Harun had said good bye to Wenzel soon after his sudden decision. He needed some time to be alone to think about this. And if he needed some time for thinking, Wenzel needed substantially more of it.

Slowly, Harun wandered through the windy halls of the castle. He was so deep in thought that he didn't notice the cold as much as he usually did. Could he do this? Investigate a murder? Yes, why not. He was pretty sure of the fact that he was more intelligent than most people in the immediate vicinity. Yet, he admitted with a rueful smile, of this fact, most people were probably pretty sure. Nobody thought of themselves as dumb.

No, another factor was far more important in his qualifications as an unofficial one-man shurta. Of all the people in the castle who could have investigated the poor peasant’s death, he was the only one who showed any inclination to do so.

He had to do this.

Would he have the time to do so? That was only a rhetorical question. He had finished the dreary castle accounts, hadn’t he? And it would be some time before Sir Christian would be finished with his mass of masses and would remember again that he had a scribe to whom he needed to give work.

Harun had all the time in the world. He sighed, left the keep and went down to Wenzel's post at the gate again. The guard greeted him, grinning.

“Ah. The – what was it again? Shrubbyda?”

“Shurta. Wenzel, I need somebody to you talk to about this business.”

Wenzel cleared his throat. “Harun, I would love to help. But when I said I couldn't think of anybody clever enough to do this, that 'anybody' included me.”

Harun waved impatiently. “Don't worry. You don’t have to say anything intelligent.”

“I am relieved.”

“I just need a person to talk to. If Father Ignatius sees me walking through the castle talking to walls he’ll have me locked up for having unnatural discourse with an invisible devil.”

Wenzel grinned. “I wouldn't put it past him. So you came to me, because I'm the next best thing to a wall, did you?”

“Ehem... let's get back to the subject. Can I talk to you?”

“Sure. I’ll just pretend I’m a wall, shall I?”

“You do that.”

“I’m very good at it.”

“I’m sure you are. Let's start then, shall we?” Harun cleared his throat. “You see, this problem, like every intellectual conundrum which presents itself to the educated man, should be solvable by application of the ancient Greek principle of logos.”

Harun waited for a reply. When none came, he looked at Wenzel.

“I’m a wall,” Wenzel reminded him. “Walls don’t have to understand this sort of stuff.”

“Well, yes, quite.”

“And neither have they got to answer. Walls don’t usually do something like that.”

“I think I have grasped your meaning. Logos, or logic, translated into our tongue, is a principle of ancient Greek philosophy. One of the most famous methods of logic is that of the Athenian philosopher Socrates, handed down to us through the ages in the manifold written works of his disciple Plato. The Socratic Method, also commonly known as the Method of Elenchus or as Maieutics-“

“I may be a very silly wall, but I’ve never heard of either of the three.”

“-seeks to determine truth through a train of negative hypothesis-eliminations, at the end of which all hypotheses found to be untrue have been identified and eradicated, the only one remaining being the one in absolute conformity with truth.”

“Err... which means?”

“Meaning,” Harun replied, “that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

Harun cocked his curly-haired head to one side, thoughtfully. “That’s a very nice way of putting it, actually,” he added. There was a moment of silence, than he shrugged and continued: “Returning from theory to practice, this means that we can eliminate all the people in the castle.”

The wall looked concerned. “Ehm… can we? Just the two of us? I think we might hit some problems there. Some of the other guards are quite handy with a sword, you know. And besides, my moral principles wouldn’t permit me to kill that many people, even if some of them might deserve…”

“I meant eliminate them from the list of suspects.”

“Oh. Right. Carry on.”

“The castle gates are being closed at night.”

“You’re right there,” confirmed Wenzel, happy to be able to make a contribution. “In fact, I saw them doing it last night. It was the end of my shift, and I walked across the courtyard. From the stairs of the keep I looked back and saw them closing the gates.”

“I saw them doing it, too. I watched from the window of my Scriptorium.”

“Oh,” said the Wall, slightly disappointed.

“The gates were closed. So this means nobody from the castle can be the murderer.”

“And why’s that?,” Wenzel asked, defiantly.

“Because, if the gates were closed, if guards were patrolling on the battlements, and, as I think was the case, if none of the outer windows are big enough for a man to squeeze through...“

“That’s the case all right”, said Wenzel, reconciled by now being able to share his martial experience. “Loopholes, all of them. Couldn’t squeeze through one of those if you were a ferret.”

“If all this was so, then nobody could have left the castle from that point on.”

“Ah”, said Wenzel, “but how do you know the murder was not committed earlier? The murderer could have done the deed long before the castle gates were closed. Then he could have come from the castle.”

Harun couldn't suppress a smile.

“You are getting extraordinary talkative for a wall, do you know that? I know the murder was not committed earlier, because I heard a splash at the time the castle gates were being closed. That was, why I got up and walked to the window, in the first place, to see what had happened. From there I saw the guards closing the gates.”

“You heard a splash? So what?”

“Don't you see? It must have come from the well.”

