The courtyard was confused. It was more than that. Perhaps it was the very Platonic form of confusion, the essence from which all confusion in the world emanated. People were walking hither and thither in seemingly pointless but frenetic activity. The hubbub of conversations and orders being barked was a mess, while the buildings themselves were completely at odds and out of sorts.
They seemed to have been caught in the middle of a game of statues. Most had been trying to get into the right place when the music stopped, but hardly any had made it home.
Even the disorder lacked consistency. The styles of the buildings, if such a word could be applied to this mess, was as random as the layout.
The stable block merged perfectly with the side wall of the main gatehouse – except it wasn't joined to the side wall of the main gatehouse. Next to the keep was what looked remarkably like another keep, only smaller. It was another keep, only smaller. Its builder, having got the hang of one, thought it was easier to just carry on. His financial skills were similarly refined, and he later attended a routine creditors meeting where he was routinely stabbed to death. The maintenance died with him.
As the three men entered the place and Aethelred was noticed, caps were doffed and curtsies curtsied.
'Almost like you run the place,’ Wat commented – rather cruelly, Hermitage thought.
Aethelred made no response.
'Morning, master Ethel,’ a large Norman guard called. Probably the head guard, judging from the cleanliness of his accoutrements.
'Ethel?’ Wat enquired.
'Master Grosmal's choice. I think he has trouble getting his head round Saxon names. Or any word with more than two syllables, come to that.’
Wat sniggered slightly.
'Don't,’ said Ethel, with the first sign of a real person lurking under his frigid exterior, 'don't even start.’
He led them up the hill, through a door of sorts and into the ante chamber of the main hall.
'Wait here while I find the lord.’
'Hermitage,’ Wat said, when Ethel had gone.
'What?’
'Let me do the talking. Please.’
'What talking?’
'The talking to Grosmal. When he asks us anything, you let me reply.’
'What if it's a question on the interpretation of scripture?’ Hermitage asked brightly.
Wat sighed. 'If he asks a direct question on the interpretation of scripture, you can answer,’ he promised.
'Thank you.’
'I'll also bite my own ear off,’ Wat grinned, then gestured Hermitage to silence.
'You may enter.’ Ethel reappeared through a half-open door. 'But don't touch the door,’ he said, indicating that it might fall off its hinges at any moment.
They squeezed through the space and stood in the farthest corner of the great chamber of the castle of Robert Grosmal, awaiting their interview.
Ethel strode to the other side of the room and talked quietly to his master. He suddenly gestured vigorously for Wat and Hermitage to join him. They scuttled over as quickly as they could and stood, just catching the end of Robert’s softly spoken sentence.
'...find the individual, is that clear?’
Ethel indicated most persuasively that they should just say yes.
'Yes,’ they both said together.
'Good,’ said Robert and he rose from his chair to face them.
'Because for all I know, it could have been you two.’ Hermitage assumed that this was supposed to make some sort of sense.
'And if you muck up, it probably will be.’ Lord Robert stared into their faces. Hermitage leant backwards. Wat held his ground.
'So,’ Lord Robert began, 'why are you still here?’
Ethel quickly grabbed one handful of habit and another of fine cloak and dragged the two away.
…
Once out of the room the retainer beckoned they should follow him. He led the way through twisting corridors, which weren’t supposed to twist, past small openings in the walls, which weren’t supposed to open, and eventually up a winding flight of uneven steps to a small turret room.
This was clearly Ethel's chamber. It contained a cot with straw mattress, a log for a chair and another larger one which seemed to be playing the part of a desk. It had a quill on it, but no parchment. Or ink.
'Sit down,’ said Ethel as he sat on the log. Hermitage went to sit on the desk, but the look on Ethel’s face made him change his mind. He joined Wat on the cot.
'Let me tell you what has happened.’ And Ethel related the sad end of Henri de Turold in all its revolting detail. At one point he produced the arrow, recently removed from the Norman's nether regions. Both he and Wat had a jolly good laugh at that.
