Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other

by Howard of Warwick

  'We are on our way to investigate a murder, just not this one.’

  ‘Not this one?’ Hermitage really wasn’t following this at all. He wasn’t sure why they needed to tell this Poitron anything at all, let alone make up something so complicated it was almost certain to go wrong.

  'Yes,’ Wat was full of enthusiasm for whatever it was he was going on about, ‘we’re investigating a murder over Bayeux way.’

  ‘Bayeux?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘There’s been a murder in Bayeux?’ Hermitage was alarmed. How many more of these things were there going to be?

  ‘No there hasn’t,’ said Wat, looking at Hermitage with the face he used when the monk was being particularly obtuse. Or spectacularly dim, as Wat called it.

  'We just say there has been,’ Wat explained slowly, ‘and as we’re here and we heard about the local deaths, we can look into them first.’

  'Why Bayeux?’

  Wat didn't seem to have this bit of the plan quite so clear in his head and so talked as slowly as anyone does when they're making things up as they go along.

  'Because that’s where William's going to send his great tapestry and he doesn’t want any murders getting in the way. There you are.’ Wat grinned in satisfaction,

  'The tapestry?’ Hermitage asked, 'William's great tapestry?’

  'Why not?’

  'It's a myth,’ Hermitage stated the obvious, 'the idea that anyone is going to make a tapestry yards and yards long portraying the history of everything? It's patently ridiculous.’

  'Well yes,’ Wat accepted, 'but this chap won't know that. Half the country believe the thing is really being made, why should he be any different?’

  Hermitage sighed, this was all getting out of hand. He could never lie, and Wat knew that. Why make up all this nonsense when, at the first cough of a challenge, Hermitage would collapse and tell all.

  ‘Bayeux Wat? Have you any idea where it is?’

  Wat shrugged. 'It's the only Norman town I've heard of and it must be round here somewhere.’

  'Wat, we're in Normandy, I think every Norman town is round here somewhere,’ Hermitage was dismissive, 'we could be in completely the wrong part of the country.’

  'Our ship got blown off course and we can ask directions. In fact we tried in the village but all anyone would go on about was these murders.’ Wat held his hands out displaying that his tale was complete.

  Hermitage frowned.

  'It's brilliant,’ Wat grinned.

  'It's dishonest and deceitful,’ Hermitage concluded, knowing that he should not go along with this.

  'And in all the other deaths we've looked into?’ Wat posed a question.

  'Yes?’

  'You've not been dishonest and deceitful at all.’ Wat stated a fact.

  'Of course not,’ Hermitage couldn't think what Wat was going on about.

  'And that probably explains why you usually end up in the dungeon instead of the killer, a surfeit of honesty.’

  'Really Wat,’ Hermitage thought this was an entirely unjustified conclusion. Yes, he did seem to get accused of the murders he was investigating at some point or another but if that was the price of honesty then so be it.

  'We are dealing with people who are so dishonest they kill one another,’ Wat explained, 'a little creative explanation about why we are here will bring a much more significant sinner to justice.’

  'I don't like it,’ said Hermitage although for the life of him he couldn't think of a viable alternative.

  'We could tell him you're the King's Investigator, sent by Le Pedvin to prove Poitron's master is a killer and so have him executed?’

  Hermitage said nothing; he had to admit that did not appear to be a sensible step.

  'And you never know,’ Wat added, 'these other murders might be quite interesting.’

  'Interesting?’ Hermitage thought that was hardly the word.

  'Well intriguing then.’

  'Murder is hardly a decent topic to makes stories out of, is it?’ said Hermitage as they wandered on towards Poitron, ‘the last thing it should be is intriguing.’

  Caput X

  The Blacksmith and the Wheelwright

  'Oh they're absolutely intriguing,’ said Poitron as they talked about the murders.

  The man didn't seem at all doubtful about their tale of coming to deal with murder in Bayeux. In fact he wasn't really bothered about why they happened to be passing through at all, he just seemed very happy to have someone to talk to. He also seemed to accept the fact that Wat was carrying a large and expensive sword without a batted eyelid.

