The Abbot's Gibbet (15 page)

He shoved, releasing his cord at the same time, and the man staggered forward until he came to a halt against a trestle. Choking, he stood rubbing his throat, hatred glittering in his eyes. Lybbe twirled the leather thong round his finger. “Like I said, anything strange happens round here, and I’ll be along to see
you.
Got that?” He picked up the cudgel and weighed it in his 124

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hand meditatively. Then he tossed it to Little Jack. The watchman managed to catch it before it struck him in the belly, but all the time his eyes were fixed narrowly on the short figure before him, as if trying to fix the man’s features permanently in his memory.

- 10 M argaret had invited Jeanne to accompany her on a visit to the fair, leaving Baldwin and Simon to join Holcroft, who awaited them with the watchman Daniel. The portreeve was frustrated at having to assist the knight from Furnshill, for he had many other duties to see to, but the Abbot had been quite definite even after hearing about the attack on Will Ruby. “This is a murder,” he pointed out, “and you must help Baldwin and the bailiff if you can. The attack on Ruby is secondary; it can wait.”

With Hugh, Simon’s servant, in tow, Margaret led her new friend up the hill, past the alley where the garbage was still heaped, past the cookshop and the tavern, and on up toward the fairground. Margaret often went with her husband to Lydford Fair, but Tavistock Fair was on a different scale. The number of stalls was daunting, and many carried goods from far afield. She stared around her as they passed, but it was only as they came to the food-stalls that she began to study the goods in earnest. She had almost run out of spices, and needed to replenish their stocks. Hugh stood resignedly as his mistress haggled with 126

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stallholders. In a short space of time he was laden with baskets. Oranges and almonds, loaves of sugar, packets of ginger and cinnamon, mace, cardamom and cloves, were all piled into his baskets until he complained at the weight. Margaret turned her nose up at goods she could buy at Lydford. Mustard, salt and saffron were all ignored, as was pepper, but to Hugh’s dismay she slowed at the barrels of fish, and he was delighted when he heard Jeanne attract her attention to the cloth-sellers.

“Didn’t you say you needed new material?”

Soon Margaret was casting a speculative eye over the bolts on display. “It has to be the right color for him.”

“For your husband?”

“No,” she said, feeling a purple silk with a sad covetousness. It would have to go to a woman more prosperous than she: Simon would never agree to such an expense. “For Baldwin. He has no decent tunics.”

“You have taken it upon yourself to buy him new clothes?”

Margaret smiled at the note of surprise. “There is no one else to do it for him.”

“He has no woman?”

“He’s never married, and he rarely meets women of his own rank to woo. And he’s far too honorable to take a peasant.”

“Oh.” The simple expression carried an undertone of interest.

“I would be grateful,” Margaret said innocently, “if you could help me—what colors do you think would suit him?”

Jeanne threw her a curious glance. “You know him much better than I.”

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“Yes, but sometimes another opinion can help greatly.”

“Really?”

Jordan watched the three approach and moved forward to the trestle. “My ladies, you must surely want to see the best in the fair. For two such beautiful ladies, only the finest wares will do. Come and see the bolts here.”

Margaret inclined her head at the compliment, and she and Jeanne followed him to the makeshift shed he had constructed behind the table between two wagons. Here they found racks set out with the choicest materials. Cloth of gold, gauze, and fine woollens from the Flemish towns were displayed, and Margaret gasped when she saw the fine colors.

“There are cloths here that will make you both look like queens,” Jordan said confidently. “Look at this.”

He pulled out a deep blue material. “Could any lady want a finer wool for a tunic?”

“It’s not for us that we’re looking,” Jeanne managed when Jordan drew breath. “It is for a man.”

“Excellent, my lady. And your husband must be a strong and noble gentleman, I am sure—and a man with a wonderful eye for beauty. This would be the perfect thing.”

She eyed the crimson cloth in his hands, then looked at Margaret. “What do you think my husband would need?” she asked, and giggled. Margaret grinned, then both were rocking with gales of laughter while the stallholder and Hugh exchanged uncomprehending stares.

