The Abbot's Gibbet Read online

  His mouth wide open with dismay, Elias stared as the port-reeve marched off with the watchman close behind. “What was that all about?”

  “Elias, you have the shop next to Will Ruby’s, don’t you?”

  The cook shut his mouth with a snap. Baldwin could see he was nervous, and his hands shook with the occasional twitch of the heavy drinker. That, the knight thought, would explain his pale complexion. Baldwin did not drink to excess, and held little regard for those who did. They were invariably foolish or stupid, to his mind. In his experience only those who had lived through a severe shock or those who were weak in spirit would resort to drinking excessively. Elias looked a rather pathetic creature, the kind to crumble at the first blow of fate. His face was skinny and freckled, under an unruly mop of reddish-brown hair. The thin nose and close-set eyes made him appear shifty, and fleshy pink lips gave him an unwholesome appearance as if he was suffering from a disease.

  “Where were you last night, Elias?” Baldwin asked.

  “Why? Who are you?” he demanded, glancing at Peter as the monk spread paper and began to write.

  “I am Baldwin Furnshill, Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton, and this is Simon Puttock, bailiff of Lydford Castle. The Abbot has asked us to investigate a murder. Where were you last night?”

  “I was here.”

  “Where were you before that, Elias?”

  “It took ages to get all this ready.”

  “I see. Let me tell you where you were, then. You were at the tavern near your shop, weren’t you?”

  “If you know, why ask?”

  Simon grated, “Elias, we’re working for the Abbot, trying to get to the bottom of a killing.”

  He sulkily looked from one to the other. “All right,” he said ungraciously. “I was at the tavern.”

  “That’s better. Who else was there?” said Baldwin.

  Elias winced as a sharp pain stabbed at his temple. He sat on his barrel and screwed his eyes into slits as he stared up at the Keeper. “It was the start of the fair—there was loads in there.”

  “Whom did you recognize, Elias?” Baldwin asked less gently.

  “Several of them: the port-reeve himself was there later. Four watchmen from Denbury were all sitting at a table; the one who came for David just now was one of them. Torre, from Ashburton way, he was there, and a merchant with his wife and daughter. Oh, and three men with a monk guiding them, though they didn’t stay. I’d never seen them before.”

  “What did they look like?” Baldwin asked.

  He shrugged. All visiting merchants looked the same to him. He began repositioning some of his pies and meats. “They were here—you only just missed them. I reckon they’re father and son. They look sort of similar.”

  “The man you were sitting with,” Baldwin said, watching the cook’s face closely. “Who was he?”

  “Sorry?”

  There was a note of uncertainty in his voice that caught Baldwin’s interest. “In the tavern you were sitting with a man for a goodly time. You had many drinks with him. Later you left the tavern with him. Who was he?”

  “No one…It was just someone who came up to me and wanted to talk.”

  “You left the tavern together, so where did you go?” Simon pressed.

  “We didn’t go anywhere. He happened to leave the place just as I was going out to the privy, that’s all.”

  Baldwin stared at him, and Elias’ eyes dropped. “He is dead. Murdered.”

  The cook dropped a pie. He stared at the knight with his mouth open in shock. “No! He…he can’t be!”

  Simon watched him, puzzled. Elias had not been surprised to hear that there had been a murder, but his shock on hearing about his companion was surely unfeigned.

  “You spent the evening with a man in a red leather jerkin, and left the tavern with him. And now we find a man in a red leather jerkin has been murdered and hidden in your rubbish. So who was he?”

  Elias retreated under the blast of the knight’s sudden bellow. “Sir, I…” Elias shivered. This questioning was confusing him, and he regretted the ales he had drunk the night before. The two men standing so aggressively before him, the one dark and angry, the scar on his cheek shining, the younger one, the bailiff, a sinister grin on his face as he watched Elias squirm, both made him fear for his freedom.

  But he had no idea how to escape from them. He felt like a rabbit caught in a snare: he could try to pull away, but only at the risk of harming Jordan. Yet if he were to stay silent without an attempt at protecting himself, he might get arrested.

