reeve’s house to question atte Pond’s younger servants. Perhaps one of them heard what their master could not. I intended to visit Brother Gerleys.
Not all monks are skilled with a pen or brush. I found the novice-master bent over Osbert and Henry, instructing them in the use of a goose quill. I asked the monk if we might speak privily, and with a final admonishment to Henry to dip his pen less deeply into the ink pot, he followed me from the chamber.
I bid Brother Gerleys follow me to the kitchen garden, where no man would be this season, even onions and cabbages having been long since harvested. We might speak without violating the Rule where no other man would hear.
Perhaps the monk thought I had some information about the identity of a murderer that I wished to share with him but keep from the novices. I turned to face Brother Gerleys when wereached the center of the garden, but before I could speak, he did so.
“What have you discovered? I have heard that you and your man crossed the meadow beyond the fishponds and visited the place where you found John. Did the murderer leave any clue?”
I had seen no man observe us from either the abbey or the road as Arthur and I investigated the meadow, the wood, the boar’s head, and the bramble patch. But someone did, and told others. Unless I was more careful in my actions, the felon I sought was likely to learn of my discoveries soon after I made them, and mayhap use the knowledge to escape capture.
Perhaps it is thus in all abbeys and priories. Days are the same but for the change of seasons, so any event worthy of gossip, even though the Rule forbids idle chatter, is likely to excite much whispered discourse.
I might have mentioned the tuft of brown fur to Brother Gerleys but decided against it. If I did so, even if I pledged Brother Gerleys to silence, I feared that news of the find would soon fill the abbey. If some monk who possessed a fur-lined habit or coat heard of it I would find it difficult to identify the fellow, for he would surely endure the cold rather than wear the garment and so make of himself a suspect to murder. And word of such a discovery might soon escape the cloister, so that if a wealthy villager slew John Whytyng the man would be forewarned to lock his fur coat away in a chest until I gave up pursuit.
Knowing a thing that other men do not know seldom leads to failure. Even better is to know a thing that other men do not suspect that you know. I left the tuft of fur in my pouch.
“I found the boar’s head,” I said. “Birds have begun to feast upon it, but it will be several days before it will match John Whytyng when I found him.”
“He died the night he disappeared, then?”
“So it seems.”
I withdrew the pewter key from my pouch and handed it to the novice-master. “I have found the lock this key opens,” I said. “The door to the north porch of the abbey church.”
“How would John have come by this?” the monk said.
“The monk’s kitchener told me that a pewter ladle went missing about Michaelmas.”
“Ah,” Brother Gerleys sighed. “John was assigned to the kitchen then.”
“Was he pleased with the assignment?”
“Nay. Said his father had servants for such work.”
“Do not lay brothers perform the menial tasks of the kitchen?” I asked.
“They do… but Abbot Thurstan assigns all novices to such work for a few weeks to learn if they are humble or haughty.”
“The abbot learned then of John’s pride, but did not dismiss him?”
“The lad’s father sent forty shillings with him, which I believe Abbot Thurstan was loath to return.”
“You said that the lad was quick to learn.”
“He was. Abbot Thurstan spoke of sending him to Oxford, to Gloucester College, when he had proven himself.”
“Did Osbert and Henry know of the abbot’s plans? Would they wish to study at Gloucester College also?”
“Osbert might. But to be frank, Henry is too dull for such study, and he knows this…
Not all monks are skilled with a pen or brush. I found the novice-master bent over Osbert and Henry, instructing them in the use of a goose quill. I asked the monk if we might speak privily, and with a final admonishment to Henry to dip his pen less deeply into the ink pot, he followed me from the chamber.
I bid Brother Gerleys follow me to the kitchen garden, where no man would be this season, even onions and cabbages having been long since harvested. We might speak without violating the Rule where no other man would hear.
Perhaps the monk thought I had some information about the identity of a murderer that I wished to share with him but keep from the novices. I turned to face Brother Gerleys when wereached the center of the garden, but before I could speak, he did so.
“What have you discovered? I have heard that you and your man crossed the meadow beyond the fishponds and visited the place where you found John. Did the murderer leave any clue?”
I had seen no man observe us from either the abbey or the road as Arthur and I investigated the meadow, the wood, the boar’s head, and the bramble patch. But someone did, and told others. Unless I was more careful in my actions, the felon I sought was likely to learn of my discoveries soon after I made them, and mayhap use the knowledge to escape capture.
Perhaps it is thus in all abbeys and priories. Days are the same but for the change of seasons, so any event worthy of gossip, even though the Rule forbids idle chatter, is likely to excite much whispered discourse.
I might have mentioned the tuft of brown fur to Brother Gerleys but decided against it. If I did so, even if I pledged Brother Gerleys to silence, I feared that news of the find would soon fill the abbey. If some monk who possessed a fur-lined habit or coat heard of it I would find it difficult to identify the fellow, for he would surely endure the cold rather than wear the garment and so make of himself a suspect to murder. And word of such a discovery might soon escape the cloister, so that if a wealthy villager slew John Whytyng the man would be forewarned to lock his fur coat away in a chest until I gave up pursuit.
Knowing a thing that other men do not know seldom leads to failure. Even better is to know a thing that other men do not suspect that you know. I left the tuft of fur in my pouch.
“I found the boar’s head,” I said. “Birds have begun to feast upon it, but it will be several days before it will match John Whytyng when I found him.”
“He died the night he disappeared, then?”
“So it seems.”
I withdrew the pewter key from my pouch and handed it to the novice-master. “I have found the lock this key opens,” I said. “The door to the north porch of the abbey church.”
“How would John have come by this?” the monk said.
“The monk’s kitchener told me that a pewter ladle went missing about Michaelmas.”
“Ah,” Brother Gerleys sighed. “John was assigned to the kitchen then.”
“Was he pleased with the assignment?”
“Nay. Said his father had servants for such work.”
“Do not lay brothers perform the menial tasks of the kitchen?” I asked.
“They do… but Abbot Thurstan assigns all novices to such work for a few weeks to learn if they are humble or haughty.”
“The abbot learned then of John’s pride, but did not dismiss him?”
“The lad’s father sent forty shillings with him, which I believe Abbot Thurstan was loath to return.”
“You said that the lad was quick to learn.”
“He was. Abbot Thurstan spoke of sending him to Oxford, to Gloucester College, when he had proven himself.”
“Did Osbert and Henry know of the abbot’s plans? Would they wish to study at Gloucester College also?”
“Osbert might. But to be frank, Henry is too dull for such study, and he knows this…
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