A Wicked Deed

Chapter 10

There was nothing more to be done with the dead man in the shepherd’s hut, so Bartholomew walked with Cynric and Deynman back to Grundisburgh. It was a cold, wet morning that seemed more like March than May, and heaped grey clouds threatened another storm. Bartholomew wanted to find Michael, and tell him about Deblunville’s death and the body in the hut, so that they could reason some sort of sense into the jumble of facts and circumstances that had accumulated, before passing the information to anyone else. But as he headed up The Street he was hailed by Tuddenham, who was just leaving the church.

The knight looked tired and ill, and leaned heavily on Hamon’s shoulder. Bartholomew saw it would not be long before his family would realise that there was more to his pale face and unsteady gait than just a case of too much wine the night before. By contrast, Hamon looked fit and vital, and had about him the air of a man for whom things were going well. Did he already know about Deblunville, because he had had a hand in his death? Or was he always cheerful and hearty after funerals – the Tuddenhams, apparently, had just attended the mass for Mistress Freeman.

Dame Eva and Isilia walked behind, looking suitably solemn. Isilia wore a dark blue dress under a matching cloak, a colour that suited her black hair and turned her green eyes to turquoise. As she turned to help the old lady down the step, Bartholomew was struck yet again by her grace and elegance. Dame Eva gave her a grateful smile that faded when she saw Bartholomew.

‘You have the look of a man who is about to impart bad news,’ she said astutely, regarding him with her sharp, bright eyes. ‘Has the shock Master Alcote had last night made him sick?’

‘What shock?’ asked Bartholomew, suddenly nervous. ‘Has something happened to Roger?’

‘Alcote was attacked by two men last night,’ said Tuddenham. ‘He worked on my advowson until well after midnight at Wergen Hall, and someone tried to ambush him as he returned to his bed in the Half Moon. How is it you do not know of this? Where have you been?’

‘Attacked?’ asked Bartholomew in horror. ‘Is he hurt?’

‘No,’ said Hamon, with an inappropriate grin. ‘He is made of sterner stuff than he admits, and suffered no ill effects from the experience, except the indignity of falling in some cow dung.’

‘This is no laughing matter,’ admonished Tuddenham sternly. ‘What will these Michaelhouse men think if they cannot walk from my house to the village in safety?’

‘But who would attack Alcote?’ asked Bartholomew, aghast.

‘It was Will Norys,’ said Hamon confidently.

‘Unfortunately, last night was dark because it was cloudy, and Master Alcote did not see who attacked him,’ corrected Tuddenham. ‘But he said that there were two of them, and that one might have been Norys.’

‘Of course it was Norys,’ said Dame Eva. ‘Who else could it have been? He escaped justice for the murder of Unwin, and decided to chance his luck again. After all, everyone here knows that Alcote is the most wealthy Michaelhouse scholar, and would be the best one to rob.’

‘You think the motive was theft?’ asked Bartholomew.

‘Why else would a scholar be ambushed in the middle of the night?’ asked the old lady. ‘Norys must have lain in wait on the path that leads between Wergen Hall and the village, knowing that no one would hear Alcote’s cries for help there.’

‘It is a terrible business,’ said Tuddenham worriedly. ‘Alcote told me yesterday that the advowson was almost complete, and that he would have a working draft today. I had hoped to have the thing all signed and sealed by tomorrow, but I can see that this attack will delay matters.’

‘Was anything stolen from him?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Documents or writs?’

‘Alcote says not,’ said Tuddenham. He frowned anxiously. ‘I told him to ask Hamon to accompany him to the Half Moon, if he planned to work after dark – especially given what happened to Unwin – but he slipped out while Hamon was asleep.’

‘I awoke to find him gone,’ said Hamon. ‘There was no need for him to return to the tavern anyway, when he could have had a blanket next to the fire in Wergen Hall.’

Recalling that a good many servants vied for the coveted position near the hearth in Wergen Hall’s main chamber, Bartholomew understood exactly why that proposition was not an appealing one to the fastidious Alcote.

Dame Eva eyed Hamon critically. ‘You knew it was not safe for the poor man to leave the hall with Norys at large, and yet you selfishly slept while he did battle with ruthless killers. You are a self-centred lout, Hamon!’

‘Deblunville died last night,’ said Bartholomew, before a full-blown row could begin. ‘He hit his head on a rock.’

There was a startled silence. Dame Eva and Isilia exchanged a glance of stupefaction, while Tuddenham and Hamon regarded each other rather uncertainly, as though each were wondering whether the other had anything to do with it.

Tuddenham swallowed hard. ‘Are you saying my neighbour was murdered? Again? Or is this another mistake – like the fellow you claim was hanged at Bond’s Corner?’

Bartholomew bit back a flash of irritation. ‘I saw Deblunville’s body. His men do not think he was murdered – they believe he slipped on wet grass and brained himself.’

‘Just like his first wife, Pernel,’ said Hamon in awe. ‘She died of a cracked head.’

‘We all know Deblunville killed his first wife,’ said Dame Eva to Bartholomew. ‘No one ever believed that was an accident – even his own people. But I heard rumours that Janelle’s marriage was not as happy as a union of a few days should have been. She has had a lucky escape from that monster.’

‘Poor Janelle,’ said Isilia softly. ‘I think she was genuinely fond of Deblunville when she beguiled him into taking her to the altar.’

‘But this is good news,’ said Hamon, pleased. ‘It means Janelle is a widow.’

Dame Eva regarded him coldly. ‘Foolish boy! Do you think she will fall into your arms now Deblunville is dead? Had she wanted you, she would have accepted you when you offered yourself at Yuletide. And you should curb your unseemly delight at Deblunville’s death, or there will be rumours that you did it.’

‘But I did not!’ cried Hamon, alarmed. ‘I did not even see him last night.’

‘That is a curious thing to say,’ pounced Dame Eva, fixing him with a wary look. ‘Why should you see him last night? What were you doing while Christian folk slept?’

‘Nothing,’ said Hamon guiltily, realising too late the implication of his words.

Tuddenham stepped between his mother and his nephew. ‘We will not discuss this matter here. However Deblunville met his death, there will be no celebration in Grundisburgh. I will not have the Sheriff told that there are people here who delight in my neighbour’s demise.’

‘So, Padfoot had Deblunville after all,’ said Dame Eva, more in awe than malice. ‘I told you no one escapes a vile fate after setting eyes on Padfoot, and I was right. Deblunville may not have been the corpse on the gibbet, but Padfoot had him in the end, regardless.’

‘We found that corpse, too,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It is in the shepherd’s hut near Barchester, where someone has been trying to incinerate it.’

‘How do you know all this?’ asked Tuddenham, suddenly suspicious. ‘You say you saw Deblunville dead, and now you announce that you have found the body of the hanged man. Brother Michael told me you were praying for Mistress Freeman last night, but now I discover you were roaming half the county under cover of darkness. What were you doing?’

It was a question Bartholomew had hoped would not be asked, and it was one he did not know how to answer. He hesitated.

‘He was looking for sea urchins,’ said Deynman defensively, fiercely protective of his tutor. He fingered the small dagger in his belt, and Bartholomew saw that Cynric was doing the same.

‘Sea urchins?’ echoed Tuddenham, bewildered. ‘Just how far did you roam last night?’

‘Sea wormwood,’ corrected Bartholomew, relieved that at least someone had his wits about him. He opened his bag, and showed Tuddenham the bunch he had picked. ‘It is good for worms and diseases of the liver.’

‘There is no truth in these tales about the golden calf, you know,’ said Tuddenham abruptly. ‘So there is no point in you digging up my fields to look for it, while pretending to pick flowers.’

For a man who had been keen to know whether Cynric had discovered anything when he had dug Unwin’s grave, Tuddenham’s denial of the possibility that the golden calf existed was revealing. Was it he who had killed Deblunville, Bartholomew wondered, as, like Hamon, he supervised his villagers in their nightly searches of his neighbours’ lands? Was a sleepless night the real reason why he looked so weary that morning and not his encroaching illness at all?

‘I can assure you that the golden calf could not have been further from my mind,’ said Bartholomew, resenting the implication that he was a thief. ‘These leaves are far more valuable to me than some idolatrous ornament!’

‘It is not wise to wander from the safety of our parish in the dead of night,’ said Isilia reprovingly. ‘And you promised us at Unwin’s funeral that you would stay away from Barchester. It is no place for honest folk.’

Dame Eva agreed. ‘Not as long as Padfoot sees fit to haunt our paths and woodlands.’

‘But why not collect your herb during the day, anyway?’ pressed Hamon suspiciously. ‘Why steal about during the night looking for it, like a criminal?’

‘Collecting it on a moonless night increases its efficacy,’ said Bartholomew, feeling the colour mount in his cheeks as it always did when he told brazen lies.

‘Hamon,’ admonished Tuddenham mildly, assuming Bartholomew’s sudden redness was because he had been insulted. ‘You are not my heir yet, and you have no right to assail my guests with unpleasant accusations.’

