‘Interesting,’ Baldwin murmured, his eyes narrowed.
‘Could the guard have fallen asleep?’ Roger said. ‘I’ve heard of animals getting up really close to a man to steal a lump of meat. Look at rats. They’ll take food from your hand while you sleep. Maybe a wildcat or wolf took this thing because it smelled of blood?’
‘Roger, please!’ Baldwin scoffed. ‘A balk of timber? You honestly think a wolf would be stupid enough to carry that away when there was an easy meal within reach? No, that cudgel was removed by a human. The question is, was it taken away by the killer, which would be worrying, or was it grabbed by someone else?’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Simon said quickly. If the Abbot had suggested that his mind was fogged or stupid, Simon wanted to prove to his two friends that the Abbot was wrong. ‘If the killer went back to take it, then he might intend to kill again. A weapon like that is impossible to trace to a particular man.’ He decided not to mention the marks, or Augerus’ words. Perhaps he could raise that later, to impress the Abbot.
Coroner Roger stirred and snorted. ‘What if it’s not the murderer?’
‘Why then,’ Simon finished, ‘it might well be someone who knows who the killer is and intends to avenge Wally with the very same weapon that was used to murder him.’
‘There is another possibility, of course,’ Baldwin said mildly.
‘What?’ asked Simon.
‘That the club was taken purely in order to conceal it more effectively. Perhaps there was some way to identify it that you couldn’t see, Simon, and someone took it in order to stop us finding the killer.’
‘So he could himself kill the murderer,’ Simon nodded.
Baldwin shot him a look from narrowed eyes. ‘Perhaps . . . but perhaps the murderer was well thought of. Maybe this Walwynus was not liked and the miners about him were not distressed by his execution. It is a thought.’
‘I don’t see it would make much sense,’ Simon protested.
‘There is another thing, too,’ Baldwin said. ‘The killer need not have been a man. A woman could wield a morning star as easily as a man.’
‘Surely few women could so devastatingly crush a man’s skull?’
‘No, I daresay you are right. I am merely speculating. But I shall look forward to seeing this corpse again and considering the wounds. I hope it hasn’t disintegrated too badly before we get to it.’
Simon shrugged. Baldwin’s smooth summary of the position had made him feel his own inadequacy compared with the knight’s, reminding him of his incompetence before the Abbot. It was a terrible thing to recognise it in himself, this stupidity that could cost him his job.
Baldwin could see that Simon was upset, so he smiled and patted his friend’s arm. It was always the case that Simon felt sick at the sight of a dead body. ‘You do not have to come with us to the inquest if you do not want to,’ he said kindly.
Simon’s eyes hardened, and Baldwin withdrew his hand in surprise at the Bailiff’s sharp tone. ‘Why? Don’t you think I can help you? Am I too stupid?’
Baldwin was too astonished to answer immediately. He could see that he had insulted or offended the man, but he had no idea how. When a scruffy messenger appeared, he was glad of the diversion.
‘Sir Baldwin, the Abbot wants to see you again, sir. As soon as you can, please.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘No need for you two to leave your wine. I shall see you later.’
To his dismay, he saw that his words seemed only to increase Simon’s gloom.
Chapter Sixteen
Hamelin approached the door of his house in Tavistock with dread curling in his belly like a worm. Again, there was no noise, no wailing or weeping, but he stood outside for a moment or two, listening, wondering how Joel, his infant son, fared.
He had been back at the mine since Friday, trying to concentrate on digging and keeping the flow of water at the right level, while Hal busied himself looking for a fresh source of metal. This area was all but mined out, but Hal had a nose for tin, and he said he thought that there was a new spot which others had missed – but if it was there, they had yet to find it. Still, it had taken Hamelin’s mind off his sick son.
Hal had discovered the body of Wally first thing on Monday. He’d gone up there because he was beginning to wonder why there was no sign of a cooking fire or any other evidence of life at Wally’s place; the corpse sent him running back to Hamelin to tell him, and then he took his pony and hurried off to town to inform the authorities, leaving Hamelin to protect the works. In all honesty Hamelin was incapable of concentrating. Hearing that Wally was dead had dulled his mind, and for much of Monday he merely sat and stared at the water running through the wooden leat.
