“Their master? Who do you mean? The Devil?”

The bailiff was suddenly aware of the darkness, of the isolation of the manor as he answered, “Yes.”

Filling his mug, Baldwin strolled back to his chair slowly. “Possibly. I would be happier to believe in a witch who was wealthy, though, than one who was trying to please her dark master!”

“All those herbs, though…” Simon began hesitantly.

“Simon, really! Do you accuse all leeches of being witches? She was probably good with them and used her skills to help others. There may come a time when even you are glad for the help of a wise woman who can stop the pain from a broken limb… Or piles!”

“What do you know of her death, anyway?” asked Margaret diplomatically after a moment.

Baldwin looked up. “Not much,” he admitted. “She was seen in the afternoon by Mrs. Oatway, but from then on we have little information.”

“No,” mused Simon. “That’s where we ought to start. We need to find out what Oatway and Greenfield were doing in the afternoon. They’re the two we know who were supposed to hate her.”

“Yes,” said Baldwin, and stared at the fire. “There is another suspect, though, Simon. I told you of my friend’s son.” Glaring into the flames, he explained about the Bourc’s visit to England to see the dead woman, and his ruby ring.

“Do you think he could have killed her?” Margaret asked.

Baldwin shook his head. “He was here out of gratitude. To thank her.”

“If his story was true,” she said quietly.

The knight did not respond, but later, when he left them to go to his room, his face still wore a troubled scowl.

When Simon at last drifted off into sleep, he had the same nightmare as before, but this time the figure in the flames was not the abbot. As it turned, to his horror he recognised the face of Agatha Kyteler, her eyes sad and accusing as they held his.

The constable arrived before nine o’clock the next morning with his companion. It had not taken them long to make the journey, though the snow had slowed them.

“Sir Baldwin, I thought you should hear this man: what he can tell about Greencliff.”

The knight looked up, his jaw moving as he chewed on a crust of bread. The youth with Tanner was in his early twenties, tall, at least three inches over the constable, and with softly pale flesh. He looked fat, though his skin hung flaccid round his jowls and the hands gripping the cap were chubby. His mousy hair was cut well, and from his clothes he appeared well-to-do, with a blue tunic of wool, and woollen hose of grey. On his heavy belt he wore a small dagger.

“Who are you?”

The eyes rose and met his gaze unflinchingly. “Stephen de la Forte.”

To Simon he appeared to be a naturally haughty man who was holding himself in with difficulty. His eyes were a surprisingly light grey colour, with glints of amber, which made them look oddly translucent, and they sat in a round face, where the definition of youthful exercise was already fading into the rounded obesity of premature middle-age. The bailiff instinctively disliked him, and rested his elbows on the table to study him the better.

“So, Stephen de la Forte, what can you tell us?”

The youth glanced quickly at the constable, a fleeting look, but Simon felt sure he could see a glimmering of devious intelligence there.

“I… I’m a friend of Harold Greencliff’s – I’ve known him for years. I went to his house last night to see him, and the constable was there.”

“I went there about an hour after leaving you, sir,” interjected Tanner. “He arrived when I’d just settled down.”

“I see. Well, then. Why were you going to see him?“ asked Baldwin easily, leaning back in his chair.

“I…” he shot a glance over to Tanner again, suddenly nervous. “As I said, he’s a friend. I saw him on Tuesday, at the inn, and he seemed unhappy then – troubled – so I wanted to see him again and make sure he was all right.”

“How do you mean ”troubled“?” said Simon frowning. The youth glanced at him with surprise and a certain distaste, as if he had thought the bailiff was a mere servant and should not try to become involved in the conversation of his betters. “Well?”

“I don’t know. He was upset by something. I took him out to the inn and stayed with him, but he didn’t tell me anything about what was worrying him.”

He looked shifty, and Simon thought to himself that he appeared to be lying. Watching the boy’s eyes flit away, he noted the fact for discussion with Baldwin later.

The knight was toying with a knife. Spearing a slab of meat, he studied it thoughtfully, and said, “You were so worried after Tuesday that you want back to see him late yesterday? Why not earlier?”

“I did go earlier!”

“And?”

His eyes dropped. “He wasn’t there.”

“When was that?” Simon said, leaning forward.

“I don’t know. Early, not long before noon.”

“I see. Tanner?”

“Yes?” The constable stepped forward.

“I assume Greencliff didn’t turn up?”

“No, sir. We stayed there all night, but there was no sign of him.”

“Stephen de la Forte, can you think of any reason why your friend should have run away?”

The eyes that gazed back at him were troubled, and the youth slowly shook his head, but Simon was sure that he saw certainty there. This boy obviously thought his friend was guilty.

Baldwin took a deep breath, “In that case, I think we’d better organise a search. It may have nothing to do with the death of Kyteler, but it certainly seems suspicious that on the day her body is found – especially so close to his house – he disappears. Very well.” He glanced at Tanner, who nodded, and then, at the knight’s dismissive wave, took the youth by the arm and led him out. It was only when they were gone and the door shut behind them that Baldwin turned back to Simon and sighed in relief.

“Let’s just hope they find him, eh? I think he could help us with some points about this death, especially now he’s decided to run away – that looks suspicious, doesn’t it. It seems like a clear sign of guilt, thank God! It wasn’t the Captal’s son.”

They spent the morning riding up over to the north on the road towards Bickleigh, the peregrine on Baldwin’s arm in the hope of finding a suitable prey for their meal later, but saw nothing worth hunting. At last, when the sun had risen to its zenith, Baldwin snorted and gave a long grumbling sigh.

“This is ridiculous. I can’t concentrate. Simon, Margaret, would you mind if we turned back home now?”

They exchanged a glance, then both nodded. Motioning to Edgar, Baldwin handed over the falcon, then turned his horse back home.

Up and down hills, the whole shire was smothered by the freezing blanket of white. In the distance Margaret could occasionally see the distant, grim greyness of the moors above the Dart, seeming different somehow from the rest of the countryside, gloomier and more menacing, proudly crouching on the edge of the horizon like a great cat waiting to pounce.

As they rode to the long track that wound through the ravine before the manor, Simon pointed excitedly at the path before them.

“Look at the prints! The search party must be back.”

Rounding the last bend in the trail before beginning the half-mile long straight section that pointed straight as a lance to the building itself, they could see the horses tied to the rail by the door, nuzzling at the ground or pawing the snow, trying to get to the grass that lay beneath.

“Edgar, see to the horses,” Baldwin called, throwing the reins to his servant before running indoors. Pausing only to help his wife down, Simon hurried after him.

The search party was waiting in the hall, sitting at Baldwin’s tables and putting the knight’s men to good service fetching wine and bread. Before them sat the figure they had seen the previous morning.