A Wicked Deed

Chapter 8

The body of Mistress Freeman lay in the same parish coffin that had been used for Unwin. Mother Goodman was fussing over the corpse, cursing under her breath when the cloth she had tied around the woman’s throat did not succeed in hiding the gaping gash from view. Bartholomew had inspected the wound while the midwife washed the rest of the body. It was an ugly cut that sliced through the muscles of the neck, exposing the yellow-white of the pipes underneath. Judging from the marks on her arms and hands, and the chaos that Michael had reported in her house, Mistress Freeman had put up something of a fight.

‘Do you think her neighbours might have seen or heard something?’ asked Bartholomew of Michael, as they stood together in the nave watching Mother Goodman work.

Michael shook his head. ‘Very conveniently for her killer, the butcher’s property stands alone on the outskirts of Grundisburgh – on the river, so that the blood and offal can be washed downstream and away from the village.’

‘That is unusually courteous,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Butchers do not often concern themselves about such matters. Of course, the river then flows on through Hasketon, so I suppose Freeman could rest contented that he was probably poisoning someone. So, the neighbours did not report anything untoward, then?’

‘No,’ said Michael. ‘Although I would not expect him to say so if he had heard anything. Her nearest neighbour is none other than our good friend, the pardoner.’

‘Norys?’ asked Bartholomew. He frowned. ‘I suppose you consider that evidence of his guilt?’

‘Of course,’ said Michael. ‘Particularly since he still has not returned from Ipswich. I knew we should not have let him remain at large. He has absconded, just as I guessed he would if we did not tell Tuddenham to arrest him immediately.’

‘But if he has been in Ipswich since we spoke to him, then he could not have killed Mistress Freeman,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘He would not have been here.’

‘She was last seen by her friends early Wednesday morning,’ said Michael immediately, clearly having worked it all out. ‘That was before we went to speak to Will Norys. She was supposed to change the church flowers after nones that same day, but failed to arrive. Wauncy – who remembers the time because he had just delivered the documents he had collected from Ipswich to Alcote at Wergen Hall – assumed she had forgotten, and asked someone else to do it instead.’

‘He should have known something was wrong right then,’ announced Mother Goodman, who had been listening. ‘Mistress Freeman loved to arrange the church flowers and never missed her turn. That she did not come should have warned Wauncy that something was amiss.’

‘Well, it did not,’ said Michael, none too pleased at being interrupted by the forceful midwife. ‘And no one thought to look for her until I found her yesterday – Friday – at about noon. I am no medical man, but even I could see she had been dead for at least a couple of days, and not just a few hours. I am getting better at this kind of thing, Matt; I will have no need of your services soon.’

‘Good,’ said Bartholomew with feeling. ‘My business is with the living, not the dead, and I would be delighted if you did not call on me to pore over corpses.’

‘Corpses demand every bit as much respect as the living,’ put in Mother Goodman haughtily from the coffin. ‘More so, since they are already gone the way we will soon go.’

‘She is a cheery soul,’ muttered Michael, regarding the midwife coolly. ‘But, as I was saying, Mistress Freeman was probably killed on Wednesday. She was last seen a short time before we spoke to Norys, and then no one saw her until I found her yesterday. Meanwhile, Norys has been missing since just after we questioned him. He must have paid a visit to Mistress Freeman as soon as we had gone, killed her, and then absconded.’

‘But Norys wanted us to talk to Mistress Freeman,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He believed she would prove his innocence. Why should he kill her?’

‘Because she refused to lie for him,’ said Michael promptly. ‘I imagine he went to see her the moment we left, and told her what she had to say to us. Then, when she refused to back him in his falsehood, he slashed her throat.’

The speed with which Michael’s answers came suggested to Bartholomew that he must have spent the better part of the previous night mulling over the evidence and thinking of ways to convince himself of the pardoner’s guilt. Michael claimed to have spent the time with William and Deynman, fretting over Bartholomew’s failure to return. They had been saddling up to search for him when he and Cynric had arrived back again.

‘So, you think Will Norys killed Unwin and Mistress Freeman?’ asked Mother Goodman, looking up from her work and addressing Michael. ‘Master Norys is a popular man in the village, and has never been involved in anything like this before.’

‘He is a pardoner,’ said Michael, as if that explained all. ‘Anyway, we have evidence: Norys was seen running from the church at about the time Unwin was murdered.’

‘Stoate saw someone wearing a long cloak,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He did not say it was Norys.’

‘And Norys, very conveniently, also claims to have seen someone running from the church,’ said Michael, not to be outdone. ‘Only his someone was wearing a short cloak. And the rascal said he was talking with Mistress Freeman at about the time that Stoate said he was doing the same.’

‘I saw them,’ said Mother Goodman unexpectedly. ‘Both of them.’

‘You mean figures with long and short cloaks running from the church?’ asked Michael, bewildered. ‘You might have mentioned this earlier.’

‘No, not them,’ said Mother Goodman impatiently. ‘Stoate and Norys. I saw Norys walking Mistress Freeman around the churchyard – he is fond of her – and then I saw her speaking to Stoate by the ford just after the feast started.’

‘She cannot have been in two places at the same time,’ said Michael, unconvinced.

‘She need not have been,’ said Bartholomew, thinking quickly. ‘Perhaps she walked around the churchyard with Norys, and then stopped to talk to Stoate after Norys had left her.’

‘Yes,’ said Michael, eyes narrowing. ‘So, Norys escorts Mistress Freeman around the churchyard, sees Unwin go inside alone, and decides to rob him.’

‘But the blood we found by the buttress, and the fact that Unwin was moved after he died, suggests he was killed outside the church,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

Michael pursed his lips impatiently. ‘Then he must have seduced Unwin out of the church, and carried him back inside again after he was dead.’

‘Without anyone seeing?’ asked Bartholomew incredulously.

‘Unwin was not heavy. His killer could have moved him by draping one of Unwin’s arms over his shoulder and carrying him – from a distance they would look like a pair of revellers the worse for drink. But, as I was saying, after Norys sees Unwin alone in the church and decides to murder him for his purse, he leaves Mistress Freeman by the ford, dons his long cloak to hide his clothes, and stabs Unwin. He then hauls the body back inside the church to keep it hidden long enough to make good his escape. Mistress Freeman and Stoate spot him running from the church in his long cloak, and Norys kills her when she will not lie and tell us he was with her all day.’

‘It is possible, I suppose,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly.

‘It is more than possible,’ said Michael keenly. ‘It makes perfect sense. And Norys has now fled the scene of his crime, and is in hiding somewhere.’

‘He would not leave his cats for long,’ said Mother Goodman. ‘He adores cats. If it were not for them, I think he would have offered to marry Mistress Freeman when her mourning was over.’

‘Why should cats prevent him from making a lonely widow happy?’ asked Michael, puzzled.

