The Abbot's Gibbet by Michael Jecks Page A

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 66
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    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 The Abbot’s Gibbet
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    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 portreeve. “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.”
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    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