brows down and he gave an angry sigh as he felt the frustration rise: why, for God’s sake, why was he thinking about her still? She was irrelevant; unimportant – just a sad little old woman. Why did her murder keep impinging on his brain? As he glared at the flames, he found that with no effort he could again conjure up a picture of her from his dreams, dressed in her hooded cloak, her eyes glittering with bright red fire, her expressions intense – and yet not threatening.
It was not a terrifying face. Instead it was sad, as if she was trying to help him, nudging and prompting him towards her murderer.
This was foolish. Thrusting the thought aside, he considered. The only thing that mattered was finding the killer of Agatha Kyteler and Alan Trevellyn. And right now he was not sure that they had the right man in the gaol. Glancing up he saw Baldwin’s face set into a pensive scowl.
Right, the bailiff thought, so who wanted the witch dead? Even Harold Greencliff did not appear to have a motive. And who could have wanted to kill Alan Trevellyn? To find that out the bailiff would need to know more about him. Could one of his servants have wanted to see him dead? It sounded very much as if they all suffered under him. Who knew the man well?
He gave a start, making the brown and black dog stare at him in sudden reproach for waking him before dropping his head down again. He said, “I know what we have to do. Tomorrow we need to see Jennie and Sarah again and check a couple of points – I think I’m getting close to the truth at last!”
Chapter Twenty-two
After leaving their horses with the hostlers at the back of the inn, they entered and took a table near the front of the room. Baldwin haughtily summoned the innkeeper with a curt wave of his hand, while the bailiff stared round the room. After hearing what Hugh had to say about his conversation with Jennie Miller, he was interested in seeing her again, and putting some other questions to her.
But today the inn was quiet. Although it was lunchtime, there were few people there, and Simon reflected that the people from the village would still have many tasks to perform. Even with the fields under snow, there would still be animals to look after, tools damaged over the year to be repaired, and some jobs, no doubt, to be done in their houses.
There was no sign of Jennie Miller. Over by the fire there was a little group of four men, one of whom Simon recognised as Samuel Cottey, but that was all. Perhaps it would become more busy as men finished their lunches and went to the inn for a quick drink before getting on with their afternoon duties.
Wiping his hands on a thick rag, the innkeeper strolled to them. “Sirs. What can I offer you?” he said.
Simon raised an eyebrow towards Baldwin, who shrugged. “Two pints of ale, and food.”
“We have cold meats, sir. Is that all right?”
Nodding, Simon turned to his friend as the publican left to fetch their order. “Well, Baldwin? Come on, what do we do next?”
The knight glanced up at him, and gave him a wan smile before returning his gaze to the matted rushes on the floor. “I don’t know, old friend,” he admitted. “Everything we have heard would seem to support your doubts about Mrs. Trevellyn. But Greencliff had the knife, and the prints led to his door after Alan Trevellyn’s death. Then there’s Agatha Kyteler’s death. He was there, we know that.”
“So was she, though!”
“I know, I know. She confessed to that. But I wonder…”
“What?”
“I was just thinking: why did she want to see the old woman? Agatha Kyteler was supposed to be a midwife, but Angelina Trevellyn says she has never had a child.”
Just then their food arrived, and they set to with gusto. Breakfast felt like it was a long time ago. Speaking between mouthfuls, Baldwin’s eyes narrowed as he peered at Simon. “If Harold Greencliff was having an affair with Angelina Trevellyn, isn’t it likely that he was trying to kill her husband so that he could take her for himself? It would make more sense than thinking that she was involved.”
“I’m not so sure, Baldwin. I don’t know her that well, but if she really hated her husband that much, especially after the way that he apparently abused and mistreated her, I think she could easily become angry enough to kill. And don’t forget, she is a Gascon. She’s French.”
“ French?” the knight stared at him open-mouthed. “What on earth’s that got to do with anything?”
“You know,” Simon’s eyes were suddenly hooded and he glanced around quickly. “They do tend to get overexcited, the French.”
“God in heaven! Simon, you and I must talk soon. You believe in witches, you trust to all the old superstitions, and now you think all the French are mad as well!” The humour had returned to the knight’s eyes, Simon saw with a degree of bitterness.
“No, not all French. It’s just that…” Simon shrugged. He knew he would not win this argument, so he changed the subject. “You know, I think I’m beginning to understand dimly what actually happened.”
“There’s still a lot we need to find out.”
“We need to talk to the people of Wefford again and find out what they haven’t told us.”
“How? We’ve already spoken to most of them. How can we find out more?”
“Well, first I think we ought to go back and see Sarah Cottey – especially,” he nodded towards the group in front of them, “especially while her father’s in here. Then we must see Jennie Miller. She knows more than she’s told us, she seems to know all the gossip in the village, if Hugh’s right. And I want to speak to Harold Greencliff again. I don’t know how to get him to talk to us, but he must know more.”
“That’s a lot of work. It’ll take time to get into Crediton to go to the town gaol.”
“Have him brought up to the manor, then. The innkeeper can get a man to fetch him and Tanner. It’ll save us a journey, and probably do them both some good to be able to stay in a warm place, compared to that cell.”
Having decided on their course of action, they finished their drinks and made their way to the Cottey holding, but when they arrived, there was no sign of life. Simon hammered on the door, and rode round to the back, but there was no sign of anyone, apart from the thin streamers of smoke drifting idly on the wind from the roof. After looking all over the plot, they decided to go on to Jennie Miller’s instead.
Here they were more lucky. As soon as they came through the trees into the clearing, the sound of voices, shrill and laughing, met them. Coming to the small bridge, they could see the Miller children running and playing tag over at the line of the trees, their mother sitting on a stool and watching as she plucked the feathers from a chicken, laughing every now and again and calling to them to urge them to greater efforts.
At the sound of the horses, she spun round, and Simon was vaguely sad to see the happiness die from her features as she recognised her visitors. The cries from the children faded too, as if the slight breeze was taking away their pleasure and enjoyment with its gusts. The bailiff urged his horse on with a rueful grin. Such was power, he thought. To bring joy, but also to destroy it. Sighing, he brought his horse to the door, to where Jennie Miller had now risen, the fowl forgotten beside her, wiping her hands on her apron to rid herself of the tiny feathers clinging to the blood on her skin.
It was the knight who greeted her, sitting and watching her gravely from his horse. “Jennie, we have come to speak to you again about the death of Agatha Kyteler. Can we come in?”
At her shrug of apparent indifference, they dropped from their horses and followed her inside. Sitting at the same place, she watched them take their seats and sat back, waiting for them to begin with a slightly nervous mien, as if she was anxious of what they wished to know from her.
“Jennie, we wanted to find out from you anything that could help with these two murders,” Baldwin began, and her eyes swiftly sought his face.
“What do you mean? You already have the killer, don’t you?”
Simon gently interrupted. “You mean Harold Greencliff?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “You have him held in gaol, don’t you?”
“Yes, but do you think he could have killed them‘
“No!” The answer was categoric.
