'If there was nothing in it for him, the man wouldn’t tell his granny the house was on fire,’ Wat pointed out.
Hermitage paused to recollect their meeting with the frightening Norman. They hadn’t actually asked if Bonneville knew all about this, it just seemed, well, obvious that he wouldn’t.
'But he doesn't know we've been instructed to prove he's the guilty one,’ Hermitage said at the end of his contemplation.
'Well obviously,’ Wat said with some disappointment at the naivety in Hermitage's voice.
'He seems a nice sort of chap, bit drunk for first thing in the morning, but quite welcoming and all.’
'He is still a Norman noble,’ Wat pointed out.
'Ah yes,’ said Hermitage, knowing that having people executed was part of the daily routine for the Norman nobility.
Wat was looking around as if unsure which way to go.
‘What do we do now?’ Hermitage asked.
‘I think we need to sort out these murders. I’m not sure how long it will take master Poitron to realize he’s made a horrible mistake.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. He should have locked us in the dungeon like he said.’
Caput XVI
The Perfect Spot
'I do despair sometimes,’ Hermitage began as they quickly left the castle and headed back to the village.
'I know,’ Wat replied with a faint smile on his face.
The morning sun had already warmed the place from what had been a warm enough night, unless you had spent it in a dungeon of course, and most of the population had already set off for their day's work across the estate.
They walked on until they were nearly at the oak tree before Wat came to a sudden halt.
‘What is it?’ Hermitage asked anxiously, thinking that his friend may have had a sudden revelation.
‘The old men,’ Wat breathed, nodding his head towards the tree.
‘What about them?’ Hermitage looked while trying not to look like he was looking.
‘They’ve got food.’
The old men did indeed have some food and were passing bits of cheese back and forth and tearing bread from a large loaf. Hermitage’s stomach cried out at the scene.
The two men approached the tree and the looks on their face said all that was required.
'Aha,’ said one old Man.
'Ahum,’ said another.
'There you are then,’ the third explained.
'Yes, yes, yes,’ the last one mumbled with a knowledgeable nod.
'Don't they feed you up the castle?’ the oldest asked, he handed over a good half of the loaf.
Hermitage and Wat sat crossed legged on the ground, like acolytes at the feet of their master as he imparted the mystery of his magical loaf. A loaf that tasted like nothing Hermitage had ever experienced before. It melted in the mouth while being filling at the same time. The small morsels of cheese were bursting with flavor and worst of all the old men seemed to consider this some sort of detestable rubbish. They moaned about how bread and cheese these days were nothing like as good as the stuff they’d had in their youth.
This bread and cheese was nothing like Hermitage had ever had. He’d never be able to eat Derby tavern food again.
'The castle?’ Hermitage asked, trying to sound innocent while his mouth was stuffed with delicious food.
'That's the place,’ the old man nodded gruffly, 'where you were locked up last night.
'Well I er,’ Hermitage began.
'A place this small knows who's locked up in the dungeon of a night. Doesn't happen very often.’
'All a misunderstanding I assure you,’ said Hermitage.
'Poitron misunderstanding that you're the murderers?’
'It's all sorted out now,’ Hermitage explained, 'as you see, once matters were cleared up we were released.’
'From what I hear Poitron was none too happy about it,’ the old man raised an eyebrow, inviting it to be lowered again by a goodly portion of gossip.
Hermitage wondered how any gossip could have got here before them, as they'd come straight from the castle. He imagined word spread very quickly in a place like this, after all everyone was probably related in one way or another.
'So gentlemen,’ Wat said, as he licked the last crumbs from his lips, 'these murders then. What did you see?’
This question set off a rumble of grumbles that could have brought the great oak tree tumbling down. Although none of the old men moved much, Hermitage could tell they were offended, disconcerted and angry. There were harrumphs, clearings of throats, and small shifts of seating that in younger men would have given Wat a punch in the face.
'Don't know what you're talking about,’ the oldest of the men growled out before he turned back to his fellows, trying to ignore Wat all together.
'Murders of the blacksmith and the wheelwright,’ Wat said very plainly.
'And Lallard,’ Hermitage added, anxious that this last death kept being forgotten, as if it was an inconvenience to the overall pattern.
'And possibly Lallard,’ Wat acknowledged.
There was no response from the old men and Wat raised his eyebrows at Hermitage, as if he was going to have to raise the temperature of the discussion.
'The murders of the blacksmith and the wheelwright that you have been talking about since it happened. The murders which seem to have taken place within shouting distance of the seat you lot occupy from dawn to dusk.’ Wat gave the old men one last chance to respond, 'and the murders we have been sent here by Le Pedvin to get sorted out.’
That did cause a more profound silence to fall across the group.
'Ah, you've heard of him then?’ Wat asked brightly. 'Quite well known in these parts I expect, being a close friend of Duke William. Very persuasive gentlemen master Le Pedvin, tends to get what he wants. And if there are people in the way of what he wants they tend to disappear.’
