Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other

by Howard of Warwick

  Wat did go first and pushed the door cautiously open. He peered around it to the interior. 'Ah,’ he said and walked in.

  'Oh,’ said Hermitage, not walking in.

  Wat held the door wide and beckoned the monk to join him.

  Eyes half closed Hermitage stepped over the threshold, holding his nose to stop the stench of a rotting corpse making itself known.

  'Open your eyes Hermitage,’ said Wat, as if giving the monk a Christmas surprise.

  Reluctantly, Hermitage opened his eyes slowly; perhaps letting the body into his sight a bit at a time would lessen the impact.

  He opened them fully. There was a fine, clean, well-organised room. The room of a married couple of modest but comfortable means. There was a table, chairs, a cot and the tools of the household. What there was not, was a body, not even a little one.

  'Where is he?’ Hermitage asked, both grateful and disappointed there wasn't a dead man lying here with a knife in his back.

  'Either he was never here in the first place, or he's gone,’ Wat laid out the options.

  'You mean he was only wounded?’

  'Could be,’ Wat acknowledged, 'or someone came and took him away. We've only got Cottrice's word he was here in the first place.’

  Hermitage saw a chink of light through the black despair of death and murder and general wrong-doing.

  Wat rubbed his chin and looked at his friend with worried eyes. 'Someone is playing games with us that's for sure. We have to ask ourselves if it's just Le Pedvin, or the whole damn village.’

  Caput IX

  No Body

  Hermitage and Wat left the scene of the not-necessarily-a-murder behind them and headed back to the village. The first thing to do was question Cottrice. Hermitage was quite irritated and annoyed that the woman had talked all about the horrible death of her husband when perhaps she knew all along that he wasn't dead at all. If she was lying to him, he would be very disappointed.

  Once again he just wished people would tell the truth, life would be so much easier. He tried to put himself in the position of the liar but it wasn't easy. He supposed that once you've committed murder the occasional untruth is neither here nor there and might actually help you avoid the executioner. Still, it made life very difficult for those who were trying to sort things out.

  As they approached the other two dwellings on the lane, Cottrice's and Blamour's, they saw the old man was sitting on a stool outside his door. A dog, not much younger than its master lay some way off and Blamour seemed to be talking to it.

  'Aha,’ the old man called as he saw them approaching, 'seen the horrible remains then?’

  'No,’ Wat said quite plainly and with the sort of disappointed voice people use when they've been offered a goblet of wine, only to find that it's all gone.

  'No?’ Blamour frowned, 'bit nasty for you? I thought you said the Vertigator did murders.’ He gave a short laugh at their timidity.

  'No,’ said Wat, 'we didn't see the horrible remains because there weren't any.’

  'Eh?’ This did set Blamour thinking. 'Animals had it already? I did shut the door after me.’

  'As far as we could see there never had been any horrible remains. No sign of struggle, no blood, no body, just a nice normal house.’

  'That's not right,’ Blamour seemed genuinely put out by this news, 'the place was swimming in blood, and him there in the middle of the fireplace. House was a wreck as well, furniture smashed up and all. You must have gone in the wrong place.’

  Wat put his hands on his hips and looked at the man, 'How many houses are there?’ He gestured down the road with an outstretched arm.

  Blamour looked and counted carefully, as if he'd never bothered before. 'Two,’ he concluded happily.

  'Well done,’ said Wat in a rather brusque tone, 'the first one belongs to Lallard and we know that’s where he kept his sword.’ Wat held the weapon up, held it rather aggressively to Hermitage's mind. 'The house of Margaret appears to be in very good order, neat, tidy and completely free of dead bodies. Perhaps it's in your place?’ Wat craned his head to look past Blamour.

  'There's no bodies here,’ Blamour protested, 'it must be there.’

  Hermitage saw puzzlement run up and down the lines on the man's face and concluded that he was telling the truth. He thought a talent for spotting when people were telling the truth should come in handy. Handy for investigating, that was, which he didn't want to do anyway.

  'Well it isn't,’ Wat concluded.

