‘Strange about that miner found dead up on the moor,’ Peter continued.
‘Yes. God bless his soul.’
‘Aye. I doubt many will want to do that. Not when they hear about his trade, eh?’ Peter suddenly fixed him with an eye at once bright and knowing and sad.
Gerard stammered, ‘His trade? He was a tinner, wasn’t he?’
‘Aye, I suppose,’ Peter said imperturbably. ‘Odd, though. He spent a lot of time in the gardens here, not far from the walls.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘Oh, nothing. Nothing,’ Peter said. ‘I just wondered why he went there so often at night. You know I don’t sleep for long? I often have to rise in the middle of the night and walk about the Great Court or along the walls. You’d be surprised what you see late at night.’
Gerard felt his heart begin pounding. He was sure that Peter was warning him obliquely, but he couldn’t speak. He knew Augerus would always tie the stolen goods in a small sack and dangle it by rope from a small window in the abbot’s own lodging, and Wally would come and collect it. Wally had told him so.
Their friendship had been short, but in some ways Gerard felt closer to Wally than to anyone else. Augerus had taken Gerard to a tavern one day, and Wally was there. While Gerard watched, the steward passed a small purse to Wally, and Wally filled it with coins. Later, when Augerus left to piss outside, Wally and Gerard spoke briefly, and found in each other a kindred feeling. Gerard missed his family and felt forced into the thefts, and somehow he got the impression that Wally felt the same.
‘You knew he hadn’t found tin for over a year?’
Peter’s words drew him back to the present. ‘Why should I know that?’
‘Common chatter, no more. Still, I thought you might have heard. It must be hard to keep body and soul together with no money. A man could turn to thieving.’
Gerard said nothing, but rebelliously averted his gaze.
‘Odd that he’s dead, up there so far from anyone, and on the Abbot’s Way, too. Just like Milbrosa. You’ll remember that story I told? About how the Abbot’s Way was created?’
‘Yes, but I don’t see what any of it’s got to do with me,’ Gerard blurted.
‘Ach, what could it have to do with a young laddie like you? You aren’t allowed out, are you? No, you couldn’t have killed that fellow, could you? I reckon,’ Peter said, glancing up at the sun to gauge the time, ‘it must have been those travellers.’
‘Travellers?’ Gerard stammered. ‘What… travellers?’
‘Didn’t you hear?’ Peter said as he led the way westwards to the Maudlin. ‘There were a gang of them up there. Probably came here for the coining, and killed Walwynus on their way – or on their way back. You can’t trust strangers on the moor, can you?’
‘Who would know about these folks? I don’t believe you. No one was up there, it was just an accident that Wally got killed. Someone thought he was a rich miner, that’s all.’
‘On his way to the coining, perhaps?’ Peter asked.
‘Where else would he have been going?’
‘Oh, I just wondered whether he could have been on his way back.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Maybe someone saw him here in town. Talked to him. And then he went home, and on his way, he was murdered,’ Peter said ruminatively.
Gerard asked quickly, ‘And who are these travellers? Has anyone seen them? I haven’t heard about them.’
‘I saw them. I was up on the moors that day,’ Peter said.
Gerard felt his heart stop within him on hearing the monk’s mild tone, and when he glanced at Peter’s face he saw a flash of keenness in the old man’s eyes which was soon followed by a knowing leer. He had spoken to provoke, and he had succeeded.
‘So you murdered Wally?’ was what Gerard wanted to say, but just now, looking into those bright, astute eyes, he found his throat drying.
He was terrified…
Chapter Seven
The pie-shop which Joce entered was a little single-storey building, with no upper chamber like so many of the other places in the street, but that didn’t affect Nob Kyng, also known as Nob Bakere and Long Nob, ironically, on account of his short and rotund shape. He didn’t care. People could call him anything they wished, he reckoned, so long as they left him alone to do what he was best at, which was cooking.
He and Cissy his wife had come here many years before, making the arduous journey from far in the north when they were both in their mid-twenties, intending to create a new life, and so far they had been very successful. Nob had found a little place in which to set up shop, and with his meagre store of pennies, had leased it from the abbot. At the time there were only two other pie-shops in the town, and although Nob had to work hard, he soon built up a good clientele and felt as though he had never lived anywhere but here in Tavistock.
Cissy was a jolly, constantly smiling woman who originally came from Devonshire, so returning to the county felt quite natural for her. Although people had looked askance at the pair of them when they first arrived, Tavistock was a friendly enough town, and in a short space of time the two felt entirely at home. Nob would remain in the back of his shop, sweating over his great cauldron, braziers and oven, while Cissy transferred the cooked pies from her trestle table to the hands of her customers. It was easy and lucrative. Never more so than during the five coinings each year. They had done well for themselves here, and their son and