Hermitage thought that the coughing and grumbling this brought to the surface was somehow of a more cooperative nature. There was something in the phlegmy clearing of throats which indicated some words might be coming up behind.
'Well they don't disappear as such,’ Wat went on, 'everyone can still see them, it's just that they're a bit more dead than they used to be.’
'Oh master Le Pedvin,’ said the younger of the men in a flash of recognition. He clearly realised which side of his body his blood went round on, and wanted to keep it there. 'That's different, if it's for Master Le Pedvin.’
The others on the bench took up the song and started smiling and nodding agreeably, passing comments about Le Pedvin's charming nature, his reasonable approach to everything and how kind he was to children.
Wat let the new found hubbub die down before he began again. 'So what did you see?’ He asked.
'Or hear,’ Hermitage added, to a nod from Wat.
The men conferred briefly through exchanged looks before the oldest of them spoke. 'Nothing,’ he said.
'Nothing?’ Wat clearly found this very hard to believe. 'You're telling me that the two craftsmen of the village were murdered in the most bizarre manner, either in the log store or they were dragged there afterwards, and you four, who sit in the middle of the village all day watching everything, saw nothing?’
'Yup,’ the oldest confirmed, 'odd, isn't it.’
'Odd?’ Hermitage thought that was a strange comment.
'And they aren't the only craftsmen,’ one of the men in middle spoke up. Hermitage imagined they worked their way from left to right along the bench, as the oldest died so they all moved up one. Perhaps there was a waiting list in the village to join on the left. Maybe Blamour? He shook the speculation from his head.
'There's another blacksmith and wheelwright?’ Hermitage wondered why Blamour wouldn't have mentioned that.
'Nah,’ the man was dismissive, 'how many of them does a place like this need? No, we got a carpenter as well.’
'I see,’ Hermitage was happy that this was a sensible and
normal arrangement, 'and what's his name?’
'Charpentier,’ the man replied as if so much should be obvious.
'Of course,’ Hermitage nodded, 'but he's not erm…'
'Been murdered?’
'Yes, I suppose so.’
'Not as far as we know. But then we never heard about the first two.’
'That is very odd. You really didn't see or hear anything?’ he confirmed.
'Not a thing,’ the oldest nodded, 'which we thought was strange considering all the goings on. You'd think, like your friend says, that if there was people being murdered all over the place someone would notice something. Be a bit of noise, bodies being dragged about, wheels being made in this case, that sort of thing. And who better to notice something than us, it's what we do best.’
Wat stood to gaze at the men, as if the power of his stare would force some useful information out of them.
Hermitage stood as well and took to his pacing again, hands behind his back, eyes on the ground as he strolled backwards and forwards in front of the old men. He stopped and looked at them hard, thinking that perhaps he could discern what they should have heard and seen. He came to a conclusion and made the most outrageous suggestion. 'Can I sit down?’
If he had asked the old men to slip their eyeballs out of their heads and roll them in the dirt, the looks on their faces could not have been more horrified.
The oldest of them managed to get stuttering words out, 'You want to sit down? Here?’
Clearly Hermitage was not asking to slip into the beds of their daughters or the graves of their wives but you wouldn't know it from the reaction.
'This is our seat,’ a middle one spoke, 'it's where we sit.’ The whole concept of someone else sitting on their seat was as far beyond comprehension as what the man in the moon did during the day.
'Just to help Master Le Pedvin,’ Wat encouraged with a friendly nod.
This caused considerable consternation, as if an irresistible force had just moved into the hovel next door to the immovable object.
The three oldest men of the village looked as one to the youngest of their number with expressions that clearly said his perch was the most precarious.
'Why me?’ The youngest protested.
'Keep Master Le Pedvin happy,’ the oldest replied, 'you know what he gets like when he's not happy.’
The youngest of the number resumed muttering and grumbling but it was the compliant variety. The man adjusted his position, planted his hands on the bench and pushed himself forward. His head came down and it looked as if he was about to topple forward into the dirt.
Hermitage stepped forward quickly.
'I can manage, I can manage,’ the man said, warning Hermitage off. He continued his forward tilt until the weight of his body balanced that of his legs and his backside left the surface of the chair, like nothing more than a large and cumbersome ship being gently released from the dock.
Once the weight was firmly on the feet, the body slowly straightened until the man was upright.
Hermitage dreaded to think what was going to happen when he asked the oldest of the number to move. Or how long it would take.
The old man shuffled sideways out of Hermitage's path and the monk quickly stepped up to occupy the seat. He did so, and looked around the village.
He could immediately see why the men had chosen this spot. It was charmingly shaded from the summer sun, provided good coverage of all the doors of the village so comings and goings could be readily observed, and gave an excellent view into most of the windows.
There was one place Hermitage couldn't see and that was the most interesting of all. He looked about, slid up and down and sideways in his place and completely failed to notice the odd looks the others were giving him, Wat included.
'Can I try the other end now?’ He said getting up.
