The Merchant's Partner

by Michael Jecks

  “How?”

  Greencliff stopped and stared at the knight at the simple question. “How? What do you mean?”

  “How did Alan Trevellyn hear about the visit to the old woman? Who told him? I doubt whether you did, after all!”

  “I…‘

  “And why did you need to kill Agatha Kyteler?”

  “To keep her quiet!”

  “But she always kept quiet before, didn’t she?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, I…‘

  “But you did know, didn’t you? You knew that Sarah Cottey had been to see her, didn’t you? And you knew that no stories had spread afterwards.”

  “No, that’s not true…”

  “No? Do you mean you didn’t know that Sarah had been to see old Agatha?”

  I… No, I didn’t know, I…‘

  “You knew.” The flat statement cut him off, and he sat with a red face as the knight continued. “You knew full well that the old woman never spoke of the women who visited her, just as she never spoke of the men who went to see her. She always held her tongue, unlike others. No, you would not have killed her for that. And Alan Trevellyn? Why would you have killed him? So that you could have his wife?” The youth opened his mouth as if to agree, but the knight made a terse gesture with his hand to cut him off. “That’s nonsense. Why kill the man and then leave? Why kill him to win his wife and then leave her behind? You broke yourself off from your life and your woman at the same time. Are you really that stupid?”

  Now the boy was staring blankly at the knight. Looking at him, Simon was reminded of a hare gazing at a harrier. He was left with the impression that he and Tanner need not be present.

  “So why, then? Why did I do it? Tell me that.”

  It was almost as if that simple demand for factual reasoning was enough. Harold Greencliff seemed to relax, nearly slumping back against the post, with an almost contented, a smug, expression on his face.

  But his face changed as soon as the knight rested his chin on his hand and gazed at him, saying, “Very well. I shall tell you what happened. I shall tell you why. but not as you mean. I don’t think you killed anyone.

  “When Agatha Kyteler died, you were standing by Angelina’s horse. She left you and went to the old woman’s house. You waited there and when she returned, you both went home. You didn’t go to the house and kill. You couldn’t have! When you went to the Trevellyn house, you didn’t see Alan Trevellyn. You went to see your lover, and she took you to the places where her husband could not be. She was not stupid enough to take you somewhere he could see you together.”

  “Then how did my dagger get his blood on it?”

  Baldwin waved a contemptuous hand. “There are many ways for a shepherd to get blood on his blade! What did you do that morning? Kill a ewe? A lamb? I’ll bet it was something other than Trevellyn’s blood on the knife!”

  Simon pursed his lips. It did not seem likely. No, it was more probable that it was Trevellyn’s blood. If a shepherd killed a sheep - if any man used his knife - he would clean it before putting it away again.

  “No! It was me! I did it! I killed them both, I…‘

  But if that was the case, Simon frowned, if that was so, then why was the blade still dirty? Everyone always cleaned their blades, didn’t they?

  Could it be because someone wanted it to stay bloody? Harold must surely have cleaned it if he had used it, but if another had used it to murder, would they have left it filthy to prove Harold’s guilt? Was it to put the blame on him?

  Now the knight leaned back as if exhausted, his features seeming somehow older, his face sagging as if through old age, his features seeming to become grey and ancient.

  “No,” he said softly. “You aren’t a killer. A man, certainly, but not a murderer. You couldn’t have killed the old woman and Trevellyn later, not even for the love of a woman like Angelina. But you could lie for her. You could lie and say that you did kill for her. You could do that and make us believe you. So that she was safe. So that she went free.”

  “No!”

  “Because all along, all the time, you knew who had really done it, didn’t you? All along you knew that only one person could have done it. Only that dear woman, only dear, sweet Angelina could have had the chance to kill both the old woman and her own husband. Nobody else had the chance. Did they?”

  And it was then, as the knight asked the question, that Simon suddenly realised. “Oh, my good God in heaven!” broke from his lips in a soft cry that was almost a prayer as the truth dawned and he saw what had truly happened.

  As if he was looking at a sequence of pictures that built up a large tapestry, he saw in their turn the house of the old woman Kyteler, her body, the form of Alan Trevellyn under the snow, the tracks in the snow leading from the Trevellyn house back to the Greencliff house, and the footprints that he had followed down south towards the moors. Snatches of the comments he had heard with Baldwin struck him and now they seemed to build a tight framework around the‘ killer, with threads as strong as hempen rope around a neck.

  He leaned forward and gazed at the boy with an intensity that Harold Greencliff could almost feel. He turned to face the bailiff slowly and nervously.

  “Harold, I think I can prove that the killer was not who you thought it was. If I can show it most certainly was not Mrs. Trevellyn who killed either of these two people, would you tell us the truth?”

  There was a cynical question in the lifting of the boy’s eyebrow as he stared at the bailiff, but then, as Simon suddenly gave a wolfish smile, he thought he could discern a slight puckering of Greencliff’s brow as if in confusion.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Baldwin. They had both gone outside and were standing at his front door where the youth in the hall could not hear them.

