The Elephants of Norwich (9 page)

Progress was slower than Ralph Delchard expected. After riding at a steady pace from Norwich, he and his companions eventually came to broadland and were obliged to follow a tortuous track that snaked its way between the recurring expanses of water. Sheep held sway on the marshes, looking up with dull unconcern as the travellers passed before returning to the important task of foraging for grass. Salt pans appeared from time to time and the occasional windmill waved its sails at them in the stiff breeze. One of the lakes was so large that they wondered if they had reached the coast, but dry land stretched out on the far side of it. Men were busy in the freshwater fisheries. A lone thatcher was spotted, gathering a supply of reeds. Birds dipped, wheeled or waded in the shallows. Gilded by the sun, it was a tranquil scene but it merely served to irritate Ralph.
    ‘I’ve never seen so much water,’ he complained. ‘It would be quicker for us to swim there than ride on horseback.’
    ‘The site was chosen with a purpose, my lord,’ said Brother Daniel.
    ‘Yes – to annoy me.’
    ‘The abbey was founded long before you were born. King Cnut deliberately had it built in a remote spot so that the monks would be free from interruption and isolated from the temptations of the world.’
    ‘There aren’t many temptations here,’ said Ralph, looking around. ‘Unless you want to chase sheep or catch one of those wading birds. Why should anyone want to live in such a place? What do the monks
do
all day, Brother Daniel?’
    ‘Serve God, my lord.’
    ‘In this wilderness?’
    ‘An ideal place for contemplation.’
    ‘All that I wish to contemplate is the abbey itself. This ride has left me hungry. I hope that the abbot’s larder is well stocked. I’m in need of refreshment.’
    Ralph and Brother Daniel were riding beside each other. The monk was an indifferent horseman but he clung on bravely and ignored the pounding on his buttocks. Behind them, the six knights rode in pairs, their harness jingling as they trotted briskly along, their profiles mirrored in the water that stretched out all around them.
    ‘How many of these ponds are there?’ said Ralph in exasperation. ‘I’d have thought that God would have grown tired of making them in such profusion.’
    ‘I’m not sure that they’re natural, my lord.’
    ‘What else can they be, Brother Daniel?’
    ‘Peat was dug here for centuries,’ said the monk. ‘I’ll wager that’s how most of these smaller depressions were created. Over the years, water rose to fill them and this is the result. Ponds and lakes in abundance. Broadland has a strange beauty.’
    ‘Not to my eye.’
    ‘I could enjoy living here, my lord.’
    ‘Even in winter?’
    ‘Especially then.’
    Ralph shivered at the thought. Brother Daniel was a jovial ascetic. Much as he liked living within the enclave at Winchester, he found the Norfolk broads full of appeal. He was unworried by the fact that the area would be exposed to the extremes of climate. That was part of its attraction. To suffer in the service of the Almighty was a form of joy.
    ‘There it is!’ he said, pointing excitedly.
    ‘At last!’ sighed Ralph.
    ‘It can’t be more than a mile or two now, my lord.’
    ‘Even less if you could arrange for us to walk on water.’
    Daniel laughed. He had recovered from the shock of finding the dead body near the castle and was ready to lend his assistance in the murder inquiry. A visit to the abbey of St Benet at Holme was an incidental bonus to him. When he took the cowl, he never expected to leave the cloistered world of Winchester, still less to see a distant monastic house about which he had heard so much. His curiosity would now be satisfied. More to the point, crucial information might be gleaned about the theft of the gold elephants.
    The abbey was constructed in the shape decreed by tradition. Occupying pride of place, the church looked down on all the other buildings that had grown up around it. Chapter house, cloisters, kitchen, refectory, cellarium, rere-dorter, infirmary and warming room were arranged to best advantage. Bakehouse and brewhouse were kept in regular use. The large gardens were tended with care by monks who subsisted on what they could grow. Holy brothers whose life in the Benedictine Order had run its full course now rested in the cemetery. When the visitors arrived, the hospitaller came shuffling out of the main gate to welcome them and to learn their business.