'And we’re supposed to figure out who killed him?’ said Wat. 'Who fired an arrow? Not easy.’
'There are a number of interesting facts which might help our considerations,’ said Hermitage as he sat on the cot with a very puzzled look on his face.
Ethel and Wat looked to one another, and then to the monk.
'Such as?’ said Ethel. He absentmindedly took up the arrow from Henri’s darkest hole before he remembered what it was. He put it down quickly.
'Well, the arrow itself to begin with. May I?’ Hermitage held his hand out for the murder weapon.
Ethel picked it up gingerly and held it towards the monk.
Hermitage grabbed it and happily examined it closely. Ethel turned his nose up. Even Wat looked askance.
'This tells us a lot.’
'I can still smell some of it,’ Ethel put in.
'I mean, look at it. It's not from a Saxon longbow. It's too short.’
'You're right.’ Ethel now looked at it more closely. ‘Well, well, I wouldn't have thought of that.’ The Saxon raised his eyebrows.
Wat seemed about to say something, but thought better of it.
Hermitage beamed with pride. 'Are you sure it's complete?’ he asked.
The eyebrows came down again. 'I wasn't about to go digging for any more of it. It's got a point on one end and some feathers on the other. I believe that constitutes an arrow.’
'In which case, why is it so short? I can't imagine any bow small enough to fire this.’
'A child?’ Ethel suggested.
'Could be, but I can't imagine a child able to deliver enough force to finish someone off in so, erm, so personal a manner.’
They sat in silence for a few moments until Wat spoke.
'You are joking?’ he asked.
'You have something to add, Mister Weaver?’ Ethel dribbled his disdain.
'The arrow,’ Wat pointed at it, 'is not an arrow.’
Ethel guffawed. 'Mister Wat, I may not be familiar with all the contrivances of manual labour, but I think I recognise an arrow when I see one.’
Hermitage was enthralled. He held the thing at a distance and looked at it in wonder. 'What is it then?’
'It's a crossbow bolt,’ said Wat, in the tone of one stating the mind-blowingly obvious. 'Perhaps some of Ethel's men had some. When they were his men, of course. In any case he's probably paid for quite a lot,’ he added through his guffaws.
'There's no need to be rude,’ Ethel snapped.
'Of course, a crossbow,’ said Hermitage, trying to mediate. 'Why didn't I think of that?
'Because you've got good reason not to know a crossbow from a crooked mile. You're a monk.’
'Ah yes,’ said Hermitage, as if he needed reminding. 'Anyway, I'm sure we'll find out more as we investigate.’
There was a further pause as Wat grinned and Ethel grimaced.
Hermitage broke the awkward silence. 'So we now have a crossbow as the murder weapon. Easier for a child to fire, I suppose. The next question, of course, is what was Henri doing naked in January?’
'Pervert.’ Wat again stated the obvious.
'Possibly,’ said Hermitage, 'and the honoured noble was still sitting on the privy?’ This was to Ethel.
'Honoured noble?’ Ethel q
uestioned. 'Oh, Henri? Yes. I don't think I'm going to forget that sight.’
'So,’ said Hermitage, 'someone must have been below the garderobe, lying in wait for their victim.’
'I don’t think they’d have lain,’ said Ethel with disdain.
'All right, stood in wait for Henri. Then they shot him in the, er, er, garderobe, and ran off.’
Hermitage gazed out of an arrow slit in thought. Or rather gazed out of the hole in the wall which he assumed was meant to be an arrow slit. 'The question is, why? Did Henri have any enemies?’
'Do Normans burn down the woods?’ said Ethel, indicating the stupidity of the question.
'Then we are really no further forward. It could have been anyone,’ Wat said
'Well,’ said Ethel rising, 'this has been really useful. If you’d like to go away and find the killer now, I have work to do.’
'What if we can’t find out who did it?’ asked Hermitage, thinking that they might expect a bit more support than that..
