“…there’s a load on my heart, about my brother’s death. May… may I talk to you? I know you can't answer, but it would ease my heart to talk to you. May I?”

Harun nodded. This was definitely going well so far – much better than he had ever expected. With luck, he would have a confession within the hour. But no, that was not likely, was it? After all, pilgrims were no priests, they could go round merrily chatting to anybody about what someone had whispered in their ear. And Wenzel was standing right beside him and Karl. The peasant wasn't simply going to confess his guilt.

“Thank you, pilgrim. You see…my brother was young of course, and he leaves a widow behind and all, but it weren’t so bad, him dying I mean, if it weren’t for the terrible way he…” The man swallowed. Harun threw a glance at his face and immediately moved him to the very bottom of his suspect list. Either this man was a perfect, play-acting fiend, or he was as innocent as innocence itself.

“He was run through, pilgrim, and terrible to look at. Blood all over him, eyes empty, that’s how we fished him out of the well up at the castle.”

Harun laid his hand on his heart.

“I think the pilgrim wishes to ask whether this has lead you to wonder about whether his soul is save”, said Wenzel, displaying an unusual ability in the interpretation of the occasionally quieted.

“Aye of course, that I do…” Karl hesitated. He looked unhappy, as though wondering what he wanted to say next.

Harun put his hand in his pocket. He felt something small and wooden there. Inspired, he pulled out his hand again, grasping the little wooden cross like a sword, ready for the strike. Again he placed his hand on his chest and then made a movement as if stabbing his heart with the cross.

“But perhaps you might rather be wondering about the soul of the murderer,” Wenzel continued, “and about in which man it dwells.”

Karl’s eyes filled with tears. “Is it wrong of me to wish my brother’s killer found?” he asked. “To think of revenge… it’s not a Christian thing to do, I know, but… oh, pilgrim, can’t you help me? Is it Christian of me to want to find the killer?”

Once again, Harun was glad for his vow of silence. He wasn’t sure what he would answer to somebody asking his out of all opinions about what was the right, Christian thing to do. What he was sure of, however, was that he couldn’t answer without laughing himself silly at the question, something which would have been both inappropriate and hazardous at the same time, in this case. He therefore contented himself with swinging the cross-sword menacingly towards an invisible enemy’s throat.

Karl looked relieved. “So you don’t think it's not rightly Christian of me to wish for revenge?”

To hell with rightly Christian, my good man. Harun swung his makeshift weapon some more. The least he could do for his ex-suspect was remedying some of the damage the village priest and or Father Ignatius had inflicted on the poor man's mind.

The peasant looked heartily relieved. “Thank you father. It has been a great comfort for me to talk to a pious Christian soul such as yourself.”

Yes, and tickle all the carrots from below. Senseless non-conversation was really quite fun. Harun patted the man reassuringly on the shoulder. But as he did so, his mind reminded him of his principles. He couldn’t just strike this poor man from his list of suspects on the grounds of sympathetic feelings and a sad facial expression. Viewed logically, he was as likely to have done the murder as any of the other suspects.

Damn this logic. But one couldn’t get away from it, could one? He would have to ask some questions at least – even if it was only to prove that this man had nothing whatever to do with his brother’s death.

Harun nudged Wenzel. While raising his hands for some complicated gestures, which Karl eyed with interest, he lent across and whispered something in the guards ear.

“Ehm… the pilgrim would like to know where you were when it happened.”

“When what happened?” asked Karl.

“The murder.”

“How am I to know? I don’t know when it happened, do I?”

Harun bit his lip. He had forgotten that nobody apart from himself and Wenzel knew the exact time of the murder. That was what one got for being more intelligent than anybody else in the vicinity,

A few more diversionary gestures and whisperings followed.

“Then he wants to know where you were on the day before the body was found, at sunset,” Wenzel specified.

“Why at sunset?”

“’Cos that’s when the murder happened.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t. The pilgrim does. He, err... saw it all in a dream, just before coming here.”

Karl looked awestruck. “God’s breath! Did he really? And he told you all that with that bit of waving?”

“I…um…I…” Wenzel's scruffy face was turning red.

Hastily, Harun bent across and whispered some more. “I spent a certain amount of time in a cloister when I was a child and there I learned enormous wisdom among which was foremost the silent language of the holy monks devoting their life to God in inaudible prayer”, Wenzel said without taking in breath once. Then he added: “And…um… and that’s why I understand him. Aye, that’s why.”

“Incredible, Wenzel! That’s really something.”

