Michael JECKS - The Merchant’s Partner

“And the next morning?”

“I awoke as usual. He was not with me, but that was not unusual. I was surprised, though, when I found he was not asleep in the hall. When he was incapable of making his way to the solar, I usually found him there, spread out on a table or a bench. Still, it was no real surprise, not when I saw how much snow had fallen over the night. I would have sent out a man to ask at the village, but the drifts were too deep. I was surprised when you managed to get here.”

“Tell me, madam. When Agatha Kyteler died, why were you there that day? You are not with child, and you have not had any children, is that right?”

“Yes. We… We were not lucky with children.”

“So why were you seeing the midwife?”

Her face rose in a faintly haughty manner. “I cannot tell you that. I did not kill her. Or my husband!”

Simon held her gaze for a moment, his face serious. “Very well,” he said at last. “I will not force you. But I would like to know this. Did you see anyone that night? The night that your husband disappeared. Was there anyone here?”

She seemed to become even more pale as she stared at him, her eyes wide and seeming to hold a secret fear as her lips mouthed the word “No.”

It was then that Baldwin stood decisively and bowed to her. “Madam, I think we should leave you in peace now. I am sorry that we have caused you distress. Simon, come on. We must leave.”

The bailiff rose and walked to the door behind the impassive knight. At the screens he turned, partly to take his leave of the woman, perhaps also to apologise, but when he caught sight of her face, he turned and left.

Her features were contorted with loathing, and it was concentrated and focused on him.

They had ridden almost to the door of Greencliff’s house before Baldwin turned to face the bailiff. “Simon you can’t believe that she was involved. How could you think…? After all, Greencliffs confessed… And she’s far too beautiful to be a murderess. God! Why did you have to be so hard on the poor woman?”

“Baldwin, be still! Calm down.” Simon stared at his friend and the knight could see his misery. Baldwin was torn between his strong attraction to the woman and his friendship to the bailiff, but although his loyalty to Simon was intense, he was so moved by Angelina Trevellyn that he felt a sense of near disgust for Simon after the interrogation he had just witnessed. Even so, the signs of misery on his friend’s face compelled him to be silent and wait for the explanation.

“Look, we know she was there. She was with the witch on the day the poor woman was murdered, after the Bourc had left. She won’t say why. We know she hated her husband – she hardly hides the fact, does she? Even her servants were not with her when her husband disappeared, from the sound of things.”

“Simon, for the love of God! You can’t believe this! How could a woman like her kill? It’s not possible – it’s mad!”

“Listen to me, old friend. You know as well as I do that there have been warlike women before, women who could kill, or wage war. You know this. Why should Mrs. Trevellyn be different?”

“But Simon…”

“You recall how her husband’s body was? Lying as if outstretched? You remember I said it was as if he was pleading? Couldn’t she have got Greencliff to cut his throat while he was begging her not to kill him?”

“But Simon! You cannot believe that, surely! A woman like her…” Through his horror, Baldwin, realised that his friend was pleading with him, his face set, his eyes intense.

“Baldwin, I don’t know, I don’t know! That’s the point! I have to make sure she’s innocent of the murders.”

“But you said that Greencliff admitted to them.”

“Yes, and he had a knife with blood on it, but even so, he might have had help… Or he might have helped another. I don’t know. All I do know is that she is involved somehow. I don’t know how or why, but I’m sure she knows what happened. Baldwin, I must know what she has done. So must you!”

Margaret was worried by the sight of the two men. She had expected Simon’s return to be a joyful occasion, not miserable like this. The two men were hardly talking.

They entered the hall together, but almost immediately Baldwin muttered about wanting to change out of his clothes, damp as they were from his journey, and left them alone. Simon stood and watched him go, then sighed and dropped on to a bench.

“Simon, what has happened?”

Briefly he explained, telling her about their visit to Mrs. Trevellyn, and his conclusions. Margaret listened with misery. She could not comprehend the feelings of the knight, who at last appeared to have found his ideal woman, only to have his best friend suggest that she could have been involved in a murder – maybe two.

When the door opened, both looked up. Seeing it was Hugh, she turned back to her husband. “But you only have some suspicions against her, nothing concrete, nothing that should make Baldwin doubt her. Why not leave him to make his own choice. If she is as beautiful as you say, then…”

“But that’s the point!” he exclaimed despairingly. “If I’m right, she might have been involved not just in one murder, but two! And one of the dead was her own husband. If she killed her own husband, would she not be a danger to Baldwin?”

To Hugh it looked as if his master was ravaged by doubts. It seemed as if he was pulled in different directions, by his friendship to the knight and the wish to see him happy, and by his confusion over the woman’s role in the death of her husband. Gearing his throat, he interrupted. “Sir?”

“What?”

“I don’t know if it’s important, sir,” the servant said, and quickly explained what Jennie Miller had said about Harold Greencliff and Mrs. Trevellyn.

It was one of the few times he had ever been able to shock his master, and Hugh rather enjoyed it.

“You mean Jennie Miller thinks that Mrs. Trevellyn herself killed old Agatha?”

Their evening was quiet. With Baldwin’s reserved and withdrawn manner, there was little conversation. Simon and Margaret sat opposite Hugh and Edgar at the great table. Baldwin was at his place at the head, but he was unwilling to talk, and soon after he had finished his meal, he announced that he was ready to go to bed.

Before he could rise from his seat, Margaret went to him and poured him more wine, then stood beside him. “No, you need to talk with Simon,” she said, and motioned to Hugh to clear the table. Sighing he got up and began to collect the plates. After a glare from Margaret, Edgar stood too, and began to help. Soon they were taking out the dishes, and when they had both disappeared, Margaret turned to her husband.

“Right, Simon. Tell Baldwin what we heard today from Hugh.”

He gazed at her in surprise, and then looked apologetically at Baldwin, who stared back impassively as he was told of the rumours in Wefford about Mrs. Trevellyn and Harold Greencliff. Then, with a sigh, he picked up his pot and sipped at his wine.

“All right, but there’s no proof that she has been unfaithful to her husband, no proof of an affair, and certainly nothing to suggest that she killed Agatha or her husband. It’s pure gossip, as you say.”

Margaret sat down again, looking from one to the other. “Baldwin,” she said, “did you think her evidence was strange?”

“Strange?” he glanced at her in surprise. “How do you mean?”

“From what Simon told me, Mrs. Trevellyn will not say what she was doing at the old woman’s house. And there really isn’t anyone else who seems to have had a reason to want to kill her husband. Doesn’t it seem strange?”

“Well…” He shrugged, dubious.

“And yet this boy has admitted to it. I don’t see why he would do that unless he was involved, but I think you should question him and see what he has to say.”