  'But me and Poitron seen it,’ Blamour explained. 'Cottrice comes up to me and says there's a murder. And I says who? And she says Orlon. And so we went to the village and I says to the old fools under the tree that there's been a murder. And they says who? And I says Orlon...’

  'Can we skip to the bit about Poitron?’ Wat interrupted, 'you said he's Bonneville's man?’

  'That's right. I thought I'd better go and tell him as he's supposed to be looking into the other murders.’

  'Ah,’ Hermitage really wanted to stick to one murder at a time. Having not found Lallard dead, he had rather hoped that the others would follow the pattern and simply go away if they were left alone.

  'But is he?’ Blamour asked.

  'Is who what?’ Hermitage had lost the thread.

  'Is Poitron looking into the murders?’ Blamour said significantly.

  'Well we don't know do we?’ Wat said with some exasperation, 'we've only just got here.’

  'He doesn't seem to be as far as I can tell.’ Blamour was clearly unhappy with the progress this Poitron fellow was making. 'I found him down the long field trying to organise the weeding of all things.’

  'The weeding?’ Hermitage was now thoroughly lost.

  'Yes, you know, pulling weeds out of the ground so the seeds don't get in the wheat.’

  'Yes, we know what weeding is,’ Wat snapped, 'so you found this Poitron and told him about the murder.’

  'That's right. There's been a murder I says. And he says who? And I says...’

  'Orlon, yes, we got that bit,’ Wat was getting positively testy, 'so then what did you do?’

  'We went to the house of Margaret (snigger), and there he was. Dead and everything.’

  'Everything?’ Hermitage asked what else was required.

  'Place smashed up, body in the fireplace, blood, knife, the lot.’ Blamour nodded, satisfied with his tale.

  'I've got to ask,’ Wat said with resignation, 'all this sniggering every time the house of Margaret is mentioned. I can imagine that she had a lot of visitors?’

  'That she did.’ Blamour contained his snigger.

  'And Lallard was one of them?’

  'Well obviously,’ Blamour stated the obvious.

  'I mean before he was on the receiving end of a knife?’

  'Oh well,’ Blamour was suddenly reticent, 'don't like to speak ill of the dead.’

  Hermitage had always wondered about that phrase. It wasn't as if the dead cared any more, they'd be in paradise, or hell, and the opinions of those left on earth would be the last of their worries. Of course prayers for the departed were quite another matter. It was plainly true that the devotions of the living would mitigate the sins of departed souls, but not speaking ill of them didn't count as prayer. In any case it was an expression usually trotted out by those who had spoken ill of the living on quite a regular basis. Why they got all shy after death was a mystery.

  'Oh come on Blamour,’ Wat was encouraging, 'your place being here? You must see all the comings and goings down the lane. I bet you could name everyone who paid a visit to Margaret.’

  'Well I could if I was pressed,’ Blamour admitted slowly, which seemed odd for a man who wouldn't stop talking most of the time.

  'And this Margaret,’ Wat went on, 'what's she like?’

  'Busy,’ Blamour replied blankly.

  'Quite,’ Wat agreed, 'where will we find her then? She's clearly not at home anymore.’

  'Gone off I reckon.’

  '
Off.’

  'Off with her husband Jacque most likely.’

  'Husband?’ This alarmed Hermitage. Naturally he knew that male and female carried on in a certain manner, he wasn't entirely oblivious to the ways of the world, but if someone had a husband or wife, surely they'd limit that sort of thing to one another. Anything else would be a very specific sin.

  'And what's he like?’ Wat asked.

  'Angry most of the time,’ Blamour nodded to himself, 'always knew something was going on but was never in the right place at the right time.’

  'Until perhaps he appeared in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ Hermitage offered, quite pleased with the expression.

  'Aye,’ Blamour confirmed, 'and no one knows where they are now. Me and Poitron reckoned Jacque came home while Lallard was there. There was a big bust up, Lallard gets killed so Jacque and Margaret run off.’

  'Nothing to do with the Bonnevilles then?’ Hermitage asked.