'I'd be happy to notify your next of kin,’ said Ethel.
There was an uncomfortable pause.
'I think that we should look at the garderobe,’ Hermitage said eventually.
'Why?’ said Ethel.
'Because that is where the murder took place, there might be evidence.’
'Heavy what?’
'Evidence. Something that might tell us who did it.’
'What, like a note or something?’
'Well, a note would be good, but not likely, I think.’
'Whatever you like, just do it quickly. The King will arrive tonight and we'll need to know by then.’
'Tonight!' Hermitage was appalled.
'Well, of course. How long did you want?’ Ethel was puzzled. 'And didn't you hear Grosmal say?’
'I couldn't catch what he was saying, to be honest.’ Hermitage had caught Wat’s shrug.
'Well, he said tonight.’
'Resolving the death of Brother Ambrosius took the best part of a week.’
'A week?’ It was Ethel's turn to be shocked. 'I suppose you can have a week if you want.’
'Thank you.’
'But you'll be dead for the last six days of it.’ He ushered them out of the chamber. 'I suggest you get a move on.’
…
'I suppose running away is out of the question,’ said Hermitage once they were out of earshot, strolling carefully along the top of one of the castle walls, looking for the way down.
'I think so,’ said Wat. 'If it was just Ethel I'd say yes, but that Grosmal has the look in his eyes.’
'The look?’
'You know – the look the mad people have when you can tell they're capable of doing something horrible for no apparent reason and with no warning.’
'Ah yes,’ Hermitage nodded. He knew the look well. He was disappointed to hear that it belonged to mad people. Most of his brother monks had it at one time or another.
'And Grosmal is a noble. He's got soldiers and weapons and authority. People like that who also have the look are best dealt with carefully. If you can't avoid them all together.’
'I am sorry I got you into this,’ Hermitage said with sincerity.
'Not your fault. Teach me to hang around too long.’ Wat peered over the edge of the castle wall with great care.
'But you only hung around because of me.’
'And as it turns out that could be a good thing.’
'How?’
'I don't want to be rude, Hermitage, but I think if you were trying to sort this lot out on your own, you'd probably be dead by tonight.’
'You're probably right,’ Hermitage nodded.
'So we have to solve the crime. Again.’
'So it seems.’
'We'll be getting a reputation if we're not careful.’ Wat gave a grim smile.
'People from all over the land could be seeking us out to resolve their mysteries. Murders, thefts and the like.’ Hermitage sounded a bit dubious.
'So,’ said Wat, reaching some sort of inner conclusion, 'if we do get out this one alive…'
'Yes?’
'If we do sort out who killed de Turold and escape in one piece?’
'Yes?’
'We split up, go into hiding and never mention it to anyone.’
'Suits me.’ Hermitage nodded wholehearted agreement.
'To the garderobe then,’ said Wat. He spied a castle guard.
The guard was walking very tentatively along the parapet, prodding the floor in front of him at regular intervals with a long pole. Hermitage approached.
'Excuse me,’ he said politely. The guard nearly jumped out of his boots and off the edge of the unprotected wall.
'Oh God, don’t do that,’ said William le Morton, 'you nearly had me off.’
'Aren’t you supposed to ask us who we are and what we’re doing here?’ said Wat.
'You’re the two who’ve come to investigate the murder of Henri de Turold,’ said William simply. 'You have to keep ahead of the news in this place, otherwise it come up behind you.’
'Er, yes,’ said Hermitage. He saw William’s point. 'Can you tell us where the garderobe is?’
'Well I can,’ said William, 'but why don’t you use the straw like normal people? The garderobe’s only for Lord Grosmal’s personal guests.’
'We are his personal guests,’ said Wat, which brought a look of huge respect and fear to William’s face. 'We don’t want to use it, anyway – we just want to look at it. Apparently.’
'Oh, right,’ said William, 'please yourself.’ He took a cautious half-step away from the pair. 'Second tower on your left, up two flights, second opening on the right.’
