The Abbot's Gibbet aktm-5 Page 10

  Jeanne asked, “Does no one recognize him?”

  “Not with his head gone. He was a merchant as far as anyone knows, and you know the number of merchants who come here for the fair. Until we find his head, it’s hard to prove who he was.”

  “Good God! So we may never know who the poor soul was,” sighed the Abbot.

  “That is possible. Still, we have made some little progress,” Baldwin said, and told them about their talks with the alewife and cook.

  “Does that not give you cause to arrest Elias?” the Abbot asked uncertainly. “If he left the tavern with the man, and the man was not seen alive again, surely that makes it all the more likely that it was him who did the murder.”

  “The more I consider it, the more I think Elias is unlikely to be the killer. He can’t be so stupid! If he was to murder, why would he leave the body so close to his shop? If he wanted to hide the body, he would take it inside, surely, and conceal it more effectively. And if he did stab the man and cut off the head, he would have been covered in blood, but he returned to the tavern with no such stains or marks on him. Then again, if he did kill, where could he have hidden the head? The alewife said he returned quickly after leaving.”

  “There are some things we could check,” Simon said thoughtfully. “We could search his house. If he had little time to hide the head, surely it would be inside. Perhaps we will find blood or something else incriminating.”

  “That is a good idea,” Baldwin said. He looked at the Abbot. “Could you arrange for us to do that?”

  “I shall speak to Holcroft and tell him to have a watchman join you,” he said. “For now, don’t look so fretful! You can only do your best; and it’s difficult to see how you could be expected to resolve a murder when you don’t even know who the dead man was.”

  Margaret saw Baldwin smile politely, but she knew him too well to believe that it was genuine. The knight disliked puzzles. He always wanted to find the truth in any situation, and she was convinced that he was irritated by the paucity of facts upon which he could build a case. She saw him open his mouth, but before he could speak there was a knock at the door. A monk opened it and stood back to let the visitors enter.

  Peter was standing near the door, and when he looked up he saw the Venetians. Seeing them reminded him of the girl, and the memory brought the blood rushing to his face. He hardly heard the Abbot’s introductions.

  “Ah, my friends, please meet Antonio da Cammino and his son Pietro, from Venice. They have been visiting the Bishop of Exeter, and came here to see the fair and discover whether they might be able to profit from it.”

  As he went round the people in the room and introduced them all to the Italians, Margaret noticed that the youth made no attempt to display interest. He hardly bothered to meet the gaze of the men as he was introduced, and soon walked to the window, peering out with apparent petulance.

  His father was plainly disconcerted at such rudeness, and threw a despairing glance at his son’s back. Margaret walked over to divert him. It would be inexcusable for the two to argue in the Abbot’s chamber. “Sir, have you just arrived?”

  “No, I have been here for a day already.” She was surprised that he spoke perfect English, with only the faintest trace of an accent. He saw her confusion, and his face lightened. “You are surprised to hear me speak your tongue so well? I was born in this country. My father was a merchant and lived here for long periods while I was young. I learned English before I learned my own language.”

  “And you come back to England often? Are you on business now?”

  It was hard to place his age, she thought. His looks were timeless, with an easy poise that was entirely foreign. His eyes wrinkled with a charming, and flattering, appreciation. “Yes, I am here to discuss matters with the good Abbot.”

  “But you will have some time for diversions?” she asked. “To visit the fair and see the things on sale?”

  “Oh, yes! I have already been to the fair to see what kind of goods are offered. It is more varied here than many other fairs, especially in Venice.” His eyes left her and went to his son, who stood with his back to the people in the room, one arm resting on the wall by the window.

  “And you, Pietro?” she asked as he turned to face the others.

  “Me, signora? You ask about diversions? There is nothing I want in this town, save one thing,” he said quietly. “But I am not allowed that.”

  “If all you can do is carp and moan, leave us and seek your own amusement! Do not insult the Abbot’s hospitality,” his father said coldly.

