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.”
6
The tavern was much like any other. Benches, stools and trestles stood haphazardly on a floor of earth packed so solidly it was as hard as dried and cured oak. A thin scattering of straw lay in discolored drifts to soak up the worst messes where drinkers had been ill. It was doing a good trade, with men, women and children sitting or standing, all with pots or jugs of ale. A crowd in a corner huddled round a game of merrils, placing bets and heralding each new move with groans or cheers.
Simon glanced round with interest. He felt a loyal irritation to see how well the traders of Tavistock were doing compared with his neighbors at Lydford.
To Baldwin it was merely a hectic tavern. Not as rough as an ordinary alehouse, yet not as exclusive as an inn, it brought the portmen and their families flocking to its hall to sup the keeper’s good ale. He saw a woman deftly pouring from a jug. The port-reeve waved to her, and she nodded, then rolled her eyes skyward as another shout went up from the gamesters in the corner. She held up a hand in mute appeal to wait, then walked past them to the rooms at the other side of the screens.
“Sir, I don’t think I should go in there,” Peter said plaintively.
“Why on earth not?” asked Baldwin.
“Well, there are lots of women and er…” He did not want to admit that the previous night he had almost been involved in a fight. At his shoulder, he was uncomfortably aware, was the port-reeve who had persuaded him to go.
“Don’t worry, Peter. I shall protect you,” the knight said drily.
Holcroft led the way to a table, evicting a group of youngsters who had already enjoyed the festivities a little too enthusiastically. They moved off with a bad grace, leaving enough space for the men to sit. Within a few minutes, the alewife appeared.
Agatha had a round face, with apple-red cheeks and trailing brown hair that crept from beneath her coif. Her mouth was fixed in a friendly, professional smile. She walked to their table. Baldwin sat silently while Holcroft asked for ale for them, and explained who Baldwin and Simon were. She shot a look at the monk, and Simon realized that the Abbot had sent the novice not only to take notes, but also to lend his authority to their enquiries.
The port-reeve shook his head as she fled to the buttery. “Poor bugger. What a way to be killed – and then to be left in a garbage heap like that. Why’d someone do such a thing?”
“When we find the murderer, we shall be sure to ask him,” Baldwin said. “Perhaps now we should be bending our efforts to that aim. Have you been taking careful notes, Peter?”
The monk glanced up, and nodded quickly. “Yes, sir. Everything’s written down.”
Simon peered at the scribbled writing and was glad he would not himself have to decipher the scrawl. The boy had tried to copy everything down as it was said, and the result was a mess of blots.
“Agatha,” Baldwin said, as the woman returned with a tray of filled cups, “the body found last night – you have seen it?” She nodded, and he continued, “Did you recognize the man?”
She wiped her hands on her apron. To Simon she could have been pregnant, her tunic billowed so massively from under her belt. Her gaze darted about the seated men as she spoke. “It’s hard to recognize a man with no head. I think I have seen the clothes before, though.” She glanced at the port-reeve, and Baldwin saw a light flickering in her eyes. “I don’t want to put a man’s neck in the noose, but there was a fellow in here last night dressed something like that. He wore a doublet and hose like the ones on the body, but I’ve never seen him before last night.”
“Of course!” Holcroft exclaimed, and slapped his thigh. He had forgotten the man with Elias – seeing Lizzie with Torre had wiped his memory like a damp cloth cleaning letters from a slate.
“You’re quite sure of that?” Baldwin continued. “It was no one you knew from a previous fair, for example?”
“I can’t be certain.” She shrugged and jerked her head toward the guests at other tables. “It’s not as if I was sitting aroun
d with nothing to do. At fair-time, there’s too many foreigners around to be able to chat to them all. I don’t know who he was.”
“What was he doing? Was he alone, or with someone else?”
“He came in alone,” she agreed unwillingly. Agatha did not like to put the blame on anyone, especially when it was a local who was a regular customer.
“Did he sit with anyone?” Baldwin probed.
She was quiet a moment longer, but then she glanced at the port-reeve and the words burst from her in a torrent. “No, sir. I hate to talk ill of another, but he was here with a local man: Elias. The stranger came in here all alone, but he asked me about Elias, and when he came in, the stranger sent for him. The two of them sat down together, and it was like they were old friends. He was with Elias for some time.”
Simon leaned forward. “Were they here for long?”
“Long enough for four pints each.”
“Who left first of the two?”
“They went out together, just after the bell for compline.”
“And it looked as if they were friendly?” Baldwin said.
She considered. “Friendly enough,” she admitted at last. “Elias was never a great one for talking, but last night he seemed to get quite excited.”
“Excited?” Holcroft leaped on the word. “Was he excited enough to have a fight with the man, do you think?”
She threw him a bored, casual glance. “Come on, David, they didn’t pull daggers on each other in here, and that’s all I know. If they went out and had a fight, I never got to hear about it. I only just caught a glimpse of them going as it was. This is an alehouse; I was serving ale, remember? It’s not like I can pass the time of day with all my customers, especially when they’re already in a bad mood. He came back, though.”
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