The Abbot's Gibbet (30 page)

Ruby was oblivious to all this. Cradling Hankin’s frail body, he carried him past the screaming watchmen and was about to return to his own stall when he was stayed by a hand on his arm.

“Is the child all right?”

“Yes, brother.” Ruby had not spoken to Hugo before, but recognized the friar. “Beaten, but not too badly.”

“Why did they do it?” Hugo asked, shaking his head.

“They knew his master was locked up.”

“Who? The man who owns this stall?”

“Yes, friar. Hadn’t you heard? It was Jordan Lybbe, the outlaw. He’s been arrested—everyone thinks he must have murdered poor Torre.”

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“Jordan Lybbe an outlaw?” Hugo repeated with horror. “But he can’t be!”

Simon studied the club speculatively. A man dressed as a monk had robbed men in the town and attacked Ruby. It was possible that Peter had been the thief. If so, maybe it was for the best that he had taken this way out of a disgraced life.

Catching sight of the Abbot’s face, Simon was sure that he had already reached a similar conclusion without seeing the club. His face was pained, but set into a firm blankness, and the bailiff wondered what he had heard in confession when Peter had demanded his talk the previous evening. Baldwin had been interested in the lad even then, Simon knew, and the bailiff wondered at the acute suspicion his friend had shown. Simon didn’t want to add to the Abbot’s sorrow, but he was the warden’s own bailiff. He could not allow this evidence to be hidden. “Sir?”

Abbot Champeaux turned to him enquiringly, and when he saw the club his eyes widened, and he cast an involuntary glance at the body which told Simon he had guessed the same.

“What is it?” Baldwin asked, grunting as he got to his feet. “Ah—a cudgel, and a solid one at that. Where was it?”

As Simon explained, the knight listened carefully.

“It was there?”

The bailiff nodded. “He must have been sickened by what he had done, and tossed it away from him. Or maybe he dropped it there as he came into this alley, filled with his determination to end himself.”

“Perhaps,” Baldwin said, but without conviction.

“Why here?” he wondered, squatting by the wall. The Abbot’s Gibbet

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“Let’s suppose it was his.” He walked to the entrance to the alley, swinging the club, and let it fall. It struck the damp soil of the alley and fell over. “It couldn’t have fallen from his hand, then.”

Simon saw what he meant. The cudgel had lain at the wall opposite the body, and the boy would hardly have let it fall there and then crossed the alley to kill himself. Yet it could not have bounced there as he slumped down.

The knight walked to the body and tossed the stick toward where it had been found. “He could have thrown it away.”

“Perhaps he was revolted by what his club had done and hurled it from him?” the Abbot supposed.

“It’s possible, but if that were so, wouldn’t he have thrown it harder and further? And why come here to die? Suicides hang themselves or cut their wrists at home. What could bring him here?”

“He had the mind of a monk,” said the Abbot. “He didn’t want to pollute the Abbey precinct with his blood.”

“If he had such a mind, why kill himself and endanger his soul by such an affront to God?” Baldwin asked curtly.

He squatted, staring at the wall and the fallen cudgel, then down at the body, before giving a short exclamation. Slowly, reverently, he uncurled the fingers of Peter’s hand. He studied the hand with intense concentration, and as the Abbot made to leave, he looked up. “Abbot, could you come here, please?”

“What is it, Sir Baldwin?” the older man said, his voice betraying a degree of asperity.

“This,” Baldwin said quietly.

Simon saw a series of deep slashes that cut the 272

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palm and fingers. He winced at the sight: he could imagine the pain of the blade cutting so deep into the flesh.

“Well, Sir Knight? Am I supposed to be interested in the last madness of the boy? He is dead, and these marks and mutilations are of no concern to me now,”

the Abbot said brusquely.

“They should be. I have only ever seen this kind of mark on men who had tried to defend themselves against an attacker. Why should a suicide slash at his hands? But a man who is set upon by another with a knife will often grab at it to keep the blade away, and as the attacker pulls the knife back . . .”

“He was attacked?”

“Yes, Abbot. This lad is no suicide. These marks show he tried to protect himself against his killer. My lord Abbot, Peter was murdered!”

