A Moorland Hanging aktm-3

by Michael Jecks

  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.

  7

  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.

  They had started toward the house when another man appeared through the door. “Ah!” said Baldwin. “I think our meeting is about to get interesting.”

  Looking up, Simon saw that it was the same man who had warned them to lea
ve the miners’ camp alone on their first visit. Recognition was mutual. The sandy-haired man hesitated, staring at the group advancing toward him; he glanced around at the doorway, then faced them once more, his face fixed into a distrustful scowl. Somehow this made Simon more cheerful.

  “Hello – I think we’ve met before,” he said heartily.

  “Aye. Maybe.”

  “Of course. You were the man who helped us find our way to Sir William’s Manor, weren’t you?” The man glowered at him without speaking. “We’re here to see Thomas Smyth. Is this his house?”

  The man sneered as he looked Simon up and down. “I don’t reckon he’ll want to see you. ”

  “I think he can judge that better than his servant,” said Simon shortly, moving to walk past him. To the bailiff’s surprise, he found his path blocked. The miner stood before him, hands stuck into his belt.

  “What do you want to see him about?”

  Baldwin watched with interest as different emotions chased each other across the expressive features of his friend. Stunned outrage was closely followed by dry amusement, but both were chased away by a sudden attack of anger. Simon’s face reddened and his jaw clenched, and Baldwin had to move quickly to his side.

  “I think we should tell your master what we want to discuss with him,” he said hurriedly, and smiled. As he did so, Edgar stepped beside him, his hand already grasping his sword hilt. “So, your master,” Baldwin continued. “Where is he?”

  George Harang stared at him. He was unused to having his will thwarted. No miner would dare to defy him like this, but with the bailiff and his friend, he was unsure how to respond. Steeling himself, he was about to bellow for help, when a voice came from behind him.

  “What’s all the noise about?” Looking up, Simon saw a newcomer leaning on the doorframe. He was scruffy-looking but cheerful, and wore a genial smile.

  To Simon he looked like Baldwin’s mastiff – though less ugly. A short man with grizzled hair to his shoulders and eyes like chips of coal, glittering with amusement, he could have been a poor serf; there was nothing about his clothing to denote wealth. His leather jerkin was scarred and worn, his shirt a simple woollen shift, torn and darned in many places, and the only personal adornment the bailiff could see was the gold ring on his forefinger. Ostentatious display was unnecessary, for from his demeanor he could only be the master of the house.

  Straightening, he motioned to his dumbfounded servant. “Out of the way, George. Of course I’ll see these guests. I can’t turn the bailiff of Lydford away, can I?” And he waved them inside, Hugh scuttling after the knight and Simon while Edgar stood staring at George; only when the guard’s gaze wavered did Edgar stride inside after the others.

  As Baldwin had expected, the house was magnificent. The door gave on to a panelled screens passage, above which was a minstrels’ gallery, while beyond was a long hall with high windows throwing immense pools of light on to the rush-strewn floor. The fireplace was a huge circle of packed earth in the middle of the floor and an enormous log lying smoldering on the bed of glowing ashes hissed and crackled softly. Tapestries sheathed the walls and kept in the warmth, while all the visible woodwork was richly carved. Two wolfhounds lay by the fire, rising at the noise of the visitors’ entrance and watching their master.

  Thomas Smyth walked to his dogs and rested his hands on their two heads briefly. Immediately, as if at a signal, the animals dropped down again and rested. Nearby was a bench at a table, and Smyth sat, waving a hand for the others to do likewise.

  Simon found himself assailed by sudden doubts. This man did not have the look of a brutal extortioner – far less a killer. He looked calm and reasonable, with the self-assured aura of wealth. He watched as Baldwin stepped over to the hearth and crouched before the dogs, stroking their heads. When Hugh walked too close, one stared at him and there was a perceptible rumble, making the servant scurry to a bench and sit, but the animals submitted to Baldwin’s patting with apparent pleasure. The bailiff shook his head. Somehow Baldwin always had that effect on dogs.

  “So, bailiff. What can I do for you?” Thomas Smyth sat easily, his hands on his knees, the very picture of amiable friendliness.

  “How did you know I was the bailiff?”

  “Ah well, when someone as important as you and your friend pass through the moors, you’re bound to be noticed. And my men cover a wide area here. After all, I have over a hundred men working for me.”

  “Of course,” said Simon, but he was aware of the implied threat in those innocuous words. Only a rich man assured of his power could afford to have so many men in his pay, and this miner was pointing out the numbers he could count on. As if to emphasize the fact, Smyth glanced casually at the other three men before his eyes rested on Simon again. But then, seeing the understanding in Simon’s face, he grinned, as if this was all a game, and since both knew it, why not get on with it and to hell with verbal fencing. And with a feeling of faint disgust, Simon found himself liking the brash confidence of the man. He decided to approach the true aim of their visit obliquely.

