The Abbot's Gibbet

5

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.

When he saw a flash of reddish brown, he stiffened. It was near the water’s edge, and he sat up to peer.

The Abbot noticed his concentration, and turned to see what had attracted his guest’s interest. “Ah, Sir Baldwin, you have a good eye,” he chuckled.

“It looks a good beast.”

“Yes. We are fortunate in having over forty deer in our park, though we do sometimes have difficulties.”

“What sort of difficulties?” Margaret asked.

The abbot smiled genially, and there was a twinkle in his eye. “Sometimes they manage to escape from the park when we’re trying to catch them. I’ve been told off for chasing my venison on to the moors before now. We do try to make sure that our hounds catch the beasts before they can get out of the park, but every now and again one of them will succeed, and what then are we to do? It’s hard to keep the ditches and hedges maintained.”

Baldwin could not restrain a grin. That an abbot should dare to roam over the chase of Dartmoor to poach, and then happily confess it, was unique in his experience. “I should like to see your pack of hounds,” he said, and the Abbot nodded delightedly.

“It would be my pleasure. Perhaps I could tempt you to join me for a hunt as well?”

“I would have to accept so kind an offer.”

Simon patted his bag. “Would you like to go through the business of the stannary now?”

“Oh no, Simon. You’ve had a tiring journey to get here. Please, rest! We can talk about business later. I’ve been Abbot here for four and thirty years, and while Our Lord may decide not to let me carry on for another four and thirty, I hope that I’ve a few more years left in me! There’s time for us to discuss our work later.”

Baldwin leaned back in his seat. The Abbot was a good host, chatting with Simon and his wife and putting both at their ease. Baldwin had known many priestly men, but this one, Robert Champeaux, seemed to wear his power and authority lightly.

And he did have authority. Baldwin had spent some time enquiring about his host with Peter Clifford, the Dean of Crediton Church, and had found the time instructive. As Champeaux said, he had been Abbot for over thirty years. When he had taken on the post, the Abbey had been in debt, but now, after his careful administration, it was rumored to be one of the soundest institutions in the shire.

Abbot Robert had attracted money by improving the fairs and markets, taking business from Chagford and Lydford, and reinvesting the money to buy lucrative offices. He had been appointed controller of all the silver mines in Devon in 1318, and Baldwin understood he had recently extended his management of the mines in exchange for a sizeable loan to help with the war against Scotland. This year, 1319, he had become the warden of the Devon stannaries, and keeper of the port of Dartmouth, both highly profitable positions, yet he was content to sit and discuss the quality of cloths in the market with the wife of one of his bailiffs. That displayed a humility and generosity of spirit many other priests would do well to emulate.

There was a knock at the door and a young monk entered, bowing low. “My lord, the port-reeve would like to speak to you.”

“Please show him in. Ah, Holcroft, you have sent for the coroner, I hear?”

“Yes, sir. And I have attached the four neighbors and Will Ruby, the first finder.”

“The hue was raised, of course, so there is little more to be done. Where is the body?”

“I couldn’t leave it there, sir.” Normally a body would be left where it had been found until the coroner could view it. “It would be impossible with so many people around. “I’ve had it moved to the inn. There’s an outhouse there where the coroner can view it.”

“Good.”

Baldwin leaned forward. “What of the man’s relatives?”

“Until we find his head, there’s nothing we can do. We don’t know who he is, after all.”

Simon waved his goblet questioningly. “No one’s reported a missing man? A wife would recognize her husband’s body, after all. You’re sure he must be a foreigner?”

“Yes, sir, he must be from outside Tavistock. Nobody’s reported a man who’s disappeared.”

“That means nothing,” Baldwin said. “While the fair is on, people will be spending their time in the alehouses and taverns. How many women would be surprised if their husbands turned up late or not at all every night of the fair? This man might well be a resident of the town whose woman thinks he’s sleeping off a hangover in a tavern.”

“It’s not only that, Sir Baldwin,” said Holcroft. “The clothes look familiar to me, but I don’t remember where from. They’re not local; there’s no one I know in Tavistock who wears stuff like this.”

“This isn’t good,” the Abbot said. He stared wistfully out through the window toward his deer park. Simon guessed that the talk of bodies was distasteful to him – he would rather be discussing his hounds or hawks. “It will be my court that has to resolve all this, and I don’t want a whole group of men from the town penalized when they have done nothing.”

Baldwin nodded thoughtfully. The usual procedure was for the first finder and neighbors to be held against a surety, to guarantee that they would go to court. If no killer could be found, they would all be fined.

“I hear that Sir Baldwin and the bailiff have found many other killers,” Holcroft suggested tentatively.

“You want us to help you?” Simon asked, throwing Baldwin a glance. The knight shrugged.

