The Devil's Acolyte (2002) (28 page)

The Abbot shook his head as though still debating with himself whether he should discuss so sensitive a matter with a man from outside the cloister. ‘I spoke to Bishop Walter at Exeter
recently. He told me of the service you did him regarding Belstone’s convent.’ He looked up and met Baldwin’s gaze. ‘I would be grateful if you could keep all this to
yourself, Sir Baldwin. Repeat it to no one.’

‘Even Simon? If I need to talk about my theories, I shall have to let him know all that I know myself.’

‘Then when that becomes necessary, you may tell him, but until then, please keep it secret that I suspect one of my own Brothers. It is too grave a burden for the ears of the gossips in
the town. I trust Simon entirely, but as soon as a secret is shared, it is no longer a secret.’

‘I confess I see no point in concealing matters. Is Simon aware of the stolen wine?’

‘Yes. And the dead man, of course, but I . . . I pray it might not be so. If there is a connection, Sir Baldwin, then the only possible conclusion is that not only is one of my brethren
guilty of stealing from my undercroft, but also he is guilty of . . .’

‘Of murder. Yes. But surely there are other possibilities?’

‘I find it hard to believe that a man from outside the Abbey could have broken into my stores and taken out a barrel-load of wine as well as escaping,’ the Abbot said with some
acerbity.

‘True. Yet there are always possibilities. I should prefer to be able to confide in Simon. I have utter faith in him.’

‘So do I, usually,’ the Abbot said. He stared down at his table. ‘I told him to ignore the theft from my stores. I had only mentioned it in his presence in order to raise
gossip and possibly bring the thief to his senses. I had thought that the guilty man might confess to me – but my hope has been dashed. What if the thief
is
the murderer?’ he
muttered distractedly.

‘If there is no connection between the two crimes, there can be no harm in telling Simon, and if there
is
a connection, I will be able to find the man with more speed if I have
Simon’s assistance.’

The Abbot said nothing, but frowned, and Baldwin continued: ‘Surely others will already have heard about the wine? They will be thinking that there are parallels between this and the story
of the Abbot’s Way.’

‘Yes, you may be right.’ The Abbot stared hard at him. ‘But Simon, as you know, has a moorman’s concerns, a tin-miner’s superstition. I have one fear, and that is
that his own partiality to ghosts and pixies could influence his investigation of the dead man. Does that make sense? If I ask him to concentrate only on the dead miner, he can enquire into that
without being swayed by stories of the devil.’

‘I suppose that is sensible,’ Baldwin allowed cautiously. He too knew how superstitious Simon was.

‘As regards the matter of the wine, already one other of my monks has raised the name of a fellow with me, suggesting that he suspects him. You know Brother Peter, the Almoner?’

‘Of course. The man with the terrible scar.’

‘That is he.’ Abbot Robert paused a moment before going on.

Sir Baldwin waited patiently. He thought the Abbot looked very tired. No doubt it was partly the weight of carrying suspicion in his heart, suspicion that was aimed at one of his colleagues, but
then Baldwin knew that the Abbot had been elected to the abbacy in 1285, thirty-seven years ago. That was a long time for one man to run a complex administration. Baldwin had seen how strenuous the
work was during his past, when he was a Knight Templar.

If the men with whom Baldwin had served had suffered because of the destruction of their Order, then Abbot Robert had suffered from the sheer length of his service. It was not a thought which
had occurred to Baldwin before, but now as he looked at Robert Champeaux, he saw that the lines about his face were deeper, the laughter lines at his eyes less obvious, and the general impression
he gained was one of exhaustion. Baldwin’s heart went out to him. If he could help the man, he would.

‘It is not only myself, you see,’ the Abbot went on. ‘I know that one other monk has seen the same signs. He too suspects. And he has come to speak to me, and I have to decide
what I should now do. And I have decided. I shall let you know the suspect’s identity so that you can look for evidence. If you find it, I shall call upon the fellow to confess to me, and
then I can act as his confessor. But if he refuses . . . Why then, I must be sure that I am correct and that he is guilty.’

After this speech, Abbot Robert was silent again for a long time. He fiddled with his papers, stood and walked to the open window, staring out along the rows of apple trees and beyond before he
could work up the courage to name one of his brethren.

