Baldwin stared at the confused mercenary, then at Wat, who was grimly studying the floor. “Is that true?”
“I had someone outside his door all night,” Wat admitted ungraciously, mentally cursing Will. He had no wish for Baldwin to hear about the attempted assassination. “It seemed a good idea after I heard about Judith being found. If he had tried to collect this woman and hide her, he’d have been seen.”
“Ah,” said Baldwin quietly, and Simon wandered to a seat and dropped into it, gazing up at Wat.
“That, Wat, was rather what I expected,” he said. “Unless we can prove that Sir Hector had an accomplice, I think we might be forced to assume he is innocent.”
Wat stared from one to the other, mouth open in astonishment. “You’re both mad!”
Simon rested his chin on his fists. “No,” he said tiredly. “But I think someone is.”
He was suddenly exhausted. The day had begun so hopefully, with their questioning of the woman in the alley, and then had taken a positive turn when they discovered the identity of Sir Hector’s lover… but now their hopes had been dashed. That was the bewildering thing about these killings; as soon as they felt they were getting close to seeing a pattern and could put their hands on the killer, something else happened to throw them off. The robbery had at first appeared to be a simple affair, and then they had found Sarra; Judith’s murder had apparently placed suspicion firmly on Sir Hector’s shoulders; finding Mary under the hay had initially appeared to confirm the guilt of the captain.
The door banged as Wat and his companion left. The older mercenary strode out angrily, probably, Simon thought, because he could see his independent command being stolen from him even as he tried to grasp it.
“Could it have been him?” he wondered.
“Who? Wat? Possibly. He wants his master ousted hard enough, that is for certain,” Baldwin said, stretching and groaning before slumping back in his seat. “His whole ambition is tied up with getting himself the leadership of his group.”
“It’s strange how everything seems to point to Sir Hector. Wat could have killed the woman, then tried to make it look as if his master was guilty, so that he could take on the captainship.”
“Yes. But there are so many others in the band – did one of them do it?”
“Wat was Sir Hector’s servant when Sarra was killed. He might have given her the dress and stabbed her, hiding her in the chest to make it look as if his master was responsible.”
“It is possible, but I find it hard to believe. Wat could have told her to wear the tunic, and made sure that Sir Hector saw her in it, relying on his master’s anger to cause her death, but I doubt that he himself killed her and hid her. Why should he take the risk? And the second woman, Judith. How could Wat have known about her? I suppose Sir Hector might have mentioned seeing her that day, but it seems unlikely. Sir Hector never struck me as being the sort to require a confidant, and in the mood he was in that day, I doubt whether he would have wanted to more than bark at his men for looking sloppy after being, as he saw it, stood up by Mary for some hours.”
“If what he said about her being supposed to meet him there is true… I must confess, I believed him when he said that.”
“Yes, so did I.”
“Was she avoiding him, do you think? Sir Hector might have made himself so much of a pest to Mary Butcher that she kept away from him. That in itself could have angered him so much that when he did get her alone, he did away with her.”
Baldwin eyed the body on the table before them. “It is possible,” he agreed. “But anyone can see that he is sorely affected by her death.”
“True. I thought the same. His pain was all too apparent.”
Slamming a fist into the palm of his hand, Baldwin stood irritably. “This is ridiculous! Three women are dead, a serious robbery has been committed, and yet we are nowhere near resolving any of it.”
They made their way from the room, leaving instructions that the body should be kept until the priest could arrange for its collection, and paused outside, staring toward the butcher’s shop. Baldwin frowned. “We should see if Adam is back yet. It would be best that one of us speaks to him before he hears of his wife’s murder from another.”
Simon agreed. They walked to the shop, but the apprentice, who was preparing hams now, said that his master still had not returned. Baldwin asked him to make absolutely sure that the butcher went to Peter Clifford’s house the minute he got back, then they fetched their horses and carried on to Peter’s.
He rubbed vigorously at his temples. It was incomprehensible. They had found her, but he was still free. Surely they could see that he must be the guilty one? Who else had any kind of an attachment to all three of them? The Keeper and his friend must be blind or incompetent.
Then his eyes cleared, and the fog in his brain began to dissipate as he realized at last what it must mean. Slowly, he raised his head and stared at the wall opposite. They had been bribed.
It was all too common. All over the country, men involved in the legal system were taking money to line their own pockets; sheriffs, bailiffs and reeves were regularly purged in order to control their worst excesses. For a fee, the right witnesses could be found to bolster any dispute, and if the price was high enough, an entire jury could be guaranteed to provide the right result.
That must be it, he thought, and his eyes glittered with righteous fury. To be denied justice was an insult – and after so much planning, too. His lips set into an indignant sneer. And it was all because the Keeper was corrupt.
But the Keeper had a reputation for honesty, he knew, and a puzzled frown overtook his petulance. All in the town spoke of his determination to seek justice for plaintiffs, and if he were so corrupt, surely he would have given himself away before now? The Keeper was involved with almost every important case, and yet there were no slanders about his character or fairness. He was always considered reasonable and wise, finding the common ground and resolving issues often before any lawyers could get involved. Why should he suddenly have become dishonest?
Then he drew in his breath with the realization of who must have betrayed him. The Keeper was fair and honest, a kindly man known for fair dealing, but perhaps he was too gullible. A devious and unscrupulous man might be able to pull the wool over his eyes with great ease, especially a man who was used to manipulating the system and other people. A man who was himself involved in the law, who knew how to alter the facts, or, at least, could change how those facts were perceived, could easily make the Keeper confused enough to leave free the wrong man.
His face was white now as he saw his error. It was not the Keeper who was his enemy: it was the Keeper’s friend – the bailiff of Lydford Castle.
Quickly now, he ran through how Simon Puttock must have deliberately misinformed the Keeper. First he must have taken money from the captain, for no one deliberately changed the outcome of a trial for nothing. Sir Hector must have bribed him, then, and the bailiff accepted the money to protect the mercenary. From then on, he would have prompted people to change their evidence, making them think they were helping justice as they tried to please him, lying… no, not necessarily lying. Some of them probably thought the bailiff was right and they had been mistaken. It was so easy for an uneducated man to be confused with legal prattle.
No doubt some had been bribed to lie. That Wat was untrustworthy; he had always thought so. The mercenary looked like a friendly old man, until you stared hard into his eyes, and then you could see how the resentment flickered and burned. Of course, the man was safe from most, but not from someone who understood how dark the soul could be; not from someone who had learned how evil even those whom one had trusted completely might become. For nobody could be trusted; only oneself and one’s dagger were certain.
But what could he do about it? His eyes were haunted as he considered his awful predicament. Clearly the main obstacle to justice was the bailiff. Simon Puttock must be forced to admit his complicity with the captain, or suffer.
Then his mind, with a wonderful clarity of insight, focused on how he might force the duplicitous bailiff to confess his guilt.
And he smiled.
Peter Clifford watched as the two men were helped from their horses. Bound at the wrists, they were uncomfortable and peevish, but though both sulked, neither attempted to deny their guilt. The packmule loaded
