A Wicked Deed

Chapter 9

Father William stood at the door of the church to keep watch, while Michael stamped furiously down the nave after Bartholomew toward Mistress Freeman’s corpse in the chancel. The two thick candles that burned at the head of the coffin were almost invisible in the brilliance of the setting sun, and the skeletal Walter Wauncy knelt in prayer at her feet, his words whispering around the shadowy building like a voice from the grave. A butterfly flicked through a window in a flash of red, and was gone again, while outside a robin sang piercingly from one of the elms.

‘Master Alcote asks if you would join him at Wergen Hall,’ said Michael, as the priest glanced up. ‘He is having difficulties with one document. I will continue the vigil for Mistress Freeman.’

Wauncy looked puzzled. ‘Alcote professes himself very proficient with these affairs; I cannot see why he should request my help. And anyway, I have been paid for this mass. Would you have me share the fee with you?’

‘I would not dream of taking it,’ said Michael, offended that Wauncy should regard him as the kind of man to haggle over a dead woman’s fourpence.

‘Well, in that case,’ said Wauncy, climbing to his feet with an ease that suggested he had not been on his knees for long, ‘I shall go. He asked for me particularly, you say?’

‘He did,’ Michael confirmed, and the flattered Wauncy made his way towards the door, nodding genially to William as he left. Michael watched him leave, then turned to Bartholomew, his green eyes sceptical.

‘So, your latest theory is that Alice Freeman was not murdered, but that someone doused her house with pig’s blood to make it look as though she had been?’

‘It is a theory based on fact,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The slaughterhouse vat should have been filled with blood from the dead pig, but it was virtually empty. There was a bowl hidden behind it, suggesting to me that someone had scooped the blood out of the vat and taken it to the Freemans’ cottage. And basically, there is far too much of it in the house to have come from one person.’

‘But we have both seen what a mess even a little blood can make,’ protested Michael. ‘A goblet of it spread around can look as though an entire herd of cows has been massacred.’

‘Look,’ said Bartholomew, easing aside the piece of linen that hid the wound in the dead woman’s throat. ‘This is a vicious slash that would have caused massive bleeding instantly.’

‘So?’ asked Michael. ‘Massive bleeding is what we have.’

‘With this wound, she would not have had the strength to spread blood all over her home and garden. I think she would have taken one or two steps, and then collapsed and died where she fell.’

‘She did,’ said Michael. ‘I found her lying in the middle of the floor with all the furniture overturned and smashed.’

‘Then how did the blood get into the garden?’

‘Perhaps it fell from Norys as he rushed away from the scene of the crime. The clothes we found on his roof tell us that he was drenched in the stuff.’

‘There was far too much of it to have merely dripped from a man’s clothes – these are large splashes, Brother, not a few drops. I think they spilled from the bowl as someone carried the pig’s blood from the slaughterhouse to throw around the house.’

‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘Mistress Freeman probably left these splatters as she staggered around, reeling from her injury.’

‘Someone with a wound like this does not wander all over the place,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘And anyway, I told you, there was too much blood to have come from one person.’

Michael frowned. ‘I do not really understand what you are concluding from all this. Do you think someone else died there with her? That Norys claimed not one victim, but two?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am suggesting that no one was killed.’

Michael folded his arms and regarded his friend with wary eyes. ‘Well, come on. Explain.’

‘I saw lots of mussel shells in Mistress Freeman’s house. I think bad shellfish killed her.’

‘Mussels?’ asked Michael, confused. ‘Where would she find mussels?’

‘Ipswich has a fish market, and so does Woodbridge, both of which are only a few miles away. Many people die from eating shellfish, particularly mussels, and especially between May and October, so it is not improbable to suppose she ate some bad ones. And her cat.’

‘Cat?’ queried Michael, startled. ‘How does her cat fit into all this?’

‘There was a dead cat in her garden. I think she fed it some of the mussels and it died, too.’

Michael raised one finger in triumph. ‘Your theory has a fatal flaw. Mother Goodman told us that Mistress Freeman did not like cats – which was why Will Norys did not offer her the honour of his hand in marriage. So Mistress Freeman would not have fed a cat mussels – good ones or bad.’

Bartholomew ran a hand through his hair, and stared at the woman in the coffin. After a moment he leaned down toward her mouth and sniffed. Michael looked away, revolted.

‘Well, she vomited before she died, which I doubt she would have done had her throat been cut. So, there are three possibilities: she may have eaten bad shellfish and died accidentally; she may have been given bad shellfish by someone who knew they would kill her, and she was therefore murdered; or she may have kept them until she was certain eating them would make her fatally ill.’

‘So what you are saying is that you have no idea whether her death was an accident, suicide or murder?’ asked Michael. ‘Well, that is helpful!’

‘Those are the possibilities,’ said Bartholomew. ‘She ate the bad mussels and died – whether deliberately or accidentally we may never know – and then someone slit her throat after she was dead. Her hands and arms were slashed, too, to make it appear as though there was a struggle.’

‘But what for?’ cried Michael exasperated, his voice ringing around the church and making William start from his position at the door. ‘What could anyone gain from such an obscene act?’

‘It means Norys no longer has an alibi for the time of Unwin’s murder.’

Michael rubbed a flabby cheek with a pallid forefinger. ‘You think someone desecrated her corpse, so that Norys would be found guilty of Unwin’s murder?’

‘It worked. It is exactly what you told Tuddenham – that Norys needed a false alibi from her, she refused, and so he killed her.’

‘I told Tuddenham that, because that is what I am sure happened,’ said Michael. ‘And we have Norys’s bloodstained clothes hidden on his roof to prove that he did it.’

‘Norys’s uncle says those clothes are not his.’

‘Well, he would,’ snapped Michael. ‘People lie to us all the time, Matt, and you should know better than to believe them – particularly when they have very good cause to be dishonest.’

‘So, are you saying Norys used these same clothes to kill Unwin, too?’ demanded Bartholomew, becoming angry in his turn. ‘Do you think he keeps them on his roof so that he can use them again and again, and not spoil more than one set with bloodstains?’

‘He might,’ said Michael harshly. ‘Perhaps that is why Mistress Freeman put up such a fight – she opened the door, anticipating a neighbourly visit, and saw Norys standing there in his murdering gear.’

‘That would mean he knew in advance she would not lie for him about the alibi,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Or your theory would have him arriving at her house dressed in blood-drenched clothes, holding a sharp knife at the ready, and calmly asking her if she would mind telling everyone she had enjoyed a pleasant stroll with him around the church while he was killing Unwin.’

‘So what is your explanation?’ demanded Michael irritably.

Bartholomew considered. ‘I think Norys may have been with Mistress Freeman when she died. Since, as you pointed out, Mistress Freeman is unlikely to have shared her dinner with a cat, Norys probably did so. He loved cats, and I do not think he would have poisoned one with bad shellfish deliberately. So, I think he is probably dead, too.’

Michael made an exasperated noise at the back of his throat. ‘This nonsense is getting us nowhere. Put the poor woman back as you found her, and leave her in peace. This is a case of simple murder: Norys killed Unwin for his purse, killed Mistress Freeman for not lying for him, and threw the bloody clothes on to his roof where he hoped they would never be found.’

