Cwen touched his elbow and he turned to see she wanted to whisper in his ear. Perhaps she had noticed some detail that had passed him by.
She hissed her information quietly.
‘Aha,’ said Hermitage, coughing awkwardly and now seeing that Balor and Hendig were regarding him with some amusement. ‘Very good then. Yes. So. Today is actually Friday, which would have made the murder Tuesday. Where were you on Tuesday evening,’ he asked hurriedly.
‘No idea,’ said Balor, confidently. ‘Where were you on Tuesday evening?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ This had all started so well and was now getting out of control.
‘Can you remember where you were on Tuesday evening, just like that? You don’t even know what day of the week you’re in now.’
‘Perhaps he killed Gilder,’ Hendig suggested, with a wide grin.
‘Ha, ha,’ Balor thought this was very funny. ‘A killer monk, that’d be a turn up.’
Hermitage looked to Cwen and Wat for some help out of this chaos.
‘The murdering monk of Shrewsbury,’ Hendig said, as if he was announcing some hideous tale.
‘Now, really,’ said Hermitage, trying to put his foot down. Wat and Cwen were no help, and were actually smiling almost as much as Balor and Hendig.
Hendig was clearly taken with his idea. ‘It could be a whole series of stories for the fireside. A monk in a Shrewsbury monastery who goes round killing people and then turns up pretending to look for the killer.’
Balor and Hendig were now having to hold one another up to stop the laughter dropping them to the floor.
Honestly, thought Hermitage, why was it that whenever he investigated a murder, someone concluded that he’d done it himself. It really was most tiresome. At least these two didn’t seem to be taking the idea too seriously.
They got their breath back and Hendig patted Hermitage on the shoulder to indicate that they were not actually suggesting the monk had murdered the merchant.
‘Still,’ said Balor, ‘a killer monk would be just the thing. Go with the killer nuns. All we’d need is a murderous priest and we’d have the set.’
The laughter burst forth again and Hermitage found it hard to credit that either of these boys really knew anything about the death of Gilder. They would hardly behave like this if either of them had recently killed a man.
He was jolted from his reverie by a cough from Wat. He saw that the weaver was looking seriously at Balor and Hendig as they stood in the doorway.
‘What killer nuns?’ Wat asked.
Caput IX
The Tale of The Disappearing Novices
‘What killer nuns?’ Wat repeated. He had ushered everyone into the back of Balor’s rude and simple dwelling, which turned out to be very rude and very simple.
They all occupied a single room with a sorry looking fireplace in the corner, the smoke from which would curl out of the hole in the roof - which itself appeared to be more coincidence than design. Straw matted the floor and two seats by the fire were simple slices of tree trunk.
Hermitage appraised the place with disappointment. It was no more than he, personally, was used to, but he could see that if this was the dwelling of the son of Gilder, the father really had treated his offspring harshly. Still, if things got cold at least you could burn the furniture.
Balor and Hendig occupied the seats, and they had needed steering into those, such was their unsteadiness.
The others had considered sitting on the floor but one look at the straw had dissuaded them.
‘The nuns,’ Hendig explained, ‘of the disappearing novices.’
Balor nodded, indicating that this was common knowledge.
‘Abbess Mildburgh?’ Cwen checked that there weren’t any other killer nuns in the town.
‘That’s them,’ Balor confirmed.
Hermitage pondered. This was really no better than accusing him of the murder. Nuns did not kill people, let alone their own novices.
‘You wouldn’t believe how many novices they get through,’ Hendig went on. ‘Whole batches of ‘em. Young girls turn up wanting to join the order, though goodness knows why, with their reputation. Next thing you know, they’re gone.’
‘Gone?’ Hermitage questioned.
‘Never seen again,’ Hendig intoned, portentously.
‘Some say the abbess eats them.’ Balor nodded to himself.
‘Ha,’ Cwen’s laughter burst from her.
‘It’s true,’ Balor insisted.
‘It’s true that the abbess eats novices, or it’s true that people say so?’ Cwen ridiculed the idea.
