Hugh was fully at home. He had been raised on a small sheep farm over to the northeast, near Drewsteignton, and this was the company he felt most at ease with, farmers and their children. This room was much as he remembered the main room at his parents’ home, though it was many years since he had been there. The people were friendly, the food good, and the ale – he took a long draft and sighed gratefully as the strong-flavored liquid washed down his throat – the ale was fine.

As the men all finished their food and settled, Hugh belched and grasped his pot, a warm glow encompassing his spirit as he sat back and took notice of the others again. Baldwin, he could see, was thoughtful as he stared at the farmer, while Wat Meavy appeared caught between nervousness and suspicion, his broad square brow lined. Seeing his guests had finished, the farmer sent his wife and children out, and when they were gone, Simon leaned forward and smiled reassuringly.

“We’re here because we want to ask you about the day you were attacked, Wat Meavy.” Briefly he explained who he and Baldwin were, before resting his chin in his hand. “I know you weren’t going to report it, but we need to hear all about it. It may prove important in another affair, a murder.”

“Peter Bruther’s, you mean?”

Simon nodded. The farmer considered the bailiff for some time without speaking, but then gave a slow nod.

“What do you want to know?”

“You were going up to Chagford?” Simon prompted.

“No. I’d been there all day and was coming back. I had had a sow and some piglets to sell.”

“I see. What time of day did you leave to come home?”

Wat Meavy gave him a slow smile. “Late, bailiff. I’d been in Chagford all day, and it was thirsty work standing there in the sun. There was no need to hurry, my wife wasn’t expecting me yet, so I went to the tavern there in the town. I suppose I must have been there for some hours before I left.”

“Was it dark yet?”

“No. Not quite.” He gave a sudden frown of concentration. “But it was getting that way, I think.”

“I understand you were attacked just outside the town, is that right?”

“Yes. I’d just got past Coombe, and was beginning to head southward. There’s a place there where an oak used to stand in the wall, only it fell some years ago and old Stephen Thorn, he’s never got round to mending the wall. Its stones are still all over the ground. Just beyond, the lane curves sharp to the left, and narrows too, and then there’s another lane comes up from behind you. Well, that’s where this man came from, I reckon. At the time I thought he rode up from nowhere, that’s how it seemed. He just appeared, and he had a great sword in his hand, and shouted at me to stop. I thought it was the Devil! Well, my horse, he just stopped dead anyway, he’s not used to having men turn up like that. Before I knew what was happening, I’d taken a knock on the side of my head and the bugger’d cut the purse from my belt…” His eyes took on a faraway look. “My sow and two piglets. Thieving bastard! They were worth good money, too. I’d sold them for five shillings, and most of the money was in that purse. Five shillings!”

Baldwin cleared his throat. “So, er, what happened then? This man hit you, and you came straight home, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“Oh yes, sir.” He eyed the knight with sudden wariness, as if wondering whether to continue.

Simon broke the sudden silence. “Do not have any fears. Just name him for us and nothing can harm you. We think we already know this man’s identity, but we must have you confirm it.”

“What if him and his family come here? They could burn our place to the ground, yes, and kill my wife and the children. What then?”

“They won’t come here, Wat. I’ll make sure of that.”

“I don’t know…”

“Wat, the culprit’s father has promised me already that he’ll make good your loss. Does that help? He had no idea his son was here. But I must hear who it was – you must tell me.”

“It was John Beauscyr.”

The flat answer made Simon sink back exhausted. He had thought that this man might tell him something he did not know, but here was the proof. There was only one other point which mattered. His voice was low and serious as he spoke. “Wat, do you have any idea when this attack happened? Was it dark yet, or was it still light?”

“I don’t know,” said the farmer, baffled at the question. He pushed out his lower lip and frowned with the effort of recollection. “Let’s see. I’d left Chagford in daylight, and I’d only got past Coombe. That would have taken bugger – all time, I suppose…”

“How did you recognize him?” asked Baldwin, shooting a glance at Simon and leaning forward.

“His face, of course.”

“Did you have a lantern?”

“No.”

“Then it was light enough to see, surely?”

Suddenly a great smile broke over the farmer’s face.

“Yes, of course! I was to the west of Meldon Common, and as I passed by, the sun was sinking before me, and I remember thinking it was late – yes, it was just as dusk was coming on.”

“I see,” said the knight. “And it was late when John left the inn, was it not, Simon? I think John could not have murdered Bruther and got here in time to attack Wat.”

Simon nodded dejectedly. “No. It looks like he’s innocent,” he agreed. “But that being so, who was it?”

Baldwin gave him a sympathetic smile. “I have no more idea than you,” he said. “Wat, I am grateful to you for your help.”

“That’s my pleasure, sir,” said the farmer, following the men to his door. Once he was outside, Simon turned slowly, struck by a thought.

“Wat, you said he just sprang from nowhere. How did he look? Did he seem anxious or worried? Could he have been tired from a fast ride?”

“Tired? No, not at all. No, if anything he was rested.”

“How do you mean?”

“He was… how can I describe it? He was all eager, like a hound smelling a scent. It was like he was determined to prove something. He kept muttering things.”

“What sort of things?” Simon was frowning now as Baldwin wandered back to listen.

“Something about someone…”

Baldwin smiled, then touched Simon’s arm. “Come on. I think we’ve taken enough of this farmer’s time already. He hated Bruther, I expect he was saying he’d like to get even for the insult the lad gave him on the road.”

“No, sir,” said Meavy, his face wrinkled into a scowl. “No, it wasn’t that so much. He was saying he was no worse after all, and his father was no better than him. That he might as well copy his father, and the sooner he was away the better. I don’t know, it was hard, my head was aching, but I think that’s what he was saying.”

“That he might as well copy his father?” Simon’s face was a picture of confusion.

“Yes, sir. That he might as well copy his father.”

The sun was slowly edging westward by the time they jogged out of the small farm and took the road back to Beauscyr. Simon led them, gazing unseeingly at the ground in front of his horse as he ran through the farmer’s evidence. Wat Meavy had impressed him with the clarity of his account. Though he was probably quite drunk when he was attacked after an evening spent at the inn, the farmer could nonetheless recall his journey home. He knew what the daylight was like, he knew where he was attacked, and all that after being clubbed round the head. His word must be believed.

“Simon?”

Turning, the bailiff saw his friend riding alongside, with a puzzled frown drawing his eyebrows so close together they made one thin black line on his brow. Simon grunted. “What?”

“Suppose, for a moment, that the farmer was right. Suppose John Beauscyr was muttering imprecations about his father. What would that mean?”

“That his father had given him a talking to about robbery, I suppose.”

“But this was before we heard about him being a robber. It was because we thought he was involved in killing Bruther, that he admitted robbing Meavy – to show us and his father that he could not have been near Bruther when he died.”