'As you say, Master Wat, perhaps we can come to an arrangement.’
Wat frowned at the man. Ethel seemed to have woken up somehow. Was the reality of the situation finally dawning on him? Was he really interested in finding out who did it and placating Grosmal? Or was he worried that if the truth came out it might not do him any favours? Nothing in the insouciant arrogance of the man was giving anything away.
'I'll go below and you wait here,’ said Ethel.
At least that was a relief. Wat knew the smell up here wasn't too bad now, but he suspected the room below would go straight to his guts and invite them out to play.
The hag wandered over to the privy hole and stared down to see Ethel appear. She looked at Wat as if this was some sort of perverted parlour game.
'You can get on with your duties or I can throw you down the hole,’ Wat observed.
'I wouldn't fit, you said so.’ The hag was an impudent one.
'I could jump up and down on you a few times,’ Wat suggested.
The hag returned to her duties.
After a few minutes Wat heard noises below and peered into the privy. He could see Ethel at the door at the base of the tower looking up.
'Right, I’m here,’ he said.
'I can see that. Which makes me wonder again where Hermitage has got to. Now, can you get in the tower and stand under the privy seat?’
Ethel didn’t move.
'Is there a problem?’
'It's not actually very nice down here. There’s rather a lot of, erm, dirt on the floor.’
'I should expect so,’ Wat grinned to himself. This was clearly beyond anything the Saxon ex-noble had experienced before. 'You don't have people to do everything for you any more. You’ll have to, erm, muck in.’ Wat couldn't restrain a laugh. At least it was a cheap one.
'Very amusing, I'm sure.’
Slowly and reluctantly Ethel put a tentative foot into the chamber. He sighed in relief when it did not sink into something truly revolting, and gingerly advanced into the room. The old priest’s desk was still half-submerged in the corner, rather like the tower of a church emerging from the waters of some demonic flood.
'Can you pull the door across behind you?’ Wat asked
'Good idea,’ Ethel responded without enthusiasm. He tugged at the battered wooden door, which had been propped back near its home, until he was alone with his thoughts in a dark chamber full of poo, looking up through a privy seat.
'I can see through both holes into the chamber,’ Ethel said with some disappointment. 'So if someone was down here they'd have been able to spot de Turold.’
'Not necessarily,’ said Wat. 'I’ll sit down and you tell me if you can see my arse.’ He wasn’t sure he wanted to put his nice clean leggings on the sort of garderobe seat arrows came through, but these were unusual circumstances.
‘Right.’ Ethel's voice became muffled as Wat's body blocked the hole.
'Well?’
'Yes, I can see you.’
'Ah, but it was dark wasn't it? Just the light of the candle which was by my side.’ Wat reached forward and grabbed the hag, who was busy scrubbing nearby. He lifted her from the floor with one arm and planted her on the second privy seat beside him.
'Oh?’ she said. 'One of them, eh?’ and she started to lift her skirts. Wat cuffed her lightly on the side of the head and called to Ethel.
'Can you still see me?’
'No, can’t see a thing,’ came the muffled but rather triumphant reply – followed by a plaintive, 'I think I'll leave now.’
A very short space of time later a very grateful Ethel was back in the company of Wat.
'So,’ Wat said, thinking very hard indeed, 'if it was dark, which we know it was, and the killer couldn’t see Henri’s backside, which we know he couldn’t, how did he manage to hit him?’
'Could he have taken aim when the candle light was visible – and then just fired when it got dark?’
'It’s possible,’ said Wat, 'but he’d have to be a damn fine bowman.’ Wat searched his memory for instances of people being shot in the dark. There were a few, but they were mostly mistakes. In fact it was pretty hard to shoot someone even in broad daylight. In the hands of most people the modern bow was hopeless. Killing someone on purpose was like trying to hit the moon with a sheep.
He could never understand poaching: the only real way of killing a deer was to creep up on it with a rock. Anyone who could finish one off with an arrow deserved a prize. He found it hard to believe the crossbow was any better.
Killing someone with one shot was unheard-of. Apart from Harold and Hastings, of course – but then that was most likely an accident.
That gave Wat pause for thought. The thought hurried off pretty quickly as he realised that shooting someone in the backside while they were sitting on the privy was highly unlikely to be an accident. No one would be cleaning their bow in the garderobe chamber when it accidentally went off.
And that brought him back to the size of the killer.
'This is just too odd,’ he said.
Before Ethel could respond, the first hag, counting them in the order of being hit, began to stir.
'Where’s my candle?’ were the first words she uttered on rejoining the world.
'Don’t panic, you evil, thieving wretch, it’s here,’ said Ethel. He picked up the distasteful object from the side of the privy and waved it in the air.
The first hag put her hands in her clothing, delved about for a bit and came out with a few more flea bites and another candle. 'Ah, here it is,’ she said, as if she had just found her baby alive and well after a horrific carting accident.
'It’s a third candle,’ said Ethel, as if he was taking stock of the things.
'So?’ Wat thought that the fewer of these things there were the better.
'Why is there another candle? Why would Henri have had two candles?’
