The Unexpected Ally (9 page)

Llelo and Dai pulled the horses into the
barn out of the rain. In the daylight, the barn was
revealed—surprising to Gareth, given how orderly everything else at
the monastery was kept—in a sad state of disrepair. While the floor
was swept clean, the tools were tidied away, and the roof was
solid, as would be necessary to keep out the weather and prevent
the hay in the loft from getting wet, the walls allowed plenty of
daylight to enter the interior. They hadn’t been filled in with
wattle and daub in some time. Maybe since St. Kentigern founded the
monastery.

The monk noticed where he was looking and
nodded. “Father Abbot says—and I concur—that the rot in the timbers
cannot be repaired. We will use the barn until it falls down, but
we’ve just finished a new one a quarter-mile down the road. Only
the cows return here now, as they are creatures of habit and are
most unsettled by changes in their routine. The pigs and chickens
are already in their new homes.”

“Good to know.” Gareth
crossed the floor to reach the rear door, which gave easy access to
the
enclosure
where Mathonwy had found
Erik.

Mathonwy gestured helplessly to the trough.
“He was just there. I’d come for the cows. As soon as I saw him and
realized what I was seeing—and that it wasn’t my brain addled from
lack of sleep—I ran to wake Prior Anselm.”

“Given that he’d been prior for only a week,
I’m surprised that you went to him and not Abbot Rhys, who has
more—” Gareth paused as he tried to think of how to phrase what he
was asking, “—experience in these matters.” The question put
Mathonwy on the spot, but Gareth had his tricks as an investigator,
and he genuinely wanted to know what Mathonwy thought of his new
prior, since Gareth’s first and second impression hadn’t been
positive.

Mathonwy wiped the smirk from his face
almost the instant it appeared, but Gareth saw it and acknowledged
that he’d guessed right about what was behind it. He wouldn’t be
surprised if Mathonwy wasn’t the only longtime member of St.
Kentigern’s who was less than impressed with the new prior the
bishop had foisted on them. “He hasn’t been with us long and isn’t
the type to have steady hands when they’re needed. But it was his
right to be woken first, so I did so. I’ve been at the monastery a
while now, and until recently it’s always been Prior Rhys to whom
we went.”

Gareth smiled. “In my head too.”

“But then Anselm showed that he had some
good sense and woke the abbot immediately, so all’s well that ends
well.”

Gareth could understand Mathonwy’s
satisfaction. He’d followed the rules, done the right thing, and
been rewarded for his faith.

“I understand that your previous abbot was
elderly?” Conall knew something about investigations too. Now that
rapport had been established, it was time for questions before
Mathonwy remembered that he had duties elsewhere.

“Yes. Prior Rhys had taken over many of his
tasks even before he became abbot.”

“When were you last at the barn?” Gareth
said.

“I was here for the evening milking. The
cows know to come to the barn as the sun is setting. I rarely
attend Vespers, though sometimes I manage to slip in at the
end.”

It was standard practice in
any place within hailing distance of a chapel—in other words, all
through Wales and England—to keep time by the cycle of prayers and
the ringing of church bells. The first prayer of the day was
Matins
, the night office,
at midnight. The morning was marked by dawn prayers, called
Lauds
,
Terce
at
mid-morning,
Sext
at noon,
Nones
at midafternoon,
Vespers
at sunset, and
Compline
or evening prayers before
retiring to bed. These hours were managed by a water clock in the
monastery courtyard and a candle clock in the church itself, though
the exact moment of the prayers was less important than the keeping
of them.

“Did you see anyone or remember anyone in
the area yesterday evening?” Gareth said.

“I’m sorry. I noticed nothing. It was
raining and cold, and I confess I was looking forward to my dinner
after Vespers.”

Gareth put up his good hand. “I understand.
Had you ever seen Erik before—not necessarily here but
anywhere?”

Mathonwy shook his head regretfully.

“Where are the cows now?” Gareth said.

