Hermitage, Wat and Some Murder or Other

by Howard of Warwick

  With some enthusiasm, which rapidly turned to reluctance, the three men approached the prone figure on the floor and took hold of the feet that were towards them. With Hermitage and Wat on one leg and Piers on the other, they tugged a few times until the earth gave up its dead. They staggered back slightly as the body came free but at least it didn't suddenly jump up, which had been one of Hermitage's worries. Or come apart in their hands, which was a much bigger one. The arms, which had been trapped underneath the torso, swung outwards and were the last to be pulled from under the harness of the ox.

  Nobody liked to turn the man over and see who he was at this point, having dragged him face down through the mud for a few yards. They would save that pleasure for later.

  'Right,’ Hermitage instructed, 'you start the plough up again and I'll hide in the peas.’

  'Hermitage,’ Wat said in some alarm, 'is that sensible? You might end up the same as this chap.’ He nodded back to the body.

  'I assure you I won't. If you please?’ He gestured Piers back to work. The man went without demur, happily following the instructions of someone who had king in his title.

  With a nod to Wat, Hermitage disappeared into the peas until he was about forty feet in front of the ox. He waved his position to the weaver and then ducked down out of sight.

  'Start the plough please,’ Hermitage's voice called from the crop.

  Piers the ploughman looked to Wat for confirmation, who just shrugged acquiescence.

  With a crack of the reins and the sort of incoherent shout all animals seem to need to get going, Piers urged the ox into motion. The beast shook its head, probably in annoyance at being dragged away from the peas, and started its lugubrious way across the field. Piers put his weight to the plough, made sure the tines were turning the soil properly and focussed on his work.

  Wat focussed on the peas, and the spot he thought Hermitage had disappeared into. He stood on tiptoe and craned to see if he could spot the habit amongst the foliage. He turned his attention back to plough and animal, which had now reached normal speed. His head bobbed anxiously back and forth as he was sure the ox was getting very close to the monk.

  If Hermitage was wrong about whatever it was he thought he was right about, there would be a hell of a mess to sort out. Not only would the King's Investigator have been killed in a bizarre ploughing accident, but he would have to go back to Le Pedvin, most likely without having sorted out any of the murders at all.

  He found he was actually wringing his hands as the ox plodded on. Surely the animal must have just trodden the monk into the ground without even noticing. That might indeed cast doubt on the ox as murderer but it still left two people dead.

  Just as Wat was sure the ox must have passed over his friend, the animal stopped in its tracks. Piers gave a cry, almost falling as the plough stopped suddenly.

  The ox dropped its head into the mess of peas and seemed to be prodding at something in its path.

  'See,’ Hermitage called as he stood and patted the ox on the nose, a friendly gesture which the animal seemed to dislike intensely, 'no ox is going to walk straight over a living man in its path when it's ploughing. It might do it by accident in the yard, or if it was trotting in a field, or protecting calves as you say Wat. But in a field at ploughing speed? Never.’

  Wat shook his head in relief, and perhaps some wonder that a demonstration had been necessary at all. Hermitage could have simply told him.

  'How did you know that?’ he called as Hermitage came out of the field to re-join his companion.

  'Oh well, you know,’ Hermitage was rather reluctant, 'childhood games and the like. Tie the boy up and put him the path of the plough, all good fun.’ Hermitage sounded like it had not been good fun at all.

  Piers recovered himself and left the plough to re-join Wat as Hermitage came over.

  'So the ox didn't kill the man at all,’ Wat said, directing his words at the ploughman, who just shrugged, ‘he was dead already.’

  'Well I don't know do I?’ he said with impudence, 'if I find some dead body under the hooves of my ox what am I supposed to think?’

  'You obviously don't know your own ox as well as this monk does.’ The criticism was clear.

  'I know her well enough not to lie down in front of her,’ Piers snorted.

  'Whatever the details of the process,’ Hermitage put in, 'we still have a dead body.’