  It was obvious that someone would have seen him leaving, but how could he have known that the body would be so quickly discovered, and that he would be linked to Jordan so easily? He shook his head, trying to clear it from the fog that thickened his brain. It was impossible to tell them the truth. That way led to ruin. An escape occurred to him. “Sir, I don’t know who he was.”

  “You’re lying,” Simon said. “We already know he asked for you. You expect us to believe that he knew you, yet you knew nothing of him?”

  “It’s the truth,” Elias protested stubbornly.

  “No,” said Baldwin shortly. “It is not true. You knew him.” Elias shook his head. To Baldwin he looked as determined as a mule. On a whim the knight lowered his tone. “Why should a man stab his victim and then cut off his head?”

  “His head was off?” Elias curled his lip in revulsion.

  “More than that,” said Simon shortly. “His head was taken away. We don’t know where it is.”

  Elias shivered suddenly as if attacked with an ague. Baldwin was convinced he wasn’t acting. There was nothing new in a man being murdered with a knife—almost all murders were committed with knives or daggers. But removing a victim’s head was a different matter.

  “Who would…Why?” the cook stammered. “I mean, what would someone do that for?”

  Simon crossed his arms and leaned against the awning’s support. “That’s a good question,” he said.

  “Elias, why will you not tell us who the man with you last night was?” Baldwin asked.

  “I don’t know him,” Elias asserted doggedly.

  The knight surveyed him quizzically. “You were with the man for ages. It is obvious you must have known him. Yet you continue in this ridiculous denial. Perhaps we should remove you to the jail so you can reconsider.”

  They both saw the fear and doubt twist the little man’s visage. Simon felt only contempt. The cook was weak. For some reason he was scared of letting the truth come out. But his very weakness was what made Baldwin doubt that Elias was capable of murder. He found himself recalling the corpse. It was strong and square with a barrel chest, the body of a man in his prime of health and strength. In life he must have been a little over middle height. His shoulders and biceps marked him out as a powerful figure.

  The knight considered the frail man before him. Would so pathetic a character be capable of murder, he wondered—especially the murder of a strong man who was fit and healthy. Baldwin had met enough cutthroats who were willing to slip from a darkened alley to overcome their prey, but Elias did not have the air of one of them. His expression was not guilty, merely determined.

  Baldwin had seen that expression before, and for a moment he wondered where, then it came to him. He had once caught a boy in one of his meadows, terrified sheep running all around. A lamb had disappeared, and the enraged knight had accused the lad of theft. While defiantly denying all complicity, the boy had refused to say what had happened. It was only later when Baldwin had found the missing lamb, dead and partly eaten, that he had discovered the truth. The lad’s dog had chased the sheep and lambs. It had captured one of them and run away with it. But the dog was the boy’s only friend and companion. He would prefer to be punished himself than see his dog killed.

  The knight stared thoughtfully at the cook. He would not arrest Elias yet, he decided. There was no logic to his decision; it was based solely on his sense of justice. Elias was
no footpad. Surely whoever had killed and decapitated the body, leaving it in the rubbish, was no weakling but a strong and powerful man in his own right.

  No, he thought. He would leave the cook for now. If there was any more definite evidence against him, he could arrest him later. For the time being, Baldwin was content to keep an eye on him.

  But when he reached the end of the alley in which Elias’ stall lay, he couldn’t help feeling he was taking a risk. “Edgar,” he said to his man-at-arms, “I don’t think Elias is the killer, but he knows something. Stay here and keep an eye on him. I don’t want him disappearing.”

  Lybbe was in two minds which group to follow. Avice and her father were heading off toward the spicers’ area, while it looked as though the Italians were returning to the Abbey. While he stood wavering, he caught sight of the friar.

