SEEN OF THE CRIME

by

Edward Stasheff

 

 

            Dusk was surrendering to night when Stegoman and his human cargo finally sighted Montville.  They set down in a field right outside the village.

            The pair dismounted, Montmartre climbing down by himself this time, although he still looked shaken and green around the gills.  To Matt's surprise, Stegoman curled into a ball, chin resting on tail, hunkering down to sleep instead of hunting for his dinner.  Matt offered to buy him a goat or bull or something, but the dragon crankily declined.  He was exhausted and needed rest, he said gruffly, and would hunt in the morning.  Besides, he grumbled, he'd probably have another long flight tomorrow hauling men around again.  Matt heaped thanks and praise upon the dragon for his help and strength, but Stegoman merely harrumphed and closed his eyes.  Dragons never did know how to take a compliment.

Matt and Montmartre trudged toward the village of Montville, tired and saddle-sore.  They could just make out a dim figure heading toward them through the twilight.  Matt squinted through the gloom, and could barely see two shining eyes with a pale cross dangling below them, reflecting softly in the starlight.

            "Father Heureau of Montville greets you," the figure raised a hand in greeting, but his voice held a note of anxiety.  "Who are you, goodmen?"

            "Duke Henri Montmartre."

            "Sir Matthew Mantrell."

            The man stumbled to a halt in equal parts surprise and relief.  "Well come, milords!" he said.  "What would you of our humble village?"

            "For now?  A place to sleep," Matt said.  He was close enough now to see the clergyman more clearly.  He was a short and wiry man wearing a habit that looked at least two sizes too big.  And he was young, very young for a priest with his own parish.

            Not surprising, really, Matt mused.  Priests were in short supply after Malingo's purges, and there were vacancies in far too many parishes.  Now the seminaries were churning out priests as fast as they could.  The civil war had lasted less than a year… but its aftershocks would be felt for at least a generation.

            "We, uh, have no beds here worthy of such noble guests," young Father Heureau said nervously.  "But an' it please you, milords, you may sleep in my rectory…?"

            "Hey, any port in a storm," Matt nodded.

            They followed the clergyman, listening to his nervous chattering all the way.  The 'rectory' turned out to be, as Matt suspected, just another peasant hut, albeit close to the village chapel.  In fact, the Father's hut looked just as old and moldy as any in the village.  Matt could only assume it was the residence of the previous priest, the late Father DuVois. 

            They entered the small, round hut, illuminated slightly from the glowing coals still lingering in the central fire pit from the day's cooking fire.  The cottage was as spartan as… well, as a monk's cell—which, Matt supposed, made perfect sense.  The only thing that signaled this was the home of a priest was a low table along the wall sporting a Bible, parchment, ink and quill.

            "Will you only be staying the night, milords," Father Heureau asked, "and continue your journey tomorrow?"

            "No, actually," Matt said.  "We'll be staying for at least a day."

            "Indeed?" the priest asked, slightly surprised and puzzled.  "What would you in Montville?  'Tis not much here…"

            "Justice," Montmartre said. 

            "We're investigating the sorcerer who killed your predecessor, Father DuVois," Matt explained.

            The young clergyman cocked his head and stared at Matt, brow furrowing in confusion.  "But what is there to hear?" he asked, puzzled. 

Matt knew by now that medieval trials were based mostly on sworn testimony; the idea of investigating a crime scene in greater detail for physical evidence was something of a foreign concept.

"Most men of our village hath journeyed to the royal capitol to witness the hanging of that sorcerer," Father Heureau continued.  "Any oaths of truth can be heard in Bordestang, from the men who saw it happen."

            "We'd… like to take a look for ourselves," Matt explained.  "Two sides to every story and all that… you know."

            The young priest didn't.  He looked more confused than ever.  Fortunately, Montmartre jumped in once again as Matt's cultural interpreter.  "Is there no one here who did witness the murder?" he asked, sounding skeptical.  "Surely, there must be someone left in town who saw it happen!"