  “There was an attack yesterday,” he began. “Why did your men beat Henry Smalhobbe and tell him to leave his works?”

  “Who?”

  “Henry Smalhobbe. He named your men.”

  “That’s a serious allegation, bailiff,” Thomas Smyth said, his eyes hardening into black ice. There was an intake of breath behind him, and Simon turned to see that the doorman had followed them into the hall and now stood near at hand. He glared angrily at the bailiff.

  “Very serious,” Simon agreed mildly, turning back to the miner.

  “Did this man say exactly who beat him?” This time the miner affected a display of surprise.

  “Harold Magge, Thomas Horsho and Stephen the Crocker. All your men.”

  “George?” Smyth looked at his servant.

  “Sir,” he said, “they’ve all left the mines. They must’ve gone the day before yesterday.”

  “Ah. So, you see, bailiff, they’ve all left my camp. They must be doing something on their own if they attacked this – who did you say it was?”

  Simon ignored the question. “Why would they have left your camp?”

  “Ah, well now, bailiff,” said Smyth, shrugging expansively and smiling. “There’re as many reasons for a man to leave as I have men working for me. I’m a master tinner, I’ve got a controlling interest in many works over the moors, and it’s hard to keep track of all the men who labor in my mines. There’re all sorts: journeymen paid by the day, laborers contracted to me yearly, and many others. Do you really expect me to know all of them personally? It’s impossible! And then, of course, there are foreigners, men who aren’t local and grow to dislike the moors – or get scared by them. They often get depressed by living out there, and just leave.”

  “Others have suggested that you keep very close control of your men – and your mines.”

  “Oh, yes. Well, of course I do.” His affable smile widened as if in sympathy that this was the best that Simon could do. “I have to control them with vigor. The men are a tough bunch, bailiff. They need considerable… let’s say ‘supervision,’ shall we? Out here, there are many who might not wish their past to come under too close a scrutiny. Quite a large proportion, I’m sure, only came to Dartmoor because they knew that they would then fell under stannary law, and be safe from any embarrassments they wished to leave behind. That doesn’t mean I know them all by name.”

  “You mean you’ve outlaws working for you?” Simon asked bluntly.

  “Bailiff, please! Do you expect me to ask all the sheriffs and reeves in the land about the past life of every man who comes to me asking for a job? Anyway, most of them will never return where they came from, so you could almost say that I am helping the law by stopping them from being outlaws! While they are here, working for me, they aren’t living in the woods and robbing merchants – if they ever did, that is.”

  Baldwin stood, grunting. “These three men – were they out
laws?”

  “I’ve no idea. I didn’t ask them,” said Smyth.

  “Is it true that you have been trying to force Smalhobbe and others from the moors?”

  “Force?” He paused, head on one side as he stared at the knight as if astonished.

  “Yes, force them from the moors. By threatening them, suggesting that their wives could be raped or widowed…”

  “Oh, really! I already have widely spread works, I don’t need more.”

  “And yet a man is wounded and holds you responsible – and another is dead.”

  “Dead?” The look he threw at George Harang was not faked, Baldwin was sure. There was genuine surprise there.

  “Yes, a man called Bruther,” Simon said shortly.

  “Who did you say? Peter Bruther’s dead?” The tinner was transfixed, staring in disbelief.

  “Murdered,” said Simon. “Someone hanged him. Do you have any idea who could have wanted Bruther dead?”

  Smyth’s expression was wooden. The bailiff could not know the truth, he thought. If he did, that question would never have been asked. Before he could collect his wits and respond, there was an interruption.

  The door banged open, and Baldwin came face to face with a pair of women. One was a cheerful, contented-looking lady of forty at most, a matter of ten years or so younger than Smyth, and the knight guessed from her smile that she must be his wife. She was short and plump, with the clear, fresh complexion he associated with moorland dwellers, but with none of the dour stolidity he had seen elsewhere. Her dark hair was braided and curled under her wimple, the stiff severity of the headgear out of place beside her laughing brown eyes.

  With her was a younger woman, obviously her daughter. She had the same dark hair and sunny, warming smile which betrayed her vivacious spirit. Seeing the guests, she paused at the door, but then her eyes went to her father, and she crossed to him. Baldwin could see that she was only some fifteen years or so old, still a little coltish in her movements, and slim as a foal, but with none of the gawkiness which was sometimes so evident in girls of her age. The maid was very self-assured, and clearly knew she was being watched by four men from the way she elegantly and decorously floated across the floor to her father. Baldwin noticed that her mother had observed this too. As if in mild despair at this forward behavior, she sighed, and then grinned when he caught her eye. He had to smile broadly in return.