Ellis Peters - One Corpse Too Many

“So I did. It was not so difficult. I was a long time in the world. Will you taste my wine? It’s made from pears, when the crop’s good.”

“Gladly! And drink to your better success — against all opponents but Hugh Beringar.”

He was on his knees by then, unknotting the rope that bound his prize. One sack disgorged another, the second a third. It could not be said that he was feverish in his eagerness, or showed any particular greed, only a certain excited curiosity. Out of the third sack rolled a tight bundle of cloth, dark-coloured, that fell apart as it was freed from constriction, and shed two unmistakable sleeves across the earth floor. The white of a shirt showed among the tangle of dark colours, and uncurled to reveal three large, smooth stones, a coiled leather belt, a short dagger in a leather sheath. Last of all, out of the centre something hard and small and bright rolled and lay still, shedding yellow flashes as it moved, burning sullenly gold and silver when it lay still at Beringar’s feet.

And that was all.

On his knees, he stared and stared, in mute incomprehension, his black brows almost elevated into his hair, his dark eyes round with astonishment and consternation. There was nothing more to be read, in a countenance for once speaking volubly, no recoil, no alarm, no guilt. He leaned forward, and with a sweep of his hand parted all those mysterious garments, spread them abroad, gaped at them, and fastened on the stones. His eyebrows danced, and came down to their normal level, his eyes blazing understanding; he cast one glittering glance at Cadfael, and then he began to laugh, a huge, genuine laughter that shook him where he kneeled, and made the bunches of herbs bob and quiver over his head. A good, open, exuberant sound it was; it made Cadfael, even at this moment, shake and laugh with him.

“And I have been commiserating with you,” gasped Beringar, wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, like a child, “all this time, while you had this in store for me! What a fool I was, to think I could out-trick you, when I almost had your measure even then.”

“Here, drink this down,” urged Cadfael, offering the beaker he had filled. “To your own better success — with all opponents but Cadfael!”

Beringar took it, and drank heartily. “Well, you deserve that. You have the last laugh, but at least you lent it to me a while, and I shall never enjoy a better. What was it you did? How was it done? I swear I never took my eyes from you. You did draw up what that young man of yours had drowned there, I heard it rise, I heard the water run from it on the stone.”

“So I did, and let it down again, but very softly. This one I had ready in the boat. The other Godith and her squire drew up as soon as you and I were well on our way.”

“And have it with them now?” asked Beringar, momentarily serious.

“They have. By now, I hope, in Wales, where Owain Gwynedd’s hand will be over them.”

“So all the while you knew that I was watching and following you?”

“I knew you must, if you wanted to find your treasure. No one else could lead you to it. If you cannot shake off surveillance,” said Brother Cadfael sensibly, “the only thing to do is make use of it.”

‘“you certainly did. My treasure!” echoed Beringar, and looked it over and laughed afresh. “Well, now I understand Godith better. In a fair win and a fair defeat, she said, there should be no heartburning! And there shall be none!” He looked again, more soberly, at the things spread before him on the earth floor, and after some frowning thought looked up just as intently at Cadfael. “The stones and the sacks, anything to make like for like,” he said slowly, “that I understand. But why these? What are these things to do with me?”

“You recognise none of them — I know. They are nothing to do with you, happily for you and for me. These,” said Cadfael, stooping to pick up and shake out shirt and hose and cotte, “are the clothes Nicholas Faintree was wearing when he was strangled by night, in a hut in the woods above Frankwell, and thrown among the executed under the castle wall, to cover up the deed.”

“Your one man too many,” said Beringar, low-voiced.

“The same. Torold Blund rode with him, but they were separated when this befell. The murderer was waiting also for him, but with the second one he failed. Torold won away with his charge.”

“That part I know,” said Beringar. “The last he said to you, and you to him, that evening in the mill, that I heard, but no more.”

He looked long at the poor relics, the dark brown hose and russet cotte, a young squire’s best. He looked up at Cadfael, and eyed him steadily, very far from laughter now. “I understand. You put these together to spring upon me when I was unprepared — when I looked for something very different. For me to see, and recoil from my own guilt. If this happened the night after the town fell, I had ridden out alone, as I recall. And I had been in the town the same afternoon, and to say all, yes, I did gather more than she bargained for from Petronilla. I knew this was in the wind, that there were two in Frankwell waiting for darkness before they rode. Though what I was listening for was a clue to Godith, and that I got, too. Yes, I see that I might well be suspect. But do I seem to you a man who would kill, and in so foul a fashion, just to secure the trash those children are carrying away with them into Wales?”

“Trash?” echoed Cadfael, mildly and thoughtfully.

“Oh, pleasant to have, and useful, I know. But once you have enough of it for your needs, the rest of it is trash. Can you eat it, wear it, ride it, keep off the rain and the cold with it, read it, play music on it, make love to it?”

“You can buy the favour of kings with it,” suggested Cadfael, but very placidly.

“I have the king’s favour. He blows too many ways as his advisers persuade him, but left alone he knows a man when he finds one. And he demands unbecoming services when he’s angry and vengeful, but he despises those who run too servilely to perform, and never leave him time to think better of his vindictiveness. I was with him in his camp a part of that evening, he has accepted me to hold my own castles and border for him, and raise the means and the men in my own way, which suits me very well. Yes, I would have liked, when such a chance offered, to secure FitzAlan’s gold for him, but losing it is no great matter, and it was a good fight. So answer me, Cadfael, do I seem to you a man who would strangle his fellow-man from behind for money?”

“No! There were the circumstances that made it a possibility, but long ago I put that out of mind. You are no such man. You value yourself too high to value a trifle of gold above your self-esteem. I was as sure as man could well be, before I put it to the test tonight,” said Cadfael, “that you wished Godith well out of her peril, and were nudging my elbow with the means to get her away. To try at the same time for the gold was fair dealing enough. No, you are not my man. There is not much,” he allowed consideringly, “that I would put out of your scope, but killing by stealth is one thing I would never look for from you, now that I know you. Well, so you can’t help me. There’s nothing here to shake you, and nothing for you to recognise.”

“Not recognise — no, not that.” Beringar picked up the yellow topaz in its broken silver claw, and turned it thoughtfully in his hands. He rose, and held it to the lamp to examine it better. “I never saw it before. But for all that, my thumbs prick. This, after a fashion, I think I may know. I watched with Aline while she prepared her brother’s body for burial. All his things she put together and brought them, I think, to you to be given as aims, all but the shirt that was stained with his death-sweat. She spoke of something that was not there, but should have been there — a dagger that was hereditary in her family, and went always to the eldest son when he came of age. As she described it to me, I do believe this may be the great stone that tipped the hilt.” He looked up with furrowed brows. “Where did you find this? Not on your dead man!”