Michael JECKS - The Abbot's Gibbet

Edgar looked back serenely, and Baldwin faced Margaret. “Has he put you up to this, Margaret? Has he asked you to persuade me to buy new things? If he has, he might have to find a new post.”

“Do you suggest that I am unable to form my own opinions of a tired and threadbare tunic?” she asked tartly.

“No, no, of course not. It’s just that Edgar has been worse than a nagging wife recently, telling me…”

“Well, I think it’s time you bought a new tunic. You can afford it.”

“Simon, give me some support!”

“No,” said Simon with delight. “My wife knows her own mind, and I’ll be buggered if I’m going to get in her way over this: if she takes you to the stalls to find a new tunic, that means she’ll have less time to spend my money. Meg, you carry on. Make sure he gets new hose, hats, gloves, shirts, cloaks, belts, boots, and anything else that will take time to buy and keep you from your own favorite stalls!”

They had descended to the outskirts of the town, and continued down the street toward the Abbey, passing by the market.

“What’s going on there?” Baldwin wondered, seeing a huddle of people.

“Some kind of excitement,” Simon said disinterestedly. “Probably only a thief or something. Cut-purses always come to the fairs. They know they can steal with impunity in the crowd.”

“Perhaps.” Baldwin noted the heavily armed watchmen, and the burly figure of a man stooping. A group of people muttered nearby. Then he saw the body on the ground. “Hello? Is someone hurt?”

The bent man straightened slowly. “You could say that.”

Baldwin studied him. For all the weariness in his voice he had an air of authority, which was emphasized by his somewhat portly figure. That he was prosperous was obvious from the quality of his cloak and hat, and Baldwin assumed he must hold some kind of office. “Can I help?” he offered. “I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton. Do you need some assistance here?”

“He certainly doesn’t,” said one of the guards and sniggered.

“Shut up, Long Jack,” the man snapped.

Looking down, Baldwin saw what the watchman meant. The body was that of a short but strong man, dressed poorly in faded blue hose and a holed and patched doublet. That the man was dead was in no doubt. Baldwin heard Margaret gasp. The body was headless.

Dropping from his horse, Baldwin glanced round the men in the crowd. “Has anyone told the Abbot?”

“I have. I am the port-reeve, David Holcroft.”

Baldwin nodded and looked down at the body. “I am Sir Baldwin Furnshill, here to visit Abbot Champeaux. Has the coroner been called?”

“A man has been sent to fetch him, but it will take at least three days to get him here,” Holcroft said.

“Why so long?”

“There’s been a shipwreck. He’s been called to the coast.”

“I see. These people – who are they?”

“The neighbors. As soon as the hue was called, I had them all brought.”

“All here?”

“Almost. Only the cook Elias isn’t present. He’s probably seeing to his wares in the fair.” Holcroft pointed to another. “He’s the first finder: Will Ruby, the butcher. He discovered the body and raised the hue.”

Simon sprang from his horse and passed his rein to Hugh, who remained on his mount staring down distastefully at the corpse. The bailiff walked to Baldwin’s side. The neighbors all stood nervously while Baldwin studied them. Simon knew what he was thinking: if the coroner took three days to return, the murderer could be far away by then. If the killer was one of the foreigners and not a portman of Tavistock, he might never be found. Yet Baldwin had no legal right to investigate; that was the preserve of the local coroner.

The men all looked bitter. When a corpse was found, the nearest neighbors must be attached, held on promise of a surety, before they could be formally released. It was the only way to guarantee that they would definitely pay their amercement for allowing a murderer to break the King’s Peace.

Looking at the shops either side of the alley, Baldwin asked, “You are the butcher?”

Will nodded glumly. “Yes, sir. That’s my shop there.”

The first finder interested Baldwin. Will Ruby was a short and strong-looking man, with massive biceps and a belly to match. A thick rug of short, curling hair of a reddish brown covered his large, rounded skull. From the look of his woollen overcoat the knight saw that the butcher enjoyed a profitable business.

“How did you come to find him?”

Will explained about his journey to fetch his midden-baskets. “I saw his foot sticking from the pile there and pulled it.”

Baldwin listened closely while he looked carefully at the body. “Do you have any idea who this was?”

Holcroft answered for Will. “Not with those clothes. He doesn’t seem to be from within the port – these things are very foreign.” He frowned, staring at the body. “I’ve seen someone wearing clothes like these before, though I can’t think where.”

“You think it was someone visiting the fair?”

“It seems likely.”

Simon scratched his chin. “So where’s his head?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Holcroft said.

“What?” Baldwin asked. “It is not here?”

“Not in the heap or anywhere nearby. We’ve hunted up the alley and everywhere, but there’s no sign of it.”

“Strange.” Baldwin wandered closer to the pile and stared at it a moment before returning to the body. “Did you find a knife?”

“Knife?”

“His sheath is empty.”

Holcroft shook his head.

“It is strange that his head should have been cut off,” Baldwin murmured. “Why should someone do that, I wonder? And why take his knife afterward?”

“Simon, do you think we could go on ahead if Baldwin is going to…”

“Margaret, I am so sorry,” the knight said and leaped to his feet. “This is nothing to do with me. I am here for the holiday. We are here to see the fair. My apologies. It was inexcusable to make you wait here with a corpse. Come, we shall go on immediately.”

Simon climbed on his horse and waited until Baldwin had mounted his own before setting off to the Abbey. The bailiff knew that his friend was always intrigued by crimes, and was surprised at the speed with which Baldwin gave up his questioning. Then Simon saw Baldwin’s eyes return to the body and stay fixed there. The knight caught sight of Simon’s expression and gave a rueful shrug.

“No, we are here for St. Rumon’s Day.”

The Abbot of Tavistock stood in his hall and held his arms wide in welcome. A cheery, red-faced cleric of middle height, his tonsure needed no shaving, for his head wore only a scanty band of gray hair that reached as far as his temples on either side. All his pate from his forehead to the back of his head was bare. “Bailiff, welcome! And your lady, too. Please be seated. You must be Sir Baldwin Furnshill. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. Come, please be seated.”

Abbot Champeaux’s enthusiasm was infectious. He led them to a sideboard littered with expensive plate, upon which stood a flagon of wine and a number of goblets, all carefully crafted in pewter. Baldwin took one from the bottler and studied it. There was a hunting scene carved round it. The Abbot, he decided, was not averse to displaying his prosperity.

While Simon chatted to his new master, his bag slung over his shoulder, Baldwin sat and took in his surroundings. The room was comfortably furnished, with tapestries on the walls, and padded cushions on the chair seats. A solid moorstone fireplace took up a large part of the eastern wall. From where he sat, with his back to the hearth, he could gaze out through the glazed windows over the fishponds and gardens. The grounds took up a large area, stretching to the strip fields. He could see the lazy sweep of the river as it meandered away from the town.