The four old men, one of them still standing all on his own, turned their heads as one to the most senior of their number.
This was clearly a request beyond impudence and insult. It was like asking Lord Bonneville to move over on the privy. The ancient cast his eyes at Hermitage, making it quite clear such a thing was out of the question. Instead, the old man looked at his companions and gave them a clear, silent instruction to move up.
The one who was about to sit again looked on in amazement while his place vanished as his fellows shuffled along to release the required space at the other end for Hermitage, without their leader having to do anything so demeaning as stand up.
Hermitage shook his head at the unnecessary complexity of this but it made no difference to him. He sat again at the right hand end of the bench and once again craned around and about to see what he could see. This was clearly the favoured end as it gave a view into several more windows.
'Hum,’ Hermitage hummed as he stood once more and beckoned the standing man to sit again.
The fellow was quite sprightly now, and moved quickly to sit at the right hand end of the bench, cackling and slapping his knees in amusement as he did so. His pleasure was short lived as the other three moved as one to the right and deposited him on the floor.
'As if,’ the oldest man commented as the floored one picked himself up and returned to his proper station in life.
'So?’ Wat asked, looking with a bemused face at the various comings and goings.
'Exactly,’ Hermitage replied.
'Exactly what?’
'Oh, sorry. The one place you can't see from here is into the castle.’
'Well of course,’ the one who had lost his seat, found the floor and then recovered, piped up, 'if we can't see into the castle then they can't see out to us. Don't want them spying on our goings on all day.’
Hermitage thought this was a bit rich, considering all the old men did all day was spy on other people. And in any case, who on earth would want to spy on four old men sitting doing nothing all day?
'The point is that you can't see into the castle. If the blacksmith and wheelwright shops are on the other side of the castle gate, you wouldn't be able to see them if they were taken from there straight to the log store.’
'Or hear them?’ Wat asked.
'Not if they were already dead.’ Hermitage observed brightly.
'There you are then,’ the oldest from the bench said to Wat, 'we couldn't have seen anyway, so like we said, we didn't see anything.’
'That's just what could have happened,’ Wat retorted, 'doesn't mean to say it's what did happen.’
The man was not all happy with this. 'So you think we sat here while the blacksmith and the wheelwright were dragged out of their workshops, beheaded and whatever you call it when someone has a wheel put in them, and we're lying to you?’
'Could be,’ Wat said without batting an eyelid.
'Well perhaps the whole village is in on it, Master Le Pedvin's friend. Perhaps we all got together and murdered them for a bit of entertainment.’
'Perhaps you did,’ Wat's demeanour remained serious, 'or perhaps someone asked you to do it for them.’
'Regular Master perhapses ain't you.’
The warm, still atmosphere of the village became positively frosty as Wat and the old man said nothing but did it with real meaning.
Their resentful reverie was brought to a halt by the figure of Blamour, stepping as hurriedly as he could into the middle of the scene.
All eyes turned to him. Hermitage was quite grateful for a break in the increasingly uncomfortable interrogation. Although truth be told it wasn't much of an interrogation as they seemed to learning nothing whatsoever.
Blamour bent to gather his breath. He inhaled deeply three or four times and then drew himself up to address the modest crowd. He took their eyes a pair at a time and then adopted a declamatory pose to deliver his message. 'There's been another murder,’ he announced.
Caput XVII
Piers Ploughman
The silence in the village was now more of shock than speculation.
The oldest man crumpled
up his mouth in a sort of thoughtful way and addressed Wat directly. 'Murder eh?’ he said in a manner that implied some criticism of the weaver. 'That'll be for you then.’
Hermitage really could not believe what he was hearing. First this was all a mission for nothing, there wouldn't be any murders when they arrived. Bad enough there actually had been some murders when they arrived, even worse they were still happening. What was this place? Did all the murders in the world gravitate to this one small village? He had heard tales of the horrors of Normandy, who hadn't with the Normans themselves trampling all over everyone in England? He hadn't expected the tales to be true.
Did all Norman villages comprise of people who went round getting murdered at regular intervals? Were the Normans really such monsters that no day was complete without them killing one another? Was the reason for their success at Hastings that they spent so much time killing each other at home that it was second nature? How could there actually be any people left alive at all if this was how they passed the time?
The questions filled his head so quickly that there was no room left for any of them to make it into the open. His mouth moved in preparation but all it did was hang vacant.
'Who?’ Wat asked, although his face said that he too was finding this hard to take in.
'Don't know,’ Blamour replied.
'You don't know?’ This question in the jumble that cluttered Hermitage's thinking, forced its way out.
'We can't tell,’ Blamour explained, 'there's a body but we can't tell who it is.’
Hermitage's stomach turned at the thought of this. Not another one without a head? If that was the case at least it would show some consistency.
'Yeuch,’ one of the old men said. An old man who was going to be quite happy receiving the details on his comfortable seat, instead of getting up to go and look for himself.
Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other Page 16