‘But Norys is not a foolish man,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘Why did he choose to hide them on his own roof when their discovery would be so incriminating?’

‘Perhaps because he intends to use them again,’ said Michael. ‘And he put them somewhere where he would be able to get at them.’

‘And what about all the other things that have happened?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘What about the attack on Cynric and me in Barchester? What about Grosnold being seen talking to Unwin shortly before his death? What about the fact that Unwin, Mistress Freeman’s husband and Alice Quy saw this white dog, and all three are now dead? What about Deblunville’s suspicion that Tuddenham has his villagers out looking for this lost golden calf in the depths of the night? Finding a thing of such value might well make people resort to evil deeds. And what about this poor man we found hanged wearing Deblunville’s clothes that no one has bothered about?’

‘Irrelevant,’ said Michael promptly. ‘Our only interest in – and our only jurisdiction over – this affair is to find Unwin’s killer. That is Norys, and Tuddenham will soon have him under lock and key. The rest is not our concern.’

‘It is our concern if something sinister is going on that might affect the advowson.’

‘Wrong. The relevance to the advowson is not that there is something untoward going on, but that someone at the University might discover what it is. Alcote has been very meticulous on that score: he has uncovered nothing.’

‘So, you are saying that it is perfectly all right for the advowson to be steeped in filth and treachery as long as none of the other Colleges find out?’

Michael smiled. ‘Basically. And it will be well worth the trouble: there will be a post for a Michaelhouse man at Grundisburgh in perpetuity, and most of the tithes will come the way of the College. You might even be offered the post yourself one day, when you are too old and drooling to teach medicine, or if you continue to disgrace yourself by lusting after prostitutes.’

‘So, Michaelhouse is to provide Grundisburgh men who are either too old to be of any use, or who have embarrassed the College in some way? That is a fine way to treat Tuddenham’s generosity!’

‘I have already told you that this has nothing to do with generosity, Matt. Tuddenham will have a reason for relinquishing some of his personal fortune to a distant College to which he has no affiliation. Alcote has been bribing the servants to gossip about their master, and I have been developing friendships with his cooks. However, neither of us has discovered his motive yet.’

Bartholomew shook his head in disgust. ‘That is horrible, Brother. What will Tuddenham say if he finds out you are encouraging his people to betray him?’

‘Probably the same thing I said when Horsey told me he had been offered a new pair of sandals for information about us, or when I discovered Deynman’s handsome ivory dice were a gift from Hamon in exchange for a cosy chat.’

Bartholomew was aghast. ‘You mean Deynman was bribed to tell tales about us?’

‘Of course,’ said Michael, smiling at the physician’s shock. ‘There was no harm done – that lad thinks very highly of you for some reason, and seems to have informed Hamon that you are only a little short of sainthood. But we should let William say mass for this poor woman’s soul. Hopefully, Alcote will complete the advowson in the next couple of days, and we can be on our way. Then you can go back to your diseases and wounds and contagions, and be happy again.’

Bartholomew was disappointed at Michael’s reaction to his discoveries and suppositions, but not entirely surprised. The monk had taken a hostile dislike to the vanished pardoner purely because he hated the profession with all his heart. Hearing that pardoners were selling their wares in Cambridge was one of the few things that could disturb the usually self-composed monk’s equanimity and reduce him to a state of quivering rage. There was little that would please him more than being able to indict one for the crime of murder.

Bartholomew wandered outside the church feeling exhausted. Cynric had slept badly the previous night, crying out in his dreams several times, and waking everyone, including Eltisley and his wife. After the third time, Bartholomew had caught Eltisley trying to persuade Cynric to drink some potion that he insisted would bring dreamless sleep. Bartholomew had snatched it away even as Cynric was lifting it to his lips, horrified to detect the odour of dog mercury in it, a powerful and wholly inappropriate herb for sleeplessness. He had given Cynric a sleeping draught of his own, and placed a mattress against the door to prevent Eltisley entering uninvited again.

While Michael returned to the tavern, Bartholomew sat on the village green under a willow that shaded him from the fading evening sun. Its graceful branches swept down to trail in the stream, and the duck, her cluster of young in tow, approached him, nervous, but hopeful for scraps. The sandy bottom of the stream showed crystal clear through the swiftly running water, occasionally marred by swirls of silt as a cart or an animal plodded across one of the fords upstream. It was peaceful, with little to disturb him but the squabbling rooks in the churchyard elms, and the gentle tapping at his leg by the hungry duck. Her young chirruped and pipped, falling over each other as they poked about in the grass for seeds.

If he listened very hard, he could hear Father William’s stentorian voice booming from the church as he rattled through the requiem mass for Mistress Freeman, making up in volume and speed what he lacked in concentration.

As he gazed across the green to the haphazard line of houses opposite the church, Bartholomew saw that he had two choices. He could ignore the whole business and let Norys hang for the murders of Unwin and Mistress Freeman, and return to Cambridge never to think about the miserable affair again. Or he could make some enquiries of his own.

There were too many unanswered questions for him to accept that Norys was guilty: for example, why had Mistress Freeman’s throat been cut after she had died, and the pig’s blood scattered over her house to make her death appear a murder? Had Norys really been stupid enough to hide his bloody bundle in such an obvious place? Where was Unwin’s relic? What had Grosnold been talking about to Unwin before the friar died? Why had Bartholomew been attacked in Barchester as he had ridden back from Otley with Cynric? There had been a slathering white dog, but there had been people, too, and earthly, not ghostly, hands had toppled him from his horse. Were they thieves after the gold coin Grosnold had given him, or did Grosnold want him silenced for some reason? Had Tuddenham resurrected the legend of Padfoot so that his villagers would have a valid excuse when they were found on Deblunville’s land looking for the golden calf? And finally, who was the man who had been hanged in Deblunville’s stolen clothes, and what had happened to his body?

He sighed. The more he thought about it, the more queries rattled about in his head. He was tired and he was worried about Cynric, afraid that Eltisley might try to ‘cure’ him of his gloom with some potion of his own making. He walked slowly across the village green in the dying light, and headed for the Half Moon. Michael was in the main chamber, eating again, and accompanied by Horsey and Deynman. The sullen men were, as usual, hunched over their ale at the table nearest the door, while Stoate joked with some of his young companions near the fire. It was a contented scene that signalled cosiness and normality. Michael beckoned him over for supper, but Bartholomew had no appetite for the rich food over which the monk was drooling, and said he was going to bed.

In the chamber upstairs, Cynric sat at the window and watched the dusk with unseeing eyes. He was pale, and his usually neat clothes were dishevelled and dirty. He did not even look up as Bartholomew entered, and jumped nervously when the physician spoke, claiming he had not heard him. Such inattention was unprecedented in the wary Welshman, and Bartholomew appreciated, yet again, quite how seriously his book-bearer took Padfoot’s threat to his life.

‘How do you feel?’ he asked kindly, sitting next to him on the windowsill.

‘How do I look?’ asked Cynric anxiously. ‘Do I seem to have a contagion? You must think so, or you would not have asked after my health.’

