'Another one?’ Poitron sounded disappointed and irritated that the things kept turning up to disturb him.
'Aye,’ Blamour confirmed grimly, 'Orlon. Done in the house of Margaret. Knife in the back.’
Poitron looked at the field of random weeders and threw his hands up in despair. 'I can't do anything with these people. Murder you say,’ he gave the word a moment's thought, 'better go and have a look I suppose.’
Rising from his seat, Poitron headed back to the village, as if called away from a comfortable fireside by a clattering window shutter. Huffing and tutting, he passed the still muttering old men under the village tree and continued on past Blamour's hovel. Another of Poitron's tasks was to allocate the Bonneville houses to the estate workers and he was bright enough to know that putting Blamour any closer to the village would only encourage violence.
Blamour did not stop by his door but strode on, keeping up with Poitron as he headed for Margaret's. The faithful dog moved its eyes to watch its master pass, but that was the extent of its enthusiasm. Despite being as deaf as a rock, it seemed as interested in having Blamour for company as anyone else in the village.
Outside the house of Margaret, Poitron stood with hands on hips, appraising the building as if it was going to tell him something. It was nothing remarkable, the same whitewash walls, thatch roof and small windows to keep the heat of summer and the cold of winter in their proper place; outside. It was larger than Blamour's place of course, but then there were two people living here.
Strictly speaking it wasn't the house of Margaret, it was the house of Jacque, the river warden, and was in its proper place, away from the main village and close to the river. From here Jacque could patrol his charge, see off the poachers and tend the nets that produced freshwater fish for the Bonneville table.
The problem was most of Jacque's work was at night, using lamps to catch the fish and see off the poachers. This meant that Margaret was left alone for long periods, and to the favoured men of the village the place soon became known as the house of Margaret (snigger).
It was well known that Jacque was a possessive man of huge jealousy who had more than once used his torches to see off poachers of an altogether different nature.
There was no sign of Jacque or Margaret and no one responded to the loud knock Poitron gave the door. He pushed it open and peered cautiously into the dim interior.
There was no attack or sudden movement and so he pushed further and stepped over the threshold.
Blamour followed, ducking his head to avoid the beam across the door.
The place was a mess. There was only one room of course, one that had to be carefully organised if it was to be a bearable living space. Fire against one wall, bed in one corner, table in the middle of the room and two chairs by the fire. A small trunk to hold personal possessions and walls hung with the tools of a river warden and those of a house.
All of those things appeared to be still present but they weren't where they should be. The bed was overturned, the table lay broken by the fire, the chairs were smashed and the tools scattered. Only the trunk sat undisturbed, probably because it was too heavy to be thrown about.
'Is it always like this?’ Poitron asked.
'How should I know?’ Blamour replied, offended at the suggestion that he knew what the inside of the house of Margaret (snigger) was like.
'Well it's a bit of a mess,’ Poitron commented.
'It certainly is,’ Blamour agreed, 'but even if it's messy I don't imagine it usually has a stabbed dead man in the fireplace.’ He nodded to the stabbed dead man in the fireplace.
Poitron tutted as if this was the most shameful example of poor housekeeping.
The two men crept cautiously across the room to the last resting place. They didn't rush to the rescue as they could tell the man was dead. There was a stillness to the body, a stillness familiar to men who hunted and killed for their food. There was no struggled breathing, no quiet whimpers which didn't have the strength to push through pain, and no frantic twitching as the fires of life fought their way from the failing body.
There was also quite a large knife sticking from the back of the body as it lay face down in the fireplace, swept clean for the summer. It would have to be mopped and scrubbed as well now, to get rid of the large pool of blood in which the body swam.
'Are we surprised?’ Poitron asked disappointed that the corpse had disturbed his reorganisation of weeding.
Blamour shrugged.
'What with Jacque's temper and Margaret's temperament it was almost bound to happen sometime or other.’
'Pretty clear then?’ Blamour asked.
Poitron gestured to the figure lounging in the fireplace, 'Orlon here's visiting Margaret, Jacque comes back, or is waiting, there's a fight and Orlon comes off worst.’
Blamour nodded at this very reasonable explanation.
'Jacque runs off and takes Margaret with him. When did you find him?’
'Oh I didn't,’ Blamour replied quickly, wanting to make it quite clear that he was not even passing by the house of Margaret (snigger).
Poitron smiled somewhat patronisingly, no one in their right mind would have given that possibility a moment's thought. He raised a questioning eyebrow.
'Cottrice come and told me. In a right state she were.’
'When was this?’
'Only 'bout and hour or so.’
Poitron frowned and looked around the scene. 'Where is she now?’
'At her mother's.’
'Better go and have word then. I imagine she waited and Orlon didn't come home. She came down here to look for him and found him like this. It could have been done last night.’
Neither man had approached the body any closer than necessary, and were certainly making no attempt to touch it. There was something about the set of the corpse that said there was no point. Like coming across the seemingly perfect body of a rabbit in the track which you know, when you kick it out of the way, will reveal its underside crawling with the maggots which moved in days previously.
'Aye,’ Blamour agreed.
'So Jacque and Margaret could be miles away by now.’
