The Serpents of Harbledown

by Edward Marston

  “Impossible!”

  “What could have been his motive?”

  “There was none. Bertha was liked and respected by all. Nobody had any motive to take her life.”

  “Nobody you know,” persisted Ralph. “That is why we must look for someone whom you do not know. Some shadowy figure in her private life.”

  “He does not exist!”

  “Ask your wife.”

  “There is no point, my lord.”

  “It may be the one way to solve this murder. Yes, I know,” he said quickly, stilling Osbern's protest with a raised hand. “You do not accept that any murder took place. But we do. A healthy girl like Bertha does not succumb to a snakebite so quickly and in such an unlikely place. Someone strangled her. The trail is cold, Osbern. The only person who may be able to help us here, to give us a name or, at the very least, to confirm that there was a secret lover in Bertha's life, is your own dear Eadgyth. Please talk to her.”

  “You are asking too much, my lord.”

  “I am asking on Bertha's behalf.”

  “There was no man in her life.”

  “Will you not even consider the possibility?”

  “No, my lord,” said Osbern resolutely. “We knew Bertha. More to the point, we know Alwin the Sailor. He is the best guarantee here. No man in his right mind would have pressed himself upon the girl.”

  “Why not?”

  “Alwin would have killed him.”

  Encircled by forest, field and marsh, Fordwich stood at the mouth of the river estuary. The village comprised over seventy houses and a scattered collection of barns, byres and outbuildings. A small church served its spiritual needs and a natural supply of clear spring water contributed to the physical health of the inhabitants. Fordwich gained its status as a borough from its importance as a harbour for seagoing traffic, and the activity around its quays brought in a steady profit from the tolls on goods landed there. Boats and barges, with a relatively shallow draught, came and went every day. Sailors always loitered near its timbered wharves.

  When Alwin reached Fordwich, he spoke to everyone he found around the little harbour, interrogating each one in turn with an almost manic urgency.

  “Can you be certain of this?” he pressed.

  “Quite certain, Alwin.”

  “Think hard.”

  “I have done so.”

  “I must find him!”

  “Then you must look elsewhere,” said the sailor. “I cannot help you. I have not caught sight of him for months.”

  “Nor heard mention of the man?”

  “Not a word.”

  “If you do hear news of him, bring it to me at once.”

  “Why?”

  “Just bring it!” insisted Alwin, grabbing him by the shoulders. “I have reasons enough, believe me.”

  He released the sailor and looked eagerly around but he could see nobody whom he had not already questioned. After passing on his gruff thanks, he walked along the quay to the point where his own boat lay moored and jumped down into it, causing it to tilt and ride in the dark water.

  Standing beside the tiller, he gazed around his vessel. Its sail was furled and tied with ropes, its mast sculpted by the wind, its deck pitted and whitened by the endless supplies of Caen stone he had transported. But his mind was on another part of his cargo and the memory of it turned his blood to liquid fire. Snatching at the dagger which hung at his waist, Alwin lifted it high and brought it down with such vicious force that it sank inches into the bulwark.

  The return of Gervase Bret brought more sorrow and consternation to the house and disturbed its fragile peace. Coming so soon after one tragedy, Brother Martin's death was a shock to all. Gervase described his audience with Prior Henry and said how impressed he had been with the prompt and loving way in which the old monk had been received back into the enclave.

  Osbern was particularly affected by the news but not simply because he had known and admired Brother Martin. The reeve was in a tender frame of mind. His talk with Ralph Delchard had unsettled him at a deep level. He could not believe that his wife had held something back from him, yet he sensed that his guest would not have broached the topic by accident. Ralph obviously knew something and could only have gained such intelligence from Golde. Had Eadgyth concealed a vital piece of information from her husband which she then divulged to a complete stranger?

  When he excused himself from the room, Osbern was patently ruffled. Gervase was left alone in the solar with Ralph and Golde.