  There was silence in the room as the two men eyed each other, the son pale, the older man with an angry gleam in his light gray eyes. The youth shook his head in a quick gesture of despair, and walked from the room.

  The Abbot poured Antonio wine and waved him toward a seat, and the man gave an embarrassed shrug as he accepted it. “I must apologize for my son. I am sorry he was so ungracious, my lord Abbot.”

  “The young are so often difficult to understand,” Champeaux observed.

  While the men chatted, Margaret sat in a corner with Jeanne. The men’s conversation revolved around the business of the fair, and she was uninterested. Matters of finance, such as how many visitors were likely to come over the three days of the fair, how many horses would be sold and whether the King’s own cloth procurers would deign to arrive, were of supreme unimportance to her. For Margaret, the only interest in the market lay in seeing all the goods on display, and buying something for her daughter back at Lydford.

  “Were you married to Sir Ralph for long?” she asked tentatively.

  “For five years, I think.”

  “You must have found the moors a strange sight after Bordeaux.”

  “I did, although there was a memory of it for me. I was orphaned when I was young, and my uncle took me to live with him in Bordeaux, but before that I had lived not far from Tiverton to the north, so seeing Devon again was to see the land where I should have been living if my parents had not died. The only hardship was living so far from a town, but I soon became used to it.”

  Margaret nodded. She could imagine that for a town-dweller the move to the wilds of Dartmoor would have been hard. “When I return to Lydford, you must come and visit us. It is hard for a widow when so few people live nearby. You will make new friends with those we know in Lydford.”

  “That would be very kind of you,” Jeanne said, and her gaze fell upon Baldwin. When she glanced back at Margaret, her eyebrow was raised in a silent question, and Margaret had to stifle a giggle. She had no idea her plan was so transparent.

  “Do you have any children?” she asked, and saw a shadow pass over her new friend’s face.

  “No, none. It has been the regret of my life.”

  “We only have the one. Our son died this year,” Margaret said softly.

  This was the first time she had felt able to leave her daughter behind since her son, Peter, had died. When he had gone, she had almost suffered a brain fever, especially since she had felt as if she had also lost her husband. Simon had always been a model husband, but he felt the lack of a son very acutely. When Peter had been born, Simon was delighted, seeing in his boy a future companion who would carry on his name, and perhaps begin a dynasty that could become a noble family. The shock when their son had died had been all the greater.

  She glanced at him. Simon was listening to the conversation and adding his own comments. The men were talking about tin now, and she could see that the Abbot was pleased with what he heard from his bailiff. Simon, she knew, was respected among the miners because he had shown himself to be shrewd and fair, upholding the rights of the tinners whenever he could, but punishing them when they tried to overstep the mark. Seeing the Abbot treating her husband’s remarks with such respect made her feel a glow of pride. Abbot Champeaux was an important man in Devon.

  Baldwin, she could see, was still worrying at the problem of the murdered man. She wished they would return to discussing the killin
g; it was vastly more interesting than this talk of metal and wool. Her attention wandered to the anxious features of Antonio da Cammino. He was staring at the door through which his son had left, and looking at him, Margaret could feel a little of his pain. Margaret was a sensible woman, born and raised on a farm, and she had seen how young creatures could turn on their parents. Seeing Antonio’s expression made her remember that no matter how careful were the parents, their children could always prove to be a disappointment. Fleetingly she wondered how her dead son might have turned out.

  Simon saw the sudden dullness in his wife’s eyes and quickly left the conversation, bringing the bottler to top up her wine.

  While he spoke to Abbot Champeaux and Cammino, Baldwin noticed Margaret and Simon together. They looked happy with each other again, now that both had overcome their sadness. He could watch the affection between Simon and his wife with pleasure, but it sometimes reminded him of his own loneliness. Then he caught a measuring look from Jeanne.