“Sir, I can do nothing,” said Holcroft plaintively. “We rarely have murders in the port, and I’m only in this post for a year. I don’t know how to perform an inquest or anything.”

“That is down to the coroner,” Baldwin observed.

“Yes, sir, but the killer could be leagues from here before the coroner arrives.”

Robert Champeaux nodded pensively, looking from Simon to Baldwin. “You would be doing me a great service, gentlemen. Would it be possible for you to investigate this death? It should be the duty of the coroner, but this is my land, and the murder was within my court’s jurisdiction. In the interests of justice I feel justified in investigating it swiftly.”

Baldwin stood. “Come, master port-reeve, let us return to where the body was found.”

“One moment.” Champeaux walked to the door. He held a brief conversation with another monk before returning. “All should be noted down in case the coroner wants to see exactly what has been said or done. Take young Peter here. He can write down everything for the report.”

As the young man entered, Holcroft shook his head. He recognized the novice who had guided the Camminos to the tavern the night before. Things were bad enough already, he thought, without having an aggressive monk tagging along.

Holcroft led them through the Great Court of the Abbey and out through the court gate – a massive square block large enough to house a small chapel. From there they followed the street northward until they came to the alley.

Baldwin was pleased to try to help the Abbot, particularly since he was fascinated by the mystery of the missing head, but Simon felt a degree of irritation that they should so speedily have been involved in a murder hunt. He only hoped that their investigations could be concluded quickly. He had left Hugh to help Margaret settle into the room Abbot Champeaux had allocated for them. Baldwin did not bother to ask Edgar to remain. He would not leave his master in a strange town. When they were serving with the Knights Templar his place had been at his master’s side, and he took his responsibility seriously. When away from home, Edgar rarely let his master out of his sight.

The servant’s expression betrayed only boredom. Baldwin was sure that his keenness in coming to the fair was largely due to his wish to buy a bolt of good cloth for his woman. It was a comfort to Baldwin that his servant was focusing on Cristine at the inn. Beforehand Edgar had pursued an increasing number of women, and Baldwin had become concerned that his servant’s peccadillos could harm the respect which was so important to the knight’s position.

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.”

“Why do you say that?” Holcroft asked.

“If he was younger, to be able to afford to fill himself with food and drink he would have to be well provided for, yet this man works with his hands still, so he doesn’t appear rich. No, I would guess this man was in his late thirties. Not less.”

Simon averted his eyes. The sight of cartilage and blood, bone and muscle made him want to heave. It wasn’t helped by the tang of apples. The musty sweetness of the fruit mixed with the fresh smell of human flesh, like raw pork; the association made the bailiff swallow quickly and move nearer the door.

Baldwin did not notice. Something about this dead man could tell him who the killer was, or if it couldn’t, might at least point him toward the killer, and he was determined to seek out any clues.

“That is interesting,” he murmured as he studied the exposed flesh. He squatted near the neck and squinted at it. “Peter, you should note that I do not think the head was taken off in one sweep of a sword or axe.”

“Why’s that?” Holcroft asked, bending over Baldwin’s shoulder. Simon winced and faced away.

“See here?” the knight pointed. “The flesh has been sliced neatly where it has been sawn apart. This was no single blow of a sword, port-reeve. Look here, though.”

When Holcroft leaned nearer he saw that the knight was pointing at a small chip. “That? It’s only a bit of bone!”

Baldwin glanced up at him quizzically. “Yes, a piece of bone from this man’s spine. Don’t you see? Ah well, I suppose it’s not very important. The killer stabbed him and then cut his throat with a knife. Afterward he used a heavy but not very sharp weapon to hack through the dead man’s neck. He didn’t use a knife to sever the bones as he might have done, shoving the point of the blade between the vertebrae and levering the head off, he sliced through the meat, and then used a heavy blade to smash through the bone, just like a butcher.”

“You think it was Will Ruby?” Holcroft gasped in disbelief.

Baldwin shot him a glance and stood up. “I suspect anyone with access to large tools. This could just as easily have been done with a woodman’s axe or a farmer’s bill-hook as a butcher’s cleaver. In fact, a cleaver is the least likely weapon, for any butcher would have used a sharp blade to cut through bone. This was blunted, and it crushed its way through. No, I do not have any idea who was responsible for this yet. But it is interesting: why should the murderer have decapitated his victim?”

Holcroft shrugged. “I reckon we’ll never know.”

Simon could feel a headache beginning. The smell was overpowering, and made him feel nauseous. It was a relief to hear Baldwin murmur, “Perhaps we should ask the tavern-keeper what he knows of all this. The body was found nearby. Who is he?”

“She, sir. She’s called Agatha.”

“Fine. Let’s go and see what Agatha has to say for herself.”