‘Yes,’ Peter said ruminatively. His chin was cushioned in his hand again. It was a familiar posture, and John had often wondered whether it was an affectation which he used to conceal his scar. ‘The Abbot told me of that. In fact before I came up here today, the Abbot told me to ask you about the argument you had with Ralph last midday.’
Ivo paled and his voice grew quieter. ‘I hadn’t realised the good Abbot had heard.’
‘Oh, the Abbot has good hearing regarding matters which may need to be decided before his court,’ Peter said cheerily. ‘I understand that it was some other problem?’
‘He accused me of trying to poison his dog,’ Ivo snarled. ‘That monster there! Rumon, he called it, after the saint, which is blasphemy in any man’s language.’
Peter smiled at the mastiff, who chose this moment to scratch laboriously at his pendulous jowls, flicking a thick gobbet of saliva some yards, narrowly missing John. ‘St Rumon may be the saint most honoured in our church, but Ralph always said that it was only fair that the fellow should be given the saint’s name, since he was born on the saint’s day.’
‘I didn’t try to poison the tawny brute, anyway. That was a lie put about by Ralph to justify trying to thump me.’
‘I wasn’t aware that Ralph required provocation to hit people,’ Peter said mildly.
John had noticed before that the almoner tended to avoid a man’s eyes when he was questioning them. It was a trait which he had exhibited on occasions with the novices, when he suspected that one was guilty of a misdemeanour, as though by looking away he could hear the truth more distinctly. Only when he was certain of his judgement did he look up and meet his victim’s gaze with a firm and determined scowl.
He looked up now, and fixed his stern features on Ivo with the result that Ivo flushed and looked away as though ashamed.
‘Did you try to poison his dog?’
Ivo threw his hands out in a gesture of appeal. ‘What would you do? The brute got in among my warren. He loved chasing the rabbits, and it was doing none of them any good.’
‘So you did?’ Peter said sadly, ruffling the dog’s ear.
‘I would have been justified if I had,’ Ivo said evasively.
‘You say that you have witnesses last night who can confirm you were at the inn?’
‘Yes.’
‘What of when they were asleep?’
‘The door was bolted.’
‘So that it could have been opened from somebody inside?’
‘Are you saying I killed him?’
‘It’s possible. I know you and he had regular arguments.’
‘That’s rubbish!’
‘Perhaps. But, you see, this man’s body is very cold. What if he died, let us suppose, early yesterday afternoon?’
‘I was at the market.’
‘Ah, that’s good!’ Peter said with simulated relief. ‘So you can provide witnesses who saw you at every moment of the afternoon?’
‘Well, I don’t know about . . . ‘
’Because otherwise one could wonder whether you and Ralph argued, and then you followed him here and viciously struck him down, leaving him here to die.’
Ivo blinked, and although his mouth worked, no sound issued.
Reeve Miria sucked at his teeth. ‘I find this very interesting. I think I should come with you and speak to the market people. If no one can confirm your story, Ivo, I think you could be in a difficult position.’
Ivo glanced at him sideways, when Peter was looking away, and John saw him make a gesture towards his purse. Reeve Miria’s expression didn’t alter, but John was sure that he moved his head just a fraction, scarcely enough for anyone to have noticed, but John was half expecting it; there were so many stories about the Reeve’s corruption flying about the town. He reflected that he should warn Peter about the Reeve, but then he almost smiled at such a fatuous thought: Peter would already have heard of it.
The Reeve cleared his throat. ‘We should get back to town, then. Try to check this man’s story.’
‘For my part, I am glad that the matter is resolved so quickly,’ said Eustace Joce. He snorted and yawned. ‘I for one have work to be getting on with. I have some sheep with something that looks nasty. I only hope to Christ Jesus that it’s not another murrain.’
John shivered at the mere word. In 1315 and 1316, there had been a terrible famine which had affected all, the highest and the lowest in the land, and at the same time there had been a disease among first the sheep, then the cattle all over the country. It lasted years, and all farmers were petrified at the thought that it might recur. Even the abbey’s flocks had been decimated.
