'Really?’ Hermitage found this hard to believe.
'Not the sort of thing you'd forget,’ the man on the end of the line spoke up.
He was clearly the youngest of the group, only looking old enough to have remembered the massive oak when it was a seedling. His red and wrinkled face told of years of toil in the fields, days of baking in the sun and nights of far too much cider.
'We found it in a house just down the track,’ Hermitage explained, as if this meant everyone in the village should have seen the thing.
'If you say so,’ the old man replied, 'none of my business going in houses down the track.’
'You'd have your nose in every chamber in the place if you could you old fool.’
This was a bit rich coming from the next creature along the line, the one who looked like he had not so much planted the oak as been dug up to make way for it.
'Point is we ain't seen that thing before,’ the oldest of the men insisted. That he was the oldest was in no doubt at all. Hermitage suspected that any moment now he would relinquish the role to the next in line. There didn't seem to be enough life in his bones to stop them collapsing completely.
'That's very odd though isn't it?’ Hermitage asked, 'I mean great big thing like this.’
'Just 'cos it's big don't mean it's easier to see,’ the old man said profoundly.
Hermitage was just starting to ponder that suggestion and was about to raise some interesting observations, when Wat spoke up.
'We found it in Lallard’s place. He never brought it out? Never showed it to anyone?’
'He brought a lot of things out and showed them to a lot of people but never that.’
The old man was clear and Hermitage concluded he wasn't lying. There was no reaction to the sword other than that due to a large, expensive and dangerous piece of metal. No gasps of recognition, no evasive looking away, just a bit of interest in something unusual, and then back to normal.
'Didn’t see anyone else brandishing it about? None of the nobles, the Bonnevilles?’ Wat checked.
'Not their sort of thing at all,’ the old man replied with a snigger, which the others took up.
The reaction puzzled Hermitage and he wanted to know what it was about. Before he could ask he was interrupted by a call from behind.
'Ah, master Vertigator.’ Blamour was approaching with a young woman at his side.
Even from this distance Hermitage could tell that she was in a serious state of distress. She was short and of a very slight build, still wearing her working clothes from the field. She could only be about twenty but the raggled brown hair which loitered round her shoulders, and the face, red with the tracks of tears, made her look a good deal older. Hermitage supposed she was attractive. Wat had spent many hours telling him what attractive looked like but he still couldn't get there without help.
'Mistress Cottrice,’ Blamour announced as they joined the gathering under the oak.
Hermitage nodded a sympathetic welcome.
'Or should I say the widow Lallard,’ Blamour added brightly.
This brought a wail and more tears from the woman who stood as if the weight of the world was pressing her into the ground.
Hermitage glanced to the old men on their seat, expecting one of them to get up and give the poor Cottrice a space.
None of them moved. Perhaps they couldn't, or daren't.
'We would have come to you my dear,’ Hermitage said softly.
Cottrice sniffed the sniff of a congested badger and wiped her dripping nose on a sleeve. 'I was glad to get away,’ she said, 'much more of my mother and there'll be another death. And then Poitron asking about Orlon and his goings on.’ She looked up and noticed Wat to one side, standing rather grandly with the sword, point down in front of him.
'You shouldn't hold it like that,’ Cottrice instructed.
'Really?’ Wat asked.
'Yes, spoils the point,’ she said, 'apparently.’
Even Hermitage could tell that Cottrice was not a sword enthusiast. The word “apparently” was said with the tone of a woman who has been told more about the care of swords than she ever wanted to know. The tone of woman whose world has been taken up by the care of swords and a woman who would like to stick one of them into the next person who talks about the care of swords.
'Lallard was fond of it then?’ Hermitage asked.
'Fond of it? Fond of it?’ Cottrice seemed to have forgotten her grief, 'no he wasn't fond of it, he loved the bloody thing. Taking it down, putting it back up, polishing it, sharpening it, just sitting gazing at it for hours on end. Couldn't talk to him about anything if it wasn't to do with swords. If he could have, he'd put me above the fireplace at night and taken his precious sword to bed.’
