people. She made them feel stupid. She was arrogant too. Didn’t suffer fools easily. Not without letting them know what she thought of them.”
“Her friends?”
“Ask the women hereabouts. They all knew her.”
“Why?”
He looked up suddenly, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “She helped them with their babies. When there was a problem with the birth – any problem – she helped them. She was a good midwife.” He almost mused as he spoke.
“So she’ll be missed?”
“Yes,” he thought, considering. “Yes, she’ll be missed by some.”
“Did anyone hate her? Could someone here want her dead?”
With a shrug, the innkeeper showed his indifference, but under the intensity of Baldwin’s gaze, he spoke with a defensive air. “Some might’ve. But you can’t believe what people say here! ”I hate him“, ”I’ll kill him“, ”He deserves death“, you hear it every day in here. When a man gets into his cups, his mouth runs away sometimes – it’s natural. You can’t believe it, it’s the wine talking.”
“Who has said that about Kyteler?”
“Oh! I don’t know. Many people have. They were scared of her. She seemed too clever, like I said. People get worried by women who’re too clever.”
“So who has said that kind of thing about her?” Baldwin pressed.
“Like I say, it means nothing. There’s a few have said things. Young Greencliff, he has. And old man Oatway.”
“Did they say why? Why they hated her?” asked Simon, leaning forward, his arms on his knees as he frowned.
“Why? Ha!” He gave a rich, low chuckle. “Oatway has the place between her assart and here, and he’s got chickens. About a month ago, he saw one of his chickens were missing, and when he looked he found its feathers, all in a line on the way to Kyteler’s place. He reckons it was her dog, but she swore it wasn’t.”
“If it was going out that way, it could have been a fox or anything, heading back to the wild; away from the houses and back to the forest,” said Simon.
“That’s what she said, too, but old Oatway wouldn’t have it! He reckoned it was her dog, right enough. Anyway, he went to her and said he wanted the chicken replaced, and she refused. Since then, he’s lost two more chickens, and he hates her, blames her for them.”
“Hardly enough to murder for,” said Baldwin mildly.
Simon glanced at him. “A chicken is enough meat for a week or more for two people. After the last couple of years, I’d say it was a very good reason to kill.”
“Well,” the innkeeper squirmed in his seat, “I’m not saying it’s not, but I still don’t think he could kill. Not old John Oatway.”
“No? What about Harold Greencliff?”
“Harry? No, I don’t think so. He’s a good lad. No, he wouldn’t kill.”
“Why did he hate Kyteler?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. Something happened, though. He came in here…”
“When?”
“Yesterday. Late afternoon, I suppose… Yes, it was just after dark, so it must have been about five o’clock. Anyway, he came in and took a pint of ale, and sat down over there.” He pointed at the far corner, near the screen leading to the inner rooms. “A bit later, a friend of his came in, Stephen de la Forte, and they got talking, and I heard Harry say that she was a bitch and if she wasn’t careful, someone would ”see to her“.”
“And?”
“Oh, they left soon after. But that’s not to say he was really mad – he looked more sad to me, not really angry, just upset, so don’t go thinking he sent straight out to kill her. Anyway, they were back here a few hours later – before eight.”
“Who? Greencliff and de la Forte?”
“Yes. They came in again and settled down for the evening with some of their friends.”
“Where had they been?”
He shrugged. “How should I know? To get food or something, I don’t know.”
“How did they seem when they got back?”
“Oh, Stephen was noisier than usual, but I reckon they’d had drinks while they were out. It gets some people like that. Harry was quiet. He often is when he’s drunk too much. He’s a nice, quiet sort of a lad.”
“I see,” said Baldwin, but as he opened his mouth to say more, Tanner and Cottey came in from seeing to the body. Walking to the huddle of men at the fire, they sat and stared longingly at the jugs of wine until Baldwin gestured and the innkeeper rose with bad grace to fetch more, this time not forgetting himself.
“We put her out back in the outbuilding. She can wait there until the priest can come and see to her,” said Tanner, watching the wine being poured as he held his hands to the fire. Sighing, he continued, “Poor old woman should be all right there. We put her up on a box. The rats should leave her alone for a day or two.”
Simon nodded, then glanced over at the innkeeper, who had returned and was staring morosely at the flames once more. “Did she have any family?”
“What, here?” Looking up, he seemed disinterested now, as if he had exhausted his knowledge and would prefer to move on to talk of other things. “No, not that I’ve seen. Sam? You seen any family with her?”
Taking a long pull at his wine, the old farmer paused before answering. Head one side, he considered. “No. Don’t think so. Mind you, you’d need to ask Oatway to know. Anyone going to see the old…” He hesitated. “The old woman, they’d’ve had to go past Oatway’s place first.”
“I think we need to see Oatway,” said Baldwin ruminatively.
Chapter Six
The Bourc whistled as he jogged easily southwards, keeping the moors straight ahead. They looked beautiful, dark and soft with a vague hint of purple and blue, splashed with white in the shadowed areas where the low sun could not reach. Here, almost at the outskirts of Crediton, the moors took up the whole of the view, stretching from east to west as if trying to show him that they were the best route for him to take.
Soon he was out of the surrounding trees and winding down the lane that led into the town itself. Here he made his way to the market and bought bread and a little meat before carrying on. To his surprise, as he was leaving the market, he heard his voice called, and when he turned, he saw the merchant, Trevellyn, at the door to an inn.
“You leaving already?”
“Yes. My business is finished here. I am on my way back to the coast.”
“I see. Going to Oakhampton, then south?”
“No,” said the Bourc shortly, and explained his route, “It should be quicker.”
“Yes,” said the merchant. There was a strange expression in his eyes as he peered at the Bourc speculatively. “There’s one easy route if you’re going over the moors.”
Walking a short distance with the Bourc, he pointed to where the road began, and made sure that the Gascon understood the route before returning to the inn.
Mounting his horse, the Bourc stared thoughtfully after him for a moment. The merchant’s helpfulness did not ring true. It was oddly out of character after their last meeting in Wefford. But his advice sounded good.
The road led between some houses, down a short hill, and out to a flat plain. Crossing a river, he found that the road was well marked and easy to follow, and soon he was whistling cheerfully as he went.
After riding for some hours the countryside began to change. In place of the thickly wooded hills near Wefford and Furnshill, the trees were becoming more sparse and the hillsides steeper and less compromising. The road straggled lazily between the hills as if clambering up them would have been too much effort, and he found himself