  Hermitage would have to remember all this if they ever got to sit down and go over these events. Making up stories and telling lies was never good, and in this instance had proved to be entirely pointless as well. What a waste of time.

  'Well one's more intriguing than the other really,’ the Norman went on, 'but you'll see soon enough.’

  He had led them away from the woodsmen, who, as soon as their master was out of sight wandered off with their tools in hand, muttering about how they'd be back in six months.

  'The locals are all a bit dim to be honest,’ he explained, 'can't even get them to weed a field in the right order. Trying to explain a couple of deaths is a real problem. I've spoken to them all of course but no one seems to know anything. Or if they do they're not telling me.’

  'And the death of Lallard?’ Wat asked, 'you saw the body with Blamour?’

  'That's right, ghastly sight, real mess. At least the others are a bit more tidy.’

  Oh good, thought Hermitage, tidy murders, that'll be all right then.

  'That's very odd,’ said Wat, 'because when we popped by the house of Margaret, Lallard had gone.’

  'Gone?’ Poitron stopped in the path, 'what do you mean gone?’

  'You know,’ Wat explained, 'not there?’

  'Not there?’ Poitron seemed to have trouble with the concept.

  'Yes,’ Hermitage thought perhaps he could make it clear, 'gone, not there, missing, away, absent, left.’

  'No body?’

  'Not one.’

  'Blood? Broken furniture?’

  'No. Just a house with the normal things in it. Not one of them dead or bleeding.’

  'Well that's very odd.’ Poitron sounded irritated with the corpse of Lallard that it had got up and left, causing no end of confusion. 'I did report it to the hall so I suppose it's possible the place has been cleared up. The men aren't usually that committed to their tasks.’ He paused for thought. 'I begin to think there must be something going on.’

  'Really?’ Wat asked in apparent surprise.

  'Well don't you think it's strange?’ Poitron went on, 'first these two murders and now a body that vanishes. I mean we're only a small place for goodness sake, we don't even have many deaths at all, let alone unnatural ones.’

  'So Brother Hermitage’s experience in this sort of matter will be of some help.’

  'What sort of matter?’ Poitron asked, as if hadn’t been listening to them at all.

  'Murder?’ said Wat, frowning that the man seemed to have forgotten the subject they were talking about.

  'Oh yes,’ Poitron came to his senses, ‘bit of a strange occupation for a monk I’d have thought.’ He frowned at Hermitage.

  'Only the circumstances of the moment,’ Hermitage put in quickly, becoming rather disturbed that even total strangers might associate him with murder.

  'Hermitage?’ Poitron asked, as if only now hearing the name.

  'That's right,’ Hermitage bowed his head in acknowledgment.

  'Odd name for a monk.’

  'Yes,’ said Hermitage, resigned to the common observation, 'a lot of people say that.’ He knew that he definitely wanted to stop being associated with murder but he had grown used to his name. Still, if word got around too far and he became known as Brother Hermitage, the murder monk, he might have to consider reverting to something more traditional.

&nb
sp; 'So one missing body and two not missing?’ Wat suggested to Poitron.

  'It would seem,’ the Norman frowned at the events of the world.

  'Who were the other victims?’ Hermitage asked, realising that they'd been talking merrily about these two intriguing deaths and no one had yet mentioned who the poor unfortunates were.

  'The blacksmith and the wheelwright, as you'll see,’ Poitron beckoned them across the main space of the village and out the other side, on towards the Bonneville residence.

  Residence is a word that describes a place where people live but it really didn't do justice to the main house of the Bonneville family. Of course it was fortified. Which noble or even semi-noble family would not build a home capable of resisting attack? In this place though, the fortifications seem to be the main motivation for the place, rather than the living. A great entrance yawned down on the village, an open maw between two solid towers, a portcullis just peeping out from the top of the space like iron-clad teeth.

