about you.”

“Me? Why?”

She looked up into his smiling grey eyes, searching them for a sign as she spoke. “What you’re doing is so cruel. Can’t you see what it’s doing to Baldwin? The poor man’s in a torment. He has no idea what you’re thinking of doing today or why! You’re making him mad – why?”

“I’m sorry, Margaret, I didn’t mean to worry you. It’s nothing that you need fear,” he said, but then his eyes drifted to the view again. “It’s just that I’m not sure myself how it’s going to go today. I’m fairly certain that Harold Greencliff is innocent, and I think we’ll show that today, but the trouble is, what will the result be for Angelina Trevellyn? I think maybe she did have something to do with it, and if so, it’s quite likely that today I’ll have to hurt Baldwin’s feelings. And I don’t want to.”

“What makes you think young Greencliff didn’t do it?” she asked matter-of-factly after a moment.

Glancing at her, he smiled. It was typical of his wife to get straight to the main issue without being sidetracked. He considered, but before he could speak there came the tinny jingling of harnesses from the lane before the house. “Come inside, and you’ll hear all about it any moment now,” he said and, rising, gave her his hand. Looking briefly down to the road, he confirmed it was Angelina Trevellyn before he turned and led the way to the house.

Baldwin appeared at the door as they approached, peering past them to the people on horseback. Watching him, Simon saw the concentration, the intensity of his stare. He felt his belly chum at the thought that the woman might be involved. Oh, God, he prayed, please let it be someone else. I couldn’t face Baldwin if I made it clear it was her!