‘Which monk?’
‘The tall one, the one with the wound – you know, the scar along his jaw.’
‘Brother Peter!’ Simon breathed.
‘That’s the one. I couldn’t hear what they said. I was heading homewards, and I didn’t want to dither so I left them to it.’
‘Was there anybody else on the moors that day, Hal? Come on, man!’ he expostulated as he saw the miner look away. ‘Wally’s been killed. While his killer is free, he might strike again.’
‘There was a group of travellers out there. Just like the old story,’ Hal said quietly, and there was a shiftiness in his face. ‘Look, Bailiff, you may not believe the legend, eh? But when you live out here on the moors, you get to hear funny things at night, you see strange things you didn’t ought to. Sometimes things happen. If Wally was killed by the devil or one of his black angels, I don’t want to get in his way.’
‘I know what the moors can be like,’ Simon said. ‘But it’s rubbish to think that the devil killed Wally. Why should he? Wally couldn’t have sold his soul to the devil, could he? If he did, he made a poor bargain. I thought the devil offered worldly wealth.’
‘And Wally suddenly had all that money last Thursday.’
‘Bull’s cods!’ Simon said. ‘Why did you take the club away, Hal?’
‘What makes you think I did?’
‘Your friend who guarded the body after you had no interest in it, did he? He didn’t even seem to know there’d ever been one. Where did you put it?’
Hal squinted up at him, then shrugged. ‘I threw it in a bog.’
‘Why?’ Simon asked. ‘What good would that do you?’
‘It was a timber from my mine,’ Hal said gruffly.
Simon caught at his sleeve. ‘How can you be sure?’
‘You saw the marks. They were mine. When I bought it, I scratched my own sign into it. I always do that so others don’t try to steal from me. Someone must have tried to make me look like the murderer; me or my partner, Hamelin, who shares my workings and the timber.’
‘Not necessarily. It could have been someone who merely passed by and took up the first bit of wood he saw. Who could have found this timber and used it?’
‘I left for Tavvie early in the morning before the coining. The timbers were all there at my mine from that morning to the day after the coining, so for two or three days they were left unguarded. Anyone could have helped themselves.’
‘We know that Wally was alive at Nun’s Cross on the Friday – you saw him. Did you see him after that? Or see anyone else?’
‘No. Last time I saw him was breasting that hill with the monk.’
‘But you were heading towards your mine. Could the monk have run ahead, stolen the timber, run back, and stored it ready to kill Wally?’ Simon mused.
‘No, I doubt it. But someone else could have, and left it there for Brother Peter to pick up and use to kill Wally.’
‘It’s all a bit far-fetched. Why should someone try to implicate you?’ Simon considered. ‘Not that they did that very well. After all, I didn’t recognise the marks myself. How many would have?’
‘Any miner who looked during the inquest.’
‘Maybe. In which case perhaps a devious mind thought fit to put the blame on you. But it’s more likely that it was someone else entirely, someone who wanted to kill Wally and who knew that your mine was empty. He could go there, hammer some nails into the timber, bring it up here and do the deed. Perhaps it was someone who lives up here and merely stole timber from you because your works were close or convenient.’
‘Yeah. Could have been. There are plenty of men up here, what with miners, travellers and others.’
‘You saw Peter walking up with Wally. I think that means he can’t have been the killer. Whoever did this must have got to your camp before you, stolen the wood and made a weapon out of it, then made his way back up here. He hid and watched until Brother Peter moved on, then he attacked Wally and killed him.’
‘Maybe.’ Hal shrugged. ‘It’s hard to tell exactly what happened.’
But Simon was content with his reasoning. It was not a comfortable thought that a man like Peter could be a murderer, even after the terrible provocation he had suffered. The idea that a monk in the Abbey could be involved in murder was unsettling. Members of the clergy were as prone to anger as any other man in the kingdom, but it was horrifying to think that a man in Holy Orders could stray so far from his Rule and the Commandments as to kill another man.
Yet Simon was also aware of a niggling doubt at the back of his mind: if a monk did wish to murder, he would scarcely leave Tavistock carrying a large club studded with nails! He would prefer to concoct a weapon out on the moors, where no one could see and comment.
The shouts of ‘Murder! Murder!’ brought Nob to his senses. He leaped forward, shoving through the crowds, and soon reached the side of the fallen Sergeant. He paused, looking down at the body. As he did so, he saw a grimy hand reach out to the man’s purse and a dagger slice through the laces that held it on the belt. Then a pair of pale eyes glanced up and met his, before the lad suddenly turned and pelted through the crowds.
‘Oh, bugger!’ Nob swore, and set off in pursuit.
The boy was fleet, but there were too many people in his way. He tried to dodge and slip between legs, but as Nob came closer, he gave a squeak and dropped the purse, sprang through a narrow gap, and then hurtled off along an alleyway.
Nob stood catching his breath. The boy was unknown to him, and to be honest, he didn’t want to see him get caught. There was little satisfaction in the hanging of a mere child. He took up the purse and weighed it. It was heavy with his own coins! With a discontented grunt, he took it back to Jack, and dropped it onto the Sergeant’s breast.
The Sergeant coughed and tried to sit up. ‘Eh? What? Who fucking hit me? I’ll break his sodding neck, the–’
‘It was a monk. He didn’t want you to kill someone right in front of him. A cutpurse took your money. It’s there.’
‘Sod the money! I was going to knife that bastard when someone hit me,’ Jack said, every word making him wince. ‘It was “Red Hand” Armstrong, God rot him!’
‘Who?’
‘The murderer who attacked the monk, the man who murdered Peter’s girl, the man who led the Armstrongs after they were slaughtered by my master and me!’ Jack exclaimed, struggling to his feet, but as soon as he was up, he staggered as though his knees were turned to jelly.
Nob wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but to him it sounded as though Jack’s head injury was worse than he’d thought. When Jack bent and threw up, his opinion was confirmed. ‘Wait here, I’ll get you help,’ he said kindly. Asking another man to keep an eye on him, he hurried off to find Ellis. It was obvious that Jack really needed a vein opened.
Ellis was finishing shaving a man’s chin when Nob found him. He completed the job swiftly, threw some knives and a bowl into a bag and went back with Nob to find Jack.
‘Bare your arm, fellow,’ Ellis said. ‘From your face, your humours are all unbalanced. I have to bleed you.’
‘Oh, shit. I don’t usually have to pay to lose my blood,’ Jack said with a feeble attempt at humour. He held out his forearm, and the knife was applied, the blood caught in a bowl held beneath.
‘Where has the bastard gone?’ Jack asked, staring about him with a frown.
‘Who?’ Nob asked.
‘ “Red Hand!” He was here. I was going to kill him, but someone struck me down first.’
Nob shrugged and Jack went through the story again, of how he and Sir Tristram caught the Armstrongs and slaughtered them, but missed ‘Red Hand’ and two others.
‘What did he look like?’ Ellis asked sceptically as he studied the congealing blood in his bowl, stirring it with a finger, while Nob applied a styptic and bandage to the cut.