            "Well, aye, women and bairns, I suppose… but their word matters not…”
            Not in a court of law, Matt thought, but they could still provide useful information.

            "Oh, and Old François, I suppose."

            "François?" Matt asked.  "Let me guess: he didn't make the journey to Bordestang because he's too old… right?"

            "Aye," Father Heureau nodded.  "The oldest in our village, I believe.  Yet his mind is still sharp."  The priest's eyes widened, as if the idea had just struck him. "Why, he could tell ye what he did see that night!"

            "Great.  Wonderful."  That settled, Matt looked around for a bed.

            "’Twould honor us if he would do so," Montmarte interjected more tactfully.

            "I shall speak to him upon the morn," the clergyman said with a smile.

            Matt grunted and nodded in acknowledgement, then turned and trudged behind the rough curtain of homespun cloth that partitioned off the bed—a mound of hay covered in burlap.  It had been a physically and intellectually taxing day, and both he and Montmartre collapsed onto the soft straw mattresses without a word.  They were asleep within seconds.

 

            They were up and about early the next morning.  It wasn't difficult in a culture where the day began with dawn and the night with twilight.  Matt sure could have used some coffee, not to mention a shower and some mouthwash, but was forced to settle for a cold breakfast of bread and apples.

            True to his word, young Father Heureau made sure they broke their fast with Old François, and it turned into a working meal.  François was indeed old, past sixty at least—given medieval life expectancies, that made him positively ancient.  The crooked old man wasn't terribly impressed with the presence of nobility and wizards—in his long life, he'd seen it all before, and nothing surprised him anymore.  Besides, his life was nearly over anyway—so to hell with consequences of rude behavior!  He spoke to Matt and Montmartre as if they were lads come to hear a lesson, and seemed to expect the same degree of respect from them.  While Montmartre seemed slightly shocked and offended by the old man's manner, Matt was slightly amused and found it refreshingly casual.

            Old François told them pretty much the same story of the murder they had heard before, albeit in better detail.  On that fateful day, the villagers were gathering for a secret, clandestine Mass held in an old barn.  Shortly after the Mass began, two sorcerers rose from the congregation and attempted to arrest the priest.  The villagers fled the church and hid (an interesting new detail).  The two sorcerers then cast many demonic spells of black magic trying to kill Father DuVois, but his holiness protected him, and the sorcerer's spells were in vain.  Suddenly, one of the sorcerers, in frustration and anger, slew the other.  The remaining sorcerer ran the good Father through on his sword and watched him die.  Then, his work done, he disappeared into the night.

            Ever since Matt first heard the story, he'd felt it didn't completely make sense.  He was left with nagging questions and doubts, and wondered if the tale had been tainted by assumptions, streamlining, and superstition.  Now, hearing Old François' more detailed version of the story, he had even more questions—and wondered how many others would arise before his investigation was through.  To truly set his mind at rest, Matt needed all questions answered, every doubt removed—and for that, he needed to know nothing less than exactly what had happened that night, moment by moment.

            "You think you could show us where this happened, and walk us through the events of that night?" Matt asked.

            Old François scowled at that.  He'd told them what happened—what more was there to know?  But it was a chance to continue being important, so he agreed.  "Aye, if you wish.  I saw it all with me own two eyes, mind ye, and can tell ye just what happened!" he boasted.

They moseyed to the other side of the village.  Well, the lords and clergyman moseyed, Old François hobbled as fast as he could on his worn cane until they came to the charred remnants of the barn in question.  It wasn't a complete ash-field; one could still see the outline of the walls, although the center was a crisscross of fallen rafters and charcoal.  Matt noticed that the ring of scorched grass around the barn was fairly narrow.

"The fire didn't spread very far," he commented.

            "Aye," Old François nodded, "God be praised, 'twas raining that night."

            "That night?" Matt repeated, spinning around.  He hadn't heard that detail before!

            "Well, aye, of course 'twas at night!" Old François said.  "Did ye think us idiot enough to hold a forbidden Mass in the middle of the day?  Where any of Malingo's spies could see folk coming and going?  Nay, a'course not!  We celebrated the Mass in the black of night!”

