“My dear, I have done nothing. The Abbey has a duty to provide hospitality.”
“Abbot, you have let me stay in my home, you have loaned me your steward to make sure the house is well run during the harvest so we have food for the winter, and you have made me your friend. That is more than nothing.”
Baldwin nodded. Many abbots or priors would want a widow out so that their lands could be more efficiently controlled by a man. It confirmed the impression of kindness and generosity he had earlier formed of the Abbot. “So, er, are you here for the fair?”
“Yes. My husband and I used to come here every year for St. Rumon’s Fair, and the Abbot was good enough to ask me again, even though I am a widow now.”
Margaret saw with near disbelief that her friend Baldwin was more keen and interested in this woman than in all the others she had paraded in front of him over the last years. She gave a tiny sigh of frustration that all her work had been wasted, but then studied Jeanne carefully. Apparently he was attracted to this red-haired woman from Liddinstone: if she could make Baldwin happy, Margaret would do all in her power to make sure he won her.
Seeing Baldwin was awestruck, Margaret turned to her. “Jeanne, I have to make several purchases at the fair, and my husband and Baldwin are poor company, especially when they have the excuse of a murder to investigate. Would you mind joining me in search of cloth and plate?”
Jeanne threw a quick glance at the knight, who stood uncertainly. She could see that he was fumbling for words, and the sight of the knight’s shyness was a balm to her soul after years of being told she was worthless because she was barren. “I would be delighted.”
The Abbot was old now, older than many, but he had not missed the interest in Jeanne’s eyes as she surveyed Baldwin. It would be pleasant indeed, he felt, if St. Rumon’s Fair could unite a couple such as this. He usually ate with his monks in the refectory, and he would often invite visitors to join him there, but it would not be conducive to the monks’ concentration to have women in their midst, and it would be equally unthinkable for the Abbot to leave them in a separate room, so today he had decided to invite his guests to eat with him in his hall. Now he wondered whether this decision could lead to a fortunate outcome.
“So, Sir Baldwin, have you enjoyed any success?”
“Um? Oh, we have found out a little, but what we have uncovered appears only to add to the muddle. We think the murder happened around compline – the man we think was the victim was seen leaving the tavern just after the bell tolled. But we still cannot confirm who the dead man was.”
“At least that diverts attention from us,” the Abbot said, nodding to Jeanne. “We were here with my Venetian guests as the compline bell rang.”
Jeanne asked, “Does no one recognize him?”
“Not with his head gone. He was a merchant as far as anyone knows, and you know the number of merchants who come here for the fair. Until we find his head, it’s hard to prove who he was.”
“Good God! So we may never know who the poor soul was,” sighed the Abbot.
“That is possible. Still, we have made some little progress,” Baldwin said, and told them about their talks with the alewife and cook.
“Does that not give you cause to arrest Elias?” the Abbot asked uncertainly. “If he left the tavern with the man, and the man was not seen alive again, surely that makes it all the more likely that it was him who did the murder.”
“The more I consider it, the more I think Elias is unlikely to be the killer. He can’t be so stupid! If he was to murder, why would he leave the body so close to his shop? If he wanted to hide the body, he would take it inside, surely, and conceal it more effectively. And if he did stab the man and cut off the head, he would have been covered in blood, but he returned to the tavern with no such stains or marks on him. Then again, if he did kill, where could he have hidden the head? The alewife said he returned quickly after leaving.”
“There are some things we could check,” Simon said thoughtfully. “We could search his house. If he had little time to hide the head, surely it would be inside. Perhaps we will find blood or something else incriminating.”
“That is a good idea,” Baldwin said. He looked at the Abbot. “Could you arrange for us to do that?”
“I shall speak to Holcroft and tell him to have a watchman join you,” he said. “For now, don’t look so fretful! You can only do your best; and it’s difficult to see how you could be expected to resolve a murder when you don’t even know who the dead man was.”
Margaret saw Baldwin smile politely, but she knew him too well to believe that it was genuine. The knight disliked puzzles. He always wanted to find the truth in any situation, and she was convinced that he was irritated by the paucity of facts upon which he could build a case. She saw him open his mouth, but before he could speak there was a knock at the door. A monk opened it and stood back to let the visitors enter.
Peter was standing near the door, and when he looked up he saw the Venetians. Seeing them reminded him of the girl, and the memory brought the blood rushing to his face. He hardly heard the Abbot’s introductions.
“Ah, my friends, please meet Antonio da Cammino and his son Pietro, from Venice. They have been visiting the Bishop of Exeter, and came here to see the fair and discover whether they might be able to profit from it.”
As he went round the people in the room and introduced them all to the Italians, Margaret noticed that the youth made no attempt to display interest. He hardly bothered to meet the gaze of the men as he was introduced, and soon walked to the window, peering out with apparent petulance.
His father was plainly disconcerted at such rudeness, and threw a despairing glance at his son’s back. Margaret walked over to divert him. It would be inexcusable for the two to argue in the Abbot’s chamber. “Sir, have you just arrived?”
“No, I have been here for a day already.” She was surprised that he spoke perfect English, with only the faintest trace of an accent. He saw her confusion, and his face lightened. “You are surprised to hear me speak your tongue so well? I was born in this country. My father was a merchant and lived here for long periods while I was young. I learned English before I learned my own language.”
“And you come back to England often? Are you on business now?”
It was hard to place his age, she thought. His looks were timeless, with an easy poise that was entirely foreign. His eyes wrinkled with a charming, and flattering, appreciation. “Yes, I am here to discuss matters with the good Abbot.”
“But you will have some time for diversions?” she asked. “To visit the fair and see the things on sale?”
“Oh, yes! I have already been to the fair to see what kind of goods are offered. It is more varied here than many other fairs, especially in Venice.” His eyes left her and went to his son, who stood with his back to the people in the room, one arm resting on the wall by the window.
“And you, Pietro?” she asked as he turned to face the others.
“Me, signora? You ask about diversions? There is nothing I want in this town, save one thing,” he said quietly. “But I am not allowed that.”
“If all you can do is carp and moan, leave us and seek your own amusement! Do not insult the Abbot’s hospitality,” his father said coldly.
There was silence in the room as the two men eyed each other, the son pale, the older man with an angry gleam in his light gray eyes. The youth shook his head in a quick gesture of despair, and walked from the room.
The Abbot poured Antonio wine and waved him toward a seat, and the man gave an embarrassed shrug as he accepted it. “I must apologize for my son. I am sorry he was so ungracious, my lord Abbot.”
“The young are so often difficult to understand,” Champeaux observed.
While the men chatted, Margaret sat in a corner with Jeanne. The men’s conversation revolved around the business of the fair, and she was uninterested. Matters of finance, such as how many visitors were likely to come over the three days of the fair, how many horses would be sold and whether the King’s own cloth procurers would deign to arrive, were of supreme unimportance to her. For Margaret, the only interest in the market lay in seeing all the goods on display, and buying something for her daughter back at Lydford.
“Were you married to Sir Ralph for long?” she asked tentatively.
“For five years, I think.”
“You must have found the moors a strange sight after Bordeaux.”
“I did, although there was a memory of it for me. I was orphaned when I was young, and my uncle took me to live with him in Bordeaux, but before that I had lived not far from Tiverton to the north, so seeing Devon again