‘He will never be your heir,’ said Isilia, clutching at Dame Eva’s arm for moral support. Her chin jutted defiantly. ‘My child will inherit before him.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Tuddenham wearily. ‘But not until I am dead and gone. So, Bartholomew, you say you have your hanged man back at last. Who is he, do you know?’

Bartholomew shook his head. ‘But the fact that someone is so intent on disposing of his remains suggests that he was murdered.’

‘Deblunville said the clothes worn by the hanged man were stolen from him,’ said Tuddenham thoughtfully, ‘and so it seems to me that Deblunville took the law into his own hands, and had the man executed for theft. Now Deblunville is dead, there is nothing more to be done. Later today I will send Siric to bring the remains here, to be buried decently in the churchyard.’

‘Is that it?’ asked Bartholomew, startled. ‘The affair is closed without any further questions?’

‘Yes,’ said Tuddenham. ‘Deblunville killed your hanged man, and Deblunville is dead. There is an end to the matter.’

His determined look suggested that Bartholomew would be wise to drop the subject. Confused and angered by Tuddenham’s callous dismissal of the hanged man’s fate, Bartholomew trailed along The Street in search of Michael.

He was surprised to find the Half Moon in chaos. Eltisley’s sullen customers ran this way and that, while Eltisley himself stood in the middle of his courtyard looking like a lost child. There were dark patches on his clothes and his hair appeared to be singed. Bartholomew supposed that his appearance had something to do with the flames that had spurted from his workshop the previous evening.

‘There you are,’ said Michael, emerging from the tavern and wiping the remains of breakfast from his mouth. He looked Bartholomew up and down, taking in his sodden, mud-splattered clothes. ‘What have you been doing?’

‘Collecting sea wormwood,’ said Bartholomew, brandishing his bunch at Michael. ‘Tuddenham told me Alcote was attacked last night. Is that what all this fuss is about?’

Michael dabbed at his lips with his sleeve. ‘Have you seen that fine piece of linen, which that nice landlord of the Dog gave me? It seems to have disappeared – along with a sizeable piece of beef from Master Eltisley’s kitchen. That is what all this commotion is for – Eltisley is looking for it.’

‘I see,’ said Bartholomew.

‘I am sure you do,’ said Michael, regarding him expressionlessly. ‘This could not be anything to do with Mother Goodman’s charm against Padfoot, could it? Stealing a piece of beef and wrapping it in a white cloth at midnight?’ Bartholomew shot him a guilty look and Michael sighed. ‘If you had told me, Matt, I might have been able to help.’

‘Would you?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘I assumed you would dismiss it as witchcraft.’

‘Well, so it is, but that is not to say that I would not have gone along with it to see Cynric restored to his usual self. You could have trusted me!’

‘I am sorry. But how did you guess what we were doing?’ asked Bartholomew curiously.

‘Deynman interrogated Mother Goodman about it mercilessly last night, and it did not take a genius to guess what had transformed Cynric from a man doomed to a man with a purpose. I assume it worked, then? My piece of linen was sacrificed for a good cause.’

‘Cynric believes he is free of the curse, and that is what matters. But aside from stealing from my friends and dabbling in pagan rituals, I have had a busy night.’

He took Michael’s arm and led him to stand under the eaves of the tavern, out of the drizzle, while he told the monk about Deblunville and the hanged man, and of the reaction of Tuddenham’s family to the news. Michael listened carefully, without interruption, until he had finished.

‘Perhaps Tuddenham is right,’ he said. ‘If Janelle stole Deblunville’s clothes as a gift for her father, and someone else found them by chance, it is entirely possible that Deblunville hanged the poor fellow for theft. Then, realising perhaps that the man was innocent, he suddenly found himself with a corpse to dispose of, if he wanted his mistake to remain hidden.’

‘Deblunville’s dagger was with the corpse in the shepherd’s hut,’ said Bartholomew. ‘So, it seems as though the charred remains and the hanged man are one and the same. But there was no sign of Deblunville’s other clothes. Since Norys saw someone running from the church after we found the hanged man wearing what sounded to be the same belt and shoes, we are still left with a mystery.’

‘Not if we accept that Norys is lying because he killed Unwin,’ said Michael. ‘We can even take this further – Norys might have been the one who found the bundle of clothes, and sold them to some poor unfortunate, who then was hanged for theft while he was wearing them.’

‘Poor Norys,’ said Bartholomew. ‘It seems he is to blame for everything. It is probably his fault that it is raining this morning, too.’

‘There is no need for heretical thoughts, Matthew,’ said Michael primly. ‘But what of Deblunville? You say you could not tell whether his death was accident or murder?’

‘There are so many people who want him dead that an accident seems rather opportune. I cannot help wondering whether Deblunville caught some of Tuddenham’s villagers digging for the golden calf, and one of them killed him.’

‘You mean you think they might have found the calf, and murdered Deblunville to keep the discovery a secret?’ asked Michael, green eyes glittering at the thought.

‘Of course not, Brother,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Deblunville was probably killed – if he was killed deliberately – because he caught some of the Grundisburgh villagers trespassing on what he thinks is his land. God knows, there were enough of them out there last night.’

He looked up as Alcote, leaning heavily on Father William’s arm, walked slowly from the direction of the church. He was limping, and he held one hand to his chest as though in pain.

‘He has been saying a mass to thank God for his safety,’ said Michael contemptuously. ‘While Mistress Freeman was committed to the ground, Alcote knelt at the altar and prayed for himself.’

Alcote was almost at the Half Moon when he saw Eltisley’s wife walking toward him. Immediately, the limp disappeared, and he scurried on what seemed to Bartholomew to be two healthy legs into the tavern, slamming the door behind him. William exchanged a grin with Michael, and came to join them.

‘What was that about?’ asked Bartholomew, bewildered, as Mistress Eltisley tried to open the door, only to find it had been locked from the inside. She rattled the door impatiently, but the sole response was the sound of a heavy bar falling into place.

‘She brought some water to wash the mud from Alcote’s face after he was attacked last night,’ Michael explained. ‘Rather rashly, but only to be kind, she attempted to perform the service herself. Feeling a woman’s hand on his person terrified him a good deal more than the ambush, I think!’

‘That is not surprising,’ said Father William mysteriously. ‘Given his history.’

‘You mean the reason he is hostile to women?’ asked Michael with interest. ‘You know it?’

‘Of course,’ said William haughtily. ‘There is nothing a man like me cannot discover, if he puts his mind to it. That is why I would make such an outstanding Junior Proctor.’

‘Quite so,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘But what do you know about Alcote?’

William paused for effect, looking around him to ensure he could not be overheard. ‘I asked a few questions when he first arrived in Cambridge. He comes from Winchester, where I have several very good friends from my days in the Inquisition. I primed them to make enquiries on my behalf.’

‘And?’ prompted Michael, when the friar paused again. He snapped his fingers in sudden enlightenment. ‘Ha! Do not tell me, I can guess. Alcote had a wife – he escaped from a marriage that had turned sour.’

‘He escaped from two,’ said William, smiling in satisfaction when he saw the expressions on his colleagues’ faces. ‘Roger Alcote is a bigamist.’

Bartholomew and Michael stood outside the Half Moon and gazed at William in astonishment. Then Bartholomew started to laugh.

‘I do not believe you, Father! Alcote hates women, and would never allow himself to be put into that sort of position. Your friends were playing a joke on you.’

‘They were not,’ said William firmly. ‘It so happened that I had business in Winchester myself a year or so later. I met both his wives – and I am sure it will not surprise you to learn that they were women of some wealth. They told me they had been wed to Alcote for several months before one discovered the presence of the other. They joined forces, and I had the impression they planned some dire revenge on his manhood, but were thwarted when he escaped.’

‘Then why did he become a scholar?’ asked Bartholomew, far from certain that William’s story was not a product of his vivid imagination. ‘Bigamists, who by definition like their women, do not suddenly become misogynists like Alcote.’

Michael grinned. ‘I think you probably already have your answer to that. William has just told us that it was not for love that Alcote took these two beauties, but for their money.’

‘I still do not believe it,’ said Bartholomew.

‘You might if you heard his views on the plague,’ said Michael thoughtfully. ‘He thinks it will come again, unless men give up all relations with women. He told me only yesterday that the Devil would claim as his own anyone who was not celibate.’

‘And why should he mention that to you, Brother?’ asked Bartholomew, raising his eyebrows.

‘What in God’s name is he doing?’ said William, watching as Eltisley took a large saw to the leather hinges on the door, still firmly barred and with Alcote safe from Mistress Eltisley on the other side of it. The saw slipped, leaving a long, pale scar across the lovingly polished wood. Eltisley raised it again, hacking vigorously at the hinges, while his sullen customers stood around him, and watched in disbelief as the landlord inflicted as much damage on the saw as he did on the door in his bungling attempts to enter.

‘Master Eltisley,’ called Bartholomew, watching his efforts with amusement. ‘Would it not be easier to go through the entrance at the back of the tavern, and then unlock the front door from the inside?’

Eltisley regarded him uncertainly, but his wife gave an exasperated sigh before disappearing round the side of the house. Moments later, she emerged through the door Eltisley had savaged, and stood to one side to let her husband in, giving him a clout on the ear as he did so.