            "Well… okay, I guess that makes sense."  Matt narrowed his eyes.  "And you say it was raining that night?  What kind of rain?  Thunderstorm?  A steady rain?   More of a drizzle?"

            "A… a drizzle, I suppose," Old François frowned, confused.  "But what hath the weather to do with—"

            "Altostratus clouds, then," Matt said.

            The two other men just stared at him blankly.

            "Storm clouds that cover the whole sky at mid-altitude," Matt clarified.  Montmartre's brow rose and he nodded in sudden understanding—it meant it was pitch black that night, with no moonlight or even starlight to see by.  And that, of course, automatically cast doubt on any eyewitness accounts: how, exactly, did they see anything that night?

Matt stepped carefully through the debris pile, looking around for anything that had survived the blaze, but there was not much left.  It looked like there would be nothing but eyewitness testimony after all—any physical evidence of the murder had been destroyed by the fire.

Matt set his hands on his hips and looked around, wondering if he could cast a spell to learn something from what was left of the crime scene.  Unfortunately, Matt knew he had to compose his spell verses with as much detail as possible about the desired effect—a verse too general or vague could produce unpredictable and dangerous results.  The problem, of course, was that Matt wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for.  That made it rather difficult to compose a spell specific enough to be effective and safe.

Wielding magic in this universe was like trying to do open-heart surgery with a chainsaw.  Summoning enough power for the job was easy—it was using it without destroying the target (and yourself) that was tricky.

"Ho!  Wizard!"

Matt turned to where Montmartre was crouching at the edge of the burn zone.  The duke picked up a charred crescent of iron and examined it.  Matt's heart leapt in his breast—not all the evidence had been destroyed.  Of course! he thought.  The fight had occurred outside the barn—so there was every chance the weapon had survived!

"Is that the sickle Ortho mentioned?" Matt asked, crossing.

"Well… what's left of it, aye," Montmartre nodded, standing.  "But I can see no bloodstains upon it.  'Tis too burned—the blade is blackened, and the handle burned away."

"Yeah?" Matt said, rolling up his sleeves.  "Well, we'll soon see about that!" he declared, taking the blade.  This, at least, he could craft a spell for.  He pondered his words for a minute—did he know any poetry involving blades and blood?  Ah, yes… good ol' Billy Shakespeare!  He carefully pruned some lines from Macbeth and made a few substitutions:

 

"Out, damned spot! Out, I say!
What, will this blade ne'er be clean?

Here's the smell of the blood still;

all the perfumes of Arabia

will not sweeten this little scythe.

What's done cannot be undone!"

 

Slowly, dark reddish-brown stains of dried blood spread across the blackened iron.  Most were only tiny drops and smudges here and there—most likely the remnants of cuts and scratches from the sickle's many owners over the years.  But the tip of the blade—a thumb's length, at least—was solid red, fairly crusted with dried blood.

"Well, well," Montmartre mused.  "Looks like he did stab him with it!"

"Nay!" Old François objected, shaking his head.  "The sorcerer did slay Father DuVois with a sword!  I saw it meself!"  Still, curiosity got the better of him.  "What means this sickle, then?"

Matt and Montmartre's eyes met, and they stood in awkward silence.  To explain Ortho's story now, to this old man…

"It's… evidence," Matt said, sticking the tool into his belt, and left it at that.

Old François frowned, puzzled.

"So Ortho's story is true, then?" Montmarte asked hopefully.

Matt shook his head.  "No.  All we know for sure is that the tip of this sickle was bloodied at some point in the past—but we don't know how, or when, or by who.  Heck, we don't even know whose blood it is!"

Montmartre face twitched in annoyance at Matt's stubborn insistence on sticking to the most basic assumptions possible.  "Alright, very well.  But it doth confirm a part of Ortho's tale, at least!"

"Well… it doesn’t contradict it," Matt conceded.  "Still, it's not exactly enough to exonerate him."

