‘You’ll get that,’ Corbett stared down at him, ‘only when I learn why you are here. You didn’t see the corpse. So, how did you know he bore the brand of Mandeville on him?’
The Watcher looked crestfallen. He would have backed away but Ranulf now blocked his path.
‘Questions first, food later,’ Corbett declared. ‘Prior Cuthbert, Brother Hamo, let’s return.’
Corbett followed the lay brothers who carried the corpse back through the Judas Gate, across the abbey grounds to the white-washed infirmary. A chamber at the far end served as a corpse room. A great wooden table like that of a butcher’s stall stood in the centre. Trestle tables ranged round the sides bore bowls, jugs and jars of ointment. A single candle glowed. At Aelfric’s instructions, sconce torches were hastily lit, making the hollowed, canopied chamber even more macabre and ghoulish. Gildas’s body was placed on the table where Corbett studied it more carefully. Ignoring the rictus of horror carved on the dead man’s face, the clerk reckoned the brand mark was about an inch long.
‘That was burnt in,’ Corbett declared, ‘with a branding iron, probably after he was killed.’
He turned the head and looked at the bloody mess of what used to be the side of the monk’s head, now a congealed mass of blood, bone and brain. Corbett examined this carefully and, using the point of his dagger, lifted out small grains of stone. Helped by Aelfric, he turned the corpse over on its face. He felt a large bump, a raised bruise, at the back of the head. The hands were dusty but Corbett noticed the little red cuts on each wrist. The rest now clustered around: Prior Cuthbert, Hamo, Aelfric, Ranulf and Chanson, with the Watcher standing between them.
‘He was killed by a stone,’ Corbett declared, ‘dropped from a great force on to the side of his head.’
‘But surely, Sir Hugh,’ Prior Cuthbert stood, hand over his mouth, gagging at the grievous wound, ‘Gildas was a soldier, he would have resisted.’
‘No, I think he was struck first at the back of the head, probably with a club, and would drop to the ground stunned. The attacker then tied his hands behind him and brought down a heavy stone and crushed the side of his skull. He also took a branding-iron and put the bloody mark on his forehead. Now, why is that, eh? When was Gildas last seen?’
Prior Cuthbert turned and whispered to Hamo, who hurried off. He returned a short while later with the lay brother Perditus. A brief conversation took place between the monks. When Perditus glimpsed Gildas’s head, he retched and, holding his mouth, had to leave for a while. When he returned, he was wiping his lips.
‘I saw Brother Gildas this morning, when I delivered the Prior’s message about the meeting of the Concilium in the abbot’s quarters!’
‘Did anyone else see him?’
‘I saw him a short while later,’ Hamo declared. ‘I went across to consult him regarding some building work in one of our granges.’
‘Where was this?’ Corbett demanded.
‘The far side of the abbey,’ Hamo declared. ‘That’s where Gildas had his workshops, rather a lonely spot.’
‘And he had stone there?’
‘Oh yes, cut and hewn.’
‘And a brazier?’
‘Yes.’
Prior Cuthbert paused, rocking backwards and forwards on his feet.
‘What is it?’ Corbett demanded.
‘I have just realised,’ the Prior replied. ‘What with your meeting this morning, Sir Hugh, the requiem Mass and Abbot Stephen’s funeral, no one has seen Brother Gildas for the rest of the day.’
‘What I suspect. .’ Corbett declared. He paused and felt the corpse’s hands, shoulders, legs and ankles, the cadaver was already beginning to stiffen. ‘I suspect Brother Gildas has been dead for hours. Notice the hardness of the muscle, the chilling flesh, the stomach beginning to swell. Gildas was probably killed this morning in his workshop. The attacker stunned him, tied his hands and crushed his skull. But then he hid the corpse and, under the cover of darkness, brought it out and laid it on the tumulus: that’s where you saw it, wasn’t it?’ Corbett glanced at the Watcher.
In the light of the torches, the Watcher looked even more grotesque with his broad shoulders and squat body, dark eyes, straggling hair, moustache and beard, his face as brown as a nut. He reminded Corbett of some wood goblin or forest sprite. He was certainly strong enough to kill a man like Gildas and carry his corpse out here.
‘I know what you are thinking.’ The Watcher by the Gates stamped his foot. ‘You think it’s me, don’t you?’
‘And why not?’ Corbett declared. ‘You may have grey locks but you are strong and thickset, and your arms are muscular. You babble about Mandeville’s ghost. You know the corpse had a brand mark and you have no right to be wandering this abbey.’
The Watcher by the Gates blinked, his face crestfallen.
‘It’s not right,’ he moaned. ‘All because I wanted some meat!’ He waved his stubby fingers.
‘To be fair,’ Prior Cuthbert spoke up. ‘Our Watcher by the Gates is allowed to wander the abbey grounds. As a kindness, we often feed him from our kitchens.’
‘See,’ the Watcher replied, baring his teeth at Corbett. ‘I’ll tell you what happened. I came in, and was given some ale and a juicy strip of pork, salty and thick, and a small loaf of rye bread. I went out into Bloody Meadow to eat it.’
‘Do you always go there?’
‘I like it there, away from prying eyes! The burial mound is sacred and I am sure the fairies gather there. When I came out I noticed something lying on the top. I went up and even in the poor light I could see it was one of the monks. All I could glimpse was Mandeville’s mark on his forehead. “Oh, Lord save us!” said I. “Oh, Virgin Queen of Heaven, help me!”’ The Watcher clapped his hands. ‘I ran back in, got the lay brother, told him what I had seen, the rest you know.’
‘Cover Gildas’s corpse,’ Prior Cuthbert ordered.
Aelfric went to one of the chests. He brought out a large white cloth which he draped over the corpse. Corbett waited until he’d finished.
‘And what makes you think it’s Mandeville?’ he asked turning to the Watcher. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe the dead ride. Gildas was killed by flesh and blood.’
‘Gildas was killed by something evil.’ The Watcher’s face became sly. ‘It’s a warning to the good brothers here.’
‘About what?’ Prior Cuthbert asked sharply.
The Watcher danced from foot to foot.
‘This is what I think! This is what I think! Abbot Stephen was going to allow you to build your guesthouse in Bloody Meadow, desecrate the sacred burial ground.’
‘How do you know that?’ Corbett demanded.
‘Oh, I know what I know,’ the Watcher replied. He tapped the side of his head. ‘I can hear things on the breeze.’
‘You’ll hear me,’ Ranulf declared, gripping him by the shoulder. ‘Tell my master, how did you know?’
‘The Abbot told me.’ The Watcher squirmed in Ranulf’s grip. ‘Take your hand off me, Red Hair!’
Corbett nodded at Ranulf who stepped back.
‘This is new to me,’ Brother Hamo declared. ‘Why should our Father Abbot tell such a thing to a hermit and not to members of his Concilium?’
‘Perhaps it was just a passing fancy?’ the Watcher declared. ‘You know how Abbot Stephen liked to walk outside the walls of the abbey, ave beads in one hand, crucifix in the other. And you, his shadow,’ he pointed at Perditus, ‘always walking behind him. Well, the day before he died. .’
‘That’s right,’ Perditus interrupted. ‘Father Abbot did stop and speak to you.’
‘I asked him why he looked so troubled,’ the Watcher continued. ‘“Guesthouses” the Abbot replied quickly. “Perhaps I should allow a new one to be built?” He seemed distracted and walked on. I tell you the truth, I tell you the truth!’
Corbett glanced back at the sheeted corpse and round at the others. Chanson guarded the door. Ranulf lounged, eyes on his master, watchful, tense as a cat. The monks stood like statues as if unable to cope with what had happened.