“And these thieves-the men you think killed Torre. Who were they, again?”
“They call themselves ‘Cammino.’”
Edgar and Daniel took the brothers back to the jail, and when they had gone, Simon glanced at the knight. “What do you think?”
“I think it is preposterous. Why go through this charade when all they need do was report finding a body and tell what they knew about the other men?”
“You heard what Lybbe said about the watch.”
“Yes, and that was untrue. He said he arrived here the day Torre was killed. The watchmen tried to extort money from him the next day, so it was a lie to say he was scared of them at that point-unless…” His voice trailed off as he stared unseeing through the open door. It faced down the road toward the town. In the distance he saw a figure, the port-reeve.
“What is it?” Simon demanded as Baldwin strode off.
“A thought. Come on, hurry up!” the knight cried over his shoulder. The bailiff cursed, but set off after him.
The port-reeve had hoped that the earlier questioning would be enough. He had several transactions to witness, and tried to mask his impatience as the knight hurried to him.
“Holcroft, you have lived here for some time, haven’t you?”
“All my life.”
“Did you know Elias had a brother?”
“Yes, of course-Jordan. Left here, oh, years ago. At least twenty.”
“Why did he go away?”
The port-reeve pursed his lips. “He was an outlaw. He joined a band of trail-bastons, a group that murdered and burned their way round the north of the county. He was only found because the gang got into a fight with the people of Tiverton, and the town won. They chased the men for miles, but the crooks were lucky. One of their band was found in a church, claiming sanctuary, and agreed to approve. He gave all the names of the men in the gang, and was allowed to abjure the realm. One of the names he gave was Jordan Lybbe’s.”
“How did Lybbe escape justice?” asked Simon.
“Easy. He came home before news of the battle reached here. Took some of his belongings and disappeared. A ship left the coast shortly after, and it was said that a man looking like Lybbe had gone aboard just before it set sail.”
“I see. Well, thank you, Holcroft,” said Baldwin.
He left them, and Simon shook his head. “So that’s why he preferred this elaborate hoax rather than calling the watch.”
“He knew his life would be forfeit if he was discovered in the kingdom again. If he called the watch and was recognized, he would be hanged.”
“And so he will!”
“Yes,” Baldwin agreed, but he was perplexed. “But why should he remove the head and hide it? If he had nothing to do with the murder, he’d have just left town while it was dark.”
“Maybe he thought that would be viewed as an admission of guilt.”
“But if he thought that, he’d have just left the body as it was. There must have been a reason for him to remove the head.” Baldwin put his own on one side. “The alternative is, he was the killer: but why should he kill Torre? We have no motive for him to have done that.”
“Maybe Torre recognized him.”
“If he had, wouldn’t he have shouted it out? The watch were in the tavern, so were many others. If Torre had recognized Lybbe, he’d have made a row.”
“Unless he thought he could blackmail Lybbe into paying him for his silence.”
“In that case, Torre would have gone to speak to him, but no one saw them talk.”
“We haven’t asked anyone whether they spoke,” Simon pointed out reasonably.
“True. But also, if Torre realized who Lybbe was, he surely wouldn’t have gone out with Lizzie. He’d have stayed inside where he could keep an eye on his investment, whether he had spoken to him or not. This all makes no sense.”
“Are you saying his story was true and the Venetians did it?”
“I don’t know, Simon. But it makes as much sense as Lybbe being the killer.”
They left the jail and went back down the hill again. The house to which the Abbot had directed them was a pleasant block not far from the tavern, and Baldwin thumped heavily on the door as soon as they arrived. A harassed maidservant appeared, and Baldwin strode past her into the hall.
Inside, a woman sat placidly sewing at a tapestry. She looked up in some surprise at the sound of footsteps ringing on the stone flagging, and then her face sharpened. “What is the meaning of this intrusion? Do you have business with my husband, because if you don’t I’ll call for the watch this instant!”
“My lady, excuse our abrupt entrance,” Baldwin said smoothly. “It is the young lady we wish to speak to, the girl who has befriended the monk Peter. Do you know where she is?”
Marion studied him coldly and set her tapestry aside. “What would you want with her?”
“Lady, the boy has been found murdered, and we must find out whether she can help us find the killer.”
“Murder? My daughter knows nothing about this. I cannot allow you to question her.”
“We must.”
“You will not, on my honor! If you wish, you may speak to my husband, but-”
“We are here,” Simon interjected, “on the Abbot’s orders. It is very important that we speak to your daughter instantly.”
Mistress Pole scowled, but consented. The Abbot’s will could not be denied. She sent the maidservant to fetch her daughter. In a few moments she returned, but alone. “Mistress, the door’s locked, and she won’t answer.”
“Let me try,” Marion said, and lifting her skirts, she hurried from the room. Simon glanced at Baldwin, and they followed after her.
“Avice? Avice, open this door at once!”
She pounded on the timbers with the flat of her hand, and Baldwin could see that she was beginning to panic. He muttered, “God’s blood!” If there was one complication he did not want, it was that the girl might have run away with her beau.
“Lady, excuse me.”
He looked at Edgar, and his manservant rushed at the door with his shoulder. It shivered, but the timber was strong. Baldwin joined him. Under their combined weight the door and frame shattered, and Baldwin tripped over a broken spar to fall flat on his face. From the floor he could see that the room was deserted. The open window told the story of Avice Pole’s escape.
Behind him he heard a stifled laugh. “Simon, if you think this is funny,” he said coldly, “next time you can charge the door.” He slowly got to his feet, wincing at the bruise on his shoulder. It felt as if he had broken it at the same time as the door. When he looked at the jamb, he saw that the door had been bolted on the inside.
“What in the Devil’s name is the meaning of all this?”
Simon turned to find a florid-faced man gaping at the devastation. There was a strong smell of alcohol as he entered the room. “I return to my house to be told that strangers have forced their way in, and then I find that they’ve destroyed a door! What’s this all about, eh? Who are you?”
Baldwin dusted his knees and stepped over the wreckage. “I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, and this is Simon Puttock, bailiff of Lydford Castle. We are investigating the murder of Roger Torre and a novice monk on behalf of the Abbot.”
“What has this to do with me and my family?”
“Arthur, these men wanted to speak to Avice, but she’s gone. Arthur, she’s run away!”
“What?” Her husband scanned the room, his eyes returning to Marion’s face with fright. “When? I mean, how?”
“She’s disappeared. It must be Pietro!”
“I’ll have his blood if he’s harmed my Avice!”