He squatted, staring at the wall and the fallen cudgel, then down at the body, before giving a short exclamation. Slowly, reverently, he uncurled the fingers of Peter’s hand. He studied the hand with intense concentration, and as the Abbot made to leave, he looked up. “Abbot, could you come here, please?”
“What is it, Sir Baldwin?” the older man said, his voice betraying a degree of asperity.
“This,” Baldwin said quietly.
Simon saw a series of deep slashes that cut the palm and fingers. He winced at the sight: he could imagine the pain of the blade cutting so deep into the flesh.
“Well, Sir Knight? Am I supposed to be interested in the last madness of the boy? He is dead, and these marks and mutilations are of no concern to me now,” the Abbot said brusquely.
“They should be. I have only ever seen this kind of mark on men who had tried to defend themselves against an attacker. Why should a suicide slash at his hands? But a man who is set upon by another with a knife will often grab at it to keep the blade away, and as the attacker pulls the knife back…”
“He was attacked?”
“Yes, Abbot. This lad is no suicide. These marks show he tried to protect himself against his killer. My lord Abbot, Peter was murdered!”
“Who could do such a thing?” Abbot Robert whispered, horrified.
Baldwin shrugged. “That I don’t know. Perhaps the man who has been robbing, and perhaps it was the same man who killed Torre. That could explain why the cudgel is here: because Peter saw the thief in the alley, and maybe the robber dropped the club to hide his guilt, and then couldn’t find it again, or ran away as soon as he had killed the boy. Perhaps he wanted to implicate the boy in his own crimes. It is no matter-what does matter is that Peter was murdered, and didn’t commit suicide.”
“Sir Baldwin, you give me a crumb of hope in the midst of all my despair.”
“We still have to seek his murderer.”
“Who could it be? Who would dare such a crime?”
“We have arrested the man who had the knife from the sheath on Torre’s body. It is possible that he could have killed Peter, but…”
“What, Sir Baldwin?”
“He was with Jeanne and Margaret for some time before I had him arrested,” Baldwin said slowly. “I would be surprised if the novice could have been here for long without being discovered: this alley is well used. Yet our man has been in prison for over an hour already. We must go and see whether he can shed some light on this. There is another thing: this monk was keen on a girl.”
“I know it,” the Abbot admitted. “I tried to persuade him out of his infatuation, but it was no good.”
“Last night I saw him north of the fair. This lad was scorned by her, and it looked as though his heart was broken. I think we must see the girl and ask her what was said and why she chose to refuse him so forcefully-perhaps she can give us a clue.”
“What possible clue could she give you?” the Abbot asked.
“She was scathing toward him. Perhaps this was not the act of a mad felon but there is a more prosaic reason for the boy’s death. What if he had a rival? Might not that rival have decided to dispose of her other suitor?”
“If Peter’s rival knew she had spurned him, there would hardly be a reason to kill Peter,” the Abbot said reasonably.
“True, but she was so disdainful of him, I have to wonder what she knows of this. Something surely made her react in that way to him. He seemed so sure of her feelings, and must have been utterly devastated when she rejected him so cruelly. We need to question her.”
“Go and speak to her with my blessing. I can tell you where she lives-Peter told me who she was last night.” The Abbot’s voice hardened. “But first interrogate the man in the jail and find out what he has to say for himself.”
20
H ow did they realize you were involved?” Elias asked.
Jordan shook his head. “The bailiff came to buy cloth, and like a fool I cut it with the knife I used on that man. The knight knew it from the emblem.” He was standing at the unglazed window. The room stank of feces. His brother hadn’t bathed, and Lybbe could smell his sweat, all the worse for his fear. There was a bread-crust on the floor, which had been nibbled by rats, and a bucket with water. A box of ashes formed a crude privy. The window at least offered a little fresh air, and Lybbe leaned gratefully against the bars. “It was my own fault. I should never have come back, but I couldn’t help it.”
“Why did you? You must have known you were walking back to the Abbot’s gibbet!”
“Bayonne was good enough to me, I suppose, but I’m a moorman. Could you live in a land, even the most beautiful place in the world, and not look at the moors ever again? Dartmoor isn’t just a place: if you’re born here, it’s in your bones. I’ve missed it ever since I left. And I missed you, too, you daft bugger. After all, you are my brother.”
“I’ll tell them what happened.”
“It’s a bit late to worry about that,” Jordan said. “I’m sorry I brought you into this, Elias. I should have stayed away.”
It was too late for regrets now. He couldn’t accept it was his fault things had come to this, but he needed time to think, to find a way out of the morass into which he had fallen. His greatest concern was the boy. What would become of poor Hankin? he wondered. He had saved him when his parents had died, and now his stupidity would lead to his second orphanage. For the first time since he had rescued Hankin he felt the weight of his responsibility. He didn’t even know if the lad was safe-there were so many dangers for a youngster at a fair.
But it was hard to think of anyone else while he could feel the shadow of the Abbot’s gibbet. In his mind’s eye he pictured it again, but now he saw it with a body already dangling-his own. His voice was heavy. “Don’t worry, Elias, I’ll tell them everything. There’s no need for you to suffer for me any more.”
“You’ll both tell us what happened,” Simon said sharply from the doorway. “Come out Elias; you too, Lybbe.”
They followed him into the sunlight. A motley crowd had already formed, patiently waiting to hear what the second man had been arrested for. Baldwin eyed the townspeople carefully; he didn’t want any more rioting. He was glad that Edgar had waited at the jail after escorting Jordan Lybbe there; he felt unarmed when his man wasn’t nearby.
Simon read his expression correctly, and inwardly cursed the inevitable curiosity of the townspeople; there was always the risk that a hothead might decide to free men considered innocent or organize a lynching mob. He glanced about him. Next door to the cell was a little room used for meetings by the burgesses of Tavistock. It would do for their enquiries. He led them inside and sat on a stool as the others filed in. Baldwin and Edgar took up stations at either side of the door, the watchman Daniel with them. Simon surveyed the two men before him.
Elias was a scruffy, tattered scarecrow, with wide, fearful eyes and pale face. Lybbe stood with casual resignation, feet apart as if preparing to resist an onslaught. He looked to the bailiff as if he had expected to be caught and was ready for his trial.
“Elias,” Simon began. “You called this man brother-why?”
Lybbe glanced wryly at Elias. “I am his brother. I left here many years ago and went to live in Gascony, but recently I came back to see him. It has been a long time since we last met.”
“Did you kill Roger Torre?”
“No,” Lybbe said flatly. “He was dead when we found him.”
“You’d better tell us what happened.”
“It takes little time. We were drinking in the tavern that evening. I hadn’t been able to warn Elias I was coming here for the fair; I wasn’t even sure he was still alive, but I found the tavern and decided to try it.