“His head was off?” Elias curled his lip in revulsion.
“More than that,” said Simon shortly. “His head was taken away. We don’t know where it is.”
Elias shivered suddenly as if attacked with an ague. Baldwin was convinced he wasn’t acting. There was nothing new in a man being murdered with a knife-almost all murders were committed with knives or daggers. But removing a victim’s head was a different matter.
“Who would…Why?” the cook stammered. “I mean, what would someone do that for?”
Simon crossed his arms and leaned against the awning’s support. “That’s a good question,” he said.
“Elias, why will you not tell us who the man with you last night was?” Baldwin asked.
“I don’t know him,” Elias asserted doggedly.
The knight surveyed him quizzically. “You were with the man for ages. It is obvious you must have known him. Yet you continue in this ridiculous denial. Perhaps we should remove you to the jail so you can reconsider.”
They both saw the fear and doubt twist the little man’s visage. Simon felt only contempt. The cook was weak. For some reason he was scared of letting the truth come out. But his very weakness was what made Baldwin doubt that Elias was capable of murder. He found himself recalling the corpse. It was strong and square with a barrel chest, the body of a man in his prime of health and strength. In life he must have been a little over middle height. His shoulders and biceps marked him out as a powerful figure.
The knight considered the frail man before him. Would so pathetic a character be capable of murder, he wondered-especially the murder of a strong man who was fit and healthy. Baldwin had met enough cutthroats who were willing to slip from a darkened alley to overcome their prey, but Elias did not have the air of one of them. His expression was not guilty, merely determined.
Baldwin had seen that expression before, and for a moment he wondered where, then it came to him. He had once caught a boy in one of his meadows, terrified sheep running all around. A lamb had disappeared, and the enraged knight had accused the lad of theft. While defiantly denying all complicity, the boy had refused to say what had happened. It was only later when Baldwin had found the missing lamb, dead and partly eaten, that he had discovered the truth. The lad’s dog had chased the sheep and lambs. It had captured one of them and run away with it. But the dog was the boy’s only friend and companion. He would prefer to be punished himself than see his dog killed.
The knight stared thoughtfully at the cook. He would not arrest Elias yet, he decided. There was no logic to his decision; it was based solely on his sense of justice. Elias was no footpad. Surely whoever had killed and decapitated the body, leaving it in the rubbish, was no weakling but a strong and powerful man in his own right.
No, he thought. He would leave the cook for now. If there was any more definite evidence against him, he could arrest him later. For the time being, Baldwin was content to keep an eye on him.
But when he reached the end of the alley in which Elias’ stall lay, he couldn’t help feeling he was taking a risk. “Edgar,” he said to his man-at-arms, “I don’t think Elias is the killer, but he knows something. Stay here and keep an eye on him. I don’t want him disappearing.”
Lybbe was in two minds which group to follow. Avice and her father were heading off toward the spicers’ area, while it looked as though the Italians were returning to the Abbey. While he stood wavering, he caught sight of the friar.
Hugo was a few yards from him, his bowl loose at his side, peering after the Italians with a doubtful set to his features. Lybbe watched him with increasing interest. He had noticed the friar ahead of him all the way since he had left Elias’ stall, but hadn’t realized that the cleric was stalking the same prey. Discovering someone else curious about his quarry made him feel relief bordering on euphoria. If the friar held doubts about them too, Lybbe couldn’t have been completely wrong.
If it had been a priest, Lybbe wouldn’t have considered telling the man anything, but this was a gray friar, a Franciscan. He knew well enough that the Order had its black sheep, but this wandering friar looked honest with his grubby habit and battered collecting bowl. He had the appearance of a man who took his duties seriously. Lybbe wondered whether he could confess to this one, and tell his story. The Franciscans were notorious for giving light penances on the basis that a light penance which would be performed was better than a strict one which could be ignored at the peril of the soul concerned.
Hugo raised his hands in indecision, and let them fall with apparent despondency. Lybbe, watching him closely, saw his irresolution. Slowly the cleric trudged back up the hill, away from the Poles and Camminos. As he neared Lybbe, the merchant started as he realized who it was; that decided him.
“Brother friar, would you like something for your bowl?”
Hugo glanced up at the quiet voice. “Thank you, but I have everything I need.” Then his eyes widened. “You!”
“Brother, would you hear my confession?”
Holcroft nodded as the details were read out, and took the official stamp from his purse. He thumped it into the molten wax almost before the clerk had finished dripping enough on the parchment and snapped, “Is that all?” before stalking out.
He had intended to find a tavern to quench his thirst-he had no wish to see the bailiff or knight again immediately, but he had to pass by the horse-market. Here he idly whiled away some time watching the creatures being paraded round the ring before being put through their paces. It was always exciting to see the farm boys racing their mounts up and down the fields to demonstrate their speed and stamina.
Turning to fetch himself a cool quart of ale, he found a small knot of watchmen standing behind him. He almost walked straight into them. Giving a gesture of annoyance, he motioned to them to get out of his way, but they stood their ground, and with a sense of distaste, he saw that it was the men from Denbury. “Well?”
“Sir.” It was Long Jack. His dark eyes were filled with a reserved concern. “There’s been a robbery.”
“Well? Get the details and find the felon. God’s blood, do I have to do everything around here?” Then he froze as he noticed the man’s face. “What is it?”
“You’d better come with us, port-reeve.”
He followed behind. If it was bad enough to make Long Jack fearful, it must indeed be a dreadful act. He found himself holding back as the men forged a way through the crowd, unwilling to encounter whatever evidence they might force upon him. First a murder, now a robbery, and both had to happen in the year when he was in charge.
To his surprise he found he was being taken toward the butchers. The bull-baiting pen was empty now-the wounded cattle were being slaughtered and new ones had not yet arrived. The men took him up the alley to Will Ruby’s stall. Here they stood back respectfully, leaving space for the port-reeve to enter, and after throwing them a suspicious glance, he sidled behind the trestle table and went to the sheltered space behind.
Ruby lay on a low palliasse, pale-faced, while his wife silently held a damp cloth to his temple. When they heard Holcroft approach, she leaped back, and her husband snatched up a club studded with nails from beside his makeshift bed. Seeing the port-reeve, he let it fall shamefacedly.
“What in God’s name is all this about?” Holcroft demanded, astonished. He had never seen the butcher behave like this before. It was out of character, even if he had been robbed.
“Sorry, David. It’s this attack, it’s made me a bit twitchy.”