The Abbot's Gibbet (31 page)

“They weren’t caught?”

“No, sir. Now, when I was sitting with Elias in the tavern, we saw three men enter. They came in and sat down to wait for the alewife to serve them, and because she stood with us, they became impatient. I caught a glimpse of the older man’s face, and I thought I recognized him, but I couldn’t think where from. I was sure it was not a face I remembered from here. A few moments later, they all left the inn. Only later did I recall their faces from Bayonne.

“It was when we found the body; Elias noticed that the dead man was the same size as me—he had a similar build. Looking at him, lying there, he said it could have been me. That was when I realized where I knew 280

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the men in the tavern from. They were the Camminos—

the thieves at Bayonne.

“I suddenly thought to myself, what if they had spotted me first? They would know I was a risk to them, as I might recognize and denounce them. If they were trying to defraud someone here as well, they might have felt safer killing me so that I couldn’t bear witness against them. In the dark they might have thought this man
was
me! If they had seen me in the tavern, saw my face, realized I was in Bayonne when they were, they might well have decided to silence me forever by waiting to spring an ambush.

“This all passed through my mind in a trice. I was sure the man had died in error; and I was equally sure that the men in the tavern were responsible. But at least they now thought I was dead.”

He halted, and Simon prompted him to go on.

“Well, sir, I told Elias what I thought, but he could hardly keep his teeth from chattering, he was so upset. I suggested he go back to the tavern and have another drink to steady his nerves.”

“Why didn’t you raise the hue?” Simon grunted.

“I couldn’t get the idea out of my mind that they’d tried to kill me—and once they learned they’d made a mistake, they might try again. But I had no proof! I could hardly ask the port-reeve to believe that the Abbot’s guests were murderers, could I? And if I did, they might find a way to kill me before I could have them arrested. I just didn’t know what to do—but then I thought, what if they
don’t
find out they killed the wrong man? What if I could hide the identity of the victim? I couldn’t conceal the whole body, for if I did that they might think they’d not killed me, that I’d managed to crawl away and recover . . . but if the iden-The Abbot’s Gibbet 281

tity of the corpse was hidden, they might leave me in peace until I could show they were the killers. Then it came to me, I suddenly saw how I could hide their failure: I could change clothes with him. I went back to the alley and swapped his things for mine. But his face would tell the lie. I had to hide his face.”

Lybbe looked up, pale but defiant. “I wasn’t trying to upset the King’s Peace. Only I knew the secret of these three men, and I wanted to expose their villainy. I needed time to find out what new crime the Camminos were involved in. Look—Torre was dead already, and what I did couldn’t hurt him. But his head wasn’t easy to get off.” Lybbe paused to get a grip on himself.

“I cut with my knife, but I needed something stronger. I went to my brother’s house and found a billhook, and used that to hack his head off, then covered the body again, but carelessly so it would be easily discovered.”

Baldwin stared. “Did you not think that taking off the head would make the killer suspicious?”

“I had no time to think. All I knew was, they mustn’t find out I was alive.”

“You could have called the watch and had the men arrested immediately. Why this ignoble charade?”

Lybbe was quiet a moment. “Like I said, they were staying with the Abbot—they were his friends. And anyway, I’ve been attacked twice already by the watch. How could I trust them? If the Venetians were to pay them well enough, the watch might agree to arrest me instead of them.”

“I see. Continue.”

“The head was the last thing. I had to hide it. In my brother’s garden I found a sack, dug a hole and buried it. After that, I went back to my stall.”

Simon confronted the baker. “Elias, why on earth 282

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didn’t you tell us all this? Why put your life in danger to hide something that was none of your doing?”

“I was scared. I thought you’d assume we’d both killed Torre, and there was no point both of us dying, so I thought I might as well take all the blame rather than see us share it.”

Baldwin nodded slowly. That much made sense. He considered, then looked back at Lybbe. “Why did you leave the sheath with Torre but take away the knife?”

