‘That is something that troubled me,’ Simon said. ‘How would Gerard have come to know Wally? Surely someone would have needed to introduce them? And then, how would Gerard have
gained access to the lodgings here? Would he not have found the doors barred and locked?’
‘Yes,’ the Abbot said with a frown. ‘In your drunkenness, you must have left the doors open, Augerus.’
‘Perhaps that is why Mark insisted on ensuring I was drunk, my Lord,’ Augerus said with a shocked expression. ‘He wanted to give Gerard access to the rooms so that he could
pass the stolen things to Wally.’
Simon chuckled. ‘This is a fine muddle, my Lord. But we do know some facts. First, that Mark can be persuaded to accept a drink of any sort.’ He ignored a huffy grunt from the
salsarius
. ‘Second, that it would be easy for Gerard to get in here, if he had an accomplice inside your lodgings. We also know that the thefts were tied to Wally’s death, and
that Hamelin also died because of the thefts.’
‘Why?’
‘Hamelin had been given the money, but I think that the money was a secondary motive. If his killer had found it, he would have kept it, but the money itself wasn’t the reason for
the murder. I think he had to die because he saw Mark up at Wally’s house that day. But Ellis saw
two
monks. We know what Mark was doing, he was trying to force Wally to bring back
the pewter, but what about the other man? We know Peter was on the moors – but what if there was a third? Perhaps Hamelin saw him too. And which other monk was not in the Abbey that day?
Augerus.’
‘But I
was
here!’ The Steward looked indignant.
‘The groom said he could get no ale that day. We know he couldn’t go to Mark, but all monks would surely come and ask you for some, if he wasn’t about. Yet no one could find
you either.’
‘It’s not true!’
‘Hamelin was killed in case he spoke later,’ Simon continued sternly. ‘You murdered him, leaving his wife a widow and his children orphaned. How could you do that?’
‘My Lord Abbot, what can I say?’
‘In God’s name, just tell me the truth!’ the Abbot stormed. ‘You have thrown away your honour and integrity and become no more than a felon! You captured an innocent boy
and forced him to do your bidding, didn’t you? Why?’
‘I was scared!’
‘Scared of what?’
Augerus began weeping. He knew it was pathetic, but that was how he felt. Feeble and useless. For many years he had been a capable servant, but now all was lost, and all because of his fear of
the man who had bullied him as a schoolboy.
‘Joce Blakemoor was at school with me, and he beat me. Broke my nose until it gushed. He came to me some time ago and said that he would cripple me if I didn’t help him. He needed
money badly, and I didn’t dare argue. He said he’d make me look worse than Peter. I couldn’t stand up to him. He was always bigger than me.’
‘You could have told me,’ the Abbot said.
‘He swore he’d kill me if I said a word to anyone.’
Simon said, ‘You must have known he couldn’t murder you without suffering the consequences.’
‘What would the consequences matter to me? I’d be dead, wouldn’t I? You speak as if he’s a rational man! He’s not, he’s evil. He could be a novice demon. The
devil’s own acolyte.’
‘You forced Gerard to steal.’
‘Only a little. I had to do something,’ Augerus wailed.
‘And harmed his soul as well as your own!’
‘Is there no one among my Brothers whom I can trust?’ Abbot Robert demanded.
‘You can trust me, Abbot! Please, don’t send me away. Joce’ll have me killed, and—’
Simon gave a low, scornful laugh. ‘You are sad and fearful now, Augerus, but you brutally murdered Wally, didn’t you? Why did you do that?’
‘You have said, to get back the pewter or the money for the Abbey,’ Augerus said, shaking his head as though sadly.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Simon said. ‘Baldwin and I have already heard that Wally diddled his associate out of a tiny part of his share in the proceeds of the
crimes.’
‘A tiny part? It was a whole shilling!’ the Steward expostulated.
‘I think,’ Simon said with a faint smile, facing the Abbot, ‘that that is your answer. The first murder was for one shilling. The second was for less; it was purely to protect
the murderer from the consequences of his first murder.’
‘No, my Lord Abbot! You can’t believe the strange stories told by this Bailiff!’ Augerus babbled. ‘Are you going to convict me on
his
word? Please, I beg, let
me—’
‘You shall have to live out a penance,’ Abbot Robert said, ignoring his plea. ‘I shall consider it. In the meantime, you shall remain under guard. You can go to the church and
begin to pray to God for His forgiveness. When your brother monks are called to the church, you will lie across the doorway so that all can step over you. You, Augerus, are contemptible!’