'Thank you,’ said Hermitage.
'Down the long corridor, past the tapestry, don’t touch it whatever you do, down two steps and then up one, first left and it’s on your right.’
'I think we’ll find it,’ said Wat pulling Hermitage away.
'Just follow your nose if you get lost,’ said William, genuinely trying to be helpful.
…
They didn’t really need to follow their noses as, from the moment they stepped across the threshold into the second tower on the left, the smell assailed them. It then assaulted them, abused them and told them that it knew where they lived and never forgot a face.
It had grown up until it wasn’t really a smell at all anymore. Now it was a sort of tangible, palpable thing with a mind of its own and a lot of very strange ideas.
A fresh breeze bearing the tangy bite of pine cones had wafted across the grassy sward, bringing with it the scent of the dew, and had started to freshen its way into the tower. It was told in no uncertain terms that it was not welcome.
Hermitage and Wat moved carefully over the rough stonework, following the direction their noses told them the thickening atmosphere came from. Their minds and bodies told them to get the hell out.
Eventually they came to the threshold of the stinking chamber and entered.
A single candle burned in the gloom, but the gloom was winning. Arrow slits in the wall let a little light in, but it stopped before it got too close to anything unpleasant.
'So this is Lord Robert's garderobe. God's holy trousers, what a stink,’ Wat exclaimed. He pulled a piece of scented cloth from his sleeve and slapped it firmly across his nose.
'It is pungent, isn't it?’ Even Hermitage, who was used to the pretty horrible smells of De'Ath's Dingle, had a pronounced wrinkle on his nose.
'This is worse than doing it in the corner of the room,’ Wat mumbled through his cloth. 'Tell me again what the advantage is supposed to be?’
'It's all wrong,’ said Hermitage, looking around as if he was checking the spelling in a scriptorium.
'Are you on to something already?’ Wat asked.
'No. This garderobe, it's all wrong.’
'It certainly smells it,’ said Wat with feeling. He moved over towards an arrow slit in the wall, noticing as he did so that it looked too small for an arrow to pass thro
ugh. 'Mind you, I've never really been one for new-fangled inventions.’
Hermitage was being quite revolting. He strode about the room, examining it closely. He even went over to the seats and peered into the holes. Wat gagged slightly at the prospect.
'I read about these things in a book on architecture the old Bishop of Lincoln had,’ Hermitage said, all enthusiasm, gazing in wonder at the construction around him.
'Good God, what are the ropes for?’ Wat spluttered from behind his mask.
Two fairly sturdy ropes were tied to the upper stones of the seats. Their ends dangled into one of the holes.
'Straining ropes, I imagine.’ Hermitage tested the strength of one of them. 'When your need is urgent but things are not, erm, progressing well, you hang on to the ropes for extra purchase.’
Wat coughed deeply into his mask.
'I'm sure it's wrong, though. The seats are supposed to be in the wall, allowing the, erm, material to fall to the ground outside the castle, from where it's taken away. You're not supposed to keep it. Especially not indoors.’
'When you look at the state of this place, do you think the builders would get anything as sophisticated and complicated as this right?’ Wat was edging back towards the entrance.
'I suppose not. But you'd think someone would spot it wasn't working properly.’
'I suspect Robert's list of talents doesn't include thinking.’
'Hum.’
Wat was now back at the entrance and anxious to move away into the fresh air. Hermitage had not moved at all. He was still looking around the place.
As he looked at the holes, and weighed up the overall construction of the facility, the monk started to picture the chain of events. He stood open mouthed in wonder as his mind reconstructed an unfamiliar landscape. Real, practical things done by real practical people.
Just as he could untangle an argument, given the appropriate universal truths, it only now occurred to him to do the same with actions. If someone walked into a room, they had to walk out again. Or not, in the case of de Turold. What a marvellous revelation. He wanted to try it out straightaway.
The Garderobe of Death Page 7
