‘That seems pretty clear then,’ said Hermitage, reluctantly.
‘Yes,’ said Wat, ‘Gilder was indeed bashed to death.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Well, now that we’ve found that out, back to the inn for a relaxing day, nice meal, early bed and off in the morning.’
Cwen looked down at the sheriff who was now on his hands and knees thumping the ground with his fist, perhaps to make the laughter less painful. ‘I fancy venison,’ she said.
‘But, but,’ Hermitage butted, ‘Gilder was murdered.’
‘Could be,’ said Cwen.
‘Could be?’ Hermitage asked, ‘What do you mean, could be? He was bashed on the head until his insides came out. How does that happen except by murder?’
‘Accident?’ Wat suggested.
‘Accident?’ Hermitage was incredulous.
‘Yes, you know, he was in a situation when having his brains bashed out was a risk and he didn’t take the proper precautions.’
‘Such as?’ Hermitage folded his arms and looked forward to the explanation.
‘I don’t know, do I?’ Wat complained. ‘Could have been run over by a cart.’
‘Over and over, the sheriff said,’ Hermitage pointed out. ‘He was run over and over and over by a cart?’
‘These things happen,’ Cwen was nonchalant, ‘particularly if you’re not popular.’
Hermitage looked at her, wide eyed. ‘No, they don’t,’ he insisted. ‘It seems perfectly clear that someone did for Gilder.’
‘Alright,’ Wat acknowledged the conclusion, albeit reluctantly, ‘perhaps someone did.’
‘Perhaps?’ Hermitage thought there was no doubt.
‘Definitely then. We’ve found out he was murdered, that’s that.’
‘Leave it to the sheriff,’ Cwen nodded to the crumpled shape at their feet.
Hermitage looked at the sheriff and then at the two of them.
‘A great sin has been committed,’ Hermitage said, with due solemnity.
‘Then you should get away as fast as possible,’ said Wat, ‘after all, you’re a monk. Supposed to keep away from sin, monks are.’
‘That’s personally.’ Hermitage explained, ‘If we see it in others we’re supposed to deal with it.’
‘So,’ said Wat, with a heavy sigh, ‘if we find out that the death is being looked into we can leave them to get on with it and be on our way.’
‘I suppose so,’ Hermitage allowed. He felt the conflict turning him over. He didn’t want to be King’s Investigator yet here he was, presented with a murder. He couldn’t ignore it, no conscientious Christian should do that, investigator or not. Yet there was good reason to walk away. Shrewsbury was a large place with its own sheriff, they would be perfectly capable of looking into a murder and taking the appropriate action without the interference of a monk.
They must have procedures for this sort of thing, disputes often led to violence and the wergild had to be paid to the victim’s family. There was law and there was enforcement and that was exactly the sheriff’s job. And the Ealdorman of the place. But then the sheriff was drunk and Gilder, who might well have been the Ealdorman, was dead. Perhaps Hermitage had better just make sure the town was starting off on the right foot. No need to mention that he was the King’s Investigator.
‘So,’ he said, ‘do we ask the sheriff how the murder is being dealt with?’
They looked down at the sheriff whose entire life force seemed to have been used up in the fit of laughter. He was now little more than a heap on the floor, gently shaking every now and again and emitting the odd whimper.
Cwen and Wat knelt and got the man back up into a sitting position.
His face was wet with tears but there was a look of exhaustion about him. If there was more laughter inside it didn’t look like he had the energy to get it out.
Hermitage looked at him with a serious face. ‘What is being done about the murder?’
The sheriff looked very puzzled. ‘Done about it?’ he asked, his voice merely a croaked whisper, the laughter having taken its strength.
‘Yes,’ Hermitage went on, ‘who is looking into it?’
This clearly helped the sheriff in no way whatsoever; he looked positively lost.
‘Gilder was murdered. That must be investi-, er, looked into.’
‘Must it?’ the sheriff asked.
‘Of course. If a man of Shrewsbury has been murdered, surely you must find out who did it?’
This seemed to be a completely new concept to the sheriff. ‘We could, I suppose.’
Hermitage was finding the sheriff’s responses most unhelpful. ‘What happens when there is a dispute, or a fight, and someone dies? What do you do then?’
The sheriff shrugged. ‘Gilder usually sorts it out.’
‘And now that Gilder is dead?’ Hermitage encouraged.
‘Er...’ The sheriff had no answer.