He grinned mirthlessly. “Because I am a fool, Sir Knight. I dressed him in my clothes first, and then when I wanted to cut off his head, I realized I’d left my knife on the belt. Rather than remove the lot, I just pulled out the knife, intending to take the sheath later, but I was so shaken up afterward, I forgot. I shoved the knife in my belt as I dragged his body to the rubbish pile and then went off to bury the head. When I realized I’d left the empty sheath with the body, I foolishly decided to leave things that way. I’m not soft, Sir Baldwin, but that day’s work has haunted me since.”

“And these thieves—the men you think killed Torre. Who were they, again?”

“They call themselves ‘Cammino.’ ”

Edgar and Daniel took the brothers back to the jail, and when they had gone, Simon glanced at the knight.

“What do you think?”

“I think it is preposterous. Why go through this charade when all they need do was report finding a body and tell what they knew about the other men?”

“You heard what Lybbe said about the watch.”

“Yes, and that was untrue. He said he arrived here the day Torre was killed. The watchmen tried to extort money from him the next day, so it was a lie to say he was scared of them at that point—unless . . .” His voice The Abbot’s Gibbet

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trailed off as he stared unseeing through the open door. It faced down the road toward the town. In the distance he saw a figure, the port-reeve.

“What is it?” Simon demanded as Baldwin strode off.

“A thought. Come on, hurry up!” the knight cried over his shoulder. The bailiff cursed, but set off after him.

The port-reeve had hoped that the earlier questioning would be enough. He had several transactions to witness, and tried to mask his impatience as the knight hurried to him.

“Holcroft, you have lived here for some time, haven’t you?”

“All my life.”

“Did you know Elias had a brother?”

“Yes, of course—Jordan. Left here, oh, years ago. At least twenty.”

“Why did he go away?”

The port-reeve pursed his lips. “He was an outlaw. He joined a band of trail-bastons, a group that murdered and burned their way round the north of the county. He was only found because the gang got into a fight with the people of Tiverton, and the town won. They chased the men for miles, but the crooks were lucky. One of their band was found in a church, claiming sanctuary, and agreed to approve. He gave all the names of the men in the gang, and was allowed to abjure the realm. One of the names he gave was Jordan Lybbe’s.”

“How did Lybbe escape justice?” asked Simon.

“Easy. He came home before news of the battle reached here. Took some of his belongings and disappeared. A ship left the coast shortly after, and it was 284

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said that a man looking like Lybbe had gone aboard just before it set sail.”

“I see. Well, thank you, Holcroft,” said Baldwin. He left them, and Simon shook his head. “So that’s why he preferred this elaborate hoax rather than calling the watch.”

“He knew his life would be forfeit if he was discovered in the kingdom again. If he called the watch and was recognized, he would be hanged.”

“And so he will!”

“Yes,” Baldwin agreed, but he was perplexed. “But why should he remove the head and hide it? If he had nothing to do with the murder, he’d have just left town while it was dark.”

“Maybe he thought that would be viewed as an admission of guilt.”

“But if he thought that, he’d have just left the body as it was. There must have been a reason for him to remove the head.” Baldwin put his own on one side.

“The alternative is, he was the killer: but why should he kill Torre? We have no motive for him to have done that.”

“Maybe Torre recognized him.”

“If he had, wouldn’t he have shouted it out? The watch were in the tavern, so were many others. If Torre had recognized Lybbe, he’d have made a row.”

“Unless he thought he could blackmail Lybbe into paying him for his silence.”

“In that case, Torre would have gone to speak to him, but no one saw them talk.”

“We haven’t asked anyone whether they spoke,”

Simon pointed out reasonably.

“True. But also, if Torre realized who Lybbe was, he surely wouldn’t have gone out with Lizzie. He’d have The Abbot’s Gibbet

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stayed inside where he could keep an eye on his investment, whether he had spoken to him or not. This all makes no sense.”

“Are you saying his story was true and the Venetians did it?”

“I don’t know, Simon. But it makes as much sense as Lybbe being the killer.”

They left the jail and went back down the hill again. The house to which the Abbot had directed them was a pleasant block not far from the tavern, and Baldwin thumped heavily on the door as soon as they arrived. A harassed maidservant appeared, and Baldwin strode past her into the hall.

Inside, a woman sat placidly sewing at a tapestry. She looked up in some surprise at the sound of footsteps ringing on the stone flagging, and then her face sharpened. “What is the meaning of this intrusion? Do you have business with my husband, because if you don’t I’ll call for the watch this instant!”

