The Smalhobbes’ property looked more cheerful now. Smoke drifted idly from the roof, and the gray stone building set in the broad plain appealed to Baldwin. It was the picture of tranquillity, curiously at odds with the recent savage events.

Before the door was Sarah Smalhobbe, seated on a stool and plucking the feathers from a hen while others pecked madly and scratched at the ground. She gave them a slow smile of welcome and called for her husband. After a minute he joined them.

“Bailiff, Sir Baldwin,” he said, ducking his head to them respectfully.

“Henry, we’d like to speak with you for a little,” Simon said, climbing from his horse and passing the reins to Hugh. Smalhobbe looked very tired, he could see, but well enough apart from that. At least he could walk again. The miner was clad in a heavy leather jacket over a thin woollen shirt and short hose. A long knife was at his thick belt. His left arm was wrapped in cloth from the wrist to the elbow, and there was a bruise on one cheek and a cut over a blackened eye.

Smalhobbe sat on his wife’s stool and sighed. “It still hurts to move more than a few yards, sirs. My back is one mass of lumps and bumps where the whoresons laid into me.”

“They won’t be back,” said Simon shortly. “The men have been found, and they are being held at the miners’ camp.”

“What, by more of Thomas Smyth’s miners?” His face registered dismay. “But they were his men! You can’t trust him to keep them guarded, he’ll want them to get out and carry on.” He stared at them both, then at his wife, who stood a short way off, listening with an air of dejected concern.

“They will not, I think,” said Baldwin reassuringly. “They will have other things to occupy them. Thomas Smyth will not come out here again for quite some time, if he ever does.”

The miner did not look convinced. His eyes flitted over the horizon as if expecting to see bands of marauders approaching at any moment.

Simon tried to gain his attention. “Henry, we are finding it difficult to discover who could have killed Bruther. Who do you think might have done it? Do you think it was the same men who attacked you?”

“Harold Magge and the others, you mean?” The miner stared at him. “No, I doubt it. Beating someone up – they could do that… but killing Peter? I don’t think so.”

“You had seen no one else that night, until you were set upon?”

“No, nobody. I was at my works all day and it was quiet.”

“You never went near Wistman’s?”

“No.”

Baldwin interrupted. “You were late home. Why?”

“I was smelting,” he said simply. “It sometimes takes time.”

Simon nodded. “Do you know who Bruther’s friends were?”

“Friends?”

Squatting before him, Baldwin held his gaze. “We know he had several men with him in the days before his death. Sir Robert Beauscyr saw them with him, so did Sir Ralph of Warton – some seven or eight men who looked as if they were miners too. Do you have any idea who they were?”

The miner looked hopelessly at his wife. “No, I don’t know.”

Baldwin saw her quick glance, the pleading expression in her husband’s eyes, and knew the man was lying. “Very well,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you can tell us this, then. What sort of a man was Peter Bruther?”

“He was a miner,” Smalhobbe said off-handedly. “He had not been here for long, and he was learning how to get tin, the same as me.”

“Yes, but what was he like? If we know what sort of man he was, we may be able to guess why someone should want to murder him.”

“He was quick, and self-assured, I suppose. It was hard for him to make friends and trust people, but he seemed happy enough.”

“Was he by nature aggressive?”

“Not that I saw. I mean, he was capable of a fight when he had been drinking, but that’s all.”

“Did he often go drinking?”

“Once or twice a week. He used to go to the Fighting Cock over toward Chagford.”

Simon frowned. “How could he afford that? Paying for ale in an inn should have been impossible for a man like him, a runaway villein now working as a miner. Where did his money come from?”

Shrugging, Smalhobbe did not answer. It was confusing to the knight watching and listening. The miner clearly knew something he was not prepared to talk about. He had been attacked by miners, his neighbor had been murdered… and yet all he could do now was shrug sulkily. Sarah Smalhobbe’s big brown eyes were still glued on her husband. She too was anxious, Baldwin could see, but he had no idea why.

Meanwhile the bailiff had moved on. “So, you say he went to the inn a couple of times a week. Who did he mix with?”

“I never went with him, so I cannot say.”

“I see. But you heard of him getting into fights?”

“Yes. He once fought a merchant who he thought had insulted him, and then there was a moorman who he said was simple in the head.”

“Was it Adam Coyt?”

“I don’t know.”

His attitude was beginning to annoy Baldwin, who leaned forward now and said harshly, “There seems to be a lot you don’t know today, Smalhobbe. Your nearest neighbor was a closed book to you. You have no idea who his friends were, you cannot recall anything about his money, rights, enemies or anything. Do you want to protect his murderer?”

Henry Smalhobbe stared at him, and now Baldwin saw his mistake. The man was not scared; the defiance in his eyes contained slyness, which spoke of self-interest. Then something occurred to the knight. He studied the chickens, and the miner began to look nervous.

“So, Henry. Who have you been to see this week? Or when did he come to see you?”

To Simon’s amazement, the little man’s face fell, and he stammered: “Who, sir? I don’t know who you mean, I…”

Baldwin rose, standing menacingly over the miner with his hands on his hips. For a moment Sarah thought the knight was going to hit him. “Enough of this lying, Henry Smalhobbe!” he thundered. “You have been paid to keep your silence, haven’t you? When we first came to see you, you had no chickens. Where have these appeared from? Someone wishing you well, I have no doubt, for it is a goodly-sized little flock. Tell us who it was.”

“No, sir, honestly, they were…”

“Henry, we have to tell them the truth!” His wife dropped to her knees before him, her hands going to her husband’s like an oath-giver, and like a man taking the homage due to him, her husband put his hands around hers as he stared into her face. “Henry, tell them! They are trying to help people like us, who live out here on the moors,” she begged. “Please, tell them!”

Smalhobbe’s eyes rose to meet the bailiff’s, and he sighed. “Very well. I’ll tell what I know.”

“Thank you,” said Simon with relief. “The men with him. Who were they?”

“Miners from the camp. They work for Thomas Smyth. They used to stay out on the plain beyond Bruther’s cottage, and help him work his plot.”

Baldwin scowled. “You are telling me that Thomas Smyth would let his men go and help a man out on the moors?”

“I don’t know why, sir. All I can say is what I know. Those men were his, and yet they helped Bruther.”

“Are you sure that they weren’t miners from farther north?” Simon asked. “Couldn’t Bruther have associated with other small tinners for all of their defense?”

“No. You see, I knew some of the men from when we first came down here to the moors. We met them during our journey to Dartmoor, and they reappeared with Bruther.”

“What were they doing there?” said Simon, puzzled.

“Protecting him. It was known that he was a runaway – oh, there are probably plenty of villeins here in the moors, it’s the best place in the world to hide – but Bruther came from a Manor close by, so he could have been caught and taken back at any time. He needed men to look after him.”

“Why on earth should Thomas Smyth protect him?” Simon demanded. “He wanted people like you and Bruther off the moors, I thought.”