‘Mistress Freeman did not like cats,’ said Mother Goodman. ‘Some people do not, although they provide good protection against Padfoot. He will not come where there are cats, because they hiss at him, and Padfoot does not like to be hissed at.’

‘Who does?’ said Michael.

‘Norys loves animals, especially cats. He gives me their urine for treating warts.’

‘Most generous of him,’ said Michael, taking Bartholomew’s arm and leading him outside so that he could expound his theories without the midwife offering her opinions. ‘You must excuse us, madam. We have business to attend.’

A low wall surrounded the churchyard, mainly to act as a barrier to keep out the pigs, cows and sheep that wandered freely through the village. Bartholomew sat on it, and looked out across the green. The scene was peaceful, with a robin singing sweetly from the top of one of the willow trees and a duck waddling toward the ford with a clutch of fluffy yellow chicks strewn out behind her. The gentle bubble of the stream, slightly swollen from the rains of the previous day, was almost drowned out by the raucous caw of rooks from the elms behind the church.

Michael sat next to him, stretching his fat legs to display a pair of pallid ankles. Bartholomew rubbed a hand through his hair, still wet from where he had washed the mud from it. He had donned his spare tabard and Cynric was supposed to be cleaning the one he usually wore, although the physician was not sure that his book-bearer would do a particularly good job given his preoccupation with his impending death. He dragged his thoughts away from Cynric’s predicament, and considered Michael’s unseemly determination to have the pardoner convicted of murder.

‘Maybe Stoate did it,’ he said, trying to consider all possibilities, and not just the one Michael had adopted with unnatural passion. ‘He might have killed Unwin, run from the church, and then stopped to talk to Mistress Freeman at the ford.’

‘Oh, that sounds very likely,’ said Michael caustically. ‘He would have been drenched in blood, and you are suggesting that he paused in his bid for escape to exchange pleasantries with the butcher’s widow? “Good evening, Mistress Freeman. And how are you today? Do not mind the fact that I am covered in blood; it has nothing to do with the dead priest in the church, you understand, and you will be used to a little gore, being the wife of a butcher.” I do not think so, Matt!’

Bartholomew tipped his head back and looked up at the leaves of the elms shivering in the morning breeze. ‘You are too fixed on Norys’s guilt.’

‘Because he is the most obvious suspect?’ asked Michael. ‘Well, your suggestion is ludicrous! Stoate is a wealthy man, and does not need to kill impoverished friars for their purses. Anyway, Stoate is not under suspicion: he told us what he saw because he was trying to be helpful.’

‘He is a dismal physician,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He should have made certain that Janelle knew not to drink the potion he prescribed; he gives purges that people do not need; and he treated inflamed eyes with sugar water!’

‘How disgraceful,’ said Michael dryly. ‘But it does not matter whether Stoate is a charlatan or the best physician in Suffolk: he could not have killed Unwin, because whoever did it would have been covered in blood – we know that because we saw it splattered outside the church.’

‘True,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Stoate wore the same clothes when we met him at the tavern the evening Unwin died that he had worn all day – dark amber cotte and hose. I remember, because at the feast I saw him tossing a baby in the air and catching it again – well, actually he dropped it, which is why the incident stuck in my mind. I recall him in his yellow clothes quite clearly.’

‘And Norys had changed by the time we went to see him!’ Michael pounced triumphantly.

‘Yes, but we saw him two days later,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He was probably wearing his best clothes for the Fair, and is hardly likely to wear them to Ipswich market, too. And there is still the issue of Grosnold. Did Eltisley see him talking to Unwin in the churchyard or not?’

‘Grosnold’s reaction when you questioned him about it seemed odd,’ said Michael, scratching one of his chins. ‘Thus, I am inclined to believe it was he – or his men – who attacked you at Barchester to ensure you kept quiet about it. I cannot believe you were so rash as to tell Grosnold what Eltisley said he saw – especially given that we are talking about a murder here.’

‘I was running low on ideas,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘To be honest, I expected there to be an innocent explanation of what Eltisley saw, and did not anticipate Grosnold denying it.’

‘Perhaps it was Grosnold who hired Norys to kill Unwin,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘So, our black knight slips back to Grundisburgh after his dramatic exit, for a secret meeting with Unwin. He found Unwin would not do what he wanted – whether it was working for peace as Bardolf believes, or becoming involved in the hunt for the golden calf – and paid Norys to dispatch him.’

‘Was there enough time for all this to have happened?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Eltisley said he saw Grosnold with Unwin moments after the end of the feast, and it was not too long after that when Horsey went in search of him. I would have thought it would take longer than that to hire a killer.’

‘We will go to Norys’s house and have a good look for bloodstained attire this morning,’ said Michael, ignoring the inconvenient question. ‘If Norys wore his best clothes to the Fair, he would not throw them away because they are spoiled – he would keep them and try to wash the stuff out. Pardoners are a mean breed, and do not waste fine garments just because they are bloodstained.’

‘There was probably a lot of blood when Mistress Freeman was killed, too,’ said Bartholomew, too tired to contest Michael’s gross generalisations. ‘Slit throats are invariably messy.’

‘This was,’ said Michael with a shudder. ‘I have seldom seen such a grisly sight. Blood was splashed up the walls, and there was not a piece of furniture that was not covered in it.’

‘It was not windy last night,’ said Bartholomew, gazing out across the green. ‘Sounds carry on quiet nights, and even though Mistress Freeman’s house is a fair distance from the nearest neighbour, I am surprised nothing was heard.’

‘But her nearest neighbour is Norys, and Norys killed her,’ said Michael. ‘And he killed her because she would not give him the alibi he needs to cover his murder of Unwin.’

‘But Mother Goodman saw Norys talking to Mistress Freeman outside the church, just as he claimed,’ Bartholomew pointed out.

‘True. But not many moments after, she saw Stoate chatting to her by the ford, and no Norys in sight. I told you Norys was our killer, and I was right. A little solid evidence might prove useful, though, because Tuddenham is convinced Tobias Eltisley killed Unwin.’

‘On what grounds?’ asked Bartholomew. He had quite forgotten the landlord’s predicament. ‘That Eltisley is a dangerous lunatic?’

‘Because Tuddenham’s man, Siric, found a bloody knife in Eltisley’s garden. Eltisley, not surprisingly, says it is not his, and that anyone might have thrown it there.’

‘And this is all the evidence Tuddenham has against Eltisley?’

Michael nodded. ‘You said you thought Tuddenham might start casting about for a scapegoat, if he could not deliver his promise and produce Unwin’s killer quickly: Eltisley is it. So, now we need to prove that Norys is our murderer, or Eltisley will pay for it, and I am certain he is innocent.’

‘At least Eltisley cannot endanger people’s lives with his inventions, if he is safely behind bars,’ said Bartholomew unsympathetically. ‘Tuddenham’s cellar is the best place for him.’

‘That is an uncharitable position to take, Matt. You will feel terrible about saying that if he hangs for Norys’s crime.’