Wally’s death affected him profoundly. It felt as though there was a sign in this, as though Wally’s life and his son Joel’s were connected. One had died – perhaps the other would live? It was something to cling to.
It had been hard to get anything much done for all that long day. Hal, who had ridden back from Tavistock, stayed over at the corpse’s side to protect it, but when he finally returned late on Tuesday morning, he was gruff and uncommunicative. He cast odd glances at Hamelin every now and again, but then looked away. It made for an uncomfortable atmosphere, and Hamelin was relieved when Hal went into the hut to sleep; next morning, he announced that he would return to the body and take over from the man waiting there.
Hamelin was nothing loath to see him tramp off towards Wally’s corpse. They had hardly exchanged a word since Hal’s return, and in any case, Hamelin had decided that he had to make the journey back to town to see his boy. Hal wouldn’t know, because he would be at Wally’s place all night.
Filled with trepidation, Hamelin pushed at the door and heard the leather hinges creaking, the bottom boards scraping along the dirt floor. When he could sidle around it, he entered, and had a glimpse of the room.
At the corner he could hear the thumping of a dog’s tail; there was the snuffling of a child with a cold; an irregular crackling from a good fire, and then a metallic tapping. As he walked in, he saw his wife Emma standing at a good-sized cooking pot that rested on a trivet over the fire, and she was stirring a thick pottage. Hamelin felt saliva spurt from beneath his tongue at the smell of meat and vegetables.
She turned, startled, and stood gazing at him for a moment, white-faced in the dingy gloom of the room, and then ran to him, throwing her arms about him. Silently, she pulled him away from the door and down to their bed. There, lying well wrapped in an old woollen shawl, was their son. He looked so pale that Hamelin knew he was dead, and he felt a terrible emptiness open in his breast, as though God had reached in and pulled out his heart.
And then Joel muttered, and rolled over in his sleep, and Hamelin felt the tears flowing down his cheeks with pure joy.
It was very peculiar, Baldwin thought as he strode back towards the Abbey, the youthful messenger skipping at his heels.
Baldwin had known Simon Puttock for six years or so, and in all that time the Bailiff had been easygoing and cheerful, except during that terrible black period when Simon’s first son had died. That had affected Simon and his wife Meg, as it would any loving parent, but even through all that pain and anguish, Simon had tried to maintain his sense of humour, and to see him so snappish about this killing was strange. Perhaps Simon had simply seen too many bodies?
No, it most surely wasn’t that! Simon wasn’t a weakling, he just had a weakness of belly when he found decaying human flesh; most of the population felt the same way. It was Baldwin who was different, for he had no fear of dead bodies. To him they were mere husks, the worn-out and discarded shells of men who no longer had a need for them. But when those husks were the remains of murdered men and women, Baldwin knew that they could still speak, and sometimes tell who had murdered them, and why. All it needed was an eye to look and a mind to notice – and an absence of bigotry or hatred. Too often people jumped to conclusions based upon their own prejudices;
after his experience as a Knight Templar, Baldwin had no intention of committing the same sin.
The Abbot was standing beside his table when Baldwin entered, his face troubled. ‘Thank you for returning so promptly, Sir Baldwin. I wanted to tell you as soon as I knew. After speaking to you, I decided to approach the novice to ask him point blank about the thefts, but I couldn’t.’ For a moment his composure evaporated and his face showed his anger and concern. ‘The acolyte Gerard has disappeared.’
Baldwin’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Disappeared? Do you mean he has simply vanished?’
‘As good as, I fear. There is no sign of him. I understand he hasn’t been seen all day, but my brethren didn’t tell me, thinking that he was misbehaving and would be back soon.’
Baldwin was already moving towards the door. ‘Would you come with me? It would be easier to speak to your brethren if they know that I am acting on your behalf.’
‘Of course.’
