Michael JECKS - The Abbot's Gibbet

When they arrived at the alley, the people had gone. Once they had provided sureties, the guards had no further interest in them. The body had been carried away, and only a small pool of dried blood showed where it had lain.

Baldwin stared down at it, shook his head and walked over to the garbage heap. There was a besom with a broken handle leaning against the wall, and he used it to fastidiously disarrange the rubbish and study the contents. “Nothing here,” he said, throwing down the pole, and strolled back to the bloodstained spot. “Why would someone take the head?”

“A very good question,” said Simon.

“I reckon he was from outside the port,” said Holcroft, “and probably only came here to buy or sell something. It stands to reason he knew no one here.”

“If that is so, we should soon find who he was,” said Baldwin. “His stall will be empty, and somebody will report that, if only the man from whom he rented the space.”

“I’ve sent watchmen to see whether any stall is empty – but it’ll take time with so many to visit. And many stalls have more than one man to serve customers, so they may find nothing.”

“Well, let us see whether we can learn anything from the corpse. You are sure he was not local?”

“Not with his clothes. He must have been a foreigner, murdered by someone he met on the road. They argued; he died.”

“If it was someone on the road, he would have been killed on the road,” Simon said. “Why should he have been followed all the way to town, where there are watchmen, when he could be stabbed and left hidden somewhere in the country? No murderer would run such a risk.”

“Maybe he had attacked the man who killed him, and left him for dead, then his victim recovered and came here to exact his revenge?”

“In that case, why cut off his head?” asked Baldwin.

“To hide who it was?” Holcroft said, shrugging. Then his eyes widened. “Maybe it was to show who it was! Perhaps someone wanted this man dead, and paid a killer to do it, but wanted the head as proof of his death!”

Simon gave him a look of astonishment. “What on earth makes you think that someone would ask for a head to prove a murder?”

“It happened to St. John,” the young monk interrupted eagerly.

Simon stared at him. He had hardly noticed Peter before. The monk looked as if he was seventeen or eighteen, certainly not twenty yet. His features were drawn and pale, as if he was recovering from a fever, and he had insipid, fair hair. “I know that,” Simon told him. “But it’s a bit of a convoluted theory to explain this. I don’t find it very convincing on an English summer’s afternoon.”

“Neither do I,” Baldwin agreed. He looked at the port-reeve. “Where is the body now?”

The disgruntled Holcroft took them up the street and into a tavern. Walking through the screens, Baldwin glanced into the main room through the open door. “A busy little place,” he observed.

“Yes, sir. And friendly. I was here myself only last night – I never thought I’d be back for something like this.”

He led them out through to the rear. They came into a yard enclosed by a wall of hurdles, with hens scratching in the dirt. A watchman sat on a stool, guarding the outhouse in which the body had been placed, a quart of ale at his side, and an old, rusty spear leaning against the wall. Seeing Holcroft he stood, gripping the spear shaft in both hands.

Inside, Simon was taken by the aroma. There was a delightful scent of apples, and when he looked, he saw a large press. Barrels along the wall gave off a wonderful yeasty smell, and from the potency of the odor, he guessed that a strong cider was brewing.

The body rested on planks laid across upright barrels. Baldwin walked up and stood beside it. In the presence of death, he felt a curious dislocation from his ordinary life. This empty figure was a reminder that life was fleeting. It was also evidence of a brutal murder, and Baldwin knew that if he was careful, he could learn enough from the corpse to help him catch the killer.

The body was still fully clothed. Baldwin called the guard in to help witness their post mortem, and began to undress it, pulling off the red leather jerkin and doublet, then the shirt. The arms were stiff with rigor mortis, but he persevered. After a while the doublet came off, and the hose, then the shirt, and Baldwin could study the dirty figure of a man, a man with strong arms and thighs, who had several minor scars and marks on his torso. “He wasn’t killed this morning,” he declared. “He must have died last night, for his body is as cold as moorstone.”

“Anything else?” Simon asked.

Baldwin stood, one hand wrapped round his chest, the other cupping his chin while he stared. “It’s odd he has no purse. A cut-purse could have bungled his theft and got into a fight, I suppose…” He was silent a moment, then picked up the belt and studied it. The empty knife-sheath interested him. “Strange, this. It held an ordinary single-edged knife of some sort, with a blade about one and a half inches wide and seven inches long.”

“That hardly sounds very interesting,” Simon observed.

“Look at the quality of the leatherwork. It’s very good, and there is a mark, a coat-of-arms embossed on it.”

“Do you recognize the arms?”

“No, I’m afraid not. That would make life too easy, wouldn’t it!” He nodded to Edgar, and the two of them rolled the body over. “Ah!”

“What?”

“This means that my theory of a cut-purse mucking up a simple waylaying is wrong. A thief might have knocked him on the head to ease his deed, but not stabbed him. Peter, do you have your papers? Then note this. There is a stab wound in his back. It is a little over an inch wide, about two inches to the left of his spine.” He broke off and reached for the shirt. Studying it at length, he dropped it and looked at the doublet and jerkin.

“What is it?” Simon asked.

“He was stabbed, but there is no corresponding cut in his shirt, only a stain. He was murdered while bare-chested, or wearing something else, and for some reason his shirt was put on him afterward. What could be the reason for that?”

“Why should he be stabbed?” Holcroft said. “I’d thought he died when his head was taken off.”

“No victim would remain still long enough to allow his head to be swept from his shoulders,” Baldwin said scathingly. “His head was removed after he had died. He was stabbed and killed, and then for some reason his head was taken off and he was dressed in this shirt.”

“What was the point of that?” asked Holcroft.

“A good question.” Baldwin stood considering the body for some time. “How old does he look to you, Simon?”

The bailiff put his head to one side. “It’s hard to say. Without a head and a face, I don’t know.”

“It is hard,” Baldwin agreed. It was hard to tell anything from a headless man. His muscles were well-used, but that simply meant he was probably not a priest. Anyone else would have labored, whether a knight, butcher, miner, or servant. Baldwin was despondent. What could a man learn from another’s corpse when even the identity was a mystery? He forced himself to concentrate. No matter how difficult, he must do his best to discover the truth. Whoever the man was, he deserved to have his murder avenged.

There was not much body hair, but Baldwin had known men in their fifties who had less. “He was not well-to-do: his hands are dirty with grime, and there are many calluses, so he was unlikely to have been a merchant. The belly is quite large, which makes him appear older, so he was not a poor peasant; he has eaten too well in his life. The skin is not soft like a youngster’s, it is coarse. Surely he must be over twenty. Perhaps nearer forty, from the look of his stomach.”