‘Then you can grant me absolution,’ said Bartholomew. He was not seriously concerned about Eltisley, certain that even Tuddenham would not execute a man solely on the discovery of a bloody knife in his garden. ‘We can let William prove Eltisley’s innocence, since he so desperately wants to practise his investigative skills.’

Michael sighed. ‘He is already doing that, quite independently of me. He questioned everyone who lives on The Street yesterday, in a manner that can only be described as single-minded. I only hope we catch Norys before William decides to use more physical techniques.’

‘We should go to Mistress Freeman’s house,’ said Bartholomew, standing and stretching. ‘There might be some clue there regarding the identity of her killer.’

‘I have already checked,’ objected Michael. ‘We would do better to go to Norys’s cottage, and look for blood-drenched garments and something really incriminating – like Unwin’s relic.’

He stood and walked purposely towards the ford. Ducklings scattered in his path as he splashed across the stream and made his way to the pardoner’s home. Norys’s uncle was in his garden, hammering on a piece of leather. He glanced up as Michael loomed imperiously over the gate.

‘Have you found him?’ the tanner asked anxiously. ‘He has never left me for more than two nights in a row before.’

Michael pushed open the gate, and walked in. ‘We will find him soon. Meanwhile, perhaps I might look in your house, to see if I can find any evidence of where he might be.’

‘Such as what?’ asked the tanner, alarmed, and standing to block his way. ‘I cannot read, so he would not have left me a note, if that is what you mean.’

‘I have traced many missing people in Cambridge,’ said Michael, insinuating himself past the tanner and into the house. ‘I will just ensure there is not some vital clue you might have overlooked.’

‘But I am too busy to help you,’ squeaked the tanner desperately. ‘I must have this leather ready for Walter Wauncy’s new shoes by mid-morning, or there will be hell to pay.’

Michael looked backward and gave him a cunning smile. ‘No matter, Master Tanner. I will find what I am looking for much faster if you are not with me.’

Bartholomew felt sorry for the tanner, who was bewildered by Michael’s blustering presence. He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and followed the monk into the cottage.

‘There is no need to terrify the poor man,’ he said in a low voice, so that the tanner would not hear. ‘He is clearly worried about his nephew, and you have no right to intimidate him like that.’

‘Do I not?’ demanded Michael, trying to disentangle himself from an over-friendly cat. ‘Eltisley’s life is at risk, and you are concerned about the feelings of a pardoner’s uncle? Damn these wretched animals! They are everywhere. God’s blood, Matt – that one bit me!’

A large tabby cat shot from under Michael’s foot and scampered out of the door. Another hissed, arching its back and revealing sharp, white teeth. Michael backed away and sneezed.

‘You look around,’ he said to Bartholomew. ‘These beasts do not seem to like me.’

‘I wonder why,’ muttered Bartholomew, picking his way into the room. It was difficult to search for anything under the furry bodies. Two cats wound their way round his legs while he shook the blankets on the bed and rifled through the room’s only chest.

‘Look at this,’ whispered Michael in sudden revulsion, looking into a strongbox that stood on one of the wall shelves. He pulled his new piece of linen from his scrip, and dabbed his nose on it while he rummaged through the box with his other hand. ‘These are his pardons!’

‘Leave them, Brother,’ warned Bartholomew, peering into the cooking pans one by one.

‘I would not soil my hands,’ said Michael loftily, lifting one out, and reading it with distaste. ‘Here is a pardon for having lusty thoughts over another man’s wife. You should ask him if you can buy it, given the way you have been ogling Isilia. And here is one for the sin of greed.’

‘One for you, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is nothing here, Brother. We should leave that poor tanner in peace.’

Michael made as if to demur, but there were few places in the single-roomed cottage where anything could be hidden, and even he had to admit they had searched it as well as they could. He sneezed once more, took a final look round and stalked out, closely followed by three yellow cats.

‘Have you finished?’ asked the tanner, hammering furiously and looking up as they passed. ‘Did you find anything that might help him? I wish he would come back; he knows I worry about him when he stays away more than a night or two, and this time he has been gone since Wednesday.’

‘Where does he sleep when he is in Ipswich?’ asked Michael. ‘A tavern?’ He managed to give the word an insalubrious feel, as though it were somehow sinful to be staying in such a place, regardless of the fact that he was thoroughly enjoying his own sojourn at the Half Moon.

‘He always stays at the Saracen’s Head,’ said the tanner nervously. ‘Are you thinking you might go there to see if he is all right? You must be concerned if you are considering that – you must think something dreadful has happened to him.’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, to soothe him. ‘We have no intention of going to Ipswich. I am sure your nephew will arrive home safely soon.’

‘What is that?’ asked Michael suddenly, pointing at something. The tanner’s cottage was untidily thatched with reeds, and had a chimney in the middle to allow smoke from the cooking fire to seep out. Near the chimney was a bundle, almost hidden by the nettles that had sprouted all over the roof. The tanner peered at it, too, surprised by its presence.

‘I do not know what that is,’ he said, squinting at it with the narrowed eyes of a man whose long-distance vision is poor. ‘Perhaps my nephew put it there.’

‘Did he now?’ said Michael, snatching up a stick and trying to hook the bundle down. ‘Damn! I cannot reach. Matt, you will have to climb up and grab it.’

‘I will not,’ said Bartholomew, laughing at Michael’s audacity. ‘You do it.’

‘Would you have this poor tanner homeless because my weight has collapsed his roof?’ asked Michael with arched eyebrows. ‘You are lighter than me, and I will help you. Here.’

Michael formed a stirrup of his hands and, reluctantly, Bartholomew placed one foot in it, scrabbling at the roof as he was propelled upward faster than he had anticipated. He gained a handhold on one of the bands that held the thatch in place, and hauled himself up. The object of the precarious exercise was just out of his reach, and he began to ease himself toward it, almost losing his grip as a cat leapt on to the roof next to him. Eventually, the very tips of his fingers touched the bundle, and he leaned to the side as far as he could to try to dislodge it. It came loose at about the same time that the thatch band broke, precipitating Bartholomew, bundle and cat downward in a tangle of hands, legs, claws, dirty cloth and tail. The cat gave a tremendous yowl and shot back into the house. Bartholomew sat up, rubbing his elbow.

Michael’s attention was on the bundle, which had burst open when it hit the ground. Scattered under his triumphant gaze were a bloodstained shirt and hose, and Unwin’s purse, all wrapped in a long, dark cloak.

‘But my nephew does not own hose that colour,’ protested the tanner, as he sat on a low stool in the middle of the main chamber at Wergen Hall. He was watched by Tuddenham’s household, who sat in chairs near the health, or leaned against the walls with folded arms. If Tuddenham had meant the circumstances to be intimidating, he had been successful. He and Hamon were cold and menacing; Wauncy fixed the tanner with a sepulchral gaze, as if reminding him of the terrors of hell to come; Dame Eva was angry, and Isilia was simply repelled.