    While the men-at-arms were given refreshment, Ralph and Brother Daniel were conducted to the abbot’s lodgings, which were above the cellar and next to the chapel. The monk who escorted them went into the private chamber alone to announce their arrival. Reappearing almost at once, he beckoned them inside before taking his leave. The visitors found themselves in a large room with few concessions to comfort or decoration. Seated behind the table and below the crucifix on the wall was Abbot Alfwold, a frail old man with a silver tonsure around his gleaming skull. His face was emaciated. Bared in a smile of welcome, his teeth were chiselled and discoloured by time. Alfwold set aside the Bible he had been studying to rise to his feet.
    Introductions were made in French but the old man then spoke to Brother Daniel in Latin. Ralph refused to be excluded from the conversation and used the tongue that he had learned from his wife. Alfwold was pleasantly surprised.
    ‘Few Normans have mastered the intricacies of our language,’ he said, lapsing into it himself. ‘You’re to be congratulated, my lord.’
    ‘My wife is a Saxon. She taught me well.’
    ‘Then your union is clearly blessed.’
    Ralph held back the ribald rejoinder that immediately came to mind. He and Daniel were waved to a bench and their host lowered himself carefully back into his chair. Before he could disclose the purpose of their visit, Ralph heard a tap on the door and looked up to see a tray of food being brought in by a young monk who placed it respectfully on the table. Wine was served to Ralph but Daniel preferred a cup of ale. Both men were grateful to chew the cakes that were offered. When the young monk withdrew, Alfwold sat back and appraised his visitors.
    ‘What do you think of the abbey of St Benet?’ he asked.
    ‘Inspiring, Father Abbot,’ said Daniel. ‘Truly inspiring.’
    ‘It lacks the grandeur of Winchester but it has other virtues.’
    ‘I’ve just eaten one of them,’ said Ralph, before washing down the cake with a sip of wine. ‘This is self-denial indeed. Living in a stone citadel, miles from anywhere.’
    ‘Isolation is vital, my lord.’
    ‘It wouldn’t suit me, Father Abbot. If I’m isolated from my dear wife for one night, I feel lonely and deprived. And I could never live so close to water.’
    ‘It supplies fish and attracts all manner of birds. When you come to know it, you realise that Holme is a species of paradise.’
    ‘Save your breath, Father Abbot,’ said Ralph, genially. ‘You’ll not persuade me to take the cowl, whatever attractions your abbey may offer. I’m too besmirched by sin to move in the direction of sainthood.’
    Daniel’s grin was immediately vanquished by a reproachful glance from Alfwold. ‘This is not a chance visit, I take it?’ said the abbot.
    ‘Certainly not,’ said Ralph, candidly. ‘Only a very good reason would make me ride through that endless broadland.’
    ‘What is that reason, my lord?’
    ‘The theft of two miniature gold elephants.’
    A look of anguish flitted across Alfwold’s face. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, rubbing his temple with a skeletal finger. ‘That unfortunate business.’
    ‘You can confirm that they were stolen, then?’
    ‘There’s no other way that they would have left this abbey.’
    ‘When did they go astray?’
    ‘Ten days or so ago. The sacristan will be able to tell you the exact date.’
    ‘Do you know who took them, Father Abbot?’
    ‘We have our suspicions,’ said the other, sadly, ‘but we can’t be sure. Those two elephants were very precious to us. Not simply because they were made of gold. Their value lay in their origin.’
    ‘Oh?’ said Ralph, ears pricking up.
    ‘They were brought from Rome, blessed by the Pope himself.’
    ‘Who made them in the first place?’
    ‘A Venetian goldsmith, my lord. A master of his craft.’
    ‘So I understand.’
    ‘They were presented to the abbey as a gift and we’ve cherished them.’ A weak smile touched his lips. ‘We like to believe that we are the only abbey in England that houses elephants beneath its roof.’
    ‘Who gave them to you?’ asked Ralph.
    ‘A good, kind, God-fearing man called Jocelyn Vavasour. A soldier like you, my lord, but one who was deeply troubled in his mind by all the blood he had spilled on English soil. He wanted to make amends in some way.’
    ‘A penance?’ said Daniel.