‘I have to wonder how long this thieving has been going on for,’ he said eventually. ‘Perhaps all my guests in the last few years have had small items disappear while they were
here under my roof, and all were too polite to mention it to me. How could someone believe that a felon could infest an Abbey, after all? They must have blamed themselves for mislaying their
property, perhaps thinking that they left it behind in the last inn where they passed a night, or that a light-fingered servant took it. But I believe that it was the same thief who stole my wine.
He has grown bolder and feels secure enough to confront me personally!’

‘What do you fear, Abbot?’

‘Me? I fear many things, Sir Knight: the devil himself, bogs on the moors, a clumsy horse, and most of all my own over-confidence and stupidity! But more than all of these, I fear accusing
a young man unjustly and later realising that I have blighted his life without reason.’

‘I trust God wouldn’t lead you astray,’ Baldwin said fervently, but then his expression sharpened. ‘A youngster? You mean . . .’

‘I am advised to watch a young novice. An acolyte named Gerard.’

Almoner Peter had finished his duties early and was heading for the
calefactory
with the intention of finding a pint of wine and following that with a short snooze, if
possible. He felt as though he deserved it.

But then he saw the arrival of the Coroner and the knight from Furnshill, and loitered shamelessly as he watched them unloading their packhorse and taking their belongings up to the rooms which
had been allocated to them. A short while later he saw Augerus running over and hurrying up the stairs himself, then he reappeared with the knight and the two men walked quickly over to the
Abbot’s lodging.

The Coroner’s face was familiar enough, aye, to fellows in Western Devonshire where he tended to ply his trade, so for Peter, his presence must mean that Wally’s body on the moor was
to receive its inquest at last. That was a matter of interest to Peter – as was the identity of this second man who was of such importance that the Abbot would ask him to visit before even
thinking of seeing the Coroner.

It was not fear for himself that motivated him, but concern for the Abbey itself. If stories should spread about the wine, perhaps about other things which had been taken from the Abbey, that
could only harm the great monastery’s reputation, even the reputation of the Abbot himself. The Abbot must already be worried, to have asked this man to visit him, for having seen the urgency
displayed by the messenger and Baldwin in responding to the Abbot, Peter doubted that it was merely a social call.

He watched a little longer and saw the Bailiff striding in through the gate and entering the guest rooms. Good, he thought: so the Bailiff and the Coroner were to talk about the body,
presumably, while the Abbot was to talk to the stranger knight about . . . what? If the good Abbot wished to discuss Walwynus’ murder he’d surely ask the Coroner and the Bailiff to join
them, wouldn’t he?

Aye, but it was odd. The Abbot was not the sort of man to demand that visitors should dance attendance on him as soon as they reached Tavistock after a strenuous journey, and the man’s
appearance told of a long ride and stiff joints.

Coming to a decision, Peter changed his mind and the direction of his steps. Instead of the
calefactory
, he walked to the brewery and out to the racks of barrels behind. He filled a jug
and took a cup, blowing into it to remove the dust and a spider. Peering into the Great Court once more, he decided that he might as well go to his own room; he could see what was happening from
there. He was sitting at his rough plank table, when he saw Sir Baldwin walking slowly and pensively out of the Abbot’s lodging, crossing the yard to the Great Gate, and thence up the stairs
to the guest rooms.

Leaving his cup in his room, Peter wandered outside. When he glanced about him, he saw grooms at their work with the visitors’ horses. There was no fraternity closer, Peter always
considered, than the brotherhood of horse-lovers, and among the grooms here, Ned the Horse was well-named.

He was there now, and Peter walked over to him, intending to learn all he could, but before he could do so, Brother Augerus strode up to the Ostler, a look of determination upon his
features.

Peter just had time to retreat to an alcove, where he leaned against a wall and overheard the entire conversation.

Augerus spoke as though holding back his irritation. That was quite fascinating in its own right, Peter thought, for it meant that not only had the Abbot
not
taken him into his
confidence, he had also sent Augie away on some menial task, presumably because the canny old bugger knew that Augie would listen at his door if he wasn’t sent off.

‘Ned – that’s a good-looking mount. Whose is it?’

‘This’n? B’longs that C’roner.’

