Free The Abbot's Gibbet by Michael Jecks

magnificent display now. Baldwin had been aware for some little while that his servant had won the hearts of several women in Crediton, although now he evinced passion for one only, a serving girl at the inn. Edgar looked back serenely, and Baldwin faced Margaret. “Has he put you up to this, Margaret? Has he asked you to persuade me to buy new things? If he has, he might have to find a new post.”
    “Do you suggest that I am unable to form my own opinions of a tired and threadbare tunic?” she asked tartly.
    “No, no, of course not. It’s just that Edgar has been worse than a nagging wife recently, telling me . . .”
    “Well, I think it’s time you bought a new tunic. You can afford it.”
    “Simon, give me some support!”
    “No,” said Simon with delight. “My wife knows her own mind, and I’ll be buggered if I’m going to get in her way over this: if she takes you to the stalls to find a new tunic, that means she’ll have less time to spend my money. Meg, you carry on. Make sure he gets new hose, hats, gloves, shirts, cloaks, belts, boots, and anything else that will take time to buy and keep you from your own favorite stalls!”
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    Michael Jecks
    They had descended to the outskirts of the town, and continued down the street toward the Abbey, passing by the market.
    “What’s going on there?” Baldwin wondered, seeing a huddle of people.
    “Some kind of excitement,” Simon said disinterestedly. “Probably only a thief or something. Cut-purses always come to the fairs. They know they can steal with impunity in the crowd.”
    “Perhaps.” Baldwin noted the heavily armed watchmen, and the burly figure of a man stooping. A group of people muttered nearby. Then he saw the body on the ground. “Hello? Is someone hurt?”
    The bent man straightened slowly. “You could say that.”
    Baldwin studied him. For all the weariness in his voice he had an air of authority, which was emphasized by his somewhat portly figure. That he was prosperous was obvious from the quality of his cloak and hat, and Baldwin assumed he must hold some kind of office.
    “Can I help?” he offered. “I am the Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton. Do you need some assistance here?”
    “ He certainly doesn’t,” said one of the guards and sniggered.
    “Shut up, Long Jack,” the man snapped. Looking down, Baldwin saw what the watchman meant. The body was that of a short but strong man, dressed poorly in faded blue hose and a holed and patched doublet. That the man was dead was in no doubt. Baldwin heard Margaret gasp. The body was headless.
    Dropping from his horse, Baldwin glanced round the men in the crowd. “Has anyone told the Abbot?”
    The Abbot’s Gibbet
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    “I have. I am the port-reeve, David Holcroft.”
    Baldwin nodded and looked down at the body. “I am Sir Baldwin Furnshill, here to visit Abbot Champeaux. Has the coroner been called?”
    “A man has been sent to fetch him, but it will take at least three days to get him here,” Holcroft said.
    “Why so long?”
    “There’s been a shipwreck. He’s been called to the coast.”
    “I see. These people—who are they?”
    “The neighbors. As soon as the hue was called, I had them all brought.”
    “All here?”
    “Almost. Only the cook Elias isn’t present. He’s probably seeing to his wares in the fair.” Holcroft pointed to another. “He’s the first finder: Will Ruby, the butcher. He discovered the body and raised the hue.”
    Simon sprang from his horse and passed his rein to Hugh, who remained on his mount staring down distastefully at the corpse. The bailiff walked to Baldwin’s side. The neighbors all stood nervously while Baldwin studied them. Simon knew what he was thinking: if the coroner took three days to return, the murderer could be far away by then. If the killer was one of the foreigners and not a portman of Tavistock, he might never be found. Yet Baldwin had no legal right to investigate; that was the preserve of the local