  Blamour looked puzzled, 'Why would it have anything to do with the Bonnevilles?’

  'Oh, er, just asking,’ Hermitage explained weakly.

  'So you and Poitron definitely saw the body?’ Wat sought confirmation.

  'Not the sort of thing we'd both get wrong.’

  'And the place was a mess?’

  'All smashed up.’

  Wat looked to Hermitage. 'So why on earth would someone take the body away and clean up?’

  Hermitage thought this was a most interesting question. Far more worthy of consideration than why would someone stick a knife in someone else in the first place.

  'They want to make it look like there never was a murder?’ he suggested.

  'Jacque and Margaret?’ Wat offered.

  Hermitage nodded, 'Most likely. If they do turn up somewhere and are accused of murder, they can simply say “what murder” and all we'll have is three people who say they saw the body.’

  'Which is quite a lot,’ Wat commented, 'particularly when one of them is the victim's wife and the other is the local lord's man.’

  'But if there's no body available?’ Hermitage came to a halt, 'oh this is all very confusing.’

  'I think we'd better talk to Poitron,’ said Wat, 'after all, he saw the most recent body and is supposed to be dealing with these other murders as well. Do they have bodies?’ he asked Blamour.

  'Oh definitely,’ Blamour said with grim confidence, 'absolutely no doubt about them.’

  'And where do we find Poitron?’

  'Miles away from the bodies I should think. He's probably alerted the Bonneville men and gone off to get the woodsmen doing strange things.’

  Wat simply raised his eyebrows at this.

  'The latest scheme apparently. Telling them a better way to bring the wood back to the store, or get it off the trees, or pile it up to dry. Be something like that.’

  'And which way?’ Wat asked when no further information was forthcoming.

  'Up the track, past the village and into Old Man's wood.’

  'And which one is that?’ said Wat his irritation rekindled.

  'It's the one with a lot of men in it chopping down trees,’ Blamour replied with a straight face.

  They left Blamour to his one sided conversation with the dog and headed on up the track. It was early evening now, and the shock of their travel and arrival was starting to wear off. Hermitage had thought he might have got a few moments to settle himself in before he was presented with the first body. Of course he'd hoped not to be presented with a body at all, but having the very man you were supposed to meet turn out to be the victim was a bit much.

  They had last eaten at Bernard's cart while waiting for their boat to be prepared. Hermitage had certainly not felt hungry at any moment he was on that wretched vessel, and at the time had thought he would never eat again. Now though, hunger pangs were starting to return and he wondered if this Poitron fellow might feed them, after all, their appointed host was dead.

  Of course if he was a Bonneville man it would be a bit difficult to raise the question of whether his master was a murderer. At least not as an opening conversation. The man wouldn’t even know they were coming, how would they explain that?

  He did hope that the fellow would prove more helpful than most of the locals. If he was in charge of the Bonnevilles' work and was supposedly looking into these other murders, Hermitage might find him some sort of kindred spirit. They could share experiences and analyses, debate the nature of causation as an expression of the will of God. Then again, if he was a true noble's man he'd probably want to stick a sword in Hermitage and throw him in a dungeon. Or vice versa.

  As they passed the village, the sound of tree work could be heard up ahead. Axes thudded into trunks, branches were snapped and the crash of fresh foliage provided the backdrop.

  'Must be Old Man's wood,’ Wat commented.

  'Yes,’ said Hermitage agreeing with the conclusion but puzzled by the activity.

  'Isn't it?’

  'Yes it must be but erm, why are they chopping wood at this time of year?’

  'Eh?’

  'Well no one chops wood now, not when the tree is in growth. The trunk and the limbs will be full of sap, take an age to season. You fell in the winter when the wood's already half dry. Unless it's Ash of course, but even then why not wait till winter when it will have put on more growth? Plus you hardly need the firewood now, except for a bit of cooking and you don't want green wood for that anyway, too much smoke.’

  'You know a lot about wood,’ Wat observed with some surprise.

  'Ah,’ Hermitage acknowledged, 'my, erm, father.’

  'A woodsman?’

