‘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 the 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, Simon added to himself. He liked Abbot Robert, and respected him, but he knew that the Abbot would look harshly upon anyone who could dare to steal his favourite wine. It would rank as foully as stealing his best mount or rache in the Abbot’s mind.
‘Bailiff, come with me. Peter, please arrange for this mess to be cleared. At once!’
‘Yes, my Lord Abbot.’
The Abbot swept from the room, his habit rustling the leaves and twigs along the floor. Simon and Hugh hurried after him.
‘So, Bailiff. The coining is proceeding apace, I trust?’
‘It was when you called me.’
‘My apologies for dragging you away,’ the Abbot said drily. ‘I am sure you would have wished to remain to observe such a thrilling sight.’
Simon said nothing. It was very rare for him to hear the Abbot sounding so… so petulant.
His master stopped and looked about him, then he motioned to Hugh to leave them and crooked a finger to beckon Simon to his side. They were alone in the space before his lodgings, and no one could overhear the Abbot’s words. ‘Bailiff, I apologise for asking you here. It is important that you tell no one outside the Abbey what you saw in there. You understand me?’
‘Of course. But why?’
The Abbot gave a dry, humourless chuckle. ‘Sometimes when one wishes to spread gossip it is necessary to have the right person overhear it. No!’ he said hurriedly, noticing Simon’s offended expression. ‘Not you, Simon. There was another man there in the undercroft who may choose to repeat what we said.’
‘I see.’ Simon assumed that Abbot Robert expected either his Steward or Brother Peter to chat about the discovery to other Brothers, and noted the fact. He would not confide in either, he decided. ‘What now? Do you wish me to seek the thief?’
‘No, no,’ the Abbot said hurriedly. ‘There is no need. This is abbey business, and outside your sphere. Surely the guilty party is a monk who sought wine for himself.’
‘And took an entire barrel?’
‘It would not have been easy. No matter. The knowledge that I have shown you, the well-known and feared enquirer after the truth, a man known for his integrity, will drive the thief to panic and confession.’
‘So you wish me to do nothing? You merely hope that the monk who did this will tell you of his own accord?’ Simon queried.
The Abbot gave him an odd, measuring look. ‘My friend, I know you have many other pressing responsibilities. I wouldn’t want to load more work on you.’
‘My Lord Abbot, I can easily…’
‘Bailiff, this is an abbey matter, not something for you to worry about. Please give the matter no more thought.’
Oddly, when the Abbot left him a short while later, Simon for the first time since he had met the Abbot, was left with the impression that the man’s words were less than entirely honest.
Brother Mark could easily have been a tavern-keeper if he hadn’t joined the monastery. He was a cheerful, rotund man, with the ruddy complexion, multiple chins and expansive belly that so often seemed to go with the position of salsarius, the monk responsible for the preserved fish and flesh. His rumbling bass voice could often be heard as he went about his business in his dark, cool undercroft; singing hymns sometimes, but more commonly, when he thought that no one could hear, or when his ebullient nature got the better of him, he sank to saucy little songs that shouldn’t have been heard outside the lowest alehouse.