'Unless he got injured in the fight?’ Blamour speculated.
'Possible,’ Poitron nodded. 'I'll get lord Bonneville's men out looking but I'm not hopeful. Send word out to the other estates and let the Duke's men know. Probably the best we can do.’
The two gazed at the body and the disheartening scene. A youngish man robbed of life, albeit one who was behaving pretty badly at the time. Another man gone from the village, one with skills that would be hard to replace. Two women, one gone and one distraught, and all for a few minutes’ distraction.
'Still,’ Poitron sounded brighter, 'at least in this case we know what happened, how and why.’
Blamour nodded, 'Not like the other two,’ his face was sombre.
'No,’ Poitron acknowledged with a slight shiver, 'not like the other two at all.’
Caput VII
No Pleasure Cruise
As that afternoon wound its leisurely way towards evening, Brother Hermitage was engaged in an internal philosophical debate and this was just the sort of thing he usually loved. He had some undisturbed time and two opposing views to be analysed and appraised. Once he had fully aired the arguments on both sides and considered their relative strengths and weaknesses he would draw a well-supported and sound conclusion. He appreciated that the matter at hand might not be of great substance to the bulk of mankind but it was a question that he was sure would be of value in the years of life stretching ahead of him.
It was a simple enough question when expressed in plain language: Which had been thrown from the greater depth of hell to torture mankind, to strike fear to the very soul and to bring a profound wretchedness to the body that wracked the very life from his fibre? Was it the cart or was it the boat?
Hermitage had spent the last days experiencing both and had been considering the question for some time. He was still
in two minds but felt his experiences had been more than should be demanded of any man, and so put him in a very good position to make a judgment. Each had its own combination of factors that made it unique in the annals of agony.
The cart had thrown him about mercilessly and even the cushions had not protected either his sensitive parts or those of a more robust construction. Bernard had not been joking when he talked about sixteen hours, and the journey from their overnight stop to the port of Hastings had been the most appalling trial of his life. And his time at the monastery of De’Ath's Dingle had given him some pretty appalling trials on which to base his opinion.
Or at least it was the most appalling trial of his life until the boat started moving. Lying in the simple harbour the vessel had been a huge relief: it was open, spacious and full of sea air. When it moved beyond the harbour wall it became exposed, unprotected and full of sea. Not only that but it rolled about in the most alarming manner and caused a malaise in Hermitage's stomach which really warranted a word all of its own.
Wat appeared to have fared little better and the pair of them looked at one another as two men might who had just been executed and then had their heads put back on again.
The bruises and the memory of sickness would fade in time, but the travail of travel had put a spark of fear in their eyes that would not be easily extinguished.
This second cart of their journey, which was taking them from the port of Cabourg to the village was a positive blessing, so was its driver, who seemed to consider the movement of the vehicle an inconvenience to his life's mission of taking things slowly. He was another Le Pedvin sycophant and so the conversation contained little in the way of illumination, but at least he drove at a snail's pace while he wittered on about what a fine gentleman Master Le Pedvin was.
It was this gentle passage that had reconstituted Hermitage's senses to the point where he was able to consider which he hated most, cart or boat. Based on the evidence that the current cart journey was not at all unpleasant, he concluded that it was the boat. The boat had been put upon this earth with the sole purpose of agonising mankind in general and him in particular. Being a reasonable young monk he accepted that a pleasant boat journey might provide evidence to challenge his conclusion. He didn't for a moment believe there was any such thing as a pleasant boat journey.
He recognised, somewhere in his mind, that if he ever wanted to go home again he would have to get back on a boat. He also wondered, if he walked far enough, whether he would find some point where England joined on to the rest of the world. Some secret spot as yet undiscovered by all the explorers of the world and not shown on any maps, some feature denied by all those who declared England an island, which was everyone. Still, had to be worth a look, better than getting on another wretched boat.
The shock Hermitage still suffered had put all question of the reason for their visit out of his mind. The fact that they were now in Cabourg, the site of the supposed murders and home to the Bonnevilles was of no interest whatsoever. All he wanted to do was stop moving and lie down for a bit.
He had stepped from boat to waiting cart in numb disbelief at what he had been through, and without questioning where he was going or what he was supposed to be doing. At least the cart was normal, a simple open platform as good for moving hay as people. Only now, as the gentle horse with its gentle driver, stroked them through the sunlight, flickering in overhanging branches, did it occur to him that he didn't know what was going on.
He mustered his strength and swallowed, preparing to ask a simple question. 'Where are we?’ his mind told his mouth to say. His mouth was not prepared for anything so challenging and said something like “bleruh meurh” instead.
'Just approaching the village,’ the driver replied. Perhaps he was used to people who had just got off one of those awful boats, 'Master Le Pedvin said to take you to Orlon Lallard, a friend who would give you shelter and answer as many questions as you want.’
Wat raised his eyebrows at Hermitage, clearly not willing to let his voice try anything as complicated as speaking yet.
Hermitage got the message, a friend of Master Le Pedvin was a friend to be avoided if possible and almost certainly ignored.
