Hermitage, Wat and Some Nuns

by Howard of Warwick

Mildburgh stood now, quickly followed by Hild. The nun looked like she was about to fly across the room. ‘No, he did not,’ she said it very plainly.

  ‘But, if you were pleading for the nunnery you may have been one of the last to see him alive?’ Cwen went on. Perhaps the last to see him alive because she saw him dead almost immediately afterwards. ‘That could be of enormous help to our, erm, investigation.’

  That seemed to placate Mildburgh, a bit. ‘I doubt that,’ she snapped.

  ‘But if you were discussing his money with him.’

  ‘He tried to avoid the subject quite regularly,’ Mildburgh explained.

  ‘So you persisted,’ said Cwen, building quite a clear picture of how this relationship had worked.

  ‘Of course,’ said Mildburgh. ‘The last I saw him was on Sunday. As usual he was trading and I was berating him for doing so on the Sabbath.’

  Well, that was a shame. And it did sound like Mildburgh was not ready to go out to the nunnery builders and place an order. ‘You didn’t see him on Tuesday?’

  Mildburgh appraised Cwen. ‘He was murdered on Tuesday then,’ she said, rather smugly.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Cwen, not enjoying being on the back foot.

  ‘All I can tell you is that he was alive and well on Sunday.’

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘I then travelled to Wenlock to see how preparation of our land was progressing. I believe you saw me arrive back at the town gate.’

  Yes, thought Cwen, that was true. Bother.

  ‘Of course, if you want to know more,’ Mildburgh offered.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You should probably talk to the monks.’

  ‘Monks?’ Cwen asked. Mildburgh had said the word as if it was covered in rabbit droppings.

  ‘That wretched Abbot Cuthbert. If anyone had anything to gain from the death of Gilder it’s him. And as my old abbess used to say, if you want a religious community of killers, look no further than the nearest monastery.’

  Cwen frowned and looked alarmed at the same time, which seemed to please Mildburgh. If the old abbess used to say that, what sort of world did these people live in?

  ‘He pays rent to Gilder,’ the abbess explained, as if Cwen was stupid. ‘He won’t have to do that with Gilder dead. And he’ll be delighted that the money wasn’t given to us. He’ll be hoping to get it himself, for a new refectory or some such luxury.’

  Hild tutted at this, but resumed her seat.

  ‘He’ll probably still have to pay rent to Gilder’s son,’ Cwen pointed out.

  ‘That simpleton,’ the abbess dismissed Balor with a snort. ‘I’d be surprised if he knows how to count his own fingers.’

  ‘We’ve heard,’ Cwen said cautiously, ‘that Gilder was about to send a message to you and the monks and the moot.’

  ‘Degenerates,’ Mildburgh summed up the moot.

  ‘What message would he have for all of you?’

  ‘Probably that he was about to give his fortune for the nunnery and that the monks and the moot would have to go without.’

  ‘Why would the moot want his money,’ Cwen asked, ‘if the Ealdorman was rich anyway?’

  ‘The rich always want money,’ Mildburgh summed them up, ‘that is their curse. They’re like a dog with a stick. The dog doesn’t actually want the stick, it just wants to fetch it. Once it’s got the stick it wants to fetch it again, or fetch another one.

  ‘The same with the rich. They don’t really want the money, all they want to do is get it. It particularly infuriates them if someone else has any. If the dog sees another dog with a stick there’s bound to be a fight. If the rich see another rich man, they want his money. Then they put it down, forget it and chase the next bit.

  ‘We all knew Gilder was old and had lots of money. The moot would want to get it along with everyone else.’ Mildburgh shook her head slowly in great disappointment. ‘It is a tremendous sin.’

  Cwen thought the abbess/Sister wasn’t doing too bad at that particular sin herself. And what did dogs and sticks have to do with anything?

  ‘So Gilder was about to send a message confirming that he was giving you the money?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Mildburgh. ‘What else could it be?’

  At least this nun was confident, thought Cwen, confident but probably completely wrong. Nuns were always very confident, that was their curse.

  ‘So the moot or the monks might not want the message delivered.’

  ‘That seems perfectly clear.’ Mildburgh took her seat again. ‘In fact they were probably conspiring to deny us our right.’