‘Oh, so the good Coroner from Exeter has arrived at last? That is good news. He will be able to tell us who killed the miner.’

‘Reck’n us know. Can’t bugger wi’ the devil.’

‘You know what the Abbot says about rumours of that kind. It’s nonsense to think that the devil has had a hand in the death of Walwynus. It was someone else up on the
moors.’

His only response was a grunt.

‘What about that other horse? Whose is that?’

But Ned appeared to have taken Augerus’s snapped comment as an insult. Ned himself was a professional, and although he was not the social equal of Augerus, whose post as Steward to the
Abbot gave him an elevated status, Ned was easily the best horseman in the town, and knew it.

‘Man with your master now,’ he said, after some thought spent gently brushing the horse. A large scab of dried mud took his attention and he ignored the furious Augerus.

‘Come now, man. I know his name is Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, for that is the name the messenger gave the Abbot. I was merely wondering what he was here for. Do you think he’s here to
help the Coroner?’

‘P’raps. Dunno.’

‘He arrived here with Sir Roger, didn’t he?’

‘Reck’n.’

‘Ned, what do you know about him?’ Augerus demanded. In his exasperation his voice had risen, and now Peter could imagine the long, steady stare that the horseman gave him over the
back of the great mount.

‘None of my bus’ness. Ask Abbot.’

Augerus spun on his heel and stormed away, passing Peter with a face as twisted as that of a man who has bitten into a blackberry, only to find that it was a sloe. The Almoner chuckled to
himself, his hand up at his mouth and touching his old wound like a man reaching for a talisman. Once Augerus had disappeared, he sniffed, eased his shoulders, and walked around the wall.

‘Hello, Ned.’

‘Almoner.’

‘That looks a fine animal.’

‘ ’Tis that.’

‘Has the Abbot bought it? It’s another of his own, is it?’

‘No. Guests.’

‘I see. It’s the Coroner’s, is it? I saw that he had arrived.’

‘No. It’s a knight’s. Friend of C’roner’s.’

‘Oh, someone who’s here to help the Coroner, I suppose. Another dull-witted clod of a city-dweller who thinks he knows all about moors, livestock and horses. They see a few animals
in their markets and think they know enough to tell farmers how to raise them; show them a good Arab horse and they’d use it in a plough.’ He gave a dry laugh.

‘Most of ’em are daft enough to put a mount like this to a cart,’ Ned agreed, a gleam of amusement in his eyes at Peter’s sally – but then Peter had often brought
him wine when the weather was cold over winter and had never commanded him to do anything. By comparison, Augerus had always been keen to let the servants know his own importance.

‘Let’s hope this daft fellow won’t cause too much trouble, then, eh?’

‘This ’un’s not here just for the murder. Abbot asked ’un ’bout the theft.’

Peter feigned astonishment. ‘The theft? Which?’

‘Which do you think? The wine, of course. You want to know how I know?’ The Ostler lowered his voice. ‘That overblown bag of wind Augerus was told to clear out of the
Abbot’s room, right? So he couldn’t stand and eavesdrop like he’s wont. That means it must affect
him
. So, Brother – what’s happened that affects him? The
stealing of the wine, that’s what! I reckon the Abbot thinks his Steward has a taste for strong red wine.’ Ned guffawed.

‘My friend, I think you have a most perspicacious mind,’ Peter said with genuine respect. Ned’s argument did indeed make sense, and the Almoner wondered whether the Abbot had
heard evidence against Augerus. It was possible. For his own part, Peter was convinced that Augerus was a malign influence on the boy. It was for that reason that he had spoken to Gerard, trying to
warn him to stop thieving.

‘Not just that,’ the groom said. He sniffed loudly, hawked and spat. ‘Reckon Augerus has his hose in a tangle.’

‘Why?’

‘That Gerard. He’s disappeared.’

‘Oh?’ said Peter. ‘Really?’ Although he tried to feign surprise, he gave Gerard the thief little thought. There were more important matters for him to consider. After
all, he knew what had happened to Gerard.

Cissy was relieved to close up that night. Nob had kept away from her, sensing her mood, and had remained behind the trestle, cooking with an urgency she had never seen before.
Now that all the customers had gone, he could avoid her no longer.