‘I hope your animals are safe,’ Peter said earnestly. ‘It would be awful to have another instance of disease amongst the animals. I shall suggest a prayer to the Abbot.’
‘That is good of you, brother,’ Eustace said, and cast a smug look at Ivo. ‘Come, Anastasia. We should return.’
‘Hmm?’ Peter looked up as though surprised. ‘I should be most grateful if you could remain a little longer, friend. Or I should say, “friends”. There is much to be considered. For example, I noticed how sad you were, maid, on hearing that this man was dead.’
‘I do not like to think of a man dying,’ Anastasia said with gentle compassion and a quick look at the corpse.
She was a most attractive woman to John’s eyes. Her features were pleasingly regular like the Madonna’s, her complexion sweetly pale and set off by a clean white wimple which decorously concealed her hair. Only a few strands of a magnificent chestnut hue escaped, gleaming auburn in the sun. She looked delicate, with a broad forehead and eyebrows which arched in crescents over large green eyes. Her mouth was well-shaped, if John was any judge, with full and soft-looking lips. As for the rest of her body, he preferred not to permit his eyes to commit the sins of lust or covetousness, but it was impossible not to notice the firm, rounded swelling under her bodice or the swaying of her hips. She was indeed beautiful, and when she turned her eyes upon Peter, he studied her with a smile, as though considering her for the first time.
‘The world would be a better place if there was a little more Christian sympathy,’ her husband said shortly.
He was a good looking man, John thought. Powerful and well-proportioned, he was a contrast to Peter, with his appalling wound. Apparently Peter thought the same, for he looked away as though ashamed.
‘Tell me, maid: did you know this Ralph well?’
‘Not particularly, brother.’
‘No? Your accent shows you come from this town, though. Were you born here?’
‘Yes. But what of it?’
‘Surely Ralph lived here all his life as well. And you and he were of an age, weren’t you?’
She threw her husband a faintly perplexed smile, as though wondering where this interrogation was leading.
‘What are you talking about, brother?’ Eustace grated. ‘My wife is here because you asked her here, not for any other reason.’
John privately wondered as much. Anastasia was so pretty a thing, it was impossible to consider that she could have wielded a stone heavy enough to smash Ralph’s head. Compared to her mild mannered responses, Peter’s questioning sounded harsh and almost cruel.
Peter sighed. ‘I was only wondering whether your wife could have known Ralph. She was surely not acquainted with him for the first time today. Even if one sees a dead body by the side of the road, it would not normally lead to tears, would it? Not unless the dead man was personally known to us. That is why I wished to verify that your wife actually knew him.’
Having stated his piece, he looked away again, but this time John could see that his eyes were not unfocussed, gazing into nothingness, but were concentrating with an almost furious anger on Ralph’s head. He was a man possessed by an idea, John thought, and such a pure, perfect idea that it would not admit of any other to enter his head.
‘If you demand to know, then yes, I knew him,’ Anastasia said, with a smile that cap
tivated John. ‘We grew up together.’
‘What has this to do with the man’s murder?’ Eustace demanded. His face was red now, as though he was feeling the barb of an insult.
Peter looked to him. ‘Why should you feel that it has anything to do with Ralph’s death? I have not said that any of my questions are related to Ralph, and yet you seem to feel threatened. Why should that be?’
‘I? Threatened? Ballocks to you, my fine brother! I know your sort. You are only a feeble charity-giver, aren’t you? Well in my experience, the charity-giver is often the receiver of charity himself! If you didn’t have that wound, you wouldn’t be here, would you?’
Peter gazed at him directly then, and a blaze of rage, so pure and unfettered that John thought it could have melted lead, leapt from his eyes. Eustace recoiled, a hand rising as though to protect himself, but then, as soon as it flared, Peter’s anger dissipated. ‘You think I am a weakling, generously protected by the Abbot against the cruelty of the world, Master Joce? Perhaps you are right. I am a sad old man, when all is said and done.’
