Riding back from the hall, Simon was silent and preoccupied. They were no nearer discovering who had killed Bruther; all they could come up with were conflicting testimonies. The mystery of the two riders seen by Samuel was answered… but rather than clearing up the mystery it merely served to highlight how poor was their understanding of the matter. Thomas Smyth had been to see Bruther the day before his death but refused to say why; John Beauscyr had been out and refused to say where; Sir Robert could have killed Bruther before he met Alicia.
“Back to Beauscyr, Simon?”
His friend’s calm voice broke into his depressed silence, and he grunted agreement. They were almost at the lane to their left which led down past Adam Coyt’s farm to the Manor, and now the sun was getting lower and the wind felt bitter and chill. Baldwin pulled his cloak tighter round his shoulders.
“I thought this was summer,” he shivered.
Simon gave a gloomy shrug. “The weather here on the moors can always surprise you. This wind feels like it could start raining again soon.”
“Let’s hurry back, then.”
Setting spurs to their horses they quickened their pace. Above them, huge gray clouds, their edges tinged with white, moved across the sky with alarming speed. The land, which had looked so calm and soft, green and purple under its velvet-like covering, now showed itself in a darker mood. The moors took on a more menacing aspect, the heather now a gloomy dark carpet, the tors great black monsters crouching ready to leap.
Even Baldwin gave a shudder at the sight. Though he instinctively rejected any suggestion that there could be ghouls or ghosts seeking out souls in the way that Adam Coyt and other people in the area believed, it was easy to understand how such fears could arise. The huge open space of the moors with its almost complete lack of trees made a man realize how small he was when compared with the vastness of nature.
Glancing at Simon, who rode glumly, hunched against the chill, Baldwin said, “There is a strange feeling about these moors when the weather changes.”
“Yes,” Simon muttered. “I’m glad you’ve noticed. Especially after your words about Coyt.”
“Oh, there is no need for superstition. All I meant was, one can sense… There is a certain… A malevolent…” His voice faded on an apologetic, confessional note, and he carefully avoided the bailiff’s eye.
“‘One can sense?’ ‘Malevolent?’ And you try to deny you hold any superstition?”
“Simon, one can feel an atmosphere without blaming imaginary ghosts and ghouls!”
“And yet you can blush when a young girl flirts, and sense malevolence because the weather cools!”
“It is not just that the weather has cooled!” the knight declared hotly, avoiding talking about Alicia.
“Oh no?” A cynical eyebrow was raised. “You thought nothing of the moors until the clouds came over.”
“That has little to do with it. It is the way that…”
“Yes?”
“There are times, Simon, when you can be infuriating.”
“Yes. But my wife makes good ale and you like my store of wine,” the bailiff pointed out smugly.
“Sometimes I wonder whether that is enough to justify our friendship.”
Reaching the lane, they made their way silently down toward the Manor. A light drizzle began, spattering them and creating tiny explosions in the dust at their feet, but at the same time the weather felt warmer, and Baldwin shrugged the folds of his cloak away. The rain was a relief after the heat of the last few days, and he had always enjoyed the feeling of the droplets pattering against his face. Simon, he saw, was not so content. The bailiff rode with his back hunched against the elements wearing a grimace of disgust.
“So, Simon,” he said, “what do we do now?”
“We’re no nearer an answer, are we?” Simon replied despondently.
“At least we are beginning to understand a little about this man Bruther,” Baldwin said.
“Are we? Smyth says he was a paragon, Coyt says he was a devil-may-care sort who would twitch the tail of Crockern if he had the chance. The Beauscyrs and their guest thought he was some kind of madman, a rogue who would stop at nothing, even threatening and making fun of a knight. Smalhobbe seems to have been fearful of him, or at least wary. Molly and Smyth say he was kind, hard-working and honest, while others think he was dishonest.”
“Well, yes, but look at it from the other point of view, Simon. The Beauscyrs and Sir Ralph would naturally be disgusted by a man like Bruther. He goes against the natural order of their lives: not only did he dare to run away, but afterward he showed no remorse or guilt. That marks him out as a danger, someone who is prepared to stand in opposition to all that they hold dear – and the worst of it to them was that they could do absolutely nothing about it. To Coyt he was almost impossible to comprehend: a man who showed no fear of the moors, nor any terror of Crockern. To a farmer who has spent the whole of his life out here, that is surely understandable.”
“But what of the others?” Simon said. “Smalhobbe appeared to dislike him.”
“Yes, but a measure of that could be his own position. He is scared of being denounced as an outlaw, though he can fight, from what Magge said. Any man who realizes he is being ambushed and then circles his attacker must have had some military skill, whether it came from conventional training or… or some less wholesome experience. In any case, he clearly resented the fact that he had failed to protect himself and his wife, while Bruther succeeded somehow.”
“And as you say, Molly and Smyth almost revered his memory.”
“Molly’s motive at least is understandable, thank God! She clearly felt he was going to rescue her from her life at the inn and make her his wife.”
“But what about Smyth? There’s something very odd there.” Simon fell silent, deep in thought.
“What?” Baldwin prompted.
“It may be nothing but… everyone we have spoken to so far has referred to him as ‘Bruther,’ except two. Molly and Smyth both talked of him as ‘Peter.’ I don’t know, but both appeared to know him well… At least, both seemed to know him better than the others. Did you notice that?”
“No, I didn’t,” said Baldwin, and his brows pulled together into a frown. “But you’re right – they did. Why should that be?”
Tossing his reins to the ostler, George Harang jumped from his horse and ran to the hall. Inside he found Thomas Smyth sitting at his chair before the fire, gripping a tankard. He looked up as his servant entered, red-faced and dirty after his ride through the light rain, his face showing his concern.
“Sir? I got your message and came as soon as I could, but what is it? The boy said that the bailiff and his friend were here, that they were asking questions – is something wrong?”
Thomas Smyth gave a weary smile. “No, old friend. Not the way you think, anyway. But I know at last who killed Peter. On the night Sir William came here to see us, he rode over here with his son, that bastard John. John left him when they reached the hall and rode on to the inn. And at the inn was Peter, the poor lad. He set off home, according to Molly, a little before John arrived.”
George frowned. “So they must have crossed on the road.”
“Yes. And afterward Peter disappeared. So who could have killed him? That runt; that bastard – John Beauscyr!”
“What do you want to…”
“Don’t be stupid!” Smyth spat the words jeeringly.
“I want his head, here, now, on my lap! That pathetic little worm killed my Peter, and probably thinks he can get away with it. The bailiff’s incompetent – or is being paid to be so by Sir William. I don’t know and I don’t care which it is; all I do know is, John murdered Peter, and he must be made to pay.”
“So you want me to tell the bailiff, then?”
“Didn’t you hear me? The bailiff is no use! We have to get him and bring him to justice. Peter was a miner, a tinner, and he came under the stannary laws. We, as miners, can obtain justice. We can’t rely on officials, they have their hands in the Beauscyrs’ purses, and have no need to see to our compensation. What does this bailiff care for our hardships? He’s no use to us, we have to catch this Beauscyr on our own. I want a force of men, all armed, to take John Beauscyr prisoner tomorrow. He’s a murderer – and he shall pay.”
George rushed from the room, his brain churning. He hadn’t had time to tell his master about his conversation with Molly at the inn, and he hesitated a moment, undecided whether to return to the hall and tell Thomas. But
