There was only one route for him, he felt, and he was now determined to take it. He must go from Crediton and find somewhere else to end his days. This place was no longer safe or peaceful. Since first seeing Cecily, it had become a place of horror-especially now her father had died because of him. Yet it was impossible while his leg was so painful. He couldn’t run away when running was impossible.
That night was branded on his soul. The way that Godfrey had rushed in, hauling his daughter from the window, punching her and sending her flying, before turning to Rodde himself and holding up his hand to order him not to flee. Hearing his agonized shout, seeing the man’s eyes turn upward until the white showed, and slowly toppling forward like a felled tree.
And behind him, holding the heavy staff, the man who had only wanted to protect Rodde, his friend Edmund Quivil.
Edgar pounded on the sun-darkened oak. There was a call from within, and soon footsteps could be heard approaching. “I’m coming, I’m coming!”
It opened wide, and Putthe stood on the threshold. His face, grim at the best of times, fell into a scowl when he saw who waited on the doorstep.
“May we come in?” asked Baldwin smoothly as he walked into the screens. “I think we can speak easiest in your buttery, don’t you?”
Putthe gave a non-committal grunt and the knight led the way inside.
“Your head looks as if it’s a bit better, Putthe,” commented Simon.
“Wish it felt it.”
“Still giving you grief? I know head wounds can take time.”
“It hurts,” he conceded with an ill grace.
“We aren’t here to talk about your wound, however,” said Baldwin, sitting at Putthe’s own stool and watching him speculatively. “We’re here because of the odd way that Jack happened to come along here on the afternoon Godfrey died.”
Putthe was not made of such strong material as his mistress; he gave a start and shot a look at the knight. He hadn’t expected the blasted Keeper to have realized how odd that little event was. When he spoke, his tone was wary. “What do I know of that, Master? I’m the bottler, I don’t know what goes on in the stableyard.”
“So you know something was wrong, too. Either that or you suspect something-or someone. What was strange about calling Jack out like that?”
“How should I know?”
“I don’t know how you should know, but you are about to tell us. What struck you about having Jack called up here that day? Was it the fact that Godfrey would never normally stint on looking after his horses, and the mare might just as well have been sent to the smithy? Or was it that Cecily herself appeared to have some ulterior motive in it?”
“What sort of motive could my lady have had in asking the smith to come up here?” the bottler asked scornfully.
“That,” said Simon, who had moved behind the bottler, “is what we wish to find out from you. What advantage was there, having the smith up here?”
“Because,” Baldwin added smoothly, “there is always the other possibility: that it was you who arranged matters such that the smith came up here.”
“Me?” the bottler squeaked. “What possible reason would I have to ask a slovenly fool like him to come up here?”
“To establish your alibi.”
Putthe gaped. It felt as if a fist of ice had clenched around his bowels and he was aware of all the flesh on his back suddenly chilling with a frozen expectation. He was no fool. If a man could be accused of aiding or abetting in a murder, the justice was likely to be swift and predictable. The bottler considered his position quickly while the knight rested his chin on his cupped hand. Putthe had done all he could, but loyalty was one thing: the certainty of a noose was another.
“Sir,” and now his tone had a persuasive certainty to it, “I swear before God and as I believe in the life to come, I had nothing to do with the death of my master. I didn’t even know anything was going on. My Lady Cecily did ask that the smith should come here, but it was not with any malicious intent.”
“Tell me all you know.”
The bottler sighed and took his seat on a barrel. As an afterthought, he reached between his knees and poured himself a jug of ale. He seemed to have no intention of drinking, but held the drink as an aid to his concentration, much, Baldwin considered, as a knight might toy with a sword or dagger while he regaled an audience with a story.
“I told you before about the master finding John in the garden. It was true. And later the master told me about it. He thought it was quite funny, the way that he caught the little Irishman. But now I have heard something a little different. Now I am told that John never had an affair with Martha Coffyn; the man who was going over to see her was not the Irishman, but my own master!”
Baldwin nodded slowly. “So each time Coffyn went off on his travels, your master used to say he was going out to keep an eye on things and protect the garden from the hired thugs next door, whereas in reality he was visiting Coffyn’s wife?”
“That’s it, sir. Every journey Coffyn made, he would warn his partner, my master, so my master knew exactly when to go and see Martha.”
“But why should Godfrey have invested in the business in the first place? Oh, of course!”
“The last thing he wanted was for Coffyn’s business to fail. That would have meant an end to the trips away. No, my master was happy to make sure that Master Coffyn’s business did well enough.”
“What has this to do with the smith?” Simon demanded.
“Sir, my mistress had to have the mare’s hoof fixed, and she didn’t want the master to find out about it, because he was always berating her for the money she wasted. Not that it was fair. Mistress Cecily has always been quite frugal. Still, that was why she asked Jack to come here and refit the old shoe, to save money.”
“It would have saved more if she had sent the mare with the shoe down to the forge, and not asked the smith to come up here,” Baldwin commented.
“Jack doesn’t charge for coming up here,” Putthe corrected him.
“But her father came in here and saw the smith,” said Simon.
“She didn’t know he would come in here. As it was, it was so long after Jack had done her mare, it didn’t matter. Master Godfrey thought the smith was here socially.”
Simon scratched at his head. “There’s one thing we still don’t know, and that is what you promised to tell us: why did Cecily want the smith here?”
Putthe gave him a lugubrious stare. “I couldn’t tell you for certain. That smith is a rather repellent character and isn’t the sort of man I’d want to entertain in my buttery usually, but the mistress asked me to look after him, and I was happy to.”
“What did she actually say to you?” Baldwin frowned.
“She just asked if I could fill him with ale once he’d finished playing about with the horse. In fact, I remember she said she was sorry to ask me to do it, because she knew Jack wasn’t the most generous soul in the town. She made some comment about how intolerant he was.”
Simon gazed blankly at him. “”Intolerant?“ What would she have meant by that?”
“Jack can be a complete fool on occasion. Look at his behavior with the lepers last night. There was no excuse for that. No excuse whatever.”
Baldwin nodded, then he went perfectly still, staring into the distance. After a few minutes his brow cleared. “Very well, Putthe. You’ve been very helpful. Let me know if anything else occurs to you, won’t you?” He rose and stalked from the room.
In the screens, to Simon’s surprise, he stopped and peeped into the hall. When Simon went to his side, he saw what the knight was staring at.
The maid, Alison, was at the cupboard, rearranging the pewter on the shelves. Simon’s eyes opened wide as he saw that the shelves had all been filled. On the top was a pair of silver plates and a drinking horn; beneath were six pewter plates and a silver salt cellar shaped like a swan; below that was another row of six plates, flanked by two large flagons; on the lowest was a row of eight smaller plates. Simon gasped, but before he could speak,
