“So was she, though!”

“I know, I know. She confessed to that. But I wonder…”

“What?”

“I was just thinking: why did she want to see the old woman? Agatha Kyteler was supposed to be a midwife, but Angelina Trevellyn says she has never had a child.”

Just then their food arrived, and they set to with gusto. Breakfast felt like it was a long time ago. Speaking between mouthfuls, Baldwin’s eyes narrowed as he peered at Simon. “If Harold Greencliff was having an affair with Angelina Trevellyn, isn’t it likely that he was trying to kill her husband so that he could take her for himself? It would make more sense than thinking that she was involved.”

“I’m not so sure, Baldwin. I don’t know her that well, but if she really hated her husband that much, especially after the way that he apparently abused and mistreated her, I think she could easily become angry enough to kill. And don’t forget, she is a Gascon. She’s French.”

“ French?” the knight stared at him open-mouthed. “What on earth’s that got to do with anything?”

“You know,” Simon’s eyes were suddenly hooded and he glanced around quickly. “They do tend to get overexcited, the French.”

“God in heaven! Simon, you and I must talk soon. You believe in witches, you trust to all the old superstitions, and now you think all the French are mad as well!” The humour had returned to the knight’s eyes, Simon saw with a degree of bitterness.

“No, not all French. It’s just that…” Simon shrugged. He knew he would not win this argument, so he changed the subject. “You know, I think I’m beginning to understand dimly what actually happened.”

“There’s still a lot we need to find out.”

“We need to talk to the people of Wefford again and find out what they haven’t told us.”

“How? We’ve already spoken to most of them. How can we find out more?”

“Well, first I think we ought to go back and see Sarah Cottey – especially,” he nodded towards the group in front of them, “especially while her father’s in here. Then we must see Jennie Miller. She knows more than she’s told us, she seems to know all the gossip in the village, if Hugh’s right. And I want to speak to Harold Greencliff again. I don’t know how to get him to talk to us, but he must know more.”

“That’s a lot of work. It’ll take time to get into Crediton to go to the town gaol.”

“Have him brought up to the manor, then. The innkeeper can get a man to fetch him and Tanner. It’ll save us a journey, and probably do them both some good to be able to stay in a warm place, compared to that cell.”

Having decided on their course of action, they finished their drinks and made their way to the Cottey holding, but when they arrived, there was no sign of life. Simon hammered on the door, and rode round to the back, but there was no sign of anyone, apart from the thin streamers of smoke drifting idly on the wind from the roof. After looking all over the plot, they decided to go on to Jennie Miller’s instead.

Here they were more lucky. As soon as they came through the trees into the clearing, the sound of voices, shrill and laughing, met them. Coming to the small bridge, they could see the Miller children running and playing tag over at the line of the trees, their mother sitting on a stool and watching as she plucked the feathers from a chicken, laughing every now and again and calling to them to urge them to greater efforts.

At the sound of the horses, she spun round, and Simon was vaguely sad to see the happiness die from her features as she recognised her visitors. The cries from the children faded too, as if the slight breeze was taking away their pleasure and enjoyment with its gusts. The bailiff urged his horse on with a rueful grin. Such was power, he thought. To bring joy, but also to destroy it. Sighing, he brought his horse to the door, to where Jennie Miller had now risen, the fowl forgotten beside her, wiping her hands on her apron to rid herself of the tiny feathers clinging to the blood on her skin.

It was the knight who greeted her, sitting and watching her gravely from his horse. “Jennie, we have come to speak to you again about the death of Agatha Kyteler. Can we come in?”

At her shrug of apparent indifference, they dropped from their horses and followed her inside. Sitting at the same place, she watched them take their seats and sat back, waiting for them to begin with a slightly nervous mien, as if she was anxious of what they wished to know from her.

“Jennie, we wanted to find out from you anything that could help with these two murders,” Baldwin began, and her eyes swiftly sought his face.

“What do you mean? You already have the killer, don’t you?”

Simon gently interrupted. “You mean Harold Greencliff?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “You have him held in gaol, don’t you?”

“Yes, but do you think he could have killed them‘

“No!” The answer was categoric.

Baldwin stared at her. “But why? Who else had a chance?”

At this her gaze dropped and she stared at the floor in silence. Simon tried again.

“Jennie, you must tell us anything you know. After all, you wouldn’t want Harold to be sent to trial and executed if he had nothing to do with it, would you?”

She shook her head, but no words came.

“Jennie, it’s obvious you have some idea about this. Why? Who do you think it was?”

She started to speak in a low and halting voice. All the time her eyes remained downcast, and her features anxious. “I knew after I’d spoken to your man at the inn… I would have been better to hold my tongue… It was the drink got to me… But it’s true, I’m sure of that.”

“What…” Baldwin started, but Simon cut him off with a short movement of his hand.

“Carry on, Jennie.”

She gave a sigh, a massive effort that looked as though it rose from the very soles of her boots, then looked at Simon and held his eyes. “When I came out of the woods, I was sure who it was I’d seen. I was certain it was Angelina Trevellyn. At the lane, I saw Harold Greencliff. And I know Sarah Cottey saw them too. She’s a good girl, is Sarah. But she has not been able to admit to herself what sort of a boy Harold is.”

“What sort of a boy do you think he is?” asked Baldwin. She ignored him, her eyes staying fixed on the intent bailiff before her.

“You see, Harold and Sarah, they’ve grown up together, been with each other for years, and they’ve always been very fond of each other. But now Sarah wants to marry and settle, she thinks Harold does too, and he doesn’t. He never has, really. He’s always been a boy for enjoying himself, and no girl ever could say no to him, he was always such a good-looking lad…” As if in answer to an unspoken question in Simon’s eyes, she suddenly reddened and half-turned away in apparent embarrassment, but then faced him once more with an air of defiance, as if she knew her words might shock, but was now careless of effect.

To Simon it looked as though she was almost proud, and he realised with a quick insight how she must feel, working every day to bring up her family, toiling as she tried to help her husband keep the mill profitable so that there would be bread on the table for them. Would it be a surprise if a few kind words from a “good-looking lad” like Greencliff could remind her of a time when she was free of worry and had the opportunity to enjoy the comfort of another man?

“And?” he asked softly.

“There are many he has known in the area. Sarah was one. But over the last few months, he has been seeing another woman, one who was not from Wefford. She was married, so he said…”

“What? Harold Greencliff told you this?” Baldwin cried, leaning forward suddenly.

“Harold?” There was a faint sneer on her face at this. “Oh, no. Harold didn’t tell me. No, but there’s been a few he did tell. Like Stephen de la Forte. He told me.”

“What exactly did he say?” asked Simon gently.