Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

Hal had discovered the body of Wally first thing on Monday. He’d gone up there because he was beginning to wonder why there was no sign of a cooking fire or any other evidence of life at Wally’s place; the corpse sent him running back to Hamelin to tell him, and then he took his pony and hurried off to town to inform the authorities, leaving Hamelin to protect the works. In all honesty Hamelin was incapable of concentrating. Hearing that Wally was dead had dulled his mind, and for much of Monday he merely sat and stared at the water running through the wooden leat.

Wally’s death affected him profoundly. It felt as though there was a sign in this, as though Wally’s life and his son Joel’s were connected. One had died – perhaps the other would live? It was something to cling to.

It had been hard to get anything much done for all that long day. Hal, who had ridden back from Tavistock, stayed over at the corpse’s side to protect it, but when he finally returned late on Tuesday morning, he was gruff and uncommunicative. He cast odd glances at Hamelin every now and again, but then looked away. It made for an uncomfortable atmosphere, and Hamelin was relieved when Hal went into the hut to sleep; next morning, he announced that he would return to the body and take over from the man waiting there.

Hamelin was nothing loath to see him tramp off towards Wally’s corpse. They had hardly exchanged a word since Hal’s return, and in any case, Hamelin had decided that he had to make the journey back to town to see his boy. Hal wouldn’t know, because he would be at Wally’s place all night.

Filled with trepidation, Hamelin pushed at the door and heard the leather hinges creaking, the bottom boards scraping along the dirt floor. When he could sidle around it, he entered, and had a glimpse of the room.

At the corner he could hear the thumping of a dog’s tail; there was the snuffling of a child with a cold; an irregular crackling from a good fire, and then a metallic tapping. As he walked in, he saw his wife Emma standing at a good-sized cooking pot that rested on a trivet over the fire, and she was stirring a thick pottage. Hamelin felt saliva spurt from beneath his tongue at the smell of meat and vegetables.

She turned, startled, and stood gazing at him for a moment, white-faced in the dingy gloom of the room, and then ran to him, throwing her arms about him. Silently, she pulled him away from the door and down to their bed. There, lying well wrapped in an old woollen shawl, was their son. He looked so pale that Hamelin knew he was dead, and he felt a terrible emptiness open in his breast, as though God had reached in and pulled out his heart.

And then Joel muttered, and rolled over in his sleep, and Hamelin felt the tears flowing down his cheeks with pure joy.

It was very peculiar, Baldwin thought as he strode back towards the Abbey, the youthful messenger skipping at his heels.

Baldwin had known Simon Puttock for six years or so, and in all that time the Bailiff had been easygoing and cheerful, except during that terrible black period when Simon’s first son had died. That had affected Simon and his wife Meg, as it would any loving parent, but even through all that pain and anguish, Simon had tried to maintain his sense of humour, and to see him so snappish about this killing was strange. Perhaps Simon had simply seen too many bodies?

No, it most surely wasn’t that! Simon wasn’t a weakling, he just had a weakness of belly when he found decaying human flesh; most of the population felt the same way. It was Baldwin who was different, for he had no fear of dead bodies. To him they were mere husks, the worn-out and discarded shells of men who no longer had a need for them. But when those husks were the remains of murdered men and women, Baldwin knew that they could still speak, and sometimes tell who had murdered them, and why. All it needed was an eye to look and a mind to notice – and an absence of bigotry or hatred. Too often people jumped to conclusions based upon their own prejudices; after his experience as a Knight Templar, Baldwin had no intention of committing the same sin.

The Abbot was standing beside his table when Baldwin entered, his face troubled. ‘Thank you for returning so promptly, Sir Baldwin. I wanted to tell you as soon as I knew. After speaking to you, I decided to approach the novice to ask him point blank about the thefts, but I couldn’t.’ For a moment his composure evaporated and his face showed his anger and concern. ‘The acolyte Gerard has disappeared.’

Baldwin’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Disappeared? Do you mean he has simply vanished?’

‘As good as, I fear. There is no sign of him. I understand he hasn’t been seen all day, but my brethren didn’t tell me, thinking that he was misbehaving and would be back soon.’

Baldwin was already moving towards the door. ‘Would you come with me? It would be easier to speak to your brethren if they know that I am acting on your behalf.’

‘Of course.’

‘Who was the last man to see him?’

‘I fear I don’t know,’ Abbot Robert admitted, his sandals pattering on the flags as they went along the short passage out to the yard beyond.

‘Do you know when he was last seen?’

‘No, I only heard about this myself a short while ago.’

Baldwin said nothing, but his mind was whirling as he took in the symbolic impact of this boy’s sudden disappearance. It would play into the hands of those who wanted to believe that the theft of the Abbot’s wine was tied to the travellers on the moor, and to the murder of Walwynus. The lad’s going would make everyone assume that the novice had been involved in the thefts and that the devil had taken him away, just as 150 years ago, Milbrosa had been spirited away. Baldwin didn’t believe that story, but he knew that others did, and he also knew that an unscrupulous man would be keen to divert attention from his crime by blaming others. And who better to blame than the devil himself?

The Abbot walked hurriedly out through his door and down the staircase, leading Baldwin to the monks’ cloister. He entered and walked quickly up the steps which led to the dorter .

In the great long room with the low screens which separated each little chamber, ensuring that no Brother ever had total privacy, Baldwin could see that each little cot was made up carefully, the blankets drawn up to the head of the bed. There were no Brothers here, for they would be talking and laughing in the calefactory or the brewery, preparing for an early night, ready to rise at midnight for the first service of the new day.

‘Which was his cot?’

The Abbot beckoned to a young novice who was sweeping the floor while trying to appear uninterested in their conversation. ‘Reginald, come here.’

‘My Lord Abbot?’

‘Which is Gerard’s bed?’

The lad carefully set his besom against a wall and took the two to a cot that sat fifth along the wall on the right.

Baldwin studied it with a frowning gaze, silent except for a bark directed at Reginald to stand still, when the boy was about to return to his sweeping. Reginald froze, eyes downcast. He was petrified with fear, convinced that they knew what he had done, too scared to confess. God! All he’d tried to do was frighten Gerard. The silly bugger had been filching too much, and he couldn’t be allowed to go on. But when Reg pushed him, and he went over, that was that. All he could do was get rid of the mess. And get rid he had. But pushing Gerard in the first place was sinful, and the result was worse. Reg hadn’t ever committed a mortal sin before, and now, knowing that the Abbot and the knight were here to investigate Gerard’s disappearance, his marrow turned to jelly.

At length Baldwin spoke. ‘The bed has been made, just like all the others in this room. Who makes the beds?’