'I see,’ Hermitage commented, thinking that this was not a topic he wanted to pursue.
'A source of some discussion then?’ Wat asked.
Cottrice glared at him so he lifted the point of the sword from the ground and rested the blade in the crook of his right arm.
'Are you left handed?’ Cottrice asked.
'Er, no,’ Wat replied, puzzled.
'Then you're holding it the wrong way round,’ she said, and 'don't put your fingers on the blade, don't leave it in the sun, don't get it wet, don't get ash on it.’
'Ah,’ Wat nodded in the face of the onslaught.
'And God forbid you should sell the thing and rent a bit of land of your own, or get some new clothes or furniture or think about starting a family.’
'Ahem,’ Hermitage coughed, wishing the subject would change.
'Woe betide anyone who suggests actually using the thing as a sword.’
'Fighting?’ Hermitage asked in some shock.
'No,’ Cottrice replied earnestly, 'chopping wood. Tell your wife to do that with the old axe that never gets sharpened from year to year.’
'Where did he get it?’ Wat asked, apparently trying to distract Cottrice from an anti-sword diatribe, which was becoming a weapon of mass distraction.
Hermitage hoped that this would at least divert the discussion from domestic matters of unnecessary intimacy.
'He'd never say,’ Cottrice quietened from her speech against all things sword, and all those who were interested in it.
'Had he had it long?’ Wat continued.
'Got it last autumn,’ Cottrice's voice was back to normal now. There was a still lot of sniffing and gulping but she had calmed a little. 'Went off on some job or other and came back with that thing.’ Her contempt for the “thing” was clear for all to hear. 'He certainly didn't come back with anything useful, like food or money.’
'Do you know who the job was for?’ Wat asked.
The old men on the tree trunk were watching this exchange as if it was the most fascinating thing they'd seen since God created light. And they’d probably been around when that happened. Their heads bobbed backwards and forwards following the speakers, taking in every word. Noticing this, Wat stepped forward, took Cottrice by the elbow and moved her away from the tree, nodding Hermitage to accompany him.
Once away from the group he repeated his question, 'Do you know who the job was for?’ he asked quietly. 'Excuse me,’ he added, turning to Blamour who had followed them. 'King's Vertigator's business.’ He shooed the old man away.
Blamour gave a sulky look and wandered back to update the old men of the tree with the latest information. The old men of the tree got up as one and walked away quite quickly for incredibly old men.
'Well?’ Wat prompted.
'No idea,’ Cottrice replied as if she didn't care.
'Or where he went?’ Hermitage added.
Cottrice shook her head.
‘Really?’ Wat asked, clearly not believing this.
‘He never told me anything. Up and vanish and expect me waiting when he got back.’ Cottrice sulked.
'So you don't know where he went, who for, or to do what.’ Hermitage found this a bit hard to believe, but didn’t want to let on that they had
a very good idea of the answers. 'But whatever it was he got a sword for his trouble.’
'A big, expensive sword,’ said Wat, implying that the job must have been big and expensive as well.
'How long was he gone?’ Hermitage tried.
'Weeks,’ Cottrice replied. She had clearly not been happy about a job that lasted weeks and ended up with an expensive and useless sword.
The threesome lapsed into thoughtful silence.
'So,’ said Hermitage, always seeing the need to break up a silence when he saw one gathering, 'we know that Lallard went away for some time and came back with the sword. He's had it for several months but now he's erm,’ he stumbled over his own conclusion, not wanting to offend the lady.
'Dead,’ said the lady.
'Yes,’ Hermitage offered softly, lowering his eyes in sympathy.
'Oh it's alright, I've got over it now,’ Cottrice said quite brightly.
'Really?’ Hermitage was surprised, 'it only happened a few hours ago,’
'I know,’ Cottrice did sound somewhat ashamed of her statement, 'but listening to my mother for a couple of hours, talking about the stupid sword and remembering where I found him has sort of made everything clear.’