Hermitage wanted to have a go at “Why aren't you taking us to Lord Bonneville?” but knew such a task was beyond him at present. He supposed this Lallard fellow would have to do, they needn't pay him any attention after all.
The horse clopped on and the questions in Hermitage's mind piled up. Who was Orlon Lallard and what did he have to do with Le Pedvin? Why couldn't they go straight to Bonneville and ask the man some straight questions? Did this cart driver know anything about any murders? Now they were actually in Cabourg there must be some dead people somewhere, if murder had been committed at all of course.
What he really wanted was to be taken somewhere to rest for about a week. He would recover his senses and his digestive system and then be ready for the questions that circled murders like carrion crows.
Ideally he would rest for about a month, someone would come and tell him everything had been sorted out and he would go home. Hermitage had learned through life that the ideal tended to avoid him.
He let his eyes wander out of the cart and saw that this place appeared to be as small as any rural settlement. The harbour had a good collection of fishing vessels and the manor, presumably the Bonneville home, stood on slightly raised land away from the shore, looking down on its demesne. Buildings were scattered here and there, large communal halls and smaller individual huts and hovels. It was not such a big place that several people being murdered could go unnoticed. All Hermitage needed to do was ask the first person he saw.
“Have there been any murders?” he would say.
“Oh no sir,” someone would reply and that would be that.
Of course they might say “Oh yes sir,” but that was hardly likely.
The cart came to a stop outside what must be Orlon Lallard's home. It was a simple affair, a square block of whitewashed something or other covered in thatch, but the man must be reasonably important to have a place to himself at all.
Hermitage and Wat persuaded their legs to get them out of the cart and they wobbled on the path outside Lallard's place. The village centre appeared to be close by, three large buildings with a massive oak tree shading them. One or two other buildings were scattered about the tracks and lanes but that was it really.
An old man sitting by the door of an extremely humble dwelling, nodded at their arrival and lifted his bones from his seat before wandering across the track to join them.
Here was Hermitage's first chance. When asked about murder in a place this small, no one was likely to say, “I'm not sure”. Even if this fellow was one of Le Pedvin's supporters he'd be hard pressed to justify widespread murder if he couldn't actually name one dead person.
'Blamour,’ the old man introduced himself with another nod.
At least that’s what Hermitage thought he said. The man was speaking Norman, he could tell from the accent in the one word, but it was a slurring, sliding tone. Hermitage’s clipped and learned version of the same language might be a challenge for these people to understand. Perhaps he’d be better off talking to the nobles who could probably speak the language properly.
'Where's Lallard?’ The cart driver demanded in the same garbled manner. He hammered on the door and got no answer.
‘You’re in luck,’ said Blamour.
‘Oh yes?’
‘That’s right, he’s just this morning been murdered. Dead.’
Hermitage gaped at the man; he’d understood those words perfectly well. His legs gaped and expressed their outrage by refusing to hold him up any more.
'Is your monk alright?’ Blamour asked Wat.
Wat stepped over to pull Hermitage back to his feet.
'He's had a bit of a shock,’ the weaver croaked, although his Norman was much more in tune with these locals.
'Murdered?’ the cart driver asked, 'really?’ He
sounded surprised and amused rather than shocked.
'Dead as dead,’ Blamour replied, 'young Cottrice come running down the track this morning, he's dead, he's dead she says. Who is I says, my husband she says, Orlon she says. He's dead and he's been murdered. How do you know I says.’
'Yes, yes I'm sure you did,’ the driver stopped Blamour just as he was getting going. 'Bit of luck we've got this monk then,’ the driver went on, 'he does murders.’
'Well now,’ said Wat stepping between the men and trying to stop this Blamour character hearing too much explanation of their presence. Unfortunately most of his voice was broken from the continuous vomiting, and he was completely ignored
'Does murders?’ Blamour looked shocked, 'a monk? That can't be right a monk doing murders.’
'No, no I mean he looks into them.’
'Well that don't sound very nice either.’
'He vertigates them, he's a vertigator.’
'Is he?’ Blamour sounded very impressed now.
'Yarp, King's Vertigator he is. Official like.’
'Investigator,’ Hermitage managed to get out.
'Come again?’
'It's Investigator,’ Hermitage explained through his weariness, his alarm that there had actually been a murder, and his cracked throat.
'Is it?’ Blamour asked.
'It is. From the Latin, vestigare, to track.’
'Bit of luck you being here just now then,’ Blamour observed, 'no need to track Lallard though, I know where he is. Pinned to the floor in Margaret’s place he is. Ha ha.’
Hermitage held up hand to stop details of a gruesome murder getting anywhere near his stomach.
'So what do we do now?’ Wat asked as the four of them stood in the middle of the track, neither of the locals offering anything in the way of constructive suggestions.
'Master Le Pedvin said to take you to Lallard,’ the cart man puzzled, ‘I suppose I could do that but he probably wouldn’t be much help now. I’ve brought you to Lallard’s place though, that’s probably as near as you’re going to get.’ The man pushed the door of Lallard's home open and beckoned them to enter. 'After all, Lallard's not going to mind is he?’ He paused on the threshold. 'He's in Margaret’s you say?’ he checked with Blamour, ‘not in here?’
Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other Page 7