“Aye, it was.”

Karl stepped closer, with a different expression on his face – now not only awestruck by God’s grace, but also aware of the practical use it might be put to.

“You didn’t happen to see the face of the basta- or the man who did it, pilgrim? In your vision, I mean? Did you see the murderer?”

Harun shook his head and held his hand before his eyes, pulling his hood deeper into his face.

“It was dark?”

The hood nodded.

“Pity.”

Karl stepped back, disappointed. Even God’s grace wasn’t to be trusted nowadays.

Harun nudged his friend.

“Returning to the pilgrim’s question…” Wenzel began.

“What? Oh, you mean what it was I was doing when Lukas…let me think… at sundown, you said, it was?”

Harun nodded.

“Then I was in the tavern, drinking with some of the folk of the village. Cant’ remember who they were… can’t remember anything much from that night, to be honest. Only the morning, when I came up to the castle, to the well and…” he stopped. But not because the grieve of the memories had again overtaken him. A thoughtful expression had come over his face.

“You know, pilgrim… without wanting to, you may have given me an idea there. You see…If I was to go to everyone and ask where they were at sundown, that’ll give me some idea of who might have killed my brother. ‘Cos anyone who was somewhere else with somebody else who can vouch for them… well, they couldn’t very well have been at the well at the same time, could they?”

The pilgrim nodded.

“And therefore,” the peasant concluded, “they couldn’t have nothing to do with my poor brother getting killed, you see?”

Again, a pious, earnest pilgrim’s nod.

“Thank you, pilgrim. Without you I mightn’t have had the idea.”

Harun embarked on some more evasive gesture action.

“You and Lukas were very dear to one another, weren’t you,” translated Wenzel. “No quarrels or something like that?”

“Nothing of the kind. He was the only brother left to me, after the twins died so young.”

Harun was quite relieved to hear it. By now he would have been extremely displeased had this nice, big, mournful man turned out to be a malevolent villain. But now he was already at it, he had better probe this matter to its deepest depths.

A final hand-manoeuvre, again some whispering.

“And did he leave you anything?” Wenzel inquired.

“What had he to leave? His lands will go to his widow of course, as is only right and proper. I shouldn’t take them even if I wanted to. She’ll have her work cut out managing everything, I can tell you. If only there were some nice fellow available to take care of her. The lands aren’t that bad, even if they’re bondsman’s lands…but no, she’s all alone with those three of her and God only knows how she’ll…”

He strayed into details of peasant life. All very interesting, surely, but hardly very illuminating for Harun’s purpose. He occasionally understood words like ‘land’ and ‘cow’ and ‘sheep’, but apart from that, he was utterly lost. Up to this moment he had never thought about it, but even peasants seemed to have their specialized language which only a fellow expert could understand.

Did this wondering from the subject denote anything sinister? Did Karl want to avoid the nosy pilgrim's questions? No, the scribe concluded. It simply meant that what was in Harun’s mind – that Karl or Lukas’ widow could in some way be connected with his death – was so utterly ridiculous to the peasant, that he did not bother talking about the matter. What did that prove? If anything, more likely innocence than guilt.

Suddenly, a thoughtful expression flickered again across the sad, mustached face of the peasant. “Pilgrim, I just thought… you may have given me another Idea. Do you know what I think? You’re an inspiration of God, sent to help me. You talking about quarrels and money and land… that made me think, that perhaps, if I wanted to find out who killed my brother, it might be a good idea to find out who’d gain from him dying, wouldn’t it? What do you think?”

Harun held up his hand, hurriedly.

“Excuse us,” said Wenzel. “The pilgrim has seen somebody over there he would like to talk t- I mean, somebody he would like to be silent next to.”

Father Ignatius was still not finished with his sermon. Evidently, Sir Christian had advised him, since this was the final one, to make a special effort of it. Harun sauntered over to the plump peasant Michal, who still had not managed to wipe the smile of his face for the occasion. Wenzel followed his friend closely.

“Good morrow, good morrow, pilgrim,” the peasant greeted him jovially, and in none to quiet a voice, considering that he technically should still be listening to his priest’s sermon. “What a jolly nice affair this is.”

Harun almost forgot his vow of silence. But luckily, Wenzel again asked the question he himself could not ask, and without needing any prompting this time.

“Nice? This is a funeral.”

“Aye of course, but it’s a pretty good one, ain’t it? I can’t help thinking that Lukas must be pleased with everybody coming and paying their respects and all.”