“And people go to the well all the time. When they get thirsty, for example.”

“Wenzel, it was after sundown. Do you seriously think somebody would have been fetching water at that hour?”

“Hm...” Wenzel scratched his scruffy beard. “Doesn’t seem very likely.”

“Indeed it does not. So the sound could only have been the body being thrown into the well. And as I said, I stood by the window of the Scriptorium, and while I watched, nobody entered the castle. Had the murderer come from the castle, he would have had to spend the night outside. But next morning, I was there from the start, and I’m sure not one castle guards or cooks – or the priest for that matter”, he added regretfully, “came to the scene of the crime from the village. All people who should have been in the castle were indeed there. Therefore, the murderer must have come outside – he must live in the village.”

He paused.

“Unless”, he added as an afterthought, “anyone re-entered in the early hours of the morning, before I arrived at the scene of the murder. That is a possibility.”

“Nay it ain’t,” Wenzel said. “I was on watch the next morning, remember? From when I took over from the night shift, you were the first to come to the gates. And the night shift is not allowed to open the gate, not for anyone.”

“Thank you.”

“Pleasure.”

“So.” Harun nodded contentedly. “That was a good morning’s work. We’ve eliminated the whole castle.”

“May God forgive us our bloody deed.”

“Ha, ha, ha. But seriously, I don’t really know what the next step should be.” Harun thought a moment. Then he smiled. “I suppose we should take a look at the body.”

Wenzel pulled a face. “Haven’t you seen enough of it? I didn’t find it that interesting to look at the first time, to be honest.”

“I meant to find out exactly how he died you… wall.”

“He has a great big hole in his chest, hasn’t he? I would have thought that to be more or less conclusive evidence.”

“We should go and look at it nevertheless.”

“Can’t we do something else?”

“Like what? Walking around in the village and asking if anybody would like to help me, an accursed infidel, with finding the murderer? I think I prefer the company of a dead man.”

Wenzel held up both hands. “All right, all right. You go and look, if you’re so keen, soupra.”

“It is shurta. And I will need you to come with me.”

This made Wenzel look very unhappy. “Why me?”

“Because I'm a scribe and what I know about weapons and wounds is comparable with what you know about Greek philosophy. You, on the other hand, are a castle guard.”

Wenzel sighed.

“You can be pretty persistent.”

“So you are coming?”

“Aye, but not now. We’ll have to wait for the end of my shift.”

“Good. We'll meet… shall we say at sunset at the door of the Scriptorium.”

“Aye, sugar.”

“Shurta, Wenzel. Ma’a as-salama.”

“Bye.”

*~*~*~*~*

Dinner had gone by and Harun was thankful for it. The beggars were long gone, and with Sir Christian evidently of the opinion that in the face of Lukas' tragic death worldly pleasures were even less on the agenda than usual, the meal had been a sour affair. The main hall had only been lit by a few dingy candles and everyone had been immersed in silence. Harun could not wait to get a way and to get to his corpse, which probably said more about the quality of the meal than anything else.

He had left early, sat in the Scriptorium by the warm glow of a single candle and thought some more – a peculiarly pleasurable activity. By now he had foreseen that there might arise a few problems in seeing the corpse. But it had to be done. As isolated as he was, a heathen in a village full of heathens, there was little chance that any living person might want to help him in his self-imposed labors as the shurta of Sevenport. The corpse itself was one of the few things he might learn something from – mainly, because unlike the people of the village, it could not run away from him or slam a door in his face.

At the same time however, he was not exactly sure what he hoped to be able to find. Yes, he had had medical training, in the days before he came to this land – if you could call reading three dozen books about medicine medical training. He could probably name all the bones of the human body, from those in the big toe up to the little waggling ones in the ear. But had he ever looked at or touched somebody with a wound before? No.

There was a tentative knock on the door.

Harun looked up and saw Wenzel peeking in.

“Why so shy, my friend?”

“You looked so busy, I really didn't know whether to disturb you or not.”

“That is all right. Come in.”

“Really don’t know how you managed to look busy, considering you were only sitting down doing nothing. Must be a special intellectual talent, I suppose.”

“Yes, I practice my philosopher’s face every day in front of the mirror. Have you by any chance looked into the chapel on your way here?”

“No. Should I have?”

“I just wondered whether you might have seen any… impeding personalities in the vicinity.”

Wenzel looked blank. Harun got up and sighed. “It does not matter. We will just have to try our luck and see.”

“Speaking of seeing,” Wenzel said suddenly, “how are we going to see anything? The chapel has pretty big windows to the courtyard, but it’s dark by now, and…”

He stopped, as he saw Harun taking two candles out of his desk drawer.

“Special privilege of an industrious scribe”, he said, grinning. He handed one of the slim, beige waxen sticks to the guard. “Now, let us go.”

They descended the steps to the chapel, and were about to enter, when Father Ignatius stepped out onto the landing.

“You!” he hissed. “What are you doing here?”

From the tone of voice the good father employed, Harun deduced that these words were addressed to him. “I have come to pay my respects to the poor departed”, he said.