Alcote sat at the table near the window with his scrolls and deeds, while Bartholomew and Horsey were employed in sorting through a large box of household accounts that Dame Eva had discovered in her chamber the previous day. None were relevant to the advowson – which was why Alcote was prepared to accept their help. Meanwhile, Michael stood over the tanner with Tuddenham; Deynman, not trusted with documents – even unimportant ones – was looking after the morose Cynric; and William was out questioning the remaining villagers.

When Siric had returned from Ipswich a second time without tracing Norys, Michael had decided that the only way forward was to question the tanner again, and had asked Tuddenham to arrest him, hoping that a night in Tuddenham’s cellars might frighten him into revealing his nephew’s whereabouts. Since William had declared such an interrogation could not take place on a Sunday – none too subtly implying that anyone who disagreed with him was in league with the Devil – the tanner had been left in peace until dragged from his bed at dawn on the Monday, interrupted in the very act of downing a cup of Eltisley’s black tonic to fortify him for a day with his leathers.

Bartholomew had gone with Hamon to fetch him to Wergen Hall, because he felt sorry for the little man and was sure he knew nothing of Norys’s disappearance or Unwin’s murder. He wanted to make sure that Hamon did not use more force than was necessary, although he need not have been concerned: Hamon had been hostile and angry, but not rough.

‘Anyone could have thrown that bundle on to our roof,’ the frightened tanner protested bleatingly, as Tuddenham paced in front of him.

‘Brother Michael tells me that it was cunningly concealed next to the chimney,’ said Tuddenham coldly. ‘I ask you again, Master Tanner, where is your nephew?’

The tanner was almost in tears. ‘Please believe me! I do not know where he is – he has been away since Wednesday, and no one in the village has seen him since.’

‘But you admit these bloody clothes and the murdered priest’s purse were on your roof?’

‘Of course I do!’ cried the tanner. ‘I was there when they were found. But they do not belong to me or my nephew. I have never seen them before. The cloak is not his – he is not very tall, and it would be too long for him.’

‘And what about Unwin’s purse?’ asked Michael, in a kinder tone than the one used by Tuddenham. ‘In it, he had some chrism and a few hairs from St Botolph’s beard wrapped in parchment. The chrism has been left – holy oil does not fetch much of a price unless you happen to know any witches or warlocks – but the relic is missing.’

‘I do not know where it is,’ whispered the tanner, swivelling to look at Michael. ‘Really, I do not. And my nephew would never steal a relic – it would earn him eternal damnation.’

‘He was prepared to ask around Ipswich market for a relic of St Botolph for me to take home as a souvenir,’ said Michael. ‘He was most obliging on that front.’

‘But obtaining a relic to sell to you is not the same as stealing one,’ said the tanner. ‘My nephew knows lots of merchants in Ipswich, and he is very good at finding people things they want. But he does not steal.’

‘You really should consider being more co-operative,’ said Tuddenham sternly. ‘Or I might begin to suspect that you have something to do with all this, as well as your nephew.’

‘No!’ The tanner was on the verge of dropping to his knees in front of Tuddenham to plead with him. ‘I know nothing about any of this. And my nephew is not a violent man. He would never harm anyone, let alone a priest.’

‘And you have no idea where he might be?’ pressed Tuddenham. ‘You do not have him hidden away somewhere, waiting until all the fuss has died down so that you can enjoy the spoils of your wicked crimes at your leisure?’

‘I do not!’ cried the tanner, tears trickling down his leathery face. ‘My nephew has not been seen since he went to Ipswich. In fact, the last people to see him were these Cambridge men. Perhaps they killed him, and threw that bundle on to our roof so that Eltisley will be freed and they will not have to stay in the Dog instead of the Half Moon.’

Bartholomew wondered whether he and Michael really appeared to be the kind of men who would kill in order to reside in the tavern of their choice.

‘So, we had better release Eltisley, then,’ said Hamon, from where he leaned against the wall watching the scene in some disgust. ‘It is clear that this bloody knife Siric found in the landlord’s garden was tossed there by Norys as he ran from the scene of his crime.’

‘That is not clear at all,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is no evidence to support such a conclusion.’

Hamon spat into the rushes. ‘Evidence! You scholars are not interested in justice, only in finding ways to weave and twist your way around the law.’

‘Accusing Norys of throwing the knife into Eltisley’s garden is not justice,’ said Bartholomew.

‘Matt,’ warned Michael. He turned to Tuddenham and Hamon, both of whom were looking angry at Bartholomew’s interruptions. ‘He is still shocked from being attacked in Barchester…’

‘And I suppose that was Norys, too?’ said Bartholomew caustically. ‘All the evidence you have against Norys is circumstantial: no one actually saw him enter or leave the church, or saw him with this bloody knife, or saw him put the bundle of clothes and Unwin’s purse on the tanner’s roof.’

‘And what about the cloak?’ asked Michael. ‘Who, but a pardoner, would own a long cloak?’

‘Many people, I expect,’ said Bartholomew. ‘This is not a poor village, and a number of people might be able to afford such a garment. In any case, perhaps the person who was seen running from the church was not the killer at all. It might have been some innocent who stumbled on the body and was too frightened to raise the alarm lest he be accused of the crime. It does not prove that Norys is Unwin’s murderer.’

‘Perhaps not, but it all adds up to a pretty good indication that Norys is involved in something untoward,’ said Michael. ‘And now he is missing. But we should let Sir Thomas go about his business, so that Eltisley can be released.’

‘Eltisley was freed as soon as I heard about this bundle,’ said Dame Eva from her wicker chair near the hearth. Tuddenham looked startled, and she shrugged. ‘I told you yesterday that I did not think Eltisley killed Unwin, Thomas. He was in his tavern all that day, serving ale to the villagers. There was no way he could have slipped out and murdered someone, without there being a riot by villagers demanding their drink. The Fair was in full swing when Unwin was murdered, remember?’

‘That sullen troop who are here for crop-weeding would have mutinied had Eltisley slipped away, even for a few moments,’ agreed Isilia. She cast Hamon a disgusted look. ‘I do not like them. They huddle over their ale in the Half Moon like a band of cut-throats, and have no place in a village like ours. They should not have been hired.’

‘They were the only men available for work,’ said Hamon defensively. ‘It is not easy to find labourers these days.’

‘So you hired a band of ale-swilling louts,’ said Dame Eva disdainfully. ‘Typical of you!’

‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Hamon, looking belligerent.

Dame Eva shook a pitying head at him. ‘Only that Thomas is wrong to believe that you will make a good heir for his estates. My husband would never have agreed to leave them to you.’

‘Your husband is long dead, and has nothing to do with who inherits here,’ snapped Hamon. ‘And I do not know why you believe him to be such a fine man. He was a bully and a scoundrel!’

‘Hamon!’ exclaimed Tuddenham, shocked.

