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 around 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.”
Baldwin suppressed a grin. The alewife was a shrewd woman to deal with, and wouldn’t suffer fools gladly. “You say Elias returned?”
“Yes. He was out for a few minutes, then hurried back in and had a bit more to drink.”
Simon stirred. “Did you serve him?” When she nodded, he continued, “Did you see any blood on him?”
Baldwin watched her carefully. This was important. Killers were always blooded by their victims. The