‘My apologies, brother. I didn’t think what I was saying,’ Eustace Joce said.
Liar! John thought to himself. You said what you thought you needed to distract Peter from your wife, didn’t you?
‘That’s perfectly all right, Master Joce,’ Peter said with a sigh. And then he turned back to Anastasia. ‘Since you knew him so well, maid, when did you last meet him?’
‘Brother, I will not have you interrogating my wife like this!’ Eustace exploded immediately. ‘This is ridiculous! A man is found up here, dead, and you leap to conclusions, demanding to conduct your own inquest — well, I won’t be a part of it, that’s all I can say!’
He span on his heel and called to his wife. Anastasia threw him a look of . . . what: gratitude? John wondered . . . and was about to follow him, when Peter called to them.
‘Master Joce, please do not go now. There are other matters I would discuss with you.’
‘I don’t have time for all this.’
‘Master, please,’ Peter sighed. ‘Speedier to answer questions now than to wait and explain in court.’
‘What does that mean?’ Eustace demanded angrily, spinning to face the old monk.
‘The good Abbot has asked me to report to him, and I have a duty to weigh all the facts. If someone refuses to answer my questions, I would have to recommend that the Abbot had him arrested on suspicion at least until the Coroner arrives.’
‘You . . . ‘
’My friend, I have no choice. You must see that,’ Peter said placatingly. ‘I am a servant to my Lord Abbot.’
Eustace’s mouth snapped shut and he took a deep breath. ‘You already have your man. Ivo had a dispute with him: surely he was the murderer.’
‘I never did a thing to him!’ Ivo declared angrily.
‘Enough!’ the Reeve said, stepping between the two as they squared up to each other. ‘Calm down and listen to the monk.’
‘Although one man might appear to have a motive, so may another, do you not think?’
‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at,’ Eustace said. ‘And I don’t see why I should waste time listening to this rubbish.’
For the first time Peter’s voice hardened. ‘Then stop behaving like a cretin, and listen! You may learn something! Now, maid, did . . .’
‘No! If you have any questions, you can ask me,’ Eustace declared, putting a hand on his wife’s forearm.
‘Very well. When did you first suspect you were being cuckolded by Ralph?’
Eustace gasped and he shivered, once, convulsively. ‘Who told you that?’
‘It is common knowledge you will not let your wife out of your sight.’
‘That means nothing!’
‘No, but your response here, today, does. Would not a man who thought his wife was sleeping with another seek to end their affair? He might kill the man, his wife, or both, but few men would allow the situation to continue.’
‘I didn’t kill him.’
‘But you did suspect that he might have captured a small part of your wife’s heart, didn’t you? That much is obvious.’
‘I . . .’ he threw an anxious look at his wife. ‘I wondered, that is all.’
She smiled then, but this was not the gentle, soft-featured woman whom John had admired only a few minutes before. Now Anastasia wore a harsh expression, and instead of a gentle Madonna, John thought she looked more like a vicious harlot, a cruel and manipulative Herodias plotting a vengeful death.
‘So you accuse my husband of killing him, Brother?’
‘It would not be surprising if he did, maid. You sought to make your husband jealous, didn’t you?’
‘My husband is a poor fool if he thought I desired Ralph. What would I have done with such a pathetic creature? He was dim, an unreliable fool! The only thing he was good for, or good at, was hitting people. He was a brute, no less a brute than that monster of a dog of his: Rumon! Naming a dog after a saint is as sinful as naming a child after a demon! Both are evil, both are heretical.’
‘Tell me, maid - St Rumon. What was he made saint for?’ Peter asked in his most courteous voice.