  They all turned to look at the shape, which was still sprawled on the field. It certainly hadn't moved so Hermitage felt quite confident in his description.

  'Better have a look at him then,’ Wat suggested, without moving.

  'Yes,’ Hermitage didn't move either.

  'Well I'm not touching him,’ Piers made his position clear.

  'You ran him over,’ Wat snapped.

  'Not my fault if he was already dead is it?’

  'He might not have been completely dead before your animal trod on him,’ Wat went on, 'he could have been wounded, or near death.’

  'Well what was he doing lying about in the peas then?’

  'Maybe he crawled in there to escape his attackers, had just found a comfortable place to rest when you came along with your ox.’

  'I think,’ Hermitage interrupted a progressively more bad tempered exchange, 'that he must have been dead. If he'd been alive the ox would have known and not trodden on him. The beast didn't notice him because it was just a dead thing in the field.’

  They all looked at the body again. And none of them moved, again.

  'Oh come along,’ Hermitage took the first step towards the corpse and noticed that the others followed suit.

  Once looking down at the body it was clear that someone was going to have to turn it over to see who it was. It could be someone Piers knew, or a complete stranger. Either way they had to find out. The only way to find out was to take hold of the corpse and roll it over so they could examine the dead face. Hermitage found none of these activities particularly appealing and hung back once more.

  Wat squatted at the side and looked it up and down. After a few moments examination he reached out and brushed an area of soil from the back of the jerkin.

  'Now that's interesting,’ he said.

  'What is?’ Hermitage leant over to look more closely.

  Wat put his hand on the back of the jerkin and spread a neat tear in the material open with a thumb and forefinger.

  'This ox of yours?’ He asked Piers.

  'What?’

  'This murderous ox?’

  'What about her?’

  'Handy with a knife is she?’

  Piers now joined them and looked at what was clearly a knife cut in the middle of the jerkin. As the weaver spread it wide it was clear that the cut went through all the layers of clothing and into the flesh beyond.

  Hermitage squatted down and peered into the wound, fascination getting the better of terror. He noted that the flesh itself was pale and cold looking and there was very little sign of blood. It was hard to tell with all the soil caking everything, but there was certainly nothing to indicate this cut had been the fatal wound. Fatality should make a lot more mess.

  Having completed the examination of the back and found no more holes that shouldn't be there, Wat stood and beckoned to the others that they should help him turn the body. He took the shoulders, while Hermitage and Piers took position half way down at chest and thigh.

  'One, two, three,’ Wat called and they all heaved.

  Hermitage closed his eyes as the corpse rolled over. He would judge from the reactions of the others whether to open them again before he turned to face the other direction.

  'Oh,’ said Piers, and it was clearly an “oh” of recognition.

  'Know him?’ Wat asked.

  Hermitage opened his eyes to see the body, which wasn't as bad as he'd thought. No animals had started to eat it and no one had done anything horrible to the face. In fact it looked quite peaceful. Rather surprised but peaceful.

  'Who is it?’ Hermita
ge asked, not recognising the face at all.

  'That's Lallard that is,’ said Piers, 'Orlon Lallard.’

  'Hmm,’ said Wat and looked to Hermitage, 'at least we know he's dead now.’

  Caput XIX

  Found the Body, at Least

  'This is more madness Wat,’ said Hermitage as they sat guard over the body of Orlon Lallard, having sent Piers away to fetch a cart to remove it from the field. ‘First of all the dead bodies appear in strange places having had strange things done to them, then they move about. What on earth is Lallard doing in the middle of a field if he was killed in his house?’

  Wat pondered the question and rubbed his chin, 'I think I've got one of your things, you know, theodum?’

  'Theory,’ Hermitage supplied.

  'That's the feller. Well my theory is that the more we try to think about what and why things happened, the more they turn out to be different. I reckon if we stop thinking about it all together, it will fall into place.’

  'You mean leave it all alone and hope it turns out alright in the end?’

  'Usually works for me,’ the weaver shrugged.