‘It is true!’ shouted Hamon, too angry to be silenced by his uncle’s displeasure. ‘We think our claim on Peche Hall is legitimate, but Wauncy tells me he is not certain of the authenticity of the deeds that prove it is ours. In his cups one night, he told me he thought they were forged by her noble husband.’ He glared unpleasantly at Dame Eva, while Wauncy, horrified at this indiscretion, turned even whiter than usual.

‘And is this how you think you can run our manors?’ asked the old lady in disgust. ‘By losing them on the word of a drunken priest? You are not fit to mention my husband’s name!’

‘He will not inherit, anyway,’ said Isilia, to soothe her. She patted her stomach, bulging under her dark green dress. ‘There will soon be children with a greater claim than his.’

Bartholomew thought she looked particularly beautiful that day, with her glossy hair tied in two thick plaits that hung down her back, and a delicate gold cross around her neck. Unlike poor Janelle, whose child made her sick and pale, Isilia bloomed with health and vitality.

‘Your husband was unfaithful to you!’ howled Hamon, now incensed beyond reason. The colour drained from Dame Eva’s face, making her seem suddenly older and more frail. She gazed at Hamon with such an expression of anguish that even he could not meet her eyes.

‘Will you send a man to Ipswich to look for Norys again?’ Bartholomew asked Tuddenham, acutely embarrassed by the exchange, and keen to change the subject before Hamon revealed any more family skeletons.

‘He never was,’ whispered Dame Eva, gazing at Hamon in shock. ‘You are a liar!’

‘Siric has been twice already,’ said Tuddenham, relieved to be discussing something else. ‘But there was no trace of Norys. He must have left the country.’

‘Look at him,’ spat Hamon spitefully, pointing at the tanner. ‘Just look at his face, his eyes, his teeth, and tell me he is not your husband’s offspring.’

The tanner ducked his head down quickly, in a way that suggested that the identity of his natural father was already known to him. It was not known to Dame Eva, however, who stared at the tanner in mute disbelief.

‘Hamon,’ warned Tuddenham softly. ‘Your anger is making you rash. It is not only my mother you are offending with these accusations, but me, too. I have always treated you like a son, so please show me some respect. It is not respectful to accuse me of being a tanner’s brother.’

Finally ashamed, Hamon hung his head. Isilia went to kneel next to the old lady, whose wrinkled face glistened with silent tears, and put an arm around her thin shoulders. Dame Eva had been right, Bartholomew thought, as he watched them: Hamon was an ignorant lout.

‘Now, perhaps we can work on my advowson?’ asked Tuddenham, although his voice lacked its usual enthusiasm for the subject. He turned to smile wanly at Alcote.

Alcote had listened to Hamon’s accusations with a malicious amusement that Bartholomew found distasteful. Despite the fact that he had complained of stomach pains since his arrival in Grundisburgh, Bartholomew saw Alcote finish one bowl of raisins, and flick his fingers at Siric to be brought another, pointedly disregarding Bartholomew’s advice to abstain from them to allow his digestion to recover. Bartholomew, who did not like raisins, thought it was not surprising that the fussy little scholar suffered cramps and loose bowels.

‘I need to read and summarise these,’ Alcote said, gesturing at a pile of deeds and dipping thin fingers into the new dish of raisins. ‘I will work better and faster alone, without people looking over my shoulder and delaying me with stupid questions.’

This was a none too subtle dig at Wauncy, whose own interest in Tuddenham’s material possessions was driving Alcote to distraction.

‘All this is all taking a damnably long time,’ complained Tuddenham. ‘You arrived ten days ago, and the thing is still not written.’

‘It takes time to do properly,’ said Alcote pettishly. ‘You would not want me to rush it, and then discover in three years’ time that there is something we have overlooked that invalidates the whole transaction. This advowson is to last for ever, so we must ensure it is done correctly, no matter how keen we all are to have it finished in a hurry.’

As much as Bartholomew disliked Alcote, he knew the man was right: an important deed needed to be written with care if it were not to be overturned in a court of law at some later date. However, at the back of his mind was the nagging suspicion that Alcote’s care was not wholly altruistic, and that scraps of information were being carefully stored to be brought out later, when they could benefit him in some way – particularly financially.

‘But rest assured,’ Alcote continued, ‘I am working as fast as I can. In fact, I can predict with some confidence that I will have completed all the groundwork this evening, and should have a working draft for you late tomorrow.’

‘I am going hunting,’ said Hamon, unfolding his arms and looking out of the window at the sun. ‘The last of the venison is finished and we should not slaughter any more of my pigs.’ He spoke bitterly, although Bartholomew could not imagine why. ‘Will you come, uncle?’

Tuddenham caught Bartholomew’s eye and hesitated. It was clear he was tempted, but it was also clear he knew it was not advisable, given his worsening physical condition.

‘I will remain here, and spend a little time with my wife,’ he said.

Isilia’s lovely face broke into a happy smile, and she took his hand in hers.

‘We can walk by the river,’ she said brightly. ‘Or pick elderflowers in the orchard.’ Her delight faded when she remembered the old lady sitting dejectedly by the fire. ‘No. We will stay here and work on Dame Eva’s tapestry. The light is good for needlework today.’

Tuddenham smiled gratefully, and they went to sit on either side of the old lady, bantering with each other to try to take her mind off Hamon’s thoughtless words. Bartholomew felt sorry for her, knowing that the elderly often looked back on days more golden in their thoughts than in reality. It had been cruel of Hamon to disillusion her.

‘Will you come hunting with me, Master Alcote?’ asked Hamon politely, apparently feeling remorse, and deciding that some relief from his guilty conscience might be gained by extending an invitation to the man who was working so hard for his uncle. ‘If we are lucky, we may catch a wild boar.’

‘No,’ said Alcote with a shudder at the notion of the physical effort that would be needed. ‘I will stay here and work. Bartholomew would be no kind of companion for you, either – the only lancing he enjoys is that of boils. But Michael rides well, and may relish a little blood sport. He is a Benedictine, after all.’

‘I would,’ said Michael keenly. ‘But not today with Norys at large and insufficient evidence to prove his guilt. I should spend the day talking with your villagers, if you have no objection.’

Hamon shrugged indifferently, and went into the yard to prepare for the hunt. Horses wheeled and whinnied as they were brought from the stables, their shod feet clattering on the hard ground. Each man carried a bow and a long lance, as well as a quiver full of arrows. Hamon looked happier than he had been since Bartholomew had first met him. His hair shone in the sun, and his long teeth flashed white as he grinned at his uncle. Servants dashed this way and that, carrying cloaks, knives and saddles, while hounds bayed and circled, adding to the general mayhem.

Eventually, they were ready, and the horses streamed out of the courtyard with the servants running behind them. The last two hauled a cart on which the prey would be stacked if the hunt were successful. When they had gone, Isilia and Tuddenham walked slowly towards the bower near the house with Dame Eva between them. Isilia looked back and gave Bartholomew a cheerful wave and the smile of an angel.