“My lady, excuse our abrupt entrance,” Baldwin said smoothly. “It is the young lady we wish to speak to, the girl who has befriended the monk Peter. Do you know where she is?”

Marion studied him coldly and set her tapestry aside. “What would you want with her?”

“Lady, the boy has been found murdered, and we must find out whether she can help us find the killer.”

“Murder? My daughter knows nothing about this. I cannot allow you to question her.”

“We must.”

“You will not, on my honor! If you wish, you may speak to my husband, but—”

“We are here,” Simon interjected, “on the Abbot’s 286

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orders. It is very important that we speak to your daughter instantly.”

Mistress Pole scowled, but consented. The Abbot’s will could not be denied. She sent the maidservant to fetch her daughter. In a few moments she returned, but alone. “Mistress, the door’s locked, and she won’t answer.”

“Let me try,” Marion said, and lifting her skirts, she hurried from the room. Simon glanced at Baldwin, and they followed after her.

“Avice? Avice, open this door at once!”

She pounded on the timbers with the flat of her hand, and Baldwin could see that she was beginning to panic. He muttered, “God’s blood!” If there was one complication he did not want, it was that the girl might have run away with her beau.

“Lady, excuse me.”

He looked at Edgar, and his manservant rushed at the door with his shoulder. It shivered, but the timber was strong. Baldwin joined him. Under their combined weight the door and frame shattered, and Baldwin tripped over a broken spar to fall flat on his face. From the floor he could see that the room was deserted. The open window told the story of Avice Pole’s escape. Behind him he heard a stifled laugh. “Simon, if you think this is funny,” he said coldly, “next time
you
can charge the door.” He slowly got to his feet, wincing at the bruise on his shoulder. It felt as if he had broken it at the same time as the door. When he looked at the jamb, he saw that the door had been bolted on the inside.

“What in the Devil’s name is the meaning of all this?”

Simon turned to find a florid-faced man gaping at the devastation. There was a strong smell of alcohol as The Abbot’s Gibbet

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he entered the room. “I return to my house to be told that strangers have forced their way in, and then I find that they’ve destroyed a door! What’s this all about, eh? Who are you?”

Baldwin dusted his knees and stepped over the wreckage. “I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, and this is Simon Puttock, bailiff of Lydford Castle. We are investigating the murder of Roger Torre and a novice monk on behalf of the Abbot.”

“What has this to do with me and my family?”

“Arthur, these men wanted to speak to Avice, but she’s gone. Arthur, she’s run away!”

“What?” Her husband scanned the room, his eyes returning to Marion’s face with fright. “When? I mean, how?”

“She’s disappeared. It must be Pietro!”

“I’ll have his blood if he’s harmed my Avice!”

“We don’t know for certain it was him,” said Baldwin.

“
You
may not,
I
do! I want him whipped—God’s blood!

What if he’s . . . if he’s polluted her, I’ll have his—”

“Husband, the least we can do now is consider how to find her and bring her back.”

“Find her? Of course we’ll have to find her, woman!”

Baldwin took the sputtering, furious merchant by the arm and began to direct him back toward the hall. His voice was low and calm, talking with an unhurried steadiness that soothed the irate man. “You mentioned the Venetian. Was that the younger man? I thought so, yes—it was Pietro. Avice was in her room? Fine, I see. There was little more for a concerned father to do, other than manacle her to a ring, and that is not the way to earn the love and trust of your daughter, is it? Of course not . . . Ah, here we are.”

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They had arrived once more in the hall, and Baldwin directed the now compliant father to a seat, then sent the maid for wine and water. Marion sat, hands in her lap, while she considered her husband. She had told him it wouldn’t work, she’d said they should pack immediately and leave, but he had refused because of his business. He had all the furs still, he hadn’t managed to sell them yet, and he had to remain in Tavistock to try to get rid of them. “She’ll be all right locked in her room,” he’d said. This was how all right she was, Marion thought bitterly. Probably ruined already, and John wouldn’t want her like that. He came from an old family, and they would expect any woman he chose to be pure, no matter how rich her parents.