  “What has been happening while I was away?” he inquired.

  “Nothing of consequence,” said Ralph. “Golde has been running the household with a firm but gentle hand while I have been talking to Osbern.”

  “What did you say to him?” asked Golde. “When I came in, he seemed a trifle disturbed. I hope that you have not been upsetting our generous host.”

  “Would I do such a thing, my love?”

  “Not by intention.”

  “I merely fished for some information about Bertha.”

  “What did you learn?” said Gervase.

  “A great deal.”

  He told them about the girl's relationship with her father and about the way he had resisted her compelling desire to help Brother Martin at the leper hospital of St. Nicholas. Golde was struck by her strength of purpose.

  “At her age,” she admitted, “I would not have resisted my father's wishes so boldly.”

  Ralph winked at her. “I hope you will not resist the wishes of your husband, either.”

  “Bertha was a most unusual daughter.”

  Before they could speculate further, there was a knock on the door. A few moments later, a servant conducted a visitor into the solar. It was one of the monks who had accompanied Prior Henry during his confrontation with the commissioners. He was panting slightly and perspiration glistened on his brow.

  “I have a message for Master Bret,” he said.

  “An urgent one, by the look of it,” noted Ralph.

  “Prior Henry ordered me to make all speed.”

  “What is the message?” asked Gervase.

  “You are to return to the priory as soon as you may.”

  “Why?”

  “I do not know, Master Bret. I simply convey the instruction.”

  “It comes from Prior Henry?”

  “From his own mouth. Not five minutes ago.”

  Gervase was puzzled. He looked inquiringly at Ralph. After a silent discussion, each came to the same conclusion.

  “It is the only explanation,” decided Gervase.

  “I will come with you,” said Ralph. “Let us go.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  EXPECTING ONLY ONE visitor, Prior Henry was at first disconcerted when two were ushered into his lodging. He found Gervase Bret a more sensitive and congenial person than Ralph Delchard, whose abrasiveness he had already glimpsed at the shire hall and whose lack of respect for the cowl was very disagreeable. Henry quickly adjusted to the surprise. The news he had to impart would in any case have found its way immediately to the leading commissioner. Ralph Delchard might just as well hear it at first hand.

  “Thank you for coming so promptly,” began the prior.

  “Celerity was needed,” said Gervase. “You would only have summoned me on a matter of grave importance. We guessed that it must concern Brother Martin.”

  “It does. Brother Ambrose, too.”

  “Brother Ambrose?”

  “He is our physician here at the priory. He cures our ailments, calms our fevers and sets the occasional bone which gets broken within the enclave.” He gritted his teeth. “Brother Ambrose is also responsible for laying out our dead. He is a man of unrivalled experience in this task. It was into his care that we placed Brother Martin.”

  “What did he find?” said Ralph.

  “I must first ask that of Master Bret, my lord.” He turned to Gervase with a raised eyebrow. “When you examined him at the hospital of St. Nicholas, you found nothing to
arouse suspicion?”

  “Nothing at all, Prior Henry.”

  “How closely did you look?”

  “With some care. There were no marks upon him.”

  “They might not have been immediately visible.”

  “What should I have seen?”

  “It is more a question of what you should have smelt,” said Prior Henry. “Did you detect no strange odour?”

  “None,” replied Gervase. “The church was filled with the scent of herbs. I assumed that Brother Martin had used them deliberately to sweeten the air of a nave where only lepers worshipped. Is that not common practice?”

  “It is, Master Bret.”

  “The aroma was quite pervasive. I think it would have masked any lesser scent.”

  “Palpably.”

  “Tell us about Brother Ambrose,” said Ralph impatiently.

  “He noticed it at once, my lord.”

  “Noticed what?”

  “The smell from Brother Martin's mouth. Faint enough to be smothered by the herbs in the church but strong enough to make its presence felt in the clear air of our morgue.” He gave a sigh. “Our dear brother was poisoned.”

