“You could have called the watch and had the men arrested immediately. Why this ignoble charade?”
Lybbe was quiet a moment. “Like I said, they were staying with the Abbot – they were his friends. And anyway, I’ve been attacked twice already by the watch. How could I trust them? If the Venetians were to pay them well enough, the watch might agree to arrest me instead of them.”
“I see. Continue.”
“The head was the last thing. I had to hide it. In my brother’s garden I found a sack, dug a hole and buried it. After that, I went back to my stall.”
Simon confronted the baker. “Elias, why on earth didn’t you tell us all this? Why put your life in danger to hide something that was none of your doing?”
“I was scared. I thought you’d assume we’d both killed Torre, and there was no point both of us dying, so I thought I might as well take all the blame rather than see us share it.”
Baldwin nodded slowly. That much made sense. He considered, then looked back at Lybbe. “Why did you leave the sheath with Torre but take away the knife?”
He grinned mirthlessly. “Because I am a fool, Sir Knight. I dressed him in my clothes first, and then when I wanted to cut off his head, I realized I’d left my knife on the belt. Rather than remove the lot, I just pulled out the knife, intending to take the sheath later, but I was so shaken up afterward, I forgot. I shoved the knife in my belt as I dragged his body to the rubbish pile and then went off to bury the head. When I realized I’d left the empty sheath with the body, I foolishly decided to leave things that way. I’m not soft, Sir Baldwin, but that day’s work has haunted me since.”
“And these thieves – the men you think killed Torre. Who were they, again?”
“They call themselves ‘Cammino.’”
Edgar and Daniel took the brothers back to the jail, and when they had gone, Simon glanced at the knight. “What do you think?”
“I think it is preposterous. Why go through this charade when all they need do was report finding a body and tell what they knew about the other men?”
“You heard what Lybbe said about the watch.”
“Yes, and that was untrue. He said he arrived here the day Torre was killed. The watchmen tried to extort money from him the next day, so it was a lie to say he was scared of them at that point – unless…” His voice trailed off as he stared unseeing through the open door. It faced down the road toward the town. In the distance he saw a figure, the port-reeve.
“What is it?” Simon demanded as Baldwin strode off.
“A thought. Come on, hurry up!” the knight cried over his shoulder. The bailiff cursed, but set off after him.
The port-reeve had hoped that the earlier questioning would be enough. He had several transactions to witness, and tried to mask his impatience as the knight hurried to him.
“Holcroft, you have lived here for some time, haven’t you?”
“All my life.”
“Did you know Elias had a brother?”
“Yes, of course – Jordan. Left here, oh, years ago. At least twenty.”
“Why did he go away?”
The port-reeve pursed his lips. “He was an outlaw. He joined a band of trail-bastons, a group that murdered and burned their way round the north of the county. He was only found because the gang got into a fight with the people of Tiverton, and the town won. They chased the men for miles, but the crooks were lucky. One of their band was found in a church, claiming sanctuary, and agreed to approve. He gave all the names of the men in the gang, and was allowed to abjure the realm. One of the names he gave was Jordan Lybbe’s.”
“How did Lybbe escape justice?” asked Simon.
“Easy. He came home before news of the battle reached here. Took some of his belongings and disappeared. A ship left the coast shortly after, and it was said that a man looking like Lybbe had gone aboard just before it set sail.”
“I see. Well, thank you, Holcroft,” said Baldwin.
He left them, and Simon shook his head. “So that’s why he preferred this elaborate hoax rather than calling the watch.”
“He knew his life would be forfeit if he was discovered in the kingdom again. If he called the watch and was recognized, he would be hanged.”
“And so he will!”
“Yes,” Baldwin agreed, but he was perplexed. “But why should he remove the head and hide it? If he had nothing to do with the murder, he’d have just left town while it was dark.”
“Maybe he thought that would be viewed as an admission of guilt.”