“Who could do such a thing?” Abbot Robert whispered, horrified. Baldwin shrugged. “That I don’t know. Perhaps the man who has been robbing, and perhaps it was the same man who killed Torre. That could explain why the cudgel is here: because Peter saw the thief in the alley, and maybe the robber dropped the club to hide his guilt, and then couldn’t find it again, or ran away as soon as he had killed the boy. Perhaps he wanted to implicate the boy in his own crimes. It is no matter—what
does
matter is that Peter was murdered, and didn’t commit suicide.”

“Sir Baldwin, you give me a crumb of hope in the midst of all my despair.”

“We still have to seek his murderer.”

“Who could it be? Who would dare such a crime?”

“We have arrested the man who had the knife from The Abbot’s Gibbet

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the sheath on Torre’s body. It is possible that he could have killed Peter, but . . .”

“What, Sir Baldwin?”

“He was with Jeanne and Margaret for some time before I had him arrested,” Baldwin said slowly. “I would be surprised if the novice could have been here for long without being discovered: this alley is well used. Yet our man has been in prison for over an hour already. We must go and see whether he can shed some light on this. There is another thing: this monk was keen on a girl.”

“I know it,” the Abbot admitted. “I tried to persuade him out of his infatuation, but it was no good.”

“Last night I saw him north of the fair. This lad was scorned by her, and it looked as though his heart was broken. I think we must see the girl and ask her what was said and why she chose to refuse him so forcefully—perhaps she can give us a clue.”

“What possible clue could she give you?” the Abbot asked.

“She was scathing toward him. Perhaps this was not the act of a mad felon but there is a more prosaic reason for the boy’s death. What if he had a rival? Might not that rival have decided to dispose of her other suitor?”

“If Peter’s rival knew she had spurned him, there would hardly be a reason to kill Peter,” the Abbot said reasonably.

“True, but she was so disdainful of him, I have to wonder what she knows of this. Something surely made her react in that way to him. He seemed so sure of her feelings, and must have been utterly devastated when she rejected him so cruelly. We need to question her.”

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“Go and speak to her with my blessing. I can tell you where she lives—Peter told me who she was last night.” The Abbot’s voice hardened. “But first interrogate the man in the jail and find out what he has to say for himself.”

- 20 H ow did they realize you were involved?”

Elias asked.

Jordan shook his head. “The bailiff

came to buy cloth, and like a fool I cut it with the knife I used on that man. The knight knew it from the emblem.” He was standing at the unglazed window. The room stank of feces. His brother hadn’t bathed, and Lybbe could smell his sweat, all the worse for his fear. There was a bread-crust on the floor, which had been nibbled by rats, and a bucket with water. A box of ashes formed a crude privy. The window at least offered a little fresh air, and Lybbe leaned gratefully against the bars. “It was my own fault. I should never have come back, but I couldn’t help it.”

“Why did you? You must have known you were walking back to the Abbot’s gibbet!”

“Bayonne was good enough to me, I suppose, but I’m a moorman. Could you live in a land, even the most beautiful place in the world, and not look at the moors ever again? Dartmoor isn’t just a place: if you’re born here, it’s in your bones. I’ve missed it ever since I left. And I missed you, too, you daft bugger. After all, you are my brother.”

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“I’ll tell them what happened.”

“It’s a bit late to worry about that,” Jordan said. “I’m sorry I brought you into this, Elias. I should have stayed away.”

It was too late for regrets now. He couldn’t accept it was his fault things had come to this, but he needed time to think, to find a way out of the morass into which he had fallen. His greatest concern was the boy. What would become of poor Hankin? he wondered. He had saved him when his parents had died, and now his stupidity would lead to his second orphanage. For the first time since he had rescued Hankin he felt the weight of his responsibility. He didn’t even know if the lad was safe—there were so many dangers for a youngster at a fair.

But it was hard to think of anyone else while he could feel the shadow of the Abbot’s gibbet. In his mind’s eye he pictured it again, but now he saw it with a body already dangling—his own. His voice was heavy. “Don’t worry, Elias, I’ll tell them everything. There’s no need for you to suffer for me any more.”