  “Another murder?” said Gervase.

  “No question about it. Suicide can be ruled out at once. Brother Martin knew that it was a sin before God to take one's own life. Besides, nobody would subject himself to the pain which he must have endured at the end.”

  “Pain?”

  “Agonies and convulsions. Brother Ambrose has examined the body, searching for the tiny signs which only he would see and cutting open a vein to study the blood. The poison was quick and merciless. Brother Ambrose talks of a herbal compound with belladonna as a main ingredient. It seems that a massive dose was administered.”

  “How?” wondered Ralph. “Brother Martin would hardly have quaffed the potion obligingly from his chalice.”

  “Force was used. There is bruising on his chest to indicate that he may have been pinned to the ground while the hideous draught was poured down his throat.”

  “By whom?” said Gervase. “The church was empty.”

  “The killer must have left before you arrived.”

  “He could not have done so without being seen, Prior Henry. One of the lepers watched Brother Martin enter the church alone. Nobody came out.”

  “He must have done, Gervase,” said Ralph.

  “The witness was most insistent.”

  “Is he reliable?”

  “I believe so. He sat outside his hut throughout the whole time that Brother Martin was in the church.”

  “Might he not have dozed off to sleep?”

  “I think it unlikely.”

  “His attention may have been distracted.”

  “No, Ralph. Not this man. Alain is a solitary person. He does not mix easily with the others. If he had the church in view during that time, his attention would not have wavered.”

  “Somebody administered that poison,” argued Prior Henry. “And with considerable violence. Brother Ambrose showed me the two huge bruises on the chest of Brother Martin. It seemed as if his attacker knelt hard on him and pressed down with both knees.”

  “Then how did that attacker escape from the church?”

  “I do not know, Master Bret.”

  “That will emerge in time,” said Ralph thoughtfully. “What is more beneficial at this stage is to establish the motive for the murder.”

  “I am at a loss to imagine what it might be,” confessed the prior. “Who could hate Brother Martin enough to kill him in such a savage way?”

  “The same man who killed Bertha.”

  “My lord?”

  “These two deaths are linked, Prior Henry. A young girl and an old monk. When Bertha was found on Harbledown, it was accepted by all that she perished by snakebite. That was also the opinion of Helto the Doctor. Only Brother Martin contested that view— with the support of Gervase here.”

  “It was Brother Martin who activated the sheriff.”

  “His evidence was crucial,” observed Ralph. “They killed him in order to silence him.”

  “Who did, my lord?”

  “That is what we will find out.”

  “The priory is involved here,” reminded Henry, “and we will carry out our own rigorous investigation. Archbishop Lanfranc had been informed and he is rightfully appalled. I have been designated to lead our inquiry. One of our holy brethren has been slain. We will not rest until the fiend responsible has been brought to justice.”

  “Nor will we,” vowed Ralph.

  “Then we have a common aim here. It makes it easier for me to ask a special favour of you, my lord.”

  “Favour?”

  “This dispute between cathedral and abbey,” said Henry.”It is a matter of the utmost significance to us and requires my undivided attention. While Brother Martin's murder hangs over us, I will not be able to give it that attention. My plea is that the case be adjourned until this horror has abated and I am more readily available to you at the shire hall.”

  “A reasonable request,” commented Gervase.

  “Yes,” agreed Ralph without hesitation. “And one with which I concur. We will suspend all work of the commission until this business has been resolved. Along with my dear wife, Gervase and I are the guests of Osbern the Reeve, whose own wife was a close friend of the deceased girl. Bertha's father, Alwin, is a sailor who operates out of Fordwich, the very port at the heart of your quarrel with the abbey. And now we learn Brother Martin, one of your monks, has been poisoned.”

  “Fate has obviously decreed that we are involved in these misfortunes,” said Gervase.