‘Who was the last man to see him?’
‘I fear I don’t know,’ Abbot Robert admitted, his sandals pattering on the flags as they went along the short passage out to the yard beyond.
‘Do you know when he was last seen?’
‘No, I only heard about this myself a short while ago.’
Baldwin said nothing, but his mind was whirling as he took in the symbolic impact of this boy’s sudden disappearance. It would play into the hands of those who wanted to believe that the theft of the Abbot’s wine was tied to the travellers on the moor, and to the murder of Walwynus. The lad’s going would make everyone assume that the novice had been involved in the thefts and that the devil had taken him away, just as 150 years ago, Milbrosa had been spirited away. Baldwin didn’t believe that story, but he knew that others did, and he also knew that an unscrupulous man would be keen to divert attention from his crime by blaming others. And who better to blame than the devil himself?
The Abbot walked hurriedly out through his door and down the staircase, leading Baldwin to the monks’ cloister. He entered and walked quickly up the steps which led to the dorter.
In the great long room with the low screens which separated each little chamber, ensuring that no Brother ever had total privacy, Baldwin could see that each little cot was made up carefully, the blankets drawn up to the head of the bed. There were no Brothers here, for they would be talking and laughing in the calefactory or the brewery, preparing for an early night, ready to rise at midnight for the first service of the new day.
‘Which was his cot?’
The Abbot beckoned to a young novice who was sweeping the floor while trying to appear uninterested in their conversation. ‘Reginald, come here.’
‘My Lord Abbot?’
‘Which is Gerard’s bed?’
The lad carefully set his besom against a wall and took the two to a cot that sat fifth along the wall on the right.
Baldwin studied it with a frowning gaze, silent except for a bark directed at Reginald to stand still, when the boy was about to return to his sweeping. Reginald froze, eyes downcast. He was petrified with fear, convinced that they knew what he had done, too scared to confess. God! All he’d tried to do was frighten Gerard. The silly bugger had been filching too much, and he couldn’t be allowed to go on. But when Reg pushed him, and he went over, that was that. All he could do was get rid of the mess. And get rid he had. But pushing Gerard in the first place was sinful, and the result was worse. Reg hadn’t ever committed a mortal sin before, and now, knowing that the Abbot and the knight were here to investigate Gerard’s disappearance, his marrow turned to jelly.
At length Baldwin spoke. ‘The bed has been made, just like all the others in this room. Who makes the beds?’
‘Each Brother makes his own.’
‘When?’
‘We rise very early, as you know, and go straight to church. When Matins is done, most will come to the cloister to read and study, and later they return to the dorter to change their shoes, and then they will also make their beds. There is not much to do, after all. Only shake out the blankets and straighten them.’
Baldwin nodded. Each bed had its own blanket smoothed down over the palliasse, some more smoothly than others. Although they were not made of horse hair, the coverings were certainly thick and rough-looking, hardly the material to provide a man with a good night’s sleep.
‘Reginald, did you see Gerard today?’ he asked.
Although tall and firmly built, more like a young squire than a monk, Reginald suffered from an explosion of acne. Baldwin could recall the mountain of Sicily as he passed by on board ship, the glowing summit belching fumes, and somehow it looked less unpleasant than the eruption on Reginald’s face.
The boy must have read something in his gaze, for he dropped his eyes as though in shame. ‘I can’t remember. I’ve been busy.’
‘What of yesterday? Did you speak to him then?’
‘I might have done. It’s hard to bring it to mind.’
‘Did he look upset?’
Reginald couldn’t say anything immediately. The memory of the dull-sounding thud as Gerard’s skull hit the corner of the bed would never leave his dreams. He should confess his sins to the Abbot or another confessor, but he couldn’t. It was too dangerous now.
At last he mumbled, ‘He seemed a bit upset about something, I reckon. Maybe that was it. He had something troubling him.’
‘So you do recall seeing him,’ Baldwin noted. His attention was moving about the room, covering first the wall, then the screens, and last the floor and ceiling. There was nothing to indicate that anything had been amiss. ‘He was a tidy fellow?’