“But if he thought that, he’d have just left the body as it was. There must have been a reason for him to remove the head.” Baldwin put his own on one side. “The alternative is, he was the killer: but why should he kill Torre? We have no motive for him to have done that.”
“Maybe Torre recognized him.”
“If he had, wouldn’t he have shouted it out? The watch were in the tavern, so were many others. If Torre had recognized Lybbe, he’d have made a row.”
“Unless he thought he could blackmail Lybbe into paying him for his silence.”
“In that case, Torre would have gone to speak to him, but no one saw them talk.”
“We haven’t asked anyone whether they spoke,” Simon pointed out reasonably.
“True. But also, if Torre realized who Lybbe was, he surely wouldn’t have gone out with Lizzie. He’d have stayed inside where he could keep an eye on his investment, whether he had spoken to him or not. This all makes no sense.”
“Are you saying his story was true and the Venetians did it?”
“I don’t know, Simon. But it makes as much sense as Lybbe being the killer.”
They left the jail and went back down the hill again. The house to which the Abbot had directed them was a pleasant block not far from the tavern, and Baldwin thumped heavily on the door as soon as they arrived. A harassed maidservant appeared, and Baldwin strode past her into the hall.
Inside, a woman sat placidly sewing at a tapestry. She looked up in some surprise at the sound of footsteps ringing on the stone flagging, and then her face sharpened. “What is the meaning of this intrusion? Do you have business with my husband, because if you don’t I’ll call for the watch this instant!”
“My lady, excuse our abrupt entrance,” Baldwin said smoothly. “It is the young lady we wish to speak to, the girl who has befriended the monk Peter. Do you know where she is?”
Marion studied him coldly and set her tapestry aside. “What would you want with her?”
“Lady, the boy has been found murdered, and we must find out whether she can help us find the killer.”
“Murder? My daughter knows nothing about this. I cannot allow you to question her.”
“We must.”
“You will not, on my honor! If you wish, you may speak to my husband, but…”
“We are here,” Simon interjected, “on the Abbot’s orders. It is very important that we speak to your daughter instantly.”
Mistress Pole scowled, but consented. The Abbot’s will could not be denied. She sent the maidservant to fetch her daughter. In a few moments she returned, but alone. “Mistress, the door’s locked, and she won’t answer.”
“Let me try,” Marion said, and lifting her skirts, she hurried from the room. Simon glanced at Baldwin, and they followed after her.
“Avice? Avice, open this door at once!”
She pounded on the timbers with the flat of her hand, and Baldwin could see that she was beginning to panic. He muttered, “God’s blood!” If there was one complication he did not want, it was that the girl might have run away with her beau.
“Lady, excuse me.”
He looked at Edgar, and his manservant rushed at the door with his shoulder. It shivered, but the timber was strong. Baldwin joined him. Under their combined weight the door and frame shattered, and Baldwin tripped over a broken spar to fall flat on his face. From the floor he could see that the room was deserted. The open window told the story of Av
ice Pole’s escape.
Behind him he heard a stifled laugh. “Simon, if you think this is funny,” he said coldly, “next time you can charge the door.” He slowly got to his feet, wincing at the bruise on his shoulder. It felt as if he had broken it at the same time as the door. When he looked at the jamb, he saw that the door had been bolted on the inside.
“What in the Devil’s name is the meaning of all this?”
Simon turned to find a florid-faced man gaping at the devastation. There was a strong smell of alcohol as he entered the room. “I return to my house to be told that strangers have forced their way in, and then I find that they’ve destroyed a door! What’s this all about, eh? Who are you?”
Baldwin dusted his knees and stepped over the wreckage. “I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, and this is Simon Puttock, bailiff of Lydford Castle. We are investigating the murder of Roger Torre and a novice monk on behalf of the Abbot.”
“What has this to do with me and my family?”
“Arthur, these men wanted to speak to Avice, but she’s gone. Arthur, she’s run away!”