“In one of the pastures.” Mathonwy indicated
east with a bob of his chin, and his eyes twinkled as he said, “I’m
afraid you won’t get much out of them.”

Gareth coughed a laugh and went to the door
of the barn to poke out his head. A stone wall protected the
pasture to the east of the barn. A style and gate that allowed
access through it lay just across the cart way from where Gareth
stood. Gareth had seen enough of St. Asaph in the times he’d come
through here to know that the monastery’s pasture lands were
extensive, and this nearby field was one of dozens within hailing
distance of the barn. The sheep and cattle would be moved from
field to field to give the grass in each pasture time to grow.

Then Gareth returned to Conall’s side. “Do
you have any more questions for Mathonwy?”

Conall pursed his lips. “I assume you don’t
manage the barn by yourself? How many helpers do you have?”

“I have two most days at the new barn and
one who helps with the cows. But he was in the infirmary yesterday
with a fever,” Mathonwy said. “I didn’t see him all day and had to
do the work myself.”

“His name?” Gareth said.

“Roger.”

“He’s Norman?” Gareth said, surprised to
learn of a Norman monk in a Welsh monastery.

“A Norman father who didn’t acknowledge him
and a mother who died shortly after his birth, though she lived
long enough to saddle him with a Norman name,” Mathonwy said.

Gareth frowned. “I hear Prior Anselm has
been ill on and off too. Did you go to the infirmary to wake
him?”

“No, he was in his cell this morning, though
now that I think on it, he was in the infirmary at the start of
Matins because I went to check on Roger before the prayers to see
how he was faring and Anselm was in a nearby bed.” He rubbed his
chin. “I suppose I went to his cell out of habit after finding the
body.”

“We’ll speak to Roger and Anselm later if
they’re well enough,” Gareth said. “Thank you for your
assistance.”

Mathonwy bowed and departed, presumably to
his other duties. That left Conall and Gareth at the scene of the
crime, along with their young guards, who’d spent the conversation
patrolling the exterior of the barn, rain or no rain. Dai and Llelo
took their responsibilities very seriously. Still, while Gareth
wanted his foster sons trained to be knights, he hoped that Cynan
wouldn’t pound Dai’s natural effervescence out of him. The boy had
always been a spark of sunshine, no matter how rainy the day, and
Gareth would hate to see him lose it.

Gareth went to the door of the barn,
reluctant to enter the rain. “A great deal can happen between
Vespers and Lauds.”

“I never saw the body,” Conall reminded
Gareth. “Does the timeline Mathonwy report coincide with the
condition Erik was in when you examined him?”

“I didn’t get enough time with him to call
it an examination,” Gareth said dryly. “We were waylaid so quickly,
but the body was cold and somewhat stiff, which normally would tell
me that he’d been dead since yesterday evening, possibly since just
after Vespers, but the fact that he’d been submerged in water
throws the timeline completely off.”

Conall had moved to stand beside Gareth, but
now he stepped into the rain and turned to face him in order to
look up at the door to the hayloft. Reminding himself that if a man
avoided work because it was raining, he would never do any work at
all, Gareth moved out of the shelter of the barn’s roof to look
with Conall. Raindrops pattered on his face to the point that he
couldn’t just squint against them but had to hold up a hand to
block the fall of water from the sky. The hayloft door had been
left ajar. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing definitive, but I was wondering
again what Erik was doing here. He had to have come to the barn for
a reason that made sense to him, and not because he was planning on
being murdered.”

Gareth barked a laugh. “I would assume
not.”

“Which means he came to the barn to meet
someone or to rest. He could have preferred not to pay for a room
for the night—”

“Or he decided to sleep in the barn because
he didn’t want anyone to know he was in St. Asaph.”

“All indications are that he managed that
part just fine.” Conall tugged his hood closer around his head.

“It’s also within the realm of possibility
that he was killed elsewhere and the body was dumped in the trough
after the fact,” Gareth said. “Admittedly, moving Erik’s body
requires at least two people, if not four.”

“Why would anyone do such a thing? How could
it not be better to leave him where he died?” Conall narrowed his
eyes at Gareth.

