“The miners. Quite. However, I have little doubt that the miners will say it must have been someone else. Who knows – they might even say it was you, Sir William. Now, where did you say this man was found?”

The older man stared from Simon to Baldwin, aghast. “ Me? They wouldn’t dare!”

“Or one of your sons,” Baldwin continued cheerfully. “That is why we must study this body, to see whether there is any evidence about who really did kill him. So, where was he found?”

“In… in Wistman’s Wood – a little wood some distance from here.”

“And he was hanging from a tree?”

“Yes. My men saw something swinging as they passed by. When they looked, they found his body.” Sir William was still wide-eyed with shock.

“Thank you. I think it might be interesting to see where this was, if you don’t mind. Could you ask one of the men to take us there?”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose so, if that’s what you want. I’ll arrange it.”

“Good. Now… ah, thank you, Edgar.”

Taking the heavy cord from his servant, Baldwin studied it carefully. It was strong hemp. Edgar had cut it from the neck, preserving the knot so that the interwoven threads could be studied in one piece. While Simon watched, Baldwin tested the noose, pulling at the knot so that it ran up and down the rope easily. Then the knight threw a glance at the body. Simon held out his hand, and Baldwin wordlessly passed him the rope. He was concentrating on the figure again, oblivious to the others in the room.

Simon had always had a squeamish side to him which the knight found either endearing or infuriating, depending on his mood at the time. For Baldwin, who had experienced warfare and seen death in many forms, there was a certain fascination in a new corpse. He was driven by a pure curiosity, not to prove a principle, but merely to find truth. Each time he saw a new body, he wanted to study it, and discover the reasons behind the death, as if the corpse could explain to him if he would but listen and observe. And he was determined to give each the time it needed to tell him.

Long ago he had realized that when a man or woman died in a specific way, the signals were roughly the same for others dying from a similar cause. From experience, then, it was clear enough that this man had died from hanging. That was plain from the marks on the face. Baldwin had seen them often before in hanged men, and he nodded to himself as he noted them dispassionately. The skin of the head and upper neck was a dusky color; the eyes had small red hemorrhages in their whites; the cheeks and scalp, when he pulled some hair aside, showed even more. No, he had no doubt that this man had died of being throttled.

He stood back and surveyed the body. One thing was niggling him. When he studied the neck wound itself in more detail, he could see something that looked odd. The rope had lain across the neck, and a thick mark was visible where the skin had been pulled away in places. It was, he decided, a little like a long blister, as if a thin scraping had been peeled away to leave the weeping, exposed flesh. Logically, he considered, it must be a kind of rope burn. But what confused him was the second mark. Underneath the heavy scar was a narrower line, stretching from one side of the throat to the other. He took the candle from Edgar and held it closer.

“Is that all? Or do you want to stay here all afternoon?” said Sir William, fidgeting irritably. “It seems clear enough to me. Bruther is dead from the rope – what more do you want?”

Baldwin frowned, then picked up one of Bruther’s hands and stared at it, examining the wrist. Letting it drop, he slowly straightened and smiled at the master of the house. “Yes, of course. Now, if you could take us to the men who found the body, sir, we shall leave you in peace.”

Sir William stomped up the stairs which led to the kitchen, waiting for his guests before marching out into the yard. He gave orders to a guard, who eyed the strangers suspiciously before strolling off to fetch their man. In a few minutes, Samuel Hankyn appeared, looking to Simon like a starving ferret, he was so thin and sharp-faced. He was dressed in russet-colored wool with a leather jacket. Looking enquiringly at his master, he managed to glance at Simon and Baldwin from the corner of his eye as Sir William explained what they wanted.

Before long they were on their way. Judging from the position of the sun, they had a good three hours before dark, and as none of them wanted to be stuck out on the moors when night came, they struck a brisk pace which made conversation difficult. Samuel was out in front, while Simon, riding behind him, felt stiff, his muscles protesting at so much time spent in the saddle. After a half-hour, they turned off northward in a broad valley between two low hills.

“This wood,” Baldwin said when they caught sight of greenery up ahead. “Isn’t it the one we passed the other day?”

Simon peered ahead. “Yes, it’s Wistman’s,” he said, and something in his voice made the knight look at him.

“I suppose now you will tell me the man was killed because he upset the wish-hounds!” he said lightly.

“There are some things you can’t laugh at, especially out here on the moors, Baldwin. Strange things can happen, it’s not like other places. Take this wood: all the trees are shorter than they should be. Crockern looks after his land the way he wants.”

Baldwin was about to say something when Samuel pointed. “That’s where he was,” he said simply.

Up ahead was a wall of moss-covered trunks. A small breeze made dry leaves rustle, chilling the men as it cooled the sweat on their backs. They paused and stared. Beneath one, which stood a little taller than the others, was a large rock, and beside this lay an untidy coil of the same hemp they had recovered from Peter Bruther’s body.

“He was hanging off that branch there,” Samuel continued, a finger indicating a heavy bough directly above the stone.

The knight nodded, then dropped from his horse and walked over to the tree. The hemp had been sliced through, he saw. He stared hard up at the oak, then below at the stone. “You cut him down?”

“Yes, sir. When I came back with the other men.”

Baldwin clambered up on top of the rock. It stood some two feet above the ground, and when he was on it he could just reach the branch overhead with his arms stretched upward. He gripped the branch and stared at it for some time, then let it go and sprang down, studying the ground all round while Simon observed him. He had seen his friend like this before, searching for any hints like a dog seeking a spoor.

Samuel grunted to himself and kicked his horse, moving out of the wind into the shelter of a rock. Hugh went over to join him and offered him a sip of his wineskin. The guide nodded to him gratefully and took a long pull of the cool drink, passing the skin back and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Jerking a thumb at the knight, who was now squatting and moving twigs and leaves aside as he examined the ground, Samuel asked: “Is he always like this? He looks like he’s searching for roots.”

Hugh burped quietly and stoppered the flask. “Often enough. But he seems to see things sometimes which you’d never have expected,” he explained, with a certain grudging respect. “What he’s looking for now, though, I can’t imagine.”

“There’s nothing to look for. Men came here and hanged him, that’s all.”

“He lived out here, did he?”

Shrugging, the man inclined his head slightly northward. “A little way off north of here. Most of the miners live out in the open, but this one was nearer the middle of the moors than the rest. Must’ve been mad. Anyone who’s been out on the moors for any time at all learns to stay away from the middle.”

“Why?” Edgar had ridden closer, and now sat easily and clearly comfortable a short way from them.