‘You look like a man who needs a good sleep and a decent meal,’ said Bartholomew practically. He made a decision: Cynric’s well-being was more important than trying to prove the innocence of a man who had sensibly fled Grundisburgh, and who probably had no intention of returning. ‘I am taking you back to Cambridge tomorrow – whether the advowson is completed or not.’

Cynric smiled sadly. ‘That will not prevent the inevitable, boy. I am doomed, and there is nothing you can do about it.’

‘This is insane,’ said Bartholomew, standing and pacing in agitation. ‘You are willing yourself to die, because of some silly fairy tale.’

Cynric turned his morose gaze to the dusk again, and declined to reply. Through the window, Bartholomew could see that the door to Eltisley’s workshop was open, and a series of smashing sounds indicated that the landlord was in it. As he watched, a huge tongue of flame shot out of the entrance with a dull roar. Almost as quickly, it had gone. Alarmed for Eltisley’s safety, Bartholomew was about to run down the stairs when the landlord staggered out, soot covering his face and his clothes smoking. Hacking and wheezing, he brushed himself down, and regarded his workshop with a puzzled expression, as though he considered it, and not himself, responsible for the mishap.

‘You are in far more danger from that maniac than from your spectral hound,’ said Bartholomew, sitting down again. ‘He will have his tavern in flames if he is not careful.’

Cynric gave a wan smile. ‘You do not think much of Eltisley and his inventions, do you?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew shortly. ‘He believes he has an intellect superior to everyone else’s, and that this gives him the right to test his theories on the unsuspecting. He might have killed you with that dog mercury he tried to give you last night.’

‘He told me it would make me sleep.’

‘It would have done, although whether you would have woken again is another matter. Apparently, he gave Tuddenham a poultice made from death-cap mushrooms for his bunions last winter. Thank God Tuddenham had the sense not to use it.’

‘Medicine is not the only profession he likes to dabble in,’ said Cynric, casting a mournful glance out of the window to Eltisley, still standing outside his workshop. ‘He took my bow and said he was going to treat it with a special oil that would make the string more taut, so that my arrows would fly faster.’

‘Did you let him? I would have thought that the string is already at its optimum tautness for the strength of the bow. If he tampered with it, you might find it does not draw properly.’

‘I told him to leave it alone, but he took it anyway while I was out. I tried to use it when we were attacked in Barchester, but the balance was all wrong – that is why I missed Padfoot.’

‘Damn the man,’ said Bartholomew crossly. ‘Did he take anything else of ours to “improve”? I am only grateful I never leave my medicine bag behind, or I might find half my salves had been replaced with something toxic.’

‘I have no idea,’ sighed Cynric. ‘Can I close this window? I do not want to die of a chill from the night air.’

‘I thought you liked sleeping under the stars,’ said Bartholomew, reluctant to shut the window when the room was so stuffy and hot.

‘That was before,’ said Cynric, pulling it closed firmly.

After a while, as the room grew steadily darker, Deynman entered, bringing apples and a piece of cheese for Cynric, who stared at them as though they might choke him. Bartholomew was reading by candlelight, scanning a list of remedies for gout that Stoate had lent him. The candle was one of Eltisley’s creations – a shapeless lump of tallow studded with cloves, which he assured his guests would give off a pleasant scent as it burned. The cloves either dropped into the pool of melted tallow long before the flame came anywhere near them, or they popped and crackled nastily before emitting a foul odour of scorching.

‘I know how to break this curse of Padfoot,’ said Deynman, flopping nonchalantly on to Bartholomew’s mattress. ‘Mother Goodman told me.’

‘And how is that?’ asked Bartholomew absently, more interested in Stoate’s cures.

‘You steal a piece of beef at midnight, and bury it under an ash tree in a piece of white cloth. Then, at sunrise the following day, someone must stand on the exact spot where you saw Padfoot, and recite the Paternoster in Latin as fast as he can. And then you will be free of the curse.’

‘There you are then, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, smiling at the ludicrous nature of the charm. ‘You are saved.’

‘And this will work?’ asked Cynric. Bartholomew looked up sharply when he heard the note of hope in the book-bearer’s voice.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Deynman confidently. ‘Mother Goodman was positive. I wrote it all down and then read it back to her to make sure I had it right. You know how I can get muddled sometimes.’ This understatement almost made Bartholomew laugh. ‘She said the charm had to be done exactly right or it would not work. That is why it failed to save those two villagers.’

‘Alice Quy and James Freeman?’ asked Cynric. ‘The two who died after seeing Padfoot?’

Deynman nodded. ‘One used pork instead of beef, and the other recited Psalm Twenty-Three instead of the Paternoster. So, when will you do it, Cynric? Tonight?’

The book-bearer’s face changed abrupdy from hope to resignation. ‘I can never do it, boy. I cannot recite the Paternoster in Latin. I can barely recite it in Welsh.’

‘But Doctor Bartholomew can,’ said Deynman, beaming at his teacher. ‘He knows everything like that. He will do it for you.’

‘Thank you, lad,’ said Cynric, clutching Bartholomew’s hand in a grip that was painfully tight. ‘I will never forget this.’

‘Just a moment,’ said Bartholomew in alarm. ‘We cannot go stealing beef in the middle of the night, and creep off to a plague village to perform all sorts of bizarre rituals in the dark.’

A look of intense hurt crossed Cynric’s face, while Deynman frowned in confusion. ‘You mean you will not do it?’ the student asked, bewilderment giving way to disbelief. ‘You will let Padfoot have him instead?’

‘Padfoot is not real,’ said Bartholomew, unnerved by Cynric’s distress. ‘It is just a folktale – one embellished by Tuddenham to allow his villagers to hunt for the golden calf on other people’s land, according to his neighbours. This ritual will make no difference to Cynric’s well-being.’

But he could see it would. The flicker of optimism that had sparked in Cynric’s eyes had gone, to be replaced by a pained dismay. Bartholomew thought about Stoate, and how he had advised Bartholomew not to dismiss people’s beliefs and ideas too quickly in favour of rational, scientific explanations. He rubbed his face tiredly. Stoate prescribed dangerous herbs to pregnant women, and his choice of foxglove to treat Tuddenham’s illness was a poor one, but for all that he was a better physician than Bartholomew. Stoate understood his patients, and he gave them what they felt they needed to make them well – purges and tonics and bleeding. Stoate, Bartholomew was sure, would not have hesitated to recite a prayer at Barchester, if he felt it would effect a cure.

‘I will do it, Cynric,’ said Deynman, with a defiant look at Bartholomew. ‘I will ask Father William to teach me the Latin tonight, and I will go to Barchester and recite it for you at dawn.’

Cynric nodded gratefully, but Bartholomew could see the Welshman did not trust Deynman to learn it sufficiently accurately for the charm to work – and with good reason, given Deynman’s reputation for intellectual pursuits.

‘Very well, then,’ said Bartholomew reluctantly. ‘I will help you. But this must remain a secret between us. No one – not even Michael – can know about it.’

Cynric grinned at him in relief, and took an apple from the plate, eating with more enthusiasm than he had done for days. Bartholomew took the paper with the charm written on it, and read.