'Maybe this is the killer’s candle,’ said Wat. 'If he was in the garderobe with his own candle, he would have been able to see Henri. He then fired, climbed out through the hole and brought the candle with him.’ He paused for a moment. 'This child is getting cleverer and cleverer.’
'But surely,’ Ethel questioned, 'if he lit a candle down there the whole place would have gone bang like it did this morning?’
'Good point. And it still doesn't get over the problem of this child climbing into a garderobe, operating a crossbow in the dark and killing a Norman with one shot. Which he must have done – not much chance of climbing up to finish the victim off before the alarm was raised.’ Wat paused again for another thought. 'Mind you, if de Turold had finished his business and then saw a child climbing out the privy hole, the shock might have killed him...’
'This is getting ridiculous,’ Wat huffed, unable to see how all the strange facts could fit together. Maybe Hermitage would get it.
Ethel was carrying on regardless. 'If it was the killer's candle, why would he leave it here? It would have been pitch dark. How would he have got out of the room and escaped through the darkened castle without a candle?’
'I think we've got to back to the beginning.’ Wat shook his head. 'There are too many confusions in this.’
'And you do this sort of thing regularly, do you?’ Ethel sounded contemptuous of Wat's skills.
'Only the once,’ Wat replied sharply, 'and then we found it was the man in authority who did it.’
'Really.’ Ethel didn’t seem concerned.
'The only thing we know is that de Turold is dead,’ said Wat.
Ethel didn't reply.
'We do know that, do we?’
'Well, he wasn't breathing, his heart wasn't beating, he was cold and pale and didn't flinch when he smashed his head on the floor.’
'Good.’
'I thought so, yes.’
'I don't think there's any more to be done here,’ Wat said. 'I need to sit down and think this through. I need to talk to Hermitage as well. Can you send some men to find him?’
&nb
sp; 'I suppose so, although I don't know what a monk can add to this.’
'He's very good with facts and reasons. He puts them together in odd ways. If we give him this lot he'll have an answer in no time.’
'I do hope so, because by this evening no time is exactly what we'll have.’ Ethel looked at Wat and raised his eyebrows. It seemed the Saxon wasn't really bothered about being killed by Grosmal, but he assumed Wat would have some objections. He was right.
They left the garderobe and were immediately assailed by a furore from below. There was a commotion in the courtyard of the castle and the noise drifted up to their walkway. Wat stepped very cautiously towards the edge of the pavement to see what was happening below.
Ethel stayed back, very unwilling to follow.
A group of guards had gathered in the middle of the courtyard and were raising their voices at a figure who was in their midst somewhere.
'I demand entrance to this castle,’ the voice of the figure whined its way into the air.
'I recognise that voice,’ Wat said in puzzlement. He couldn't quite place it, but he knew it had been recently, and he knew the recollection was not welcome.
'But you are in the castle,’ the most senior guard was insisting. 'You don't need to demand anything. And you don't need to push my guards around.’
'They are clearly incompetent and have no idea who they are dealing with.’
'I really do recognise that voice,’ said Wat. His stomach was sinking, but the memory would not come. Perhaps it didn't want to.
'Look,’ the castle guard was saying, 'the door is wide open, anyone can just walk in. You're welcome. If you stand outside shouting at the walls we're bound to think you're some kind of loon and send the guards.’
'Your master shall hear of this.’
'Of course he will – he probably has already, you're very loud. If I was you I wouldn't seek him out, but that's up to you. If you insist on getting him, it'll be on your own head.’
A hand appeared from the small throng and waved everyone away. A monk was revealed and Wat's heart sank at the cut of the habit. The cowl was thrown back and a face pointed its way into the daylight.
In a fine counterpoint to Lord Grosmal's head which pointed upwards, this one went forwards. And it didn't point to the air in an interested or intelligent way. A thin skull, sallow cheeks and narrow, contemptuous eyes lent their support to a monumental nose which pointed at the world in front of it as a noble points at a leper. It pointed out the world's failings and inadequacies, and then it sneered at them.
'Bring your master to me,’ the pointy head demanded. 'I am Brother Simon, the King's Investigator,’ it announced. 'I have heard of a murder and I am here to dispense justice.
'Oh bloody hell,’ Wat said slowly and with deep feeling.
'Who's he?’ Ethel asked.
'We have to get to Grosmal before he does.’
'Really?’
'Oh yes. If he gets your master's ear we'll be dead by midday, never mind sunset.’
The morning was well into its prime and Wat had thought he was making some progress. A simple chat with Hermitage and a discussion of the facts could well see the whole business dealt with before night-fall.
And now this. If there was one individual guaranteed to take your progress and wreck it completely, he had just walked into the castle.
It was just what the murder of Henri de Turold in the Castle Grosmal needed – another idiot.
Caput XIV
Midday: Lady to Norman Noble
'Here's the gown, now put it on.’ Foella emerged from the dressing room with the gentlemen's gown draped over her arm. She clearly had not a clue what to do with it.
Eleanor took the gown and, interpreting the instruction correctly, laid it out on the bed. She was ready to get her mistress into it – or at least as much of her mistress as could be squeezed into its confining spaces.