    ‘Yes,’ replied the abbot. ‘But the lord Jocelyn didn’t ride on his destrier to Rome. Like a true pilgrim, he walked every inch of the way. When he saw those elephants, he said that he felt impelled to buy them for the abbey.’
    ‘Why here, Father Abbot?’
    ‘The lord Jocelyn had estates nearby until he forfeited them.’
    Ralph was taken aback. ‘Voluntarily?’
    ‘Yes, my lord. Some years ago.’
    ‘Did he enter the Benedictine Order?’
    ‘That was the strange thing,’ said Alfwold, pursing his lips. ‘He refused to do so.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘He felt unworthy of us. He wouldn’t have been the first soldier to exchange the sword for a cowl but it was never even considered. A moment ago, my lord,’ he recalled, ‘you jested about being besmirched by sin.’
    ‘It wasn’t entirely a jest,’ admitted Ralph.
    ‘The lord Jocelyn was in earnest. He came to see that the taking of life is a heinous sin even when sanctioned by a state of warfare. His past actions haunted him so much that he couldn’t bear to enjoy their fruits. He surrendered his estates and this abbey, I’m pleased to say, was among the beneficiaries.’
    ‘What happened to Jocelyn Vavasour?’
    ‘He became an anchorite, my lord.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Nobody knows,’ said the old man. ‘He had no family to keep him so he just wandered off alone. All that I can tell is that he lives alone somewhere, enduring a life that’s even more austere than the one we embrace here.’
    ‘What would he do if he knew his gift had been stolen?’
    ‘He’d be deeply upset, my lord. I hope that he never finds out.’
    ‘He has a right to know.’
    ‘True, my lord.’
    ‘Have you taken any steps to retrieve your gold elephants?’
    ‘We’ve prayed day and night,’ explained the abbot, ‘and we’ve made a few inquiries of our own but without success. When the crime was first reported, I wanted to go in search of the malefactor myself but my bones are too brittle. It’s thirty years since I left this abbey and I’ll not step outside its walls again.’
    ‘Somebody ought to,’ said Ralph. ‘When property is stolen, it’s your duty to alert the sheriff so that he can apprehend the thief.’
    ‘But we’ve no idea who that thief is.’
    ‘I thought you told us that you had your suspicions.’
    ‘We do, my lord. Or, to be more exact, Brother Joseph does.’
    ‘Brother Joseph?’
    ‘The sacristan.’
    ‘A sacristan looks after the contents of the abbey church,’ said Daniel, helpfully. ‘The vestments, linen, robes, banners, gold and silver plate, and the vessels of the altar.’
    ‘Did he keep those elephants under lock and key?’
    ‘Some of the time,’ replied the abbot, wheezing slightly. ‘On other occasions, all our treasures are on display so that the holy brothers can draw strength from them. Brother Joseph had arranged them in the church when the traveller came to stay.’
    ‘Traveller?’
    ‘He was exhausted from a long ride, he said, and begged a night’s rest in the guest lodging. The hospitaller naturally took him. Next morning, the man left early. It was only after he’d gone that Brother Joseph discovered that the elephants were missing.’
    ‘Why didn’t you give chase at once?’ said Ralph.
    ‘We had no notion which road he’d taken, my lord. Besides, it might just have been a coincidence. The traveller may have been innocent. The thief could have been someone else altogether. Even – though I dread to think it – one of our own.’
    ‘Did this mysterious traveller give a name, Father Abbot?’
    ‘Oh, yes. One that we all grieve to remember.’
    ‘What was he called?’
    ‘Starculf,’ said the old. ‘Starculf the Falconer.’

Their friendly manner slowly helped to weaken her reserve. When he had recounted the details of the murder, Gervase was invited into Olova’s hut with Eustace Coureton. It was a large, rectangular building, its thatched roof supported by wooden pillars sunk into the ground and its walls made up of overlapping timbers, cut to size and trimmed to uniform smoothness. The interior was divided by vestigial screens into three bays, two of which contained beds. Some rough benches provided seating in the central bay. Cooking implements stood beside the slow fire over which a pot was suspended. Steam curled up lazily into the air. Competing smells of fish, smoke, animal skin and general mustiness filled their nostrils. Squatting on the one chair in the room, Olova indicated a bench. She watched her visitors shrewdly as they sat down. Her tears had been wiped away now and bitterness had returned.