‘You should not encourage her to do that,’ said Michael critically. ‘It is bad enough having Tuddenham thinking we are dragging our feet over this wretched deed, without you exchanging lecherous looks with his wife. Still, at least William is out of trouble.’

‘Why? What have you done with him?’

‘Here he comes now,’ said Michael. ‘You can ask him yourself.’

William strode briskly toward them, rubbing his hands together in a businesslike fashion. ‘Right. I have now questioned everybody who lives on The Street and the Otley road. I will make a start on the houses on the hill this afternoon.’

‘Good,’ said Michael, pleased by his diligence. ‘And what have you discovered?’

William’s self-satisfaction reached new heights. ‘I have found another six people who saw the cloaked figure running from the church after the feast.’

‘Excellent,’ said Michael, impressed. ‘But how did you manage to find them, when I asked these same people and was told they had seen nothing?’

‘It is amazing how lies dissolve into truth when people are threatened with eternal damnation,’ said William proudly. ‘I merely informed them that they would burn in hell for lying, just as they would for stealing and murdering.’

‘But why should they lie at all?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Everyone keeps telling me how the entire village will do anything to help us catch Unwin’s murderer.’

‘Apparently, they feel sorry for Norys,’ said William in some disdain. ‘They all know he is the one accused of killing Unwin, and they are reluctant to provide us with information that may harm him. He is a popular man in the village, because he grants them pardons.’

‘He does not,’ said Michael immediately. ‘Wauncy does, not allow him to practise his vile trade in the village – he goes to Ipswich.’

‘He goes to Ipswich a good deal less now than he did before the plague,’ said William, delighted to answer Michael’s questions and show off his prowess at interrogation. ‘Wauncy is so busy saying masses for the dead that he has little time for his living parishioners. They feel it is better to buy a pardon from Norys than to wait all day for Wauncy to find a spare moment to grant them absolution.’

‘No wonder Wauncy was keen to have Unwin as his apprentice,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘Unwin could have taken on all the dealings with the living, while Wauncy himself could continue to amass a fortune from the dead.’

‘And Wauncy is not even a real parish priest,’ said William with relish. ‘He was only an acolyte before the Death, and simply took on priestly duties when Tuddenham could find no one else.’

It was a tale repeated in villages all over the country – after the plague, priests had tended to select the more lucrative posts, leaving small parish churches struggling to find replacements. Bishops had been reduced to employing men from the laity, who had no proper training, but who were better than nothing at all.

‘I see,’ said Michael. ‘And did anyone recognise this person who rushed from the church?’

William looked crestfallen. ‘Unfortunately not. And three of them said he wore a short cloak, and three said a long one.’

‘Damn!’ said Michael softly. ‘That gets us nowhere at all. We still cannot prove that Norys is lying when he said he saw a short cloak.’

‘So, we have Stoate and three others saying the fellow wore a long cloak, and Norys and three others saying it was a short cloak,’ summarised Bartholomew. ‘Were there two of them, then?’

‘How could there be?’ asked Michael wearily. ‘Unwin was only killed once.’

‘Then perhaps one was an innocent party – either coming from the church before Unwin was placed there, or fleeing afterwards because he did not want to become involved with the unlawful slaying of a priest. Who can blame him? Both Norys and Eltisley have been accused, and the evidence to implicate either is thin.’

‘So,’ said Michael dispiritedly, ‘all we can say with certainty is that six people plus Norys, Stoate and Mistress Freeman saw a figure in a cloak running from the church at about the time Unwin was slain. We do not know whether one or both of them had anything to do with Unwin’s death. Did you learn anything else, William?’

‘That no one has seen Norys since Wednesday, and that no one saw him throw a bloody knife into the garden of the Half Moon, although I realise of course that does not mean he did not do it.’

‘Well done,’ said Michael, appreciative of William’s reasoning – especially since it fitted with his own. ‘You will make a splendid Junior Proctor one day. Is that all?’

‘Only that the village thatcher claims the bundle you discovered on Saturday was not on Norys’s roof on Friday morning,’ said William. ‘It is one of the roofs he thinks need replacing, apparently, and he always looks at it as he passes, hoping to see signs of leakage. He said the bundle must have been put on the roof after midday on Friday.’

‘That is odd,’ said Michael, puzzled.

‘That means either Norys did not put it there, or he is not in Ipswich,’ said Bartholomew.

‘He must have returned,’ said Michael, refusing to accept the alternative.

‘But why would he hurl such an incriminating package on his own roof?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘It would have been better to throw it on someone else’s, to implicate them. He is not stupid.’

‘Perhaps he is just trying to confound us,’ said William. ‘There is no understanding the criminal mind, Matthew. It is not made of the same physical material as yours and mine.’

‘Really?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘And how would it be different, exactly?’

‘I am going to the Half Moon to see if Eltisley has recovered sufficiently from his ordeal in Tuddenham’s cellar to make me something to eat,’ interrupted Michael before they could start a debate. ‘You two can do what you like.’

‘We will join you,’ said William. ‘I have not eaten anything today and questioning people always gives me an appetite.’ He stretched expansively and then looked at Bartholomew. ‘Have you fully recovered from your encounter with the white dog, Matthew? Cynric has not. He is convinced he is going to die, and is refusing to leave the tavern.’

‘I know,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have tried to reason with him, but he will not listen to me. Deynman is supposed to be looking after him.’

‘Cynric will be seeking his death a lot sooner if you impose that ignoramus on him for long,’ said William, following them along the woodland path to the village. Bartholomew was perfectly aware of that, hoping that too much of Deynman’s company might jolt the Welshman from his gloom. While Michael and William discussed the relative merits of the cuisine at the Half Moon and the Dog, Bartholomew fretted about his book-bearer, racking his brain for a way to break the black mood that had turned Cynric into someone he barely recognised.

‘There is Eltisley,’ said Michael, as they reached the Half Moon. ‘I wonder where he is going.’

Eltisley, looking around him so furtively that it was comical, was tiptoeing across the yard of his tavern to one of the sheds that stood as a lean-to against the rear wall. Curious, Bartholomew followed him, wondering what he was up to. With Michael and William watching in amusement, he walked stealthily to the shack into which Eltisley had disappeared.

‘Sir Thomas released you, then,’ he said, in a deliberately loud voice to the landlord’s back. Eltisley spun round in alarm, pots flying from the table in front of him to smash on the floor. Bartholomew looked around the room with interest. It was a workshop, with herbs and plants hanging in bunches from the rafters, pots and bottles ranged along shelves, and a bench that ran the full length of one wall. It smelled of burning, and of mint vying for dominance over rosemary, but it was not unpleasant.

‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Eltisley, placing a firm hand on Bartholomew’s chest, and shoving him outside. He slammed the door behind him, and glared at the physician. ‘This is private property, not part of the tavern. It is not open to customers.’