“What?” Her husband scanned the room, his eyes returning to Marion’s face with fright. “When? I mean, how?”
“She’s disappeared. It must be Pietro!”
“I’ll have his blood if he’s harmed my Avice!”
“We don’t know for certain it was him,” said Baldwin.
“You may not, I do! I want him whipped – God’s blood! What if he’s… if he’s polluted her, I’ll have his…”
“Husband, the least we can do now is consider how to find her and bring her back.”
“Find her? Of course we’ll have to find her, woman!”
Baldwin took the sputtering, furious merchant by the arm and began to direct him back toward the hall. His voice was low and calm, talking with an unhurried steadiness that soothed the irate man. “You mentioned the Venetian. Was that the younger man? I thought so, yes – it was Pietro. Avice was in her room? Fine, I see. There was little more for a concerned father to do, other than manacle her to a ring, and that is not the way to earn the love and trust of your daughter, is it? Of course not… Ah, here we are.”
They had arrived once more in the hall, and Baldwin directed the now compliant father to a seat, then sent the maid for wine and water. Marion sat, hands in her lap, while she considered her husband. She had told him it wouldn’t work, she’d said they should pack immediately and leave, but he had refused because of his business. He had all the furs still, he hadn’t managed to sell them yet, and he had to remain in Tavistock to try to get rid of them. “She’ll be all right locked in her room,” he’d said. This was how all right she was, Marion thought bitterly. Probably ruined already, and John wouldn’t want her like that. He came from an old family, and they would expect any woman he chose to be pure, no matter how rich her parents.
The wine arrived, and Baldwin filled a goblet, nodding to the man to drink. Arthur lifted it to his mouth with shaking hands, sipped, then put it down. His Avice had run away, it was inconceivable!
“Sir, when was your daughter last seen?” Baldwin asked.
“I don’t know. Marion?”
“About the middle of the morning.”
“Thank you, madam. And she had been forbidden, I assume, to see this boy again, is that right?”
“Yes,” Arthur said heavily. “We told her this morning. You see, we’d checked up on him and his father, and they were not as they portrayed themselves. The pair of them had made out they were prosperous, yet I know that they only have poor riding ponies. Would a wealthy man stint on his horse-flesh like that?”
“I see.” Baldwin chewed his lip. There was one thing that concerned him more than any other. “Tell me, do you know of any reason why he should have decided to run away with your daughter now?”
“Yes. I saw him this morning, arrogant damned fool!” Arthur explained with a sidelong glance at his wife – he hadn’t told her this yet. After seeing Pietro, he had been so angry that he had gone straight back to the tavern. “I informed him he would not be able to see my daughter again, that he was not suitable for her as far as I was concerned.”
“I see. What did he do after you spoke with him?”
“He scampered off toward the Abbey. After what I said, I assumed he’d never dare to show his face again.”
“Do you have horses kept here?”
“Yes, there are stables at the back in a yard.”
“Has your daughter’s gone?”
“I don’t know – follow me!”
He rose and hurried out to the screens. The back door gave onto a small yard with stabling on the left. While he went to question the groom, Baldwin cast an eye upward. There was a ladder leaning against the wall. “That’s how, then,” he said to Simon, jerking his head at it.
“Not the most difficult inference you’ve ever made,” Simon muttered.
There was a cry from the stable, and they ran over to the entrance. Inside they found the merchant bending over a squirming figure. “The bastard tied up my groom!” Arthur bawled indignantly.
The knight bent over Henry and cut the cords binding his arms and feet. Edgar helped him to his feet and with his help Henry was taken to his palliasse and laid down on it gently. The knight stood at his side.
“Can you tell us what happened?” Baldwin asked.
“I was clobbered, sir,” Henry said painfully. “Someone belted me from behind.”
“Did you see who it was?”
“No, sir. All I know is, I was out here seeing to the horses, and next thing I had a headache and was trussed like a capon.”
