The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime Volume 8

by Maxim Jakubowski

  ***

  Roger de Brionne owned extensive land to the south of Owain’s estates and they’d been arguing about the border between them for years. Each claimed to have had territory stolen by the other. Both swore that his neighbour had rustled livestock from them. It was not my business to sit in judgement on their respective claims. All that concerned me was to decide whether or not a murder had been committed and, if it had, to solve the crime.

  Roger was confident he already knew the name of the culprit.

  “Owain is a killer!” he yelled at me. “Place him under arrest.”

  “I’ve neither the right nor the inclination to do so,” I replied, stoutly. “All I’ve heard so far is wild accusation. I need evidence.”

  “Then you must search for it.”

  “Where?”

  “Where else but on Owain’s land?” he said. “That’s where the harpist is buried and where his instrument remains.”

  “You seem very certain of that.”

  “I can even tell you where the harp has been hidden.”

  “Oh?”

  “It is somewhere in the stables.”

  “How do you know that, my lord?”

  “I was told by an informant.”

  “And did this informant give any motive for the murder,” I wondered, “because I’m at a loss to find one. I’ve questioned both Owain and his niece. The two of them worshipped Idwal. Why should Owain want to kill a man who gave him so much pleasure?”

  “I can see that you don’t know the villain.”

  “I know enough about him. I took him for a testy old Welshman with all the faults of his nation – that’s to say, he’s quarrelsome, inconstant and wedded to memories of a heroic past that no longer exists. I’ve lived among the Welsh, my lord.”

  “Then you’ll appreciate their legendary skill at lying. Never a true word passes their lips. They break promises, say anything that suits their purpose and let you down as if it’s their duty to do so.”

  “It’s their way of resisting the invader,” I observed.

  “We’ve been here for over a hundred years,” he affirmed, waving a fist. “We’re no longer invaders.”

  “You are in Welsh eyes and will be so for another thousand years. However,” I went on, stifling his impatience, “let’s return to the question of motive. According to Owain, the harpist stayed with them for three days and was well-paid before he left.”

  Roger snorted. “Well-paid!” he exclaimed. “He’s certainly pulled the wool over your eyes, archdeacon. Owain is a born miser. Ask anyone in the county and they will say as much. It was exactly what Idwal told me when he played for Owain last year. On his way south, the harpist spent the night here and earned generous recompense for the entertainment he provided. Idwal said that, as usual, he’d been given a pittance by Owain.”

  I weighed this information in the balance, trying to decide if it was the truth or arose out of Roger’s malice. He was a tall, slim man in his fifties with a gaunt face and a glinting eye. There was an air of nobility about him that impressed me, albeit tempered by a combative nature. He and Owain would never be happy bedfellows. They were so accustomed to trade insults that they would sooner die than agree. Something about Roger’s argument nevertheless did ring true. Though he was a wealthy man, Owain’s house showed all the signs of deliberate parsimony. In Roger de Brionne’s manor, by contrast, riches were openly on display. It was likely that Idwal the Harpist would earn more from one night with Roger than from three with Owain.

  “As to the question of motive,” said Roger, pursuing his argument, “you’ve already met the young lady.”

  “Are you referring to Owain’s niece?”

  “Gwenllian would tempt a pope.”

  “She didn’t tempt me,” I was at pains to assure him, “but I did observe how well-favoured the girl was. And now I think about it, Idwal was always a man with an interest in feminine company.”

  “It wasn’t interest, archdeacon,” said Roger, bitterly, “it was an obsession. When you listed the faults of the Welsh, you forget to mention their rampant carnality. Anyone with Welsh blood in him is as lecherous as a goat.”

  “I deny that!” I retorted. “I have the honour to have Welsh blood in my veins and it hasn’t inclined me to anything that can remotely be considered goatish.”

  “Did you ever hear Idwal play?”

  “Yes, my lord – many times.”

