little way from his body to show he was not holding a weapon.
She was wearing the same worn and frayed gray tunic, a cord tied round her waist to give it a semblance of shape. As his eyes began to adjust, he saw that she had a thin, ravaged face, little more than a gray skull, from which sunken eyes stared back with near-panic. Wispy strands of pale hair hung dispiritedly from beneath her wimple. Cradling her child, she stared up at him as if convinced he was about to attack her, and her fear was all too plain.
There was no reason why this woman should wish to speak to him. He had helped her during the night, it was true, but she did not recognize him. It had been dark, and he was on horseback first. Looking up at a figure some eight feet above would not give a good perspective, and she had been so scared at the threats of the man- at-arms that she might not have noticed his face.
Suddenly she leaped up, and, holding her child to her thin breast, darted away from him, pelting down the alley. He took a step forward automatically.
“Sir?”
Hearing Roger, he stopped. There was no point in chasing her; he would only scare her more if he did so. His shoulders drooped with an unaccountable melancholy, formed mainly of jealousy, as he turned to face Roger.
She ran past. It was tempting, but killing her now would be foolish. Judith must wait: he could not see to her now while the bailiff was there to hear her screams and rush to rescue her. No, he thought regretfully, and allowed his hand to relax on the knife’s handle. When he looked back toward the entrance, the looming bulk of the bailiff had gone, and the watching man felt a quick resentment.
He had nothing much against the bailiff, but he was irritated by the slowness of the knight with his investigations. Why had he only arrested Cole? The man should have realized by now who was the guilty one, and that different people had performed the two crimes: one had stolen while the other had killed. If Furnshill had half a brain, he thought, the fool would have arrested the obvious one by now.
He eyed the bright opening where the bailiff had stood. It would have been a stroke of sheer good fortune, of course, had the man not turned up. The watcher had been wondering how to deal with Judith, and this would have been the perfect occasion. He hated to miss an opportunity. While he was hidden in the doorway, the pathetic woman could have run by and met her end quickly; his arm reaching out to curl round her throat as she rushed past, halting her, the quick shock freezing her for a moment, just long enough for his hand to find her mouth and smother her cry, the knife pushing through her back, near the spine, first low down for her kidneys, then higher, reaching for her heart.
He was irritated at missing the chance, but he knew the value of patience. He was in no hurry: there would be plenty of occasions offering similar possibilities and he must take his time. Patting his knife in its sheath, he made his way to the street, and soon became lost in the crowd.
When Simon and Roger got back to the inn, Baldwin and the two servants were sitting together at a table. The two mercenaries were nowhere to be seen, and Simon felt a vague sense of relief. If he had to watch the hideous mouth of John Smithson for another second he would be sick.
Baldwin held a tankard of weak ale in his hand; he waved them toward the jug and a spare pot on the table. “I was beginning to wonder if you had gone back to Peter’s.”
“No, we were out in front.” He did not meet the Keeper’s eye. For some reason he did not want to tell his friend about the woman and her son. It felt foolish, almost, to have wanted to speak to her, and to have listened to her son playing as if it could heal the pain of his own boy’s death.
Baldwin caught his mood, and guessed his friend had been thinking about his son again. He diplomatically poured ale and passed Simon the pot. “We have had some interesting information. Hugh, tell Simon what you’ve heard.”
Leaning forward, his face once more set in its customary scowl, Hugh related Wat’s thoughts, Edgar interrupting occasionally to correct a point.
As he gradually came to a halt, glowering at Edgar, Baldwin sat back on his bench and shot a glance at Simon. “Well?” he demanded, and finished his pot.
“It hardly helps us, does it?” Simon muttered, and dropped onto the bench beside his friend. “Surely he’s just a man with some sort of grudge against the other two, who would like to think they were guilty. It doesn’t help explain who stole the silver – or why they killed Sarra.”
“Her death is the most confusing part,” Baldwin admitted. “From the lump on her head, she must have been knocked out before she was gagged and bound.”
“So whoever took the plate found her in the room and knocked her out, then stabbed her,” said Hugh. He was rapidly getting light-headed from the ale he had drunk.
“No, Hugh,” said Baldwin. “I can easily believe that she was knocked out when the thief entered the room and that she was shut away, silent, in the chest. But why would he go back later to stab her and kill her? It makes no sense.”
Simon shrugged. “There might have been two men there; one was seen by her, the other hit her. The second one tied her up, but the first knew he’d been seen, so he killed her later.”
“That supposes that one of them was already there, and the second came in later and gave away their intention… it is possible, but I find it hard to swallow.” Baldwin frowned.
“Why?” asked Simon.
“One man goes into the room, then the girl enters. A second man goes in, and hits her.” He meditatively swung an imaginary club with a fist. “He knocks her out, and that gives him a chance to truss and gag her. Then he lifts her… have you ever tried to lift an unconscious body on your own? It is like a sack of wheat; it goes in all directions. I would think that both lifted her up and set her into the chest. But then one of them goes back and kills her.”
“I wonder…”
“What, Simon?”
“It may be nothing, but that tunic… It was of exceptional quality, and very expensive. I wonder…”
“Sir, can I serve more ale?”
Simon turned a dazzling smile on the innkeeper. “Paul, thank you. Yes, we’d like more ale, but why don’t you join us?”
Paul was flattered. For two days now he had been running around after the mercenaries, without a single word of gratitude. It took him little time to fetch a fresh jug and a pot for himself, and then he sat comfortably, sighing with the relief of it. His legs ached and his feet were sore from standing too long, his back was stiff from bending to pour jugs, and he had an almost overwhelming desire to shut his eyes and doze off. Margery has gone to bed; she had not been able to sleep until the early hours because of the noise from the hall, and partly from her fear of the men themselves.
“It’s a shame about Sarra,” Simon said.
“Yes. She was a good girl, really. Pretty, too. She never deserved to die like that.”
“She was getting on all right with Sir Hector, wasn’t she?”
“I think so. She was with him on the very first night, when this lot arrived, so she must have caught his eye. At the best of times she was hard enough to keep working, but after meeting him, she was impossible.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t want to be like the other girls, I suppose. Wanted to get married, have children, the normal things, but with a rich man for a husband. Sir Hector was ideal for her. Money, power, the lot. He was exactly what she needed – or so she thought.”
“Did she have any good clothes, like the tunic she was wearing when she died?”
“That blue one? No, I’d never seen it before. What would a serving-girl want with something like that? No, that wasn’t hers.”
“Where did it come from then?” asked Simon. Baldwin leaned forward, his dark eyes intent.
“I don’t know.”
“It wasn’t your wife’s – or one of the other girls”?“
“No. I’ve never seen it before.”
“Tell me, innkeeper,” Baldwin said, resting his elbows on the table. “Was she popular normally with your…
