The Medieval Murderers - The First Murder

‘Who do you think killed Pontius?’ she asked of Foliot.

The priest shook his head slowly. ‘I believe it was an accident, and your bad-tempered mason gave a false report to make trouble. As Norrys says, the castle is unstable, and there have been similar incidents on the walls.’

‘ Hurso’s death was not an accident, though,’ pressed Gwenllian. ‘Who killed him?’

Foliot swallowed hard. ‘I do not know.’

‘Gerald?’ asked Gwenllian baldly.

‘No,’ replied Foliot, but he would not meet her eyes. He glanced at Osbert, though, and the archdeacon looked away quickly. ‘Gerald is proud and haughty, but I do not believe… murder is a terrible sin… He is bishop elect!’ He all but wailed the last words.

‘The culprit must be Robert,’ said Osbert, although he did not sound convinced. ‘He is a spiteful lad. Or perhaps it is Norrys, because he wants Cole disgraced.’

‘You believe Dunstan and Luci innocent, then?’

Osbert shrugged, and another glance was exchanged. Gwenllian lost patience.

‘What do you two know that you are not telling me?’ she demanded. ‘It is no time for games, because we shall all suffer if Norrys tells the King that it is Symon’s fault.’

‘We know nothing,’ objected Foliot in a strangled voice. ‘We just have suspicions and… I cannot say more. However, I promise I will tell you the moment we have solid proof.’

‘Solid proof of what?’ snapped Gwenllian, but Foliot would not be budged. He raced away in relief when Gerald shouted for him.

‘He is a good man,’ said Osbert, rubbing a hand absently over his bald head. ‘I have known him for years. It is a pity he is so shy, because the Church needs men of integrity in its upper ranks. Do not press him to speak before he is ready, my lady. He is not a man to besmirch the name of another without incontrovertible evidence.’

Frustrated and angry, Gwenllian hoped it would not be too late.

Although Luci had also been exonerated – from killing Hurso, at least – Gwenllian cornered him next. The scholarly knight seemed observant, and she was hopeful that he might have some intelligent observations to make.

‘I have been making enquiries,’ he confided. ‘Although with scant success. I hope the matter is resolved before we leave, because I dislike the prospect of travelling all the way to Canterbury with three men who suspect each other of a double murder.’

‘So you believe the killer is Dunstan, Robert or Norrys?’ pounced Gwenllian.

‘Or Gerald, but they will forget about him once we are on our way.’

He had no more to add, so she let him go, warning him to be on his guard if he planned to ask questions. He grinned at her, amused that she should think he might not know how to look after himself.

‘Luci has changed since we were at Oseney,’ said Gerald, coming to stand next to her. ‘He was much more light-hearted then. Perhaps being with Dunstan has worn him down. Or Norrys, who is a beast. I pity Carmarthen if he ever rules it again.’

‘I do not intend to let that happen.’

‘You may have no choice. However, I shall write to King John and say that these deaths are not your husband’s fault. Dunstan is the guilty party – he murdered Pontius out of spite, and then he killed Hurso to disguise the fact.’

‘Why would he do such a thing?’

‘To harm me, of course. He hates the notion of returning to Canterbury and confessing that he has failed to convince St Davids to choose another candidate. He hopes that these murders will horrify me into withdrawing from the contest.’

‘Then he does not know you very well,’ said Gwenllian wryly.

‘No,’ agreed Gerald. ‘He tried to bully me in Oseney too – he engineered a meeting for that express purpose, but I soon put him in his place. He is a vile man, and it would not surprise me to learn that he killed that old man – Canon Wilfred – too.’

‘I heard about that. Was Wilfred dispatched with poisoned wine?’

‘He had been guzzling from a jug of his own, but he knocked it over in his death throes, which meant we could not test it. Dunstan must have been relieved.’

‘But why would Dunstan want to kill Wilfred?’

‘To blame the murder on me, of course. It did not work, because I left Oseney before accusations could be levelled.’

Gwenllian watched him walk away. It sounded as though Gerald had beat a very hasty retreat from Oseney Abbey. Had he been fleeing the scene of the crime?

Cole returned at noon, cold, wet and tired. He reported that the streets were quiet, but bread was still expensive and the poor were still outraged by the merchants’ profiteering. The trouble was far from over.

‘Would you like me to tell these greedy tradesmen that they will go to Hell unless they adopt a more reasonable position?’ offered Prior Dunstan.

‘Osbert has already tried that,’ said Cole. ‘It did not work.’

‘They said they would repent at the next confession, and then all would be well,’ explained the archdeacon unhappily, ‘because we have a forgiving God.’

‘I can disavow them of that notion,’ said Dunstan keenly. ‘I have had many a congregation quailing in its boots at my descriptions of Satan’s Palace.’

‘No,’ said Cole firmly. ‘They do not deserve that.’

‘As you wish,’ said Dunstan huffily. ‘Incidentally, I hope you have not forgotten these vicious murders in all the excitement of the riots. I do not want another of my party to die.’

Cole glanced hopefully at Gwenllian, and she hated having to shake her head to say she was still no further forward. She took the opportunity to question the prior.

‘I have been hearing tales about Canon Wilfred this morning,’ she began. ‘How he was fed poisoned wine.’

‘Who has been gossiping?’ demanded Dunstan. ‘Gerald, I suppose! Well, it is all lies. Wilfred died of natural causes. Robert did not conspire to avenge himself on a demanding, critical and harsh master.’

‘I see,’ she said, thinking it was a curious denial – one that made it sound as though there might be good reason to see young Robert as the culprit. Or was it a sly ruse to detract attention from Dunstan himself? ‘So Wilfred was not drinking wine when he died?’

‘He was – a large jug of expensive claret intended for the abbot’s guests.’ Dunstan’s frown was thoughtful. ‘Yet perhaps I am wrong to say he died a natural death. Perhaps God struck him down for depriving me of a delicious treat.’

‘And the Carmarthen murders?’ asked Gwenllian. ‘Who are your suspects for those?’

‘I only have one: Gerald. He killed Pontius because they never really saw eye to eye, no matter what he claims now. And he killed Hurso, because he knew I would be distraught to lose my secretary.’

The prior had not seemed distraught to Gwenllian. She studied him closely, but could read nothing in his face. Uneasy under scrutiny, Dunstan bowed and moved away.

‘Is he the culprit?’ asked Cole, staring after him. ‘He was suspiciously determined to blame someone else.’

‘They have all been doing that,’ sighed Gwenllian. Then she spoke more urgently. ‘Go and do something outside, Symon. Quickly! Norrys is coming, and he has been drinking all morning. He looks set for a fight.’

‘Then he shall have one, because I am not running away from him in my own castle.’

Before Gwenllian could explain the difference between running away and a prudent retreat, Norrys was there. His pugilistic face was twisted into a sneer, which looked odd with the stately robes he had donned to play Nebuchadnezzar. Cole regarded him askance, and Norrys’s realisation that he looked absurd did nothing to improve his temper.