down here and tell me where and how you found it, for much depends on that. And can you find the exact spot again, without fail?”
“I can, for I marked it.” Flushed with pleasure at having pleased, Brother Mark sat down, leaning eagerly against Cadfael’s sleeve. “You know the houses there have a strip of garden going down almost to the water, there is only a narrow footpath along the edge of the pond below. I did not quite like to invent a reason for entering the gardens, and besides, they are narrow and steep. It would not be difficult to throw something of any weight from the house right to the edge of the water, and beyond—even for a woman, or a man in a hurry. So I went first along the path, the whole stretch of it that falls within reach from the kitchen window, the one you said was open that day. But it was not there I found it.”
“It was not?”
“No, but beyond. There’s a fringe of ice round the edge of the pond now, but the current from the millrace keeps all the middle clear. I found the bottle on my way back, after I’d searched all the grass and bushes there, and thought to look on the other side of the path, along the rim of the water. And it was there, on its side half under the ice, held fast. I’ve driven a hazel twig into the ground opposite the place, and the hole I prised it from will say unless we have a thaw. I think the bottle was thrown clear of whatever ice there may have been then, but not far enough out to be taken away by the mill current, and because the stopper was in it, it floated, and drifted back to be caught in the next frost. But, Cadfael, it couldn’t have been thrown from the kitchen window, it was too far along the path.”
“You’re sure of that? Then where? Is it the distance that seems too great?”
“No, but the direction. It’s much too far to the right, and there’s a bank of bushes between. The ground lies wrong for it. If a man threw it from the kitchen window it would not go where I found it, it could not. But from the window of the other room it very well could. Do you remember, Cadfael, was that window unshuttered, too? The room where they were dining?”
Cadfael thought back to the scene within the house, when Richildis met him and ushered him desperately through to the bedchamber, past the disordered table laid with three trenchers. “It was, it was!—the shutter was set open, for the midday sun came in there.” From that room Edwin had rushed in indignant offence, and out through the kitchen, where he was thought to have committed his crime and rid himself of the evidence later. But not for a moment had he been alone in that inner room; only in his precipitate flight had he been out of sight of all the household.
“You see, Mark, what this means? From what you say, this vial was either thrown from the window of the inner room, or else someone walked along that path and threw it into the pond. And neither of those things could Edwin have done. He might, as they suppose, have halted for a moment in the kitchen, but he certainly did not go along the path by the pond before making for the bridge, or Aelfric would have overtaken him. No, he would have been ahead of him, or met him at the gate! Nor did he have the opportunity, at any time afterwards, to dispose of the vial there. He hid with his bitter mood until Edwy found him, and from then on they were both in hiding until they came to me. This small thing, Mark, is proof that Edwin is as clear of guilt as you or I.”
“But it does not prove who the guilty man is,” said Mark.
“It does not. But if the bottle was indeed thrown from the window of that inner room, then it was done long after the death, for I doubt if anyone was alone in there for a moment until after the sergeant had come and gone. And if the one responsible carried this somewhere on him all that time, as ill-stoppered as it is now, then the marks of it will be on him. He might try to scrub the stain away, but it will not be easily removed. And who can afford to discard cotte or gown? No, the signs will be there to be found.”
“But what if it was someone else, not of the household, who did the deed, and flung the vial from the pathway? Once you did wonder, about the cook and the scullions …
“I won’t say it’s impossible. But is it likely? From the path a man could make very sure the vial went into the mid-current and the deep of the pool, and even if it did not sink—though he would have had time in that case to ensure that it did!—it would be carried away back to the brook and the river. But you see it fell short, and lay for us to find.”
“What must we do now?” asked Brother Mark, roused and ready.
“We must go to Vespers, my son, or we shall be late. And tomorrow we must get you, and this witness with you, to Hugh Beringar in Shrewsbury.”
The lay contingent at Vespers was always thin, but never quite absent. That evening Martin Bellecote had come down out of the town to give a word of hearty thanks first to God, and then to Cadfael, for his son’s safe return. After the service ended he waited in the cloister for the brothers to emerge, and came to meet Cadfael at the south door.
“Brother, it’s to you we owe it that the lad’s home again, if it is with a flea in his ear, and not lying in some den in the castle for his pains.”
“Not to me, for I could not free him. It was Hugh Beringar who saw fit to send him home. And take my word, in all that may happen you can rely on Beringar for a decent, fair-minded man who’ll not tolerate injustice. In any encounter with him, tell him the truth.”
Bellecote smiled, but wryly. “Truth, but not all the truth, even to him—though he showed generous indeed to my boy, I grant you. But until the other one’s as safe as Edwy, I keep my own counsel on where he is. But to you, brother …”
“No,” said Cadfael quickly, “not to me, either though soon, I hope, there may be no reason left for hiding him. But that time’s not yet. Is all well, then, with your own family? And Edwy none the worse?”
“Never a whit the worse. Without a bruise or two he’d have valued his adventure less. It was all his own devising. But it’s caused him to draw in his horns for a while. I never knew him so biddable before, and that’s no bad thing. He’s working with more zeal than he commonly shows. Not that we’re overburdened with work, this close to the feast, but wanting Edwin, and now Meurig’s gone to keep Christmas with his kin, I’ve enough on hand to keep my scamp busy.”
“So Meurig goes to his own people, does he?”
“Regularly for Christmas and Easter. He has cousins and an uncle or so up in the borders. He’ll be back before the year ends. He sets store by his own folk, does Meurig.”
Yes, so he had said on the day Cadfael first encountered him. “My kinship is my mother’s kinship, 1go with my own. My father was not a Welshman.” Naturally he would want to go home for the feast.
“May we all be at peace for the Lord’s nativity!” said Cadfael, with heartier optimism since the discovery of the
