Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

Sir Tristram bit his thumb to Peter and turned away contemptuously, walking swiftly towards an alehouse.

Peter sighed in relief, but he knew that this wasn’t the end of the matter. There would probably be a complaint to the Abbot; it might even be a good idea to remain in the Abbey until the raggle-taggle of the King’s men had gone. That way he would save putting temptation in Sir Tristram’s path.

That wasn’t strictly true, though, he admitted to himself. There had been almost a hope in his heart that the man might indeed attack him. It would have been pleasing to strike down one of the most notorious of border reivers. It was against his religion to strike the first blow, but that wouldn’t have affected the sense of gratification which he would have felt from knocking Sir Tristram over. Like Joce, he craved the opportunity of a fight.

He was offering up a prayer for better self-control when he heard a scream, a high, keening sound. His head snapped around in time to see a woman appear at the end of an alley, arms thrown out as though she was pleading for help, her clothing bespattered with blood.

‘Murder! Murder! Murder!’

Simon listened to the drawn-out procedures of the Coroner’s inquest with a new sense of purpose. He watched the men of the jury and the witnesses as they gave their evidence, but there was little more to be told.

Wally had left his home early on the Thursday morning with the small satchel but nothing else. He had been seen by plenty of men during the coining. Initially, people said, he had looked despondent, watching the tin being assayed, but by the time he arrived in the drinking houses, his mood had undergone a great change. He was laughing and joking with the other customers, chatting up the whores and offering them money to sleep with him. The last that was seen of him that night was him disappearing with two women into a back room.

‘Died happy, then,’ was the Coroner’s sour comment.

The following morning, once most of the miners had spent the money they had earned from selling tin, on buying provisions and ale or wine, all began their slow, painful progress back to their workings.

‘What of Wally?’ Coroner Roger asked.

Ivo answered drily. ‘Coroner, we were marching under a grey, miserable cloud. We all had sore heads, and many had sore guts too. We weren’t looking out for one man who wasn’t one of us, not really.’

‘You must have noticed a companion like him.’

‘Why? I wouldn’t have known if my own brother stood at my side. We live out in the wilds, Coroner, and when we have a chance to get into town with money in our scrips, we don’t dilly dally. We drink! I got through more than a gallon of strong ale myself that night. Woke up in the kennel in the middle of a lane. By the time we set off for home, my head was like an apple in a press. Looking up was hard enough, my head was that heavy.’

‘Did any man see him?’ The Coroner looked about the group. ‘What of anyone else?’

In the ensuing silence, the Coroner declared that Walwynus had been murdered and stated the value of the fines to be imposed. Soon the men began to move away, muttering amongst themselves, swearing and complaining about the expense. Simon kept his eye on Hal, and as the man walked off, Simon darted after him, catching him by the arm.

‘Come on, Hal. What’s this about?’

‘What? I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Yes, you do. That club – what happened to it?’

‘I don’t know…’

‘Don’t lie to me,’ Simon hissed. ‘Look at me, Hal. You’ve known me five or six years now, since I first came out here to the moors. I’ve never treated you badly or given you any problem, have I?’

‘I’d like to help, but…’ His eyes slid over to the Coroner.

Following his glance, Simon saw that Baldwin was watching them with interest. ‘Don’t worry about them. Anything you tell me will be between us and only us. All right?’

Hal met his gaze.

‘I swear on my oath before God,’ Simon added. ‘Now do you trust me?’

Hal gave a grudging nod. ‘I suppose so. Although I don’t know how much use it’ll be. I was with a group of the lads coming back on the Friday morning. There wasn’t much talk. Wally was ahead of us, and we gradually caught him up. When I saw his face, it made me feel a lot better. He was in a much worse way, poor sod and he’d been in a fight. I gave him a good day, but he only grunted. It didn’t take long to pass him, and we soon left him behind.’ Hal paused. ‘When I reached the Nun’s Cross, I stopped and took a look behind me, just to check if Wally was all right. I could see him coming over the brow of the hill, and this time he wasn’t alone. There was a monk with him.’

‘Which monk?’

‘The tall one, the one with the wound – you know, the scar along his jaw.’

‘Brother Peter!’ Simon breathed.

‘That’s the one. I couldn’t hear what they said. I was heading homewards, and I didn’t want to dither so I left them to it.’

‘Was there anybody else on the moors that day, Hal? Come on, man!’ he expostulated as he saw the miner look away. ‘Wally’s been killed. While his killer is free, he might strike again.’

‘There was a group of travellers out there. Just like the old story,’ Hal said quietly, and there was a shiftiness in his face. ‘Look, Bailiff, you may not believe the legend, eh? But when you live out here on the moors, you get to hear funny things at night, you see strange things you didn’t ought to. Sometimes things happen. If Wally was killed by the devil or one of his black angels, I don’t want to get in his way.’

‘I know what the moors can be like,’ Simon said. ‘But it’s rubbish to think that the devil killed Wally. Why should he? Wally couldn’t have sold his soul to the devil, could he? If he did, he made a poor bargain. I thought the devil offered worldly wealth.’

‘And Wally suddenly had all that money last Thursday.’

‘Bull’s cods!’ Simon said. ‘Why did you take the club away, Hal?’

‘What makes you think I did?’

‘Your friend who guarded the body after you had no interest in it, did he? He didn’t even seem to know there’d ever been one. Where did you put it?’

Hal squinted up at him, then shrugged. ‘I threw it in a bog.’

‘Why?’ Simon asked. ‘What good would that do you?’

‘It was a timber from my mine,’ Hal said gruffly.

Simon caught at his sleeve. ‘How can you be sure?’

‘You saw the marks. They were mine. When I bought it, I scratched my own sign into it. I always do that so others don’t try to steal from me. Someone must have tried to make me look like the murderer; me or my partner, Hamelin, who shares my workings and the timber.’

‘Not necessarily. It could have been someone who merely passed by and took up the first bit of wood he saw. Who could have found this timber and used it?’

‘I left for Tavvie early in the morning before the coining. The timbers were all there at my mine from that morning to the day after the coining, so for two or three days they were left unguarded. Anyone could have helped themselves.’

‘We know that Wally was alive at Nun’s Cross on the Friday – you saw him. Did you see him after that? Or see anyone else?’

‘No. Last time I saw him was breasting that hill with the monk.’

‘But you were heading towards your mine. Could the monk have run ahead, stolen the timber, run back, and stored it ready to kill Wally?’ Simon mused.

‘No, I doubt it. But someone else could have, and left it there for Brother Peter to pick up and use to kill Wally.’

‘It’s all a bit far-fetched. Why should someone try to implicate you?’ Simon considered. ‘Not that they did that very well. After all, I didn’t recognise the marks myself. How many would have?’