‘An oak tree, Rob,’ he said. ‘It says the beef should be buried under an oak tree.’

‘That is what I said,’ protested Deynman.

‘You said ash,’ said Cynric, worried. ‘Which is right?’

‘Whatever is written down,’ said Deynman. He blew out his lips in a gusty sigh. ‘You can see why I wrote it out; my memory is dreadful. If it says elm there, then elm it is.’

‘Right,’ said Bartholomew, putting it in his bag. ‘We need a bit of beef and a white cloth.’

‘Here is the white cloth,’ said Deynman, holding up the piece of fine linen that the landlord of the Dog had presented to Michael to dab his lips with after his monstrous meals.

‘That will do very well, boy,’ said Cynric, sounding pleased. ‘And there will be plenty of beef in the village. That should not be difficult to find at midnight.’

‘When do we start this shady mission, and how do we leave here without anyone asking us where we are going?’ asked Bartholomew, his misgivings growing the more he thought about what they were going to do.

‘We will say we are going to pray for the murdered woman in the church,’ said Cynric promptly. ‘No one will question that.’

‘We had better go now, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘But not you, Rob. You stay here.’

‘But you will need me,’ protested Deynman, appalled at the prospect of being excluded from the nocturnal adventure. ‘Cynric might be attacked while he is waiting for you to finish reciting the prayer, and I will be able to save him.’

Bartholomew regarded him doubtfully, but supposed there would be no harm in allowing the lad to join them, although he suspected he would later regret it. It seemed Deynman had given Cynric a new lease of life, and Bartholomew felt he owed him something. Feeling like a schoolboy embarking on some mischievous prank, he followed Cynric and Deynman down the stairs and through the tavern.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Michael immediately. ‘It is almost dark.’

‘Nowhere,’ said Bartholomew guiltily, a response that promptly earned the monk’s full attention.

‘To pray for Mistress Freeman’s soul,’ said Deynman, for once showing more presence of mind than his teacher.

‘Then I shall join you,’ said Michael, levering his bulk up from his chair.

‘No!’ said Bartholomew in horror. ‘We do not want you.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, easing himself down again, and now entirely convinced that there was something illicit in progress. He shrugged, pretending to be uninterested, and sketched a cross at them in the air. ‘Go, then, with God’s blessing.’

With relief, Bartholomew escaped into the cool night air, certain that the fat monk now knew exactly what they were doing.

‘You handled that skilfully,’ remarked Cynric facetiously, becoming more his old self with each passing moment, now that there was something practical he could do against the curse of Padfoot. ‘Now he will be certain to follow us.’

‘Let him,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We will spend several hours in the church anyway. He will tire of watching us long before midnight. If not, I will distract him while you steal the meat.’ He turned to Deynman. ‘Are you sure it needs to be stolen? Can we not just ask for a piece?’

‘Mother Goodman was most insistent about that. A lump obtained honestly will not work.’

‘Eltisley will have some,’ said Cynric. ‘It is a good thing we are not at Michaelhouse. Stealing food from the kitchens with Agatha the laundress on the prowl would be dangerous work indeed.’

‘Especially given what happened to her teeth,’ said Bartholomew, giving Deynman a sidelong glance. The student flushed deep red and looked sheepish. It would be a long time before that unfortunate incident would be forgotten at Michaelhouse.

They arrived at the church. To Bartholomew’s alarm, Wauncy was there, kneeling at the altar. At first Bartholomew thought he was praying, but the clink of metal soon told him that the priest was toting up his earnings from his masses for the dead. In the half-light of the flickering candles Wauncy looked even more deathlike than usual, and his face gleamed white like a skull in the depths of his cowl.

The priest was resentful when Bartholomew informed him that he had come to say another requiem for Mistress Freeman, and it was evident that he strongly suspected that his trade was being poached. It was not easy to persuade him otherwise, and it was some time before he finally left. While Cynric prowled the churchyard, watching Michael skulk in the shadows, and Deynman wandered restlessly up and down the aisle, Bartholomew sat at the base of one of the pillars and recited two complete masses, before his eyes became heavy and he dozed off.

When Cynric tapped him on the shoulder to inform him it was time to mount the assault on the beef, Michael had long since tired of waiting for something to happen, and had returned to the Half Moon. With Deynman shaking with excitement next to them, Cynric and Bartholomew made their way to Eltisley’s darkened kitchens. Bartholomew began to have serious second thoughts.

‘I do not like this at all,’ he said, looking about him nervously. ‘What if a dog barks, or there is a servant sleeping in the kitchen? How will we explain ourselves?’

‘Eltisley will understand if we tell him the truth,’ said Deynman.

‘Eltisley might, but our colleagues will not,’ said Bartholomew. He groaned. ‘There is a light coming from Eltisley’s workshop. He is awake – we will have to do this tomorrow.’

‘That might be too late,’ whispered Cynric. He patted Bartholomew on the shoulder in an attempt to steady his nerves. ‘You keep an eye on the workshop, young Deynman can watch the tavern, and I will get the meat.’ He gave Bartholomew an encouraging grin. ‘This is the easy part. Have you never burgled a house before?’

‘Of course not,’ said Bartholomew, genuinely shocked. ‘It is not something physicians are often called upon to do.’

Heart thumping, he crept across to Eltisley’s workshop, and peered around a door that had been left slightly ajar. The landlord was there, his back to the entrance as he leaned over something that filled the room with a thick, pungent smoke. He was humming to himself, a contented sound that stopped abruptly when something exploded with a sharp pop. Shaking his head in disgust, Eltisley turned his attention to a pot that simmered on a brazier in one corner. He stirred it, lifted a spoonful to his nostrils and jerked back violently as the fumes were apparently stronger than he had anticipated. He began to hum again, and then turned toward the door.

Bartholomew backed away in alarm, certain that the landlord must have seen his shadow. He glanced around desperately for a place to hide. There was nowhere: the yard was remarkably free from clutter, and Eltisley would see him long before he made it to the kitchen. He looked inside the workshop again. Eltisley was almost at the door, his hand reaching out to push it open. The only thing Bartholomew’s panic-stricken mind could think of was to slam it and lock Eltisley inside.

Eltisley had reached the door, but Bartholomew found he was unable to move, or even shout. He fought to pull himself together, and jerked an unsteady hand forward to grab the handle. At the very last moment, the landlord changed his mind about leaving, and instead leaned down to retrieve something from the floor, almost at Bartholomew’s feet. It was a small dead dog. Eltisley picked it up by the tail and carried it to one of his benches, arranging it so it lay on its side. Bartholomew felt sick, partly from relief that he had not been discovered, but partly because he was certain the eccentric taverner was about to perform some ghastly experiment on the animal’s corpse. Fortunately, Eltisley had his back to the door, so all Bartholomew could see of the grisly operation was vigorously pumping elbows and a good deal of rising smoke.

He almost yelled out when Cynric touched his arm, and he had to lean against the workshop wall for several moments until he was sure his legs had stopped shaking sufficiently to allow him to walk. He wondered what state he would be in by dawn, if he could not even help Cynric steal a sliver of beef without trembling and starting like a frightened fawn.