  Hugo was a few yards from him, his bowl loose at his side, peering after the Italians with a doubtful set to his features. Lybbe watched him with increasing interest. He had noticed the friar ahead of him all the way since he had left Elias’ stall, but hadn’t realized that the cleric was stalking the same prey. Discovering someone else curious about his quarry made him feel relief bordering on euphoria. If the friar held doubts about them too, Lybbe couldn’t have been completely wrong.

  If it had been a priest, Lybbe wouldn’t have considered telling the man anything, but this was a gray friar, a Franciscan. He knew well enough that the Order had its black sheep, but this wandering friar looked honest with his grubby habit and battered collecting bowl. He had the appearance of a man who took his duties seriously. Lybbe wondered whether he could confess to this one, and tell his story. The Franciscans were notorious for giving light penances on the basis that a light penance which would be performed was better than a strict one which could be ignored at the peril of the soul concerned.

  Hugo raised his hands in indecision, and let them fall with apparent despondency. Lybbe, watching him closely, saw his irresolution. Slowly the cleric trudged back up the hill, away from the Poles and Camminos. As he neared Lybbe, the merchant started as he realized who it was; that decided him.

  “Brother friar, would you like something for your bowl?”

  Hugo glanced up at the quiet voice. “Thank you, but I have everything I need.” Then his eyes widened. “You!”

  “Brother, would you hear my confession?”

  Holcroft nodded as the details were read out, and took the official stamp from his purse. He thumped it into the molten wax almost before the clerk had finished dripping enough on the parchment and snapped, “Is that all?” before stalking out.

  He had intended to find a tavern to quench his thirst—he had no wish to see the bailiff or knight again immediately, but he had to pass by the horse-market. Here he idly whiled away some time watching the creatures being paraded round the ring before being put through their paces. It was always exciting to see the farm boys racing their mounts up and down the fields to demonstrate their speed and stamina.

  Turning to fetch himself a cool quart of ale, he found a small knot of watchmen standing behind him. He almost walked straight into them. Giving a gesture of annoyance, he motioned to them to get out of his way, but they stood their ground, and with a sense of distaste, he saw that it was the men from Denbury. “Well?”

  “Sir.” It was Long Jack. His dark eyes were filled with a reserved concern. “There’s been a robbery.”

  “Well? Get the details and find the felon. God’s blood, do I have to do everything around here?” Then he froze as he noticed the man’s face. “What is it?”

  “You’d better come with us, port-reeve.”

  He followed behind. If it was bad enough to make Long Jack fearful, it must indeed be a dreadful act. He found himself holding back as the men forged a way through the crowd, unwilling to encounter whatever evidence they might force upon him. First a murder, now a robbery, and both had to happen in the year when he was in charge.

  To his surprise he found he was being taken toward the butchers. The bull-baiting pen was empty now—the wounded cattle were being slaughtered and new ones had not yet arrived. The men took him up the alley to Will Ruby’s stall. Here they stood back respectfully, leaving space for the port-reeve to enter, and after throwing them a suspicious glance, he sidled behind the trestle table and went to the sheltered space behind.

  Ruby lay on a low palliasse, pale-faced, while his wife silently held a damp cloth to his temple. When they heard Holcroft approach, she leaped back, and her husband snatched up a club studded with nails from beside his makeshift bed. Seeing the port-reeve, he let it fall shamefacedly.

  “What in God’s name is all this about?” Holcroft demanded, astonished. He had never seen the butcher behave like this before. It was out of character, even if he had been robbed.

  “Sorry, David. It’s this attack, it’s made me a bit twitchy.”

  “Who was it, did you recognize him?”

  Ruby gave him an odd look. “No, I never saw him before.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Didn’t the watch tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Port-reeve, it was a monk! A damned monk robbed me!”

  8

  Abbot Champeaux waved the men to seats. Peter nervously hovered at the door, unsure whether to enter the Abbot’s private chamber, and was delighted, though secretly fearful of committing a faux pas in such company, when the Abbot beckoned him in and motioned him to a seat.

  Simon walked in after his friend and was surprised to see him halt only a few steps inside. Then he saw why. The Abbot was sitting at his great chair at the head of his table while the servants busied themselves preparing bowls, towels and water for washing. At the Abbot’s side was Simon’s wife, and next to her was another woman.