The Abbot nodded. ‘It is baffling. He was a neat young man, well-mannered and quiet, the perfect acolyte.’
‘Why did you ever suspect that—’
The Abbot stopped him with a raised hand, then ordered Reginald from the room. With the relief bursting in his breast, Reg took up his broom and bolted, shutting the door behind him as quietly as his urgency would allow. Staring at the door, he thought he might be able to catch what the two men were saying, but his conscience wouldn’t allow him to eavesdrop. Instead, he left his broom and walked down the stairs to the chapel, and entered. Kneeling before the altar, he covered his face with his hands and suddenly, before he could stop himself, his entire body began to shake from sobbing.
He was still in there, weeping, when Peter walked in later. The Almoner stood quietly watching, then walked to his side.
‘It wasn’t only you, boy,’ he said. ‘I helped you do it, and Gerard will find himself in a better place. If either of us should carry the guilt, it is I, not you. So calm yourself. Let me carry the crime on my own soul.’
A step outside made one of the dogs growl softly, and Emma was startled awake in a moment. She silently sat up and motioned to the dog to be silent before he could wake her children or husband, but she knew it was already too late when she felt Hamelin stirring at her side.
She stroked his cheek, liking the roughness of his stubble. Her love towards her man and her children was never stronger than when she saw them at night, sleeping. Even a mature man like Hamelin had a childlike quality when he was asleep. Now his face twitched slightly, just like young Joel when he was dreaming. Emma smiled and cupped her open hand about his jaw, peering more closely in the dim, unlit room. The only illumination came from the few logs which had been left to glow undamped at the middle of the fire. In the summer, the fire would be put out overnight for safety, but at this time of year, with the cooler weather, she kept the room warm if she could, and now that they had the money, she was determined that the family wouldn’t suffer from cold. A friend of hers had woken the last winter to find her boy-child frozen stiff and dead at her side, and it had unbalanced her mind. Emma wouldn’t have that happen to one of her own.
She looked about her at the children lying with them on the bed. Joel was cuddled up with a tangle of legs and arms, and Emma couldn’t see who it was, but it was no matter. Both were breathing e
asily, and that was all that counted.
‘Can’t sleep?’
His low voice made her jump, unsettling Joel, who whimpered and snuffled in his sleep, but then she chuckled softly. ‘Not easily, no. Do you think we could afford a larger palliasse?’
Rather than talk among their children, they rose from the bed and moved to the fireside. Emma had made a mat of pieces of material, and they sat on it, wrapping Hamelin’s great woollen cloak about them. Hamelin prodded the embers into flame and added more logs, before staring into it.
‘Where did Wally get all that money?’ Emma asked after some while.
‘I just don’t know. Nowhere he should have. I got the feeling that he was keen to get rid of it. He was pleased to have found an excuse, I think, like it was stained with another man’s blood or something.’
She shivered at the thought. ‘You don’t think it’s cursed?’
Hamelin was silent for a while. ‘You know, I felt today as though Wally and Joel were somehow connected. Like it seemed unfair that Joel should die so young, so perhaps God had taken Wally instead, like there was some sort of balance of fairness. Wally had lived long enough, so he died. Especially since he’d been involved in something he shouldn’t have.’
‘But what?’
‘Haven’t a clue. He never had any money, that was certain, not from his farming and his attempts to grow vegetables, and yet he always managed to scrape together some pennies for drinks whenever he came into town.’
The dog started to growl again, a low, menacing rumbling, and Hamelin threw a stone at it.
‘Husband, don’t you think you could find work in the town, rather than having to go up to work on the moors?’ Emma asked reluctantly. They had been through this many times before.
‘No,’ he said uncompromisingly. ‘If Hal and me can only find another source of tin, we’ll be laughing. It’s just this early period that’s hard. We’ll soon be on our feet again. Don’t you worry. And what else could I do here without money? That bastard Mark made it impossible for me to start a new business.’
The Devil's Acolyte (2002) Page 23