Alcote had locked the door to the upper chamber, too, and it took some smooth talking on Michael’s part to persuade him to open it. Casting anxious looks this way and that, Alcote hauled his colleagues inside and barred the door again.

‘I do not want her near me,’ he announced, returning to a small table piled high with parchments, pens, and sand-shakers for drying wet ink. ‘Women are agents of the Devil. I became a scholar at Michaelhouse to escape their evil clutches, and all I want to do is return there. Not only does one of them attempt to seduce me, but I am attacked by a band of ruffians, armed with ferocious scimitars, in the middle of the night.’

‘A band?’ asked Bartholomew. Tuddenham told me there were only two of them.’

‘So there were last night,’ said Michael. ‘Their number, like their weapons, seem to have grown in the telling.’

Alcote regarded him coldly. ‘Are you accusing me of lying?’

‘I am merely curious to know how an unarmed cleric bested a band of determined, sword-wielding villains,’ said Michael, unruffled by Alcote’s indignation.

‘I was protected by God. He knows I am doing His work with this advowson.’ Alcote rubbed his stomach. ‘This place disagrees with me. I have not felt well since we arrived.’

‘That is because you are eating enough raisins to feed half of Suffolk,’ said Bartholomew. ‘They are not good for the digestion in such vast quantities.’

‘How is the advowson going?’ asked Michael, as Alcote glowered at the physician. ‘Tuddenham is afraid that the attack on you may delay matters.’

‘Fortunately, it will not,’ said Alcote, ‘although I must stress that writing this deed has been extremely difficult, because of the complexities of the arrangements made by Sir Thomas’s grandfather. It has taken me a long time to ensure that the advowson is his to give.’

‘I checked all that in the abbey at St Edmundsbury,’ said Michael. ‘It is his.’

‘But I had to ensure he had the documents to prove it.’ Alcote leaned forward and lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘However, there were one or two items that muddied the waters, which therefore needed to be consigned to the fire.’

‘You burned Tuddenham’s writs because you did not like their contents?’ asked Bartholomew, aghast.

‘You make it sound so underhand,’ grumbled Alcote, flinging down his pen, and scrubbing tiredly at his thin hair.

‘Well, so it is,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Tuddenham trusts you with these documents, and what you have done is worse than underhand: it is dishonest and illegal!’

‘Believe me, I am only doing what is best for the College. You would not want Michaelhouse associated with some of the shady dealings I have uncovered since we arrived here.’

‘What kind of shady dealings?’ asked Bartholomew nervously. ‘If you suspect this advowson is tainted, then we must not accept it at all.’

‘Do not be so finicky, Matthew. I have destroyed what I do not want people to see, and so it is all perfectly above board. Anyway, a few more hours should see the whole thing completed, and we can be on our way.’

‘Then we can leave tomorrow?’ asked Bartholomew with relief. ‘Thank God!’

‘For once we are in complete agreement,’ sniffed Alcote. ‘I do not like this place, and I want to be away from it before we all follow Unwin to his grave. I will have this thing written today.’

Bartholomew had wondered whether Alcote had been dragging his heels over the advowson, making the whole thing seem more complex than it was. His sudden announcement that he was in a position to complete the document within hours made Bartholomew realise his suspicions had been well founded, and that it had taken a physical attack on Alcote to frighten him into finishing it.

‘Why were you ambushed, do you think?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘For your gold cross?’

‘Or because you consigned Tuddenham’s documents to the fire?’ asked Michael, amused.

‘Or because the villagers resent our presence here?’ asked William. He glanced around him and shuddered. ‘Hanged men wearing stolen clothes, who disappear only to be found half burned in some shepherd’s hovel; ghostly dogs that terrify people in the night; friars murdered by pardoners for their paltry possessions; women with their throats slit in their own homes; and scholars attacked viciously and without provocation. You are right, Roger! The sooner we are away from this place, the better.’

‘Will you join me for something to eat?’ enquired Michael of no one in particular.

‘I will not leave this chamber until I am on my way home,’ announced Alcote firmly. ‘Arrange for my meals to be served here, Michael – and not by that woman, if you please. Eltisley can do it.’

‘I will pray for Unwin’s soul,’ said William, his voice holding a note of censure that they should be considering food when there was praying to be done. ‘I shall forgo the pleasures of the flesh in order to shorten his time in Purgatory with a mass.’

‘I heard that Eltisley was cooking fish-giblet stew today,’ said Michael wickedly. ‘Shall I tell him you do not want any?’

There was little the Franciscan enjoyed more than the rank flavour of fish-giblet stew, and he hesitated, deeply tempted.

‘Tell him to keep some for me,’ he said after a brief internal struggle between duty and greed, from which greed emerged the victor. ‘I will have it later to fortify my frail body for more prayers.’

‘My sentiments exactly,’ said Michael, looking down at his own ample girth.

Downstairs again, Michael shouted for Eltisley to bring them food. He regarded Bartholomew’s muddy clothes disapprovingly, and complained that he smelled of burning. Bartholomew was not the only one: there was a strong odour of burning when Eltisley brought the meal.

‘Problem with one of your theories?’ Bartholomew asked, noting the blisters on Eltisley’s hands and his singed clothes. ‘I saw you almost destroy your workshop last night.’

‘None of your business,’ snapped the landlord shiftily. ‘When one works on things no other man can comprehend, one must anticipate a degree of error and miscalculation.’

He slapped a dish down with such vigour that it broke in two, sending gravy dribbling through the cracks in the table into Michael’s lap. The monk gave him a withering look, and began to dab it off.

‘I will fetch you another dish,’ said Eltisley, not sounding particularly repentant. ‘Although it will take me a while to prepare. You can change while I cook it.’

‘Perhaps we will dine at the Dog,’ said Michael, peering resentfully at the stain in his lap as Eltisley left. ‘I prefer my food to make its way to my stomach by going through my mouth first, not my habit, and I have had enough of Eltisley’s peculiarities for one day. I am always afraid he will bring me fried earwigs, or a plate of grass, just to see what would happen if I ate them.’

He left before Eltisley could return, beckoning Bartholomew to follow. The monk set an uncharacteristically rapid pace up The Street, a clear indication that Eltisley’s clumsiness had needled him. Since it was raining, they found a table inside the Dog near the roaring fire, where Michael continued to swab at the gravy stains on his habit. The landlord brought them a spiced leek and onion tart, and a stew of pigeon cooked in garlic, with hunks of coarse-grained bread to soak up the sauce. Contemptuously, Michael thrust the tart at Bartholomew, and took the stew for himself, using the bread to scrape off a few offending carrots that had the audacity to adhere to the meat.

‘Eltisley should not be permitted to run a tavern,’ he muttered. ‘I would order him to clean my habit, but I am afraid it might come back grey, because he has used some stain-removing concoction of his own invention. And then I might be mistaken for a Franciscan.’ He shuddered dramatically.

Bartholomew smiled. ‘I do not think so, Brother. You are far too fat to be anything but a Benedictine.’

Michael thrust a large piece of bread into his mouth, gagging slightly on the crumbs. ‘Do not witter, Matt. Tell me again about your foray to Barchester last night.’

‘It seems to me that some old madwoman has taken it for her home, and she and her dog do not like visitors,’ said Bartholomew, rubbing his eyes.

‘Tuddenham will drive her out.’

‘I hope not,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Where would she go? The village is deserted anyway, so why not let her live there if she likes.’

‘Because she ambushes travellers,’ said Michael promptly. ‘She has attacked you twice now, and her dog has people from miles around too terrified to go anywhere near the place.’

‘Not from what I saw last night,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I am sure there were more Grundisburgh folk out in the woods than there were at home.’

‘Looking for the golden calf,’ said the landlord of the Dog in a soft voice behind them, making them jump. ‘The reward for finding it and giving it to Sir Thomas is ten marks – two years’ pay for most people. But ten marks would not induce me to go out at night to hunt for the thing.’

‘And why is that?’ asked Michael.

The landlord crossed himself. ‘Because of Padfoot. Ten marks is no good to a dead man, and that is what anyone who sees the beast will be. I heard Deblunville died last night. I always said it was only a matter of time before he was laid in his grave after seeing Padfoot.’

Having made his point, he left them to their meal, talking in a low voice about the inevitability of Deblunville’s demise to the man with the pig who had been so vociferous at the debate.

‘The Barchester woman had badly infected eyes,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Stoate said the person he saw running from the church was rubbing his eyes.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, taking a large gulp of wine. ‘It was this crone who donned a cloak and killed Unwin in the church last week, was it? How silly of me not to have thought of that before!’

‘It might have been her,’ said Bartholomew, unruffled by Michael’s sarcasm. ‘Stoate and Norys both said they were unsure whether it was a man or a woman. Although she was very small and somewhat crooked – you would think one of them would have noticed that.’

‘And can you see this woman having the guile to wear a cloak – long, according to Stoate, but short according to Norys – to hide her wretched rags? She does not sound to me as though she has enough of her sanity left to take care of herself, let alone effect a crafty murder that has confounded the University of Cambridge’s Senior Proctor.’