Elias’ door was unlocked. Inside it was as black as a cellar; the shop’s entrance faced east, and the meager 128

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light from the waning sun missed the interior completely. Baldwin waited while the port-reeve cursed and muttered, trying to light tinder from flint and his knife. As soon as the flames spluttered fitfully into life, he lit a candle, and the room was filled with a yellow glow as he handed it to Baldwin.

Holcroft had not wanted to check on Elias’ house like this. He had the soul of a free portman, and this felt like trespass. The fact that the Abbot himself had ordered it did not help. Abbot Champeaux did not own Elias’ house any more than he owned Holcroft’s. The borough was a free entity, and while the Abbot might possess the rights to the court, that did not mean he owned the justice dispensed in that court, only the profits accruing from it.

Baldwin accepted the candle and studied the room carefully. Sleeping rolls and blankets lay on the floor. Elias had rented out every inch of spare space for the duration of the fair, but his lodgers were presently at the ground, and the house was deserted. Only their unwashed smell remained, overwhelming the more wholesome tones of cooked food.

To Peter it was an unexceptional place, constructed of timber with cob filling the panels. The shop windows—two large shutters which opened outward to form tables on which Elias could display his wares—

lay at either side of the door. Apart from a number of tables and benches, there was little furniture. The floor was covered in straw which, from the look of it, had lain there some time.

There was no obvious place Baldwin could see where a hole might have been bored to conceal the missing head. The walls were thin, so he set the watch-The Abbot’s Gibbet 129

man to clearing the straw and looking underneath for a secret cache.

He walked through the low doorway into the back room. Here was all the paraphernalia of a cookhouse. A brick oven stood at the back, furthest from the street. Pans, dishes and bowls were stacked on the table that lay along one wall. At the opposite wall was a staircase, each step formed from timber cut diagonally to give a triangular section and then nailed on two rails. Baldwin clambered up it to reach the small chamber upstairs. A bed sat in the middle, the linen curtains hanging loosely, none tied back. There was a musky scent from the herbs laid under the straw mattress to keep the fleas at bay. A chest stood at the foot of the bed, and when the knight peered inside, he found spare sheets and clothing. Nothing more. A few rolls of bedding lay on the floor. Simon had followed him, and stood in the doorway while Baldwin stared out into the street.

“Not very prepossessing, is it?” Simon said. The knight waved a hand curtly round the room. “I was just thinking that this man must live alone. He can hardly be married in a place so sparsely decorated.”

He gave the place a last cursory glance and descended. The room reminded him of his own, similarly spartan chamber, and he was struck by an odd sense of sympathy for the lonely cook, living above his shop, without even the comfort of a woman—the comfort of a woman like Jeanne, he found himself thinking, and roughly forced the memory of her face from his mind.

“Holcroft?”

The port-reeve scurried through from the front room. “Yes, Sir Baldwin?”

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“Elias—is he married?”

“Widowed. She died in labor. Then his son died.”

Simon had followed them, and heard this last. He saw Baldwin’s quick glance, and smilingly shook his head. He was over the death of his son, and hearing mention of another’s loss couldn’t hurt him. The knight turned back to the port-reeve. “Has Elias no woman?”

“Only the girls from the tavern.” He recalled the night before the fair. “One in particular, I suppose—

Lizzie. She was here with him yesterday afternoon.”

Peter glanced about him. After the opulence of the Abbey, he found this little shop with its smell of unwashed bodies distasteful.

“We should speak to her as well at some point,”

Baldwin murmured. He looked round the room again, noting the trivets and pans, the large bowls and dishes.

“Is there any sign of him hiding something in here?”

“None. I’ve even had a look in the oven and firebox.”

“Ah, well. I suppose we should be glad of the fact,”

Baldwin said, and walked to the back door. “What’s out there?”

“His yard.”

Baldwin opened the door and went out. Simon walked with him and saw him standing and gazing around carefully. The knight looked like a shortsighted and absentminded monk who had mislaid something. When the bailiff studied the area, he saw the general rubbish of years. There was a loose pile of logs under a haphazardly thatched roof, a small shed that looked like Elias’ privy, a little series of raised beds planted with leeks, onions and garlic, brassicas, beans and worts. In a small section fenced off with hurdles, The Abbot’s Gibbet

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chickens scratched and clucked quietly. The plot was separated from the alley by a paling fence.