It was no sliver Cynric had stolen, however. Hoisted over his shoulder was a lump the size of a small barrel. Bartholomew was appalled, nervousness giving way to shock.

‘Cut a piece off,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘We do not need all that, and there will be hell to pay tomorrow when Eltisley finds it is missing.’

‘I need to make sure this works,’ Cynric whispered back. ‘Padfoot is a powerful beast, and needs a strong charm to beat him. A bigger piece is better than a small one.’

‘If you say so,’ said Bartholomew wearily, surrendering in the face of such rank superstition. ‘Let’s find an oak tree before someone sees us with it.’

Anxious that they should not be seen, Bartholomew chose a tree well away from the village, near Barchester. He did not want the sounds of digging carrying on the still night air. While Cynric burrowed, Bartholomew sat to one side, wondering how he had allowed himself to be inveigled into skulking in the bushes in dead of night burying a piece of stolen beef in Michael’s newly acquired piece of linen. Eventually, Cynric completed his task, wiping sweat from his face and announcing with satisfaction that the first part of the charm had been successfully completed. A bird flapped suddenly in a nearby tree, and all three jumped.

Dawn was still some way off, and Bartholomew did not want to return to the village and risk being seen by one of his colleagues. Instead, he led the way closer to Barchester, since they would need to be there at dawn anyway, and found a group of dense bushes near its overgrown path. In them, they settled down to wait, Bartholomew hoping that Deblunville’s archer was not out and about, because he was sure that carrying out Mother Goodman’s charm would not be considered a good enough reason for trespassing yet again on land that was probably not Tuddenham’s.

Cynric was nervous now there was nothing immediate for him to do, and jumped at each rustle or squeak from the woods around them. Deynman was patient and kind, exhorting him to courage, and assuring him that the curse would soon be broken. Seeing his clumsy words of comfort went some way to calming the agitated Welshman, Bartholomew was glad the student had insisted on coming after all.

The night was cool, but not cold, and Bartholomew was very tired. The litter of dead leaves was soft underneath him, and the silence of the woods was soporific. It was not long before he fell into a restless doze. He was woken abruptly when Deynman grabbed his arm in a painful pinch. People were walking along the path toward them. Cynric pulled Bartholomew and Deynman farther back into the bushes, and they watched a strange procession file past in the gloom.

Six cloaked figures walked in a silent line that was led by a man whose height, build and swagger showed him to be none other than Hamon. Each person carried a spade. Bartholomew shook his head in amused disbelief. Deblunville had been right: the Tuddenhams did venture out at night to dig for the mythical golden calf! He thought back to earlier in the week, when he and Michael had questioned some of the labourers who toiled in the fields. No wonder the villagers were tired, if they worked all day and then spent their nights digging for gold. There was an anxious moment when Hamon paused and peered into their bushes, as if he knew someone was there, but he moved on when one of his diggers made an impatient sound.

Once they had gone, Bartholomew dozed again, while Deynman played dice with Cynric to take the anxious Welshman’s mind off the agonisingly long wait. It was not long before more voices drifted along the path, and Bartholomew was woken a second time when Cynric clapped a hand over his mouth to ensure silence. As they waited to see who else was out in the woods in the dead of night, Bartholomew wondered whether there was anyone in Suffolk asleep in his own bed that evening, or whether the entire population was abroad with a spade or a piece of stolen beef.

It was Deblunville and his archers. They were less furtive than Hamon’s band, and laughed and joked with each other as they walked. As they reached the thicket where Bartholomew, Cynric and Deynman hid, Deblunville stopped and wiped sweat from his face with his sleeve, while his archer poked around on the path with a stick. With horror, Bartholomew saw one of Deynman’s dice lying on the path inches from Deblunville’s foot. Now they would be discovered for certain! Cynric had seen it, too, and Bartholomew could feel him as taut as a bowstring.

‘Someone passed this way tonight,’ said the archer knowledgeably. ‘The track is all rucked up from milling feet. It was Hamon’s crew, probably. It would be good to catch them red-handed!’

‘We will get them,’ said another, a small man with no incisors and a ring of long, greasy hair straggling from a balding pate. He turned to Deblunville. ‘You go home to your wife.’

‘I do not care to go home,’ said Deblunville coldly. ‘When Janelle is not puking over the bed-covers, she is nagging me to end this feud with the Tuddenhams.’

‘She thinks we should sue for peace,’ explained the archer to the toothless man. ‘She is of the same mind as her father: he is always telling us to make a truce – although it does not stop him from spreading gossip about the Tuddenhams and Grosnold.’

‘She does not approve of me going out each night trying to catch Hamon digging on my land for the golden calf,’ said Deblunville. ‘She says I should leave that to you, while I enjoy the pleasures of the wedding bed. She does not understand that I want to catch Hamon personally.’

‘Perhaps she has a point,’ said the toothless man with a lecherous grin. ‘It has only been a few days since Walter Wauncy married you, and I do not think you can have tired of her this soon.’

‘When you wed, you should hire Wauncy,’ said Deblunville. ‘He is cheaper than our own priest by three pennies. That was Janelle’s doing – she is always on the alert for a bargain.’

‘It would be like being wed by a corpse,’ said the archer with a dramatic shudder. ‘I would not want his skull-like features presiding over the happiest day of my life, three pennies cheaper or not.’

They moved on, leaving Cynric reeling with relief that they had not been spotted and Bartholomew laughing softly to himself. So, Tuddenham’s priest had slipped away from his own flock to poach a little trade from his neighbour. Bardolf had said that the priests of the manors fought as much as their masters – and now it seemed as though they even stole each other’s business by offering competitive rates for weddings. No wonder the skeletal priest had stressed to Tuddenham that the union was a good thing, and had been so keen to know from Bartholomew what Deblunville and Janelle had said about their wedding – he probably feared Tuddenham’s displeasure if the knight discovered what he had done.

The woods grew silent again, although Cynric claimed he could hear sounds of digging in the distance. So that he could see to gamble with Deynman, Cynric lit a candle, and Bartholomew spotted a patch of sea wormwood, a plant that did not usually grow so far from the coast. Delighted, he gave Deynman, who was far more interested in his game, an impromptu lecture on the benefits of the herb to rid small children of worms. Afterwards, lulled by the click of ivory and the occasional victorious snigger from Deynman, Bartholomew dozed again, waking damp and chilled later, when Cynric stood and stretched.

‘It is almost dawn, boy. You need to be in place to start reciting when the sun comes up.’

Bartholomew glanced at the sky. Large thunderclouds had gathered, a deep, menacing grey in the faint glow of early morning. ‘Sunrise will be difficult to gauge. It is going to pour soon.’

They left their hiding place and started to walk along the path that led to the deserted village. They had not gone far when Cynric stopped and put a finger to his lips, listening intently. Before Bartholomew could recommend that they use another route to Barchester, Deblunville’s archer came hurtling along the track and almost bowled into them. He recognised the physician and grabbed the front of his shirt, not seeming to care that it was an unusual place to meet.

‘It is Master Deblunville!’ he gasped, his eyes wide with terror. ‘There has been an accident!’