    ‘Hermer the Steward was a monster,’ she said. ‘We’ll not mourn him.’
    ‘Why do you despise him so much?’ asked Gervase.
    ‘He drove me off land that I inherited from my husband.’
    ‘Only because he was ordered to do so by the lord Richard. Hermer was simply his agent. He obeyed orders.’
    ‘No,’ corrected Olova, vehemently. ‘He
enjoyed
making us suffer, Master Bret. He did more than obey orders. He humiliated me. And it didn’t end there.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    She looked away. ‘Nothing,’ she said, quietly. ‘It’s a private matter.’
    ‘He slighted you in person?’
    ‘It was far worse than that.’
    ‘Go on.’
    ‘There’s no point,’ she said, shaking her head vigorously. ‘Hermer is dead and there’s an end to it. These are glad tidings and I’m grateful to you for bringing them.’
    ‘Ask her about Starculf,’ suggested Coureton.
    Mention of the name made the old woman withdraw into herself. Folding her arms, she sat back in her chair with an expression of quiet defiance on her face. Gervase noted the change in her.
    ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Do you know a man called Starculf?’
    ‘I might have done,’ she replied after a long pause.
    ‘Did you ever meet him?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Are you quite certain of that?’
    ‘Yes,’ she said, sourly.
    ‘Yet you confess that you might have known him.’
    ‘I heard his name, Master Bret. That’s all. Hermer the Steward spoke of him.’
    ‘Starculf was his assistant.’
    ‘So I gathered.’
    ‘What else did you gather?’
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘Come, now,’ he reasoned. ‘You’re an intelligent woman.’
    ‘Don’t try to flatter me. I’m too old for that nonsense.’
    ‘It’s not nonsense. I spoke to one of the commissioners who visited this county earlier on. He remembered how well you marshalled your case when you appeared before them in the shire hall.’
    ‘I was only fighting to reclaim what was mine.’
    ‘Fighting against the lord Richard. Except that he was absent from the fray so had to be represented by his steward. You and Hermer created sparks when you clashed.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘Legal battles are not only won by clever advocacy,’ he said. ‘A wise disputant finds out as much as he can about the person who’ll challenge him before the judges. It’s a case of knowing your enemy. I suspect that you knew everything that could be known about Hermer the Steward.’
    ‘I did!’ she said, scowling darkly. ‘I knew him for the villain he was.’
    ‘What of Starculf?’
    ‘He’s not important here.’
    ‘But he is,’ insisted Gervase, seeing that she was holding something back. ‘If he was Hermer’s assistant, Starculf would have travelled with him. You might not have met him in person but I dare say you picked up what information you could about him. It would’ve been in your interests to do so.’
    Olova went off into a rueful silence. Gervase turned to Eustace Coureton.
    ‘She won’t help us,’ he said, speaking in French. ‘She claims that she never met Starculf. I’m not sure that I believe her.’
    ‘Press her a little harder, Gervase.’
    ‘That’s not the way to get her on our side.’
    ‘No,’ sighed Coureton. ‘I suppose not. She’s a fiery character, isn’t she?’
    ‘Fiery and determined.’ He looked back at Olova and slipped back into her language. ‘My colleague was just saying that he has great sympathy for you.’
    ‘You’re lying,’ she said, crisply. ‘I’ve picked up enough French to guess at what he told you. Know your enemy. As you suspected, it’s advice that I took long ago. One way to know your enemy is to learn something of his language.’
    ‘I didn’t come here as an enemy.’
    ‘You’re a Norman.’
    ‘My mother was a Saxon like you, my father was a Breton.’
    ‘That makes no difference.’
    ‘I’m not your enemy.’
    ‘You’re in the pay of King William. What else can you be?’
    ‘Tell me about Starculf.’
    ‘Why should I?’
    ‘Because it might stand you in good stead when you come before us,’ he said, appealing to her self-interest. ‘Starculf was Hermer’s assistant but the two of them had an argument and Starculf was dismissed. Do you know what that argument was over?’
