An Excellent Mystery (25 page)

The
thunder gathered and shrieked, one ear-bursting bellow. The lightning struck in
time with it, a blinding glare. Fidelis opened his drowned eyes in shock at the
blow, in time to see the thickest, oldest, most misshapen willow on the left
bank leap, split asunder in flame, wrench out half its roots from the
slithering, sodden shore, and burst into a tremendous blossom of fire, hurled
into midstream over them, and blazing as it fell.

Madog
flung himself forward over Humilis in the shell of the boat. Like a bolt from a
mangonel the shattered tree crashed down upon the bow of the skiff, smashed
through its sides and split it apart like a cracked egg. Trunk and boat and
cargo went down deep together into the murky waters. The fire died in an
immense hissing. Everything was dark, everything suddenly cold and in motion
and heavier than lead, dragging body and soul down among the weed and debris of
storm, turning and turning and drifting fast, drawn irresistibly towards the
ease and languor of death.

Fidelis
fought and kicked his way upward with bursting heart, against the comforting
persuasion of despair, the cramping, crippling weight of his habit, and the
swirling and battering of drifting branches and tangling weeds. He came to the
surface and drew deep breath, clutching at leaves that slid through his
fingers, and fastening greedily on a branch that held fast, and supported him
with his head above water. Gasping, he shook off water and opened his eyes upon
howling darkness. A cage of shattered branches surrounded and held him. Torn
but still tenacious roots anchored the willow, heaving and plunging, against
the surging current. A brychan from the boat wound itself about his arm like a
snake, and almost tore him from his hold. He dragged himself along the branch,
peering and straining after any glimpse of a floating hand, a pale face,
phantom-like in all that chaotic gloom.

A
fold of black cloth coiled past, driven through the threshing leaves. The end
of a sleeve surfaced, a pallid hand trailed by and went under again. Fidelis
loosed his hold, and launched himself after it, clear of the tree, diving
beneath the trammelling branches. The hem of the habit slid through his
fingers, but he got a grip on the billowing folds of the cowl, and struck out
towards the Frankwell shore to escape the trailing wreckage of the willow.
Clinging desperately, he shifted to a better hold, holding the lax body of
Humilis above him. Once they went down together. Then Madog was beside them,
hoisting the weight of the unconscious body from arms that could not have
sustained it longer.

Fidelis
drifted for a moment on the edge of acceptance, in an exhaustion which rendered
the idea of death perilously attractive. Better by far to let go, abandon
struggle, go wherever the current might take him.

And
the current took him and stranded him quite gently in the muddied grass of the
shore, and laid him face-down beside the body of Brother Humilis, over which
Madog of the Dead Boat was labouring all in vain.

The
rain slackened suddenly, briefly, the wind, which had the whistle of anguish on
its driving breath, subsided for an instant, and the demons of thunder rolled
and rumbled away downstream, leaving a breath of utter silence and almost
stillness, between frenzies. And piercing through the lull, a great scream of
deprivation and loss and grief shrilled aloft over Severn, startling the
hunched and silent birds out of the bushes, and echoing down the flood in a
long ululation from bank to bank, crying a bereavement beyond remedy.

Chapter Thirteen

NICHOLAS
WAS APPROACHING SHREWSBURY when the sky began to darken ominously, and he
quickened his pace in the hope of reaching shelter in the town before the storm
broke. But the first heavy drops fell as he reached the Foregate, and before
his eyes the street was emptied of life, all its inhabitants going to ground
within their houses, and closing doors and shutters against the rage to come.
By the time he rode past the gatehouse of the abbey, abandoning the thought of
waiting out the storm there, since he was now so close, the sky had opened, in
a downpour so opaque and blinding that he found himself veering from side to
side as he crossed the bridge, unable to steer a straight course. It seemed he
was the only man left in a depopulated town in an empty world, for there was
not another soul stirring.