  “Then you’ll know the seductive power of his music. It can enthral adults and work upon their emotions. Think how much greater its effect might be on an impressionable young woman.”

  It was an apt comment. Idwal had been a handsome man in his late thirties with magic in his fingers and persuasion in his smile. I remembered that he’d given Gwenllian instruction in how to play the harp, sitting behind her no doubt, guiding her hands, making the most of his licensed touch. Though such intimacies between man and woman are outside my ken, I can well imagine what might have taken place. Owain ap Meurig had been affectionate and protective towards his niece. If he’d seen something untoward occurring between the girl and the harpist – something that Gwenllian herself was too young to recognize as improper – it might well have aroused his jealousy.

  Yet he and the girl had waved off Idwal together. Was it possible that Owain had later overtaken the harpist and murdered him? Was I investigating revenge? Roger was so convinced about the chain of events that I had to take him seriously.

  “This informant of yours was a witness, was he?” I asked.

  “In a manner of speaking,” he explained. “Except that it was not a man but a woman.” He took a deep breath before blurting out the truth. “She saw it all in a dream.”

  I couldn’t hide my surprise. “A dream, my lord?” I said with utter disbelief. “You expect me to denounce Owain as a murderer because a woman has a troubled night? This is absurd.”

  “That’s what I thought at first, archdeacon.”

  “Who is this creature?”

  “Angharad FitzMartin.”

  I was astounded. It was the Madwoman of Usk.

  While I’d never set eyes on her, I knew her well by repute. Angharad FitzMartin was the offspring of a Welsh mother and a Norman father, both of whom had been killed in a tragic accident. The event had had a profound effect on her, changing her from a young woman with the normal expectations of her class into a wild, haunted, hortatory being who preached her own eccentric version of the gospel of Christ and who, it was rumoured, could quote the Bible in three languages. Some feared her, others reviled her, others again simply mocked her but most people showed Christian compassion towards a woman who had clearly lost her mind at the cruel death of her parents.

  It was market day in the village and I soon found her. The Madwoman of Usk was living up to her name, standing on a cask as she proclaimed her message to a small crowd. Peppered with snatches of Holy Writ, it was a rambling homily but delivered with such fervour that it held some onlookers spellbound. When she’d finished her blistering attack on the wickedness of human existence, I helped her down from her pulpit and took her aside. As soon as I introduced myself, Angharad became truculent.

  “You’ll not stop me, archdeacon,” she warned. “The Lord has called me and I answer only to Him.”

  “Then we’ve something in common,” I said, tolerantly. “Having heard you speak, I’d argue with your theology but I don’t call your sincerity into question. You are brave, Angharad.”

  “It’s not bravery – it’s a blessed duty.”

  I could’ve taken issue over that remark but I chose to ignore it. I also pretended not to notice the unpleasant odour that came from the woman. Her hair was straggly and unwashed, her apparel mean. She wore sandals on her bare feet. Still in her twenties, her once appealing face was now blotched and haggard. I might have been looking at a beggar but one with an intelligence that shone out of her like a flaming beacon. For a moment, I wasn’t sure if I was in the presence of madness or of divine insp
iration.

  “I want to ask you about Idwal the Harpist,” I said.

  “He was killed by Owain ap Meurig,” she responded.

  “Do you have any proof of that?”

  “I saw it happen in a dream.”

  “We need more positive evidence than that, Angharad.”

  “My dreams never deceive,” she insisted. “On the night that my parents died, I woke up screaming because I’d foreseen it in a nightmare. Every detail of my dream turned out to be correct. I was able to take people to the very spot where the rocks had tumbled down the mountain and buried them. I can give you other examples, if you wish.”

  “No, no,” I said, staving off a long litany of her disturbed sleep. “I want to know what you saw – or thought you saw – with regard to Idwal the Harpist.”

  “Then first, you must know that I live on Owain’s land. My cottage lies due south of here near the road that leads to Monmouth.”

  “Go on.”

