away?”
“Peter, really! No, I don’t think so. The killer took his time, remember. He tied the abbot to a tree and lit a fire under him. He sat and watched while the man died. If somebody had happened upon the scene, surely it would have been reported? Then again, if they had been seen, surely they would have just stabbed their man. No, it makes no sense for them to have killed the abbot, not in that way, if they were in a hurry.”
“I’m confused, then. So why do you think it was done that way?”
“All I can think is that the abbot was killed to work off a grudge of some sort. It’s the only thing that makes sense to me. Someone wanted to make a point by the way they killed the man. Perhaps they thought he was a heretic, perhaps they thought he had given false witness against another – I don’t know what! But I’m sure it wasn’t Rodney.”
“So who do you think could have done it?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
They all lapsed into silence and stared into the flames, Clifford with a reflective smile on his face, Simon with a fixed frown as he tried to make sense of the murder, teasing at the facts to pull out the cord of truth, but with little expectation of succeeding. Hugh wore a glare of fierce indifference as he sat with his arms crossed and legs straight out in front. “If only…” he mused.
“What?” said Simon sharply.
“If only we knew more about the abbot. Then we might know what reasons there might be for the attack, if it was revenge.”
Simon put his head to one side, and looked over at Clifford with a studied indifference. He asked, “So, Peter, did you discover anything about the monks while they were here?”
The priest stared at him for a moment, then roared with delighted laughter. “Ah! Ah, my friend. Always so subtle! So that’s why you came here, is it? Not just to eat and drink of my best, but to use my mind as well!”
“Possibly,” said Simon, grinning back. Hugh sighed and folded his arms, staring at the flames in boredom and letting the conversation flow around him heedlessly, disgruntled at the feeling that his master had taken his thought without any thanks. Then his expression relaxed and he gave himself up to enjoyment of the warmth of the room, ignoring the other two.
“I had not met any of them before, nor did I know of them by name. The abbot came with letters of introduction, and I had no reason to doubt them. They were just travellers on their way to Buckland, I don’t think I discovered anything else about them.”
“You know the abbot’s name? Oliver de Penne?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And the others, did you speak to brother Matthew?”
“Matthew,” the older man said musingly, staring into the flames. “Matthew. Ah, of course! No, he was the one who had a friend here. It was because of him that the brothers stayed here for so long.”
“What? How do you mean?”
“Well, Matthew met a friend in Crediton on their first day here, and he managed to persuade the abbot to wait here for two more days so that he could go and visit his friend at his house. I must say it didn’t please the abbot, he was most peevish about it, very upset. It almost seems a little eery now, doesn’t it, as if he knew he was in danger?”
Simon leaned forward, tensely gripping the mug in his hand. “Who did he want to meet, Peter?”
Hugh sat up in astonishment as Clifford said, “The new man at Furnshill – what’s his name? Oh, of course. Baldwin, that was the man, Sir Baldwin Furnshill.”
Chapter Twenty
Early next morning, assailed by his doubts, Simon was dejected and confused about how to continue. The weather was miserable, with low squally clouds blowing quickly across a blustery sky and the rain falling constantly in a steady flow, driven by the wind from the moors. Hugh and he sat in Peter Clifford’s hall in front of the fire and waited for the rain to stop, or at least pause, so that they could finish their journey home.
Simon was torn. He was sure now that somehow Baldwin was involved in the abbot’s murder. But what should he do? It was one thing for a bailiff to arrest a sheep-stealer, or to stop a poacher. But to arrest a knight? As the lord’s representative, he had the authority, but where was the proof that Baldwin had committed the crime? All Simon had was a series of vague clues, nothing more; not even a reason. He knew that Baldwin had known Matthew, that the brother had delayed the monks on their journey, but that was no reason to arrest him. The abbot had been taken captive by a man who looked like a knight, a man on a great horse; but there were any number of men living around Crediton who could be mistaken for a knight. Just the fact that Baldwin knew Matthew was no proof that he knew the abbot, let alone wanted him dead.
But even as he thought about it, Simon was sure. He knew he was right. Baldwin had arrived from God only knew where, he had travelled widely – he had at least hinted at that, even if he would not say where he had been or why. There must be a reason for the killing in his past, while he was abroad. He must have met Oliver de Penne while he was away and murdered him when he heard that he was in this area – or had he followed the monks here?
Clifford entered and walked over to his chair by the fire walking quietly in his robe and sitting without saying a word. When Simon glanced up at him, he could see that his friend was troubled. His thin and normally cheerful face was serious and his hands played with the edge of his robe as if trying to distract his mind as he sat.
“Simon,” he said slowly, staring into the flames and not meeting Simon’s eyes, “I have been thinking about what you said last night about Furnshill. My friend, before you go home, I think you should think carefully about what actions you will take.”
“The trouble is, I can’t see what the best course is, Peter,” Simon said.
“What is the real position now, then? You know that the monk, brother Matthew, knows the knight, don’t you? Now, if the knight was going to kill the abbot, the monk would hardly have gone without letting us know that, would he?”
“No, but Matthew may well not have known that Baldwin was going to kill de Penne.”
“Hmm. True, I suppose. Really it comes down to what possible reason Baldwin could have had for killing the abbot,” said the priest thoughtfully and leaned forward to rest his chin on his hand.
Simon nodded. That was the main thing: to discover a cause for the killing. It seemed to be the result of madness; why else would someone kill in that way? It was as if the killer wanted to make a public statement, as if the murder itself was an execution, a punishment, like the killing of a witch or a heretic. After all, burning at the stake was the way to kill heretics, wasn’t it?
“Peter,” he said, “could it have been a revenge killing, do you think?”
“What, someone killing the abbot because he had offended them? I don’t know, it would have to have been a grave offence, surely?”
“Yes, but think of this. The knight, Rodney, if he was telling the truth, found the horse and the money together, so the killing was not for money. The fact that the money was left shows that. So what other reason could there be? I have put my brain on the rack to think of another reason, but I cannot see one.”
The priest pulled the corners of his mouth down in an expression of consideration. “It’s possible,” he admitted. “But the abbot was a man of God, after all. What possible slight could he have given?”
“He was not always a man of God,” said Simon, frowning as he tried to remember what Matthew had said on that day when they had walked in the lane at Clanton Barton. “The brother told me that he was being sent here because of his past, because he offended the pope himself.”
Clifford gave a quick laugh, a sharp bark of humour. “If the pope was that offended, the object of his distaste would be more likely to lose either all his positions and rank or his head! I don’t think he would be sent to a profitable abbey like Buckland.”
“But what if he had been useful to the last pope? What if he was of use to Pope Clement, and Pope John did not approve? Could he not be sent here to be out of the way?”