    ‘Ask the lord Richard.’
    ‘I have a feeling that you might know.’
    Olova pondered. ‘All I can say is this,’ she volunteered at length. ‘Starculf was trained as a falconer but he had higher ambitions than that. He wanted to be the estate reeve like Hermer. Starculf worked himself into the lord Richard’s favour and was taken on as Hermer’s assistant. He was good at his job until the two fell out.’
    ‘Over what?’
    ‘I don’t know but I could hazard a guess.’
    ‘Money?’
    ‘No, Master Bret.’
    ‘Then what?’
    ‘Women. That was what interested Hermer most, as we discovered to our cost.’
    ‘In what way?’
    ‘That’s not important,’ she said, abruptly.
    ‘Why should Starculf argue with him over women?’
    ‘It’s just a guess, Master Bret.’
    ‘Based on your knowledge of Hermer. Do you know where Starculf is now?’
    ‘If he had any sense, he’d have fled the county.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because the lord Richard doesn’t like people who let him down,’ she said with rancour. ‘He wouldn’t merely have dismissed Starculf. He’d have hounded him. Beaten him, probably.’ Her eyelids narrowed. ‘What’s your interest in the man?’
    ‘We’d like to talk to him about Hermer’s death.’
    She went silent again and glowered at her two visitors. After collecting another meaningful look from Coureton, Gervase smiled at Olova and changed the subject. ‘I’m sorry if I said anything to offend you,’ he began. ‘A few more questions then we’ll be on our way again.’
    ‘You won’t be detained,’ she muttered.
    ‘Do you know the abbey of St Benet at Holme?’
    ‘Everyone in Norfolk knows it, Master Bret.’
    ‘Something was stolen from there recently. Something very valuable.’
    She bridled instantly. ‘Are you accusing me?’
    ‘Of course not. I just wondered if you’d heard what was taken?’
    ‘Abbot Alfwold would hardly tell me.’
    ‘He might,’ said Gervase, remembering some details he had seen when going through the returns for the county. ‘Your late husband was a generous man. He endowed the abbey with land. You must have had dealings with the monks.’
    ‘That was many years ago.’
    ‘Isn’t the gossip from the abbey carried this far? If you and your husband took such an interest in the abbey, I’m surprised that you don’t at least keep in touch with it.’
    Olova was trenchant. ‘My husband gave them land,’ she said, ‘but what good did it do us? When the Normans came and we fell on hard times, where was Abbot Alfwold? He turned his back on us like everyone else. My husband was a thegn,’ she said, her chin jutting out with pride. ‘Our house was much bigger and finer than this. We had land in four different hundreds in Norfolk. The abbey was glad of our friendship then. Not now, Master Bret.’
    ‘Shall I tell you what was stolen?’
    ‘I haven’t the slightest interest,’ she said, rising angrily to her feet. ‘To be honest, I don’t care if they lost all the valuables they possessed. Don’t ask me about the abbey. I don’t care if it got burned to the ground.’
    Olova was so upset that further conversation with her was clearly pointless. After bidding her farewell, the visitors left the house and mounted their horses. Olova stood in the doorway and watched the little troop ride off. None of the men looked back. When they were out of sight of the old woman, Coureton reflected on their visit.
    ‘We learned something, anyway.’
    ‘Did we?’
    ‘Given the chance, Olova would’ve strangled Hermer with her bare hands.’
    ‘She was delighted when she heard about his murder, that was obvious. We brought some cheer to her house with that news. I just wish that she’d told us more about Starculf,’ said Gervase, thoughtfully. ‘I had a distinct feeling that she was hiding something from us.’
    ‘Is it worth talking to her again?’
    ‘No, my lord. We’d only be wasting our time.’
    ‘You’re probably right.’
    ‘The person I’d really like to question is that grandson of hers.’
    ‘Skalp. A surly fellow, if ever there was one.’
    ‘I didn’t see him when we left. Did you?’
    ‘How could I when he was hiding behind the hut.’
    Gervase looked across at him. ‘Olova’s house?’
    ‘Didn’t you realise that?’ said Coureton. ‘He heard every word that was spoken.’