At the door they waited, and when it was pulled wide, it was Edgar who stood there to welcome them. Taking Stephen by the arm, he waited while his master dropped from his horse. When an hostler arrived and took the reins from him, they all passed inside.

“Simon! How are you?” Baldwin cried at the door, and crossed the floor to his friend, who sat swathed in cloak and blankets like a new-born child. The bailiff smiled, but his pleasure at seeing the knight could not hide the yellowish pallor of his features.

“I’m fine,” he admitted. “But I landed on my head, and it jarred me.” He stopped and stared. “My God, Baldwin! Are you all right? You’re covered in blood, did he stab you?”

“I’m fine. I had to kill his horse: broken leg.”

“Thank God! I…” He stopped, his mouth open in apparent revelation, and Baldwin heard him mutter, ”Of course! That was why he was cold! Why didn’t I realise before?“

Barging past the knight, Stephen stepped up to the fire and ignored the gaze of the others. His father was sitting with his mother on a bench by the hearth, his arm around her, and to Baldwin it looked as if they had both aged in his absence. She was sniffling and trying to hold back her weeping, while her husband sat stoically and expressionlessly, swallowing hard every few minutes as if trying to keep the tears at bay.

When the youth turned from the fire, Baldwin saw him glance at his parents for a moment. In that quick look, he saw only contempt and loathing, and he felt a cold chill at the sight of it. How long would it have been, he wondered, before this boy decided that his father was too weak or ineffectual to be his partner as well?

It was Walter de la Forte who broke the silence. “Are you going to tell us why?”

“Why, father? Why I killed them? You know the reasons why. And I did it then because I had the opportunity, I thought, of getting away with their deaths. After all, they both deserved their ends.”

He walked over to a small chair and sat, staring at his father with apparent surprise, as if he expected that he at least should understand. “She had been a threat for ages, and that was hardly right, especially now the business has been suffering. No, it was only right that she should die. She was a danger, and had been for many years.”

“But why Alan? He was our friend, your friend! Why kill him?”

“He was weak and a fool. He wanted us to keep on with the trading when it was clear we needed to change, to move into banking, beat the Genoese at their own game. That’s where the money is going to be in the future. But he wouldn’t see it. He couldn’t. He was going to ruin our business, Father. I couldn’t let him do that to my inheritance. I had to kill him.”

Simon interrupted. “You knew what you did was going to put the whole blame on to Greencliff, didn’t you? Did you want him to die for what you had done?”

“Harold?” The youth’s face showed momentary confusion, near anger as he frowned, but then he seemed to realise that the bailiff was genuinely unaware of the truth and gave him an comprehending smile. “Oh, no. You don’t understand. I told Harold to go and escape. I knew he could be in danger otherwise. That was why I went to his house after the witch died, to make sure he had gone. I had to make sure he would be all right after I killed her. Then, when I had seen to Alan Trevellyn, I made sure he left for good. He was my friend; I was looking after him.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

It was late when they finally made it home, and both were ready to drop straight to sleep, but there was no opportunity for them to do so. Margaret, Tanner, Greencliff and Angelina Trevellyn were still in front of the fire, and their eyes rose to the door as the three men entered.

Margaret went to Simon as soon as she saw him, with a sigh of relief, hugging him with her eyes closed. “I thought something must have gone wrong,” she whispered, and then, as she squeezed tighter in her joy, she felt him wince and heard his quick moan, and stood back. Now she could see his pain, and the paleness of his face. Even as she saw him try to smile, she turned an accusatory glare to Baldwin. “What’s happened to him?” she asked, and then gasped in horror as she saw the gore over his tunic. “Baldwin! What has happened to you?”

The knight grinned. “Very little, the same as your husband. But I fear we shall all three of us soon die of the cold if we do not get inside and sit before the fire.”

While Margaret bustled, calling for Hugh and helping Simon to a chair, Baldwin walked to his own chair by the fire and sat, pensively watching them. Hugh did not appear – he had fallen asleep in the kitchen by the fire – so Edgar went to fetch food and drink for them. It was only when he had left the room that Baldwin found his eyes being drawn to Angelina Trevellyn. Seeing her condescending smile as she watched the husband and wife, the knight nodded to himself as he turned his face to the fire once more. It confirmed his decision, reached with such difficulty on the ride homewards.

“Come on, then! What happened? And Simon, how did you guess it was him?”

The bailiff smiled at his wife. “There were a number of things that made me start to think of Stephen de la Fort,” he began. “I think the first thing was how so many people started saying how much of a friend he was to Harold, and how they were always together. It seemed as though they had no secrets from each other – Jennie Miller even said that Stephen knew who Harold’s wealthy lover was.” At this, both Greencliff and Angelina Trevellyn stirred, but Simon ignored them.

“Then there was the fact that at both murders, although Harold was there or nearby, he was apparently alone. It did not occur to me at once for, in affairs of the heart, most men will leave their friends behind when they go to see their lover. But there was something odd about the prints back from the Trevellyn house on the afternoon we went to Harold’s house after discovering Alan Trevellyn’s body. It only came to me late. There were the prints of a man and a horse?”

He glanced at the farmer. “You never owned a horse, did you? That’s what Jennie Miller said too. What use would a shepherd and farmer have for a horse? And if you did have one, why walk the horse home? To avoid ice, maybe, but it would be rare for a man to walk unless his horse was lame, and this horse did not limp. No, I became certain that there was another man with you. You confirmed that yesterday.

“So what about the day of the death of Agatha Kyteler? Once again, you were seen while you stood with Angelina’s horse, once again, you were alone there. Was it likely? Later, at the inn, you were seen with Stephen de la Forte again, but he came in after you. You did not enter together. If he was with you when you went to see your lover, when Alan Trevellyn died, surely it was possible that he was with you when Agatha died as well? In which case, where had he gone?”

Nodding, Baldwin leaned forward. “Yes, I think that this is what happened. You two, Harold and Angelina, agreed to meet, but Stephen went with you. Harold, you waited with the horse while Angelina went to see the old woman. When she left, Stephen made some excuse…”

“He said that after seeing the old woman, Angelina would want my company, but he would probably be unwelcome,” said Harold dully. “He rode off as if he was on his way home.”

“I see. So he went a short way, then tied his horse in the woods, and made his way to the old woman’s cottage. When he saw Angelina leaving, he went inside and found her still at her table. He pulled out his knife and killed her.”

“I knew none of this!” the boy cried, and his face dropped into his hands.

“No, that much is obvious,” continued the knight. “What happened was that Angelina told you what she had done, and you were shocked, horrified, by what she had done, when you had been looking forward to raising the child.”