  It made him consider his position. When he had joined the Templars he had taken the vow of chastity. Yet since his Order had been destroyed by the Pope’s avarice, he considered his oaths annulled. The Pope had demanded obedience, and had then betrayed his knights, so how could the oaths of poverty and chastity be valid?

  Baldwin was proud not to have succumbed to lust as so many of his peers did so regularly, but he could admit to himself that now he was adrift in the secular world, without the great purpose of the Templars to order his life, he felt the same urges as his fellows. He wanted a wife for a companion. And he wanted a son to continue his name.

  His attention was drawn back as the Venetian spoke. “My lord Abbot, I hear that a man has been found dead. Is that right?”

  “I fear so, Antonio. He appears to have been killed out near the tavern on the Brentor road.”

  “A great shame, the poor man,” Cammino said, shaking his head.

  “Yes. I am fortunate indeed to have Sir Baldwin and Simon here. They are experienced in finding killers. I am sure they will soon discover the murderer.”

  “Yes. Of course.” Cammino was thoughtful for a moment, then he glanced at the door. “My lord Abbot, ladies, Sir Baldwin, Simon – I fear I should find my son and ensure that he is not making a fool of himself somewhere else.” He took his leave of them, his servant following him through the door.

  When Baldwin caught a glimpse of the Abbot’s expression, he saw that it betrayed relief. Champeaux made no effort to hide his feelings. “It is well said that a man’s worst enemy is his son – the son always knows how to hurt. So, Sir Baldwin, is there anything else you will need to conduct your enquiry?”

  “Hmm? Oh, no.” The knight’s gaze was firmly locked on the door through which the two Venetians had left. “No, I think I have everything I need, thank you.”

  “Good. In that case, let us dine. I know I am hungry!”

  Holcroft walked slowly and deliberately on his way to the brewers’ stalls. More than before, he felt he needed a drink, and not a weak ale.

  A monk had robbed Will Ruby! The idea was mad, yet Ruby had been convincing. He had seen the Benedictine, had bowed to him, acknowledging the man, and as soon as he passed, had been struck on the head. While he was on the ground, stunned, his purse was grabbed, there was a flash of steel, and he had lost his money. At the time he was glad that the blade had cut only the thongs of his purse and hadn’t stabbed his heart, but as he said to the port-reeve, if this was to get out, there would be danger for any monk in the town.

  That was the rub, and Holcroft knew it. It was inconceivable that a real monk could be guilty, it had to be someone masquerading. But if this got out, people would at best look askance at a monk in the street. If he didn’t let it be known that someone was dressing in monk’s garb to steal, the man could continue unimpeded, but if Holcroft did, it would be impossible for a monk to walk abroad – at the fair almost everyone was a foreigner, and few would know one of the real monks.

  He sipped at his beer. The story would be bound to get about if there was another theft; he was lucky that the first man to be attacked was a townsman wary of causing offense to the Abbot. The next merchant to be robbed was likely to be someone from out of town, and then the news would become common knowledge, and when it did, there was the risk that a mob could form. Tavistock had ever been a quiet, safe town, with few of the riots so common to great cities like Bristol and London, but Holcroft knew perfectly well that there was resentment among some of the population at the wealth of the Abbey. Like dried tinder, mutiny required but a tiny spark to ignite an all-consuming flame, and news that a monk was robbing people could be that spark.

  He had no choice: he must tell the Abbot. Finishing his ale, he set the empty pot back on the table and stared at it. When he glowered around him there was no sign of a Benedictine habit, which was a relief, but that only meant that the thief was somewhere else, waiting to strike the first passer-by with a filled purse.

  Holcroft set off toward the Abbey with a heart that had sunk so far it felt as if it was dragging on the ground behind him.

  In the fairground the excitement of the morning had died a little. Now the visitors walked more speculatively, with less urgency, as they realized that there was plenty more for all to buy and no need to rush to get stock from the first stall to display something suitable.

  People strolled along the thronged streets and alleys, measuring the wares, assessing their worth and comparing the goods from one stall with those of the next.

