Edward Marston - The Owls of Gloucester

‘That is slander!’ said Hubert.

‘It is the truth.’

‘I can vouch for that,’ said Balki. ‘You have two witnesses here.’

Strang glowered. ‘I have not been the only person in this county to suffer. Consult the returns from the first commissioners. The name of Hamelin appeared many times regarding land which he did not acquire by legal means. He is a master of unjust seizure.

Because he is rich and powerful, most people are too frightened to resist him, let alone challenge him openly. I am not.’

‘Nor,’ observed Ralph, ‘is Abraham the Priest.’

‘Not to mention Querengar the Breton,’ Gervase reminded them.

‘Both of them are prepared to stand up against Hamelin of Lisieux and, of course, against you.’

Strang was about to issue a tart rejoinder but Balki put a hand on his arm to restrain him. He contrived his most obsequious smile yet.

‘My master is sorry if his passion spills over but he has been most grievously treated. He looks to you for retribution. Now,’ he said, gazing at each of them in turn, ‘you have the charter before you. We have a dozen witnesses who will vouch for the fact that the land in question was once — and still should be — the property of Strang the Dane. How else can we convince you of the strength of our claim?’

Though he took his duties very seriously, Brother Frewine carried them lightly. Since he was in charge of the church services, the Precentor was the most important of the obedientiaries. It fell to him to arrange the daily services, to take charge of the abbey’s music, to teach the monks how to sing, to decide the readings in church and to provide materials for the repair of books from the choir and the cloister. Responsibilities which would have weighed heavily on a lesser man were discharged with ease by a man whose philosophical calm was the envy of his holy brothers.

‘Are the funeral arrangements complete, Brother Frewine?’

‘Yes, Father Abbot.’

‘I will not pretend that I am looking forward to the service.’

‘No more am I. The nature of Brother Nicholas’s death makes it a peculiarly sad occasion. But I am sure,’ he said with gentle sincerity, ‘that you will find exactly the right words of consolation.’

‘I hope so, Brother Frewine.’

‘You have a gift, Father Abbot.’

‘I pray to God that it will not desert me now.’

They were in the abbot’s lodging and, in the course of a busy morning, the Precentor somehow found the time to visit Serlo with a request. When they had discussed the details of the funeral service, he raised the subject which had brought him there.

‘I came in search of your permission, Father Abbot.’

‘To what end?’

‘It concern’s Brother Nicholas’s cell,’ explained Frewine. ‘I know that it was searched by the sheriff’s officers and that you gave orders for it to be swept clean. But the officers did not really know where to look and those who went in with brooms were too scared to stay there long enough to be thorough.’

‘Too scared?’

‘To linger in the cell of a murder victim.’

‘Why?’

‘They are superstitious.’

‘Superstition has no place in a religious house,’ said Serlo with uncharacteristic acerbity. ‘God has cleared our minds of such nonsense. I am glad you brought this to my attention, Brother Frewine. Who were the weak vessels? Name them to me and I will make sure they go back to sweep and scrub the cell properly.’

‘That is not my request, Father Abbot,’ said the other with an appeasing smile. ‘Give me a broom and I will gladly do their office for them. No, what I seek is permission to search the cell. Not that I expect to find anything,’ he added quickly, ‘but at least I would know where to look. The sheriff’s officers would have been repelled by the very bareness of Brother Nicholas’s abode. I doubt if they gave it more than a cursory glance. I have lived in this abbey many years, remember.’

‘More than any of us. What has it taught you?’

‘That secretive people can often find the most ingenious hiding places and Brother Nicholas was unduly secretive.’

‘Granted. But what would he have to hide?’

‘Who knows until we find it?’

‘Do you really expect that there is anything to find?’

‘I am not sure, Father Abbot,’ admitted Frewine, ‘but it worries me that we are leaving this investigation to the sheriff and, it now seems, to the royal commissioners. Forgive me for saying so, but we should not be absolved from the duty of searching for evidence ourselves. After all, we knew Brother Nicholas and that surely gives us an advantage over anyone else.’

Abbot Serlo watched him shrewdly for a few moments, hands clasped and forefingers meeting at the tiny cleft of his chin. Frewine waited patiently like an owl perched on the branch of a tree.

‘There is something behind this,’ said the abbot at length.

‘A desire to solve a dreadful crime.’

‘Something else. Something you are not telling me.’

‘I am not dissembling, Father Abbot.’

‘Of course not, I accept that.’ His forefingers tapped his chin.

‘Let me approach it another way. What first put this idea into your head?’

‘The need for a motive.’

‘Motive?’

‘Why was Brother Nicholas murdered?’

‘You obviously have your own theory on the matter.’

‘I believe the killer wanted something from him.’

‘What was it?’

‘I wish I knew, Father Abbot.’

‘Brother Nicholas had nothing of his own. Like the rest of us, he took a vow of poverty. No earthly possessions. The only thing a killer could take from him was his own life.’

‘You are probably right,’ sighed the Precentor.

‘But you would still like to search his cell.’

‘With your permission, Father Abbot,’ he said respectfully. ‘And I promise to sweep it clean before I leave.’

‘It will be a wasted visit. You realise that?’

‘I do.’

‘You will search in vain.’

‘I know.’

‘So why do you bother?’

‘To put my mind at rest.’

‘Instinct tells me that you will not find a thing.’

‘I, too, am impelled by instinct.’

Serlo was cautious. ‘But if, by chance, you do,’ he said, locking eyes with his Precentor, ‘send for me at once.’

Hamelin of Lisieux took them all by surprise. Having seen his name recurring time and again in the returns for the county sent to the Exchequer in Wiltshire, they knew him as a leading landholder and one of the few who actually lived in Gloucestershire itself. Hamelin was no absentee landlord. His manor was at the heart of the county. Strang the Dane painted his portrait in such dark colours that they half-expected Hamelin to prance into the shire hall on cloven feet, swishing his forked tail behind him. No such malignant creature appeared. The man who sailed in to greet them was a tall, well-favoured, elegant Norman lord in his forties, immaculately dressed and accompanied by his wife, Emma, a woman of such startling loveliness that she caused Ralph Delchard’s jaw to drop in wonderment and Canon Hubert’s eyebrows to shoot up in disbelief. Even Gervase was momentarily taken aback, but it was Brother Simon who suffered the greatest impact, recoiling from her beauty as if from a physical assault and screwing his whole body into a tight ball so that more of it could be comprehensively covered by his cowl.

With a grace singularly lacking in his Danish predecessor, Hamelin introduced himself and his wife then left Emma to distribute a generous smile between the four men behind the table. Ralph responded with a broad grin but his scribe yelped like a branded animal. The newcomers were waved to seats on the front bench then Ralph went through the preliminaries, introducing his companions and explaining the methods they would adopt during their inquiry. He also found himself apologising profusely for the dinginess of the hall and the inadequacy of the seating arrangements. Both man and wife were clearly accustomed to far more comfortable surroundings than those they now shared with the four commissioners.