  Ralph gave a grim chuckle. “Up to our necks, Gervase. We will do all we can to track down this killer. His methods have been ruthless, his victims defenceless. Such a man does not deserve to breathe the same air as ordinary human beings. We will find this devil somehow.”

  Bertha's funeral was held next morning at the parish church of St. Mildred's. Alwin and the other chief mourners—the girl's uncles, aunts and cousins—sat on benches at the front of the nave but a sizeable number of friends and neighbours stood behind them. Reinbald the Priest conducted the service and delivered a touching homily, rhapsodising on Bertha's virtues while trying to reconcile the minds of his congregation to the suddenness and awfulness of her demise. The nature of that demise, and the inquiry that now followed it, were nowhere touched upon. For all his relative inexperience as a parish priest, Reinbald had natural tact.

  Mass was sung for the dear departed, and Bertha was lowered into her grave amid copious weeping and painful sighs. Alwin the Sailor threw the first handful of earth on the coffin and closed his eyes tight against the searing agony of separation. There was an added poignancy for him in the fact that his daughter would lie in the churchyard beside his wife, and he berated himself for failing to honour the promise he had given to Bertha's mother on her deathbed.

  When he finally looked up again, there was no relief from his torment. It was magnified a hundredfold by the burning eyes which met his across the grave. They belonged to his sister-inlaw, a gracious, handsome woman in her forties with braided fair hair entwined around an oval face and a resemblance to his dead wife that was so close as to be breathtaking. Alwin felt that her gaze was like a hot brand on his soul. There was such a fund of remorse and hatred and accusation in her stare that he had to turn away.

  Osbern the Reeve suffered discomfort of a lesser order but it still made the sweat break on his brow. Bertha had been strangled. The second murder had forced him to acknowledge the first and it left him feeling hurt and guilty. It also obliged him, sooner or later, to tell Eadgyth the ugly truth about the death of her beloved friend and that thought alarmed him the most. As the gravedigger began to shovel earth into the cavity, Osbern could take no more of the anguish and he stole quietly away.

  Ralph and Golde stood arm in arm at the back of the encircling mourners, both deeply moved by the pitiable misery of the occasion. Gervase was c
lose by, caught up in the sadness of it all and yet sufficiently detached to notice a hooded figure who hovered on the very fringe of the burial service. Several monks from cathedral and abbey had come to pay their last respects to someone whose charitable deeds had caused so much favourable comment but the man whom Gervase spotted did not ally himself with either group.

  Standing well apart, he kept his hood up and his face concealed. It was when the monk moved away that Gervase became suspicious. Time spent as a novice at Eltham Abbey had accustomed him to the gait of a monastic order. Older monks might shuffle and younger ones stride but all took account of the heavy cowl which swung around their ankles. The measured tread of the cloister was unmistakeable. The man who retreated from the churchyard, however, had such a lithe and hurried step that it was difficult to believe he spent his days within the enclave.

  Curiosity made Gervase take a few paces after him but he was immediately distracted by another figure. This one stood a short distance away from the congregation, his head bowed in prayer, his hands clasped together in his lap. It was an affecting sight, all the more so when Gervase realised that Alain the Leper represented the whole community at the hospital of St. Nicholas. On their behalf, he had struggled down to Canterbury to keep his vigil near the graveside.

  As the mourners began to disperse, Reinbald the Priest made time for a moment alone with the stricken father.

  “My thoughts go with you, Alwin.”

  “Thank you, Father Reinbald,” said the other. “And thank you for your kind words in the sermon. Nothing will ever bring Bertha back but I took some crumbs of comfort from what you said.”

  “I will visit you very soon to offer more consolation.”

  “There is no need.”

  “There is every need,” said Reinbald. “You have reached a time of trial in your life. It is my duty as your parish priest and my obligation as your friend to do all I can to sustain your spirit and bring you to an acceptance of God's will.”

  Alwin's manner hardened. “I do not accept it.”