  “We can clear up two suspects in one session. Send a boy to ask Mrs. Trevellyn to get over here for an early lunch tomorrow. Make sure there is no mention of us having Greencliff here. I think we should keep that quiet for now. Then we’ll need to go out for a ride, I think.”

  “Simon, you can be exceedingly unpleasant on occasion, especially when you are smug. Tell me what is going on!”

  But the bailiff refused. He ignored entreaties and threats alike, and merely smiled to himself as Baldwin tried to prise the truth from him. “You have heard and seen the same as me, Baldwin. I think I may have seen something you haven’t, that’s all. I won’t tell you what until I’ve had a chance to see whether I’m right or not,” he said and changed the subject.

  By the time Margaret came out to see what they were doing, they had stopped talking, and Simon was gazing out over the scenery towards the moors with apparent calm contemplation, while behind him the knight was meditatively kicking at the ground with a face like thunder.

  “Are you two all right?” she asked anxiously. She had never seen them like this before. When they glanced at her, she could see that they were both deep in thought.

  Although her husband’s thoughts appeared more pleasing to him than Baldwin’s. Simon gave her a quick grin, while the knight appeared preoccupied and apparently hardly noticed her.

  “What is it?” she asked, not sure whether to laugh or show sympathy, they both looked so absorbed.

  In the end it was Simon who answered. Speaking slowly, as if still considering his words carefully, he said, “I think I may have discovered who could not have killed either of the two victims. I think we are almost in a position to arrest the real murderer‘’

  “And…?”

  “And I’ll tell you both tomorrow when I’m sure!”

  The next morning was clear and calm. The sky was filled with enormous clouds that floated past slowly and majestically like massive ships under a low but steady breeze, and the sun occasionally burst out from between them to give a wintry glow to the land.

  It only served to heighten Simon’s expectancy as he walked slowly at the front of the house, trailing aimlessly along the track that led back to the road, then turning
off to wander on the snow that still lay over the grass at the side. Every now and again his eyes floated to the lane itself, as if they were being pulled there against his will, as he searched for any sign of approaching horses, and Angelina Trevellyn. Baldwin had been like a boar with a spear in his side all night. Tetchy and fractious, he had snarled even at his servant when Edgar apparently failed, in the knight’s opinion, to meet his usually high standards of service. It had little effect on Edgar, who simply smiled, and even threw a knowing glance at Simon, to his faint surprise. It looked as if the man was acknowledging the bailiffs presence, and giving Simon his approval. When the bailiff gave him a slight nod, the servant’s mouth twitched, as if he was trying to show a degree of sympathy for the guests in the strained atmosphere.

  Smiling again at the memory of Baldwin’s petulant expression when he had refused again to answer the knight’s questions, he slowly ambled over to a tree trunk that lay not far from the woods. Wiping away the excess snow, he sat down.

  He was still there when Margaret came out, followed by Agatha Kyteler’s dog, who jumped up at the bailiff with every indication of delight, then, after managing twice to slobber on his face and making him turn away in disgust, began to walk around with his body bent like a strung bow, wagging his tail and panting.

  Margaret watched the dog’s antics with a small smile. The previous evening had been miserable. She hated dissension, and her husband and their friend had both been so edgy: though for very different reasons, that much was obvious.

  It was curious that Simon wanted to keep the matter to himself. That was not like him, especially if he knew, as he must, that the affair was causing Baldwin real discomfort. And the fact that it was distressing the knight was plain to see. Usually Simon would leap at a chance to calm a friend, but with these murders he seemed almost to be taking a perverse pleasure in keeping his friend in suspense, and the ploy, if it was a ploy, was working. Strolling thoughtfully, she went to her husband’s side and sat on the trunk with him, and he glanced up at her as he patted the now quickly calming dog.

  “Hello, my love,” he said, smiling at her. She did not return his welcome, but sat quietly with her hands in her lap. “What is it? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Simon. I’m fine, but I’m worried about you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  She looked up into his smiling grey eyes, searching them for a sign as she spoke. “What you’re doing is so cruel. Can’t you see what it’s doing to Baldwin? The poor man’s in a torment. He has no idea what you’re thinking of doing today or why! You’re making him mad – why?”

  I’m sorry, Margaret, I didn’t mean to worry you. It’s nothing that you need fear,“ he said, but then his eyes drifted to the view again. ”It’s just that I’m not sure myself how it’s going to go today. I’m fairly certain that Harold Greencliff is innocent, and I think we’ll show that today, but the trouble is, what will the result be for Angelina Trevellyn? I think maybe she did have something to do with it, and if so, it’s quite likely that today I’ll have to hurt Baldwin’s feelings. And I don’t want to.“

  “What makes you think young Greencliff didn’t do it?” she asked matter-of-factly after a moment.