‘Well, that proves it was not her, then,’ said Bartholomew dryly. ‘Far be it for old women to get the better of the University of Cambridge’s Senior Proctor. But at least we now know who owns the abandoned skirt and shoe we found there.’

He was eating a slice of tart when there was a deafening roar that shook the building to its foundations. Fragments of plaster drifted down from the ceiling, and the cat that had been stalking mice in the rushes flattened its ears with a yowl and tore from the room. Bartholomew and Michael looked at each other in confusion.

‘What was that?’ asked Michael, picking a flake of wood out of his stew and flicking it on to the floor. ‘It sounded as though one of the bells has fallen out of the church tower.’

Wiping his hands on his apron, the landlord went to find out, accompanied by the man with the pig. Excited shouts and running footsteps suggested that others were curious, too, but Bartholomew could see nothing through the window to warrant abandoning his meal. He had barely sat down again when Cynric burst into the room.

‘The Half Moon!’ he cried, reaching out to haul Bartholomew from his seat. ‘It has gone!’

‘Gone where?’ asked Michael, not pleased at being interrupted while he was feeding.

‘Gone!’ yelled Cynric frantically. ‘Gone completely!’

With trepidation, Bartholomew followed him out of the tavern and down The Street. Cynric was right. The Half Moon was nothing but a vast pile of burning rubble and teetering walls. A thick pall of black smoke poured from the twisted beams, and timbers and pieces of glass crunched under the feet of the milling spectators. The thatch was ablaze with flames that licked this way and that, sending showers of sparks high into the sky and, even as Bartholomew watched, one precarious wall collapsed with a tearing scream in a cloud of dust.

The villagers gasped in horror and started back as sharp snaps heralded pieces of plaster and burning timber being catapulted across the ground toward them. One man shrieked as his cotte began to smoulder. With great presence of mind, Stoate bundled him to the stream and pushed him in before the flames could take hold. But Bartholomew saw only the burning building.

‘Alcote!’ he whispered in shock. ‘Roger Alcote was in there.’

Eltisley was surrounded by sympathetic customers, his face as white as snow as he gazed at the inferno that had been his tavern. Tuddenham leaned heavily on Hamon’s arm as he surveyed the mess with a stunned expression, while Hamon’s glazed eyes showed that he had not even begun to comprehend what had happened to Grundisburgh’s largest and most prestigious tavern. Isilia stood next to them, as numbed by the spectacle as were her menfolk, while Dame Eva had both frail arms wrapped around the weeping Mistress Eltisley. As Bartholomew shouldered his way through the crowd, the landlord gaped at him and his eyes filled with tears.

‘Thank God!’ he said shakily. ‘I thought you were inside changing your clothes.’

‘Where is Alcote?’ asked Bartholomew urgently.

‘I do not know,’ said Eltisley in a whisper. ‘I was in the kitchen cooking your meal when this happened. I only escaped because the force of the blast blew me outside.’

‘You mean the tavern exploded?’ asked Hamon in bewilderment. He came toward them, dragging his shocked uncle with him. ‘How can that have happened?’

‘Gasses,’ announced Walter Wauncy, in his sepulchral voice. ‘I have heard of this happening in other places. Malignant gasses build up and then give vent to their fury – like volcanoes.’

‘It was him,’ said William, pointing an accusing finger at Eltisley. ‘This is the result of one of his vile experiments, not any gasses!’

‘I do not experiment with exploding compounds,’ protested Eltisley in a high squeak. ‘My mission in life is to repair and heal things, not destroy them. I have no need to explore the nature of such diabolical powders. But maybe it was him,’ he said, turning suddenly on Bartholomew. ‘He went out last night picking strange plants in the dark. Perhaps they did this.’

‘Do not be ridiculous,’ said Michael coldly. ‘But we should discuss this later. Now, I am more concerned about Alcote. Has anyone seen him?’

‘Alcote was in there?’ whispered Tuddenham in horror. ‘With my advowson?’

‘Damn the advowson!’ shouted Bartholomew furiously. ‘What about my colleague?’ He appealed to the crowd, desperation cracking his voice. ‘Have any of you seen him?’

There were shaken heads, and fearful glances toward the fire.

Eltisley followed their gazes, and rubbed a hand over his face. ‘My tavern! My home! My workshop! All gone!’ he groaned.

‘But Alcote!’ yelled Bartholomew, grabbing the shocked landlord by the front of his shirt. ‘He must still be in there. We have to put out the fire.’

‘If he was in there when it went up, he will be beyond any medicine we can give him,’ said Stoate gently, prising him away from Eltisley.

‘No!’ shouted Bartholomew, refusing to believe that the fussy little scholar should die in such a horrific manner. ‘He might be buried and still alive. We have to help him.’

‘We should douse the fire anyway,’ said Hamon practically, ‘or we might lose the entire village to it.’

Tuddenham dragged himself out of his state of shock, sensing the need for quick and effective action if the fire were not to spread to the thatched roofs of the neighbouring houses. ‘Fetch water holders,’ he ordered the gaping bystanders. ‘Anything will do: buckets, pots, pans. And form a line from the ford to pass them along. Well, do not just stand there like frightened rabbits! Move!’

The villagers raced off in every direction, appearing moments later with all manner of containers with which to scoop water from the river. Eltisley watched the scene distantly, as though it were a bad dream and he would wake up to find it had not happened. The man with the pig and the landlord of the Dog put their arms around his shoulders, and led him to sit on the grass away from the inferno. Nearby, Dame Eva was holding a cup of water to Mistress Eltisley’s bloodless lips, comforting her in a low, kindly voice.

Bartholomew watched the villagers’ feeble attempts to douse the towering flames that licked all over the rubble. Hot timbers hissed and spat as bucket upon bucket of water was hurled at them, but their labours were having little effect. Exasperated, and knowing that every passing moment was a lost chance to save Alcote’s life, he ran toward the burning inn, shielding his face with his arm as the heat hit him like a physical blow. He tried to move closer, feeling his clothes start to smoulder and the flames sear his skin. Cynric darted after him, grasping his arm in an attempt to haul him away.

‘It is unstable, boy. That wall will collapse at any moment!’

Three of the Half Moon’s four walls had already toppled, while the last leaned outward at an angle that defied all natural laws, and with flames pouring from its blackened windows.

Bartholomew thrust Cynric away and moved still closer, scanning the burning plaster, wood and thatch for any sign of Alcote. His eyes smarted, and the heat was so intense that the rubble wavered and swam in front of him. He thought he glimpsed something white, and he inched further forward, bent almost double as the heat blasted out like that from a blacksmith’s furnace. Unable to see properly, he stumbled over a piece of timber and fell flat on his face. At the same instant there was an ominous rumble, and the precarious wall began to teeter. He was helpless, lying full length on the ground at exactly the point where the wall would crash down. He felt himself hauled backward as it fell, and closed his eyes, lifting one hand in a futile effort to protect his head.

With a tremendous crash, the wall smashed to the ground. Pieces of plaster pattered over him, and he found himself completely enveloped in a dense cloud of choking dust. Someone grabbed his tabard again and the whiteness thinned, so that he found he was able to suck in great mouthfuls of clean air. When he could see, Michael was kneeling next to him, his black habit pale with plaster and both hands pressed to his chest as he hacked and wheezed.

Bartholomew sat up, eyes watering as he coughed the smoke from his lungs. The Half Moon was now completely unrecognisable as a building. All was engulfed in flames, and nothing surviving remotely resembled a door, or a window, or a piece of furniture.

‘What were you thinking of?’ gasped Michael furiously. ‘You might have been killed, and if Alcote was in there when it… well, whatever happened to it, then he is dead. You sacrificing yourself will do nothing to help him now.’

‘He was in there,’ said Bartholomew in a hoarse whisper, turning a tear-streaked face towards the monk. ‘I am certain I saw his hand before the wall fell.’

Michael was silent, green eyes fixed on the roaring, spitting heap that was now Alcote’s pyre. Cynric stood next to him, gazing up at the pillar of smoke that blackened the sky and mingled with the clouds far above.

‘You are a brave man, Brother,’ said William, touching Michael on the shoulder. ‘I thought you were both dead when you disappeared in that ball of dust. Matthew is lucky to have such a friend.’

‘And lucky to have one so strong,’ added Cynric, smiling at the monk in shy admiration. ‘I could never have managed to drag him back as you did.’

Michael acknowledged this praise with a gracious inclination of his head. ‘Thank you, Cynric. Perhaps you would keep an eye on him while I go and assist the villagers to douse the fire. Do not allow him to dive into the flames after corpses again.’

Wondering if he were in the depths of some hideous nightmare, Bartholomew watched the villagers struggling frantically to smother the flames. As Hamon had predicted, the wind had carried sparks to nearby houses, the thatches of which were already beginning to smoulder. People laboured furiously to spread wet blankets across them, while the nearest cottage had been deemed unsalvageable, and several men were hacking at the straw with long knives, struggling to tear the roof apart before it could ignite in earnest.