“You’ll both tell us what happened,” Simon said sharply from the doorway. “Come out Elias; you too, Lybbe.”

They followed him into the sunlight. A motley crowd had already formed, patiently waiting to hear what the second man had been arrested for. Baldwin eyed the townspeople carefully; he didn’t want any more rioting. He was glad that Edgar had waited at the jail after escorting Jordan Lybbe there; he felt unarmed when his man wasn’t nearby.

Simon read his expression correctly, and inwardly cursed the inevitable curiosity of the townspeople; there was always the risk that a hothead might decide The Abbot’s Gibbet

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to free men considered innocent or organize a lynching mob. He glanced about him. Next door to the cell was a little room used for meetings by the burgesses of Tavistock. It would do for their enquiries. He led them inside and sat on a stool as the others filed in. Baldwin and Edgar took up stations at either side of the door, the watchman Daniel with them. Simon surveyed the two men before him.

Elias was a scruffy, tattered scarecrow, with wide, fearful eyes and pale face. Lybbe stood with casual resignation, feet apart as if preparing to resist an onslaught. He looked to the bailiff as if he had expected to be caught and was ready for his trial.

“Elias,” Simon began. “You called this man brother—why?”

Lybbe glanced wryly at Elias. “I
am
his brother. I left here many years ago and went to live in Gascony, but recently I came back to see him. It has been a long time since we last met.”

“Did you kill Roger Torre?”

“No,” Lybbe said flatly. “He was dead when we found him.”

“You’d better tell us what happened.”

“It takes little time. We were drinking in the tavern that evening. I hadn’t been able to warn Elias I was coming here for the fair; I wasn’t even sure he was still alive, but I found the tavern and decided to try it.

“The alewife told me Elias often came in, and I waited to see if he would turn up. He did, and I sent the alewife to ask him to join me. We talked for a good long time, and then he suggested that we could go to his house and get some food. I was happy to eat, for I’d not had anything all day, so we upped and left. I remember that the compline bell was ringing as we 278

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went out. Elias had told me about this pile of rubbish he had to move or be fined, and I asked how much of it there was, because after we’d eaten I could help him ferry it to the midden. So he took me up the alley to show me . . .”

“It was in there we found Torre,” Elias continued.

“He was lying in the pile. I tripped over his arm.” He shuddered.

“He was laid out face down, like someone had just dragged him in by the heels and covered him with the muck,” Lybbe explained.

“On his face?” Baldwin interjected, with a keen look at Lybbe.

“Yes, sir. On his face.” Lybbe sighed. “He was dead, but his head was still on his shoulders.”

“Why did you behead him?” guessed Simon. Lybbe squared his shoulders with resolution. “I thought—I still think—he died because someone mistook him for me. I’m sure they meant to kill me, not Torre.”

Simon leaned forward, staring at him intently.

“Go on.”

“Sir, I have lived in Gascony for twenty years, trading at the markets and keeping a shop in Bayonne. Last year Bayonne had a great fair, and people travelled there from all over Christendom, to buy or sell their goods. The Venetians came—the Camminos. They stayed with the Abbot himself, arranging to buy pewter from all the sellers in the town, always at good rates, using the guarantees the Abbot extended to them.

“All during the fair there were problems. Men were robbed, knocked out in the street and their purses taken. Those responsible were never found, although several were held. On the last day of the fair, a man The Abbot’s Gibbet

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was attacked—a merchant from the north. I suppose he’d heard of the robberies, for he was on his guard and managed to draw his knife to defend himself, but he was stabbed to death.

“Well, the townspeople were furious. They took to the streets, intimidating anyone they thought could be responsible. The Abbot agreed when the Venetians said they were scared and wanted to leave. I think he thought having them in the Abbey might tempt a few of the hotheads to attack the place.

“They rose early the next day, and rushed off before dawn with their servant, taking all the pewter with them, to the shame of the Abbot. The hue was raised and a posse set off after them. Luckily other travellers had seen them passing, so the men knew the direction to take. The criminals only escaped by releasing their packhorse with all the pewter. Lightened of their load, they could gallop off, while those in pursuit, whose horses were already well nigh exhausted, could only watch as the gap between them widened.”