‘And,’ said Hermitage with a derisory snort, ‘even if we did have a nunnery using novices for nourishment, why would they kill Gilder? He was going to build them a new convent.’
‘Pah.’ Balor spat. It wasn’t clear if he was spitting at their rejection of the abbess’s appetites or the new nunnery. ‘The abbess has been peddling that tale for so long, she was probably hoping Gilder himself would believe it.’
‘Are you saying he wasn’t?’ Wat asked.
‘Gilder? Gilder of Shrewsbury?’ Balor sounded surprised and amused. ‘He wouldn’t even feed his own son, why would he give stones to the nuns, unless he was throwing them?’
‘Perhaps he hoped to save his eternal soul,’ Hermitage offered in all seriousness.
‘Rumour was he’d already sold that to someone completely different,’ said Hendig with sombre significance and a look over his shoulder.
‘And if he was,’ Balor added, ‘he’d more likely give to the monks of Bromfield.’
‘Why?’ Hermitage asked.
‘You have met the abbess?’ said Balor with a shiver.
Hermitage took the point.
‘And the abbot of Bromfield is a tenant. The nuns don’t owe Gilder anything and he never liked doing business with people who didn’t owe him something.’ Balor paused to think about this. ‘Usually they had to owe him everything.’
One word had caused Hermitage considerable consternation. ‘A tenant?’ he asked. How could a monastery be a tenant of anyone? Nobles or the King gave their land to the monasteries and endowed them for their living. People gave alms and goods to the monastery for the good of all. They didn’t charge them rent for heaven’s sake.
What sort of a man would charge a monk rent on his own monastery? He shook his head at this dreadful idea. Then he had another idea. Gilder. Gilder of Shrewsbury seemed exactly the sort of man to charge rent on a monastery.
‘He charged the abbot rent?’ Hermitage still had trouble bringing the two ideas into his head at the same time.
‘Course he did,’ Balor seemed amused at Hermitage’s naivety. ‘You haven’t been here long but must already have a good idea about the man. He’d charge the dead for use of the graveyard if he could.’
‘I’ve never heard of such a thing.’ Hermitage was wide-eyed and looked at Cwen and Wat, who seemed far less concerned about the details of monastic finance. ‘And the abbot paid?’
‘It was either that or get evicted.’
‘Throw monks out of a monastery?’ Poor Hermitage was having real trouble taking all of this in.
‘Wouldn’t be the worst thing he did,’ said Balor with a snort.
‘Not by a very long walk,’ Hendig added with a grim laugh.
‘I, I,’ Hermitage was lost for words – which was itself very unusual.
‘So the abbot kept in Gilder’s good books,’ Balor explained.
‘And he didn’t have many of those,’ said Hendig.
‘Seemed to be the one person who was let in the house and had Gilder’s ear if he wanted it,’ said Balor.
‘Probably to give him absolution for all the horrible things he did,’ Hendig completed the picture.
‘This is remarkable,’ said Hermitage, trying to think about the whole situation. He had never thought that Shrewsbury would be such a place as this. It had a fine reputation, dangerous in years gone by with the Welsh and the Danes but a
place of peaceful trade now. Well, until the Normans got here of course, but still. And now the whole place seemed to be falling around his ears. Not only were there bad people, he was used to them, but the whole town was full of the most bizarre ideas.
‘There’s a thought,’ said Balor, waving a finger at Hermitage.
‘What’s that?’
‘Perhaps the abbot did it.’
Hermitage’s mouth opened, but the silence that came out made everyone pause.
When it was clear that he had nothing to say, Balor went on.
‘Stands to reason doesn’t it? The abbot was paying rent to Gilder. With Gilder dead he might not have to do that anymore. He hasn’t come to me yet but I wouldn’t be surprised if he suggested that the monastery should not be paying for their cells and church and the like.’
They looked to Hermitage for a response to this but he still wasn’t ready.
‘And the abbot had access to Gilder,’ Balor pointed out. ‘Came and went as he pleased. Could easily have got in, done for Gilder and got out again. There you are.’ He presented the finished case for their consideration.
