Sighing, he said: “So I suppose you found the spot where he was killed, then, bailiff?”

Immediately his son burst out, “You didn’t say – did you find anything?”

There was a hint, Simon thought, of nervousness in his voice; he subjected the youth to a pensive stare. “It seems unlikely he killed himself,” he told the Beauscyrs. “We think he was probably killed by a gang.” He did not want to mention their visit to the Smalhobbes’ plot yet, not until he was sure that the latter would be safe from any retaliation. “As you said, the miners are a hard group of men. No doubt some of them were annoyed at Bruther’s mining activities.”

“I see. What will you do about it?”

Simon stared at his pot, then glanced at Baldwin. The knight had no doubts. He lazily stretched his legs and sighed happily. “We will go and speak to these miners tomorrow, and see what they have to say.”

“Good,” said Sir Robert, and stood. “I want this affair sorted out quickly so that we can get back to normal.” He marched swiftly to the door and left them.

“Forgive him his rudeness, bailiff. It is only the impetuousness of youth. He’s had an anxious day today; he’s convinced the miners are going to create more problems. And he’s argued with my other son.” Sir William sighed heavily. “And one of the men-at-arms was hurt at practice today… Why does everything always go wrong at the same time?”

Giving him a frosty smile, Simon nodded curtly, while Baldwin had to hide his grin by drinking from his pot. If the boy continued being so “impetuous,” he thought to himself, he might soon find himself being taught manners at the point of a bailiff’s sword.

A fter receiving directions, they left early the next morning to meet the miner they had heard so much about: Thomas Smyth. On the way they spoke about the corpse. Simon was not convinced by Baldwin’s preoccupation with the thin mark on Bruther’s neck. “Are you sure it wasn’t anything to do with the rope he was hanging by?”

“It could not be the rope,” said Baldwin with certainty. “If a man is hanged, the rope makes a bruise; if a man is throttled, fingers and thumbs will show as marks. But you can hit a dead body as hard as you like – it does not bruise.”

Simon shrugged. “Perhaps so, but what’s that got to do with it?”

“On this body, the rope did not bruise. It burned, it’s true, but did not bruise. What does that mean? It means that Bruther was already dead when he was hanged. The thin cord killed him because that one did mark his neck.”

“Fine! So someone hanged him after killing him to show how he had died. Very kind of them,” said Simon sarcastically.

Baldwin smiled. “Someone strangled him before he was hanged,” he agreed. “But then someone – presumably the same ‘someone’ – went through the charade of hanging him for some purpose.”

“And you’re sure he was strangled?”

“Oh, yes. There can be no doubt about that. He had all the signs of being throttled. Didn’t you see the red splotches all over his face? The little hemorrhages in his eyes?”

“I felt no need to study the corpse as closely as you,” said Simon dryly, and the knight chuckled. “What else did you notice?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Yes, Baldwin. You look as smug as an innkeeper who has just sold a barrel of six-month-old ale to a sot. Come on, then. What is it?”

The knight scratched reflectively at his neck. “As I said, Bruther’s hands were not tied. There was no bruising to his wrists. The line on his neck was well defined at the front of his throat and the sides, not at the back. I saw some scrapes on his head, but I cannot tell whether they would have happened when he was alive or not. It seems to me that he was attacked from behind.”

“I can see that. Sneaked up on and garotted.”

“Yes, but it points to something else too, of course.”

“What?”

Baldwin gave him a long-suffering glance and sighed. “Think about it, old friend. If he was caught by a group of men, there would have been signs of a fight. There were none though – just the single mark. As I see it, Bruther was either knocked on the head, producing those scrapes, and then throttled, or he was caught unawares by a single attacker who threw a thong round his neck and strangled him in that way. I think it was the second rather than the first.”

“Why?”

“In God’s name, Simon!” Now his tone was openly exasperated. “Think, man! If he had been knocked out, why would the killer bother to fetch a thong, when all he need do was slip his hands round the fellow’s throat? It wouldn’t take above a minute, and it would be as quick as killing a rabbit or a chicken. The murderer might have happened to have a cord about him, I suppose, but isn’t it more likely that he was prepared for his victim? He already had the thong tightly wrapped round each fist as he saw Bruther approach, then all he had to do was slip it over his unsuspecting victim’s neck and…” He gave a vicious gesture with both hands. “And that was that. One less miner on the moors.”

Simon frowned. “It makes sense – but we’re still no wiser about who killed him.”

“No. All we can do is try to find out who might have had some reason to want him dead, and then question them. The trouble is, there appear to be quite a few people who wanted him gone from his mine.”

“Well, maybe we’ll find out something here,” the bailiff said. They had topped a small hill and were looking down a shallow slope to a village.

It stood out incongruously among the great rolling plains of the moors, or so Baldwin felt. The dingy-looking long-houses and cottages were built in the same style as those in the little hamlets like Blackway or Wefford on his own estate, though the color was wrong. At his home the earth was red, and the mud used to build walls colored the houses, staining the lime wash. These dwellings were insipid and grimy-looking. Then, as they drew closer, he saw that he was wrong. These were not the normal cob and timber places he was used to. Back on his Manor, mud and animals were always to hand and the woods bordering almost every vill promised logs. Here in the moors there were no such easily available building materials; only one substance proliferated, moorstone, and the people made use of it everywhere.

The houses straddled the road, which ran oddly straight from one horizon to the other before them. Behind the houses were the plots which provided food for the people and their animals, with back lanes forming the outer boundary of the village. A stream slashed a scar through the countryside, bisecting the village and feeding a fishpond behind, and where it met the road a wide ford offered a safe point to cross. The men made for this. They had been told that the miner owned the property nearest on the western bank.

Coming closer, Baldwin pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. Though it had no battlements, no moat or great gate, this place was obviously the possession of a wealthy man. Baldwin had known many rich houses, but there was none which could boast a finer appearance. The hall at the center was wide, with broad and tall windows under a slated roof. Opposite was a storage area, and a separate square building like a kitchen block stood nearby. All gave a feeling of comfort and calmness. When he glanced at Simon he could see that the bailiff was similarly impressed.

“Makes Lydford look a bit pathetic,” he heard Simon mutter, and the knight laughed. As he knew, Lydford had gained notoriety in the bailiff’s family from the many drafts. The bitter wind whistled up the Lydford Gorge, battering the square keep and making life inside miserable, and Margaret, Simon’s wife, was relieved that as bailiff, he could choose to live in a house nearby rather than in the castle itself.

This house was separated from the road by a wide field in which a group of oxen stood, munching contentedly as the men rode past. A straight path led to the stables, and the four made for it. As they dismounted, a tallow-haired man shuffled into sight, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He took their horses, staring at them with evident surprise that anyone should visit so early.