get rid of any incriminating evidence as soon as he discovered his pursuit.”
“You might have a point, but think on this: you have just had to murder a girl as well. That has thrown your plans all awry. You hide the body, and then escape, taking the shortest route. It could well be that your accomplice never disappeared: after having to commit murder, you decide to get out through the window yourself.”
“Somebody would see a man diving out through a window.”
“Would they? If so much silver could be shoved out without being noticed, I doubt it. If somebody’s carriage was in the way, maybe no one could see. Cole could have jumped out and remained hidden, then gone on later.”
“But, Sir Baldwin,” Roger interrupted, “who closed the shutters afterward?”
Baldwin found that he was frowning. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a merchant staring at them. Grinning apologetically, he continued in a mutter, “I have no idea, but it is the best explanation I can think of for now.”
“I want to know what really happened,” Simon stated.
Baldwin raised a fist to hammer on the door. “Well, rather than speculating, let’s find out. Simon, I… Where are you going?”
“Just a thought, Baldwin,” Simon called over his shoulder.
The butcher had that minute stopped, and was sitting on a three-legged stool, a pot of ale in his fist. As people walked past, all had a polite word with him, Simon noticed, and all received a nod and a smile from the genial man. Children got a wink too.
Simon was aware of his companions joining him as he reached the other side of the road. The inn’s hall ran parallel to the street here, the entrance almost in the middle. Here, almost opposite the jail, they were at the dais end, and to their left were the windows that gave on to the solar block commandeered by the captain. With the bustle and hubbub in the street, it was obvious to the two men that nobody could have taken anything from the inn unseen.
Walking slowly past the butcher’s, Simon went to the road which led up the hill. Aware of the amused patience of his friend, Simon walked past the butcher and his tripod to the corner where the two roads met, and looked up the incline.
The butcher had storerooms and a small pen, and past that was the cookshop, and then the alley which led to the inn’s yard. The road rose steeply after that, and was soon lost among the trees scattered on the hillside.
“Seen enough?” Baldwin asked.
“Yes, I think so.” Simon gave him a long and thoughtful look, then smiled at the butcher. “A pleasant morning, isn’t it?”
Adam smiled back. His back ached, his feet hurt, and he had nicked his thumb with his thin knife, but the sun was warm on his face, the ale tasted good, and there was little more for him to do that day. His apprentice could get on with things alone. “Yes, sir. It feels good to sit in the sun for a change.”
“It must be hot work in this weather,” Simon said, nodding toward the gantry where the apprentice sweated as he worked on the dead pig.
“Oh, not so bad, sir,” Adam said indulgently, pouring himself more ale from a jug beside his stool. “It’s all right out here. It’s when we have to work inside it gets a bit warm.”
“Are you out in the open most days, then?”
“Most mornings. Afternoons we spend indoors, jointing and cutting up. Then there’s the salting of the pork, and hanging of cattle to make them tender, and preparation for smoking, and sausage-making, and all the other tasks. It takes ages. People always think the killing’s the hardest part, but that’s only the beginning for us.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Roger saw the apprentice curl his lip as his master spoke. The rector was convinced that the “us” was not necessarily indicative of an equal share in effort. He restrained a smile with difficulty as Simon continued, “Were you here yesterday – last afternoon?”
“Yes, sir.”
Baldwin tried to control his excitement as Simon casually asked, “Here in the street?”
“Yes, right here. My boy there,” he jerked a thumb at the assistant, “was inside with some chickens and capons, but I had to take a rest. The noise they make goes right through my head.”
“Did you see anyone up there, by the windows to the inn?”
“What, there?” Adam asked, pointing and squinting a little.
“Yes, outside the living quarters to this side of the hall.”
“No. People keep away when there’s bits of offal in the road. I wasn’t here all day, but no, I didn’t.”
“Were you here for the early part of the afternoon, then?”
“I was here from about…” he glanced blankly at his apprentice as if for inspiration “… a couple of hours after noon, I suppose, until maybe four hours after. I got too hot then, and went in to the cool.”
“What about you – did you notice anyone round here? Anybody who shouldn’t have been here, or who was hanging around for some time?” Baldwin said to the apprentice.
“Me, sir? No, I was working in the room all afternoon.”
“It doesn’t look out over this street?”
The boy pointed to the window near Adam’s shoulder. “Yes, sir, but I was working. I didn’t have time to look out.”
Adam was nodding contentedly as he spoke, and Simon had the impression that he would, for all his easy smiles and cheerfully rotund features, be a hard taskmaster. “Very well,” he said with disappointment. “Thank you for your help.”
“Wait!” Adam said, and both turned to face him once more. The butcher smiled and went into his shop, returning with a short string. “You’ll try some of my sausages, gentlemen, won’t you?”
Tanner answered the door quickly, a disgruntled, unshaven figure in dirty russet tunic and hose. A strong and stolid man, he had dark hair and a square jaw, which now jutted with irritation as the visitors pushed past him. He walked with them to the curtain at the back of the room.
Beyond was the trapdoor in the floor. It was held in place by a large iron clasp, and locked by a wooden peg. Tanner wandered over to it and kicked the peg free before bending and lifting the trap. He slid the ladder over and lowered it into the depths.
Roger winced at the stench coming up from the cell below. It was not only the cold, dank air, it was the scent of unwashed and fearful bodies. The town jail usually held people who were waiting for punishment, and all too often there was only the one punishment available. It smelled as if the fear of hundreds of prisoners over the centuries had impregnated the walls of the jail with their expectation and dread.
Philip Cole was different. In the past, when Simon had waited here and watched as a prisoner clambered up the ladder, he had felt sympathy wash over him. Philip Cole needed none. He hopped from the ladder with a degree of agility that surprised Simon, then stood silent and still beside it, staring at his interrogators.
Baldwin had learned over time to be wary of first impressions: in his experience people were rarely either as simple or as complex as they appeared, and yet…
This man was suspected of murder and robbery, two of the most heinous crimes possible, and if he was guilty, he should be betraying some of the symptoms of his conscience: nervousness, an inability to meet an official’s eye, twitching and biting his lips. Baldwin had known some criminals who were practiced in their craft and who could keep their anxiety hidden, but they were rare and usually a great deal older than this man.
Philip Cole stood defiantly, his arms behind him, and met their stares with what looked like near-anger. He displayed none of the signs of contrition which were to be expected of a man who had murdered a young woman like Sarra. If he was a knave who had killed to hide a robbery, Baldwin mused, he was a very good actor. His forehead was unlined, giving him an air of probity, his eyes had a guilelessness which fitted well with his simple clothing, marking him out as a farmer, and the way he stared back at his three jailers held more contempt than remorse.
The knight had to remind himself that this man, even if not a murderer, was at best a willing mercenary; he had joined a band of men who were little better than outlaws who held legitimacy purely by the force of their arms.
“Well? Have you come here to release me?”