Wat and Cwen were nodding thoughtfully, apparently content that this made perfect sense.
Hermitage found his voice. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he half spoke, half coughed.
‘Why?’ Balor asked.
‘Monks do not kill people. No more than do nuns.’
‘They could if they wanted,’ Hendig mumbled.
‘No, they couldn’t,’ said Hermitage, ‘it’s simply unthinkable.’
‘I just thought it,’ Balor pointed out.
Hermitage wasn’t happy with that reasoning at all. He took a couple of paces up and down the straw of the room the get his ideas in order. It didn’t help and they remained in a complete mess. Rather like the straw of the room.
‘Let me get this straight,’ he began. Maybe talking and thinking at the same time would help. ‘You’re suggesting that the wandering nuns killed Gilder because they generally kill people, novices in particular, and the abbess is a fearsome woman. You’re further suggesting that the abbot killed him to stop the rent. You even propose that I did it just because I happen to be here. Is there anyone who might not have done it?’
Hermitage hadn’t intended it as a question to be answered. He’d hoped it would simply point out the ludicrous pattern of their reasoning. Nonetheless Balor and Hendig looked at one another for a while. Then they gazed off into the room, as people do when they are thinking, as if taking their eyes off the problem creates more room in their heads. Eventually they seemed to reach a joint conclusion.
With a simple nod of agreement, Balor gave their answer. ‘No,’ he said.
‘No?’ Hermitage was lost. ‘What do you mean, no?’
‘I mean no, there isn’t anyone who might not have done it.’ This convolution seemed to confuse even Balor. ‘I mean anyone could have done it. And lots of people probably wanted to.’
Hermitage was back to his gaping self.
Balor went on, ‘You’re probably right that an abbot isn’t really likely to go round killing people though.’
Hermitage was grateful for that, at least.
‘But I still reckon them nuns would,’ Hendig said, with a bit of a sulk that his idea was being ignored.
‘But how would they get to him?’ Balor asked the question. ‘He’d never have let them anywhere near him. Old Eggar probably had instructions to throw the night pot over them.’
‘We’re no further forward at all,’ said Cwen with some exasperation.
‘You’re still missing the most important question of all,’ said Hendig with a raise of his eyebrows.
‘Which is?’ Hermitage asked. He was pretty sure he hadn’t missed the most important question of all.
‘Why are we bothering?’ Hendig asked. ‘More specifically why are you bothering? We don’t care that Gilder’s dead. No one here cares that he’s dead. If his own son and heir doesn’t care that he’s dead, why would anyone else? We’re also not that concerned if he was murdered. Anyone who murdered Gilder deserves a prize. We’re not living in fear of our lives that the killer’s going to start working his way through the rest of the town. Gilder’s dead. He got murdered. Never mind.’ He shrugged.
Hermitage was going to have to have a lie down if this went on much longer.
Wat broke the silence with a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘If Gilder was murdered,’ he said slowly. Balor and Hendig turned to face him. ‘Then someone did the killing.’ He made sure everyone was with him so far. ‘And if someone did the killing, Brother Hermitage here is obviously concerned about the sin and the soul and the problems there are with murder in general.’
That sounded a little dismissive of the whole business to Hermitage’s ear.
‘But,’ Wat went on, ‘if someone killed Gilder, an important merchant and rich man, the wergild due to his family would be pretty significant.’
Now an expression of intelligent interest bothered the faces of Balor and Hendig.
‘Wergild?’ Hendig asked.
‘Of course,’ said Wat. ‘Wergild would have to be paid. It always is. In proportion to the value of the victim. Kill a mostly useless peasant and it won’t be much. Most of us could afford that.’
Hermitage thought that was hardly the way to approach murder, but he didn’t like to interrupt.
‘But kill the richest man in Shrewsbury? I shouldn’t think a chest of coin would be enough. The moot would decide of course, but even so.’
Balor and Hendig were looking at one another again, this time their thoughts were painted all over them.
