Simon leaned forward, tensely gripping the mug in his hand. “Who did he want to meet, Peter?”
Hugh sat up in astonishment as Clifford said, “The new man at Furnshill – what’s his name? Oh, of course. Baldwin, that was the man, Sir Baldwin Furnshill.”
Chapter Twenty
Early next morning, assailed by his doubts, Simon was dejected and confused about how to continue. The weather was miserable, with low squally clouds blowing quickly across a blustery sky and the rain falling constantly in a steady flow, driven by the wind from the moors. Hugh and he sat in Peter Clifford’s hall in front of the fire and waited for the rain to stop, or at least pause, so that they could finish their journey home.
Simon was torn. He was sure now that somehow Baldwin was involved in the abbot’s murder. But what should he do? It was one thing for a bailiff to arrest a sheep-stealer, or to stop a poacher. But to arrest a knight? As the lord’s representative, he had the authority, but where was the proof that Baldwin had committed the crime? All Simon had was a series of vague clues, nothing more; not even a reason. He knew that Baldwin had known Matthew, that the brother had delayed the monks on their journey, but that was no reason to arrest him. The abbot had been taken captive by a man who looked like a knight, a man on a great horse; but there were any number of men living around Creditor! who could be mistaken for a knight. Just the fact that Baldwin knew Matthew was no proof that he knew the abbot, let alone wanted him dead.
But even as he thought about it, Simon was sure. He knew he was right. Baldwin had arrived from God only knew where, he had travelled widely – he had at least hinted at that, even if he would not say where he had been or why. There must be a reason for the killing in his past, while he was abroad. He must have met Oliver de Penne while he was away and murdered him when he heard that he was in this area – or had he followed the monks here?
Clifford entered and walked over to his chair by the fire walking quietly in his robe and sitting without saying a word. When Simon glanced up at him, he could see that his friend was troubled. His thin and normally cheerful face was serious and his hands played with the edge of his robe as if trying to distract his mind as he sat.
“Simon,” he said slowly, staring into the flames and not meeting Simon’s eyes, “I have been thinking about what you said last night about Furnshill. My friend, before you go home, I think you should think carefully about what actions you will take.”
“The trouble is, I can’t see what the best course is, Peter,” Simon said.
“What is the real position now, then? You know that the monk, brother Matthew, knows the knight, don’t you? Now, if the knight was going to kill the abbot, the monk would hardly have gone without letting us know that, would he?”
“No, but Matthew may well not have known that Baldwin was going to kill de Penne.”
“Hmm. True, I suppose. Really it comes down to what possible reason Baldwin could have had for killing the abbot,” said the priest thoughtfully and leaned forward to rest his chin on his hand.
Simon nodded. That was the main thing: to discover a cause for the killing. It seemed to be the result of madness; why else would someone kill in that way? It was as if the killer wanted to make a public statement, as if the murder itself was an execution, a punishment, like the killing of a witch or a heretic. After all, burning at the stake was the way to kill heretics, wasn’t it?
“Peter,” he said, “could it have been a revenge killing, do you think?”
“What, someone killing the abbot because he had offended them? I don’t know, it would have to have been a grave offence, surely?”
“Yes, but think of this. The knight, Rodney, if he was telling the truth, found the horse and the money together, so the killing was not for money. The fact that the money was left shows that. So what other reason could there be? I have put my brain on the rack to think of another reason, but I cannot see one.”
The priest pulled the corners of his mouth down in an expression of consideration. “It’s possible,” he admitted. “But the abbot was a man of God, after all. What possible slight could he have given?”
“He was not always a man of God,” said Simon, frowning as he tried to remember what Matthew had said on that day when they had walked in the lane at Clanton Barton. “The brother told me that he was being sent here because of his past, because he offended the pope himself.”
Clifford gave a quick laugh, a sharp bark of humour. “If the pope was that offended, the object of his distaste would be more likely to lose either all his positions and rank or his head! I don’t think he would be sent to a profitable abbey like Buckland.”
“But what if he had been useful to the last pope? What if he was of use to Pope Clement, and Pope John did not approve? Could he not be sent here to be out of the way?”
“Well…” Clifford paused, thinking hard. Pope Clement had died two years before, in thirteen hundred and fourteen. The papacy had remained empty until this year when Pope John had been chosen. He frowned as he thought about it. What if the new pope did dislike de Penne for some act during Clement’s period of office? De Penne would have been left in place during the interregnum and then removed from his position when the new pontiff took office. Could that be why he was on his way to Buckland now, in thirteen sixteen, because his previous acts had so offended the new pope?
“And Matthew said that there would not be another murder like it, he said that the murderer of the abbot was temporarily mad! Simon recalled. ”He must have guessed even then!“
“Surely the monk would have gone to see Furnshill if he thought that, to ask him to confess. It would be his duty, to save his soul.”
“He was at the manor on the day I left to follow the outlaws!” said Simon suddenly. “It was he who gave me the message from Tanner about the outlaws!” He paused, frowning as he considered. “And think, if the pope was offended by Oliver de Penne’s actions, might not Baldwin have been as well? What if the service de Penne provided to Clement, the service that was so offensive to John was equally offensive to Baldwin?”
Clifford shook his head. “No. I agree that the timing matches, that it is plausible, but it seems a little too farfetched. Why should Baldwin’s brother die just then, making it necessary for the knight to return home? Surely it would have been easier for Baldwin to kill the abbot on his way through France, or somewhere else, long before he arrived here? No, I find it a little too-”
“But that’s the point! What if Baldwin didn’t even know that de Penne was here? All he knew was that he was on his way here to take up his new position as the master of Furnshill Manor, and the meeting with the abbot was pure chance? Just like me! I was given my new position, I came home, and found almost immediately that there was a murder! Chance. It could have happened at any time!”
“My friend,” said Clifford, smiling indulgently, like a tutor at a child with a new and radical idea. “Don’t you think that that is too much of a coincidence? By chance, this man’s brother dies and he comes home. By chance the abbot is disliked by the new pope. By chance the abbot is sent to Buckland. By chance they meet and the knight kills him. No! There is too much chance, too much coincidence.”
Simon nodded, staring gloomily at the fire. “Yes, when you put it like that…” he muttered.
“There is one other thing,” mused Peter.
“What?” said Simon, not turning his head.
“You are assuming that the killer was a knight. What if he was not?”