‘Is this where you make your remedies?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You need a licence to be an apothecary, you know. You cannot just produce concoctions, and then test them on people.’

‘I can if I do not sell them,’ said Eltisley. ‘I never ask for more than they cost to make, because I want to see my fellow villagers in good health.’

‘It is illegal,’ said Bartholomew. ‘You might kill someone, whether you mean to or not.’

‘What I do with my free time is none of your business,’ said Eltisley unpleasantly. ‘I am not some scholar, bound by rules and regulations. I am an explorer of science, and my task in life is to understand the meaning of things and how they work.’

‘Tell Father William that and he will have you burned for heresy,’ said Bartholomew. He pointed to the shed. ‘What is in this room that you are so keen to hide away?’

‘Nothing to interest a man with a closed mind,’ said Eltisley, turning away from him and securing the door with one of the largest locks Bartholomew had ever seen. He wondered whether Cynric would be able to pick it. ‘Just an experiment.’

‘What kind of experiment?’ pressed Bartholomew. ‘Is it dangerous?’

Eltisley smiled his vague smile. ‘Not in the slightest.’ He sighed heavily. ‘All right. I will tell you, since you are interested in my work, but you must promise to keep it to yourself.’

Bartholomew said nothing, but Eltisley, already forgetting his hostility now that he had captured an audience, did not seem to notice that the physician had promised nothing.

‘I am inventing a way to make cows produce more milk. It involves feeding them with water infused with chalk. You see, I reason that if you put a lot of something white into them, you will get a lot of something white out.’

‘I think you will find that cows’ digestions do not operate like that,’ said Bartholomew, now convinced more than ever that the man was not fit to be out of Tuddenham’s cellar. ‘All you will do is block their innards and give them colic.’

‘What would you know of cows?’ asked Eltisley dismissively. ‘You are a mere physician. I, on the other hand, am a man of vision.’

‘But why the secrecy? Is it because you are afraid of someone stealing your ideas?’

‘It is because I do not want to raise the hopes of the villagers,’ said Eltisley. ‘Not all my experiments work immediately, and I do not like to see them disappointed.’

‘So, you think you will fail?’

Eltisley glared at him. ‘I will succeed eventually. These things take time. But I would not expect you to understand: you have no scientific imagination. How do you know my experiment will not work until it has been tried?’

‘Common sense,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I also know that you will not fly if you jump off the church tower, but I would not recommend you to try it just to prove my point.’

Eltisley looked up at the tower and frowned thoughtfully, and Bartholomew could see his peculiar mind mulling over the probabilities. It would not take much to convince him to attempt something so stupid, and Bartholomew wondered whether someone, for the sake of the rest of the perfectly normal, law-abiding members of the village, should undertake the responsibility.

Leaving Eltisley gazing at the church, he went to the garden, where Michael and William were sitting, enjoying the sun. Michael took a deep breath through his nose, and smiled.

‘This unpleasantness is almost over. As soon as Alcote has our deed finished – and he says he will have a version tomorrow – we can be away from this place, hopefully never to return.’

‘One of us will have to stay,’ said William grimly. ‘With Unwin dead, one of us will need to take over his duties as vicar.’

‘No,’ said Michael. ‘We will go back to Michaelhouse, and the Master will appoint another student. Jakobus de Krek would do well here: he is devious and mean-spirited.’

William agreed. ‘I will recommend him to the Master. That is an excellent idea, Brother: he would suit Tuddenham very well. I never did think Unwin was a good choice – far too tolerant.’

‘But we cannot leave until we have brought Unwin’s murderer to justice,’ said Bartholomew.

Michael sighed irritably. ‘We have Unwin’s killer, Matt. Norys will soon be under lock and key. He cannot remain in hiding for ever.’ He chuckled nastily. ‘Anyway, if he is like the rest of the villagers, he will be afraid to be out at night in case he claps eyes on the spectral hound.’

‘Speaking of Padfoot, have you spoken to Alice Quy’s husband?’ asked Bartholomew of William, thinking of the woman who had died of childbirth fever. ‘Did he mention anything about her death?’

‘He tried, but I told him that to acknowledge the existence of such beings was opposing the omnipotent will of God,’ said William grandly. ‘And I said that if he persisted in such beliefs, he would burn in the fires of hell for eternity and so would all his children. He did not mention it again.’

‘But what did he say before you terrified the life out of him?’ asked Bartholomew.

William scratched his nose. ‘He said she was out near Barchester one evening, just after sunset, and she saw the white dog sniffing around in the trees. She ran so blindly with fear that she ended up on Deblunville’s land. He sent her home, and within two days she was dead of childbirth fever.’

Bartholomew sipped the cool ale Eltisley’s wife brought them, and considered. Was Alice Quy out digging for the golden calf as Deblunville had believed? Was her death coincidence, or had some mysterious force been at work to kill her, as so many villagers thought? As he pondered, he heard someone call his name, and looked up to see Stoate approaching. The Grundisburgh physician smiled at the scholars, and sat down on the bench opposite, wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

‘It is hot today. We will have a good harvest if this keeps up.’

‘Eltisley,’ called Michael to the taverner, who still gazed up at the church tower. ‘Bring wine for our guest. And none of that sour stuff you gave us last time, either; I want that sweet red claret that tastes of honey. You might bring a morsel to eat, too, such as a bit of pheasant or a slice of bacon. But nothing green. My stomach is still unsettled from when you poisoned me with those weeds last week.’

‘You have not taken any of Eltisley’s black tonic, have you?’ asked Stoate anxiously, after the landlord had gone. ‘Only it is said to contain goat urine. I wish he would not dispense that particular remedy to the villagers.’

‘The man is a menace,’ said Bartholomew. ‘He claims to be a man of science, but he no more understands the basic rules of physics than does his cockerel.’

Stoate smiled. ‘You are a little harsh. He is a good-hearted man who invests most of his energy and a good deal of his income in developing cures for the villagers. He is working on a method to increase the yield of cows’ milk at the moment, because poor Master Quy’s animal is drying up. With his wife dead of the childbirth fever, he needs that milk to feed his children.’

‘Eltisley seemed to consider that experiment a secret,’ said Bartholomew.

Stoate laughed. ‘This is the country. Secrets do not remain secrets for long, and everyone is hoping Eltisley will be successful. But just because Eltisley is kind-hearted does not mean to say that you should drink his black tonic.’

Michael chuckled. ‘It made Alcote as sick as a dog, but it was his vegetables that made me ill.’

‘Eltisley’s wife is an excellent cook and the fare is rich and plentiful,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Not all of us know when to stop.’

‘Typical of a monk,’ muttered William, reaching for a large helping of pheasant. ‘Greedy!’

Stoate regarded Michael thoughtfully. ‘A cup of water before a meal helps to fill the innards and reduces unnecessary overloading. Have you tried that?’

‘I most certainly have not,’ said Michael frostily. ‘I only take water as a last resort – and never before food.’