Everyone was battling with the blaze that threatened their settlement Even Dame Eva and Isilia were busy, standing in the line of people who passed water containers from hand to hand. Tuddenham ran this way and that, encouraging the labouring villagers with promises of cool ale, while Hamon stood nearest the fire, directing where the water should be thrown to best effect. Wauncy was to one side, bony hands clasped in front of him and his deep-set eyes raised heavenward like one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, while Horsey knelt next to him, his hands folded in prayer, but his attention fixed on the greedy flames. Deynman was one of a group of young men who poked at the smouldering rubble with long sticks, trying to break it up to make it easier to douse, and William, Cynric and Michael were near the ford, using their brawn to help fill some of the larger vessels.

Unsteadily, Bartholomew went to join them, standing up to his knees in the river and filling buckets and pans as quickly as they could be passed to him. He lost count of the times he leaned down to scoop up water, trying to ignore the ever-increasing ache in his back. For a while, it seemed that the struggling villagers would lose the fight, and that the flames would spread to the other houses. Tuddenham seemed tireless, striding back and forth, and exhorting the villagers to work harder and faster, when most of them were so exhausted they were ready to give up and let the fire have their homes and belongings. Then they reached a stalemate, with the fire held at bay but still likely to send sparks flying toward the vulnerable houses at any moment. And then they began to win.

Hours later, when Bartholomew’s arms were so tired he could barely lift them, Hamon shouted that he thought the fire was out. Bartholomew glanced up at the sky. It was afternoon and a slight drizzle was falling, depositing yet more water on the saturated remains of Eltisley’s tavern. The villagers gave a feeble cheer, then flopped to the ground or sat in small groups in silence, too weary even to discuss what would be one of the most memorable events of their lives. Some nursed burns, many had inflamed eyes from the smoke, and everyone’s clothes had been singed from the cinders that had rained down from the sky, like hail from hell.

‘We need to look through the rubble for Alcote,’ said Michael hoarsely, coming to stand next to Bartholomew. He walked stiffly, unused to so much exercise, and water and dust had made his habit appear as if it were smeared all over with mud.

Bartholomew joined Hamon, Stoate, William and Deynman, who were prising away some of the charred wood and plaster to begin the search. Eltisley lay on his back in the wet grass with his hands over his face, and Bartholomew saw that he was weeping. His wife, her white apron black with soot, sat near Dame Eva and Isilia, who seemed to be sharing a skin of wine with her. But Dame Eva was a practical, as well as a sympathetic, woman and Bartholomew saw that Mistress Eltisley already wore a cloak he knew belonged to the old lady, and her shaking hands clasped a small silver cross that he had seen Dame Eva wear.

Watched by the silent villagers, Bartholomew and the others levered and hauled at the hot embers. After a while, Deynman gave a cry and started backward, dropping the stick he had been using, as his hands flew to his mouth. Bartholomew scrambled toward him, and pulled away sooty plaster to reveal a body underneath.

‘Is it him?’ asked Deynman, looking everywhere but at the charred form Bartholomew exposed.

Bartholomew did not know: there was not enough left to be able to tell. Unlike the body of the hanged man, set alight to smoulder gently in the shepherd’s hut, the tavern had been an inferno, and had burned with a heat sufficiently intense to destroy most of whoever had been trapped in the building, and certainly to obliterate any distinguishing features. Something scorched Bartholomew’s finger, and he saw it was a blob of gold, turned molten and then re-set in an uneven disk.

‘Alcote’s cross,’ whispered Michael, leaning down to pick it up and dropping it immediately when he found it was too hot to hold. ‘He always wore a gold cross.’

‘Is that all there is?’ asked Hamon, gazing down at the body. ‘Where is the rest of him?’

‘Burned away,’ said Bartholomew, taking the blanket proffered by Stoate to cover the body. He did not want to move it while it was still so hot: it would be better to wait until it had cooled a little.

‘That is not him,’ said Deynman with sudden certainty. ‘It cannot be. Master Alcote is in Wergen Hall, or in the church praying. I will find him.’

Bartholomew caught his arm as he made to run away. ‘If Master Alcote were alive, he would have come to see what was happening here,’ he said gently. ‘You will not find him elsewhere.’

Deynman started to cry, perhaps the only one who would ever do so, since Alcote had not been popular with his colleagues or the Michaelhouse students. While he stood awkwardly, with Deynman sobbing on his shoulder, Bartholomew called to Eltisley to ask if there had been anyone other than Alcote in the tavern when it had ignited.

Eltisley shook his head slowly, his eyes dull, answering that the tavern had been empty except for the scholars in the upper chamber.

‘Thank God the rest of us were out,’ said William, crossing himself vigorously.

‘Norys warned us about this,’ said Michael softly. ‘He advised us to sleep with the windows open, in case Eltisley set the tavern alight with some mad experiment. It seems he was right.’

Bartholomew looked over to where Eltisley stood, and was seized with a sudden rage. Jostling Deynman out of the way, he jumped off the rubble and grabbed the landlord by the front of his apron, shaking him as hard as he could.

‘You did this!’ he shouted furiously. ‘There were no gasses! You were playing around with one of your dangerous concoctions and now Alcote is dead.’

‘I swear to you it was not me!’ shrieked Eltisley in terror, as he struggled to free himself from the physician’s powerful grip. ‘I was in the kitchen cooking your meal.’

‘Then you left something burning in your workshop,’ accused Bartholomew, not relinquishing his hold on the landlord’s apron. ‘You ignited the tavern because you were careless.’

‘Matt, let him go,’ said Michael tiredly, trying to prise the physician’s fingers loose. ‘Eltisley has just lost his home, his livelihood and all his possessions. Have some compassion.’

‘And Alcote has just lost his life!’ Bartholomew yelled. He thrust Eltisley against the garden wall, further enraged by the landlord’s pathetic fear of him. ‘You are so arrogant, you think you can meddle with whatever you like, and you care nothing for the safety and well-being of others.’

‘You are strangling him,’ protested Stoate, joining in Michael’s attempts to make Bartholomew release the terrified landlord.

Seeing their patron in trouble, some of Eltisley’s surly customers uncoiled themselves from the grass near the stream, and advanced menacingly. Cynric unsheathed a wicked little sword from its scabbard and tensed, ready to act should they threaten Bartholomew.

‘Matthew!’ snapped William, sensing an unseemly brawl was in the making. ‘Is it not enough that poor Alcote lies dead without compounding the tragedy by slaying the landlord? It was an accident, man!’

Eltisley’s customers eyed Cynric uncertainly, not convinced that they could best the man who wielded his sword with such practised ease. Hamon stepped forward, trying to place himself between Cynric and the surly men, while Isilia, seeing her kinsman place himself in such dire danger simply to prevent a fight, gave a shrill shriek that brought her husband running from where he had been talking to Wauncy.

Bartholomew gave Eltisley another shake. ‘How did you do it? What dangerous potions were you playing with in that workshop of yours? Saltpetre, sulphur and powdered charcoal?’

Eltisley gaped at him. ‘How do you know of such things? You are just a physician!’

Bartholomew’s temper finally snapped. He thumped Eltisley up against the wall again, intending to smash the superior, arrogant face to a pulp with his fists. He did not have the chance: Tuddenham had arrived. Eltisley’s sullen customers slunk away to sit on the grass again, Cynric sheathed his sword, and William and Michael dragged Bartholomew away from Eltisley before the physician could land more than two ill-placed punches that did little harm.

‘You are insane!’ howled Bartholomew, as he struggled in the powerful grip of his colleagues, aware, even in the heat of his anger, that most of the village was probably thinking the same about him. ‘You play with potions and substances about which you understand nothing! You are a feeble-minded lunatic, who should be locked away before you kill anyone else with your stupid, half-considered theories. You are a heretic!’

Bartholomew had never charged anyone with heresy before, although he had certainly been on the receiving end of more than one such accusation himself. He was surprised to find that hurling such a charge at someone was immensely satisfying – although not quite as much as pounding him into the ground would have been. William nodded approvingly, although Bartholomew did not for a moment consider William’s support to mean much, given that the friar’s definition of heresy was anything that did not conform to his own rigid beliefs.

Meanwhile, Eltisley regarded Bartholomew with loathing, rubbing the red marks on his neck where he had almost been throttled. ‘I merely want to understand more of the nature of the world in which we live,’ he said coldly. ‘I pray for guidance every morning, and I do nothing contrary to God’s will.’

‘Do you think murdering Alcote is God’s will?’ yelled Bartholomew, still trying to free himself from William’s restraining grip.

‘Murdering Alcote?’ asked Tuddenham, horrified. ‘You believe Alcote was murdered?’

‘Matt,’ warned Michael under his breath. ‘That is enough. Eltisley was cooking in the kitchen when the building ignited, and he did not cause this tragedy intentionally.’

Eltisley’s intentions were irrelevant to Bartholomew, and doubtless to Alcote, too. The only fact that mattered to him was that Eltisley had been tampering with a combination of powders and ingredients that he clearly knew caused explosions. Whether he had ignited them deliberately, or whether they had somehow come together by mistake in his workshop was of no consequence. Eltisley’s selfish desire to learn had brought about Alcote’s death.

