Hermitage, Wat and Some Nuns

by Howard of Warwick

  ‘Embarrassing?’ Hermitage asked. How could being found out as a killer be embarrassing?

  ‘Someone they know quite well. Someone who would find being executed didn’t fit in with their plans.’

  ‘That’s hardly the point,’ said Hermitage.

  ‘Quite. And apparently Gilder had a talent for seeing off gangs who wanted to pillage the place. No one knows how he did it, but it wouldn’t surprise me if one of them came back and offered services to the moot.’

  Hermitage gave this some thought and saw that it was all just as speculative as Cwen’s tale of the abbess.

  ‘Who is this person then?’ he asked. ‘Either the robber or the embarrassed murderer?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Wat, brightly.

  ‘Might be no one then,’ said Cwen. ‘And maybe there was no robber, the moot didn’t pay him and it wasn’t him who killed Gilder?’

  ‘Erm,’ Wat thought for a moment. ‘Well, it’s possible, I suppose,’ he said, reluctantly.

  ‘There we are then,’ said Cwen, clapping her hands together in happy conclusion. ‘We’ve got three people who might have done it, or then again they might not. We can add them to the list of everyone else in the town.’

  Hermitage now joined them on the cot. What had seemed a pretty clear conclusion had fallen apart in front of his eyes. And not just one conclusion. All three of them.

  ‘I still think we should question Hendig more closely,’ Hermitage suggested. ‘I can see that the abbess and the moot might have their reasons but Hendig is the closest man we have to the time of death.’

  ‘As far as we know,’ said Cwen.

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Hermitage, wondering what other option there was apart from what they knew. ‘And this message of Gilder’s seems to be in the middle of things. It was going to everyone but we don’t know what it was.’

  ‘The moot just seemed to think it would be another demand for rent,’ said Wat.

  ‘The abbess was sure it would be confirmation of their money for the new nunnery,’ Cwen added.

  ‘The moot really don’t like Mildburgh,’ Wat noted with a snort.

  ‘The feeling’s mutual,’ Cwen replied. ‘Mind you, she really doesn’t like most people.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound very good for a nun,’ Wat observed.

  ‘Oh, I can assure you it’s quite normal,’ said Hermitage.

  ‘Aclan the Ealdorman even suggested we might find out Mildburgh was the killer.’

  ‘I should think he would,’ said Cwen. ‘If they don’t like her it’s quite possible they could think she killed Gilder. She is pretty fierce.’

  ‘No, no,’ Wat explained, ‘you don’t understand. They wanted us to find out it was Mildburgh, whether it actually was or not.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ said Hermitage, always surprised at how low some people would stoop.

  ‘Get her out of the way though. I presume you can execute nuns for murder, or do they have some special dispensation?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Hermitage said, quite defensively, ‘I’ve never tried to execute a nun.’

  ‘This could be your chance.’ Cwen reached out and poked Hermitage in the ribs.

  They stared into the space of their room, no revelations or sudden realisations disturbing their rather blank stares. No feature of the room suddenly prompted them to instant recognition of the key to the problem. No breeze blew a piece of parchment into the room which contained the major clue they were looking for. No stranger knocked on the door with the vital piece of information. It was all rather disappointing.

  ‘I think Hendig is all we’ve got,’ Hermitage concluded, after the silence had gone on so long he could stand it no longer. Which wasn’t very long at all.

  ‘Alright,’ said Wat, ‘it’s got to be worth a go. After all, he did say he carried out other errands for Gilder. This may not be about the message but something else that was going on. We give it one more day though, and that’s that.’

  Hermitage turned to look at him, not understanding why they had to rush so.

  ‘The Normans?’ Wat reminded him. ‘In Derby? Burning to the ground? Those Normans?’

  ‘I’d quite forgotten all about them,’ said Hermitage.

  ‘Must have been enjoying yourself,’ Cwen dug at him again, ‘a nice messy murder to investigate. Dead body, lots of suspects, all of them could have done it but you need more information. Right up your street.’

