‘That is not my request, Father Abbot,’ said the other with an appeasing smile. ‘Give me a broom and I will gladly do their office for them. No, what I seek is permission to search the cell. Not that I expect to find anything,’ he added quickly, ‘but at least I would know where to look. The sheriff’s officers would have been repelled by the very bareness of Brother Nicholas’s abode. I doubt if they gave it more than a cursory glance. I have lived in this abbey many years, remember.’
‘More than any of us. What has it taught you?’
‘That secretive people can often find the most ingenious hiding places and Brother Nicholas was unduly secretive.’
‘Granted. But what would he have to hide?’
‘Who knows until we find it?’
‘Do you really expect that there is anything to find?’
‘I am not sure, Father Abbot,’ admitted Frewine, ‘but it worries me that we are leaving this investigation to the sheriff and, it now seems, to the royal commissioners. Forgive me for saying so, but we should not be absolved from the duty of searching for evidence ourselves. After all, we knew Brother Nicholas and that surely gives us an advantage over anyone else.’
Abbot Serlo watched him shrewdly for a few moments, hands clasped and forefingers meeting at the tiny cleft of his chin. Frewine waited patiently like an owl perched on the branch of a tree.
‘There is something behind this,’ said the abbot at length.
‘A desire to solve a dreadful crime.’
‘Something else. Something you are not telling me.’
‘I am not dissembling, Father Abbot.’
‘Of course not, I accept that.’ His forefingers tapped his chin.
‘Let me approach it another way. What first put this idea into your head?’
‘The need for a motive.’
‘Motive?’
‘Why was Brother Nicholas murdered?’
‘You obviously have your own theory on the matter.’
‘I believe the killer wanted something from him.’
‘What was it?’
‘I wish I knew, Father Abbot.’
‘Brother Nicholas had nothing of his own. Like the rest of us, he took a vow of poverty. No earthly possessions. The only thing a killer could take from him was his own life.’
‘You are probably right,’ sighed the Precentor.
‘But you would still like to search his cell.’
‘With your permission, Father Abbot,’ he said respectfully. ‘And I promise to sweep it clean before I leave.’
‘It will be a wasted visit. You realise that?’
‘I do.’
‘You will search in vain.’
‘I know.’
‘So why do you bother?’
‘To put my mind at rest.’
‘Instinct tells me that you will not find a thing.’
‘I, too, am impelled by instinct.’
Serlo was cautious. ‘But if, by chance, you do,’ he said, locking eyes with his Precentor, ‘send for me at once.’
Hamelin of Lisieux took them all by surprise. Having seen his name recurring time and again in the returns for the county sent to the Exchequer in Wiltshire, they knew him as a leading landholder and one of the few who actually lived in Gloucestershire itself. Hamelin was no absentee landlord. His manor was at the heart of the county. Strang the Dane painted his portrait in such dark colours that they half-expected Hamelin to prance into the shire hall on cloven feet, swishing his forked tail behind him. No such malignant creature appeared. The man who sailed in to greet them was a tall, well-favoured, elegant Norman lord in his forties, immaculately dressed and accompanied by his wife, Emma, a woman of such startling loveliness that she caused Ralph Delchard’s jaw to drop in wonderment and Canon Hubert’s eyebrows to shoot up in disbelief. Even Gervase was momentarily taken aback, but it was Brother Simon who suffered the greatest impact, recoiling from her beauty as if from a physical assault and screwing his whole body into a tight ball so that more of it could be comprehensively covered by his cowl.
With a grace singularly lacking in his Danish predecessor, Hamelin introduced himself and his wife then left Emma to distribute a generous smile between the four men behind the table. Ralph responded with a broad grin but his scribe yelped like a branded animal. The newcomers were waved to seats on the front bench then Ralph went through the preliminaries, introducing his companions and explaining the methods they would adopt during their inquiry. He also found himself apologising profusely for the dinginess of the hall and the inadequacy of the seating arrangements. Both man and wife were clearly accustomed to far more comfortable surroundings than those they now shared with the four commissioners.
It was Canon Hubert who initiated the questioning.
‘Now that the formalities are finally out of the way,’ he said with almost imperceptible sarcasm, ‘perhaps we can address the problem which brought us here? I take it that you are familiar with Strang the Dane, my lord?’
‘All too familiar!’ said Hamelin, suppressing a sigh.
‘He was here before you.’
‘I hope that does not betoken an order of merit, Canon Hubert.’
‘Far from it. Every claimant has equal status.’
‘How can that be when our claims do not have equal validity?’
‘Relative validity has yet to be decided, my lord.’
‘Not by me,’ said Hamelin politely. ‘I willingly concede that Strang the Dane did, at one time, have a legitimate right to that land in the Westbury. It is unfortunate for him that his right melted in the heat of conquest. As for Querengar the Breton,’ he continued, with a fond glance at his wife, ‘you must not ask me to take his claim at all seriously. And I can muster even less respect for Abraham the Priest.’
‘You know that he is also represented here?’ asked Ralph.
‘Naturally.’
‘How?’
‘I am well informed, my lord.’
‘More so than we ourselves. We did not learn of the Welshman’s intervention until we arrived and Strang the Dane was astonished to hear of it. Why did you catch what eluded his ears?’
‘I have many friends in Gwent.’
‘Enemies, too, if Strang is to be believed.’
Hamelin laughed. ‘Several enemies. He is one of them.’
‘You do not seem perturbed by that thought.’
‘Why should I be, my lord? You and I are two of a kind, Norman lords in a land we first had to subdue. Our very presence here makes us despised intruders. Where would we be if we could not cope with a little enmity?’ he asked, bestowing another fond look on his wife. ‘Especially when we can offset all that hatred with so much love.’
‘Have you and Strang ever come to blows, my lord?’ said Gervase.
‘Unfortunately, we have not.’
‘He says otherwise.’
‘Then he is lying, Master Bret.’
‘Strang the Dane is an appalling man,’ said Emma demurely. ‘I know that it is not my place to speak here but I feel it my duty to tell you that his word is not to be trusted.’
‘He spoke under oath, my lady,’ said Hubert.
‘So does my husband.’
‘And I say, under oath,’ continued Hamelin pointedly, ‘that I have never crossed swords with Strang. More’s the pity! Had I done so, that verminous Dane would not now be alive to poison your ears with his wicked lies.’
‘He showed us a wound, my lord,’ said Gervase.
‘It was not inflicted by me.’
‘By one of your men, perhaps?’
‘That is not impossible. Strang has trespassed on my estates.’
‘Did he have to be expelled by force of arms?’
‘How else, Master Bret?’
‘Recourse to law.’
‘That is why I am here,’ said Hamelin blandly. ‘To attest the legal basis of every hide in my possession. Most of the country is howling in protest at this Great Survey, fearful that it will cost more in taxes and knight-service. My voice is not raised in complaint, as my wife will tell you. I appreciate the true value of this Domesday Book.’