  Glancing at her, he smiled. It was typical of his wife to get straight to the main issue without being sidetracked. He considered, but before he could speak there came the tinny jingling of harnesses from the lane before the house. “Come inside, and you’ll hear all about it any moment now,” he said and, rising, gave her his hand. Looking briefly down to the road, he confirmed it was Angelina Trevellyn before he turned and led the way to the house.

  Baldwin appeared at the door as they approached, peering past them to the people on horseback. Watching him, Simon saw the concentration, the intensity of his stare. He felt his belly chum at the thought that the woman might be involved. Oh, God, he prayed, please let it be someone else. I couldn’t face Baldwin if I made it clear it was her!

  Chapter Twenty-four

  When Angelina Trevellyn and her manservant arrived at the door, they were met by the stern-featured Edgar, who took her horse and pointed her to the front door. She curtly passed him the reins and entered. In the screens, she found herself glancing up and around, assessing the property. It was clearly not as good as her own place, neither as new nor as spacious, but it was warm and appeared to be comfortable. She could see rooms off to her left, but before she could investigate, a taciturn, dark-faced glowering man came out from the furthest and indicated the door near her that led into the hall itself.

  She haughtily looked him up and down briefly, and when her gaze returned to his eyes she was angered to see that he stared back. If he had been one of her own servants, he would have been whipped, then thrown out of her house for his presumption. At least Alan had always treated the men correctly, she reflected, even if he was wrong to beat her and her maid. After staring at him for a moment, she condescended to enter, but she had only gone a few paces when she felt her legs begin to falter.

  To Margaret it looked as if the poor woman was close to fainting. At first she entered as if she owned the place -and if she was as aware of Baldwin’s infatuation with her as everyone else was, Margaret thought, she had good reason for arrogance. But her steps began to stumble at the sight that met her gaze. The brown and black dog seemed to understand this too, and walked to her with his tail wagging as if trying to sooth her, but she recoiled from him, and he withdrew, offended, to sit beside the figure of Harold Greencliff.

  Looking at her husband, Margaret suddenly realised how well he had arranged the benches and tables. Simon had insisted on pulling the table to the far end of the hall so that Mrs. Trevellyn must walk across the length of the floor to get to a chair. Ranged opposite at the table were Baldwin, then Simon and Tanner. Margaret was at one end, and at the other sat Harold Greencliff. Thus, as she entered, the woman saw the knight at first, directly in front of her, then as her gaze ranged over the other people, it met the unflinching stares of the bailiff and constable. Only after meeting their eyes could she glance over at the last actor in the sad little drama: Greencliff.

  Whereas the representatives of the law were sitting grimly pensive, the youth had at first looked enthusiastic. He appeared to want to leap up and greet her, but realised that it would not be right. Seeing how her gaze flitted over him, and seeing the contempt in her eyes, his face fell. When she looked back at Baldwin, the boy almost fell back as if suddenly nerveless.

  They had exercised no torture, no cruelty against him, but the seriousness of his position was clearly apparent in the dejected way that his body slumped, an elbow resting on the table top, his head hanging as he stared at the floor. Now he understood he had lost her too. He looked up and all she could now see in his eyes was a pathetic, total and abject misery before his eyes fell, full of shame.

  The look had not gone unnoticed by the others. Simon cleared his throat authoritatively and motioned to a chair set before the table. “Please be seated, madam.”

  She strolled to the chair, then stood beside it while she tugged off her gloves with a contemplative air. Sitting, she raised an eyebrow and stared at Baldwin. “So, sir? I thought I was asked to come here as a friend, to join you in a meal. Why am I subjected to an inquiry? I assume that this is an inquiry?”

  The knight opened his mouth to speak, and she thrilled to see his expression of hunted apology. He clearly had not had much desire to see her here like this, then. Glancing at the others, her gaze fixed on the bailiff, and she knew she was right. It must have been him that organised this.

  “You will be welcome to join us at our lunch as soon as we have sorted out a few problems, madam,” said Simon smoothly. “We have been talking to Harold Greencliff here, and we would like you to help us with a couple of points.”

  To Baldwin it looked as though the blood immediately drained from her face.

  “Well?” she asked composedly.

  “In the first case. On the day that the old woman di
ed, Agatha Kyteler, you went to see her. It was to arrange for a miscarriage, wasn’t it?”

  At his words, Greencliff covered his face with his hands, but the woman merely stared back silently, her face as rigid as a mask. After a moment she stiffly inclined her head in agreement, her lips pursed into a thin, bloodless line of rage.

  “And while you were there, you left Harold minding our horse, didn’t you?” Again there was a slow nod.

  “While you were there, what happened?”

  Shooting a look at Harold Greencliff, she seemed to steel herself. “When I got there, the old woman was fine. I had seen her the previous Saturday to ask for the… medicine. She had said that it took time to collect the leaves and herbs, so she could not make it for some days, but it would be ready on the Tuesday. I went there, paid her, and took the draught. I did not wait, I drank it there, with her watching.”