  ‘It’s all awful,’ Hermitage reminded Cwen, as sombrely as he could. ‘A man is dead and someone killed him. It is only our duty to discover who did it.’

  ‘Yes, but you are allowed to enjoy your duty sometimes.’

  Once again Hermitage thought that the actual investigating was quite stimulating. If only he could identify the person who did it, and then leave. That would be ideal. Let someone else deal with all the awkward business of the accusation and the denial followed by the bowing to the inevitable.

  He absolutely did not want to see anyone executed, let alone a nun if it turned out that way. Investigation was a fine intellectual exercise but the outcome was always so gruesome. Perhaps he should investigate something a bit more harmless, like lost dogs or missing valuables. Anything not involving people, really.

  ‘We’ll eat first though,’ Wat dragged him from his reverie.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Cwen, rubbing her hands.

  ‘You go ahead,’ said Hermitage.

  They looked at him in frank surprise.

  ‘I’ve, erm, I’ve already eaten.’ He said it as more of a question than a statement.

  ‘Already eaten?’ Wat asked. ‘Hermitage, you hardly eat at all anyway. How can you have eaten already?’

  ‘Father Cuthbert was most hospitable.’ Hermitage shrugged. ‘He had some bread and cheese.’

  Wat and Cwen exchanged amused looks that this would be a feast for Hermitage.

  ‘And some wine,’ Hermitage added.

  That did get their eyes widening.

  ‘And then they brought out a ham and some pickled walnuts.’

  ‘Hermitage, really,’ said Cwen, admonishing him for such indulgence.

  Hermitage looked to the floor. ‘The game bird was rather rich but the venison was very pleasant.’

  Now they were gaping.

  ‘And the bread pudding really filled me up.’

  ‘Good Lord, Hermitage, you won’t need to eat for a week.’ Wat laughed, heading for the door.

  ‘I don’t think I should, as a penance.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about that. It can’t be a sin if an abbot gave it to you.’ He and Cwen left to find the cook.

  Hermitage wondered about the theology of that. It sounded very dubious but perhaps he could think of an appropriate reference. And check it with the abbot over breakfast.

  . . .

  That night, three very well-fed people settled down to a rather groaning sleep. Hermitage had certainly eaten more than he should. Probably more than he ever had.

  Wat and Cwen seemed able to pile food into themselves at every opportunity. “You never know where the next meal is coming from” Wat would say. The next meal usually came along quite quickly so Hermitage didn’t really know why he was worried.

  Eventually the gurgling stomachs settled and with Cwen on the Cot and Wat and Hermitage on the floor, the well-fed soon filled the room with the sounds of them sleeping it off. And with several of the smells as well.

  The overall atmosphere caused a nose to wrinkle as it looked carefully at the sleeping bodies. The mouth beneath the nose distorted into a grimace of disgust, which it seemed to do quite easily.

  As the figure stepped very cautiously into the room it stifled a grunt of annoyance as its wimple caught on the door frame.

  . . .

  Hermitage woke first and felt that he had slept far too long. His head hurt and he was uncomfortable, as if he had been sleeping on stones when he knew he’d moved most of them out of the way.

  He cautiously opened his eyes to the
blazing light of the sun. It was streaming in through the window straight into his eyes. He shut them again, quickly. The light had really done nothing for the pain in his head.

  He tried to roll over but found even this painful. Something must have been sticking into his neck while he slept, or he had had a cramp and had not woken.

  It was as much as he could do to roll over slowly, get on his hands and knees and then sit back with his legs under him. He risked opening his eyes to see if the others had slept as badly as he. He immediately leapt to his feet, all discomfort and pain forgotten.

  ‘Wat, Cwen,’ he shouted.

  Groans replied to his call. Groans as much of discomfort as of complaint.

  ‘What is it Hermitage?’ Wat moaned without moving.

  ‘Where are we?’ Hermitage asked in a panic.

  ‘Where are we?’ Cwen sounded annoyed at her night’s sleep and at the question. ‘We’re in Shrewsbury, Hermitage, for goodness sake. Have you forgotten that already? My goodness,’ she added, ‘this cot’s uncomfortable.’ She wriggled without opening her eyes.