  Elias could see how the customers wandered from one place to another, and was glad that he sold meats and pies. With his business, people wanted what he had or they didn’t. There was none of that seeing something on one trestle, then rushing back to another merchant and telling him that the same cloth, or gloves, or shirt, could be purchased for at least a penny less five stalls up. For Elias, it was a simple case of “What’s in that pie? Oh, good, I’ll take one.”

  He sat on his barrel and rested his back against the pole of the awning. A jug of ale in his lap, he gradually allowed the warmth of the sun to ease his eyelids shut. It was so good to sit and soak up the heat.

  Elias had married, but his wife had died in childbirth with their second child. His first had succumbed to a strange disease which made him short of breath and sneeze in the spring, and though Elias had thought that he should be safe enough when he got to ten years old, the cook had returned home one afternoon to find his boy lying blue-lipped and pale in the hall, gasping sporadically for breath. Panicking, Elias had rushed to the Abbey, and begged the doorman to fetch a monk to help, but by the time the man had found one, his boy was dead.

  The cook sniffed and took another long draft of ale. It had been hard, but after burying his wife and child, he had settled into a routine. Working hard to keep his business going took up most of his day, and then there was always the tavern and Lizzie or another girl. All in all he was reasonably content.

  The barrel rocked and he came to with a sudden alarm. Standing over him were two of the men from Denbury. His startled gaze went from one to the other.

  “Elias, we think you need your stall looked after carefully,” said Long Jack.

  The second man smiled. In a way, that was more terrifying than anything else. His teeth were black stumps, and his breath was as foul as the devil’s own. “Long Jack’s right,” he leered. “Otherwise you might find all your pies and things trampled on the ground. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

  9

  It was gloomy here. The sun was beyond its zenith, and buildings shadowed the packed dirt of the roadway. Laughing men and women trailed idly, most drifting back toward the town, the excitement of the first morning of the fair beginning to pall in the middle of the afternoon. They had already sated themselves in viewing the range of goods available; now was the time to return to inn, tavern or rented rooms to prepare for the evening’s entertainments.

  In the gloom of a doorway, Pietro da Cammino waited nervo
usly, leaning against a wall and glancing up and down the street with anxiety creasing his brow as the people trickled past, one or two casting an uninterested glance in his direction.

  His father couldn’t understand. He was too old. Pietro had listened to Antonio telling him time after time how he had wooed Isabella, his mother, all those years before, and how proud he had been to win so handsome a woman, yet Antonio could not understand that Pietro had found the woman he needed at last. Even her name, Avice, sounded unique to the young Venetian. The name matched the girl; both were rare and exotic.

  She was beautiful. Pietro was smitten on the ride into town, but when he mentioned her to his father, as they returned to their room from seeing the Abbot after their abortive visit to the tavern, Antonio had immediately expressed his reservations.

  “No, Pietro. She’s not right for you.”

  “Not right?” He could still feel the disbelief. “What does that mean? She’s well-mannered, beautiful, healthy, and her father has money! No other woman could be so ideal for me.”

  “That’s not the point. We are here only long enough for me to persuade the Abbot, you know that. There is no time for you to court her. No, leave her alone, and we will find you a wife when we return home.”

  “Home? I know all the women at home! Avice is the woman I want.”

  “Yes? And how will you win her hand? You are prepared to stay in this country, are you? What would you do when I left?”

  His father had been amused, his tone patronizing, but his conviction that Pietro was wrong made his son determined. Antonio had no right to prevent him choosing the woman he wanted; he was old enough to choose for himself.

  “I’ll stay here with her if I want!”

  “Without my money to keep you?”

  “Your money?”

  Antonio had frozen at that, his confidence evaporating at the sharpness in his son’s tone. He took a deep breath and spoke placatingly. “Pietro, you must see that this is impossible. We must be gone within a few days. What if something goes wrong? You would still be in this country – at risk.”