  'And does “usually” include all those occasions when you're investigating murders in a foreign land for a largely insane Norman soldier?’

  'Erm,’ Wat gave the proposition some thought, 'no,’ he concluded.

  'I thought that might be the case.’

  The two lapsed into the silence of two men in a field with a dead body. The light wind had dropped to nothing and the only sound was the soft munching of the ox on the peas.

  'So Lallard is dead after all,’ said Hermitage, uncomfortable that the quiet seemed to be bringing the body to more prominent attention.

  'Well he hasn't moved much that I've noticed,’ Wat replied, casting a glance at the corpse.

  'Which means Cottrice was right all along.’ Hermitage couldn't stop his voice ending in a rather pitiful wail. Ever since Le Pedvin arrived at Wat's workshop he'd convinced himself the situation couldn't get any worse, and then it did.

  The Norman told him a tale of some murder or other and that he would have to investigate. Then he found out the murder was in Normandy of all places and was presented with Bernard's scary cart to get them there. Followed of course by a positively terrifying boat. The possibility of there not having been a murder at all vanished as soon as he arrived, and a place with possibly no murders turned out to be a place where they happened all the time. Even the one murder that was in doubt was now confirmed.

  'If there's one thing I've learnt in my relatively short, but relatively profitable life,’ Wat commented as he lay with his back against the plough and eyes closed, 'it's never to believe a word anyone says.’

  'Oh Wat, that's awful,’ said Hermitage, 'what a way to live.’

  'But it is at least a way to live. If you don't believe anything anyone tells you, they have to show you it's true.’

  Hermitage was disappointed at this streak of the old Wat reappearing. 'Your point being?’

  'My point being that all we know is that Lallard here is dead.’

  They paused to look to the body again.

  'In fact,’ Wat went on, 'all we know is that Piers has told us this body is Lallard.’

  'You mean it might not be?’

  'Who knows? We've never met the man. And who knows if what Cottrice says is true? Or Blamour, or the old men, or Poitron. Especially Poitron.’

  'Bit of a coincidence,’ Hermitage reasoned, 'a dead body in a field with a knife wound in the back when Poitron and Blamour said they saw Lallard in his house dead with a knife wound in his back.’

  'I'm just saying,’ said Wat, seeming to accept that this really ought to be Lallard, 'that we only believe what's in front of our eyes. If someone tells us something they're probably lying. Particularly round here.’

  Hermitage shook his head at this awful state of affairs. He had to admit that there were quite a few dead bodies around the place so that was awful enough in its own right; but lying as well? It was all so, well, sinful.

  'And,’ Wat had more, 'if this is Lallard, and he was dead in his house, who went to all the trouble of bringing him up here? There were plenty of fields nearer, and if you want to get rid of a body why not throw it in the river, or the sea? Not only do we have a lying, deceitful murder, we’ve got one that isn’t even very good.’

  In casting his eyes around, trying to look at anything other than the body, Hermitage noticed that the shepherd boy had crept nearer. He was now just on the edge of the field and was standing on a fallen tree limb, stretching up, his head still shaded, to make out what was going on.

  'Don't come near my son,’ Hermitage called, 'there is great sin in this place. You are best with your sheep.’ He thought the figure must be no more than a young child, being small and thin and charged with the basic task of making sure sheep didn't go where they shouldn't. All the more disappointing then that the young, innocent child of the village, in response to Hermitage's warning, should make such a disgusting gesture.

  'Even the children Wat,’ Hermitage moaned softly, 'even the children.’

  Wat looked around in some puzzlement, but closed his eyes again, not knowing what Hermitage was going on about. Or not caring.

  The buzz of a passing bee was overwhelmed by the buzz of conversation as several voices could be heard approaching along the lane.

  Wat sat up and Hermitage stood, brushing the soil from his habit. From round a tree on the edge of the lane came several people. Hermitage recognised some of them and it was not a happy recognition.

  'Oh dear,’ said Wat, standing as well now, 'looks like the mob has raided the pitchfork store.’

