The snow had stopped again now, but was thick enough to cover most of the roadway, only the longer shoots of grass just breaking through. Nearer the trunks, the bushes and earth were untouched by the white carpet, protected by the great branches high overhead. It looked strange to Baldwin, as if they had left the winter behind in the village and now had entered a wanner area where only the road itself was cold enough to support the virgin whiteness.

While they were still out of sight of the farm, Simon began to hear a regular noise over the steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves. Tap, tap, tap, then a pause, then two more. It stopped, then after a moment started again, and he cocked his head and looked over at Baldwin, who caught his glance and shrugged.

As the tapping got louder, they arrived at a fork in the trail. They chose the left-hand track, and the sound became louder as they followed it. Rounding the last bend, the forest fell back to show a large assart. In the middle stood a weary-looking cottage with stained and ancient thatch, which was allowing wispy tendrils of smoke to filter out above walls that were in need of fresh lime-wash. In front a cow stood chewing hay and watching their approach with bored disinterest, while between her legs chickens madly pecked at the earth and packed dirt of the yard. Over to the left was a strong fenced enclosure with goats, while on the right was what looked like a coppice area, with thick stems rising in clumps.

They slowly rode up and into the yard. It appeared empty, but as they looked round, Simon became aware again of the tapping. Touching his horse with his spurs, he led the way to the back of the house. Here he found a pasture area, recently cleared. Stumps still littered the rough ground, and the snow could not hide the fact that the ground was only thinly grassed. The earth showed through in red scars.

At the far end was a tall, stooping, blue-smocked man with his back to the visitors, working at a series of heavy poles set vertically in the ground. Between each were bushes.

The knight and the bailiff exchanged a glance, then slowly rode on towards him. He was plainly unaware of their approach, and as they came closer they could hear him whistling tunelessly while he worked.

In his hand was a large-bladed bill, a short, solid curved-steel tool shaped like a stubby sickle with a wooden haft, with which he was tapping branches from the bushes around the stakes to build a woven fence of living wood which would later become a hedge – thick and strong enough to keep his animals in, and forest animals out. Suddenly he whirled, the bill raised in his hand, and stood facing them, unmoving, and they halted, considering him.

He was tall, at least five inches more than Tanner, more like Simon’s own height of five feet ten, but although he appeared healthy for his age, which must surely be some five and forty years, he was quite stooped. There was a slightly unnatural colour in his cheeks, as if he was on the verge of a fever. His eyes gleamed darkly from under bushy eyebrows, whose colour had faded to pale greyness like his unkempt hair. It was the eyes that Simon noticed most of all. There was an odd expression in them – not fear, but a kind of suspicion.

“There’s no need to fear,” said Baldwin.

“No? Who are you? What do you want with me?”

“This is the Keeper of the King’s Peace – and this is the Constable. I am the Bailiff of Lydford,” said Simon reasonably. “Are you Oatway?”

The bill lowered a little, but the man’s eyes still flitted over them in obvious doubt. “What if I am?”

“We need to ask you some questions. Did you know there’s been a murder?”

“No,” he said, and the surprise was plainly clear. His arm dropped down to his side, until the tool dangled, forgotten. “Who?”

“Agatha Kyteler.”

“ Her?“ He hawked and spat, as if the name offended him. ”Good!“

“Did you see her yesterday?” Simon asked.

“Yesterday?” He considered. “No. No, I don’t think so…”

“Do you live alone?”

“No, my wife is here too.” He added more softly, with a hint of sadness, “We have no children.”

“Did your wife see her yesterday, do you know?” Simon persisted.

Oatway glanced down at his bill, then sighed deeply and brought it down sharply on to a log. It stayed there, gripped by its own slashing cut. “You’d better come and ask her,” he said.

When he motioned, the three men dropped from their horses and followed him back to the front of the house, tying their mounts to the rail beside his log store.

Inside they found the cottage filthy, the atmosphere rancid from animal dung. Smoke hung in the rafters waiting to drift out through the thatch from the large hearth in the centre of the floor. Entering, they had to step down. Like many older properties, to save the valuable animal dung, the floor of the house was built on a lope. As the winter proceeded, the level of the floor at the lower, byre end, would rise. When spring finally arrived, the manure could be taken out and spread over the fields and the floor level would drop once more.

Now, after some months of bad weather, the room stank, and Simon could see that the faeces were almost at the level of the door. He tried to shut his nostrils to the stench, but found it difficult. To his satisfaction, he saw that Baldwin seemed to notice the smell more than him, although Tanner appeared impervious.

Mrs. Oatway was a broad, strong-looking woman of about her husband’s age. She stood staring at them with a scowl of distrust as they trooped into her house, her hand gripping the large wooden spoon with which she had been stirring at the iron pot as if it was a weapon. Although her hair still had its native darkness, without the greying of her husband, her features were wrinkled with age and troubles. She looked as quick and sharp as a martin, shrewd and devious. And probably malicious too, from the look of her thin bloodless lips.

After quickly introducing themselves, Baldwin suggested that they should walk outside to talk, but she demurred. “I’ve got food to prepare. We can talk in here.”

Grinning at the knight’s obvious discomfort, Simon said, “We are trying to find out whether anybody saw Agatha Kyteler yesterday. Did you?”

“Her!” A sneer curled her lip. “I don’t look for her. Why do I care for her, the old…”

“You disliked her after the affair with your chickens, didn’t you?” said Simon flatly, feeling as he spoke that the words were superfluous, but wanting to cut off her flow of invective. It worked. She stopped and glowered at him.

“Well? What if I do?”

“Did. She’s dead. We’re trying to find out why. Why did you hate her so much?“

The shock was plain on her face, her mouth opening and shutting, and then she turned to her husband and stared at him. “Is this true? Eh?”

He shrugged as Simon said, “Answer the question, woman. Why did you hate her?”

Sighing, and after some grumbling, she told them of her suspicions about Agatha Kyteler’s dog.

“Did you see her dog do it?” asked Baldwin, wincing and coughing.

“See it? No, but it was her dog, all right. We followed the feathers, didn’t we?” She turned for verification to her husband, who nodded vaguely.

Simon considered. “Did you see her yesterday?”

“I…” She paused, her glower deepening.

“Good. When?”

“Middle of the afternoon.”

“Why?” sighed Simon, and stared at her in silence.

“It was that dog again,” she said at last, reluctantly.

“Her dog? What did it do?”

“It attacked my chickens again. Took another one. What was I supposed to do? Wait ‘til it had killed them all? I went to tell her to keep the dog tied up. I told her if I saw it on our land again, we’d kill it.”

“What did she say?”

“Her!” Her lips curled again in scorn. “Nothing, of course! She said it wasn’t her dog. Said it was in the house with her all day. Well that was a lie.”‘