‘I don’t see it would make much sense,’ Simon protested.
‘There is another thing, too,’ Baldwin said. ‘The killer need not have been a man. A woman could wield a morning star as easily as a man.’
‘Surely few women could so devastatingly crush a man’s skull?’
‘No, I daresay you are right. I am merely speculating. But I shall look forward to seeing this corpse again and considering the wounds. I hope it hasn’t disintegrated too badly before we get to it.’
Simon shrugged. Baldwin’s smooth summary of the position had made him feel his own inadequacy compared with the knight’s, reminding him of his incompetence before the Abbot. It was a terrible thing to recognise it in himself, this stupidity that could cost him his job.
Baldwin could see that Simon was upset, so he smiled and patted his friend’s arm. It was always the case that Simon felt sick at the sight of a dead body. ‘You do not have to come with us to the inquest if you do not want to,’ he said kindly.
Simon’s eyes hardened, and Baldwin withdrew his hand in surprise at the Bailiff’s sharp tone. ‘Why? Don’t you think I can help you? Am I too stupid?’
Baldwin was too astonished to answer immediately. He could see that he had insulted or offended the man, but he had no idea how. When a scruffy messenger appeared, he was glad of the diversion.
‘Sir Baldwin, the Abbot wants to see you again, sir. As soon as you can, please.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘No need for you two to leave your wine. I shall see you later.’
To his dismay, he saw that his words seemed only to increase Simon’s gloom.
Chapter Sixteen
Hamelin approached the door of his house in Tavistock with dread curling in his belly like a worm. Again, there was no noise, no wailing or weeping, but he stood outside for a moment or two, listening, wondering how Joel, his infant son, fared.
He had been back at the mine since Friday, trying to concentrate on digging and keeping the flow of water at the right level, while Hal busied himself looking for a fresh source of metal. This area was all but mined out, but Hal had a nose for tin, and he said he thought that there was a new spot which others had missed – but if it was there, they had yet to find it. Still, it had taken Hamelin’s mind off his sick son.
Hal had discovered the body of Wally first thing on Monday. He’d gone up there because he was beginning to wonder why there was no sign of a cooking fire or any other evidence of life at Wally’s place; the corpse sent him running back to Hamelin to tell him, and then he took his pony and hurried off to town to inform the authorities, leaving Hamelin to protect the works. In all honesty Hamelin was incapable of concentrating. Hearing that Wally was dead had dulled his mind, and for much of Monday he merely sat and stared at the water running through the wooden leat.
Wally’s death affected him profoundly. It felt as though there was a sign in this, as though Wally’s life and his son Joel’s were connected. One had died – perhaps the other would live? It was something to cling to.
It had been hard to get anything much done for all that long day. Hal, who had ridden back from Tavistock, stayed over at the corpse’s side to protect it, but when he finally returned late on Tuesday morning, he was gruff and uncommunicative. He cast odd glances at Hamelin every now and again, but then looked away. It made for an uncomfortable atmosphere, and Hamelin was relieved when Hal went into the hut to sleep; next morning, he announced that he would return to the body and take over from the man waiting there.
Hamelin was nothing loath to see him tramp off towards Wally’s corpse. They had hardly exchanged a word since Hal’s return, and in any case, Hamelin had decided that he had to make the journey back to town to see his boy. Hal wouldn’t know, because he would be at Wally’s place all night.
Filled with trepidation, Hamelin pushed at the door and heard the leather hinges creaking, the bottom boards scraping along the dirt floor. When he could sidle around it, he entered, and had a glimpse of the room.
At the corner he could hear the thumping of a dog’s tail; there was the snuffling of a child with a cold; an irregular crackling from a good fire, and then a metallic tapping. As he walked in, he saw his wife Emma standing at a good-sized cooking pot that rested on a trivet over the fire, and she was stirring a thick pottage. Hamelin felt saliva spurt from beneath his tongue at the smell of meat and vegetables.
She turned, startled, and stood gazing at him for a moment, white-faced in the dingy gloom of the room, and then ran to him, throwing her arms about him. Silently, she pulled him away from the door and down to their bed. There, lying well wrapped in an old woollen shawl, was their son. He looked so pale that Hamelin knew he was dead, and he felt a terrible emptiness open in his breast, as though God had reached in and pulled out his heart.
And then Joel muttered, and rolled over in his sleep, and Hamelin felt the tears flowing down his cheeks with pure joy.
It was very peculiar, Baldwin thought as he strode back towards the Abbey, the youthful messenger skipping at his heels.
Baldwin had known Simon Puttock for six years or so, and in all that time the Bailiff had been easygoing and cheerful, except during that terrible black period when Simon’s first son had died. That had affected Simon and his wife Meg, as it would any loving parent, but even through all that pain and anguish, Simon had tried to maintain his sense of humour, and to see him so snappish about this killing was strange. Perhaps Simon had simply seen too many bodies?
No, it most surely wasn’t that! Simon wasn’t a weakling, he just had a weakness of belly when he found decaying human flesh; most of the population felt the same way. It was Baldwin who was different, for he had no fear of dead bodies. To him they were mere husks, the worn-out and discarded shells of men who no longer had a need for them. But when those husks were the remains of murdered men and women, Baldwin knew that they could still speak, and sometimes tell who had murdered them, and why. All it needed was an eye to look and a mind to notice – and an absence of bigotry or hatred. Too often people jumped to conclusions based upon their own prejudices; after his experience as a Knight Templar, Baldwin had no intention of committing the same sin.
The Abbot was standing beside his table when Baldwin entered, his face troubled. ‘Thank you for returning so promptly, Sir Baldwin. I wanted to tell you as soon as I knew. After speaking to you, I decided to approach the novice to ask him point blank about the thefts, but I couldn’t.’ For a moment his composure evaporated and his face showed his anger and concern. ‘The acolyte Gerard has disappeared.’
Baldwin’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Disappeared? Do you mean he has simply vanished?’
‘As good as, I fear. There is no sign of him. I understand he hasn’t been seen all day, but my brethren didn’t tell me, thinking that he was misbehaving and would be back soon.’
Baldwin was already moving towards the door. ‘Would you come with me? It would be easier to speak to your brethren if they know that I am acting on your behalf.’
‘Of course.’
‘Who was the last man to see him?’
‘I fear I don’t know,’ Abbot Robert admitted, his sandals pattering on the flags as they went along the short passage out to the yard beyond.
‘Do you know when he was last seen?’
‘No, I only heard about this myself a short while ago.’
Baldwin said nothing, but his mind was whirling as he took in the symbolic impact of this boy’s sudden disappearance. It would play into the hands of those who wanted to believe that the theft of the Abbot’s wine was tied to the travellers on the moor, and to the murder of Walwynus. The lad’s going would make everyone assume that the novice had been involved in the thefts and that the devil had taken him away, just as 150 years ago, Milbrosa had been spirited away. Baldwin didn’t believe that story, but he knew that others did, and he also knew that an unscrupulous man would be keen to divert attention from his crime by blaming others. And who better to blame than the devil himself?