Harun couldn’t help thinking that Lukas might be even more pleased if he still could be among those gathered here, alive, and was about to point out something along those lines, when Wenzel, unusually thoughtful and quick of mind, stood on his foot. The scribe uttered a muffled squeak and swayed on one foot.

“Didn’t catch that, pilgrim, sorry,” said the peasant.

“He said nothing,” Wenzel explained hurriedly. He threw Harun a warning look. “He is not allowed to speak. He simply was so moved by the occasion that he could not contain his sympathy for the poor departed and his family, and sighed with compassion.”

“Aye, it’s all quite sad,” Michal said with a broad smile.

Harun knew they were pressed for time. Father Ignatius’ preaching might not last for much longer, and after the funeral was over and done with, so was any chance of questioning the suspects. At a funeral, questions about the deceased may appear natural, even when posed by a mute pilgrim. But he could hardly carry his inquisitiveness into the homes of the bereaved. Nevertheless he waited some time before starting to gesture his questions. Firstly, because it might appear odd to Michal being pestered by strange questions so quickly by the new arrival, and secondly, because he did not particularly wish to make any grand hand movements whilst still standing only on one foot, the other one throbbing dreadfully.

Finally, when Wenzel began to nudge him nervously, he began his antics and waited. Wenzel dutifully explained to the peasant that the pilgrim would like to now: where he, Michal, had been at sunset on the night before Lukas’ death. It turned out that Harun need not have worried about the peasant being suspicious about his questions. Michal seemed never to be suspicious of anything or anyone. He didn’t even bother thinking about why anyone might want to know abut his hovements.

“In the tavern I was, my God, yea, with Karl and Daniel and the others, and we knocked a few back I can tell you. Would you like to come and join us after the funeral? We’ll be downing a few in Lukas’ honour, and we’re always glad to have guests. But I suppose you don’t go in for stuff like that much, being a pilgrim and all. Not that I would mind if you came – I say drinking a drop can’t hurt, and if it can’t hurt you on earth, how can it hurt you on your way to heaven? It’s not as though it was included in the ten commandments or some suchlike, and I think…”

“The pilgrim,” Wenzel interrupted the flow of words, “inquires whether you know of any reason why anyone would have wanted to kill Lukas.”

Michal's big, pig-like eyes flew wide open. “Kill? Reason to kill? Good Lord, why should I? Who was killed, anyway?”

“Lukas was,” Wenzel replied with a frown. “Didn’t you see the sword wound in his chest?”

“Heavens above, of course I didn’t. When the boy came and told everybody they had fished some poor fellow out of the well, everybody rushed up – except me. Why should I go and look at a dead fellow? He’d be green, and slimy and full of blood and hosts of horrible things one can’t even imagine without having to steady oneself with a solid pint of ale.”

He shuddered.

“No, leave the dead be I say, that’s the best way to go about it and everybody is happy.”

At this stage, even Wenzel’s limited talent for sarcasm was provoked.

“So you think one should have left him in the well?” he inquired. “It would of course have had its advantages – after a few days of letting him rot, the water would be undrinkable and everybody would have had to drink beer from then on.”

Again a smile appeared on Michal’s face. “Do you really think so? That would really have been great!”

In his mind, Harun crossed the next suspect of his list. Even had this man possessed a sword, and had he had a reason for desiring Lukas death, and had he been there, at the well, at the fatal moment, the scribe doubted very much that he would have had the brains to drive the sword into his victim with the pointy end pointing in the right direction.

Besides, he had been in the tavern. Everybody had been in the tavern, it seemed, Karl and Michal as well as Daniel. But one would have to speak to the skinny fellow nevertheless. Harun was not prepared to swear to the guilt or innocence of any man, relying on the testimony of this overfed pompous piggy.

He waved his hand.

“You must excuse us,” Wenzel apologized, “but we have to go. Good bye.”

“And will you come to the tavern afterwards?”

“Um… I think not, Michal.”

The peasant looked slightly disappointed. He let them go without further comment, however.

“He’ll be consoled soon enough,” Wenzel said, as they made their way as unobtrusively as possible through the gathered village folk towards the scrawny shape of Daniel, standing at the very edge of the crowd. “When he’s drinking, he makes sure that everybody around him has enough to drink, too. And as well heeled as he is, that makes him never short of company.”