After a moment of silence Balor stood and adopted a serious and declamatory pose. ‘We must find my father’s killer,’ he announced, before having to take his seat again as he had got up too quickly.
Well. This really was too much. Hermitage looked at the people in the room with undisguised disappointment. No one, not even Wat, seemed at all bothered about the eternal implications of committing the greatest sin of all - apart from idolatry, obviously. No, the only thing that got them paying any attention at all to the fact a man had been murdered was the prospect of a chest of coin at the end of the day. Murder and greed in the same room.
‘So,’ Wat was going on. He kicked some of the dirty straw aside until he found a reasonably clean board underneath. He wiped the sole of his shoe across this to clean it further and then sat down, cross legged, with his hands on his knees. He cast his gaze at Hendig and Balor. ‘Master Hendig,’ he said, not letting his look drop from the young man’s face. ‘You were the last one we know who saw Gilder. Probably means you did it.’
‘What!’ Hendig’s protest had the tone of genuine surprise as far as Hermitage could tell.
The poor fellow, he thought. One moment he was thinking what a chest of coin would look like and probably pondering whether his friend would share some of it, the next he was accused of murder. It must be most disconcerting. It crossed his mind to wonder if Wat had done it on purpose, to throw the young man off his balance. No, surely not. That would be very rude indeed.
‘And you’re very well dressed for a smith’s apprentice,’ Wat waved at Hendig’s rather nice clothes.
Hermitage hadn’t given a moment’s thought to why these two men were dressed in the opposite to their stations. Perhaps there was something in that. He listened to Wat with interest.
‘A smith’s apprentice who isn’t actually much good, according to the smith.’
‘The smith,’ Hendig dismissed his master, ‘doesn’t pay me enough to keep body and soul together. My father made me apprentice and all I do is keep the fires alight.’
‘Except you don’t even do that,’ Wat pointed out.
Hendig carried on, regardless, ‘So I have to make ends meet by other means. Odd jobs here and there, help people out with things.’
‘Very lucrative things, by the look of you.’ Wat looked at Hendig’s clothes with a very doubtful expression.
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br /> ‘I like nice things.’
‘We all like nice things,’ said Wat, ‘but they have to be paid for.’ He leaned a couple of inches closer to Hendig. ‘What sort of odd jobs do you do? Exactly. And what, exactly, was the errand you were running for Gilder the day you found him?’
Hendig looked like nothing more than a cornered rabbit. His gaze flicked from Balor to the others and he appeared ready to jump out of the hole in the roof.
‘Just jobs,’ he said in a very defensive manner.
‘Jobs that no one else will do,’ Wat suggested, ‘that’s why they’re well paid?’ He gave Hendig a moment to answer, which passed by. ‘And if Gilder of Shrewsbury was paying you to do jobs, I imagine they would be pretty, what was the word everyone uses? Oh, yes, horrible.’ Wat now glared at Hendig, demanding an answer.
Even Balor was looking at his friend with some questions on his face.
‘Just messages,’ Hendig blurted out, ‘and a bit of fetching and carrying now and then.’
‘Messages?’ said Wat. ‘Messages people didn’t want to receive. Least of all from Gilder.’
Hendig examined the straw.
‘If someone wasn’t paying their rent, or was being told to get out of their house, Gilder would send you?’
‘I had to make a living,’ Hendig protested. ‘If I lived on an apprentice’s wage I’d be dead by now.’
‘Doesn’t look like you’ve done too bad,’ said Wat, looking pointedly at Hendig’s very nice shoes.
‘It wasn’t just Gilder,’ said Hendig, as if that made it alright. ‘There were others as well. I’m just a sort of messenger service.’
‘A very discrete one, I imagine,’ said Wat. ‘Pass all sorts of messages people don’t want the world to know about, I expect. They rely on you to keep quite a lot of secrets. Is that why the smith doesn’t simply throw you out on the street? He looks like a well-to-do merchant himself, probably needs his own messaging and collection service. Doesn’t look like you’re actually learning much about smithing. Apprentices don’t just keep the fires going you know.’
Hermitage, Wat and Some Nuns Page 10