‘What will happen to my advowson now?’ asked Tuddenham dispiritedly. ‘All Alcote’s efforts will have been for nothing. We will have to start over again.’

‘I do not believe so,’ said Michael soothingly. ‘Alcote is not the only one who can draft legal documents, you know. I, myself, have no small talent in that area, although Alcote was a master at it. I will come to Wergen Hall this evening, and we will see what still needs to be done.’

‘There is no need for you to come quite so soon, Brother,’ said Dame Eva reasonably. ‘We are all tired after our exertions, and my son looks unwell. I would rather he rested, and that you worked on the thing together tomorrow.’

Tuddenham did indeed look ill. Bartholomew exchanged a concerned glance with Stoate, who whispered that he would visit the knight later to prescribe something to make him more comfortable.

‘I would rather know where my advowson stands tonight,’ said Tuddenham stubbornly. ‘I am a little weary, but will be well enough after a short rest.’

‘You are terribly pale,’ said Isilia anxiously. ‘Rest this evening. I will sing, and Master Wauncy can play his drum. You can pore over deeds tomorrow.’

‘Tonight,’ repeated Tuddenham, in a tone that indicated the discussion was over. ‘Meanwhile, offer the villagers free ale, Hamon.’

Hamon raised his voice so that the villagers could hear. ‘My uncle would like to show his appreciation to all of you who helped stop the fire from destroying our village. There will be free ale at the Dog. Spare no expense, landlord. You can present us with the bill tomorrow.’

The immediate, single-minded scramble reminded Bartholomew of the feast after the Pentecost Fair, and he was startled to see that, all of a sudden, none of the villagers seemed to be tired, and all were able to partake in the vicious pushing and shoving. William went with them, relinquishing his grip on Bartholomew’s arm in his desire to slake his thirst with Tuddenham’s ale, and Eltisley took advantage of the diversion to slink away to somewhere he hoped Bartholomew would not find him. Within moments, no one remained by the ruined tavern but Bartholomew, Cynric and Michael.

‘Poor Alcote,’ said Michael softly, watching the last of the villagers race toward the Dog. ‘He was a nasty little man, but he did not deserve this.’

Bartholomew sat on a stool in Wergen Hall, and thrust his hands into the sides of his tabard to stop himself from rubbing eyes that itched from the after-effects of the smoke. His discomfort was not eased by the blaze in the hearth that spat and hissed as flames devoured wet wood, and added its own choking fumes to the already stuffy hall.

Sitting opposite him, Michael had coughed until his throat was sore, necessitating the swallowing of large amounts of soothing wine to remedy the matter. This example was grimly followed by William, who decided his throat hurt, too. The wine made him uncharacteristically amiable, and resulted in Tuddenham’s startled household being entertained with a few colourfully embellished tales from his days with the Inquisition, after which the friar retired to the floor, where he sprawled with his mouth open and snored.

Hamon had been burned, and his hands were smothered with Bartholomew’s ointment of chalk and burdock. Stoate had disagreed with this treatment, and had recommended to his patients a poultice of ground snails and mint mixed with cat grease. There was not a snail, and scarcely a cat, to be seen in Grundisburgh. Later, Bartholomew had been alarmed to learn that Stoate was advising that his poultice could also heal smoke-inflamed eyes, if applied thickly enough. Wrinkling his nose in disgust at the notion of rubbing squashed snails in his face, Tuddenham compelled Bartholomew to sell him all his chalk and burdock to be used for his own household.

Hamon gave his watering eyes a good, vigorous massage, disregarding Bartholomew’s repeated advice that rubbing would make them worse. Dame Eva shook her head in exasperation at him, and turned back to her sewing. Isilia sat next to Tuddenham, humming softly and gently stroking his coarse grey hair. The exertion had not been good for the knight, and he had a slight fever. There was little Bartholomew could do for him, except prescribe something to ease the pain and recommend that he spend the next few days resting. Hamon was blithely intolerant of his uncle’s weakened state, urging him to go hunting the following day. On the other hand, Dame Eva and Isilia fretted and fussed over him, to the point where Bartholomew saw the knight was considering an outing with Hamon simply to escape from their cloying attentions.

‘I understand Master Alcote was paid two shillings to say masses for a man he found dying on the Old Road,’ said Walter Wauncy conversationally, raising his skull-like head from the book he had been perusing.

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, startled by the question. ‘When he took the wrong road to Grundisburgh after we found the hanged man at Bond’s Corner, he came across a party of travellers who had been attacked, and one of them had been fatally wounded. How did you know?’

‘He told me,’ said Wauncy. ‘He was to say these masses at St Botolph’s shrine at St Edmundsbury, but obviously he is not in a position to fulfil these obligations. Give me the two shillings, and I will say the masses instead.’

Bartholomew gazed at him in disbelief. ‘You want us to give you Alcote’s money?’

‘Not his money,’ corrected Wauncy reproachfully. ‘Funds to rescue this unfortunate’s soul from Purgatory. It is not fair to keep it for yourselves.’

Bartholomew made a disgusted sound, and declined to discuss the matter further. Not only had all Alcote’s possessions been destroyed in the fire, but he was unimpressed that Wauncy should already be trying to earn a profit from Alcote’s death.

‘Is Horsey keeping vigil over poor Master Alcote?’ whispered Isilia, looking up from her drowsing husband as Wauncy drew breath to argue.

Michael nodded. ‘I will relieve him at midnight. If I live that long.’ He coughed meaningfully until his wine goblet was refilled by Siric.

‘So, what have you decided about my deed,’ asked Tuddenham, roused from his doze by their voices. ‘Is all lost as we feared, or can you salvage something from Master Alcote’s efforts?’

‘I think the stars are against this deed of yours,’ said Isilia. ‘First Unwin is killed for the relic in his purse; then Doctor Bartholomew and his servant are attacked by Padfoot; and now poor Master Alcote lies dead on the very eve that the advowson was to have been completed.’

‘I agree,’ said Dame Eva with a shudder. ‘This deed has been ill fated from beginning to end. It might be best to forget the whole business.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ said Michael smugly, holding aloft a piece of parchment. ‘Alcote was a cautious man, and left a copy of the draft he made here last night. It is virtually complete, and only needs a few loose ends tying here and there. I will work on the final version tonight, Master Wauncy can check it tomorrow morning, and by noon we can have it signed and be on our way.’

That there was only one more night to spend in Grundisburgh cheered Bartholomew considerably. Had Alcote not been a cautious man, and had Michael deemed it necessary to begin work afresh on the complex legal documents, Bartholomew would have concurred with Dame Eva that the advowson was ill fated, and recommended that the surviving Michaelhouse scholars should escape the village while they still could.

‘Good,’ said Tuddenham with relief. ‘It would have been dreadful if all this had been for nothing. Have it ready by dawn, Brother, and tomorrow Michaelhouse shall have its deed, and everything will be completed.’

Wearily, and looking pale and sick, he retired to bed, taking Isilia with him. Ill at ease with only his grandmother and the Michaelhouse scholars for company, Hamon was not long in following, and moments later Dame Eva also made her farewells and went to her own quarters. The Michaelhouse men were to sleep in Wergen Hall again that night, now that the Half Moon was out of commission, and Tuddenham’s servants had been relegated to the kitchens and stables. Most of them, however, had elected to remain in the Dog for as long as the knight’s generosity and the landlord’s barrels lasted.

Exhausted by his efforts to extinguish the fire, and from resting so little the night before, Bartholomew lay on a mattress and was almost instantly asleep. But his dreams teemed with visions of Alcote’s blackened body rising from the flames of the tavern, while Eltisley in a warlock’s costume invoked all manner of pagan spirits. It was still dark when he awoke to find he was shaking, and he went to see if Michael had left any wine that would soothe his frayed nerves.

The monk still wrote by the unsteady light of a candle, while Bartholomew sipped his drink and stared into the embers of the fire, thinking about Eltisley and his experiments. Michael saw his brooding expression, and set down his pen, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

‘What is wrong? Are you distressed over Alcote? You know, Matt, it would not surprise me to learn that the body we found in the rubble was not his at all, and that he staged his “death” so that no one would make any more attacks on him. He may, even now, be sitting in some inn laughing at how clever he has been. We would never know – the body was too charred for identification.’

‘Eltisley,’ said Bartholomew, still staring at the glowing logs. ‘The more I think about him, the more I am certain that the fire in his tavern was no accident.’

Michael made an impatient sound at the back of his throat, and picked up his pen to begin writing again. ‘You are as mad as he is, Matt. Think about it rationally. Do you really think he would destroy his home, all his possessions and his workshop deliberately?’

‘I do,’ said Bartholomew slowly. ‘And I think his shock at seeing us had nothing to do with relief that we were still alive: I think he wanted us dead.’

‘No,’ said Michael firmly. ‘No one – not even a lunatic like Eltisley – would commit murder by igniting his house and destroying his livelihood in the process.’