With a warning movement, Harun hushed him as they draw nearer to the last remaining peasant suspect. The routine should have been exactly the same as before. Yet an unexpected interruption occurred, when Father Ignatius ended his sermon. Harun had stopped to listen a long time ago, and was taken aback by the abrupt silence. Suddenly everyone who had been muttering to his neighbor about the drinks after the ceremony or about next week’s market at Danzig was silent again, listening intently to the words that had ceased, but which beyond all doubt, had been of the greatest interest.

“What now?” hissed Wenzel.

Harun shook his head irritably. He could not risk to speak. Not now, when everything was so quiet. If somebody should happen to overhear him, and look in his direction, and realize who had spoken, and put two and two together, this could lead to a very nasty end. And why say anything? He could not influence what would happen next in any case. The bearers would take up the coffin, and it would be brought to the grave where the priest would say a last blessing over it. Down into the earth it would go, and then everything would be under and done with.

The bearers, however, did not move.

Instead, one of the castle servants hurried from Sir Christian to Father Ignatius and muttered something into the priest’s ear. The ear twitched. It was not pleased by the message, and neither was the rest of the priest, to judge by the look of his sour, pale face. He strode away from the open grave towards the crowd.

“Pilgrim?” He called out, “Pilgrim are you there? I have an errand to you from Sir Christian.”

Immediately, the muttering of the crowd started again.

“Whatever can he want from me?” hissed Harun.

“No idea. But that’s not that important. The important thing is: what are we going to do now?”

“I will have to go to him. There’s no alternative.” Harun began to move into the direction of the priest.

“Hey, wait!” Wenzel grabbed the sleeve of his friend’s robes. “What am I to do without you?”

“You can question this fellow Daniel alone, can’t you?”

“No, I cant! What on earth shall I say?”

“I can’t tell you! I have to go!”

“But how am I going to know what…”

“Think! For yourself! You can do that, cant you, for a change?”

“Well that’s nice. The next time you do this, you can look for another interpreter.”

Harun wrenched his sleeve from Wenzel’s grasp and hurried towards the priest. He could not risk being discovered now. Whatever the priest wanted of him, he would have to acquiesce.

The crowd parted to let him through. He stepped before the priest, who put a smile on his face so foul and insincere that it would not have fooled a brain-dead blinded slug.

“Greetings, worthy pilgrim. I am sent to you by my lord, Sir Christian of Sevenport, who is much impressed by your…err… inspiring presence.”

Harun nodded in a way that he hoped was demure enough for a pilgrim. He had never had time to practice much.

“He wishes you to kneel before the dead man and say a prayer for him. He believes that, albeit that that your mouth may not be able to utter words aloud for us to here, God will hear them all the better, and will consider them as he weighs the worth of the soul of the poor departed. Will you perform this service to the dead?”

Harun gave another demure, pilgrimmy nod.

“Very well, then. Follow me.”

The scribe did as he was asked. Meanwhile, Wenzel had, in spite of all his defeatist comments, taken up his position beside Daniel. He would question him, oh yes, and he would prove to this abominable Saracen that an honest Pomeranian was just as good as serving the interests of justice, even if he had never read any Plato or Aristurtle!

He cleared his throat.

Daniel did not look his way.

“Err… hello, Daniel.”

The peasant threw him a glance, as a fox might throw a glance at a prey that was not worth hunting.

“Um… where… where were you at sundown on the day before… before Lukas was found?”

Well, this investigating was really not that difficult, it seemed. So far, everything had went without a hitch.

“Why d’you wanna know that?”

And that would be hitch number one.

“Um… err.. ‘cos I…. um…”

With rising panic, Wenzel watched Harun kneel beside the grave. He was pretty sure his friend was saying a prayer not only for Lukas but for him at the moment especially. What he wasn’t so sure about was, which God this prayer was addressed to, but who cared? Just now, Wenzel would take all the help he could get.

Perhaps it was coincidence, perhaps not – suddenly, an inspiration struck him.

“…’cos I was looking for Michal, and Karl and Henrik that evening, and none of them were at home. I thought, if you were at the tavern, you might have seen them there.”

“Yeah, I was in the tavern all right. Karl and Michal were there, but where Henrik was I don’t know.”

Daniel turned away, with the firm intention, it seemed, of not being bothered again. Wenzel did not mind or care. He was in a state of absolute bliss, his dancing eyes gazing thankfully up into the stormy autumn sky. God be praised, whichever one! He had completed his first investigation! By himself!

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This is my lucky week - first I get sick then I twist my hand :) Fortunately, I was already finished writing this chapter and proofreading is possible with only one hand :D :D

Really hope you like it and my current state isn't reflected in the quality of my writing??

Kind Regards

Robert