There was something in Sir Hector’s haggard visage which made Baldwin study him hard as he spoke. Something about the man’s manner made his voice soften a little. It was not the immediate sympathy which a man felt for another accused of heinous offences, for the Keeper had become hardened to seeing criminals suddenly realize the degree of their crimes as their doom approached. It had often occurred to Baldwin that nothing was better capable of assisting a poor memory and inducing contrition than a rope. But if his sensitivity had become blunted after years of prosecutions, his empathy remained, and with this captain, he was sure that there were signs of his pain.

That itself was no proof of innocence. Baldwin had known of cases where men had killed women they loved: from jealousy, from sudden rage, from any number of reasons. All had expressed their shame, and appeared honestly devastated by their actions. It was not rare. But as he mentioned the name of the latest victim, he was assailed by doubts. The captain stood, head bowed, shoulders sagging, and hands limp by his sides, the very picture of misery. This was not the arrogant warrior-lord, ready to quarrel with anyone, and to back up his argument with the point of his sword; this was a man who had lost everything he held dear. His life, his posture suggested, was at an end. There was nothing more for him.

Baldwin ground to a halt and viewed Sir Hector pensively, his head on one side. The captain made no gesture, spoke no word of denial, gave no statement of outraged innocence, and suddenly the knight was doubtful. His mind ran through the evidence, and he was forced to admit to himself that the only links which connected the captain to the dead women were tenuous.

“Sir Hector, you are free for now, but I demand that you do not leave this inn. I will speak to your men, and make sure that they do not abet you in an escape, but I see no reason to lock you in a cell. You may remain here.”

The man nodded, and walked away, through to the solar, and Baldwin’s keen stare followed him until the door had shut. “Edgar. Fetch me Wat, and the man Will who found this woman today.”

Wat walked in with a rolling swagger that put Simon in mind of the sailors he had seen in Plymouth and Exeter. The old mercenary wore a grave expression, but Simon was convinced that a grin of sheer exultation was battling for dominance, and it was no great surprise. He had wanted the leadership of the company, and his master had allowed it to slip from his grasp and fall into Wat’s lap almost unnoticed. It made Simon glower with disapproval, to see a man so pleased by the results of three deaths.

“Wat,” Baldwin said, once the man had entered and Edgar had closed the door behind him, “we are holding your captain here. I place him under your control. Do not you, or any of the other men in the group, try to leave Crediton, or let Sir Hector go. He is your responsibility, and you will answer for it if he escapes. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely clear.”

“Now you,” Baldwin said, and turned to the man called Will, who glared back truculently. “How did you notice the body there today?”

“I told you. I sat down and it felt hard and nobbly, so I tried to see what I was sitting on.”

“And you uncovered her tunic?”

“Yes.”

Baldwin nodded as if to himself. “And that was right where you have been sleeping for how long?”

Swallowing, Will was a little gray-faced as he responded, “All the time we’ve been staying here.”

“So you think you have been sleeping on top of her every night?”

He nodded, aware of the nausea returning.

“I think you did not. If she had been there, you would have felt her,” Baldwin sighed. “It seems to me that someone must have hidden her there only recently. Last night, in fact.”

“Eh?” sputtered Wat with a start. “What do you mean? No one’s going to dump a body like that – it’s asking to be found out. No one would commit murder and then make sure their crime’s found out!”

“Did you leave your bed last night?” Baldwin asked.

The man shot a look at Wat, then gave a shrug. “Yes. I was there until the storm, but then I got up… just as the rain started.”

“When did you return?”

“I didn’t. I… hurt myself, and a couple of the men took me into the hall.”

Baldwin nodded, his eyes going to the wound, and Will reddened.

“This is mad!” Wat burst out.

“Some would say that any man who decides to kill must be mad,” Baldwin said evenly. He had the impression that the mercenary was trying to distract him from his study of the wounded man. “Even if it was for money.”

Wat made a gesture of rejection. “That’s got nothing to do with it. Why should Sir Hector dump the body there? He’d know it’d be found. And when it was, the trail would lead right to him.”

“Perhaps Sir Hector did not put her there.”

“Then who did?”

“That is what we must discover. She was not there at dark last night, I assume, for she was not noticed. If a man could feel her when he sat on her, she would surely have been felt by someone lying on top of her. Her dress is wet in places, too, which tends to show she was being carried around last night.”

Simon stood and paced the room, then stopped and faced Baldwin again. “There are only two explanations why someone should have put her there. One is because another hiding place was unsatisfactory; the other because, as you say, the body was intended to be discovered.”

“Yes. I can see no other reason.”

“But the first is inconceivable.”

“Why?” demanded Wat hotly.

Simon threw him a contemptuous look. “Why? Think, man! If you were to kill someone, would you leave the body in an accessible place?” The mercenary was silent, and Simon suddenly realized that he might well have been in such a situation in his past. “Er – anyway, if somebody murders, they try to hide the corpse far from prying eyes. The last thing they’d do is keep a body in town. They move it out into the country, if they have the chance, and dump it in some quiet spot. Oh, the run-of-the-mill killings, the arguments over ale or gambling, get finished and resolved quickly; two men fight and there’s one dead afterward, and the killer is soon found, but in a case like this, where there would seem to be some kind of plan being followed, to judge by the fact that three are dead, the thought uppermost in the killer’s mind is how to cover his tracks, and that means concealing the death. If a corpse cannot be found, no man can be prosecuted.”

At this, Will gave a puzzled frown. “You think Sir Hector killed her, then moved her to my bed in the hay? He can’t have, he was in his rooms all night.”

Baldwin stared at the confused mercenary, then at Wat, who was grimly studying the floor. “Is that true?”

“I had someone outside his door all night,” Wat admitted ungraciously, mentally cursing Will. He had no wish for Baldwin to hear about the attempted assassination. “It seemed a good idea after I heard about Judith being found. If he had tried to collect this woman and hide her, he’d have been seen.”

“Ah,” said Baldwin quietly, and Simon wandered to a seat and dropped into it, gazing up at Wat.

“That, Wat, was rather what I expected,” he said. “Unless we can prove that Sir Hector had an accomplice, I think we might be forced to assume he is innocent.”

Wat stared from one to the other, mouth open in astonishment. “You’re both mad!”

Simon rested his chin on his fists. “No,” he said tiredly. “But I think someone is.”

He was suddenly exhausted. The day had begun so hopefully, with their questioning of the woman in the alley, and then had taken a positive turn when they discovered the identity of Sir Hector’s lover… but now their hopes had been dashed. That was the bewildering thing about these killings; as soon as they felt they were getting close to seeing a pattern and could put their hands on the killer, something else happened to throw them off. The robbery had at first appeared to be a simple affair, and then they had found Sarra; Judith’s murder had apparently placed suspicion firmly on Sir Hector’s shoulders; finding Mary under the hay had initially appeared to confirm the guilt of the captain.