  The land on which it sat was not high, no land seemed particularly elevated in this part of the country, and Hermitage thought that might be part of the reason for the very thick walls of the castle. The walls and the numerous arrow slits and the iron work for pouring boiling oil on any especially unwelcome visitors.

  If a noble was perched on top of a great escarpment or cliff, the geography would provide a good measure of the necessary defence. Here, on relatively flat land, the defence had to be built from the ground up.

  This place looked like it had been around for a good while, its massive stones having almost sunk into the landscape under their own weight. Thick, high walls of close fitting stone, battlements and a dry moat all made their impression. Hermitage had heard the expression “a brooding presence” but now he knew he'd seen one. What this place was brooding about did not really bear contemplation. If the time ever came to find out, it would be very sensible not to hang around.

  If the building looked ready to repel anything thrown at it, or anyone with the impudence to do the throwing, the level of activity around it was a marked contrast. There didn't seem to be any. No one patrolled the battlements with pike at the ready. No guards paced backwards and forwards across the open gate. No one even came out to say “halt,” or something equally guard-like.

  Poitron took them up towards the main door and then round to the right, past one of the towers.

  Hermitage took the moment to peer into the castle and noticed that the main courtyard seemed deserted. The place was clearly in use, there were bales of hay to one side and barrels of something or other piled against one wall, but no one was around to do anything with them.

  'It's very quiet,’ he commented to Poitron.

  The Norman glanced over and saw Hermitage looking into the castle.

  'Evening,’ said Poitron.

  Hermitage knew it was evening and didn't think this was particularly helpful.

  'It's evening,’ Poitron went on, seeing the puzzled monk, 'the castle will be resting.’

  'Aha,’ said Hermitage, not wanting to appear a complete idiot when it came to the workings of castles. He was largely an idiot when it came to the workings of castles, but even he didn't think the occupants of one would go away for a bit of a lie down before dinner. After all it wasn't very... defensive.

  Poitron led them on without further comment towards a large building that nestled hard up against the wall of the castle Bonneville.

  This appeared to be a plain wood store, a simple building of basic construction whose only purpose was to keep the worst of the weather away from the seasoning fuel. It had wooden slatted walls, with large gaps between the planks allowing the air to circulate and aid the drying. The roof was a simple slope from high to low and a rude door was set in one side, presumably to deter the peasants from helping themselves to more heat than their entitlement. It was a large place though, as it would have to be if it fed the main castle.

  As they got to the building, Poitron lifted a simple latch and swung the door open. The inside was cool and dark, probably the best place to keep bodies, although Hermitage thought that going into cool dark places which had bodies in them was really best avoided.

  'This way,’ Poitron led them to the far end of the space, past racks and racks of stacked logs. Towards the back, Hermitage could just make out a large single shape that looked not at all like logs. The light that crawled through the slatted walls deposited itself on a jumble of shadows, which was quite hard to make out.

  Poitron strode on and threw open another door in the back wall of the store. Hermitage was intrigued to notice that this actually opened into the castle courtyard.

  He could see that this would make the management of the castle's fuel supply very efficient. The peasants and woodsmen could bring their logs in the front door, gradually moving the stock towards the back as the months went on and the wood dried out. After that, the occupants of the castle could simply open their door and extract all the wood they wanted, well-seasoned and ripe for the fire.

  His idiocy about castles stood to one side as he thought that knocking a big hole in your defensive wall, just so you could bring the wood in, was a bit, well, stupid. He didn't like to say anything.

  'Here they are,’ said Poitron, indicating a large blanket that was thrown over the mysterious shape. It certainly wasn't a pile of logs. Something tall and narrow under the cover was protruding from the ground to a height of about three feet. Hermitage's imagination, never particularly functional at the best of times, did its best to try and run away with him.

  'The bodies are under there?’ he asked with a bit of a quake.

  'Didn't you bury them?’ Wat asked.

