‘If she can tell us anything it would help. At the moment it’s all supposition. In the meantime, let’s take a look at these two wretches you’ve got in your cellar. Maybe they can tell us something.’
* * *
They went over to the keep and Nicholas unlocked the door. Taking a lighted torch from the bracket on the wall, they went down a steep, spiral staircase to what had been the dungeons in the days when country houses had to double up as castles. Geoffrey Lowe now used the dungeons as cellars to store produce, but one of the rooms was too small and too damp to be much use as a food store. Nicholas unlocked the door and they went in. Lifting up his torch, as the room had no window, he saw the two men huddled together against the far wall on a layer of straw.
‘Well, you two, here’s the Sheriff come to see you. Now tell him why you wouldn’t help us save Mistress Myles’s shed last night? You know you’ve got a duty to help put out fires. And you also know it’s an offence to slander a person without proof.’
‘We don’t need any proof,’ said the older man, Will Perkins. ‘Everyone knows she’s an old witch.’
‘Who said so?’
‘Everyone says so.’
‘Who’s everyone?’ said the Sheriff coming closer to peer at them.
‘How should I know who they are? People you talk to in the ale-house, those sort of people.’
‘Which ale-house?’
‘One in Marchester. Down near the new cross they’re building.’
‘So why did you come to Dean Peverell?’
‘We often come here, don’t we, Tim,’ Will Perkins said to the younger man, who was shivering on the straw next to him. ‘There’s work to do at this time of the year. The Prior lets us help with the lambs. We pick up pieces of wool from the shearing and the monks let us keep them. Comes in useful for covers for the winter. So we comes down here, drinks a few jars at the ale-house, and we sleep in one of the Prior’s barns. Then we hears that there’s a bit of a rumpus about an old woman down the road, and there might be a chance to see a bit of fun. Nothing like a good witch baiting. You should see them swing up on Marchester Heath with all their petticoats flying up over their heads in the wind. So we comes here and went along last night to join in the fun. But we don’t help an old woman to save her shed where she makes up all those evil spells. We don’t care if her house is burned down, and what’s more, neither does anyone else. We weren’t the only ones to stand back from the flames. If that old busy-body hadn’t come along and got everyone organised with buckets of water the village would have been rid of its witch.’
‘So you didn’t go near the fire?’ said Nicholas, going closer to the two men and shining the torch in their faces.
‘Nope. Nothing to do with us. We got there after it was started.’
‘So why is there a big scorch mark on your sleeve?’ said Nicholas, indicating with his torch a large burnt area on the sleeve of the man’s jacket.
Perkins peered at the patch. ‘That’s because I got too near to the blaze and nearly set myself on fire.’
‘And yet you said you didn’t go near the fire?’
‘That was later, when that bossy fellow tried to get us organised. I did take a peek at it when we first got there. Now are you going to let us go? We’ve got nothing to tell, nothing to hide. We didn’t see who started the fire. In fact I can’t see why anyone would want to burn down her old shed. If you want to kill a witch, you burn down her house with her inside it. Now that’s what I call fun. You’ve got to let us go, you know. We’ve got our rights, haven’t we, Tim?’
‘Yes. We’ve got our rights,’ echoed the younger man.
‘Now don’t start on about your rights,’ said Sheriff Landstock impatiently. ‘You didn’t do your duty last night did you? You refused to help put out the fire and I’m going to take you into Marchester for further questioning. If you can tell us who started the fire, you’ll be released and back in your taverns again by nightfall.’
The two men looked indignantly at the Sheriff. ‘We don’t know nothing. You can’t take us in for not knowing nothing.’
‘Yes, I can. Nothing easier. Now don’t give us any trouble and you’ll soon be off the hook.’
They left the two men protesting vociferously and went back up the stairs into the daylight. Nicholas put the torch back in its bracket.
‘Think they’re going to be any use?’ he said to Landstock.
‘Miserable-looking bastards. No, I can’t see that they’re going to be much help. But there is that burnt patch on that fellow’s sleeve. He didn’t give us a convincing explanation as to how he got it.’
‘This all seems a far cry from our main task, to catch Ultor before the King gets here,’ said Nicholas leading the way back towards the main house.
‘If Agnes Myles talks or these two men give us the name of the person who started the fire, we could be home and dry sooner than you think.’
‘I’d like to be able to share your optimism. But what bothers me is, is there any connection between Ultor, someone who’s literate and writes letters to Reginald Pole, and two women living in a small Sussex village? Wait a minute…’ Nicholas stopped.
‘Well, what is it?’
‘Let’s try this for an idea. Just suppose that Ultor is Gilbert Fitzroy. No, don’t look so surprised; it’s not as way out as it sounds. We know he went to see Mortimer. They discussed various treasonable activities. Then we know Fitzroy shopped Mortimer; the King himself told me that. Maybe he shopped Mortimer, whom he could see was doomed, in order to ingratiate himself with the King. Now we know Matthew and Bess Knowles overheard one of their conversations. That’s why Matthew was murdered. Let’s suppose that after Mortimer was arrested, Fitzroy, having made it quite clear that his sympathies were with the King, took over the leadership of the conspiracy. He called himself Ultor – the Avenger. Maybe he planned it all from the start. Maybe Mortimer was just his side-kick. Maybe he wanted Mortimer out of the way so that he could get his hands on his estate, and also be the power behind the throne if a Yorkist became King. He told the King he had nothing to do with Mortimer’s scheming and it suited the King to believe him because Fitzroy, as Lord Lieutenant of the county, is important to him. Now, after Mortimer’s arrest, Fitzroy would want Bess Knowles finished off. Perhaps he sent someone down to Agnes Myles to get a deadly potion to put in Bess’s drink. He wouldn’t go there in person, of course, but he could have sent one of his servants. And now he’s got to get rid of Agnes before she remembers that servant coming to see her. She’d certainly remember one of Fitzroys’ servants; and he’d have to tell her who he was because she wouldn’t give her lethal potions to just anybody. Agnes has got to talk to us.’
‘It’s a good theory, my Lord, but too many “maybe’s”. You can’t invent a plot and then arrange the facts to suit it. We know Fitzroy shopped Mortimer but the rest’s just guesswork. Also, I just can’t see Fitzroy getting involved with the Pole family. He’s got everything to gain by remaining loyal to Harry Tudor. He’s not a fanatic. He couldn’t care less whether the monks go or stay, or if the King makes himself head of the Church. He’s only interested in Fitzroy. I agree he might have wanted Mortimer out of the way so that he could buy his manor, but I can’t see him as Ultor. He’s not devious enough. And he hasn’t one jot of imagination. And what makes you think Fitzroy’s capable of carrying on a correspondence with Reginald Pole? I had to read a letter to him the other day and he had a job writing his signature.’
‘Fitzroy must have his own clerks. He keeps a big household,’ said Nicholas.
‘Even so, Fitzroy’s more interested in his hunting dogs than writing letters. But we ought to play safe. We’ll keep him out of the King’s way when he comes. He didn’t say whether he intends to pay Fitzroy a visit on his way back to Hampton Court, did he?’