‘Does water help?’ asked Bartholomew of Stoate, interested.

‘No medicine while we are eating, if you please,’ said William firmly. ‘You can do that when you are alone together.’

‘Did you tend Alice Quy?’ asked Bartholomew, ignoring him.

Stoate shook his head. ‘Of course not. Physicians do not deal with women’s problems, particularly when there is a midwife like Mother Goodman to call on. I was summoned eventually, but she was dead before I arrived. Had I been contacted earlier, I might have been able to counteract the infection, although I do not really think so.’

‘Mother Goodman said this fever came six months after the birth of her last child,’ said Bartholomew. ‘That seems unusual.’

Stoate sighed. ‘It was six months after the birth of one child, but it is my belief that she became pregnant again almost immediately, and it was the loss of that baby which killed her. She claimed she saw a ghostly white dog, and came tearing home in such a panic that I am not surprised the unborn child was lost.’

‘Do you think she convinced herself that she was going to die because she saw the white dog?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You said only the other night that people often give up all hope of recovery if they believe themselves to be seriously ill.’

‘Yes,’ said Stoate nodding keenly. ‘I have seen that many times. It is very possible that Alice Quy simply gave up. It explains why she died so quickly, too, when other women with that fever tend to linger.’

‘Then do you think that James Freeman slit his throat because he believed he was going to die?’

‘Possibly,’ said Stoate. ‘The poor man was beside himself with terror. You need to make sure the same thing does not happen to your servant. There is a rumour that he saw Padfoot, too.’

‘I cannot imagine why Cynric is so disturbed by it,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It was not a pleasant experience, but it did us no real harm.’ For Stoate’s benefit, he described the attack.

‘But you did not see the thing,’ Stoate pointed out. ‘It sat on you and breathed on you, but you did not actually set eyes on it. Cynric did, and that is why he is so afraid. Padfoot is supposed to herald the death of anyone who sees it, not anyone it sits on.’

‘But it was a real dog, not some spectre,’ protested Bartholomew. ‘It was flesh and blood.’

‘That is not the point,’ said Stoate. ‘The legend says nothing about how it feels, sounds or smells, or even tastes. It says that anyone who sets eyes on it will die within a few days.’

‘You speak almost as if you believe it,’ said Bartholomew.

Stoate finished his wine and stood. ‘I do. I learned years ago not to mock local customs and stories. There is nearly always some grain of sense behind them that should not be dismissed too lightly.’ He tapped Bartholomew on the shoulder as he left. ‘Do not close your mind without fully investigating the issue, my friend.’

Having devoured another monumental meal at Tuddenham’s expense, Michael was in no state to accompany Bartholomew to the Freemans’ house, and was forced to retire to the bedchamber to lie down. Bartholomew took William with him instead. He left the friar at the tanner’s home – against Bartholomew’s pleas for clemency, the petrified tanner had replaced Eltisley in Tuddehham’s cellar – while he walked along the river until he reached the butcher’s property. It was deserted and silent, almost like the wooden hovels at Barchester. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Seldom had he seen so much blood in one place. It had splattered the walls, splashed on to the ceiling, and pooled on the floor. In fact, there was enough of it to make Bartholomew wonder whether Alice Freeman was the only person to have had her throat cut there. The blotches of dark red, now turning to black, were obscene in the little house. The Freemans had not been wealthy but they had evidently taken some pride in their home. The wooden stools and table were lovingly crafted, while the coarse woollen blankets, now strewn carelessly about the room, were edged with yellow ribbons in a spirited attempt to make them more attractive.

On the windowsill was a small vase containing flowers, now drooping and brown, while the shelves held pewter dishes and two clay goblets. The table had been overturned, and smashed pottery crunched under Bartholomew’s feet as he walked. Something else cracked, too, and Bartholomew saw that one of the bowls that lay upended on the ground had contained shellfish. Poor Alice Freeman had apparently dined on mussels before she had died, and the empty shells were now scattered all over the room.

To test Michael’s claim that Alice Freeman’s screams for help could not be heard from the tanner’s cottage, he took a deep breath and called William’s name. After several moments, when William did not appear, he shouted again, a little louder. Finally, he yelled at the top of his lungs. When William still did not come, he went outside and waved to him.

‘I heard nothing,’ said William, walking down the lane. ‘If she screamed, then it could not have been heard from the tanner’s cottage. How many times did you shout?’

‘Three,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Is Norys’s the only house near here?’

William nodded, and peered through the Freemans’ door to the room beyond. ‘Good God! It is like a slaughterhouse in there.’

Bartholomew frowned thoughtfully. ‘A slaughterhouse. Freeman was a butcher.’

‘Norys will swing for this, and that is certain,’ said William. ‘Look, there is even blood on the doorstep and along the path. The poor woman must have dragged herself out, looking for help as she died.’

Bartholomew looked to where William pointed. The stains were not mere drips, but huge splatters that coloured the grass a reddish brown. Something else caught his eye. To one side of the path, partly concealed under a rosemary bush, was the body of a cat. Bartholomew touched it, but it was cold and motionless.

He walked back into the house, and crouched to inspect the dry pools of blood that were scattered around the room, noting thick, black clots in most of them. Finally, he went to the butcher’s workshop further down the garden. The door was ajar, so he pushed it open.

The stinking body of a pig lay on a bench, waiting in vain to be dismembered and returned to its owner in manageable portions. It had the veins in its neck slit, and its intestines removed. The buzz of flies and the stench of decay made Bartholomew feel sick, but he forced himself to complete his inspection. To one side of the pig there was a large vat in which blood was collected, before being made into puddings or used to thicken soups. The vat was almost empty, and a dark dribble on the floor showed that some of its contents had been spilled.

‘We cannot blame this on Norys,’ said William, sounding almost resentful as he watched Bartholomew stare at a bowl that was stained almost black with blood. ‘I know from my questioning of the villagers that Hamon ordered a pig killed two Saturdays ago – apparently he wanted to make blood pudding as a gift for the harlot Janelle, now Deblunville’s wife.’

‘But he did not know she was Deblunville’s wife until last Sunday.’

‘Quite,’ said William. ‘That is why the pig lies unclaimed. The pudding was to be a token of his devotion, but even the insensitive Hamon balked at the notion of sending a fine blood pudding to another man’s wife.’

‘I would not send one to anybody,’ said Bartholomew, who found the notion of blood puddings repellent. Still, he thought, at least he now understood Hamon’s odd comment about not wanting to slaughter any more of his pigs. Perhaps the young knight would have been more successful in his courtship of the lovely Janelle had he plied her with more appealing gifts – such as a ring made of his first wife’s coffin handle.

William looked around him. ‘When Freeman died, his wife took over his business. It must have been she who slaughtered the pig.’

‘But Norys did not slaughter her,’ said Bartholomew, meeting his eyes. ‘In fact, I think we will find that no one did.’