He looked familiar, she thought, a young fellow with broad enough shoulders, but then he was gone. Disappeared along an alley. Cissy closed the door thoughtfully. He was familiar… and then she realised who it was. ‘Gerard, you poor soul!’
Simon was about to make his way to the guest room when, yawning, he heard a chuckle and turned to see Augerus and Mark sitting in the doorway to the salsarius’ room.
‘So, Bailiff, the strain is showing, is it?’ Augerus asked, not unkindly.
Simon smiled and accepted a cup of Mark’s wine. ‘You fellows are never likely to suffer from thirst, are you?’ Mark looked like a man who had already tasted more than a gallon of wine, Simon thought.
‘We have a reasonable supply, it is true,’ he agreed. ‘Why, any monk, should be allocated five gallons of good quality ale and another five of weaker each week. Even a pensioner gets that. And Augerus and I have strenuous work to conduct for the abbey. We need to keep our strength up – and what better for that than strong wine?’
‘Shouldn’t you both be abed, ready for the midnight services?’
‘I rarely go to bed until later. I need little sleep,’ Mark said with a partly boastful, faintly defensive air. ‘I am like Brother Peter, the almoner. He only ever has three hours a night. Never needs more than that. Most of the night he wanders about the place, along the walls and about the court. And look at him!’ He belched quietly. ‘He doesn’t look too bad on it, does he?’
Simon noted that. So, Peter was always up and wandering about, was he? Well, it was hardly surprising. After his wound, maybe he found it hard to sleep. He was ever looking out for another band of attackers, perhaps?
‘Have you found out any more about the murderer?’ Augerus asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Am I right, that the miner was killed by a club?’
‘Yes. The sort of weapon that anyone could make,’ Simon said. He saw no reason to mention that it had gone missing. Augerus or Peter was responsible for gossip, according to the abbot, and Mark had already admitted his own interest in it.
Augerus glanced at Mark, then back to Simon. The bailiff’s tone was curious, he thought, and he wondered whether Simon harboured a suspicion against Mark. It was quite possible. After all, Augerus knew that Mark had been up on the moors, the day that Wally died. And he had argued with him. Perhaps the bailiff knew that, too.
‘I only asked, because I have heard that some mining men will scratch marks into wood they have purchased to stop others from stealing it. Perhaps there might be something on the timber that killed Walwynus?’
Simon was still a moment. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Take a closer look at the weapon. If it came from a miner, marks will be visible.’
Mark sniffed. ‘I think Brother Augerus here has been drinking too much of my wine, Bailiff. Ignore his words. You will only find yourself wasting time. Have you learned any more about the thefts?’
Simon was suddenly aware that Mark’s eyes were brighter and more shrewd than his voice would have indicated possible. Mark was perhaps inebriated, but that was his usual condition, and he was still perfectly capable of reasoning.
‘What should I have learned? The abbot did not ask me to investigate the theft,’ he said, purposefully leaving the word in the singular.
‘Aha! So you weren’t piqued with interest? But perhaps other things have been taken from here, which could lead to the reputation of the abbey being damaged – badly so. Don’t you have a duty to seek out the truth?’
‘Not if the abbot told him not to,’ Augerus said, and hiccuped. ‘Isn’t that right, Bailiff?’
‘Yes,’ Simon said. ‘After all, I have no jurisdiction here, do I?’
‘If a man is threatening to trample the abbey’s good name in the mud, he should be punished,’ Mark said, but now his eyes were turned away, and Simon felt he was almost talking to himself. ‘He deserves punishment.’ Then he turned to face Simon again. ‘Any man who dares harm this abbey will suffer the consequences,’ he declared. ‘God won’t allow blasphemous behaviour.’
Chapter Thirteen
After a long and strenuous ride, Baldwin and the coroner had slept the Tuesday night in a pleasant inn at South Zeal. The weather had been kind to them, and they had made good time, riding fast on the swift road that led through Yeoford and then Hittisleigh, finally arriving in the village only a short time after dark.
Sore from their ride, Baldwin rose with a grunt as the innkeeper arrived and started opening the windows. This, Baldwin thought, was the worst aspect of travelling. Small inns so often had nowhere to put guests, and all they could do was make space for a man to sleep on a bench, or perhaps allow him to sleep on the hay in the stables. Perhaps he should be glad that at least there was space near the fire, because the weather was turning unseasonably cold. The landlord and some local men asserted that it was normal for the time of year, but Baldwin found it hard to believe that the weather so near to his own home could be quite so different. And the midges were foul, too. When he went out during the night to piss against a nearby tree, he found himself crawling with them in the space of a few minutes.
It was a great relief to be up and ahorse after a rushed breakfast of cold meat and some coarse bread. While he chewed, Baldwin saw the coroner putting half his own loaf in a cloth and tying it into a neat bundle.
‘What’s that for?’
‘I thought it would be as well to take something for our lunch.’
‘There are plenty of good inns on the way to Tavistock, Coroner. We have eaten in some of them.’ Baldwin eyed his
