“Maybe Torre recognized him.”
“If he had, wouldn’t he have shouted it out? The watch were in the tavern, so were many others. If Torre had recognized Lybbe, he’d have made a row.”
“Unless he thought he could blackmail Lybbe into paying him for his silence.”
“In that case, Torre would have gone to speak to him, but no one saw them talk.”
“We haven’t asked anyone whether they spoke,” Simon pointed out reasonably.
“True. But also, if Torre realized who Lybbe was, he surely wouldn’t have gone out with Lizzie. He’d have stayed inside where he could keep an eye on his investment, whether he had spoken to him or not. This all makes no sense.”
“Are you saying his story was true and the Venetians did it?”
“I don’t know, Simon. But it makes as much sense as Lybbe being the killer.”
They left the jail and went back down the hill again. The house to which the Abbot had directed them was a pleasant block not far from the tavern, and Baldwin thumped heavily on the door as soon as they arrived. A harassed maidservant appeared, and Baldwin strode past her into the hall.
Inside, a woman sat placidly sewing at a tapestry. She looked up in some surprise at the sound of footsteps ringing on the stone flagging, and then her face sharpened. “What is the meaning of this intrusion? Do you have business with my husband, because if you don’t I’ll call for the watch this instant!”
“My lady, excuse our abrupt entrance,” Baldwin said smoothly. “It is the young lady we wish to speak to, the girl who has befriended the monk Peter. Do you know where she is?”
Marion studied him coldly and set her tapestry aside. “What would you want with her?”
“Lady, the boy has been found murdered, and we must find out whether she can help us find the killer.”
“Murder? My daughter knows nothing about this. I cannot allow you to question her.”
“We must.”
“You will not, on my honor! If you wish, you may speak to my husband, but…”
“We are here,” Simon interjected, “on the Abbot’s orders. It is very important that we speak to your daughter instantly.”
Mistress Pole scowled, but consented. The Abbot’s will could not be denied. She sent the maidservant to fetch her daughter. In a few moments she returned, but alone. “Mistress, the door’s locked, and she won’t answer.”
“Let me try,” Marion said, and lifting her skirts, she hurried from the room. Simon glanced at Baldwin, and they followed after her.
“Avice? Avice, open this door at once!”
She pounded on the timbers with the flat of her hand, and Baldwin could see that she was beginning to panic. He muttered, “God’s blood!” If there was one complication he did not want, it was that the girl might have run away with her beau.
“Lady, excuse me.”
He looked at Edgar, and his manservant rushed at the door with his shoulder. It shivered, but the timber was strong. Baldwin joined him. Under their combined weight the door and frame shattered, and Baldwin tripped over a broken spar to fall flat on his face. From the floor he could see that the room was deserted. The open window told the story of Avice Pole’s escape.
Behind him he heard a stifled laugh. “Simon, if you think this is funny,” he said coldly, “next time you can charge the door.” He slowly got to his feet, wincing at the bruise on his shoulder. It felt as if he had broken it at the same time as the door. When he looked at the jamb, he saw that the door had been bolted on the inside.
“What in the Devil’s name is the meaning of all this?”
Simon turned to find a florid-faced man gaping at the devastation. There was a strong smell of alcohol as he entered the room. “I return to my house to be told that strangers have forced their way in, and then I find that they’ve destroyed a door! What’s this all about, eh? Who are you?”
Baldwin dusted his knees and stepped over the wreckage. “I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, and this is Simon Puttock, bailiff of Lydford Castle. We are investigating the murder of Roger Torre and a novice monk on behalf of the Abbot.”
“What has this to do with me and my family?”
“Arthur, these men wanted to speak to Avice, but she’s gone. Arthur, she’s run away!”
“What?” Her husband scanned the room, his eyes returning to Marion’s face with fright. “When? I mean, how?”
“She’s disappeared. It must be Pietro!”
“I’ll have his blood if he’s harmed my Avice!”
“We don’t know for certain it was him,” said Baldwin.
“You may not, I do! I want him whipped – God’s blood! What if he’s… if he’s polluted her, I’ll have his…”
“Husband, the least we can do now is consider how to find her and bring her back.”
“Find her? Of course we’ll have to find her, woman!”
Baldwin took the sputtering, furious merchant by the arm and began to direct him back toward the hall. His voice was low and calm, talking with an unhurried steadiness that soothed the irate man. “You mentioned the Venetian. Was that the younger man? I thought so, yes – it was Pietro. Avice was in her room? Fine, I see. There was little more for a concerned father to do, other than manacle her to a ring, and that is not the way to earn the love and trust of your daughter, is it? Of course not… Ah, here we are.”
They had arrived once more in the hall, and Baldwin directed the now compliant father to a seat, then sent the maid for wine and water. Marion sat, hands in her lap, while she considered her husband. She had told him it wouldn’t work, she’d said they should pack immediately and leave, but he had refused because of his business. He had all the furs still, he hadn’t managed to sell them yet, and he had to remain in Tavistock to try to get rid of them. “She’ll be all right locked in her room,” he’d said. This was how all right she was, Marion thought bitterly. Probably ruined already, and John wouldn’t want her like that. He came from an old family, and they would expect any woman he chose to be pure, no matter how rich her parents.
The wine arrived, and Baldwin filled a goblet, nodding to the man to drink. Arthur lifted it to his mouth with shaking hands, sipped, then put it down. His Avice had run away, it was inconceivable!
“Sir, when was your daughter last seen?” Baldwin asked.
“I don’t know. Marion?”
“About the middle of the morning.”
“Thank you, madam. And she had been forbidden, I assume, to see this boy again, is that right?”
“Yes,” Arthur said heavily. “We told her this morning. You see, we’d checked up on him and his father, and they were not as they portrayed themselves. The pair of them had made out they were prosperous, yet I know that they only have poor riding ponies. Would a wealthy man stint on his horse-flesh like that?”
“I see.” Baldwin chewed his lip. There was one thing that concerned him more than any other. “Tell me, do you know of any reason why he should have decided to run away with your daughter now?”
“Yes. I saw him this morning, arrogant damned fool!” Arthur explained with a sidelong glance at his wife – he hadn’t told her this yet. After seeing Pietro, he had been so angry that he had gone straight back to the tavern. “I informed him he would not be able to see my daughter again, that he was not suitable for her as far as I was concerned.”
“I see. What did he do after you spoke with him?”
“He scampered off toward the Abbey. After what I said, I assumed he’d never dare to show his face again.”
“Do you have horses kept here?”
“Yes, there are stables at the back in a yard.”
“Has your daughter’s gone?”
“I don’t know – follow me!”
He rose and hurried out to the screens. The back door gave onto a small yard with stabling on the left. While he went to question the groom, Baldwin cast an eye upward. There was a ladder leaning against the wall. “That’s how, then,” he said to Simon, jerking his head at it.
“Not the most difficult inference you’ve ever made,” Simon muttered.