“Because where he died was not a place he
could be left, and by its very location would incriminate the
killer.”

Conall’s expression lit. “Such as would be
the case if he died in someone’s home, perhaps? We could be looking
for an unfaithful wife and an angry husband.”

Gareth laughed under his breath. “That would
have been my first thought if we were discussing Prince Hywel in
his younger days, but I don’t know Erik well enough to tell how
likely such a scenario might be.”

“From your description of him, he was a
large and powerful man. Many women find that attractive.” Conall
spoke matter-of-factly, even as he headed for the ladder that would
take him up to where the hay was stored. “I’ll check the loft. If
he was as large as you say, then it would have been all the more
difficult for him to remain hidden.”

It was just as well Conall had taken that
task for himself because Gareth was having trouble raising his left
arm. Pulling himself hand over hand up a straight ladder would be
uncomfortable. Not for the first time, he regretted his injuries
and cursed under his breath at the men who’d caused them. Most of
the culprits in Shrewsbury were either dead or awaiting the justice
of the sheriff when he returned from serving King Stephen, but the
men who’d hurt Gareth here had yet to pay. Gareth wasn’t a vengeful
man normally, but he wouldn’t be sorry to see justice meted out to
them too.

With Conall in the loft, Gareth could turn
his attention to the tedious task of searching the area around the
trough for a sign of whom Erik might have been with the previous
night. The only thing Gareth knew for certain out of this entire
investigation so far was that Erik didn’t commit suicide as Anselm
had suggested. It was just too bad that the prior had smallish and
undamaged hands, as befitted the prior of a monastery, or Gareth
would have been happy to wrap up this investigation today. As it
was, Anselm’s hands would not fit around Erik’s neck, so they must
look elsewhere for their killer.

When Gareth stood in the
barn’s back doorway that led to the
paddock
, the trough lay to his left. When Erik had been in the
trough, his bulk had displaced a significant amount of water, such
that once they’d taken him out of it, the trough had been left half
full. Now, thanks to the unending rain, it was near to overflowing
again.

Gareth’s head came up, and he rubbed his
chin as he turned in a circle, feeling like he was being watched
but unable to pinpoint where the impression was coming from.
Neither he nor Conall was quite up for charging off in a random
direction to see if he could surprise an observer. And maybe Gareth
was wrong anyway, and the watcher was merely a curious cow that had
slipped through the gate.

The ground all around the
trough was thick with mud, churned by cows’ hooves and men’s boots.
Although Abbot Rhys had tried to preserve the scene before Gareth
and Gwen had arrived, the men who’d pulled Erik from the trough had
stomped all around the
paddock
. At the
time, they’d had no choice. Gareth hadn’t noticed anything useful
on the ground or in the trough then—and a more detailed inspection
didn’t reveal anything of interest now either.

Gareth turned to look up at the hayloft door
and projected his voice so Conall could hear him. “Anything up
there?”

Conall poked his head out over the lower
half of the door, which was latched while the upper half swung
free. “Someone has been up here all right. He left muddy
footprints.”

“Do you have a piece of rope handy? I’d like
to know the length of the shoeprint in case we ever see Erik again.
If I know how long the prints are, I might be able to match them to
his boots and determine if he was up there.” Gareth was glad now
that Hywel had asked about Conall’s investigative experience—or
lack thereof. He didn’t feel now that he was telling Conall
something that he should already know or how to do his job. “We’ll
test the rope against Mathonwy’s feet too, since they could just as
easily be his.”

Conall grunted his understanding. “I’ll see
what I can do.” He disappeared for a count of ten and then returned
to the door. “There’s also an indentation in the hay that indicates
someone settled down for a time to sleep or to wait.”

“So, we might wonder if that man was Erik or
if it was the man who killed him, knowing he was coming.”

“Or a third man whom one or the other was
coming here to meet,” Conall said, “or followed them to spy upon
them, or one who could have been sleeping in the barn and happened
upon their meeting unexpectedly.”