For the Love of Old Bones - and other stories (Templar Series) by Michael Jecks Page B
Authors: Michael Jecks
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‘I should have thought that was obvious, my friend. Because here among us is the killer. All of you had a desire to kill Ralph.’
There was a grim silence in answer to his words. John felt anxious, aware that his stomach suddenly felt empty. Peter was staring up at the horizon again, seemingly unaware of the upset and annoyance he had caused.
It was curious that nobody questioned his statement. There was a strange stillness, as though all the people there were holding their breath and waiting for him to make another comment, and John wondered for a moment whether Peter was half expecting an outburst, something that might make the murderer declaim his innocence before all. Eventually, Peter dropped his head and turned to face them.
‘Ralph died, I think, either from the blow to his head, or from drowning because he had been stunned and could not lift his mouth and nose above the waters. I can’t say that I am expert enough to interpret the signs, but I can be sure that he died some hours ago. He is quite chill, isn’t he?’
Ivo Colbrok gave a great ‘Hah!’ and smiled triumphantly. ‘Well that means I could have had nothing to do with his death: I was in the Plymouth Inn last night, and stayed there until this morning, when I went home.’
Peter gave him a shocked look. ‘I trust you didn’t think I meant you’d killed him, Ivo? The only argument you had with Ralph was about the rabbits.’
‘Yes . . . Well . . . He would complain about them every few days. Insisted that my rabbits chewed into his crops last year. Absolute crap, of course. I look after my rabbits, I do. There’s no need for them to wander, and why he should think that they’d eat his manky peas and beans, I don’t know. Anyway, there was nothing the bastard could do about it,’ he added smugly, ‘since your Abbot is the owner of the warrens. I pay him rent each year to farm his rabbits, but they are still his own and, as I told Ralph, if he had a problem with them, he should go to the Abbot.’
‘Yes,’ Peter said ruminatively. His chin was cushioned in his hand again. It was a familiar posture, and John had often wondered whether it was an affectation which he used to conceal his scar. ‘The Abbot told me of that. In fact before I came up here today, the Abbot told me to ask you about the argument you had with Ralph last midday.’
Ivo paled and his voice grew quieter. ‘I hadn’t realised the good Abbot had heard.’
‘Oh, the Abbot has good hearing regarding matters which may need to be decided before his court,’ Peter said cheerily. ‘I understand that it was some other problem?’
‘He accused me of trying to poison his dog,’ Ivo snarled. ‘That monster there! Rumon, he called it, after the saint, which is blasphemy in any man’s language.’
Peter smiled at the mastiff, who chose this moment to scratch laboriously at his pendulous jowls, flicking a thick gobbet of saliva some yards, narrowly missing John. ‘St Rumon may be the saint most honoured in our church, but Ralph always said that it was only fair that the fellow should be given the saint’s name, since he was born on the saint’s day.’
‘I didn’t try to poison the tawny brute, anyway. That was a lie put about by Ralph to justify trying to thump me.’
‘I wasn’t aware that Ralph required provocation to hit people,’ Peter said mildly.
John had noticed before that the almoner tended to avoid a man’s eyes when he was questioning them. It was a trait which he had exhibited on occasions with the novices, when he suspected that one was guilty of a misdemeanour, as though by looking away he could hear the truth more distinctly. Only when he was certain of his judgement did he look up and meet his victim’s gaze with a firm and determined scowl.
He looked up now, and fixed his stern features on Ivo with the result that Ivo flushed and looked away as though ashamed.
‘Did you try to poison his dog?’
Ivo threw his hands out
There was a grim silence in answer to his words. John felt anxious, aware that his stomach suddenly felt empty. Peter was staring up at the horizon again, seemingly unaware of the upset and annoyance he had caused.
It was curious that nobody questioned his statement. There was a strange stillness, as though all the people there were holding their breath and waiting for him to make another comment, and John wondered for a moment whether Peter was half expecting an outburst, something that might make the murderer declaim his innocence before all. Eventually, Peter dropped his head and turned to face them.
‘Ralph died, I think, either from the blow to his head, or from drowning because he had been stunned and could not lift his mouth and nose above the waters. I can’t say that I am expert enough to interpret the signs, but I can be sure that he died some hours ago. He is quite chill, isn’t he?’
Ivo Colbrok gave a great ‘Hah!’ and smiled triumphantly. ‘Well that means I could have had nothing to do with his death: I was in the Plymouth Inn last night, and stayed there until this morning, when I went home.’
Peter gave him a shocked look. ‘I trust you didn’t think I meant you’d killed him, Ivo? The only argument you had with Ralph was about the rabbits.’
‘Yes . . . Well . . . He would complain about them every few days. Insisted that my rabbits chewed into his crops last year. Absolute crap, of course. I look after my rabbits, I do. There’s no need for them to wander, and why he should think that they’d eat his manky peas and beans, I don’t know. Anyway, there was nothing the bastard could do about it,’ he added smugly, ‘since your Abbot is the owner of the warrens. I pay him rent each year to farm his rabbits, but they are still his own and, as I told Ralph, if he had a problem with them, he should go to the Abbot.’
‘Yes,’ Peter said ruminatively. His chin was cushioned in his hand again. It was a familiar posture, and John had often wondered whether it was an affectation which he used to conceal his scar. ‘The Abbot told me of that. In fact before I came up here today, the Abbot told me to ask you about the argument you had with Ralph last midday.’
Ivo paled and his voice grew quieter. ‘I hadn’t realised the good Abbot had heard.’
‘Oh, the Abbot has good hearing regarding matters which may need to be decided before his court,’ Peter said cheerily. ‘I understand that it was some other problem?’
‘He accused me of trying to poison his dog,’ Ivo snarled. ‘That monster there! Rumon, he called it, after the saint, which is blasphemy in any man’s language.’
Peter smiled at the mastiff, who chose this moment to scratch laboriously at his pendulous jowls, flicking a thick gobbet of saliva some yards, narrowly missing John. ‘St Rumon may be the saint most honoured in our church, but Ralph always said that it was only fair that the fellow should be given the saint’s name, since he was born on the saint’s day.’
‘I didn’t try to poison the tawny brute, anyway. That was a lie put about by Ralph to justify trying to thump me.’
‘I wasn’t aware that Ralph required provocation to hit people,’ Peter said mildly.
John had noticed before that the almoner tended to avoid a man’s eyes when he was questioning them. It was a trait which he had exhibited on occasions with the novices, when he suspected that one was guilty of a misdemeanour, as though by looking away he could hear the truth more distinctly. Only when he was certain of his judgement did he look up and meet his victim’s gaze with a firm and determined scowl.
He looked up now, and fixed his stern features on Ivo with the result that Ivo flushed and looked away as though ashamed.
‘Did you try to poison his dog?’
Ivo threw his hands out
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