  That was a new thought. It hadn’t occurred to Cwen that there might be a conspiracy. She’d have to tell Hermitage, he’d probably be quite excited.

  It looked like she was dismissed and the two women were going to get back to whatever it was they’d been doing before Cwen arrived. Probably indulging themselves in uncomfortable silence.

  ‘And why, child,’ Mildburgh asked, ‘are you and the investigator looking into this murder?’

  Cwen had to think about the answer to this question. She still wasn’t clear herself why they were getting involved. ‘Because a murderer in your midst must be discovered and your sheriff seems, erm, indisposed.’

  ‘Addle headed drunkard.’ Mildburgh seemed to have a description ready for everyone.

  ‘And the monk, Brother Hermitage, has experience in discovering wrong-doers.’ She hoped this gave Mildburgh some pause for thought. What if everything the nun had said was a lie? Would a nun lie? If she murdered people, lying would hardly be a challenge.

  This investigation business was tricky she thought, with a new-found admiration for Hermitage. An admiration she would tell him about under no circumstances whatsoever.

  ‘Didn’t look like he could discover the way out of his own habit,’ Mildburgh dismissed Hermitage. ‘But you, child,’ she paused and looked at Cwen with rather piercing eyes, ‘you seem bright and full of spirit.’

  Cwen hadn’t expected compliments and so she raised questioning eyebrows.

  Mildburgh smiled. It was not pretty, or comforting, and crooked yellow teeth emerged from behind her lips like gravestones from a fog. ‘Have you ever thought of becoming a novice?’

  The two nuns at the entrance were bowled aside as Cwen ran for the safety of the town.

  Caput XI

  Merchant House

  Wat’s welcome from the merchants was much more enthusiastic. He was greeted like a long lost cousin who had returned from distant lands having made his fortune. He was clapped on the back, wine was poured and food brought out.

  They were still in the moot hall and the great and the good of the town looked as if they were set for a long stay. Servants bustled about attending to needs and every now and then one of the members of the moot would stand up, wobble out of the door and return a few minutes later looking much more comfortable. He was then greeted as if the rest of them had just been waiting for him so they could carry on drinking and carousing. If this moot was debating the issues surrounding the death of Gilder, they’d found an awful lot to laugh about.

  Now that there were no observers, it seemed the merchants of the moot were much more relaxed. Very much more relaxed. From what Wat could tell, they had spent the days since Gilder’s demise becoming increasingly relaxed and two of them had their heads down on the moot table and were snoring loudly. He appreciated that the experience of Abbess Mildburgh in full flight would be enough to sober anyone up, and her departure had left the moot with a lot of catching up to do.

  Even the Ealdorman was happy to engage in conversation now that he had Wat alone.

  ‘Wat the weaver,’ the Ealdorman said, standing back to look at Wat as if he was appraising a great work of art. ‘Well, I never.’

  Wat smiled and bowed his head in acknowledgement. Since his companionship with Hermitage he had seen little of the approbation that usually came his way - if only from the more broad-minded customers. He knew in his hear
t that Hermitage was right, and that he must live a more wholesome life. Which he could afford to do, having made his fortune from a very unwholesome one. Sometimes the lure of the old ways was strong, though. Just now it was very strong indeed.

  ‘In Shrewsbury,’ the Ealdorman went on, ‘it’s an honour.’

  The Ealdorman sounded like he was one of the broad-minded.

  ‘Aclan,’ the Ealdorman introduced himself properly, shaking Wat firmly by the hand. ‘Simple wool merchant,’ he explained. ‘It’s a wonder to see what Wat the weaver can do with a bit of wool.’

  ‘Ah, well,’ Wat shrugged. The praise was nice, but it was starting to get a bit too effusive. Effusive praise usually meant someone was after something.

  ‘And what,’ Aclan paused to give the question its full power, ‘is the great Wat the weaver doing with a monk and a girl?’

  Wat opened his mouth to answer.

  ‘He should be at home turning out more of his very special works.’ Aclan gave Wat a friendly thump on the shoulder.

  ‘Circumstances,’ Wat explained. ‘We came together some time ago and just sort of stayed that way.’

  ‘Looking into murders?’

