‘How so?’
‘Well, it would be an elegant solution, wouldn’t it, if Yatton had been the killer. He waited until a man appeared who was about his size, killed him, set his own clothing on him, and then ran away. Perhaps to a widow in the area. But how would a messenger get to know a woman in the vicinity, let alone …’
Baldwin shook his head slowly. ‘It would be easy to see how a man might get to know a woman in the area — if he was travelling up and down the road regularly, he might well meet one. And then he was often late, Joseph said, because he had a religious attitude, so was often delayed. The delays may have been because of his assignations with the woman, rather than visits to a chapel.’
‘But what of the oil?’
‘Yes. It founders on the oil, as you say. The oil. What would be the point? What would he have done with the oil? There was no need to take it.’
Simon shrugged. ‘Mind you, if he were still alive, perhaps he would only have been an agent for another. He could have … what’s the point? We know he’s dead.’
‘Yes,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘He’s dead. And yet that doesn’t invalidate the inquiry. What could have happened was, he stole the oil himself, and was then killed in his place.’
‘The likelihood of the murderer killing and then being killed in his place?’ Simon said scoffingly. ‘I thought we had discounted that theory.’
‘There were ancient kings who would bury treasure and then kill all those who had worked there to keep the secret,’ Baldwin mused. ‘Men like Despenser would like that concept — maintaining rigid security.’
‘Yes,’ Simon said. Despenser was a threat he could not forget. The man was always in his mind now.
Bishop of Exeter’s House, Straunde
‘Simon, Baldwin! Come in and sit with me.’
The Bishop appeared to be in a thoroughly good temper, and he insisted that they sit beside him, one on each side, while he had his servants bring in bowls for them to wash in, then strong wine for them to drink, and finally a good mess of thick soup with hunks of bread to dip in it. ‘Fill your bellies.’
Baldwin sipped at his, while Simon dived in, his spoon working hard as he plied it from bowl to mouth.
‘Tell me, Sir Baldwin, have you encountered any obstacles in your searches today?’ the Bishop asked him.
Baldwin considered. ‘No. No obstacles erected by those who sought to obstruct, in any case.’
‘But there were others?’
‘We are confused by the lack of witnesses and lack of genuine information. There is a story there, but I have not yet heard it.’
‘I see. Well, perhaps there is nothing to learn, then. Maybe the monk was killed by another monk, there was no herald, and the man left at the roadside was killed in a chance encounter with felons.’
‘But the oil is gone. That is what I keep returning to. The oil.’
‘Well, perhaps the dead herald did have it, but it was taken by the felon who killed him. Stranger things have happened. Perhaps it was in a pretty bottle and he sought to have it.’
‘No. I cannot believe that. An outlaw would look at it, sniff the contents, and discard it. How many beggars of your acquaintance would keep something like that? You distribute alms often enough — would they be glad of a little bottle with oil in it instead of money or food?’
‘True!’ the Bishop said. ‘But where else could it lie?’
‘I do not know,’ Baldwin said. ‘Despenser said he had searched the man Thomas’s belongings, but perhaps …’
He wondered now, remembering the crypt. All those boxes and chests, so many places to conceal a small phial of oil. It would have been easy for a man to hide it. But then, why would the monk Gilbert have gone to the barn to meet with the thief? No, he must have provided the oil to the felon, his accomplice. Perhaps for no other reason than simple money. So often motive came down to the most basic of human urges. And then the felon took the oil and fled the city.
‘Canterbury is a city!’ he muttered.
‘What of it?’ the Bishop asked, startled.
‘Walls. Walls and gates.’
‘You are rambling, Sir Baldwin.’
‘Does it seem so? No, I was reflecting on the fact that the city has walls, and the gates are locked each night. The man killed the monk, and then escaped, so we are led to believe. But it was night time, and that tells me much.’
‘It does?’ Bishop Walter asked bemusedly. ‘What?’
‘I need to speak to two guards of the Bishop of Orange tomorrow,’ Baldwin said with conviction.
First Wednesday after Ascension Day33
Ayrminne walked back to his chamber after Mass with his head bowed as he considered the day ahead. It was to be a long day, from the sound of all the business the King wished to conduct.
‘Master Canon?’
He turned to see the scruffy fellow from the Bishop of Orange’s entourage a matter of yards from him. ‘Yes?’
‘I was hoping you might help me, Canon.’
‘In what way?’ Ayrminne asked bemusedly.
‘The King’s oil.’
‘The oil of St Thomas? What do you know of it?’
‘I think I know where it is, Master.’
Ayrminne felt his belly lurch within his body. ‘You do?’
‘Don’t you, too?’
The anger on Ayrminne’s face was unfeigned. ‘You dare to suggest I would keep back such knowledge from His Majesty, churl? I would rather have my hand cut from my arm than allow any treason! Damn your cods, if I knew anything about it, I’d have told the King immediately.’
‘A man who could tell the King where it was might well be rewarded,’ Jack said more quietly.
‘What of it? If you know where it is, you should tell the authorities now, or suffer the consequences.’
Jack shook his head with a faint smile on his face. ‘I think it’d be safer all around were I to buy it back. The man who provided the money to get it would be well rewarded by the King, and the finder could also benefit, eh?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean this: I think I know where it may be, and I’m prepared to put my life to the hazard of recovering the stuff. But I’ll need a lot of money, in case I need to bribe someone.’
‘How much?’
‘At least a pound. More, if it can be found.’
Ayrminne heard a bell tolling. ‘There is no time now. That is the bell to call everyone to the King’s audience. Come to my chamber — it’s that one up there — when the audience is finished. If you need money, I can provide it, but I’ll need to know exactly what you think has happened.’
‘Very good.’
‘And, fellow, tell no one of this talk. Understand?’
Chapter Thirty-Two
The morning was as grim as any on Dartmoor. Grey clouds loured overhead, blocking out all sight of the sun, while the rain drummed incessantly, turning the roads into quagmires, and pelting at the Thames, churning the surface into a pock-marked mess that looked astonishingly uninviting. Looking at it, Simon remembered journeys he had made by sea, and told himself that he would never again go aboard a ship. They were too hazardous.
He hurried with Baldwin along the roadway to the palace, both of them trying to keep their heads down, Simon wearing his hood up to try to keep his hair dry, while Baldwin wore a fashionable cap made from a thick but soft wool. It was a mess before they had reached the palace, but he didn’t care. All who walked outside today would be in a similar position.
‘Whom do you want to speak to?’ Simon asked.
‘I never thought of this before, but what if there was a conspiracy at the priory, Simon? The two fresh guards who were sent to replace the two fools from the Canterbury city gate who ran, might they have been sent to us for some ulterior motive?’
‘I don’t … you mean they were involved in the robbery, and were sent along with us in order to … what?’
‘If you were seeking to conceal something, would it not be best to have a decoy? Someone who was probably above any investigation, someone who was unlikely to be searched, so that if somebody caught wind of the attempt, he could believably deny everything? And then you would send the thing with someone else in a similarly impregnable position. Perhaps you might send them with the oil in a second party, a party that didn’t arrive until long after the murder and theft? But this is the clever part: you would ensure that you had your own men added, so that although it appeared that the party was all innocent, in fact your representatives were there for the robbery, they had the oil, and then they were added to the Bishop of Orange’s party, let us suppose, where they were allowed to pass through any suspicions. No suspicions would adhere to these two, any more than they would to you or me.’