Under
the arch of the town gate he halted to draw breath and clear his eyes, shaking
off the weight of the rain. The whole width of Shrewsbury lay between him and
the castle, but Hugh’s house by Saint Mary’s was no great distance, only up the
curve of the Wyle and the level street beyond. Hugh was as likely to be there
as at the castle. At least he could call in and ask, on his way through to the
High Cross, and the descent to the castle gatehouse. He could hardly get wetter
than he already was. He set off up the hill. Saner folk peered out through the
chinks in their shuttered windows, and watched him scurrying head-down through
the deluge. Overhead the thunder rolled and rattled round a sky dark as
midnight, and lightnings flickered, drawing the peals ever closer after them.
The horse was unhappy but well-trained, and pressed on obedient but quivering
with fear.

The
gates of Hugh’s courtyard stood open, there was a degree of shelter under the lee
of the house, and as soon as hooves were heard on the cobbles the hall door
opened, and a groom came haring across from the stables to take the horse to
cover. Aline stood peering anxiously out into the murky gloom, and beckoned the
traveller in.

“Before
you drown, sir,” she said, all concern, as Nicholas plunged into the shelter of
the doorway and let fall his streaming cloak, to avoid bringing it within. They
stood looking earnestly at each other, for the light was too dim for instant
recognition. Then she tilted her head, recaptured a memory, and smiled. “You
are Nicholas Harnage! You came here with Hugh, when first you came to
Shrewsbury. I remember now. Forgive such a slow welcome back, but I am not used
to midnight in the afternoon. Come within, and let me find you some dry clothes
— though I fear Hugh’s will be a tight fit for you.”

He
was warmed by her candour and kindness, but it could not divert him from the
black intensity of his purpose here. He looked beyond her, where Constance
hovered, clutching her tyrant Giles firmly by the hand, for fear he should
mistake the deluge for a new amusement, and dart out into it.

“The
lord sheriff is not here? I must see him as soon as may be. I bring grim news.”

“Hugh
is at the castle, but he’ll come by evening. Can it not wait? At least until
this storm blows by. It cannot last long.”

No,
he could not wait. He would go on the rest of the way, fair or foul. He thanked
her, almost ungraciously in his preoccupation, swung the wet cloak about him
again, took back his horse from the groom, and was off again at a trot towards
the High Cross. Aline sighed, shrugged, and went in, closing the door on the
chaos without. Grim news! What could that mean? Something to do with King
Stephen and Robert of Gloucester? Had the attempts at an exchange foundered? Or
was it something to do with that young man’s personal quest? Aline knew the
bare bones of the story, and felt a mild, rueful interest — a girl set free by
her affianced husband, a favoured squire sent to tell her so, and too modest or
too sensitive to pursue at once the attraction he felt towards her on his own
account. Was the girl alive or dead? Better to know, once for all, than to go
on tormented by uncertainty. But surely ‘grim news’ could only mean the worst.

Nicholas
reached the High Cross, spectral through the streaming rain, and turned down
the slight slope towards the castle, and the broad ramp to the gatehouse. Water
lay ankle-deep in the outer ward, draining off far too slowly to keep pace with
the flood. A sergeant leaned out from the guard-room, and called the stranger
within.

“The
lord sheriff? He’s in the hall. If you bear round into the inner ward close to
the wall you’ll escape the worst. I’ll have your horse stabled. Or wait a while
here in the dry, if you choose, for this can’t last for ever…”

But
no, he could not wait. The ring burned in his pouch, and the acid bitterness in
his mind. He must get his tale at once to the ears of authority, and his teeth
into the throat of Adam Heriet. He dared not stop hating, or the remaining
grief became more than he could stand. He bore down on Hugh in the huge dark
hall with the briefest of greetings and the most abrupt of challenges, an
unkempt apparition, his wet brown hair plastered to forehead and temples, and water
streaking his face.