  Wat shrugged. ‘It seems so. Brother Hermitage has a bit of a talent for unravelling such sorry tales.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Brother Hermitage? The monk?’

  ‘Oh, the monk, yes. And the girl?’

  ‘Cwen’s actually a very fine tapestrier herself. Not that I’d tell her, of course.’

  ‘Never produced works the like of Wat the weaver though,’ Aclan said with confidence.

  ‘Actually,’ Wat was about to say that Cwen had done her fair share of ruining the reputation of decent tapestry makers in her time.[

  Which you can read all about in The Tapestry of Death – as long as you pay for it.] For some reason he thought sharing that with the over-enthusiastic Aclan would not be sensible. ‘No,’ he gave a light laugh. ‘Absolutely not.’ He would have to explain this carefully to Cwen if it ever came out. Very carefully. ‘And on the question of the murder,’ he began.

  ‘I’ve heard Wat’s workshop is in Derby,’ Aclan went on, ignoring Wat. He had a gleam in his eye that said he’d very much like to look around the workshop.

  ‘Er, yes,’ Wat replied. This man really was an enthusiast. Perhaps the type who tended to follow Wat around and write him peculiar letters, usually misspelt and written in something that definitely wasn’t ink.

  ‘Ever, erm,’ Aclan’s voice took on a strange, high-pitched nonchalance as if he’d just plucked a thought out of the air, ‘ever thought of moving at all?’

  ‘No,’ said Wat, wondering what on earth was going on here.

  ‘Always opportunities to improve business by spreading out a bit.’ Aclan winked. ‘Whole new markets to exploit.’

  ‘I don’t actually,’ Wat started. He wasn’t sure how he was going to explain that he had given up the old works, and be able to let Aclan down gently.

  ‘Take Shrewsbury for instance,’ said Aclan, as if it was just a random town picked as an example, and not the place in which he was a leading merchant at all. ‘Got nothing like Wat the weaver in Shrewsbury.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Wat, knowing perfectly well where the others like him were. They all kept track so there was no danger of the different customers meeting one another. That would be very awkward.

  ‘Gilder’s murder,’ said Wat, quite loudly, hoping to get the conversation where he wanted it.

  ‘Just the opportunity,’ said Aclan, without missing a beat. ‘With him out of the way the town opens up to good honest trade.’

  Even Wat wouldn’t have described his trade as good or honest.

  ‘Pleased he’s dead then?’

  ‘Everyone is,’ Aclan beamed. ‘And if Wat the weaver was to set up shop in Shrewsbury, we’d attract trade from all over.’

  Wat didn’t want to reveal the truth just yet. Perhaps the promise of coming to Shrewsbury would get Aclan to open up a bit.

  ‘Was he trouble then?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Gilder,’ said Wat, with some impatience.

  ‘Oh, God yes. Owned most of the buildings, charged all the rent, took the tithes and the tolls. The rest of us could barely get by.’

  Looking at the amount of food and wine in the place, Wat thought that barely getting by in Shrewsbury must be quite pleasant.

  ‘Of course,’ Aclan went on.

  Wat looked at him hopefully, perhaps some detail of events was about to emerge.

  ‘You wouldn’t have to actually come to Shrewsbury yourself. You could appoint someone to deal on your behalf.’ Aclan smiled again.

  Ah, thought Wat, there it was. Aclan wanted to sell Wat’s tapestries in Shrewsbury and take a cut. The old tapestries which commanded such high prices. He doubted the man would be interested in that thing of Saint Patrick that Cwen and Hermitage had concocted between them. The one that was full of snakes for some reason. Who’d want a tapestry full of snakes for goodness sake? Unless, of course, they were entwined around a couple of naked…. no, he put that thought from his head.

  ‘And Gilder wouldn’t have allowed that sort of thing?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Aclan nodded his head and laughed. ‘As long as all the profit went to him. Any merchant would have to go through Gilder. And pay accordingly.’

  ‘So,’ said Wat, as if he was having to think about it carefully, ‘not only is it good for you that Gilder is dead, but you actually stand to make money.’