After eating the food Rudolf brought to him, Joce sat down and talked to the Swiss in a carefully genial manner, waiting for a suitable moment to mention the pewter. If he
could, he wanted to learn in which wagon it had been stored, but somehow the foreigner didn’t understand English well enough. Every time Joce tried to direct the conversation back towards the
town and tin, or pewter, Rudolf began to speak about the mountains in his homelands, or the freedom which the men of the Forest Cantons enjoyed. Every man free, none a slave.
All the while the carts sat so close. They had the look of being well-filled, their wheels sinking and creating ruts in the path, and Joce longed to go to them, to hurl their contents to the
ground, to destroy, to torture or kill, but mainly to find that metal. He
must
find it! It was his guarantee of free passage and a new life.
As the light faded, and twilight quickly overtook the moors, he watched the travellers carefully. It seemed to him that the folk were avoiding him, other than Rudolf himself, and he sat a little
too far from Joce for the Receiver to be able to grab him with any confidence of keeping hold as well as drawing his dagger. He was tempted to try to move closer, but somehow he felt that Rudolf
would notice and could consider it to be a threat. In preference, Joce might reach to pull off a boot. A man without a boot, he reasoned, looked ungainly and unthreatening. He could lean forward
once the boot was off, as though peering inside it, and then throw it at Rudolf, distracting the man, and while he was catching the boot, or pushing it away, Joce could draw his dagger and put it
to Rudolf’s throat. That would give him a chance to demand the pewter, and then he could take a horse and ride off.
But he knew that it was madness. There were so many men here. Any one of them could stop him, could grab at him as he tried to mount a horse, or could wrest the pewter from him. He needed a
better plan.
At the sound of horses, Joce saw two of Rudolf’s men stand and stare back the way he had come, west, towards Tavistock, but he kept calm and sat quietly, listening intently. There were
only a few riders, that was obvious. The ground didn’t vibrate as it would with ten or more heavy mounts, and the rumble of hooves was dissonant, a broken noise, in which almost every hoof
beat could be discerned. Two, maybe three horses, no more, he reasoned.
They took little time to reach the travellers.
‘Who is your leader?’ came a hoarse voice, and Joce felt his belly lurch. Sir Tristram? What was that duplicitous arse doing up here?
Rudolf stood. ‘You are looking for someone?’
‘A man on foot who came past here today, probably late,’ Sir Tristram said. He noticed Joce sitting – now that Rudolf had moved away, Joce was alone. ‘Who are you? Are
you with these travellers?’
Joce rose to his feet and faced him. ‘I am the Receiver of Tavistock, Sir Tristram. You remember me?’
Sir Tristram was tempted to snatch his sword from its scabbard and sweep his head from shoulders. ‘Of course I remember you. Have you seen a man coming past here?’
Joce shook his head. ‘No, no one.’
‘That is odd, then isn’t it?’ Sir Tristram said. He spurred his horse forwards. ‘We have had an exciting day today. A young novice, Master Gerard, from the Abbey, was
savagely attacked and lies close to death in the Abbey. Then we learned of a girl who was threatened by a man who tried to strangle her, and just now we found my Sergeant dead just a little way
from Tavistock, his head taken clean off his shoulders. And the man who did it came this way, first on a horse, then on foot. We came across the horse further back that way. Yet you saw no
one.’
‘He must have turned north or south.’
‘Did you know that Jack saw you at the argument we had in the town? He said he recognised you. Said you were the leader of the Armstrongs. He called you Joce the Red-Hand.’
‘He was dreaming,’ Joce laughed.
Coroner Roger smiled blandly, and then pointed to Joce. ‘Your sleeves are stained, man, as is your tunic near your dagger! You are the . . .’
Before he could finish his words, Joce had moved. He shot across the grass and grasped Anna about the waist, turning with her even as he drew his knife. Instantly he faced the men with the
dagger at Anna’s throat. ‘If any one moves, she dies,’ he snarled.
He had forgotten the two crossbows. There was a hideous thump and grating friction at his shoulder. He felt his whole upper body jerk, his arm losing all power in a moment, and the knife flew
from his hand even as his shoulder seemed to explode. As Anna staggered and fell to her knees before him, he was only aware of the sudden eruption from his shoulder: his tunic snapped away, ripped
and shredded, and there was a violent effusion of blood which sprayed the grass for yards about, a solid mass in its midst. He could see it fly on, a blurred spot in the distance.