  ‘I don’t think we are,’ said Hermitage, ‘not anymore.’

  Wat and Cwen opened their eyes. Cwen even let out a little scream.

  ‘What the devil?’ said Wat, jumping up and looking around.

  Cwen recovered from her shock, stood and spun round in a circle trying to make sense of her surroundings.

  As a bedroom it was very pleasant, it just wasn’t the bedroom they’d gone to sleep in. It wasn’t really a bedroom at all, but a rather peaceful glade by the side of the road. Trees overhung them but the morning sun blazed straight down, unimpeded by any of the building they had been in when they last closed their eyes.

  ‘How the hell?’ Wat went on.

  Hermitage tutted at the profanity but considered it could be forgiven in these circumstances. Unusual as they were.

  ‘Ow,’ said Wat, putting a hand to his head.

  Hermitage did the same and discovered why his head hurt. He had a large lump on it where something had hit him. He leapt to the conclusion that it was probably a someone who had hit him. Probably the same someone who had then moved him from the tavern to this resting place.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Cwen asked, somehow assuming that the other two people who had just woken would know.

  Wat scanned the horizon, his hand still on the back of his head. He pointed across the landscape to where the walls of Shrewsbury could be seen in the distance, the castle just peeping over the top.

  ‘Someone doesn’t want us in Shrewsbury anymore,’ he concluded. ‘Someone who probably thought we were about to uncover them as the killer.’

  ‘And someone who’s made it clear where they do want us to be,’ said Hermitage. He had been examining their immediate surroundings for any clues as to what had happened and now pointed to the road itself.

  Scrawled deep in the dust of the track was a clear message. It said “Derby this way” and there was a large arrow pointing away from Shrewsbury.

  ‘Right,’ said Wat, in a very determined manner.

  ‘Right, what?’ said Cwen, more cautiously.

  ‘I’m not having this.’ Wat did not look happy.

  ‘At least we’ll be in Derby quicker,’ Cwen said, hurriedly, ‘being half way down the road and all.’

  ‘We are not going to Derby,’ Wat hissed through his teeth.

  ‘The Normans?’ Cwen reminded him. ‘Burning to the ground? Those Normans?’

  ‘I’m not interested in the Normans.’

  ‘You will be if they burn your house down.’

  Wat glared at Cwen.

  ‘Leave them to it,’ she waved a dismissive arm towards Shrewsbury. ‘If they don’t want their killer found that’s up to them.’

  Hermitage thought that had been the whole point, it wasn’t up to them. He didn’t like to get between Wat and Cwen when they were like this, but he really thought the town was bringing this on themselves. Bad enough they didn’t want their killer found but to throw the investigators out of the door really was too much.

  ‘I am not having someone thump me on the head and carry me from my bed,’ Wat insisted.

  ‘And I don’t want to go back to a town where people come in your bedroom at night, hit you on the head and put you somewhere else,’ Cwen complained.

  ‘They wanted me to stay,’ Wat announced.

  ‘Beg pardon?’ Hermitage enquired.

  ‘The moot. They tried to persuade me to set up shop in Shrewsbury. Bring all the old tapestries. Be good for business, they said.’

  ‘Oh, Wat,’ said Hermitage, disappointed at his friend.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Wat said to them both, ‘I had no intention of doing so. But I’ll be blowed if people who are begging me to stay one minute are going to throw me out of town the next. I’ve been thrown out of better towns than this by better people than that lot.’

  ‘Who could it have been?’ said Hermitage.

  ‘Who knows?’ Wat acknowledged they had no more information. ‘It could be one of the people or groups we’ve spoken to. Perhaps we were getting too close. Or it could be someone else completely. Someone we have no idea about but who thought they’d better get rid of us just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘It must have been someone known to the inn keeper,’ Hermitage reasoned. ‘I can’t imagine the man lets total strangers bash his guests on the head and cart them off into the night.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Wat. ‘Most of the inn keepers I know would do far worse than that for the right fee.’

  ‘At least they didn’t kill us as well,’ said Hermitage, looking on the bright side.

