The Abbot's Gibbet by Michael Jecks Page B

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 The Abbot’s Gibbet
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    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 barechested, 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.”
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    Michael Jecks
    “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 wellused, 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