The Templar

‘Perhaps. What of it? I am not responsible for what the good Pesquisidor thinks.’

‘Aren’t you? And what if we could find out something about the girl’s death?’

‘Then we should of course tell Munio. But right now, I want to see what I can learn about Matthew.’

‘Very well, Baldwin,’ Simon said, sure now that Munio was right, and that Baldwin was more interested in nailing his old friend’s killer than tracking down Joana’s murderer. From Simon’s perspective, this was all wrong, and he would continue to bend all his efforts to solving that crime.

The inn was a pleasant enough place, but the man at the bar could not help them. Yes, he had recognised the beggar, it was Maria. He knew her well — a sad girl, widowed when she was young. Where was she now? Couldn’t say. Hadn’t been up for food since Matt’s death, poor old devil.

Baldwin and Simon stood out in the shade of a chestnut tree and chatted for a few moments, Baldwin scowling up at the building, while Simon gazed back along the alleyway towards the Cathedral.

He had a vague feeling of inadequacy. If he was back at home, at his own home in Dartmoor, he would know lots of people who could help with his enquiries. It was curious that Munio himself couldn’t tell them where to look for the beggarwoman, he thought. The other man had allowed them to come up here, almost as though he expected them to find out something.

‘Seems a bit odd that this man has no idea where she might be,’ Simon mused.

‘Why should you say that? I wouldn’t expect a tavern-keeper in Crediton to know where all the beggars are,’ Baldwin said curtly.

‘Even the tavern-keepers who feed and look after them?’ Simon asked.

Baldwin eyed his friend with a renewed respect. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘I think we should go back inside and point out to mine host there that we are acting on behalf of Munio — and that the beggarwoman must be found before her life is endangered. If he still refuses to help, I think that we should sit down inside and make a nuisance of ourselves.’

Baldwin gave a humourless grin, and strolled back inside.

The man to whom they had spoken originally, a runty type with a skimpy moustache and a cast in one eye, looked up unwelcomingly as they re-entered, leaning on a large cask and reaching under his apron to scratch at his groin. It was a big, cool room, with a packed earthen floor wearing a thin scattering of hay. There were some unglazed windows with their shutters wide open down the right side of the place, while at the back, behind the serving man, stood a doorway covered with a large motheaten blanket. There were only two tables in there, for most visitors made use of the floor to rest their drinks on.

Simon crossed his arms and leaned against a large, rough pillar that propped up the roof while Baldwin walked forward and sat on a table, eyeing the man with ill-concealed distaste. ‘I want to speak with you again.’

The man looked from him to Simon. Then he shrugged and turned his back.

‘If I have to,’ Baldwin went on, ‘I shall have you arrested by Munio and we’ll question you in his hall.’

‘I’ve got nothing to say. I told you all I know.’

All of a sudden, some words he had heard came back to Simon. Someone had said that the innkeeper here was a woman, not a man. It was a woman whom Munio had said was kindly disposed towards the beggars of the city. A woman who protected them.

Pushing himself away from the post, he crossed the floor and, as he was about to pass through to the back, the man suddenly flicked aside his apron to pull at a knife in a scabbard underneath. The first Simon knew of it was when there was a harsh rasp of steel; he whipped round to see Baldwin’s bright blue sword blade resting on the man’s throat. While the latter swallowed nervously, Baldwin reached over with his left hand and took the dagger from him; Simon stared a moment at the man before turning and pushing his way out to the back.

He found himself in a small room, filled with the stench of sour wine and rotten meat. On the floor near a water jug lay the rank carcass of a cat. An open doorway revealed a small garden beyond, filled with vegetables. Two women were inside the room — one short and truculent with a narrow, rat-like face; the other a black-clad beggar who sat at a bucket, sleeves rolled up while she beat clothes clean.

There was a clumping clattering noise, and Baldwin burst in with the servant. ‘Aha! Hello, Maria,’ he said. ‘We should like to speak with you for a while.’

‘Yes, I was there,’ she said.

They were sitting out in the yard area, the early sun gradually warming them. Baldwin had demanded some wine, but when it arrived, he found it impossible to drink and asked the man to fetch a skin of good quality wine from another tavern not far away. The woman who owned the place grudgingly agreed, and Baldwin was now sipping a strong red wine which he found more palatable.