‘I thought at first that the explosion – because that is what it was – had occurred in his workshop,’ Bartholomew continued, ignoring the monk’s scepticism, ‘and that it happened because he had left some volatile compound too near a badly banked fire. But, had that been so, the workshop would have been more badly damaged than the tavern. And it was not.’

‘It was burned to the ground,’ said Michael, dipping his quill in the ink and shaking it over the rushes so that it would not blot.

‘But only after the tavern was ablaze,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And Eltisley basically admitted to playing with a concoction of saltpetre, charcoal and sulphur, which anyone with even a passing knowledge of alchemy knows will ignite and explode. Furthermore, it is clear that he was not doing it in his workshop, he was doing it in the tavern.’

‘That still does not mean that he deliberately killed Alcote, or that he intended the rest of us to die with him,’ reasoned Michael, his attention fixed on his writing. ‘You are letting your dislike of the man interfere with your judgement, Matt. You saw how devastated he was after the fire: he was a broken man, to be pitied and comforted, not accused of murder.’

‘I am sure he was appalled at the destruction he caused,’ said Bartholomew. ‘I have no doubt he did not intend to blow up his entire domain and almost take the rest of the village with it. But I remain convinced that he set his powders to kill Alcote – and us, given that he believed we were changing our clothes in the upper chamber.’

‘This is all too ridiculous,’ said Michael. ‘Why? Why should a lowly Suffolk taverner want to kill his customers and be prepared to destroy his inn? Tuddenham was paying him good money to look after us.’

‘And there is another thing,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Because he survived to tell the tale suggests to me that he set the stuff to burn and then ran away. He made no attempt to shout a warning.’

‘We cannot know that,’ said Michael, looking up at him. ‘No one else was in the tavern except Alcote, and he will not be telling anyone whether Eltisley shouted an alarm or not. You will never be able to prove that Eltisley simply ran away and left Alcote to die.’

‘I think he broke that dish of gravy deliberately,’ Bartholomew went on, piecing together scraps of information that he was sure were related. ‘He wanted us upstairs in the bedchamber, changing our clothes, so that he could kill us all at once. It was an ideal time, because the tavern was empty of other guests, and he would not need to harm anyone else in the process.’

‘I see,’ said Michael, bending his head to his work. ‘But you have not answered my question. Why should a landlord want to kill his guests?’

Bartholomew thought hard. ‘Perhaps it is something to do with Tuddenham’s deed. Perhaps Tuddenham paid Eltisley to kill Alcote, because Alcote found something dreadful in his household accounts. Alcote said he had uncovered irregularities, and that he was burning documents to hide them.’

‘You are being inconsistent: on the one hand you are saying that Tuddenham wants the advowson completed with indecent haste; on the other you claim that Tuddenham ordered Alcote killed because he found peculiarities in his affairs. Tuddenham would not have allowed Alcote to examine his documents at all, if there had been secrets in them worth killing for.’

‘But Alcote told us himself that Tuddenham’s affairs were complex, and not wholly honest.’

‘Whose affairs are, Matt? Go to sleep. You are tired and inclined to flights of fancy. In the cold light of day you will see Alcote’s death for what it is – a horrible, tragic accident.’

Bartholomew sighed and Michael set down his pen, resting his fat elbows on the table and shaking his head at his friend’s stubbornness.

‘You are making an error you have made before, Matt: you are assuming that everything that happens to you, and everything you learn, is somehow connected. That is not the case here. Eltisley has absolutely nothing to do with Tuddenham’s advowson, and the fact that Alcote died when he was working on it is simple chance. He might equally well have been eating his dinner.’

‘But what if Alcote had found something in all those documents he read that Eltisley wanted no one else to know? What if Alcote confronted Eltisley, and tried to blackmail him? We both know that is the sort of thing Alcote might well have done.’

‘Matthew!’ admonished Michael softly. ‘The man is barely cold in his grave – in fact he is probably still quite hot, given how you singed your hands getting him out of the rubble – and you are accusing him of rank dishonesty. His soul might be being weighed at this precise moment, and you are asking me if I think he was falsifying documents and blackmailing people.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Bartholomew. He rubbed a hand through his hair, genuinely contrite. ‘I am.’

‘He is probably bribing his way through Purgatory at this very moment,’ said Michael with a nasty snigger. ‘Or offering his services to the Devil in exchange for a more pleasant stay.’

‘You should not jest about such things, either,’ said Bartholomew, glancing down the hall. ‘William can hear comments like that from across whole towns, let alone a silent room. He will accuse us both of heresy, and will harp on about it for weeks. But all this aside, I am still convinced that Eltisley killed Alcote deliberately.’

‘Which brings us back to that awkward little question you have so cunningly managed to avoid: why?’ said Michael. ‘Can you offer a single scrap of evidence – hard evidence, Matt, not supposition and conjecture – why he should want to harm Alcote?’

‘No,’ said Bartholomew, after a moment of serious thinking. He glanced up to see Michael looking victorious. ‘But that does not mean I am wrong. You said almost as soon as we arrived here that there was something odd happening in Grundisburgh. Well, I agree with you, and I think Eltisley lies at the centre of it.’

‘He is just a taverner, Matt. If there is something odd happening, as you insist, then it is no conspiracy, but simply a madman whose inflated opinions of his abilities are rendered dangerous because his thriving inn provides him sufficient wealth to buy the ingredients for his experiments. Now, unless you want to be in this miserable place for ever, let me do some work. Go to sleep.’

Bartholomew was restless and unhappy. He had never particularly liked Alcote, but he had known him for years, and was distressed that he should die such a death. Each time he closed his eyes he could see the corpse he had extricated from the remains of the tavern, and could hear Deynman asking if that were all that was left. Deynman. Bartholomew walked to where the student slept, his dark hair tangled with straw from the mattress. Asleep, he looked young and vulnerable, and Bartholomew felt a sudden pang of fear for him. Deynman might not be the most able of students – and his behaviour in the affair of Agatha the laundress’s teeth had been reprehensible to say the least – but Bartholomew had grown fond of him, and the notion of anyone stabbing him in a church or blowing him up in a tavern horrified him.

Making a decision, he crouched down, and touched the student’s shoulder. Stirring sleepily, Deynman opened his eyes and immediately smiled when he saw Bartholomew. It was a spontaneous reaction, and one that made Bartholomew more certain than ever that he wanted Deynman away from Grundisburgh and its nasty secrets.

‘Rob,’ he whispered, as the student sat up rubbing his eyes. ‘I need you to do something.’

‘Anything,’ said Deynman rashly. ‘What is it? Do you want me to help you with an operation? I can do the sawing if it is an amputation, leaving you to stop all the bleeding.’

‘No!’ Bartholomew suppressed a shudder at the thought of Deynman wielding a saw over some unsuspecting patient. ‘I want you to take Horsey to the leper hospital as soon as it is light.’

‘Does he have the disease, then? It does not show.’

Bartholomew began to wonder whether his plan to place Deynman in charge of Horsey’s welfare was such a good idea after all. ‘I think neither of you is safe here. You must leave, and we will collect you when we return to Cambridge. You will be safe with the lepers.’

‘You mean I should leave you here alone?’ asked Deynman, appalled. ‘But you might need me!’

‘I do. I need you to take care of Horsey. Can you do it? Can you slip out of Grundisburgh with no one seeing you, and hide with Brother Peter until I come for you?’

‘Of course.’ Deynman’s face was a mask of worry. ‘But what about you?’

‘As soon as Horsey returns from Alcote’s vigil, I want you to go. Do not take anything with you – just make it appear as though you are going for a stroll. Do you need money? Take mine.’

Deynman looked in disdain at the handful of coins Bartholomew offered him. ‘Perhaps I should lend you some. I have ten marks in my belt and two gold crowns in my boot.’

Bartholomew smiled, feeling foolish for imagining that his wealthy student would need his inconsequential pennies. ‘Offer some to Brother Peter for the lepers. And please do not try to heal any of them – leprosy is incurable, and stripping some poor horse of its tail will not change that.’

Solemnly, Deynman held out his hand to Bartholomew. ‘I am sure we shall meet again, but if not, I shall pay for masses to be said for your soul until we meet in heaven.’

Deynman was probably the only person Bartholomew knew, other than William, who confidently assumed that the natural progress of his immortal soul would be up, and not down to join all the other sinners.

‘And I shall do the same for you.’

Deynman smiled. ‘Do not worry about Horsey. I will look after him.’

Bartholomew left him to go back to sleep, feeling a certain weight of responsibility lifting from his shoulders. Deynman was drowsing again almost before Bartholomew left him, showing a lack of anxiety that Bartholomew envied.

He paced back and forth, oblivious to Michael’s irritable glances as the draught he created caused the candle to leap and flicker, making it difficult for him to see. Unaware of the monk’s disapproval, Bartholomew opened one of the window shutters, leaning out to inhale deeply of rich, clean air that was heavy with the scent of blossom. After a while, he closed it, and began to doze on the stone window-seat.

The only sounds in the room were the scratch of Michael’s quill and Father William’s snoring. The embers in the hearth glowed a deep red, giving out little heat and virtually no light, so that the monk was hunched uncomfortably in the small yellow halo cast by a single candle that had been set in an inglenook. Eventually, he finished writing and looked up.

