splotches all over his face? The little hemorrhages in his eyes?”
“I felt no need to study the corpse as closely as you,” said Simon dryly, and the knight chuckled. “What else did you notice?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Yes, Baldwin. You look as smug as an innkeeper who has just sold a barrel of six-month-old ale to a sot. Come on, then. What is it?”
The knight scratched reflectively at his neck. “As I said, Bruther’s hands were not tied. There was no bruising to his wrists. The line on his neck was well defined at the front of his throat and the sides, not at the back. I saw some scrapes on his head, but I cannot tell whether they would have happened when he was alive or not. It seems to me that he was attacked from behind.”
“I can see that. Sneaked up on and garotted.”
“Yes, but it points to something else too, of course.”
“What?”
Baldwin gave him a long-suffering glance and sighed. “Think about it, old friend. If he was caught by a group of men, there would have been signs of a fight. There were none though – just the single mark. As I see it, Bruther was either knocked on the head, producing those scrapes, and then throttled, or he was caught unawares by a single attacker who threw a thong round his neck and strangled him in that way. I think it was the second rather than the first.”
“Why?”
“In God’s name, Simon!” Now his tone was openly exasperated. “Think, man! If he had been knocked out, why would the killer bother to fetch a thong, when all he need do was slip his hands round the fellow’s throat? It wouldn’t take above a minute, and it would be as quick as killing a rabbit or a chicken. The murderer might have happened to have a cord about him, I suppose, but isn’t it more likely that he was prepared for his victim? He already had the thong tightly wrapped round each fist as he saw Bruther approach, then all he had to do was slip it over his unsuspecting victim’s neck and…” He gave a vicious gesture with both hands. “And that was that. One less miner on the moors.”
Simon frowned. “It makes sense – but we’re still no wiser about who killed him.”
“No. All we can do is try to find out who might have had some reason to want him dead, and then question them. The trouble is, there appear to be quite a few people who wanted him gone from his mine.”
“Well, maybe we’ll find out something here,” the bailiff said. They had topped a small hill and were looking down a shallow slope to a village.
It stood out incongruously among the great rolling plains of the moors, or so Baldwin felt. The dingy-looking long-houses and cottages were built in the same style as those in the little hamlets like Blackway or Wefford on his own estate, though the color was wrong. At his home the earth was red, and the mud used to build walls colored the houses, staining the lime wash. These dwellings were insipid and grimy-looking. Then, as they drew closer, he saw that he was wrong. These were not the normal cob and timber places he was used to. Back on his Manor, mud and animals were always to hand and the woods bordering almost every vill promised logs. Here in the moors there were no such easily available building materials; only one substance proliferated, moorstone, and the people made use of it everywhere.
The houses straddled the road, which ran oddly straight from one horizon to the other before them. Behind the houses were the plots which provided food for the people and their animals, with back lanes forming the outer boundary of the village. A stream slashed a scar through the countryside, bisecting the village and feeding a fishpond behind, and where it met the road a wide ford offered a safe point to cross. The men made for this. They had been told that the miner owned the property nearest on the western bank.
Coming closer, Baldwin pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. Though it had no battlements, no moat or great gate, this place was obviously the possession of a wealthy man. Baldwin had known many rich houses, but there was none which could boast a finer appearance. The hall at the center was wide, with broad and tall windows under a slated roof. Opposite was a storage area, and a separate square building like a kitchen block stood nearby. All gave a feeling of comfort and calmness. When he glanced at Simon he could see that the bailiff was similarly impressed.
“Makes Lydford look a bit pathetic,” he heard Simon mutter, and the knight laughed. As he knew, Lydford had gained notoriety in the bailiff’s family from the many drafts. The bitter wind whistled up the Lydford Gorge, battering the square keep and making life inside miserable, and Margaret, Simon’s wife, was relieved that as bailiff, he could choose to live in a house nearby rather than in the castle itself.
This house was separated from the road by a wide field in which a group of oxen stood, munching contentedly as the men rode past. A straight path led to the stables, and the four made for it. As they dismounted, a tallow-haired man shuffled into sight, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He took their horses, staring at them with evident surprise that anyone should visit so early.
They had started toward the house when another man appeared through the door. “Ah!” said Baldwin. “I think our meeting is about to get interesting.”
Looking up, Simon saw that it was the same man who had warned them to leave the miners’ camp alone on their first visit. Recognition was mutual. The sandy-haired man hesitated, staring at the group advancing toward him; he glanced around at the doorway, then faced them once more, his face fixed into a distrustful scowl. Somehow this made Simon more cheerful.
“Hello – I think we’ve met before,” he said heartily.
“Aye. Maybe.”
“Of course. You were the man who helped us find our way to Sir William’s Manor, weren’t you?” The man glowered at him without speaking. “We’re here to see Thomas Smyth. Is this his house?”
The man sneered as he looked Simon up and down. “I don’t reckon he’ll want to see you. ”
“I think he can judge that better than his servant,” said Simon shortly, moving to walk past him. To the bailiff’s surprise, he found his path blocked. The miner stood before him, hands stuck into his belt.
“What do you want to see him about?”
Baldwin watched with interest as different emotions chased each other across the expressive features of his friend. Stunned outrage was closely followed by dry amusement, but both were chased away by a sudden attack of anger. Simon’s face reddened and his jaw clenched, and Baldwin had to move quickly to his side.
“I think we should tell your master what we want to discuss with him,” he said hurriedly, and smiled. As he did so, Edgar stepped beside him, his hand already grasping his sword hilt. “So, your master,” Baldwin continued. “Where is he?”
George Harang stared at him. He was unused to having his will thwarted. No miner would dare to defy him like this, but with the bailiff and his friend, he was unsure how to respond. Steeling himself, he was about to bellow for help, when a voice came from behind him.
“What’s all the noise about?” Looking up, Simon saw a newcomer leaning on the doorframe. He was scruffy- looking but cheerful, and wore a genial smile.
To Simon he looked like Baldwin’s mastiff – though less ugly. A short man with grizzled hair to his shoulders and eyes like chips of coal, glittering with amusement, he could have been a poor serf; there was nothing about his clothing to denote wealth. His leather jerkin was scarred and worn, his shirt a simple woollen shift, torn and darned in many places, and the only personal adornment the bailiff could see was the gold ring on his forefinger. Ostentatious display was unnecessary, for from his demeanor he could only be the master of the house.
Straightening, he motioned to his dumbfounded servant. “Out of the way, George. Of course I’ll see these guests. I can’t turn the bailiff of Lydford away, can I?” And he waved them inside, Hugh scuttling after the knight and Simon while Edgar stood staring at George; only when the guard’s gaze wavered did Edgar stride inside after the others.
As Baldwin had expected, the house was magnificent. The door gave on to a panelled screens passage, above which was a minstrels’ gallery, while beyond was a long hall with high windows throwing immense pools of light on to the rush-strewn floor. The fireplace was a huge circle of packed earth in the middle of the floor and an enormous log lying smoldering on the bed of glowing ashes hissed and crackled softly. Tapestries sheathed the walls and kept in the warmth, while all the visible woodwork was richly carved. Two wolfhounds lay by the fire, rising at the noise of the visitors’ entrance and watching their master.
Thomas Smyth walked to his dogs and rested his hands on their two heads briefly. Immediately, as if at a