'Well I'm pleased for you,’ said Hermitage, doubting that she really had got over it.
'Yes, I can remember him now for what he was. A lying, deceitful, selfish pig with an unhealthy thing about swords.’ She cast a disparaging look at the weapon in Wat's arms.
'Ah,’ Hermitage didn't like to raise the next question but he knew it had to be asked at some point. 'About the place you found him?’ he asked timidly.
'Yes,’ said Cottrice without any timidity at all, 'Margaret's.’ she spat the name.
Hermitage was burning to ask what Lallard had been doing there. Unfortunately all the smirks and sniggers whenever the place was mentioned had seeped into his brain and drawn the only possible conclusion. Drawn it from the deepest recesses of his mind where he hid things like that.
'Did he, erm.’ No, he couldn't ask if the man went there often, that would be most improper. 'Was he a, er.’ No, asking if he was a regular was just as bad. 'Had he erm.’ No, “been there before” was the same question. 'Oh, erm,’ Hermitage ran out of options.
'Did he frequent Margaret's house?’ Wat asked bluntly
Hermitage frowned at him for being so crude.
'I had my suspicions,’ Cottrice's voice was rather scary now.
'And you found him there this morning?’
'That's right. He'd been out all night, snaring rabbit he said, but he didn't come back in the morning.’
'So you went to Margaret's to look.’
'I did.’
'That was, erm, brave wasn't it?’ Hermitage asked. He thought striding into Margaret's looking for her husband would be quite an uncomfortable experience. Hermitage had never understood people who appeared to seek out uncomfortable experiences, or at least seemed not to worry about piling into them.
'Don't know about that,’ Cottrice replied, a little more meekly, 'all I know is I woke in the morning, Orlon wasn't there, his wretched sword was looking at me from the fireplace and I thought “right, I'm having this out now.”'
'Did you?’ Asked Wat.
'I did.’
'I mean did you have it out?’
'Do what?’ Cottrice frowned heavily.
Hermitage also wondered at this question. The poor woman had found her husband dead in another woman's house. She could hardly have it out with a corpse. Or maybe she could, he didn't really know how married life worked.
'Did you get there,’ Wat pressed, 'find your husband alive but with Margaret, there was a fight of some sort and he ended up dead?’
'No I did not,’ Cottrice's temper flared. Hermitage stepped back from its flame as it burned quite brightly. 'I went there and found my husband in an empty house, with a knife in his back and went running down the road only to bump into Blamour.’ Her harsh stare dared Wat to contradict.
The weaver said nothing but nodded his acceptance of this. 'We'd better go and look at him.’
'Really?’ said Cottrice, calm again but clearly wondering why anyone would want to look at a dead body.
'Really?’ said Hermitage wondering pretty much the same thing.
'Blamour said you were King's Ventihators or something and were going to find out who did it?’ Cottrice asked.
'It's Investigator,’ Hermitage explained gently, 'from the Latin, vestigare, to track.’
'Is it,’ said Cottrice, none the wiser. She looked to Wat who nodded. 'So how come you turn up here when my Orlon’s just been dead.’ There was suspicion in her voice.
'We were told there had been murders,’ Hermitage said, before noticing Wat's expression, his “shut up Hermitage” expression.
'Oh the others,’ Cottrice was happy with this explanation, 'yes, they are odd. Do you think they're connected to Orlon?’
Hermitage's stomach sank once more. He just wished people would stop referring to the other murders as if there was a basket full of the things.
'We don't know,’ Wat replied, 'Lallard's is the only one we've come across so far.’
'Oh you'll like the others,’ Cottrice smiled, which made Hermitage shiver.
'Well, we'll leave you to erm, get on with things,’ Wat stumbled his words out, 'and go and have a look at erm, Margaret's house. Is it far?’
'Just down the track,’ Cottrice explained, ‘past my place,’ a strange tone on the words “my place” as if she had just realised the fact that the place was hers now. 'Can I have my sword back?’ she asked.