'What are you going to do, my lady?’ Eleanor asked, having heard all the details of the discussion with the mysterious man from the wardrobe.
'About what?’ Foella asked, lightly, as if she'd just been asked whether she wanted boar or swan for dinner.
'About the man from the wardrobe,’ Eleanor heard her exasperation squeak into her voice, 'telling you not to marry Lord Grosmal?’
'Have you been listening to my conversations?’
'I was standing right there, my lady.’
'You still shouldn't listen.’
'No, my lady.’
'I shall ignore him as I ignore all men who hide in my wardrobe.’ A frown crossed Foella's face. 'Make sure he's not still there.’
Eleanor returned to the wardrobe and opened it. There was no one inside, but she now saw there was a rather large hole in the back which led off into the stonework. She was surprised that she had noticed it when they arrived. Not quite the sort of thing you expect in a wardrobe.
'No, he's gone, my lady.’
'Good job too – who knows how long people have been traipsing in and out of my furniture? And God knows what they've been getting up to in there.’
'Yes, my lady,’ said Eleanor, frustrated that the conversation was drifting away from the subject. 'Lord Grosmal, my lady?’
'What, is he in there as well?’
'No, my lady. I meant what are you going to do about Lord Grosmal?’
'Not that it's any of your business, but I shall not be taking any advice from my closet.’
'But if they do have some devious plan for Lord Robert?’
'Devious? You do know the man from the wardrobe lives in the log store.’
'Maybe he's fond of wood?’
'And he lives there with some Saxon imbecile who is turning into a tree.’
'Ah.’
'They call themselves the Brotherhood of the Sword or something, and there's another one of them running around the castle. He has to run because his legs are so short. If he swung his sword he might take your knees out, but that would be about it. These are not people who have ideas in their heads, let alone devious plans.’
'But…'
Foella had had enough. ‘Get this gown on me and I shall go to see Grosmal and see what he's got to offer.’
'At least in this gown he'll be able to see what you've got to offer.’
'That is the general idea.’ Foella held her arms out, waiting for Eleanor to do as she was told.
Eleanor's shoulders sagged. The matter seemed lost. Not that the marriage to Grosmal was in the bag. A million and one things could go wrong between here and the altar. All she had to do was think of one or two of them.
She helped her mistress out of her day gown, reorganised the undergarments so that they didn't obscure the view and then put the new gown over the top.
Several bits of her mistress tried to escape their new constrictions. With an ease borne of practice, Eleanor pushed them back into their proper places and stood back to look at the results. She stepped forward to adjust a hem here and fluff up a sleeve there before finally admiring her work.
'Disgusting,’ she said politely as she appraised the fleshy bits of her mistress, most of which were on the outside of the dress.
‘Lord Robert’s the disgusting one,’ Foella retorted as she flounced from the room. ‘Men are all just disgusting,’ she muttered as an afterthought, twitching her gown and preparing to enter the fray.
***
There were many ways in which a man could be disgusting, and Lord Robert Grosmal had mastered most of them.
His personal habits, hygiene, food and the like were enough to ensure that personal servants never stayed very long. They normally left to take up more wholesome careers as slaughtermen or turd harvesters.
Robert's personal retainer Brolard, the ancient and grizzled Norman whose wandering hands had alarmed Eleanor, was so absent in the head that he forgot who Robert was the moment his master left the room. Only this complete lack of memory enabled him to welcome Robert back into his presence.
Grosmal's power
s of thought were so limited that he was incapable of silent contemplation. If he had an idea, he said it out loud. Thus everyone knew his ideas were disgusting. Whether they revolved around punishments for poaching, what diseases to give political opponents or possible uses for dead peasants, they were all horrible.
With everything he did, everything he said and everything he thought being disgusting it was a surprise to find that sex was missing. It was as if nature, realising what it had done in bringing the triangular babe into the world, had tried to make amends by removing any desire for reproduction.
This didn't stop the noble doing disgusting things in this area of life, but it was usually just to see what all the fuss was about. He heard tales from battle and its aftermath and tried his best to fit in with his comrades, many of whom were comprehensively more disgusting in this area than others.
Robert was completely at ease with these 'I wonder what would happen if' adventures, as he called them. He wondered what would happen if he did x, or if someone else did y, or if four people got together and did z while hanging from a tree.
He did some of these things to women, or even with them if they were paid enough, but he appeared to draw no particular distinction between the sexes. Or the species, come to that. As long as it moved. On a couple of occasions even that line had been crossed.
But despite all of these activities he never really saw the point. He would come away from another excursion in which a variety of people had been roundly humiliated, vaguely wondering what it had all been about. The only person he would tell any of this to was Brolard, on whose discretion he could always rely.
Brolard was always horrified at what he heard, but then he simply forgot it.
…
At this moment Grosmal was in the main hall of his castle, sitting on a long bench pulled up to the great fire. He wasn't in his usual comfortable chair because he needed to get at his feet to pick his toenails. Even when he had nothing to do, Robert was disgusting.
When Lady Foella entered the main hall, all of her assets on display, Lord Robert barely looked up from the piece of hard skin which was his current focus of attention.
The Garderobe of Death Page 13
