“Those buggers are brought to the port-reeve’s attention every year. There’s nothing they could get up to would surprise me.”
“I see,” Baldwin murmured with interest. Then, “David, we are sure Elias wasn’t the murderer. If he had something to do with it, he was not alone. Elias is shielding someone, and we need to find out who and why. Did you recognize the man he was drinking with?”
“I hardly even noticed him. I was talking to Torre.”
Baldwin moved his stool so that he could lean back against the wall, and thrust his hands into his belt. “Torre came close to blows with the Venetians staying with the Abbot…”
“With the son, anyway,” Holcroft corrected.
“Thank you. As you say, with young Pietro. Then he tried to pick a fight with a monk, and finally he argued with you. At the same time, he was angry with the Abbot.”
“You’re not suggesting that the Abbot might have had something to do with his death?” Holcroft asked, appalled.
“Hmm? Oh no, of course not,” Baldwin said. A devil made him add: “But I suppose the possibility should not be ignored.”
Simon tried unsuccessfully to prevent a grin. “But we also have the curious treatment of the body.”
“Ignore that. Once we know who wanted Torre dead, we can look at why the killer mutilated him. The trouble is,” he went on, shaking his head, “there really doesn’t seem to be a serious motive for murdering the man. Not from all we’ve so far discovered. We must be missing something.”
“What has Elias said?” Holcroft asked.
“Nothing yet,” Baldwin said heavily. “We’ll see him again shortly, but he seems intent on martyrdom. You know him, Holcroft. He is a widower, you said, so scandal couldn’t be at the bottom of it – he is not trying to protect his wife. Is he the sort of man to have a secret that could embarrass any family he has still living? Has he something hidden in his past that could ruin his reputation?”
“Elias? No, he’s not imaginative enough.”
“And what could be worse than being hanged as a murderer?” Simon said with disbelief.
“You are quite right,” said Baldwin, shaking his head with disgust. “But why should he let himself be hanged without bothering to defend himself? There must be a reason!”
As he spoke he saw the four men in the corner rise and make their way across the room. The knight watched them idly. They looked like ordinary watchmen, except they had an extra hardness about them. To a man who had fought in the wars against the Saracens, it was easy to recognize the latent violence that lurked in their powerful arms and forbidding features. One of them, who was shorter than the others, with light brown hair and a face burned brown by wind and sun, held his eyes with an unmistakeably threatening stare as he approached the doorway. Edgar, seeing the fixed expression on his master’s face, turned in his seat and followed Baldwin’s look. The watchman gave him a malevolent leer before traipsing out after his colleagues.
Holcroft was happily sipping his ale, his mind clearly back at his home with his wife. Baldwin nudged him. “Those watchmen – there was some trouble at the fair yesterday.” He explained about the attack on Lybbe.
“I wouldn’t be surprised at all if it was something to do with those buggers. They always charge protection money from the stallholders, but no one will ever point the finger. If someone has been able to turn the tables on them, so much the better. Maybe in future they’ll behave.”
“I doubt it,” Baldwin said, thinking of the mindless cruelty he had observed in the ruthless dark eyes of the last man to go out.
17
Leaving Holcroft to finish his drink, the two friends left the tavern and walked back up the hill to the jail. They skirted the market square, keeping away from the crowds which thronged the streets.
At the clink was a watchman, sitting on a three-legged stool, gripping a polearm and wearily resting his head on his forearms. When he looked up, Baldwin saw that it was the same guard who had helped them find the head.
“Daniel, we want to talk to the prisoner. Release him.” Standing stiffly, the watchman walked to the door. Baldwin gave him a sympathetic look. “Have you been here all night?”
“No, sir. That was Long Jack. I took over at dawn. But the town is so full, the only room I could get was in an alehouse, and that on the floor.” He rubbed at his back bitterly. “There were drinkers there all night, and I hardly got any sleep.” He unlocked the door and released a blinking, cold Elias into the sunlight.
“Elias, we want to ask you some more questions about what happened at the tavern on the night Torre was killed,” Simon said.
The cook walked determinedly to a patch of bright sunlight at a wall, leaning against it and enjoying the warmth like a hound in the sun. Baldwin took up his station at one side while Simon stood before the little man.
“Elias, who were you drinking with that night?”
“I’ve answered all the questions I’m going to.”
“When we last spoke to you we thought the dead man was the one you were drinking with, and we didn’t believe you when you said you didn’t know who he was. Now we know it was Torre who was killed, and we can only assume that either you or your friend murdered him. Can you run fast?”
The question made the cook stare. “What?”
“If you can, I suppose it’s possible you could have stabbed him, ripped his clothes off, dressed him in new ones, hacked his head off, hidden it, and run back to the tavern, but I doubt it. No, I think it’s more likely that your friend killed him, with or without your help, that he carried out his revolting deed while you hurried back to the tavern and consumed several ales to soothe your shattered nerves. That seems more likely to me.”
Elias turned away again, his mouth shut. It was as he had feared: even without telling them who was with him, they had guessed enough to assume that both of them had been involved in killing Torre. There was nothing to be gained from Jordan confessing. It would only result in both of them dying. Better that he should keep silent. That way only he would die: his brother would live.
Baldwin glanced at his friend, who gave a helpless shrug. The knight stared up at the sky, searching for inspiration. “Elias, you are keeping quiet to protect someone else. Who, we don’t yet know, but we will. You must think he is guilty, for why else would you seek to keep his identity from us? Yet you know that you are putting your neck in a noose by doing so. That shows great courage and integrity, but consider if you had nothing to do with this murder, and you think your friend did it, what is the point of your dying? It would be better for all concerned that he should be caught. If he cut off the head and hid it, he was surely trying to leave the evidence pointing at you, wasn’t he? Why not become an approver and inform on him? If you tell us who did do this crazy act at least your neck would be safe.”
Elias remained mute, and Baldwin threw him an interested look: “Elias, we’re sure you didn’t do it. The shirt that the man was wearing was not yours – you’re too small to own something that large. So who was wearing it? We can only assume it was your friend in the tavern. Has he threatened you? If so, I will make sure you are protected, understand? But I can do nothing if you refuse to help me.”
“Elias, talk to us,” Simon said, almost pleading. “Let us help.”
“You can’t do anything.”
“What do you mean?” Baldwin demanded. “We don’t think you killed Torre. Tell us the truth and we will find the man who did. ”
But the cook would answer no more questions. He remained stubbornly mute, and at last even Baldwin gave up, irritably waving him away. Elias turned, once, and gazed at Baldwin as if tempted to speak, but even as the knight met his gaze hopefully, the moment passed. The cook disappeared inside, still silent.
“Look, if the damned fool wants to kill himself, why should we stand in his way!” Simon muttered angrily as Daniel relocked the door.
Baldwin shook his head. “For one simple reason: while Elias is in there, the real murderer is free. The law,
