Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

My comment was felt to be unkind, but I held my ground with characteristic tenacity. I knew something was amiss. Witnessed from a distance, the old woman’s commitment was stimulating. She herself had become an object of veneration. When she brushed past me, however, I caught a scent that was less than saintly. Keeping my thoughts to myself, I returned to my studies and lost myself in the beauty of the Scriptures.

On the following day, I made sure that I was in the same church at exactly the same time. The woman was punctual. Through the door she came as the bell of the nearby abbey was signalling tierce. I let her shuffle past me and make her way to the side chapel where the relics were housed. She was so preoccupied with the effort of lowering herself to her knees that she didn’t see me sink down a yard away from her. Like me, she deposited a small coin on the altar rail, then lowered her head in prayer. The difference between us was that I kept my eyes open so that I could watch her.

What I saw outraged me. Down went her head and up it came again in a movement so slight as to be invisible to anyone not right beside her. As it went down once more, her lips fastened upon a coin and lifted it up before dropping it into a fold in her gown. Instead of praying to her Maker, she was instead plundering the church. In place of the one coin she had deposited, I counted over a dozen that she took. She was nothing but a common thief. I reported what I’d seen and, though nobody believed me, it was agreed that the old woman would be kept under surveillance the next day. Almost twenty coins were filched by her greedy lips on that occasion. Arrest and retribution soon followed.

I was thanked and congratulated. “How on earth did you spy her out?” I was asked.

“It’s a gift from God,” I replied.

“What’s your name, young man?”

“Gerald de Barri — though some call me Gerald of Wales.”

By the time I accompanied Archbishop Baldwin on his journey around my native country to find recruits for the Third Crusade, I was in my early forties and held, among other positions, that of archdeacon of Brecon in the diocese of St. David’s. Instances of my remarkable skill in unmasking wrongdoers wherever I went are far too numerous to recount, so I’ll merely offer one case that’s emblematic of them all. It occurred near Usk and tested my powers to the limit.

Thanks to a sermon by Archbishop Baldwin, an address by that good man William, Bishop of Llandaff, and some stirring words in both Latin and French from myself — my contribution was much admired — a large group of men was signed for the Cross. To the astonishment of all but me, many of those converted were notorious robbers, highwaymen, and horse thieves from the area, evil men who sought to cleanse themselves by taking part in a holy crusade. Their strong arms could now be put to a useful purpose. Before we could make our way to Caerleon, we were diverted by a commotion in Usk itself. I was sent to investigate.

Murder was afoot. Idwal the Harpist, a man renowned for his glorious voice and nimble musicianship, had been a guest at the home of Owain ap Meurig, where he’d entertained the family for three nights. The harpist was due to visit Monmouth Castle, but he never arrived and nobody who lived along the road that would have taken him there had seen him pass by. Idwal had vanished into thin air. Foul play was suspected. It fell to Roger de Brionne to accuse Owain of the crime to his face. Tempers flared up into a veritable inferno.

Nobody is better placed than I to understand the deep hatred and mutual fear that exists between the Welsh and the Norman aristocracy. Born at Manorbier Castle in Dyfed, I’m a man of mixed blood, having kinsfolk from both nations. I share in the privileges of conquest while sympathising, to a lesser extent, with the conquered. When it came to mediating in a dispute between two sworn enemies, Owain and Roger, who could doubt my credentials or match my wide experience? I felt obliged to offer my services.

After prising accused and accuser apart, I first talked to Owain ap Meurig at his house. A local chieftain whose family had held estates in the region for generations, he was a proud, fierce, white-haired man in his sixties with the build and attitudes of a warrior. It took me some time to calm him down and to assure him that — unlike Roger de Brionne — I had no prejudice against the Welsh. He was impressed by the fact that I’d heard Idwal the Harpist and was able to talk knowledgeably about him. The Welsh consider the playing of the harp to be the greatest of all accomplishments. Idwal was without peer.

“I hear that he stayed with you for three nights,” I said.

“That’s true,” answered Owain. “He bewitched us all with the magic of his art. My late wife and my niece learned to master the instrument but they could not compare with Idwal.”

“Did you see him off at your door?”