  'They haven't been dead that long,’ Poitron explained, 'only a few days, and I've really got to explain to Lord Bonneville exactly what happened.’

  'I see,’ Hermitage nodded thoughtfully.

  'Or rather I've got to explain how it happened.’

  'How?’ Hermitage wondered what “how” had to do with anything.

  With a flourish, Poitron pulled the cover away and Hermitage could immediately see why an explanation of “how” would be most informative.

  'How?’ he said, before he could stop himself.

  'That's the wheelwright I assume?’ Wat said nodding at the tall thin shape that had been revealed.

  'That's him,’ Poitron confirmed, 'and that's one of his wheels.’ He stood back and appraised the scene. He had clearly looked at it many times before but still couldn't make head nor tail of it.

  It was certainly a very fine wheel, solidly constructed and built for a rather magnificent cart by the look of it. Instead of a simple slab of rounded wood, this wheel comprised a rim, several inches thick, into which four large round spokes were set, their other ends buried in a massive, carved hub. It looked like a piece of work fit for a king, or at least a very high noble.

  The wheel was complete in every sense. The carving on the hub was of an open mouthed dragon, which would spin round as the vehicle made its progress. The rim was complete and unbroken, and even had an apparently seamless iron plate around its circumference, which Hermitage could see would improve its longevity no end.

  Each spoke was a masterpiece of the art, shaped and carved to match its fellows, but completed in a manner which conveyed strength as well as elegance. Delicate carved patterns in the wood ran from hub to rim in a carefully matched dance.

  The whole assembly stood upright, as if ready to be fitted to the spectacular cart that would be its destiny.

  The problem was that one of these spokes, one of these works of craftsmanship, on the inside of an unbroken wheel, had the body of the wheelwright impaled on it, a body which had given the bottom half of the wheel a liberal coating of blood. The dragon hub took on a particularly gruesome appearance as its maker hung above it, one of his finest spokes passing straight through his stomach from front to back.

  'I don't understand,’ Hermitage had to say, having studied the bizarre constructio
n for a little longer.

  'Nobody does,’ Poitron nodded agreement, 'obviously we can all see how he died. Having a spoke that size pushed through your stomach is not good for you.’

  'Yes, yes' Hermitage had no problem with that part of the scene, 'but how did he get impaled on a spoke which is in the middle of a wheel?’

  'You can imagine,’ said Poitron rather dryly, 'that this has been quite a popular topic of conversation.’

  'I mean,’ Hermitage went on, not interested in any conversations as his fascination for this apparently impossible situation stirred his mind, 'you'd have to kill him with the spoke and then finish building the wheel with him still in it.’

  'Yes,’ Poitron's voice had not lost its arid qualities, 'we'd come to a similar conclusion.’

  'Of course he might have been dead before the spoke went in,’ Wat suggested, bending to examine the wheel more closely. He tugged at the spoke and found it was solidly fitted.

  'Which raises the question of why anyone would complete the building of a wheel when it had a body in it?’ Hermitage was starting to be disturbed by the sight. The disturbance was not the dead body, but the whole wheel, spoke, body arrangement. He could not understand how it came to be, and things like that bothered him at a very fundamental level. 'I mean, if the man was dead, why build a wheel round him? Who would do such a thing?’

  'Another wheelwright?’ Wat offered, 'a particularly angry one?’

  'Are there any?’ Hermitage asked Poitron.

  'No,’ Poitron said simply, conveying the message that they'd all thought of that already as well.

  Hermitage scratched his head, 'Then the parts of the wheel must have been ready, no one but a wheelwright could have built a thing of such quality. All the murderer had to do was put the bits together after the event.’

  Poitron said nothing, but looked as if this was something he hadn't thought of. 'Unless it was an accident?’ he said defensively.

  'An accident?’ Hermitage was incredulous, 'I don't think anyone who, upon building a wheel, accidentally gets a spoke through the chest would find the motivation to finish the job. I mean, pride in your work is all very well but this is going a bit far.’