‘Perhaps the sheriff?’ Cwen suggested.
The sheriff’s face lit up slightly at the answer being given to him. It then went out again as he appeared to recall who the sheriff was.
‘Look into the death you say?’ he asked Hermitage, who nodded. ‘Find out who did it.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Identify the murderer and bring them to justice.’
‘Exactly.’ Hermitage was glad the sheriff was getting the idea.
‘Consider things and locate the killer of Gilder?’
Hermitage nodded.
The sheriff looked into the distance as he contemplated the idea. ‘I don’t think we’ll bother,’ he said.
Hermitage had no answer to this at all. What did the man mean, not bother? How could you not bother?
‘What do you mean, not bother?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ the sheriff went on, ‘you know, he’s dead and all. No point raking things over.’
‘No point raking things over?’ Hermitage was positively outraged. If ever there was a time for the raking over of things, immediately after a murder was it. Surely?
‘Yes,’ the sheriff nodded at his sensible decision.
‘The man has been murdered. There is someone out there who killed him.’
‘That’s right.’ The sheriff was quite happy with this conclusion.
‘Who you need to find.’
‘Why?’ The sheriff gave it thought. ‘I suppose we could give him a reward or something.’
Hermitage was gaping. There were so many reasons why you had to find a murderer and none of them involved giving rewards. He couldn’t work out which words to get out of his mouth first. And he’d felt safe being behind the walls of the town! The whole place was mad.
‘Perhaps the killer might do it to someone else?’ Wat offered.
‘Shouldn’t think so,’ the sheriff concluded. ‘Gilder was special, you know.’
There was a pause during which Hermitage could not think what to say, which was very unusual.
‘And to be honest,’ the sheriff spoke conspiratorially, ‘everyone’s quite glad he’s dead.’
‘Yes,’ said Cwen, ‘we picked up on that.’
‘But, but,’ said Hermitage, ‘that’s no reason to let a murderer go loose.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No, of course it isn’t.’
‘Sounds like a reason to me,’ said the sheriff.
‘By that argument, if the town wanted someone dead he’d be killed and nothing would be done.’ Hermitage’s squeak was getting a life of its own.
‘That’d be very organised,’ the sheriff observed.
‘Who’s going to pay compensation to Gilder’s family?’ Hermitage asked. Surely that was a very practical reason for finding a murderer.
‘Ha,’ the sheriff’s laugh was contemptuous this time, ‘his family don’t need compensation. They got too much money already. Anyway, there’s only his son Balor, and he’s as delighted the old man’s dead as the rest of us. I don’t think he’ll want the whole business looked into.’
Hermitage had learned to recognise a dead end when he came to one. This so-called sheriff clearly had no interest in locating a killer in their midst. Outrageous. He would have to take this to a higher authority.
‘Do you have a town moot?’ he asked. A place the size of Shrewsbury must be organised properly. There was bound to be a moot of the important townsfolk where decisions were made and justice handed down. They might even have a proper court.
The sheriff seemed surprised by the question. ‘Yes we do,’ he said, a thoughtful look on his face. ‘But I don’t think they did it. They’re all pretty old.’
‘I am not saying they did it,’ Hermitage pointed out with his usual patience. ‘I am suggesting we talk to them about finding this killer.’
‘Can if you like,’ the sheriff shrugged, ‘but they’re mostly pleased Gilder’s dead as well. Gets him out of their hair.’
‘When do they meet?’ Hermitage persisted.
The sheriff smiled his drunken smile. ‘Every day at the moment. The celebration hasn’t really stopped since we got the news.’
Wat leant forward and caught the sheriff’s eye. ‘Perhaps they’d like a tapestry to commemorate the happy event? You know, some great work to hang on the walls?’
‘Very great,’ Cwen added, ‘mark the occasion down the years.’
The sheriff grinned at this. ‘That’s a really good idea,’ he said. Wat and Cwen smiled. ‘We were talking about doing something. Old Granley suggested a statue for the middle of the town showing Gilder all dead and everything, but no one had any idea if a sculptor could do brains. Could you do brains?’
‘I’m sure we could if we had something to work from,’ said Wat, with a sly glance at Hermitage.
‘And,’ the sheriff added, ‘no one knows a sculptor anyway.’
‘Where is Gilder at the moment?’ Cwen picked up the thread.
‘Still in his house,’ the sheriff confirmed.
‘Not buried yet then?’ Hermitage checked, with some surprise.
