Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

Simon tried to put a brave face on it, but it was very hard. He no longer knew where he stood, and his confidence was leaking away.

Had he known his Bailiff’s gloomy thoughts, the Abbot would have been horrified, but at the moment he had more pressing matters to concern him.

‘Sir Baldwin, I am sorry to have to ask you to come here and see me after such a long journey, but I felt it was essential.’

‘I should have liked to speak to our good friend Simon and then begin to help Coroner Roger as soon as possible,’ Baldwin admitted, taking his seat near the Abbot when his host motioned to it. ‘Yet you are clearly very concerned about something, Abbot Robert. You know I will help in any way I might.’

‘I am very glad to hear it, Sir Baldwin. Very glad. But I am distracted! Where is my sense of hospitality? Did it take you long to get here?’

‘We travelled to the outskirts of the moor yesterday, and continued today, coming over the moors past the body of the dead man.’

‘Oh, do please excuse me! I forget my manners. Please, take some refreshment. Wine? Some stew or a pie?’ When Baldwin refused any food, he ordered a jug of wine for them both. Once Augerus was gone, he continued, ‘The fact is, I fear that the murder of this miner out on the moors could soon get out of control. Let me explain. Have you heard the story of Milbrosa and the Abbot’s Way?’

‘Oh, I recall it vaguely.’

‘You are quite right to be dismissive, of course. It’s a piece of dull-witted nonsense! How anyone could believe that a monk could steal the Abbot’s wine, then remove monastery plate and hawk it, and later choose to murder a man to conceal his crime – well, it is ridiculous, to my mind. And then they say that the devil took him.’

Baldwin smiled gently. ‘Perhaps you should tell me the whole story again, Abbot? I think that perhaps I am starting from a position of not enough knowledge.’

He listened intently as his host related the tale of the Abbot’s Way and explained how Milbrosa was supposed to have sunk so low, eventually dying when the devil himself took him and his companions away. Then the Abbot went on to tell of the death of the miner.

Baldwin shrugged. ‘This is mere idle gossip and speculation, nothing more. A miner has been murdered out on the moors. Almost certainly a felon struck him hoping to win a good purse, and found he had knocked down the wrong man. There is probably no more to it than that. Chitter-chatter can dream up as many daft explanations as people want,’ he added, thinking of the miner’s words about ‘Ellis the Tooth-Butcher’, ‘but it won’t change anything.’

‘There’s more, Sir Baldwin,’ said the Abbot heavily. ‘Only last week I told our friend Bailiff Puttock that someone has been stealing from my personal undercroft. Wine has gone missing. Lately I have heard of plates being stolen from a guest staying here with us. I refused to believe it could be one of my brethren, but now… perhaps someone is trying to repeat the story for some reason.’

‘Surely not. Someone could have stolen from you for personal gain, certainly, but in order to copy a tale of hundreds of years ago? What would be the point?’

‘Perhaps if the devil himself decided…’

‘I scarcely think that the devil would bother to get himself involved in so petty a crime,’ Baldwin smiled. ‘No, this is certainly a man who wants to steal from you to benefit himself. And your drawn features suggest that you suspect one among your own brethren. Is that not so?’

‘Alas! I wish it were not so, but yes, I am afraid I do have my suspicions. And it is most unpleasant, Sir Baldwin, to have to conclude that. The companionship of the religious life is very close. Very important. If one of your companions betrays that, there is nothing else left.’

‘Do you find your suspicions leaning to any one man?’ Baldwin asked.

The Abbot shook his head as though still debating with himself whether he should discuss so sensitive a matter with a man from outside the cloister. ‘I spoke to Bishop Walter at Exeter recently. He told me of the service you did him regarding Belstone’s convent.’ He looked up and met Baldwin’s gaze. ‘I would be grateful if you could keep all this to yourself, Sir Baldwin. Repeat it to no one.’

‘Even Simon? If I need to talk about my theories, I shall have to let him know all that I know myself.’

‘Then when that becomes necessary, you may tell him, but until then, please keep it secret that I suspect one of my own Brothers. It is too grave a burden for the ears of the gossips in the town. I trust Simon entirely, but as soon as a secret is shared, it is no longer a secret.’

‘I confess I see no point in concealing matters. Is Simon aware of the stolen wine?’

‘Yes. And the dead man, of course, but I… I pray it might not be so. If there is a connection, Sir Baldwin, then the only possible conclusion is that not only is one of my brethren guilty of stealing from my undercroft, but also he is guilty of…’

‘Of murder. Yes. But surely there are other possibilities?’

‘I find it hard to believe that a man from outside the Abbey could have broken into my stores and taken out a barrel-load of wine as well as escaping,’ the Abbot said with some acerbity.

‘True. Yet there are always possibilities. I should prefer to be able to confide in Simon. I have utter faith in him.’

‘So do I, usually,’ the Abbot said. He stared down at his table. ‘I told him to ignore the theft from my stores. I had only mentioned it in his presence in order to raise gossip and possibly bring the thief to his senses. I had thought that the guilty man might confess to me – but my hope has been dashed. What if the thief is the murderer?’ he muttered distractedly.

‘If there is no connection between the two crimes, there can be no harm in telling Simon, and if there is a connection, I will be able to find the man with more speed if I have Simon’s assistance.’

The Abbot said nothing, but frowned, and Baldwin continued: ‘Surely others will already have heard about the wine? They will be thinking that there are parallels between this and the story of the Abbot’s Way.’

‘Yes, you may be right.’ The Abbot stared hard at him. ‘But Simon, as you know, has a moorman’s concerns, a tin-miner’s superstition. I have one fear, and that is that his own partiality to ghosts and pixies could influence his investigation of the dead man. Does that make sense? If I ask him to concentrate only on the dead miner, he can enquire into that without being swayed by stories of the devil.’

‘I suppose that is sensible,’ Baldwin allowed cautiously. He too knew how superstitious Simon was.

‘As regards the matter of the wine, already one other of my monks has raised the name of a fellow with me, suggesting that he suspects him. You know Brother Peter, the Almoner?’

‘Of course. The man with the terrible scar.’

‘That is he.’ Abbot Robert paused a moment before going on.

Sir Baldwin waited patiently. He thought the Abbot looked very tired. No doubt it was partly the weight of carrying suspicion in his heart, suspicion that was aimed at one of his colleagues, but then Baldwin knew that the Abbot had been elected to the abbacy in 1285, thirty-seven years ago. That was a long time for one man to run a complex administration. Baldwin had seen how strenuous the work was during his past, when he was a Knight Templar.

If the men with whom Baldwin had served had suffered because of the destruction of their Order, then Abbot Robert had suffered from the sheer length of his service. It was not a thought which had occurred to Baldwin before, but now as he looked at Robert Champeaux, he saw that the lines about his face were deeper, the laughter lines at his eyes less obvious, and the general impression he gained was one of exhaustion. Baldwin’s heart went out to him. If he could help the man, he would.