A moment later there was a second thud in his spine, and it slammed him down to the earth, where he lay, mouth agape, his remaining good arm scrabbling for purchase in the blood-clogged grass.
He tried to speak, to bellow, but no words came. He could feel pain searing his breast like flames: the bolt had shattered in his spine, and fragments of wood and bone had pricked his chest,
puncturing his lungs; now the blood was clogging his breath and as he opened his mouth to roar, a fine spray of crimson burst forth, staining the grass anew.
It can’t end like this, he thought. There was more astonishment at this than pain or shock. Of all ends, he had never anticipated this. He shivered, and suddenly he realised that his legs
were shaking uncontrollably, quivering against the long grasses, and then the spasms spread upwards, to his groin, then his arms, and suddenly his eyes widened.
And then he was still.
When the Coroner returned to the town, riding on ahead of Sir Tristram, who was bringing Joce Blakemoor’s body back on a sumpter horse, Simon and Baldwin listened with
keen interest to his story.
‘So the Swiss men shot him? A kind end to a violent man,’ was Baldwin’s comment.
‘It explains some of the story,’ Simon said.
‘Yes. We know that the acolyte ran away from the Abbey because he couldn’t cope with the pressure and fear. Augerus had made him steal for him, taking whatever he could from the
Abbey’s guests, and so he ran away, joining Sir Tristram’s men. He hoped to be able to disappear with them. But I suppose when he saw or heard all of us arriving and questioning Sir
Tristram, he panicked and bolted, and somehow Joce caught him and tortured him to learn where the pewter was gone.’
‘Yes,’ said Simon absently, ‘except . . .’
Baldwin chuckled to himself. ‘Come, there is little enough unexplained! You can be content with the scope of your discoveries.’
Simon smiled, but he was still unhappy at the amount he did not know. The acolyte had somehow found clothing; he had been shaved; he had been helped into the lines of men joining the Host, for
he would have been spoken for. Someone must have confirmed his name and details when he applied to Sir Tristram.
And then he suddenly saw in his mind’s eye the pleasant, smiling face of Nob Bakere and his wife Cissy. ‘I think that we may learn a little yet,’ he said.
Leaving Simon’s faithful servant Hugh seated at the bedside of the wounded acolyte, Simon and Baldwin walked out through the Abbey’s gates and strode into the town once more.
‘Where do you want to go?’ Baldwin demanded.
‘There are some details we should learn,’ Simon said, and pushed open the door to Nob’s pie-shop.
It was empty apart from the cook and his wife.
‘Ah, um. Right, can we serve you gentlemen?’ Nob asked, trying to look innocent.
Simon ignored him, but spoke to Baldwin.
‘You remember when we came in here to look at sacks? I found a black tunic, and while I dropped it, unthinking, Nob came over and kicked it away from me angrily. At least, I thought he was
angry at the time. We often kick out at whatever is near, don’t we? When Nob came to me, the nearest thing for him to kick at was the tunic. It flew into the corner. Where is it now,
Nob?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t say. Must still be there, if that’s where I kicked it, Master.’
Simon nodded at his cheerful attitude. ‘Well, I think it’s already burned. Which is a shame, because your son will have to buy a new one. Benedictine habits are not cheap, are they?
Apostasy is one thing, but to burn a tunic – that is like burning your boats, isn’t it? Oh, Mark is being held by the Abbot, I should tell you, and Gerard is back at the Abbey. Much
that was confusing us is now known. All we want is your story.’
‘Their son?’ Baldwin wanted to hit himself for being so dense. ‘I begin to comprehend. Their son is . . ’
‘Reginald the novice,’ said Cissy.
Simon snapped his mouth shut. He had been going to say that Gerard was their boy, and he was glad that he had been saved from making a fool of himself.
Baldwin was frowning intently at her. ‘
Reginald
?’
Cissy sighed and pointed with her chin to the ale barrel. ‘Nob, we might as well have a drink while we explain.’
‘All right, my little cowslip,’ he muttered.
‘And less of your smatter!’ she called after him. ‘Yes, Master Bailiff. I don’t know how you guessed, but our son is Reginald.’