‘It must be almost time for nocturn,’ he whispered, shaking Bartholomew awake. ‘One of us should go to relieve Horsey in the church.’

‘I will go,’ said Bartholomew, picking up his cloak. ‘Ask William to come at dawn, and then you and I will sit over Wauncy while he reads that deed you have just written. Tuddenham will sign and seal it, and we will be on our way as soon as the wax has set.’

‘That would be ungracious of us,’ said Michael, smiling at the image Bartholomew had produced. ‘It is not seemly to snatch the goods and run.’

‘It is not seemly for Unwin to be murdered, for Alcote to die in a bizarre accident, and for Cynric and me to be chased through the forest by savage white dogs,’ retorted Bartholomew.

‘Perhaps you are right,’ said Michael. ‘But there is nothing we can do about it now. Of course, I would feel a lot happier if that loathsome pardoner were under lock and key: I do not feel safe with him on the loose. If you want a suspect for murder, Matt, there is your man.’

Bartholomew sighed. ‘If I am being unreasonably bigoted about Eltisley, then you are just as bad over Norys. We should be ashamed of ourselves.’

‘I shall leave the shame to you,’ said Michael smugly. ‘I have better things to do with my time – like going with you to relieve Horsey. If I accompany you to the church, I can walk back with Horsey, and no one will be out on his own in the dark. Alcote was attacked last night on this very path, after all.’

On their way out of the hall, Michael leaned over the sleeping Cynric and muttered in his ear. Bartholomew saw something exchange hands, but was too engrossed in his own thoughts about Alcote to ask about it. Together, he and Michael left Wergen Hall, and began to walk quickly along the narrow track that led to the village. It was cloudy, and there was no light from the moon or the stars; all Bartholomew could see were the outlines of trees and the dark masses of houses. The village was quiet; not even a dog barked as they went past, and the only sounds were their own footsteps. As they reached the churchyard, the moon emerged from behind a cloud, bathing the village in a soft silver light.

‘That is better,’ said Michael, stepping forward with more confidence. He stopped suddenly, and peered through the trees. ‘What in God’s name is going on over there?’

Bartholomew could see something moving in the elms at the very back of the churchyard, near where Unwin was buried.

‘It is probably Horsey,’ he whispered. ‘Praying over Unwin’s grave.’

‘Horsey would not leave Alcote unattended,’ said Michael in a low, nervous voice. ‘Nor would he creep about in dark graveyards at midnight. He is no fool, and neither are we. Come on, Matt, I have had enough of this.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Into the church, where we will lock the door and wait for daybreak.’

‘But there is someone by Unwin’s grave. We cannot just ignore it.’

‘We can, Matt! I want no white dogs materialising out of recently dug graves in front of me!’

‘You have always claimed that you do not believe in Padfoot,’ said Bartholomew, moving toward the grave. ‘Come on, Brother. Where is your proctorial spirit of adventure and enquiry?’

‘I left that in Cambridge,’ muttered Michael, following him reluctantly. ‘It is most definitely not with me here in Grundisburgh.’

As they neared the grave, they heard a low moan followed by a wavering call that sounded like a child crying. The blood in Bartholomew’s veins ran as cold as ice, and Michael gripped his arm so hard it hurt. Another cry answered it, and then there was a hiss. Bartholomew closed his eyes in relief, and turned to Michael, smiling in the darkness.

‘It is a pair of cats!’

‘It is more than a pair,’ said Michael, straining his eyes as he peered through the shadowy trees. ‘It is a flock!’

He stepped out of the trees and headed toward the animals, making flapping movements with his hands as he tried to drive them away. But Bartholomew saw that the cats were not the only things moving in the dark.

‘Michael! Behind you!’

His yell of warning came just in time. Michael spun round, and was just able to duck the savage blow from the spade that was aimed at his head. Another figure emerged from the darkness and struck out, sending Michael tumbling into the long grass. With a howl of anger, Bartholomew raced to the aid of his friend, bowling into the second attacker with such force that he sent him clean over the wall of the churchyard. Then there was a scraping noise to his left, a sound that Bartholomew had heard enough times to recognise as that of a sword being drawn from a leather scabbard.

A weapon whistled through the air, so close that Bartholomew felt it sever some hairs on the top of his head. Meanwhile, Michael had seized the spade, and wielded it like a staff until an expert slash by the sword broke the wooden handle in two. Horrified, the monk backed away, bumping into a third man, and knocking him to the ground. The attacker Bartholomew had propelled over the wall was climbing back again, to rejoin the affray.

Knowing he and Michael would stand little chance against three men, one of whom was armed with a sword, Bartholomew groped in his medicine bag, fingers fumbling for his surgical knife. He could not find it. Instead, his shaking fingers encountered something small, but heavy: it was Deblunville’s cramp ring. He drew it out, and hurled it as hard as he could, hearing it strike the swordsman’s face with a sickening crack. Without waiting to see the result, he leapt forward and dived at him, hoping to knock the sword from his hand.

They rolled over in the wet grass, Bartholomew struggling to prevent his opponent from using his weapon, his opponent trying to batter him with the hilt to force him to let go. He was stronger than Bartholomew had anticipated, and the physician sensed that the instant the man freed his sweaty wrist, the pommel of the sword would crash on to his head, and that would be that. With increasing desperation, Bartholomew concentrated on keeping his fingers tightly wrapped around the swordsman’s arm, but the skin was clammy, and slid inexorably out of Bartholomew’s grasp. And then suddenly, it was free. Bartholomew closed his eyes as the weapon glinted above his head, and then opened them again as a dreadful scream tore through the air.

There was a gasp of fright, followed by the sound of running footsteps. All at once, Michael’s burly silhouette was looming above him, while behind, Cynric crouched, looking this way and that in the dark like a hunting animal. Of the swordsman, there was no sign.

‘What happened? What was the dreadful yowl? Was it Padfoot?’ Bartholomew sat up quickly, peering into the shadows to see if the white dog was there, biding its time for another attack.

‘Something just as terrifying,’ said Michael unsteadily, brushing leaves and wet grass from his habit. ‘A good Welsh battle-cry.’ He rubbed a shaking hand across his face. ‘That was a close call, Matt! If Cynric had screeched a fraction of a moment later, we would be dead.’

Shyly, Cynric smiled. ‘Perhaps I should have screamed to terrify Padfoot last week,’ he said.

‘But what are you doing here, Cynric?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘You are supposed to be asleep.’

‘Old Cynric does not sleep when there is fighting to be done,’ said Cynric reproachfully. ‘Do you think I would leave you to do all this alone? I followed you from Wergen Hall, and saw those men in the graveyard long before you realised they were there.’

‘A word of warning would not have gone amiss,’ said Bartholomew curtly. ‘We would not have disturbed them had we known they were so heavily armed.’

‘You went after them before I could stop you,’ objected Cynric. ‘You always are incautious. How many times have I told you not to attack without first assessing what you are attacking?’

‘We should not sit here chatting while these men escape,’ said Bartholomew. ‘We should catch them before they do any more mischief.’

‘They are long gone,’ said Cynric. ‘I would go after them, but my bow is useless, and only a fool chases his enemy with only half his weapons.’

‘What happened to it?’ asked Michael. ‘I suppose it was damaged by that potion Eltisley made?’

Cynric grimaced. ‘Snapped my string clean in two the last time I tried to use it.’

‘Do you know who those men were?’ asked Bartholomew, climbing to his feet and looking around him uneasily. ‘Did you recognise any of them?’

‘I saw nothing but shadows lurching and weaving all around me,’ said Michael. ‘Did you see anything?’ He sounded disappointed.

‘Not really,’ said Bartholomew, ‘but one of them was an expert swordsman. That should narrow down our list of suspects.’

‘Why?’ asked Michael.

‘How many people in villages are trained to use swords?’

‘Lots, Matt – we are officially at war with France. Lords of the manor are obliged by law to train villagers in the use of weapons, lest the King should need them as soldiers.’

‘But this man used a sword with some skill, not like a country bumpkin with a stave.’

‘You are no judge of such things,’ said Cynric rudely. ‘He was not so skilled, or he would have dispatched you with ease, and not allowed you to jump all over him as he did.’

‘Would you believe that one of those louts had the audacity to hit me with the spade he had been using to excavate Unwin’s grave?’ said Michael, indignantly.

‘Is that what were they doing?’ asked Bartholomew, repelled. ‘Are you sure?’

‘See for yourself,’ said Michael. There was a scrape of tinder, and light from a candle cast a dim circle around them. Something glinted in the grass, and Cynric stooped to retrieve it. It was the coffin ring.

‘You would not want to lose that,’ he said, handing it back to Bartholomew.

Unwin’s grave was partly uncovered. The earth had been carefully piled to one side, almost as if the culprits were intending to fill it in again. Bartholomew took the candle and looked more closely, leaning into the shallow hole to brush away some of the soil.

‘They were not digging up Unwin, Brother,’ he said, looking at the fat monk in dismay. ‘They were providing him with a little company. Because here is Norys – your absconded pardoner.’