“A Christian does not need the respect of a disciple of Satan’s! Begone from this holy place, you abominable, black-hearted creature.”

“What is it, my good Father?” came a voice from the chapel. The voice of Sir Christian. Harun quickly suppressed a grin as he realized he had an unexpected advantage. Instead he put on as believable an expression of quiet religiosity as he could muster. It wasn’t a very good one, probably, but you had to consider that it was only required to convince Sir Christian.

“Ah, my good scribe.” The lord stepped out of the chapel and nodded to Harun. “And Wenzel, too. What is the matter, Father?”

“What is the matter? Milord, this heathen hath had the impudence to demand entry into the sacred home of our Lord Jesus Christ!”

Sir Christian raised an eyebrow and turned to Harun. The scribe bowed his head, holding the candle before his breast the way he had seen monks doing it.

“It is indeed the desire of my heart to pay my respects to the unfortunate departed, Milord.”

“And you?” asked the lord in the direction of Wenzel.

“Ey? Err… me too, Milord. Aye, pay respects and all that.”

Sir Christian's eyes wandered from the bowed head to the candle. He nodded approvingly and stood aside.

“Then enter. Every man may pay his respects to an honorable departed. It is our duty as Christians to respect this, for the house of Christ is closed to none.”

“But Milord-“ protested the Father.

“Father Ignatius – surely the shepherd does not turn away flock from the sheep shed?” The voice of Sir Christian indicated mild disapproval.

The shepherd bore an expression which showed all too clearly that for this particular flock, he might have considered changing his profession to butcher. But he said nothing.

“And what are these for?” he demanded, gesturing towards the candles.

“They are intended as an offering, to speed the good man’s soul on its way to heaven”, Harun answered promptly. It did pay off to have given thought to this in advance. Sure enough, Sir Christian’s face split at once into an unaccustomed smile.

“My dear scribe. Perhaps you will find your way to God after all.”

“I certainly intend to use this candle for looking for whatever I can find, Milord.”

“What a joy. Then perhaps some good will come out of all this ill.”

“I will do my best, so that it does indeed, Milord,” Harun answered seriously. From somewhere behind him, where Wenzel was standing, there came a suppressed snigger.

“Than we shall leave you, to think in peace about God. Come away, my good Father. There are some interesting paragraphs of St Augustine I would like to read to you. They are very apt for the occasion.”

The priest did not look at all pleased about this prospect, even though there could not be a more Christian prospect than to be read passages from the works of St Augustine. He looked back at the two men entering the chapel suspiciously, as he followed his Lord up the spiral staircase.

Once inside, Harun put his finger to his lips and listened. As soon as the steps had died away in the distance, he closed the chapel door.

“St Augustine,” he murmured. “Was it not he who said ’crede, ut intelligas’?”

Wenzel shrugged. “I don’t know. Was it him?”

“Yes, it was, my friend.”

“And what does it mean?”

“It means ‘believe, so that you learn’.” Harun snorted. “I believe that I prefer to learn by different methods.” He bolted the door.

“What if someone wants to come in?” asked Wenzel. “Won’t that look fishy?”

“I think it would appear still more fishy should the person who wishes to enter indeed enter and find us two sticking our heads under the shroud.”

“Good point.”

“Quick, now.” Harun crossed the room to the only light in the chapel besides the faint moonlight filtering through the painted glass windows: a big candle behind red glass, which stood behind the altar. He pushed the glass aside and lit his candle.

“Harun!” Wenzel said, disapprovingly. “That’s the Sanctuary Lamp!”

“Not for me, it isn’t.”

“Well yea, but that’s not the point.”

Harun held his candle out to the guard. “Do you want to light yours, or is my candle too holy for you now?”

Wenzel lit his candle without comment.

“And now, to the matter at hand.” Harun turned to the altar, on which the bier rested. One could see the outlines of a man there, under the white linen shroud. Despite himself, Harun shivered.

‘Seen logically, it is only a piece of dead meat,’ he thought forcibly. ‘Like the ones on the table a few days ago. You were not afraid of them, were you? So why should you feel uneasy now?’

It didn’t work.

He stood before the white linen.

“Let’s look, shall we?” he heard himself say.

Wenzel nodded.

Nobody moved. For about half a minute.

“I said ‘Let’s look’, didn’t I?” Harun repeated, agitated.

“Aye, you did. And as it was you who did the saying, I thought it might be you who'd do the looking.”

Harun hesitated. But he was an educated person after all – or supposed to be one. Hell and damnation

He raised his hand, gripped the pale shroud and jerked it back.

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So, this was chapter four. Or Chapter IV, to be exact. I decided to number my chapters with roman numerals since they were used during the middle ages. Makes the whole book more medieval, don't you think? : -)

Feedback on my numbering system (or the chapter, too, if you like :-)) you can give me here as comments or on my facebook page, to be reached via the external link on the right! Please, if you like it, let me know. I live for fans and feedback :)

Kind Regards

Robert