Michael JECKS - The Devil's Acolyte

‘Any miner who looked during the inquest.’

‘Maybe. In which case perhaps a devious mind thought fit to put the blame on you. But it’s more likely that it was someone else entirely, someone who wanted to kill Wally and who knew that your mine was empty. He could go there, hammer some nails into the timber, bring it up here and do the deed. Perhaps it was someone who lives up here and merely stole timber from you because your works were close or convenient.’

‘Yeah. Could have been. There are plenty of men up here, what with miners, travellers and others.’

‘You saw Peter walking up with Wally. I think that means he can’t have been the killer. Whoever did this must have got to your camp before you, stolen the wood and made a weapon out of it, then made his way back up here. He hid and watched until Brother Peter moved on, then he attacked Wally and killed him.’

‘Maybe.’ Hal shrugged. ‘It’s hard to tell exactly what happened.’

But Simon was content with his reasoning. It was not a comfortable thought that a man like Peter could be a murderer, even after the terrible provocation he had suffered. The idea that a monk in the Abbey could be involved in murder was unsettling. Members of the clergy were as prone to anger as any other man in the kingdom, but it was horrifying to think that a man in Holy Orders could stray so far from his Rule and the Commandments as to kill another man.

Yet Simon was also aware of a niggling doubt at the back of his mind: if a monk did wish to murder, he would scarcely leave Tavistock carrying a large club studded with nails! He would prefer to concoct a weapon out on the moors, where no one could see and comment.

The shouts of ‘Murder! Murder!’ brought Nob to his senses. He leaped forward, shoving through the crowds, and soon reached the side of the fallen Sergeant. He paused, looking down at the body. As he did so, he saw a grimy hand reach out to the man’s purse and a dagger slice through the laces that held it on the belt. Then a pair of pale eyes glanced up and met his, before the lad suddenly turned and pelted through the crowds.

‘Oh, bugger!’ Nob swore, and set off in pursuit.

The boy was fleet, but there were too many people in his way. He tried to dodge and slip between legs, but as Nob came closer, he gave a squeak and dropped the purse, sprang through a narrow gap, and then hurtled off along an alleyway.

Nob stood catching his breath. The boy was unknown to him, and to be honest, he didn’t want to see him get caught. There was little satisfaction in the hanging of a mere child. He took up the purse and weighed it. It was heavy with his own coins! With a discontented grunt, he took it back to Jack, and dropped it onto the Sergeant’s breast.

The Sergeant coughed and tried to sit up. ‘Eh? What? Who fucking hit me? I’ll break his sodding neck, the–’

‘It was a monk. He didn’t want you to kill someone right in front of him. A cutpurse took your money. It’s there.’

‘Sod the money! I was going to knife that bastard when someone hit me,’ Jack said, every word making him wince. ‘It was “Red Hand” Armstrong, God rot him!’

‘Who?’

‘The murderer who attacked the monk, the man who murdered Peter’s girl, the man who led the Armstrongs after they were slaughtered by my master and me!’ Jack exclaimed, struggling to his feet, but as soon as he was up, he staggered as though his knees were turned to jelly.

Nob wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but to him it sounded as though Jack’s head injury was worse than he’d thought. When Jack bent and threw up, his opinion was confirmed. ‘Wait here, I’ll get you help,’ he said kindly. Asking another man to keep an eye on him, he hurried off to find Ellis. It was obvious that Jack really needed a vein opened.

Ellis was finishing shaving a man’s chin when Nob found him. He completed the job swiftly, threw some knives and a bowl into a bag and went back with Nob to find Jack.

‘Bare your arm, fellow,’ Ellis said. ‘From your face, your humours are all unbalanced. I have to bleed you.’

‘Oh, shit. I don’t usually have to pay to lose my blood,’ Jack said with a feeble attempt at humour. He held out his forearm, and the knife was applied, the blood caught in a bowl held beneath.

‘Where has the bastard gone?’ Jack asked, staring about him with a frown.

‘Who?’ Nob asked.

‘ “Red Hand!” He was here. I was going to kill him, but someone struck me down first.’

Nob shrugged and Jack went through the story again, of how he and Sir Tristram caught the Armstrongs and slaughtered them, but missed ‘Red Hand’ and two others.

‘What did he look like?’ Ellis asked sceptically as he studied the congealing blood in his bowl, stirring it with a finger, while Nob applied a styptic and bandage to the cut.

Jack told them, and then caught sight of their expressions. ‘What name does he use here?’

Ellis shot a look at Nob. ‘Joce Blakemoor. Could he be a felon?’

Baldwin listened to the Coroner with only half an ear while he contemplated the body.

This was an unpleasant little murder, a brutal killing with no evident motive, and there was also the second issue, that of the disappearance of the novice. The two could well be related in some way, but it was hard to see how. Surely such men as a tin-miner on the moors and a novice from Tavistock were so far divorced from each other that they could not have met?

The Coroner had soon dismissed the jury and witnesses, and when they were all leaving and Baldwin could talk to Sir Roger alone, he raised the matter although, conscious of the Abbot’s stipulation, he did not mention the reason for his interest.

‘Do you think that the miner would have any involvement with the Abbey?’

Coroner Roger raised an eyebrow. ‘Why? What’s the Abbey got to do with him?’

‘I don’t know. I was merely wondering whether there could be some connection with the Abbey rather than with the poor folk who work out here.’

‘And that’s all?’ the Coroner asked. ‘It seems to me you know something I don’t.’

‘I know nothing, but I have been asked to look into things,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘The problem is, there is an ancient superstition here, that a band of monks were so debauched and irreligious that they were taken away by the devil. People tend to keep that kind of story close to their hearts and lend more credence to it than they ever would to the truth. I merely wondered whether there could be any substance to that sort of tale.’

The Coroner rubbed his chin. ‘Seems odd that people should get that feeling if there’s nothing there. What’s this story about?’

Grudgingly Baldwin told him of the legend of Milbrosa, while the Coroner eyed him keenly. When Baldwin was finished, he sighed and stared out over the moors.

‘Look at this land. Desolate, wind-swept, cold and foggy even in summer, and during the winter, you have to avoid almost all of it because of the bogs and mires. It’s no wonder people like to make up tales about the place. So there’s a mad monk here too, is there? Folk in Tavvie would believe that easily enough.’ He cast Baldwin a swift glance. ‘I suppose you won’t tell me any more. Well enough. But I think you have more information that you could give me, if you had a mind.’

‘I assure you, I have told you all I can,’ Baldwin said disingenuously.

‘Hah! Is that the truth? Anyway, I won’t put you under any more pressure. If you’re keeping something back it’s because you either can’t trust me with the truth, which I’d find hard to believe after the cases we have investigated together, or that someone with more power has ordered you to keep it to yourself. And the Abbot is a powerful man, isn’t he?’ He held up his hand to stop Baldwin’s quick denial. ‘Enough! Your protestations prove my guess. Very well, so we need to consider whether this miner could have been tied to the Abbey in some way. Certainly he was at the coining, so he could have had some sort of contact with the Abbey. Perhaps he went to pray at the shrine? Or simply bumped into a monk he knew?’