“My
lord, I’m back from Winchester, with plain proof Julian is dead and her goods
made away with long ago. And we must leave all else and turn every man you have
here and I can raise in the south, to hunt down Adam Heriet. It was his doing —
Heriet and his hired murderer, some footpad paid for his work with the price of
Julian’s jewellery. Once we lay hands on him, he won’t be able to deny it. I
have proof, I have witnesses that he said himself she was dead!”

“Come,
now!” said Hugh, his eyes rounding. “That’s a large enough claim. You’ve been a
busy man in the south, I see, but so have we here. Come, sit, and let’s have
the full story. But first, let’s have those wet clothes off you, and find you a
man who matches, before you catch your death.” He shouted for the servants, and
sent them running for towels and coats and hose.

“No
matter for me,” protested Nicholas feverishly, catching at his arm. “What
matters is the proof I have, that fits only one man, to my mind, and he going
free, and God knows where…”

“Ah,
but Nicholas, if it’s Adam Heriet you’re after, then you need fret no longer.
Adam Heriet is safe behind a locked door here in the castle, and has been for a
matter of days.”

“You
have him? You found Heriet? He’s taken?” Nicholas drew deep and vengeful
breath, and heaved a great sigh.

“We
have him, and he’ll keep. He has a sister married to a craftsman in Brigge, and
was visiting his kin like any honest man. Now he’s the sheriff’s guest, and
stays so until we have the rights of it, so no more sweat for him.”

“And
have you got any part of it out of him? What has he said?”

“Nothing
to the purpose. Nothing an honest man might not have said in his place.”

“That
shall change,” said Nicholas grimly, and allowed himself to notice his own
sodden condition for the first time, and to accept the use of the small chamber
provided him, and the clothes put at his disposal. But he was half into his
tale before he had dried his face and his tousled hair and shrugged his way
into dry garments.

“…
never a trace anywhere of the church ornaments, which should be the most
notable if ever they were marketed. And I was in two minds whether it was worth
enquiring further, when the man’s wife came in, and I knew the ring she was
wearing for Julian’s. No, that’s to press it too far, I know — say rather I saw
that it fitted only too well the description we had of Julian’s. You remember?
Enamelled all round with flowers in yellow and blue…”

“I
have the whole register by heart,” said Hugh drily.

“Then
you’ll see why I was so sure. I asked where she got it, and she said it was
brought into the shop for sale along with two other pieces of jewellery, by a
man about fifty years old. Three years back, on the twentieth day of August,
for that was the day of her birth, and she asked the ring as a present, and got
it from her husband. And the other two pieces, both sold since, they described
to me as a necklace of polished stones and a silver bracelet engraved with
sprays of vetch or pease. Three such, and all together! They could only be
Julian’s.”

Hugh
nodded emphatic agreement to that. “And the man?”

“The
description the woman gave me fits what little I have been told of Adam Heriet,
for till now I have not seen him. Fifty years old, tanned from living outdoor
like forester or huntsman… You have seen him, you know more. Brown-bearded she
said and balding, a face of oak… Is that in tune?”

“To
the letter and the note.”

“And
the ring I have. Here, see! I asked it of the woman for this need, and she
trusted me with it, though she valued it and would not sell, and I must give it
back — when its work is done! Could this be mistaken?”

“It
could not. Cruce and all his household will confirm it, but truth, we hardly
need them. Is there more?”

“There
is! For the jeweller questioned the ownership, seeing these were all a woman’s
things, and asked if the lady who owned them had no further use for them. And
the man said, as for the lady who had owned them, no, she had no further use
for them, seeing she was dead!”

“He
said so? Thus baldly?”

“He
did. Wait, there’s more! The woman was a little curious about him, and followed
him out of the shop when he left. And she saw him meet with a young fellow who
was lurking by the wall outside, and give something over to him — a part of the
money or the whole, or so she thought. And when they were aware of her
watching, they slipped away round the corner out of sight, very quickly.”

“All
this she will testify to?”