  “The dream was short but vivid. I saw Owain and his niece bidding the harpist farewell. Idwal set off on his horse. It picked up a stone along the way and he dismounted to remove it from the animal’s hoof. He walked beside it for a while, his harp in a bag that hung from the saddle. When he came to a stand of trees, he was set upon and stabbed to death. His body was buried nearby.”

  “What about the harp?”

  “It was taken back to Owain’s house and hidden in the stables. That’s how I know Owain was the murderer.”

  “Yet you saw him and Gwenllian wave off the harpist.”

  “Idwal rode slowly. It would have been easy to catch him up and overtake him. He was in no hurry. He was on foot when he was attacked. Owain took him by surprise.”

  “And are you certain that it was Owain?”

  “It looked vaguely like him, archdeacon.”

  Angharad went on to add more detail. My first impulse was to dismiss the whole thing as nonsense but I came to feel that her story was at least worth investigation.

  “To whom have you told this tale?” I asked.

  “It’s not a tale, archdeacon – it’s the truth.”

  “Did you confront Owain with it?”

  “I tried,” she said, “but he sent me away with harsh words and threatened to throw me off his land if I repeated what I’d seen in my dream.” She drew herself up to her full height. “Nobody can threaten me, archdeacon. When my way of life was chosen for me, I put on the whole armour of God and it’s protected me well. If I lose my little home, I’ll sleep in barns or byres or wherever my feet are directed. Owain ap Meurig doesn’t frighten me.”

  “You also spoke to Roger of Brionne.”

  “He, at least, had the courtesy to listen to me.”

  “So I was told.”

  “He believes me.” She fixed me with a shrewd look. “What about you, archdeacon?”

  “The only thing that will convince me is ocular proof,” I told her. “If your dream was a true reflection of what happened – and we know from the Bible that dreams can act as warnings – then there’s an easy way to establish it. I’ll institute a search of the stables at Owain ap Meurig’s house.”

  “Shall I come with you, archdeacon?”

  “That might not be wise.”

  “But you’ll tell me what you find, I hope.”

  “It’s the least I can do, Angharad. Thank you for your help.”

  “It’s I who must thank you,” she said with a wan smile. “Most of those in holy orders think I’m a madwoman who perverts the word of God. You heard me preach yet raised no objection. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for that. You are a good man, archdeacon.”

  “I’ve striven hard to achieve goodness,” I admitted.

  “Then let good triumph over evil. Bring a killer to justice.”

  Anticipating resistance, I took the precaution of detaching two menat-arms from our retinue and travelled with them to the house of Owain ap Meurig. The sight of Norman soldiers in helm and hauberk enraged the old Welshman and he rid himself of a few choice curses. He was even more vociferous when I explained the purpose of my second visit, his anger spilling over into uncontrollable rage.

  “You’d listen to the word of that madwoman?” he demanded.

  “I have a duty to test its veracity,” I said, calmly.

  “Her brain is addled, man! You only have to look at her to see that she’s descended into babbling idiocy. Angharad is always making stupid accusations about people. Her dreams are like a plague on the rest of us. Out of misguided kindness, I gave her the use of a hovel on my land but she really belongs in a madhouse.”

  I let him rant on until his fury was spent then I pointed out it was in his interests to let us search the stables. If no harp were found there, he’d be exonerated. Under protest, he accepted my advice and we walked away from the house. As we did so, I caught sight of Gwenllian, peering from a window in consternation. Was she indirectly the cause of a heinous crime? Only time would tell.

  It took longer than I expected. When we got to the stables, my two companions searched it thoroughly, using their swords to poke about in the straw. In an effort to show that he was innocent of the charge, Owain joined in the search, going into stall after stall in pursuit of the harp. We were on the point of abandoning the exercise when I received what I can only describe as guidance from above. I heard a noise that didn’t reach the ears of the others, the soft, coaxing, resonant sound of harp strings being plucked.

  “What’s up there?” I asked, pointing to the rafters.

