‘At last, Bailiff. I wanted to show you this,’ the abbot said.
His voice was rough with anger, and Simon was about to bow his head to accept whatever punishment his master deigned to hand down, when he realised that the abbot was pointing to a barrel not far from the door.
‘Look at that, will you?’ the Abbot grated. ‘I had these barrels brought here from Boulogne myself. I was told about the vineyards by a brother abbot in Guyenne, ordered the wine once it was ready, paid for the transport, everything – only to have some thieving cretin drink the lot!’
The abbot wasn’t alone. As Simon approached, another monk stepped forward, a tall shape who stood with his head bent. As soon as he spoke Simon recognised the curious wheezing tones of Brother Peter. No other monk at Tavistock had such an obvious speech impediment.
‘My Lord Abbot, perhaps there was simply a mistake? Isn’t it possible that the wrong barrel was broached before, and now it is clearly empty when it should be full because your own steward served you from the wrong barrel?’
In answer the abbot jerked his head at an anxious-looking clerk. ‘Well, Augerus?’
The abbot’s steward was a pale-skinned man with deep-set blue eyes in a long, fleshy face and a nose which had been broken and only badly mended. He had a thick, bushy beard, but his upper lip was clean-shaven. A foolish-looking fashion, to Simon’s mind.
‘No, my Lord Abbot,’ he answered. ‘I wouldn’t have touched this barrel. I know which I am supposed to open, and you yourself told me that this was a special one, not to be broached until Bishop Stapledon came to see you.’
‘Quite right!’
‘When would this wine have been taken?’ Simon asked.
‘When do you think? You remember I told you I was only recently returned from seeing my brother abbot in Buckfast? It is an arduous journey, not one to be undertaken lightly. I only ever go there when there is a good reason, and I do not hurry to return.’ A glimmer of a smile softened his features for a moment. ‘The hospitality is good, and my Lord Abbot has a good pack of raches.’
‘Did you realise it had been stolen as soon as you returned?’ Simon enquired.
‘No. My steward has only now discovered that an entire barrel has been emptied behind his back,’ the abbot said heavily.
‘I see. And when did you last check this barrel, Augerus?’
‘When the abbot was away. Since his return I’ve been too busy, what with restocking and seeing to my Lord Abbot’s needs.’
There was an almost frantic eagerness in the man to persuade Simon of his innocence, and the bailiff was inclined to believe him – especially since there was no sign of a break-in.
‘Well,’ Simon said, crouching at the barrel, ‘it’s definitely been broached, and there’s little left. From the puddle on the floor, I’d say they used a plug, not a tap. If you open a barrel by knocking in a tap to force the bung out, often you’ll get no waste. Then as you turn the tap, you may get some drips, but look at this lot!’ He waved his hand at the damp stain on the stone flags. In the cool, still air, little had evaporated. There was no way of telling how long ago the wine had leaked.
‘Whereas if you shove a bucket beneath and push the bung out, only stopping the flow by pushing a plug into the hole, you always lose a great deal,’ the abbot acknowledged caustically. ‘I think I was aware of that, Bailiff. So what does that prove?’
‘That your steward is innocent. He wouldn’t be so crass as to waste this much wine; he’d have used a tap.’ Simon saw Augerus throw him a grateful look.
‘I see your point,’ the abbot grunted.
‘Can you suggest someone else who might have done this terrible thing?’ Brother Peter asked. There was a strange note in his voice and Simon eyed him a moment before answering.
Peter’s dreadful wound seemed to shine in the gloomy light of the undercroft, and not for the first time in die years since Simon had first met him, he thought that a wound like that would have killed anyone else. The pain and horror of such a shocking blow would have finished them off, or the wound would have got infected. Peter was very lucky to be alive, Simon thought – or exceptionally unfortunate, forced to go through life with a blemish that made him repellent to men and women alike.
It was especially tragic, because he looked as though he had been a handsome fellow once – tall, strong-looking, with those square features and a high brow. Not now. He had adopted some odd little mannerisms too, Simon considered, such as talking with a hand near his face as though to conceal the wound, and his habit of turning his face slightly, so that it was away from those to whom he spoke.
Simon wondered whether he would want to live with a hideous mark like that ravaging his features. He concluded that he would have preferred death.
‘I am suggesting no one,’ he said finally. ‘I wasn’t here.’
‘It must have been someone from the town,’ Peter said briskly. ‘No monk would dare – or bother. We all receive our daily allowance, after all.’
The abbot was gazing down at the barrel. ‘Whoever it is, I will pray for him that he should give up his career of felony. Perhaps he will come to me and confess his theft, and if he does, I shall pray with him.’
And issue a highly embarrassing and shaming penance,