Anastasia blinked, shot a glance at her husband, then squared her shoulders defiantly. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘Neither can I,’ Peter confessed happily. ‘So if we are so heretical as to have forgotten that, perhaps Ralph could be forgiven for naming his dog after the man. At least his dog is loyal,’ he said thoughtfully, glancing at the dog. He shook his head a moment, then peered back at the woman. ‘Why do you dislike the man so much, maid? Had he upset you?’
‘He was nothing to me,’ she declared.
‘Curious,’ Peter said thoughtfully. ‘I once spoke to him, and he told me that he had been married. He wedded for love, although the woman died during the famine. Who would she have been? Reeve, do you remember her?’
‘Yes. Cristine, her name was, a pretty, fair haired girl, as slim and as fresh and as lovely as a small white rose. All the men loved her.’
‘And she died young, I suppose?’ Peter asked.
‘Too young. So many died too early in those terrible years.’
‘Were you jealous of her?’ Peter suddenly shot out, staring at Anastasia.
She sneered at him. ‘Of her? Marrying that?’
‘Show some respect for the man, woman!’ Reeve Miria said. ‘It’s his corpse lying there!’
‘Why should I show him anything but contempt? I never liked the man.’
‘I thought you had once been sworn to marry him,’ Peter said gently.
Eustace stared at him, and for a moment John thought he was going to leap upon the brother. His face mottled with anger, and his hand rested briefly on his sword, but his wife put her hand on his, stilling the blade in the sheath.
‘Yes, it’s true enough,’ she said quietly.
John was shivering with nervous excitement as the little group calmed, but also with a faint fear that Peter was possessed of supernatural powers. It seemed as though Peter was able to guess at people’s innermost thoughts and rip from them their darkest secrets.
‘Thank you, mistress,’ Peter said, this time with a bow to honour her confession.
‘I did not kill him,’ she said. ‘But I hated him from the moment that he betrayed me to Cristine. I suppose I should have been grateful to her. She saved me from marrying him. Still, all I knew was, he had given me his word that he would marry me, and he reneged on it. Cristine and I grew up together, and she had been my best friend, and suddenly, he went with her and made his vows at the church door in front of the parson and the congregation. His words to me were conveniently forgotten.’
Her husband stared at her. ‘But I thought you were in love with him again? You spoke much of him when his wife died.’
‘Yes, we should consider you, Eustace, shouldn’t we?’ Peter said. ‘Because you knew your wife had loved this man, didn’t you?’
‘I still
don’t see that my family’s affairs are any of your business,’ Eustace returned, but with less anger than before.
‘I merely wish to resolve some problems,’ Peter said with a calm smile.
Eustace studied him in silence for a long moment, then, ‘I knew she had loved him, yes. I grew up in Tavistock with both of them. It would have been difficult not to notice how fond they were of each other.’
‘And then Cristine married him, and you saw your opportunity to marry the woman you had adored for years,’ Peter said, with a wistful tone to his voice, John thought, as though he had experienced the same chance himself.
‘Yes. I never had cause to regret my offer of marriage,’ Eustace stated stoutly.
‘Until recently, when you began to suspect that Anastasia might be carrying on an affair with Ralph.’
‘I wondered, that is all. We have been married seven years now, and I suppose it is natural for a man and his wife to become a little less romantic, but I thought there was a problem.’
Anastasia turned her astonished face to him. ‘You seriously thought I would consider an affair with a rough, dirty fellow like Ralph?’
‘I didn’t know what to think,’ Eustace muttered. ‘All I was convinced of was that you were less affectionate to me.’
‘Oh, husband! I need affection too. I thought if you were jealous of another man, you might show me more.’
‘Why? Are you so insecure?’
‘I am pregnant!’
Eustace’s mouth gaped wide. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
A little of the steeliness returned to her face, but only for a moment. Then she smiled. ‘Yes, husband, I am.’
‘That’s wonderful news,’ Peter said warmly. ‘Congratulations! Um. But where were you last afternoon, master Eustace?’
For the Love of Old Bones - and other stories (Templar Series) Page 9