Wat looked at the weapon, 'I'll hang on to it for the moment,’ he said with some authority, 'might be useful as we look into the murders. Let you have it back later.’
Cottrice looked at them both, as if wondering whether to contradict this suggestion and demand that the sword be returned. She narrowed her eyes, visibly weighing up her options.
'Make sure you do,’ she said eventually, 'and if you use it make sure you clean it afterwards.’
'Er, right,’ Wat acknowledged.
'And no chopping wood with it,’ she commanded.
'Of course.’
Wat took Hermitage by the arm and steered him away from the village, back towards the track. He raised a hand at Blamour, indicating that they were quite happy on their own. Blamour was alone on the village tree-seat but spied that Cottrice was now free. He stood to join her but she turned on her heels and headed off, perhaps back to her mother's.
Walking past Blamour's hovel and the Lallard place, Hermitage could not keep his question in. 'What was all that about “did you have it out” and a fight?’
'Well she got over the death of her husband pretty quickly don't you think?’
'I don't think I'd know how quickly you're supposed to,’ Hermitage confessed.
'I think it takes a bit longer than a morning. And did you see how quickly she asked for the sword and how concerned she is for its care all of a sudden.’
'Well I suppose she'll want to sell it now. It is hers after the husband is dead.’
'I rather think the Bonnevilles will decide that, don't you?’
'Oh, yes, I suppose so,’ said Hermitage, realising that of course everything here belonged to that family. It was rather presumptuous of Cottrice to conclude that what had been her husband's was now hers. Including her own person.
'Do you think she had something to do with it then?’ Hermitage found himself rather shocked at the thought that the young woman might be connected to the death. But then he found himself shocked by most of the details of the deaths he had to deal with.
'Well couldn't she?’ Wat prompted, 'she's already fed up with her husband about his sword and his disappearing all night. She suspects he's visiting Margaret pretty regularly, finds him there and all hell breaks loose. She has got a temper on her.’
'I noticed that,’ Hermitage agreed with a nervous recollection of Cottrice's outburst.
'No,’ Hermitage was appalled.
'Why not? Wouldn't you?’
'No I most certainly would not.’
'Well no, you wouldn't, but put yourself in the position of a deceived wife with a temper and a knife.’
Hermitage tried but it still didn't lead to murder. An awkward conversation perhaps, a frank exchange of views, a rather frosty atmosphere over breakfast, but not knives and backs and death.
'How will we know?’ Hermitage asked, 'this is all speculation.’
'I know,’ Wat looked around as if inspiration would come from his surroundings, 'perhaps we'll find the knife and that belongs to Cottrice?’
'Oh dear,’ said Hermitage, 'that would make things rather difficult I can see. Mind you, she doesn’t seem to know about Le Pedvin.’ He took some comfort from that.
‘But then she’s hardly likely to say if she does.’
Hermitage supposed Wat’s suspicious mind had its uses. It certainly seemed to come in handy when investigating murders, when it appeared no one could be trusted at all. It really was most disheartening.
'Here we are then,’ Wat stopped and looked at the house, which stood off to the side of the track.
'Is this it?’
'Must be,’ Wat looked up and down the track, 'Blamour's and Cottrice's are back there, this is the only other place.’
They studied the outside of the house, which was larger and in better condition than Cottrice's. The tools of river craft were scattered around the outside, spades for digging the river bed, a net hanging to dry and small catch nets for keeping the fish fresh for the table.
'In we go then,’ said Wat although he didn't leap for the door.
'Yes, I suppose we do,’ said Hermitage, positively certain that he didn't want to go anywhere near the inside. Perhaps Wat could have a look and let him know what he found.
'Better prepare yourself Hermitage,’ Wat laid a hand on his friend's shoulder, 'this fellow's been dead for a few hours, could be a bit of a mess by now.’
'Aha,’ said Hermitage, trying to sound confident while his stomach prepared to stay outside.
Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other Page 9