  ‘They’ll soon wish they had,’ said Wat, with a rather nasty growl in his voice. ‘But don’t worry,’ he addressed Cwen, ‘we won’t be staying there another night. We’ll have this sorted by sundown.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ Hermitage asked. ‘Sneak back in and see what we can do about the murder?’

  ‘No, we do not sneak back in,’ said Wat, positively, adopting a very commanding looking stance. ‘We march back in. Straight up to the great gates of Shrewsbury and demand entry brandishing the full authority of the King’s Investigator.’

  Hermitage looked at him. ‘Oh dear,’ he said.

  Caput XIV

  Digging Up The Dirt

  The second entry into the town of Shrewsbury was much more straightforward. The gates on the English side of town were already open for the day and no one bothered them as they returned, Wat not getting a chance to brandish anything yet.

  ‘Where do we start?’ said Hermitage. ‘Moot, monks, nuns, Hendig?’

  Wat thought for a moment. ‘I think you’re right, Hermitage.’

  Well, that was nice.

  ‘Hendig has more to say than he has so far. I think we go and frighten some words out of him.’

  ‘Frighten?’ Hermitage wasn’t sure about that at all. Surely some piercing questions, honestly answered would be all that was required. Then he reminded himself that killers had left honesty behind some time ago.

  He still had not the first idea about how to frighten anyone. He knew what it took to be frightened by people. He knew that very well. Perhaps it was a start.

  ‘It could be Hendig who put us out in the woods,’ said Wat, ‘to stop us investigating and finding out it was him.’

  . . .

  Back at Balor’s dwelling, Wat hammered on the door until the whole house shook. He stopped hammering and stepped back in case the place fell down. It really was very humble.

  ‘Alright, alright,’ came from inside as protests were hurled at the people who were trying to knock the house over.

  Balor opened the door and did not look good. He had been pretty drunk the last time they had left him, and Wat’s strong mead had obviously continued the process. There must have been a lot more during the night and it wasn’t clear that Balor had been to sleep at all.

  His eyes were red and his face hung on him like it was t
rying to leave. Clothes were dishevelled and dirty and he only had one shoe on.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Wat barging past Balor into the house. ‘Not expecting us?’

  Balor followed him in and Cwen and Hermitage came after.

  ‘Not particularly,’ Balor said, smacking his lips as if there was something very nasty in his mouth.

  ‘Hm.’ Wat frowned at him.

  As far as Hermitage could tell, Balor wasn’t taken aback by their arrival, which he probably would be if he thought they were on the road to Derby.

  There was obviously a clear connection from the murder to the people who knocked them on the head and left them on the road. It seemed a strange thing to do for any other reason. He knew that he could irritate some people but that really was going a bit far.

  ‘Where’s Hendig?’ Wat demanded.

  ‘What?’ Balor was having trouble coping with events. Any events.

  ‘Where is Hendig?’ Wat spelled it out slowly.

  Balor’s face contorted as he tried to process the question. ‘Oh, right, Hendig, yes. He’s in the fireplace.’

  In the fireplace! Hermitage was shocked. What had happened here last night? Had Balor and Hendig fallen out? Was there some altercation, or even another murder? Had Hendig’s remains been disposed of in the fire? He hurriedly looked to the fireplace, which was really only the corner of the room where the fire would burn in the winter.

  Lying in the ashes was Hendig. Snoring loudly.

  ‘He said it looked comfortable,’ Balor explained.

  ‘You two made it up then?’ Cwen asked.

  ‘Oh, Hendig’s alright,’ said Balor. ‘It was hard to walk away from my father if he asked you to do something for him. He never asked twice because after the first refusal you probably wouldn’t be able to walk at all.’

  ‘We need to ask him some questions,’ said Wat, walking over to the recumbent Hendig. ‘Oy,’ he said, pushing the body with his foot, ‘wake up.’

  Hendig tried to brush the push away with his hand, missing every time. Wat kept pushing and Hendig moved from unconscious resistance to conscious complaining. ‘Geroffme,’ he mumbled.