  It did indeed appear to be an outing for most of the village, at which “bring a pitchfork” was the theme. Those who weren't carrying the long, two and three tined tools, had much worse in their hands,

  'There they are,’ Poitron called, pointing up the field with his sword. 'Get them,’ he ordered.

  Hermitage looked on in horror at the mass of people who now swarmed up the hill. There must be at least twenty of them. His only hope was that those carrying wooden forks reached them before those carrying metal swords. Better to be tossed like a hay bale than stabbed.

  He looked to Wat who shrugged his resigned shrug. There was clearly no point in running away, where would they go? In any case, some of the weapon carriers were probably much better at chasing people than Hermitage was at running away. 'What have we done now?’ he asked Wat plaintively.

  'I don't think it matters really,’ the weaver replied as the first of the villagers reached them and grabbed their arms.

  Hermitage was at least grateful they hadn't found it necessary to use their weapons.

  'Master asleep again?’ Wat asked Poitron with some contemptuous humour.

  Norbert stood close at hand, managing to look neat and business like, even in the middle of a field.

  'What Lord Bonneville is up to is none of your business,’ Poitron replied, 'what you are up to is entirely my business.’ There was a slight smile on his face, the appearance of which Hermitage did not like one bit.

  'But we've told you,’ Hermitage explained in his gentle placatory tones, 'we're here at the behest of Master Le Pedvin.’

  There was a slight shuffle of uncertainty in the crowd at the name. One or two pitchforks dipped slightly and the muttered name was repeated, as if the man was going to pop out from behind a tree and say “boo”.

  'Rubbish,’ Poitron quelled the chatter by saying the word loud and clear, as much directed at the crowd as at Hermitage and Wat.

  'It isn't.’ Hermitage was quite offended that now he was telling the truth, he wasn't being believed.

  'Oh yes it is,’ Poitron chimed out, 'we've only got your word that Le Pedvin sent you at all. Two strangers turn up in town, knowing all about murder.’ Once more this little speech of Poitron's was clearly aimed at persuading the local mob to stick to the matter in hand and not turn on their leader, as
mobs are prone to do. 'And then what happens?’ he asked the crowd, none of whom knew the answer. 'I'll tell you,’ Poitron explained helpfully, 'we let them out of the dungeon and what do we get straight away?’ He paused for effect. 'Another murder.’ He announced this with such a flourish it brought an “oooh” from parts of the audience.

  'No, no, no,’ Hermitage protested at this blatant misunderstanding of the facts, 'this is master Lallard.’ He gestured towards the body. 'We had nothing to do with it. He's been dead for quite a while. There's no blood or anything.’

  'Oh my God, they've taken his blood,’ Poitron's rousing declamation caused the gathered masses to take a horrified step back, and those holding Hermitage and Wat to release their grip, probably for fear of catching something.

  'What?’ Hermitage was almost beside himself. This Poitron seemed quite intelligent and here he was spouting primitive nonsense.

  'Drag them to the dungeon,’ Poitron waved his arms in the air to capture the mood of the moment and use it to get Hermitage and Wat taken away.

  Well really, Hermitage thought, this demonstration of ignorance was beyond countenance. How on earth did Poitron expect to get the murders resolved if he was going to leap to the first conclusion that passed by? And being dragged to the dungeon was outrageous. They were quite capable of walking, as they already knew the way.

  This didn't stop the villagers grabbing their arms once more and marching them down the hill.

  'What about Lallard?’ Hermitage called. If these people left the body behind there would be no chance of proving that they did not kill Lallard. The man had been dead before they got here for goodness sake. Except of course Poitron would probably argue that they flew here, did the deed and then arrived later on a boat.

  'I think,’ Wat said quite reasonably, when they found themselves near to Poitron, 'that your master was quite expecting us. He knew we were coming from Le Pedvin and will not be pleased if we're back in the dungeon yet again.’ He raised his eyebrows, inviting Poitron to let them go.