  ‘And you could be part of it,’ Aclan was clearly on his own track, ‘and we wouldn’t mind what sort of thing was produced. We’re very open to new ideas here. Could be some of your really naughty stuff.’ He released an involuntary snort. ‘We could get Shrewsbury a real reputation. Put it on the map. Get visitors from all over.’

  If the visitors were coming for Wat’s very particular tapestries, he was pretty sure they wouldn’t be the sort Shrewsbury would want loitering after dark.

  ‘Can we stick to Gilder?’ Wat ignored the commercial opportunities.

  ‘He’d have thought this was a good idea,’ said Aclan, ‘quite keen on your works himself.’

  Not another one, thought Wat. ‘That’s all very interesting, but he’s dead. And we’re trying to find out who did it. Remember?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Aclan paused in his sales drive for Shrewsbury. ‘But we’re really not that worried about who did it.’

  ‘You'd let a killer get away with it?’

  ‘Well,’ Aclan drawled as if dismissing a child’s harmless prank. ‘It’s not as if they’ve killed lots of people.’

  ‘What does that have to do with it?’ Wat was alarmed to hear himself sounding like Hermitage. ‘I don’t think the number of people you kill makes it any less important.’

  Aclan seemed to need time to think about this.

  ‘And for all you know Gilder was only number one. What if you’re number two?’

  ‘Oh, come, come,’ Aclan dismissed the suggestion. ‘Who’d want to kill me?’

  ‘A killer?’ Wat suggested.

  Again, Aclan needed some time. ‘Gilder was killed quite a while ago you know,’ he explained, ‘if there really was someone who wanted to kill lots of people, they’d have got on with it by now. We’d have bodies all over the place.’ Aclan put a finger in the air. ‘In fact,’ he announced, ‘as no one else has been killed, we know our killer only wanted to do Gilder. There you are.’

  ‘There I am, what?’

  ‘Solved your problem for you.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Yes. The killer of Gilder is someone who wanted to kill just Gilder.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Wat, with sarcasm that would have knocked Aclan to the floor if the man had been sober.

  Aclan’s satisfied smile filled the space.

  ‘Narrowed it down nicely,’ said Wat. ‘Who did you say would be glad he was dead? Oh yes, everyone.’ He folded his arms. ‘Not much further
forward eh, master Aclan?’

  Aclan frowned as he worked all this out. ‘Anyway,’ he waved Wat’s objections away, ‘it was still only Gilder.’

  ‘And it was still only a killer,’ said Wat, insistently. ‘One who is still out there in Shrewsbury. Someone who now knows how to kill people, if he didn’t before. And someone who also knows that they can do it and no one raises a finger.’

  In a moment of revelation he saw that Hermitage was right. You couldn’t let killers go wandering around the place. It wasn’t right. Good Lord, what had he come to? He really must start spending more time away from the monk.

  Aclan didn’t appear to have an answer to this. ‘Yes, but,’ he said, and dropped his voice to a whisper, ‘what if it turns out to be someone, you know, difficult.’

  Wat couldn’t tell what was going on now. ‘What do you mean, difficult?’

  ‘Well,’ Aclan looked around the room at his mostly comatose moot, ‘it could be someone who’d find the whole business, you know, rather embarrassing.’

  ‘Embarrassing?’ Wat knew the town wasn’t taking the murder seriously, but really. ‘A murderer is rather embarrassed and so we mustn’t point it out? Why? In case someone says something nasty while they’re executing him?’

  ‘No, no,’ Aclan dismissed the ridiculous suggestion. ‘Well, yes. Sort of. If it turns out to be some vagrant stranger, or a peasant, all well and good. But if it was one of the moot, or Gilder’s son, say, or someone of good standing in the community. Well, it wouldn’t look very good, would it?’

  Wat tried to look horrified at the idea that a murderer shouldn’t be executed if he came from the right background. ‘It wouldn’t look very good if we found out someone decent had bashed the back of Gilder’s head off?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Aclan, sounding pleased that Wat got the idea. ‘It would damage the reputation of the town, wouldn’t it? What merchant is going to come here if they think their fellows are going to lop the back of their head off at the first sign of trouble?’

  And these people wanted Wat to set up shop here.

  ‘It is a ticklish problem, isn’t it?’ said Wat, not knowing whether to berate the Ealdorman or start laughing.