Edward Marston - The Owls of Gloucester

‘Then what is it?’

‘Disgust at the nature of this particular crime.’

‘We all share that disgust.’

‘Let me help you, my lord abbot,’ said Ralph, taking a step towards him. ‘What can you lose? If I fail, the worst that I will have been is a nuisance. If I succeed — and I usually do in such cases — the whole abbey will sleep more soundly in its bed.’

‘That is certainly a desired end,’ admitted the other. ‘It has been a shattering experience. We feel invaded. The sanctity of our church has been vitiated. One of my greatest ambitions is to build a fine new abbey church and this outrage has reinforced the strength of that ambition. I want the murderer to be caught swiftly so that we can begin to put this whole hideous business behind us.’

‘That is why you need me and Gervase Bret.’

‘I remain unconvinced.’

‘We have sharper eyes than the doughty sheriff.’

‘Prove it.’

‘Easily,’ said Ralph. ‘Durand still believes that Brother Nicholas was killed by one of the other monks. We do not. No member of the Order would defile consecrated ground in this way.’

‘I am glad that you agree with me on that point.’

‘Brother Nicholas was the one member of the community who went outside the enclave on a regular basis. That is where we must look for his killer. Among the tenants whose rents he collected and among the other people he would normally meet in the course of his travels. Does that not set us apart from Durand?’

he said, showing his palms again. ‘While the sheriff’s officers are causing havoc within the abbey, we will be out hunting the murderer where he is likely to be.’

Abbot Serlo pursed his lips as he studied Ralph afresh. After a full two minutes, he eventually reached a decision and indicated the bench.

‘Perhaps you had better sit down, after all,’ he said.

The meeting took place in the Precentor’s lodging, a room too small to accommodate all five of them with any comfort and obliging the novices to stand with their backs pressed up against the wall. Ranged against them were Canon Hubert, Gervase Bret and Brother Frewine, who looked less like an owl on this occasion, and more like a mother hen worried about the safety of her chicks.

The boys were deeply grateful that the Precentor was there to support them. Gervase’s manner was friendly but Canon Hubert’s bulk and stern judicial gaze made him an intimidating figure in such a cramped area. Hubert conducted the interrogation with Gervase acting as his interpreter and turning to Frewine each time he translated a question to collect his approval of the wording. While he could have wished for a less menacing inquisitor, Brother Owl had no reservations about the skill of the interpreter.

Kenelm and Elaf were tired and scared. They had already been subjected to close questioning by the abbot, the Master of the Novices, the Precentor and the sheriff. Hoping for some relief from the endless enquiries, they were disheartened to be hauled in front of Canon Hubert. Gervase did his best to gain their confidence by talking about his own time as a novice but the boys remained on guard and Kenelm, in particular, was difficult to draw out.

‘Ask them when they last saw Brother Nicholas,’ said Hubert.

Gervase translated and the boys looked blankly at each other.

‘Three days ago,’ prompted Frewine.

‘Let them answer for themselves,’ said Hubert.

‘Well?’ encouraged Gervase.

‘Three days ago,’ agreed Elaf.

‘Where?’

‘Here in the abbey.’

‘Where exactly?’

‘Crossing the cloister garth.’

‘Was he alone?’ asked Gervase.

‘Oh, yes, Master Bret.’

‘You sound as if Brother Nicholas was usually alone.’

‘He was.’

‘Why was that?’

Elaf looked guiltily across at Frewine. Hubert grew impatient.

‘What is he saying, Gervase?’

After translating for him, Gervase suggested that he be allowed to put a series of contiguous questions himself to speed up the examination and extract more out of the boys. Reluctant to yield up control, Hubert nevertheless saw the virtue in the proposal and accepted it. Gervase turned back to Elaf, still having a silent conversation with Frewine.

‘Tell me the truth,’ said Gervase softly.

‘Brother Nicholas …’ The boy faltered. ‘He preferred to be alone.’

‘You mean that the other monks did not like him?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’

‘That is not the case at all,’ said Frewine loyally.

‘The sheriff thinks otherwise,’ countered Gervase. ‘And with great respect, Brother Frewine, I would like to hear Elaf and Kenelm answer. They may perceive Brother Nicholas in ways that are different from you.’

‘Understandably.’

‘Is that not so, Kenelm?’ continued Gervase. ‘You have said little enough so far. Whom do you agree with here? Elaf or Brother Frewine? Do you think that Brother Nicholas was unpopular?’

‘Yes,’ murmured Kenelm.

‘Why was that?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Elaf?’

‘Nor me.’

‘But you must have some idea.’

‘We didn’t know Brother Nicholas very well.’

‘You knew him well enough to identify him in the cloister garth.

And you must have picked up the gossip. I know that I did during my novitiate. We were always searching hungrily for scraps of information about our holy brothers. Which ones were kind, which ones were critical, which ones sounded like wild animals caught in a snare whenever they tried to sing.’ Kenelm smiled and Elaf gave an involuntary giggle. ‘I see that you have some toneless monks here as well. We certainly did at Eltham. What sort of a voice did Brother Nicholas have?’

‘A funny one,’ volunteered Elaf.

‘Funny?’

‘He was not in the choir,’ explained Frewine quickly. ‘Brother Nicholas’s voice was not suited to choral singing, I fear. He had other virtues by way of compensation but his voice was a little odd.’

‘Odd?’

‘High and quavering.’

‘Could you not train it, Brother Frewine?’

‘I lacked both the time and the skill. My hands were already full getting the best out of the other choristers and making sure that two of them did not fall asleep during rehearsals.’ He threw a meaningful glance at the novices. ‘At least that will not happen again.’

‘No, Brother Frewine,’ promised Elaf.

‘Describe him to me,’ said Gervase to him. ‘In your own words.

How tall was Brother Nicholas?’

‘Not very tall.’

‘Short, then?’

‘No, not short. In the middle.’

‘Was he fat or thin?’

‘He was quite-’ His hands mimed a paunch but words failed him as he saw the generous expanse of Hubert’s midriff. ‘Wasn’t he, Brother Frewine?’

‘A little plump,’ conceded the Precentor.

‘Heavier than me, then?’ said Gervase.

‘Yes. Much heavier.’

Gervase nodded and ruled out the possibility of Brother Nicholas’s dead body having been carried up the ladder. Even someone as strong as Ralph Delchard would have difficulty coping with a substantially heavier load than Gervase represented. After breaking off to translate for the benefit of Canon Hubert, he resumed his questioning.

‘Let me turn to you, Kenelm.’ The boy gave a little shudder.

‘This is a fine abbey. Do you like it here?’ Kenelm nodded without conviction. ‘In other words, you like some things and don’t like others?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s only to be expected. It was so with me. I used to chafe at the loss of freedom. The sense of being trapped. Does that worry you?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘What about you, Elaf?’

‘Sometimes,’ echoed the other.