“You didn’t see which way they went?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you hear anything? Screams or shouting?”
“Do you mean,” Arthur said, drawing himself straight with indignation, “do you mean to suggest that my daughter might have willingly eloped with this Venetian jackanapes?”
“It is possible,” said Baldwin, raising a hand to cut short the angry expostulation that Pole’s daughter would never connive at such a betrayal of her parents’ wishes. “At this moment we don’t even know for sure that Pietro da Cammino is involved. We shall leave you now, and go to the Abbey to question him.”
“He won’t be at the Abbey – I tell you he’s run off!”
“In that case, when we have made sure he is not at the Abbey, we will organize a search for him – and her.”
“There is one more thing, Sir Baldwin. If the Abbot doesn’t believe this, tell him that his guest, that bastard Pietro, has been impersonating a monk.”
“What?”
“My man saw him last night. He was dressed like a Benedictine, wandering round the town. My daughter met him, and he wooed her under the protection of holy garb.”
“God’s blood!” Simon breathed. “Was he the thief?”
21
Simon and Baldwin sent Edgar to get their horses saddled and bridled, and ran across the court to the Abbot’s lodging. A monk told them he was in his private chapel, and they had to wait, chafing at the delay, while another monk went in and asked the Abbot to see them.
“My friends – do you have news from the girl?”
Simon told of the missing girl, and the Abbot froze. “But… the Venetians have gone.”
“When?” Baldwin asked quickly.
“After the rabble came to the gate. Both Pietro and their servant were terrified by the appearance of so many ruffians calling for their blood. Someone had roused them against bankers. Pietro insisted that they should leave. His father was unwilling at first, not wanting to lose his deal with me, but I refused it, and he agreed to leave then.”
“It would appear that Pietro had an ulterior motive. The crowd at the gate gave him his excuse, and he took his chance.”
“Sir Baldwin, you must find them.”
“We shall try, sir. But where they could have gone is a matter of guesswork. We will need to hunt them down carefully.”
&
nbsp; “I shall come to the yard with you. It’s impossible for me to join you on the Feast Day of the Abbey’s saint, but at least I can make sure you are sent off with as many men as possible.”
So saying, Abbot Robert led the way out of the room. A monk was outside in the Prayle, and the Abbot called him over, telling him to prepare men to join the hunt. He scurried off and the Abbot and the others continued on their way.
Edgar stood waiting with the horses, and Baldwin took the reins from his servant. “The trouble is, we have no idea where they might have gone. Do you have a hunter used to tracking animals?”
“I do, but he’s not here, he’s out working.”
Simon said, “Surely they’ll make straight for the coast? Plymouth would be best for them.”
“Perhaps,” Baldwin mused. “But the port there is very small. The chances of finding a ship before we catch up with them are remote, unless they have a ship waiting.”
“Did they leave in a great hurry?” Simon asked the Abbot. “What about their clothes and belongings – are all gone?”
“I don’t know, I… You,” he called to a lay brother. The man ambled over, a spade on his shoulder like a weapon. “Go to the guest-master and find out whether the Venetians left anything behind. Quickly, brother!”
The man dropped his shovel and hesitated, wondering whether to pick it up. Catching sight of the Abbot’s face, he let it lie and ran off. The Abbot sighed. “Only a few hours ago all was normal. It was merely a hectic Feast Day for St. Rumon, and now I have lost a novice to a murder, a pair of guests are to be hunted like venison, and…”
“My lord Abbot!”
Champeaux glanced at Baldwin with surprise. “Eh?”
“Hunted! Your hounds!”
He stared for moment, then groaned and slapped his forehead. “I must be the greatest fool alive!” and dashed off toward the River Gate. A few moments later he returned with a man, narrow-faced, and with a sallow complexion. Bright blue eyes glittered under dark brows. “This is my berner, the master of my scent hounds.”
“Berner, you have harrier hounds?”
“We have – twenty couple.”
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