“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.”