Old François was acutely aware of being left in the dark, and resented it verbally.  "Who is this 'Ortho,' then!?  And what hath he to—"

            "So tell me," Matt said, cutting him off.  "What exactly happened the night of the murder?  Start at the beginning and tell us everything.  Walk us through it.  Literally."

            "Uh…" the old man's mind switched gears so suddenly it left more metal flakes than an Ozzy concert.  He was torn between righteous indignation and resuming his role of self-importance.  Self-interest won out.

"Well, 'twas Saturday," Old François began, "but the moon had just crossed the top of the sky, so 'twas really the Sabbath, ye see.  So we all went to the barn—“

            "Why was the Mass held in the barn?" Matt interjected. 

            The old-timer glared at the man interrupting his story.  "Well, we couldn't very well hold it in a church, now could we?" Old François retorted.  "Any sorcerer worth his salt would be watching that church!  Nay, ‘twas held in a different place each Sunday!  An' that night, ‘twas in the barn."

            “A floating Mass,” Matt nodded.  "Not a bad idea,"

            Old François looked slightly appeased, and continued with his story.  He then went on a long litany of who exactly had shown up for midnight Mass that week, praising those with the courage to attend, like the village elders (including himself, of course), and criticizing those too cowardly to come and receive God's grace despite the danger, such as the town hussy. The list went on for quite a while.  Matt estimated at least fifty attendees, which seemed like a rather large number for such a small village.  Interestingly, Old François' list included several people from out of town—some that he knew, and others he didn't. 

            "So then we closed the—"

            "Wait," Montmartre said, holding up a hand.  "These two sorcerers were among the parishioners attending the Mass?"

            "Oh, aye," Old François replied. "Mixed right in with the crowd, and no one the wiser."

            "Two strangers attending a secret Mass," Montmartre asked, "and no one noticed them?"

            Ooh.  Good point, Matt thought.  He was still, at heart, a modern city boy, used to large and anonymous church congregations.  That a medieval parish was close-knit, that everyone knew everyone, was something he easily forgot. 

            "Well, 'twasn't just our village, ye know!" Old François snapped, as if it were a fact obvious to everyone.  "Rondeville to the north of here, and Borvineau to the east—both had lost their priest by then.  So their flock did come to Montville for the Mass, of course."

            "Still," Montmartre said, frowning, "a stranger that ­no one knew…"

            "'Twas almost always one or so at the Mass ye don't know, aye." Old François shrugged in exasperation.  "But ye figured someone in the village must know an' trust 'em—or they wouldn't even have known about the Mass, now would they?"

            Montmartre nodded slowly, silent.

            "I… saw them two sorcerers meself, ye know," Old François admitted, looking down.  " Young fellers they were, the both of 'em, the one short an’ fat, and t’other, uh… well, just plain, I suppose.  But I figured they was someone’s family or friends come a-visitin'… happens, ye know.  And, besides… well, I dunno…” Old François looked up and stared Montmartre in the eye.  “Seemed almost blasphemous to turn a man away from the Mass."

            Montmartre contemplated that for a moment, then gave a firm nod.  “Well said, goodman.  Pray you, continue.”

Matt followed the Montmartre’s lead on this.  The old nobleman knew Merovencian culture better than Matt ever would.  If he felt what Old François said had the ring of truth to it, Matt would trust the duke's instincts.

            "So we closed and locked the barn door," Old François continued his story.  "Then the boy lit the candles upon the altar—well, upon an old barrel, really, for we had no proper altar, know ye—and we began the Mass.  'Twas right after we'd sung the Kyrie, it was, when these two men stood up.  They threw off their cloaks, and they was wearing the red robes of the Bloodhounds underneath!" 

            "Were they armed?" Montmartre asked.

            "Oh, aye, had swords, they did," Old François nodded. "Hadn't drawn them yet, though.  Needed their hands free to cast Lucifer's unholy curses, ye know.  Oh, they was wavin' an' chantin'—"

            "What happened next?" Matt prompted.