“Nothing here,” Baldwin said, turning to leave.

“Wait a moment,” Simon said. By the logs was an old wooden box. Striding over, he lifted the lid and picked up a heavy-bladed bill-hook that lay within.

“Baldwin?”

The knight took the tool from him and hefted it in his hand. He met Simon’s gaze. “It could be,” he agreed.

“It’s hard to tell, but the staining on the blade—”

“Yes, it looks like blood.”

Simon peered round the little garden again. He walked to the bed furthest from the house and squatted, staring down at the soil. Tentatively he reached out and touched it. There was a shallow depression in the ground. “Daniel, fetch a shovel,” he called.

“What is it?” Baldwin asked.

“That soil has been dug over recently,” the bailiff said with certainty. “I recognize the look of it: when miners fill in their holes, it dips like this.”

Daniel was not happy with his task. He brought the spade and began digging, but with little enthusiasm. The job of watchman was something he enjoyed for the money—it was not his plan to investigate murders or to seek out parts of dead people. His distaste for his task made him slow as he gradually went deeper, and when he felt the shovel strike something that gave way a little, he recoiled from the hole, staring up at the Keeper with despair in his eyes.

Baldwin took pity on him and gestured the man aside. He discarded the shovel, reaching down with his bare hands to scrape the earth away. Soon he could see a sack, and he tugged it free. Pulling it from the hole, 132

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he set it on the ground and glanced at Simon, who gave an unwilling grimace. Baldwin cut the string that bound it and the coarse material fell away. Peter winced and turned away, swallowing hard to keep the bile at bay.

“You were right, Simon,” Baldwin said.

“Yes.”

Holcroft said thickly, “No, we were all wrong. That’s not the merchant who sat with Elias. It’s a man from Ashburton way: Roger Torre.”

Baldwin stared from him to the head. “Are you sure?”

Holcroft nodded. Behind him, Peter staggered to the fence, his eyes shut.

“Perhaps that’s why Elias was shocked when we told him his friend had been killed,” Simon mused. “If he knew the corpse was Torre’s, our words must have made him think his companion had been murdered as well.”

Baldwin nodded thoughtfully. “It would explain his dismay.”

“The body was in his alley, the head in his garden. All the evidence points to Elias,” said Simon.

“True, but Elias had no blood on him when he returned to the inn.”

“I know. Perhaps his friend did the killing, and Elias had nothing to do with it, but that’s not my concern. I was thinking, with all this evidence against him, the mob will be convinced he did it. What then for his safety?”

“You are right. We should make sure Elias is safe.”

“With the head here there’s enough to arrest him. He’d be safe enough in the clink.”

“And a while in there might persuade him to tell The Abbot’s Gibbet

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us about his friend,” Baldwin agreed. Hearing retching, he raised his eyebrows. “Peter? Are you all right?”

In view of Peter’s evident inability to take notes for a while, he was despatched to the Abbey to inform Abbot Champeaux of developments. When he had gone, Holcroft gingerly took the sack from Baldwin.

“This Torre—did he have a wife or family? Was there anyone who might be able to recognize him from this body?”

Holcroft scratched his jaw. “Not really. He wasn’t local. Only came into town occasionally.”

They walked through the cookshop to the street. “So that is why he was not reported as having disappeared,” Baldwin said. “There was no one to miss him, poor devil.”

“No, sir.”

“Did you see him at the tavern?” Simon asked.

“Yes, he was there when I arrived; we drank together for a bit.”

“Did you see him get into a row or anything?”

“Well, he did have a problem with those Venetians staying with the Abbot. They were rushing out in a hurry, just as he was coming in and the youngster pulled his knife. But it was only a silly dispute, nothing much. Nothing to kill for. Torre just looked at the lad and walked away.”

“But the boy had almost drawn a blade,” Baldwin mused. “Italians can take such matters seriously. And they are prone to subtle means of revenge.”

“Was Torre alone after that?” Simon probed. He was sure the port-reeve was holding something back. He had a shame-faced look to him.