Before he could rise from his seat, Margaret went to him and poured him more wine, then stood beside him. “No, you need to talk with Simon,” she said, and motioned to Hugh to clear the table. Sighing he got up and began to collect the plates. After a glare from Margaret, Edgar stood too, and began to help. Soon they were taking out the dishes, and when they had both disappeared, Margaret turned to her husband.

“Right, Simon. Tell Baldwin what we heard today from Hugh.”

He gazed at her in surprise, and then looked apologetically at Baldwin, who stared back impassively as he was told of the rumours in Wefford about Mrs. Trevellyn and Harold Greencliff. Then, with a sigh, he picked up his pot and sipped at his wine.

“All right, but there’s no proof that she has been unfaithful to her husband, no proof of an affair, and certainly nothing to suggest that she killed Agatha or her husband. It’s pure gossip, as you say.”

Margaret sat down again, looking from one to the other. “Baldwin,” she said, “did you think her evidence was strange?”

“Strange?” he glanced at her in surprise. “How do you mean?”

“From what Simon told me, Mrs. Trevellyn will not say what she was doing at the old woman’s house. And there really isn’t anyone else who seems to have had a reason to want to kill her husband. Doesn’t it seem strange?”

“Well…” He shrugged, dubious.

“And yet this boy has admitted to it. I don’t see why he would do that unless he was involved, but I think you should question him and see what he has to say.”

“There’s no point trying to do that,” Simon interrupted, “I tried to get him to speak about it yesterday and all the way back today, but I got nothing from him. He just didn’t seem to want to talk about it at all.”

“What?” Baldwin frowned at this. “Not at all?”

“No. He refused to talk about it. He wouldn’t talk about Agatha Kyteler’s death or Alan Trevellyn’s. As soon as I mentioned either he went as silent as a corpse and said nothing until we spoke of something else.”

“But he did confess to killing them?”

“Oh, yes. In fact, when we asked him, he kept reminding us that his knife had their blood on it. And it did – well, it had some blood on it, anyway.”

“That does seem odd.”

“What does?” asked Margaret.

The knight glanced at her. “The fact that he confessed without giving any reason why. Usually people boast of the reason why they murdered someone if they admit to it. ”He robbed me“, or ”he threatened me“, they say, and use that as justification for the killing. If they don’t confess, and it’s more common that they don’t, they deny all knowledge of the crime. At least, that’s my experience.”

“So you think that because he said he did do it, it looks odd?” she said slowly.

“Yes. Nobody wants to surrender themselves to a punishment or death for no reason. It would be mad, stupid – or…” He suddenly broke off, and his eyes turned to the fire with a frown that spoke of a level of intentness Simon had not seen before. It was as if he was consumed with a total concentration which absorbed him completely. A low gasp escaped from his lips, almost a moan of pain.

“What is it? Are you all right?” asked Simon, and was surprised to be silenced by a curt wave of the knight’s hand.

There was a reason, Baldwin thought to himself distractedly. If a man was committed, or if he was devoted in his life, tied to a cause, he could subject himself even to death. Who could know that better than he, he who had seen his comrades sent to torture and to death by the flames. They were all dedicated because they all believed in their cause: in the honour and purity of the military Order, in the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon: the Knights Templar. They had refused to agree to the confessions put to them by the Inquisition, they had suffered and died, not for a lie, but because they believed: in themselves and their masters and their God. And now Harold Greencliff was behaving in the same way, as if he too had a cause. A love, greater even than his own love for life.

Simon’s eyes flitted from his wife to the knight in his bewilderment. What Baldwin was thinking was totally hidden from him. What had he been saying? Something about not surrendering to something not done? That was it, he had been saying that anyone would be mad to admit to something that they had not done. The bailiffs eyes narrowed: was that what he was thinking? That Angelina Trevellyn had killed her husband and would be mad to admit it? That she would never confess, that someone who did confess to a crime must be a fool or mad? And she was neither?

He felt his eyes drawn to the fire. But why kill old Agatha Kyteler, he wondered. Then a quick frown pulled his brows down and he gave an angry sigh as he felt the frustration rise: why, for God’s sake, why was he thinking about her still? She was irrelevant; unimportant – just a sad little old woman. Why did her murder keep impinging on his brain? As he glared at the flames, he found that with no effort he could again conjure up a picture of her from his dreams, dressed in her hooded cloak, her eyes glittering with bright red fire, her expressions intense – and yet not threatening.

It was not a terrifying face. Instead it was sad, as if she was trying to help him, nudging and prompting him towards her murderer.

This was foolish. Thrusting the thought aside, he considered. The only thing that mattered was finding the killer of Agatha Kyteler and Alan Trevellyn. And right now he was not sure that they had the right man in the gaol. Glancing up he saw Baldwin’s face set into a pensive scowl.

Right, the bailiff thought, so who wanted the witch dead? Even Harold Greencliff did not appear to have a motive. And who could have wanted to kill Alan Trevellyn? To find that out the bailiff would need to know more about him. Could one of his servants have wanted to see him dead? It sounded very much as if they all suffered under him. Who knew the man well?

He gave a start, making the brown and black dog stare at him in sudden reproach for waking him before dropping his head down again. He said, “I know what we have to do. Tomorrow we need to see Jennie and Sarah again and check a couple of points – I think I’m getting close to the truth at last!”

Chapter Twenty-two

After leaving their horses with the hostlers at the back of the inn, they entered and took a table near the front of the room. Baldwin haughtily summoned the innkeeper with a curt wave of his hand, while the bailiff stared round the room. After hearing what Hugh had to say about his conversation with Jennie Miller, he was interested in seeing her again, and putting some other questions to her.

But today the inn was quiet. Although it was lunchtime, there were few people there, and Simon reflected that the people from the village would still have many tasks to perform. Even with the fields under snow, there would still be animals to look after, tools damaged over the year to be repaired, and some jobs, no doubt, to be done in their houses.

There was no sign of Jennie Miller. Over by the fire there was a little group of four men, one of whom Simon recognised as Samuel Cottey, but that was all. Perhaps it would become more busy as men finished their lunches and went to the inn for a quick drink before getting on with their afternoon duties.

Wiping his hands on a thick rag, the innkeeper strolled to them. “Sirs. What can I offer you?” he said.

Simon raised an eyebrow towards Baldwin, who shrugged. “Two pints of ale, and food.”

“We have cold meats, sir. Is that all right?”

Nodding, Simon turned to his friend as the publican left to fetch their order. “Well, Baldwin? Come on, what do we do next?”

The knight glanced up at him, and gave him a wan smile before returning his gaze to the matted rushes on the floor. “I don’t know, old friend,” he admitted. “Everything we have heard would seem to support your doubts about Mrs. Trevellyn. But Greencliff had the knife, and the prints led to his door after Alan Trevellyn’s death. Then there’s Agatha Kyteler’s death. He was there, we know that.”