Without waiting for a response, he hauled Bartholomew along the path. Disengaging himself so that they could move more quickly, Bartholomew followed, while Cynric muttered nervously about the passing time. They did not have far to go. After a few moments, they entered a glade in the woods, a pleasant place fringed with trees and with a moss-banked brook trickling through the centre. Deblunville’s archers stood in an uncertain circle with their hats in their hands, all looking at a figure that lay unmoving in the grass.

‘We just found him like this,’ said the toothless man, turning a white, shocked face to Bartholomew. ‘He died because he saw Padfoot!’

Bartholomew glanced at Cynric, who was gazing at the figure in horror.

‘He said he saw a white wolf, but all the Grundisburgh folk said it was Padfoot,’ the archer added fearfully. ‘None of us believed them – we thought it was a story Tuddenham made up so that Hamon could dig for the golden calf on our land, but now it is clear that the story of Padfoot is true.’

Bartholomew knelt in the dew-laden grass, and leaned down to inspect the figure on the ground. Deblunville’s eyes were closed as though he were sleeping. At first Bartholomew thought he might have had a seizure, but then he felt behind his head and his hand came away dark with blood. He turned the body over. The back of the skull was smashed, so that it was soft and soggy under his fingers. Deblunville would have died instantly, and was far beyond anything Bartholomew could do for him.

Under Deblunville’s head was a stone, which had contours and edges that seemed to match the wound. When Bartholomew tugged at it, it came loose, but the deep, sharp impression in the earth suggested that it had been there for some time. So, unless someone had selected the stone, hit Deblunville with it, and then returned it to exactly the same place, it seemed the lord of Burgh had simply slipped on the wet grass, and had had the misfortune to crack his skull on an unfortunately positioned rock.

‘I will never doubt again,’ wailed the archer, watching the proceedings with a fear so intense that it was beginning to unnerve Bartholomew. ‘It was said Padfoot would come for him, and he has!’

‘Time is running on,’ muttered Cynric anxiously, glancing up at the sky. ‘We will miss sunrise if we do not hurry, and then this will be me!’

‘What happened?’ asked Bartholomew of Deblunville’s men. ‘Did any of you see?’

‘He went off alone into the trees,’ said the toothless man. ‘Too much ale at dinner. When he did not come back, we went looking for him, and found him like this.’

‘Did you see anyone else?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking uncomfortably that Hamon and his cronies were probably not far away.

‘No,’ said the toothless man. He gave a grim, gummy smile. ‘Believe me, nothing would give us greater pleasure than to blame Master Deblunville’s death on Hamon, but it is obvious it was an accident: he fell and hit his head. There are the torn weeds where his foot slipped, and you can see that stone is buried in the ground, and has been for years. If someone had killed him, it would be lying on top of the grass, not half hidden in the soil.’

‘It was Padfoot,’ said the archer in a whisper. ‘Why did we not listen? Why did we ever come out here? Maybe Padfoot is the calf's guardian, and he does not want the thing dug up.’

All the men and Cynric crossed themselves hastily, looking about them as though the white dog might appear at any moment and drag them off to hell. Bartholomew stood up. There was nothing more he could do, and Cynric was becoming increasingly agitated about the time. Everything pointed to the fact that Deblunville’s death was simply a tragic accident, although coming so soon after the others, there was a nagging doubt at the back of Bartholomew’s mind.

‘Take him home,’ he instructed the waiting men. He thought about Janelle and her unborn child. ‘And you will have to inform his wife that she is now a widow. Be sure to do it gently – shocks like this will not be good for her.’

‘She will not be overly distressed,’ said one of the men, a skinny fellow with strangely pale eyes. He shrugged at his friends’ reaction to his indiscretion. ‘Well, it is true! I would say it took them about two nights to realise what a dreadful mistake they had made, and after ten days they are already at the point where they loathe each other.’

‘It was because of that Walter Wauncy,’ said the archer sagely. ‘I said it was not good luck to be married by a walking corpse, but Janelle insisted because of the saving of three pennies.’

‘She said last night that she was afraid she might go the same way as his first wife, Pernel,’ said the pale-eyed man, his expression knowing. The others nodded agreement, and looked expectantly at Bartholomew, who wondered what they wanted him to say.

‘I see,’ he replied noncommittally, aware of Cynric’s impatience to be away.

‘Master Bardolf has gone home now, you see,’ said the pale-eyed man. ‘Without her father to protect her, Mistress Janelle felt her husband was already making plans to dispatch her.’

‘That is why he died like this,’ said the archer, gazing at the corpse as if it explained everything. ‘It is God’s judgement on a black soul.’

‘I thought you said his death was Padfoot’s fault,’ said Bartholomew.

The assembly crossed themselves again, and peered nervously into the trees.

‘He pushed Pernel, you see,’ said the pale-eyed man. ‘He pushed her hard, and she hit her head on the stone windowsill and died. And now he has died in the same way – his brains dashed out on a stone. It is God’s judgement and Padfoot’s revenge.’

‘I suggested a convent for Pernel,’ said the archer, still gazing down at Deblunville. ‘It seemed a better way to deal with an unwanted wife than murder, but he said it was not necessary.’

So Deblunville had killed his first wife, just as the Grundisburgh villagers had speculated, thought Bartholomew, surprised to learn that there was truth in what he had assumed was a piece of nasty gossip put about by Tuddenham. He supposed it was possible that Deblunville had not intended Pernel to die, but by all accounts she was a good deal older than him, and a man in his prime had no right to be pushing old ladies around, no matter what the provocation. He watched the men gather up their dead lord and bear him away through the dark forest. He turned to Cynric, fretting at his side.

‘Now for the prayer at sunrise,’ he said, wishing he was anywhere but at Barchester.

Dawn that morning was just a case of the sky growing steadily lighter, and it was almost impossible to tell at what point the sun rose, since it was concealed behind a thick bank of clouds. In the distance thunder growled, and the air was thick and still, as it always was before a storm. Lightning zigzagged towards a faraway hill, and there was a red blaze as it struck a tree. Bartholomew did not relish the prospect of being caught in a cloudburst but he followed Cynric’s rapid pace through the trees without complaint.

As they drew parallel to it, with the River Lark between them, Bartholomew could see the top of the church tower poking above the trees, and noticed that Cynric had drawn his sword.

‘I am having second thoughts,’ said the book-bearer fearfully. ‘I cannot go through with this.’

‘Cynric,’ said Bartholomew gently. ‘This is unlike the brave warrior from Gwynedd, who has fought more battles than he can remember and is afraid of no man.’

‘I am still afraid of no man,’ said Cynric unsteadily. ‘It is this spectre that terrifies me, boy. And if you had any sense, you would be terrified too.’

‘Stay here, then,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I will go alone.’

‘No!’ said Cynric, gripping his hand. ‘I will not let you throw away your life. Padfoot has killed once already tonight, and his fangs will be hot for more blood.’

‘Or perhaps he is sated,’ reasoned Bartholomew. ‘Come on, Cynric. It will be sunrise soon, and I am not going through all this beef-stealing again tomorrow because we missed it.’