  “That’s where I store the hay,” replied Owain, “as these two Norman ruffians have already discovered.”

  “Let me take a second look.”

  Moving the ladder into position, I clambered up it to the rafters. Boarding had been laid across part of the timbers so that sheaves of hay could be kept there. I wasn’t worried about the fodder. My eye went upwards to a piece of dark cloth that hung from the apex of the roof. It had been so artfully arranged that it blended with the rafters and was difficult to pick out in the gloom. Going to the very top of the ladder, I reached up and felt something solid beneath the cloth. When I drew the object out, there was a gasp of horror from Owain ap Meurig. It was a harp.

  Roger de Brionne was overjoyed to hear the news. He clapped me on the back in congratulation then offered me wine. As we drank together in his solar, I supplied him with full details.

  “The praise should go to Angharad,” I pointed out. “The harp was exactly where she said it would be and we found the body of Idwal the Harpist in a shallow grave among some trees. That dream of hers was providential. The Madwoman of Usk deserves our thanks.”

  “Where is Owain being held?”

  “In a dungeon at the castle – he protests his innocence and calls me such foul names that I blush to hear them. His niece could not believe he was guilty yet she provided some of the evidence that helped to secure his arrest.”

  Roger’s interest sharpened. “Indeed?”

  “Yes, my lord. Gwenllian confessed that, as soon as she and her uncle had waved off the harpist, Owain mounted his horse and rode off in the same direction. He was wearing his dagger.”

  “Did the girl say anything about Idwal’s behaviour to her?”

  “It was as you suggested,” I said. “In the presence of her uncle, Idwal was polite and restrained. When she and the harpist were alone together, however, he did take certain liberties. One night, he even tapped upon her chamber door but she kept it firmly locked.”

  “Was this reported to her uncle?”

  “Of course – she keeps nothing from him.”

  Roger drained his cup. “This is not the first crime that Owain has committed,” he said, licking his lips, “but it’s the one that will finally bring him down. You’ve done well, archdeacon. Without your intercession, the case would never have been resolved and Idwal would have lain undiscovered in his grave.”

  “I was glad to be of assistance, my lord.”

  “As for
Angharad, she’ll be rewarded.”

  “In what way?”

  “That hovel she inhabits is on land that’s rightly mine. Now that Owain is no longer here to contest ownership, it will revert to me and I’ll grant her free use of the dwelling in perpetuity.”

  “Your generosity does you credit, my lord,” I said, taking another sip of wine, “but we mustn’t forget that Owain allowed her to live on his estate without any payment. He even gave her food from time to time. An evil man was capable of some goodness.”

  Roger of Brionne smiled grimly. “That thought may comfort him at his execution.”

  On my ride back, I took the trouble to seek out the hovel where the so-called Madwoman of Usk spent her nights when she was not roaming the county in search of random congregations. Having left her with severe reservations about the significance of her dream, I could now return with all my doubts answered. Angharad had a gift that was almost as extraordinary as some that I possess. I needed to bestow my gratitude and to acquaint her with the consequences of what she’d told me.

  The dwelling was no more than a ramshackle hut and I couldn’t understand how a woman who’d once lived in a fine house and slept on a soft bed now chose to endure such privations. It was a self-imposed martyrdom. Angharad was not at home but, since the door was unlocked, I ventured inside the building. The single room was hardly fit for human habitation. There were gaps in the roof, holes in the wall and inches of space around the door to let in wind and rain. Apart from a few sticks of furniture and a mattress, the place was bare. It was as cheerless as a monastic cell.

  The only items of value were the crucifix on the table and the books wrapped up in sealskin to save them from being soaked. When I glanced through the little collection, I was diverted by the sight of a religious pamphlet that I’d once written in the elegant Latin for which I’m justifiably famous. The Madwoman of Usk had sanity in her library. I was about to leave when my eye fell on something I didn’t expect to find there, something concealed behind the mattress with a sense of shame. Its protruding top caught the sunlight that slanted in through the only window.