Hugh was confused now. “So what are you saying? I…”
“I just don’t believe that he killed the abbot. I can’t believe it! I think that whether he came across the monks on the road by chance or whether he was looking for them, either way he would have kept his war horse. He was a knight, he would not have just left it or given it away! A war horse costs over a hundred pounds!”
“Er… well, yes, but…”
“So, could his own story have been genuine? Could it be true that he found the horse? Could it be true that he came across it and took it because he had no other?”
“Master, perhaps…”
“No,” said Simon decisively. “I’m certain the killer of the abbot was someone else. And that means that Master Black’s opinion must be wrong. Black thinks that because a murderer went through the area, he must have killed Brewer on the way. I think Rodney didn’t kill de Penne. I believed him when he seemed so shocked at the idea of killing a monk, and I think it’s equally unlikely he could have killed the fanner – after all, Brewer was very unpopular, surely it’s more likely he was killed by someone local, someone who hated him? No, someone else must have killed them!” He kicked at his horse and coaxed it into an easy canter, and, sighing, Hugh urged his own horse to keep up.
Without having to follow a trail, and being able to keep to the roads and lanes, they made good time and were in Drewsteignton by midday. They paused to water the horses, then were on their way again, keeping to an easy pace so as not to strain their animals, and were in Creditor at dusk. Hugh expected his master to suggest that they went on immediately, and was surprised when he blandly mentioned his aches and pains and proposed that they should stay the night with the priest at Crediton church, Peter Clifford. Shrugging, Hugh agreed, but with a suspicion at the back of his mind that his master must have an ulterior motive – he seemed too off-hand about the suggestion.
The priest was delighted to see them. He rushed out to welcome them, arms outstretched, his eyes gleaming with delight. He led them through to his room and, when they were seated by the fire, poured them mulled wine.
“So, my friends, what are you doing so far from home? I heard about the gang killing the abbot, and that you went after them – did you have any joy in your hunt?”
Simon stared at his pewter mug as he spoke. “Yes, Peter, we caught them all, down on the moors. They managed to kill again, though.”
“Oh, no!” Clifford’s brow wrinkled in his sadness at the news.
Simon leaned forward and fixed a firm stare on his friend. “Peter, do you remember a knight passing through Crediton at about the same time as the monks? Did you hear anything about a stranger? A tall man, very broad, and sitting on a great horse? He might have had a companion with him.”
“No. No, I don’t think so. Why, who was he?”
“His name was Rodney of Hungerford. We found him with the trail bastons – he seems to have been an impoverished knight. John Black and the others think he might have killed the abbot.”
“No, I’m sure I would remember if I had heard anything of him.”
“Yes. Ah well, it was worth a try.”
“So. This attack, Simon. Did many get hurt?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Simon, and went on to describe the murders, the posse’s chase over the moors and the fight with the outlaws. The priest sat attentively, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his mug in his hand, nodding his understanding at the tale as it unfolded.
“I see,” he said when Simon had finished. “So many poor souls! And all for lust, lust for money and lust for the women. Oh dear God, take them into your care and protect these poor souls.” He stared unseeing into the flames. After a pause, he looked up keenly at the bailiff. “But you are not sure that these men were the killers of Brewer and the abbot?”
“Well, now you mention it…”
The priest leaned back, a smile on his face. “Come along, now, Simon. You know you’ll tell me sooner or later!”
The bailiff laughed shortly, relaxed by the warmth and the wine, before looking across at his friend. “Alright, Peter. I am certain that they did kill the merchants, or as certain as I can be, anyway.”
“But?”
“I am equally unsure that this knight was involved in the death of the farmer or the abbot. I find it hard to believe that the abbot was killed on a whim -I think it must have been a planned murder. That means I do not believe that it was a robbery – whoever heard of a robber killing his victims like that?”
“So you don’t think the robbers may have simply been disturbed? That they panicked and wanted to get away?”
“Peter, really! No, I don’t think so. The killer took his time, remember. He tied the abbot to a tree and lit a fire under him. He sat and watched while the man died. If somebody had happened upon the scene, surely it would have been reported? Then again, if they had been seen, surely they would have just stabbed their man. No, it makes no sense for them to have killed the abbot, not in that way, if they were in a hurry.”
“I’m confused, then. So why do you think it was done that way?”
“All I can think is that the abbot was killed to work off a grudge of some sort. It’s the only thing that makes sense to me. Someone wanted to make a point by the way they killed the man. Perhaps they thought he was a heretic, perhaps they thought he had given false witness against another – I don’t know what! But I’m sure it wasn’t Rodney.”
“So who do you think could have done it?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
They all lapsed into silence and stared into the flames, Clifford with a reflective smile on his face, Simon with a fixed frown as he tried to make sense of the murder, teasing at the facts to pull out the cord of truth, but with little expectation of succeeding. Hugh wore a glare of fierce indifference as he sat with his arms crossed and legs straight out in front. “If only…” he mused.
“What?” said Simon sharply.
“If only we knew more about the abbot. Then we might know what reasons there might be for the attack, if it was revenge.”
Simon put his head to one side, and looked over at Clifford with a studied indifference. He asked, “So, Peter, did you discover anything about the monks while they were here?”
The priest stared at him for a moment, then roared with delighted laughter. “Ah! Ah, my friend. Always so subtle! So that’s why you came here, is it? Not just to eat and drink of my best, but to use my mind as well!”
“Possibly,” said Simon, grinning back. Hugh sighed and folded his arms, staring at the flames in boredom and letting the conversation flow around him heedlessly, disgruntled at the feeling that his master had taken his thought without any thanks. Then his expression relaxed and he gave himself up to enjoyment of the warmth of the room, ignoring the other two.
“I had not met any of them before, nor did I know of them by name. The abbot came with letters of introduction, and I had no reason to doubt them. They were just travellers on their way to Buckland, I don’t think I discovered anything else about them.”
“You know the abbot’s name? Oliver de Penne?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And the others, did you speak to brother Matthew?”
“Matthew,” the older man said musingly, staring into the flames. “Matthew. Ah, of course! No, he was the one who had a friend here. It was because of him that the brothers stayed here for so long.”
“What? How do you mean?”
“Well, Matthew met a friend in Crediton on their first day here, and he managed to persuade the abbot to wait here for two more days so that he could go and visit his friend at his house. I must say it didn’t please the abbot, he was most peevish about it, very upset. It almost seems a little eery now, doesn’t it, as if he knew he was in danger?”