‘But you do not know where I saw Padfoot,’ said Cynric weakly. ‘You will not be able to stand in the right place.’

‘Of course I will. The thing was sitting on me – I know exactly where it was. So hurry.’

‘I am not going,’ said Cynric, with sudden firmness. ‘And neither are you. There will be a storm soon, and we do not want to get wet.’

‘We have been wet before,’ said Bartholomew. He laid his hand on Cynric’s arm. ‘Stay here with Deynman.’ He pointed to a small, sod-roofed shepherds’ hut that, judging from its unkempt appearance, had long been disused. Its roof was cloaked in ivy, and weeds choked the single window. ‘You can shelter there if it starts to rain.’

‘I will protect you from demons and devils, Cynric,’ said Deynman earnestly. ‘We have almost done all the charm, and we cannot give up now.’

Tucking his bag under one arm, Bartholomew began to trot down the slope toward the stream, splashing across where it was shallowest, and up the other side. Cynric’s fear seemed to have rubbed off on him, and he could not help but notice that it was very quiet as he neared Barchester. The birds that had been singing as dawn approached had suddenly stopped, and even the breeze had died in the trees. All he could hear was his own laboured breathing, and the clink of phials in his bag.

As he drew closer to the village, he slowed, pausing to look and to listen, as he had seen Cynric do so many times. It seemed that the rain had been waiting for him to reach Barchester, because as he inched toward it, drops began to fall, becoming steadily harder as he neared the hamlet, almost as if it were warning him to stay away, Impatiently he forced such fanciful thoughts from his mind, and concentrated on what he was doing.

Carefully, he picked his way through the tangle of elm and birch, and emerged in the main street. It was as still and unwelcoming as the grave. The spot where he had been attacked was easy to find. It was puddled and pitted with hoof marks, and one of Cynric’s arrows still protruded from the ground nearby. Bartholomew stood in the pool of muddy water and, assuming the sun was rising somewhere behind the glowering grey clouds, he began to chant.

‘Pater noster, qui es in coelis, sanctificetur Nomen tuum.’

Recalling that he was supposed to say it as fast as he could, he started again, glancing around uneasily, partly concerned that some tatty and vicious dog would attack him, but more worried that he would be caught in the act of doing something very odd by some perfectly sane traveller.

‘Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in coelo, et in terra.’

As he spoke, the heavens finally opened. The rain hissed and pattered, increasing in volume until it was a steady drone against the roofs of the hovels.

‘Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra…’

It fell in a solid sheet, obscuring the distant trees completely, and veiling the closer ones with a sheet of downward-moving haze. Raindrops hammered into the mud, making the puddles dance and shudder, while leaves shivered and long blades of grass twisted this way and that.

‘Sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris.’

Just when Bartholomew thought it could grow no heavier, a floodgate opened and the drone became a roar. He began to shout, the words barely audible over the thunder.

‘Et ne nos inducas in tentationem. Sed libera nos a malo.’

He found it was not difficult to gabble, since all his instincts told him to run for cover in one of the huts.

‘Per omnia saecula saeculorum. Amen.’

With relief he finished and looked around him, blinking water out of his eyes. The rain began to ease, not that it made much difference to him now that he was completely sodden.

Since he was there, and since there were no disapproving colleagues looking over his shoulder, he decided to conduct a quick search, wondering if he might find Norys hiding, or some clue as to the nature of the white dog that held the entire area in terror. Or even the golden calf, unearthed by one of the diggers and secreted there until it could be spirited away and sold without Tuddenham’s knowledge. Cautiously, he slunk along the side of the first house, and looked in through a window that had shutters dangling uselessly on broken hinges.

There was nothing to see. The roof had collapsed, and any furniture or belongings that had been left were buried under a heap of rotting reeds. The second house was little different, although the roof was not quite so decayed. The third had only two walls standing, while the fourth cottage had been badly damaged by fire. A sudden gust of wind made dried leaves rustle across the charred floor, and a precarious timber groaned ominously. Outside there was a skeleton of what seemed to be a dog, still wearing a leather collar and tethered to the doorpost, stark white bones gleaming in the litter of dead leaves.

And so it went on. The dozen or so shacks that had once held families and their livestock were gradually being reclaimed by the woodland. Many had weeds growing through the beaten earth of their floors, and all had green shoots poking through the roofs. Bartholomew kept a careful lookout for any signs that a dog had been there, but could see no evidence. Finally, he came to the house where he had seen the discarded clothes on his first visit to the village. Rain dripped into his eyes from his sodden hood, and drops tapped from the thatch on to the spreading dock leaves below. The skirt and the shoe were gone.

Curiously, he pushed aside the strip of leather that had served as a door, and looked inside. The wizened carrots that had been on the table were still there, along with a turnip that he did not recall seeing before. He dropped the leather back into place and looked up the street. There was only one more place left to search: the church.

For some reason, the church seemed to exude the feeling that it did not want its secrets disturbed, far more than did any of the houses. He almost gave up, reasoning that there was nothing to be gained from forcing himself to look inside it when he did not want to, but the thought of Unwin spurred him on.

The church’s graveyard was the domain of the forest, and tombs were rendered invisible under long grass and nettles. The building itself was a low, long structure with a squat tower at the west end, both larger than he would have expected for such a small village, suggesting that at some point in the past a lord of the manor had considered the village worth spending money on.

The main entrance had been through a porch in the south wall, but this was thick with ivy, and Bartholomew could see it would not easily be breached. He walked around the church, looking up at its wet, forbidding walls as he wiped the rain from his eyes with his sleeve. There was not a window that did not have something growing from it, while the tiled roof was sadly decayed: it would not be very much longer before the entire thing collapsed.

A priest’s door led into the chancel, and Bartholomew saw that it hung askew, one of its leather hinges having decayed away. His hand was reaching out to push it inward, when a flicker of movement caught his eye.

He spun around, stomach churning, but there was nothing to see but drops falling silver from the trees and a faint stirring of the undergrowth in the wind. Taking a deep breath to control himself, he turned and lifted his hand to the door once more. It was just swinging open when a blood-curdling screech froze his blood, and made his heart pound in panic.

He swung around just in time to see something hurtling out of the undergrowth to throw itself at him. Raising his arms to protect himself, he was knocked backward against the wall, losing his footing in the slippery grass. Glancing up, he saw the glint of a weapon, and dodged to one side as it flashed toward him. He heard it screech against the stone, and then saw it rise for a second strike. He twisted away again, feeling it thump into his medicine bag, and struggled to his feet. There was another unearthly howl, and clawed hands raked at his face. He grabbed at one of them and caught it, flinching back as the other flailed wildly, aiming for his eyes.

But it was an unequal battle in the end, and it was not long before Bartholomew found he held an old woman, spitting and fighting in his grip. Her grey hair was long, filthy and matted, and she had no teeth at all that he could see. She wore an odd combination of clothes, including the skirt he had seen ten days before, all of them sticky with dirt. It was her eyes that caught his attention, however: the whites were rubbed to a startling pink rawness, and the lids were inflamed and swollen. Tears ran unheeded down her wrinkled skin, mingling with the rain that rolled smoothly from her greasy hair. Was this the cloaked figure whom Stoate had seen run from the church in Grundisburgh at the time when Unwin had been murdered, rubbing its eyes? Surely not, he thought. What could an old woman have against Unwin?