            "Well, these sorcerers, said they'd only come for the priest, they did.  Said they've give everyone else a chance to run—anyone gone after a ten-count would be left in peace, they said."

            "Strange." Matt frowned.  "Why not arrest everyone?"

            "Numbers," Montmartre answered.  "Over two score men, against a pair of sorcerers?  Even armed with swords and magic, wizard, that's too many for two men to take on and win."

            "Oh.  Right."  Matt had seen enough zombie movies to know the effect of a swarm attack, and knew from experience that spells took time and concentration to cast—both of which were difficult to do at the bottom of an angry peasant dogpile.  "So what they were really trying to do was clear the barn of everyone but themselves and the priest—and they succeeded, right?"

            Montmartre shrugged.  "'Tis what I would do, were I them."

            "So what happened then?" Matt asked, turning back to Old François.

            "Well, many ran, a'course, but some of us didn't know what to do.  Then Good Father DuVoix, bless his soul, told us all to flee for our lives—so we did, everyone… save the Father, a'course."

            "And didn't Father DuVois try to run in all the confusion?" Matt asked.

            "Why… because… because…" Old François stared at Matt blankly.  Clearly, the thought had never occurred to him before.  "Because… he wanted to protect us!  Aye, that must be it!"  Old François declared in sudden inspiration.  "For had he escaped, them sorcerers would've burned the village down looking for him!  Nay, the Good Father sacrificed himself for his flock, just as our Savior died upon the cross to save us all."

            "Well… that's one interpretation," Matt nodded slowly.  Another possibility, one that Ortho had presented, was that Father DuVois hadn't feared the sorcerers—he just needed to clear the barn so he could parley with the Bloodhound team in private.

            "So everyone fled the barn, then," Montmarte prompted Old François.

            "And which way did you leave?" Matt asked.

            Old François gave him an extremely strange look.  "Through the barn door, ye nitwit, where else?"

            "There was just the one door?" 

            "Aye."

            "Over here?" Matt stepped to the edge of the charred rubble.

            "Aye."

            "No windows?"

            "Well, aye, there were, but 'twere closed.  'Twas a secret Mass, ye know!"

            Matt bit back the obvious comment about it being a rather open secret that was apparently known several villages away—there was no point in antagonizing the old man.  Matt turned around and surveyed the landscape.  "So everyone ran out the barn doors, huh?  Where'd you go?  Back to your homes?"

            "Oh no, a'course not!  'Twould be the first place them Bloodhounds would look, ye know, if they changed their mind!  No, we all ran and hid."

            "And where did you hide?"

            "Over yonder." Old François pointed his cane through where the side of the barn had stood, off to the east at a grove of trees by a creek bed about a hundred yards off.

            "Where, exactly?  Show us.  Take us there."

            "Eh?  Why?"  Old François look puzzled.  He couldn't see how it was relevant—but apparently didn’t care too much either, for he hobbled in the direction of the grove without further objection.  It was one more chance to be in the spotlight, after all.

            The two men followed Old François around to the side of the barn wreckage, and across the field to just inside the tree line.  It made sense—at night, they'd be deep enough in the grove to be hidden in the shadows, but still close enough to watch all the excitement.

            "Ok," Matt said to Old François.  "From here, what did you see?"

            "Well, them two Bloodhounds tried to kill Father DuVois with many spells dark and foul.  But his holiness protected the Good Father, and God would not let his shepherd come to harm.  Then, in fury, one of the sorcerers turned on t’other.  Blasted him right through the wall, he did!  He fell to the ground—this is the little fat one, mind ye—and lay dead."

            "Okay, hold on a second," Matt interrupted yet again.  "How do you know they were casting demonic spells?"

            "Why, I did see them do so!  I'm old, not blind, ye know!"

            "But all you can see from here is the broad side of the barn," Matt objected, "and you said all the windows were closed for secrecy.  The barn doors were open, but they face north, away from us.  In other words," Matt finished, "you couldn't have seen inside the barn from here."

