The Devil's Acolyte (2002) by Michael Jecks Page B

smelling strongly of fresh wine and preserved meats, but with the ever-present scent of rats. The ceiling was quite high overhead, well-built with neatly
fitted stones mortared together to form the vaulting, and it needed to be because in this room were many of the stores for the brethren, and the barrels were stored on top of each other in ranks.
Light entered from narrow windows set high in the walls, and the shafts lighted the motes of dust which perpetually spun and danced. Flies and beetles droned through in their search for food, and
occasionally struck a cobweb, making it shimmer and vibrate until the fly was wrapped in spider silk.
    ‘At last, Bailiff. I wanted to show you this,’ the Abbot said.
    His voice was rough with anger, and Simon was about to bow his head to accept whatever punishment his master deigned to hand down, when he realised that the Abbot was pointing to a barrel not
far from the door.
    ‘Look at that, will you?’ the Abbot grated. ‘I had these barrels brought here from Boulogne myself. I was told about the vineyards by a Brother Abbot in Guyenne, ordered the
wine once it was ready, paid for the transport, everything – only to have some thieving cretin drink the lot!’
    The Abbot wasn’t alone. As Simon approached, another monk stepped forward, a tall shape who stood with his head bent. As soon as he spoke Simon recognised the curious wheezing tones of
Brother Peter. No other monk at Tavistock had such an obvious speech impediment.
    ‘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