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

While I’d never set eyes on her, I knew her well by repute. Angharad FitzMartin was the offspring of a Welsh mother and a Norman father, both of whom had been killed in a tragic accident. The event had had a profound effect on her, changing her from a young woman with the normal expectations of her class into a wild, haunted, hortatory being who preached her own eccentric version of the gospel of Christ and who, it was rumoured, could quote the Bible in three languages. Some feared her, others reviled her, others again simply mocked her, but most people showed Christian compassion towards a woman who had clearly lost her mind at the cruel death of her parents.

It was market day in the village and I soon found her. The Madwoman of Usk was living up to her name, standing on a cask as she proclaimed her message to a small crowd. Peppered with snatches of Holy Writ, it was a rambling homily but delivered with such fervour that it held some onlookers spellbound. When she’d finished her blistering attack on the wickedness of human existence, I helped her down from her pulpit and took her aside. As soon as I introduced myself, Angharad became truculent.

“You’ll not stop me, Archdeacon,” she warned. “The Lord has called me and I answer only to Him.”

“Then we’ve something in common,” I said tolerantly. “Having heard you speak, I’d argue with your theology but I don’t call your sincerity into question. You are brave, Angharad.”

“It’s not bravery — it’s a blessed duty.”

I could’ve taken issue over that remark but I chose to ignore it. I also pretended not to notice the unpleasant odour that came from the woman. Her hair was straggly and unwashed, her apparel mean. She wore sandals on her bare feet. Still in her twenties, her once appealing face was now blotched and haggard. I might have been looking at a beggar, but one with an intelligence that shone out of her like a flaming beacon. For a moment, I wasn’t sure if I was in the presence of madness or of divine inspiration.

“I want to ask you about Idwal the Harpist,” I said.

“He was killed by Owain ap Meurig,” she responded.

“Do you have any proof of that?”

“I saw it happen in a dream.”

“We need more positive evidence than that, Angharad.”

“My dreams never deceive,” she insisted. “On the night that my parents died, I woke up screaming because I’d foreseen it in a nightmare. Every detail of my dream turned out to be correct. I was able to take people to the very spot where the rocks had tumbled down the mountain and buried them. I can give you other examples, if you wish.”

“No, no,” I said, staving off a long litany of her disturbed sleep. “I want to know what you saw — or thought you saw — with regard to Idwal the Harpist.”

“Then first, you must know that I live on Owain’s land. My cottage lies due south of here near the road that leads to Monmouth.”

“Go on.”

“The dream was short but vivid. I saw Owain and his niece bidding the harpist farewell. Idwal set off on his horse. It picked up a stone along the way and he dismounted to remove it from the animal’s hoof. He walked beside it for a while, his harp in a bag that hung from the saddle. When he came to a stand of trees, he was set upon and stabbed to death. His body was buried nearby.”

“What about the harp?”

“It was taken back to Owain’s house and hidden in the stables. That’s how I know Owain was the murderer.”

“Yet you saw him and Gwenllian wave off the harpist.”

“Idwal rode slowly. It would have been easy to catch him up and overtake him. He was in no hurry. He was on foot when he was attacked. Owain took him by surprise.”

“And are you certain that it was Owain?”

“It looked vaguely like him, Archdeacon.”

Angharad went on to add more detail. My first impulse was to dismiss the whole thing as nonsense but I came to feel that her story was at least worth investigation.

“To whom have you told this tale?” I asked.

“It’s not a tale, Archdeacon — it’s the truth.”

“Did you confront Owain with it?”

“I tried,” she said, “but he sent me away with harsh words and threatened to throw me off his land if I repeated what I’d seen in my dream.” She drew herself up to her full height. “Nobody can threaten me, Archdeacon. When my way of life was chosen for me, I put on the whole armour of God and it’s protected me well. If I lose my little home, I’ll sleep in barns or byres or wherever my feet are directed. Owain ap Meurig doesn’t frighten me.”

“You also spoke to Roger de Brionne.”

“He, at least, had the courtesy to listen to me.”

“So I was told.”

“He believes me.” She fixed me with a shrewd look. “What about you, Archdeacon?”

“The only thing that will convince me is ocular proof,” I told her. “If your dream was a true reflection of what happened — and we know from the Bible that dreams can act as warnings — then there’s an easy way to establish it. I’ll institute a search of the stables at Owain ap Meurig’s house.”

“Shall I come with you, Archdeacon?”

“That might not be wise.”

“But you’ll tell me what you find, I hope.”