"Why, 'tis so!" Montmartre exclaimed, gazing at the charred rubble in amazement.

"So how do you know they were casting spells inside?" Matt asked.

            Old François's faced darkened in anger and he glared at Matt as if he were somehow cheating by bringing logic into this.  "For that the barn did burn down, ye idiot!  How else could that happen but with hellfire?"

            "A stampede and then a struggle, around a barrel with two lit candles, in a wooden barn filled with dried hay?" Matt asked skeptically.  "I can see how the barn could burn down without the help of unholy magic.  Easily."

            "They were castin' spells, I tell ye!" Old François argued fiercely.  "We did hear shouts and cries, and the chanting of spells and curses, coming from yon barn!  An' when that plain sorcerer did knock the little fat one clear through the wall—you tell me he did that without magic?!"

            "Well, no," Matt agreed with a nod, and Old François grunted his triumph.  "That, I could believe was a magic verse.  At least, I can't think of how else he could have done it."

            "Father DuVois was no wizard," Montmartre pointed out.  "And the little sorcerer would hardly have cast it upon himself… so it must have been Ortho's spell."

            "Agreed," Matt said with a nod.  Logic did seem to point toward Ortho casting the spell—but there wasn't really any evidence yet that the spell was demonic in nature.  Not as far as Matt could tell, at least.

"Another thing, goodman," Montmartre said, turning to Old François, "if you couldst not see inside the barn, then how doth you know the sorcerers were attacking Father DuVois, and not, say, each other?" he asked.  "As you say, one sorcerer killed the other—might they not have been fighting each other the whole while?"

            "Well, I… I suppose so," Old François said grudgingly.  "But… but…" Old François' voice trailed off, and he grew visibly frustrated at not being able to find a hole in the Duke's logic.     

            "Okay," Matt said, moving on.  "So the plain sorcerer threw the little fat one through the wall.  What happened next?"

            "Well," Old François said, turning toward the ash field and squinting his eyes, as if trying to visualize exactly what he saw.  "The plain sorcerer—and I know 'twas him and not Father DuVois, for this man had hair—he comes a-walking through the hole in the barn wall.  Knelt beside his dead partner and began to throttle him, he did, shaking and striking at him!  Then Good Father DuVois came running through the hole as well, arms waving, and did trip over the sorcerer.  They stood, and the sorcerer drew his sword and attacked Father DuVois.  They did struggle—the space of a moment, no more—then the sorcerer ran the Good Father through.  He did watch the priest die, then looked around—and for a moment, I swear to God almighty that he looked right at me!  Then he ran off into the dark.  'Twas the last we ever saw of him, 'till we did hear the Queen had captured the accursed man."

            Matt and Montmartre mused that over in silence for a moment.  Matt had the sense that this was the moment, those crucial few seconds, that divided defense and accident from murder.

            "Saw all this, did you?" Montmartre asked. 

"With me own two eyes," Old François nodded firmly.

"And how, pray tell, did you see this?" Montmartre pressed.  "'Twas darkest night, with no moon, and you and yours were far away."

"Why, the barn was on fire, ye dunce!  I saw by the light of the blaze!"

"Yeah, but the men were between you and the fire,” Matt pointed out.  “The light was behind them—which means all you could see were silhouettes, right?

            “What matters it?” Old François demanded, glaring up at Matt, angered by his good word being questioned.  “I saw that sorcerer murder our good priest, plain as day!”

            “No,” Matt said, just as firmly.  “What you saw were a couple of dark shapes moving off in the distance, in the middle of a moonless night.  There was a struggle and Father DuVois wound up dead.  Beyond that, I don’t think we’re certain of anything.”

Old François’ jaw settled into obstinacy.  “Well, say what ye will, with yer fancy words and yer fancy schooling," Old François muttered, stubborn as a mule. "I still know what I saw!”  And with that, he stormed (well… hobbled) off toward his hut, muttering darkly to himself about soft-hearted noblemen and uppity commoner wizards.

 

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