‘Easy, mother,’ he said softly, trying to quell his own fright. ‘I will not hurt you.’

She struggled even more frantically, and he began to worry that she might hurt herself. He released one hand, but she tried to claw him with her long nails, and he was forced to grab her again, pushing her against the church wall to stop her fighting him. Just when he thought he had succeeded, and her futile attempts to attack him were beginning to subside, he heard a low growl from the bushes. He glanced around, but could see nothing. When he looked back at the old woman she was smiling, her inflamed eyes bright with malice. The growl came again, louder, and she began to croon softly to herself, rocking back and forth in Bartholomew’s arms.

There was an explosion of movement from the undergrowth as something pale smashed through it. Swallowing hard, Bartholomew released the old woman and took several steps backward. He had the merest glimpse of a white form tearing toward him before he turned and fled. He could hear its rasping breath at his heels and was certain it was gaining on him. He ran harder, oblivious to the branches that slashed and slapped at his face. He reached the main street and raced across it toward the shrubs on the other side, ducking and weaving through the trees, and aware that the dog was right behind him.

Then his foot caught on the root of a tree and he tripped, tumbling head over heels down the hillside, his world spinning as he crashed through the bushes. He thought he saw the dog tracking him as he rolled, and he knew it would be on him the moment he stopped moving. He was helpless; he did not even know which way was up and which was down. Then he collided with a sturdy oak tree that stopped him dead. Aware that the thing would tear him to pieces if he lay still, he scrambled to his feet, but staggered as the woods tipped and swirled in front of him. He closed his eyes and waited for the worst to happen.

The woods were totally silent except for his ragged panting. Rain dripped on him from the trees that arched overhead, and he could hear the crackle of twigs under his feet. When he opened his eyes, there was nothing to see and nothing to hear. The white dog had gone, just as if it had vanished into thin air. Shakily, he peered through the undergrowth to see if he could see flashes of white as the animal moved through it. But the forest was as still and soundless as the grave.

With unsteady hands, he brushed himself down and began to make his way back to Cynric and Deynman. Casting nervous glances over his shoulder, and expecting to hear the guttural growls that would herald another attack, he crossed the stream and jogged up the slope on the other side. As if by magic, the rain eased to a light drizzle. By the time he reached the shepherd’s hut it had stopped completely, and his heart was no longer thudding deafeningly in his ears.

A wisp of smoke eased through the door, and he assumed Cynric had made a fire to keep himself warm. He rubbed a shaking hand through his hair and strode into the shelter, craving normal human company. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom and the smoke inside the hut. What he saw made him cry out in horror.

Cynric lay face down on the ground. Or what was left of Cynric. Smoke rose in thready tendrils from his body, of which little remained but two charred arms, a torso and a head.

‘Did you say it?’ came Cynric’s eager voice behind him. ‘Is it done? Am I safe?’ Bartholomew spun round, and grabbed at the door frame for support.

The Welshman nodded at the corpse on the floor. ‘We did not feel much inclined to share with him while you were off on your mission, so we sheltered round the back. You have been a long time. Are you sure you recited the prayer as fast as you could?’

Bartholomew nodded unsteadily. He looked from Cynric, to the corpse, and then back again. ‘I thought that was you. Did you not hear me coming?’

Cynric nodded. ‘Of course. Do you think I have lost my touch?’

‘Then you might have warned me. You must have known I would see that thing and think it was you. I thought my Latin was too late!’

‘But this body has been here for days,’ said Cynric, puzzled by his reaction. ‘Come on, boy, what is the matter with you? You are supposed to be the one skilled in this kind of thing, not me.’

Bartholomew looked closer, and saw that Cynric was right. The body had been smouldering for some time, and molten fat had seeped across the floor in a sticky mass. An animal, probably a fox, had attacked it, so that parts of the intestines had been eaten away. The smell was sickening, and Bartholomew pushed past Cynric to sit on the grass outside. Resting his head on his arms, he tried to control the churning in his stomach. Cynric knelt next to him, and put a hand on his shoulder.

‘What happened?’ Deynman’s voice was fearful. ‘Did you see Padfoot, too? Will we need to do all this again tonight for you?’

Bartholomew shook his head, not looking up. ‘I saw a white blur before it chased me out of the village. But I met its owner.’

Cynric drew in his breath sharply. ‘The Devil?’

‘An old hag with no teeth and filthy clothes. She attacked me and the dog came to help.’

‘Oh, Lord, boy!’ groaned Cynric. ‘Why did I let you go? That vile place is the Devil’s home!’

‘It is the home of some crone and her dog,’ said Bartholomew tiredly. ‘Do you think I could best the Devil in a hand-to-hand tussle? I know some people believe my medicine borders on the heretical, but I am not Satan’s equal!’

Cynric smiled, and held out his hand to Bartholomew to help him to his feet. ‘Rob and I have not been totally useless while we waited. We found these.’

He led Bartholomew round to the back of the hut, and pointed at something on the ground. There were two legs, presumably belonging to the person in the hut. They, too, were charred, and someone had been trying very hard to chop them into small pieces, bits of which had probably been spirited away by animals.

Bartholomew went to look at the torso again, taking a deep breath so he would not have to inhale the heavy, sweet odour of burned flesh. Against the wall leaned a long knife with a curved, stained handle, and a hefty mallet lay next to it. The body was warm to the touch where it still smouldered.

‘Why not burn it completely?’ asked Deynman in revulsion. ‘It would be much less repellent than all this chopping.’

‘Bodies do not burn very easily,’ said Bartholomew. ‘There is too much liquid and grease in them. It seems to me that whoever did this thought he could rid himself of the body by burning it, and then found himself with a half-charred corpse to dismember instead.’

‘Then why not bury it?’ persisted Deynman. ‘No one would find a shallow grave out here.’

Bartholomew shrugged. ‘I have no idea. All I can say is that whoever did this must be desperate. Chopping up a body must be a vile task to undertake.’

Distastefully, he turned it over to look at its face, but it was too charred to be recognisable. The head flopped limply at an awkward angle, but the body seemed to have undergone such rough treatment since its demise that Bartholomew had no way of telling how it died. He laid it back and looked at the clothes, trying to see if there was anything he could take to effect some kind of identification. They were either burned away or fused to the body, and there was nothing that would help any bereaved next of kin to recognise it.

He was about to give up and suggest that they leave the grisly business to Tuddenham, when he saw he had missed something. Glittering dully under one shoulder was a dagger. Bartholomew tugged it out. It had once been covered with gilt, but most of that had come off, and all that remained was a rather shoddy-looking iron knife with a hilt decorated with coloured glass. The dagger Janelle had stolen from Deblunville to give to her father had been gilt, not gold, and Bartholomew recognised its shape and size immediately. So did Cynric.

‘Well, boy,’ said the Welshman, taking it from him and carrying it out into the light. ‘It looks as though we have found our hanged man at last.’