  The bailiff had always thought his wife to be the most lovely woman he had ever seen: Margaret’s body was slender but strong, her face still free of wrinkles and unmarked by the grief that so often made features prematurely haggard, and her thick golden hair gleamed like a flame in the summer sunshine. But the woman next to her was beautiful in another way.

  As the Abbot introduced him to the lady, Baldwin stood fixed to the spot. He could see red-gold tresses protruding from her coif, which contrasted with her bright blue eyes. Her face was regular, if a little round; her nose was short and too small; her mouth looked overwide and the top lip was very full, giving her a stubborn appearance; her forehead was broad and high: but the knight considered the sum of her imperfections to be utter perfection.

  “Jeanne? Surely that is not a local name?” he asked.

  She smiled, and he was secretly delighted to see how her cheeks dimpled. “No, sir. I was named in Bordeaux.”

  “Are you staying in the Abbey?”

  “The Abbot has given me a guestroom near the court gate. It is where I used to stay with my husband when we came to the fair.”

  The Abbot interrupted. “You may know, Sir Baldwin, that as Abbot of Tavistock, I hold a baron’s rank. I have to maintain some knights to supply the host in time of war. Sir Ralph was one of these. It was nothing to arrange for a room to be available for his widow.”

  “Widow?”

  “Sir Ralph de Liddinstone sadly caught a fever earlier in the summer.”

  Fever, Jeanne thought, hardly described the raging agony of his last days. She had never thought that so hardy a man could collapse with such speed. But she was grateful that he had.

  Her husband had been a brute. She could admit it now. Ralph at first had met her ideals of a truly courteous knight, being kind and thoughtful, loving and gentle—but that had changed when she had been unable to bear his children. He blamed her for it, as if she was deliberately witholding his heir from him. Each time a friend of his had announced another child, Ralph had looked on her more blackly, until at last he had hit her.

  That first time her shock had been so great she hadn’t really felt any pain, but from then on he had taken to drinki
ng ever more heavily, sulking in his hall, and afterward, as if as a diversion from bedding her, he would punch or kick her, once taking a riding crop to her bare back.

  No, Jeanne was grateful that God had taken him from her.

  Baldwin saw the fleeting sadness in her eyes. “My lady, I apologize if I unthinkingly reminded you of—”

  “It is nothing,” she said lightly, giving him a look that made his heart swell. “It is all over. And the Abbot here has been very kind.”

  “My dear, I have done nothing. The Abbey has a duty to provide hospitality.”

  “Abbot, you have let me stay in my home, you have loaned me your steward to make sure the house is well run during the harvest so we have food for the winter, and you have made me your friend. That is more than nothing.”

  Baldwin nodded. Many abbots or priors would want a widow out so that their lands could be more efficiently controlled by a man. It confirmed the impression of kindness and generosity he had earlier formed of the Abbot. “So, er, are you here for the fair?”

  “Yes. My husband and I used to come here every year for St. Rumon’s Fair, and the Abbot was good enough to ask me again, even though I am a widow now.”

  Margaret saw with near disbelief that her friend Baldwin was more keen and interested in this woman than in all the others she had paraded in front of him over the last years. She gave a tiny sigh of frustration that all her work had been wasted, but then studied Jeanne carefully. Apparently he was attracted to this red-haired woman from Liddinstone: if she could make Baldwin happy, Margaret would do all in her power to make sure he won her.

  Seeing Baldwin was awestruck, Margaret turned to her. “Jeanne, I have to make several purchases at the fair, and my husband and Baldwin are poor company, especially when they have the excuse of a murder to investigate. Would you mind joining me in search of cloth and plate?”

  Jeanne threw a quick glance at the knight, who stood uncertainly. She could see that he was fumbling for words, and the sight of the knight’s shyness was a balm to her soul after years of being told she was worthless because she was barren. “I would be delighted.”