  'Yes,’ Hermitage replied honestly and hoped that would be the end of the conversation.

  'So why would anyone fell now?’

  Hermitage was relieved there was no further interrogation. 'I suppose if the tree was in the way, or rotten, or dangerous or something. Could be green oak for building I suppose.’

  'Only one way to find out,’ Wat shrugged, and they walked on along the track.

  It was indeed felling, and a lot of it, and not ash or oak.

  They had no problem identifying Poitron, he was the only man in the ever increasing clearing who was not carrying an axe, dragging fallen limbs around, or in fact doing any work at all. The young man stood to one side occasionally directing operations, but more usually receiving the contempt of his workmen, delivered as it was through the drop of shoulders, the throwing of tree limbs and the constant low level grumble which ran amongst the men.

  'What do we say?’ Hermitage fretted at Wat as they stood surveying the work. Surely they couldn't just walk up to this man and announce themselves. 'We can't tell him we've come to investigate his master,’ he hissed.

  Wat frowned and chewed his lip, weighing up options, 'Just passing by?’ he offered, 'friends come to see Lallard and found him all dead?’

  'A monk and a weaver?’ Hermitage asked, thinking it impossible that a dead man like Lallard would be an acquaintance. ‘And anyway, Blamour’s bound to have told him who we are. Blamour seems to spend much of his time telling everyone everything he knows.’

  'So we say you’re the King’s Investigator?’

  'I suppose we have to.’ Hermitage could see that this might be a bit awkward. Even if this Poitron didn’t know they’d come to deal with Bonneville, he’d be a bit suspicious of them turning up just now. His experience of suspicious nobles and their men was not good.

  'But why are we here?’ Wat asked quietly, ‘why would the King’s Investigator be wandering the paths of Cabourg, just when they were full of murders?’

  'And we are a bit erm,’ Hermitage didn’t like to say it out loud.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Saxon.’ He let the word out on his breath with great trepidation.

  They slowed their walking and stopped to consider how to approach this.

  ‘In all the dealings we’ve had in the past, people have known exactly what we were up to. In fact we were usually
being made to get up to it. We've never had to erm, what would you call it?’

  'Lie?’ Hermitage suggested with explicit disappointment.

  'No, not lie exactly, just not quite tell the truth.’

  'The two usually go together,’ the monk explained.

  Wat's thought processes were racing away with him, 'We need some story which will be convincing to this Poitron fellow and will make him give us the information we need. We want something to sort of cover up our true identities.’

  'Cover up?’

  'Yes, like you throw a cover over something to keep the rain off and you can't tell what's underneath. Could be a log pile, or a dung pile, or a heap of chickens, you can't tell.’

  'We need a cover?’ Hermitage asked, wondering how on earth wandering around with a cover over you was going to convince anyone to tell you anything. More likely convince them to chase you out of town.

  'Yes,’ Wat was enthusiastic, 'we need a cover. A cover story.’ He smiled as if he had struck upon some marvellous invention.

  'It all sounds rather sinful if you ask me,’ said Hermitage not wanting to have anything to do with lying and deceit.

  'As sinful as murder?’ Wat asked.

  'Well no,’ Hermitage had to admit, 'but that's not the point. Next thing you'll be suggesting two wrongs can make a right or some such nonsense.’

  'It doesn't need to be anything too wild. In fact I think if we put as much truth in it as possible it will be easier for him to believe and for us to stick to.’ Wat was really quite enthusiastic for this plan. 'We obviously have to say we’ve come over investigating,’ he began.

  'Well, yes.’ Hermitage agreed with this.

  'I’m not sure we should mention Le Pedvin at this stage though,’ Wat was thoughtful, ‘he clearly has his friends, probably because he pays them, but if he wants Bonneville dead it might be best if we didn’t appear to be on his side.’

  'But we aren’t,’ Hermitage was alarmed at anyone thinking he was on Le Pedvin’s side in anything.

  'Got it!' Wat exclaimed as he snapped his fingers in front of Hermitage.

  'Where?’ Hermitage asked, thinking Wat had spotted something.