‘No. We wanted to make sure he was really dead and this wasn’t another one of his horrible tricks. Fool people into thinking he’s dead before he pops up right as rain.’
‘And are you sure he’s dead then?’
‘Judging from the smell, I’d say we was pretty certain now.’
‘So you have access to the house?’
‘I am the sheriff.’ The sheriff hiccoughed.
Hermitage paused before asking the next question. During the pause, Wat leaped in. ‘Can we have a look then?’ He smiled.
‘What?’ The sheriff was shocked. ‘At Gilder?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You want to look at Gilder now he’s dead.’
‘Yes,’ Wat nodded encouragement.
‘At his body and all?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Bit odd, isn’t it?’
‘It is a bit, but if we’re going to make an accurate tapestry,’ said Wat.
The sheriff looked around him in bewilderment that he was being asked such a thing. He looked up and down the road to see if anyone was nearby to hear this outrageous request.
He beckoned Wat to come close. ‘Shilling,’ he said, quietly.
‘What is?’
‘To see the body, it’s a shilling.’
‘Is it?’
‘Oh yes. Lots of people want to see Gilder dead, something they’ve been looking forward to for years. Can’t have the whole town tramping through the place, not decent, so a modest charge keeps the numbers down.’
‘A shilling?’ Hermitage was horrified. ‘Modest?’
‘Plenty willing to pay,’ the sheriff observed.
‘And keeps you in mead,’ Cwen snorted.
‘Do you want to see the body or not?’
Hermitage was disgusted at this corruption of death. It was bad enough that the entire population appeared to be glorying in the demise of a human being, but to be charging to see the body really was going too far.
‘I think we shall discuss the matter with the town moot first,’ he said, letting his disappointment with the sheriff come out in his voice.
‘Please yourself.’ The sheriff did not seem concerned. ‘They’ve already paid their shillings. Wanted to see him fresh like.’
Hermitage was too bewildered by all of this to function normally.
‘So, where’s this moot then?’ Cwen asked.
‘Don’t know about you,’ said the sheriff, with a tone used for idiots, ‘but we have our moots in the moot hall.’
‘Alright,’ said Cwen, stepping forward to tread heavily on the sheriff’s foot, ‘where’s the moot hall?’
‘Ow,’ the sheriff glared at Cwen. ‘Alright, alright, I’ll take you there. Get off me foot.’
Cwen stepped back and they helped the sheriff back to his feet.
After checking that he could stay on them without the ground rising up again, the sheriff led them slowly up the street.
Hermitage, Wat and Cwen followed.
Wat spoke directly to Hermitage, ‘As far as the moot know we are here to propose a tapestry.’
Hermitage frowned at Wat.
‘It sounds like the whole town is delighted that Gilder is dead and the last thing they’ll want is it being investigated.’
Hermitage tutted. This was not right at all.
‘So we make some very subtle suggestions that the death seems to be a bit of a mystery and perhaps it could be looked into. You remember subtle, Hermitage?’ he checked. ‘We talked about it?’
Hermitage nodded at the reminder.
‘And if the town moot of Shrewsbury says thank you very much, but no thank you, we go on our way, yes?’
Cwen nodded enthusiastically.
‘But-’ Hermitage began.
‘But nothing. We cannot go pushing our noses into their business.’
‘Why not? If it’s the right thing to do?’ Hermitage was always very strong on the right thing to do. Wat and Cwen never seemed quite so keen.
‘Because there are a lot more of them than there are of us. They have weapons and guards and a sheriff, albeit he’s fairly useless. They might decide to simply throw us out of town, or they might decide something a bit more memorable is necessary.’ Wat’s look made it clear that something a bit more memorable would not be a pleasant option.
‘We’ll see,’ said Hermitage. He was confident that, once presented with the situation in a clear manner, the moot would see the necessity of finding a killer. At the back of his mind a small voice said that things Hermitage was confident about seldom came to pass. Hermitage was well used to ignoring the small voices.
After a few paces up the road the group of children who had been in the inn gathered around them. They clearly had some news, but were all shouting it at once so it was impossible to tell what was going on. They seemed very happy about something though.
Hermitage smiled at the innocent joys of childhood, but then recalled what their song had been about and started to worry what the latest development might be.
They all gathered in front of the sheriff and were clearly pleading with him about something.
Tom, the leader, held out his hands which were full of coins. ‘We’ve begged a shilling,’ he announced proudly. ‘Can we have a look now?’